Mortal

by Ted Dekker

  “I have something I need you to do for us. The Nomads have approached me with a request. They have agreed to give me the boy in exchange for a new law that gives them full standing as an autonomous government outside of Order.”

  Her interest in Saric’s blood waned for a moment in light of this new turn.

  They would give up the boy? But that would mean that he would die. Surely they knew that!

  Then why would Rom agree to it?

  “Rom would betray him?”

  “Roland, the Nomad Prince.”

  Acting without Rom’s knowledge?

  “And you would grant this?”

  “No. Nor am I so foolish as to think they would turn the boy over. But they have also demanded to hold you until the law passes. They demand the Sovereign as collateral.”

  He regarded her, rocking his one leg over the other. “What would you advise?”

  She considered the question, knowing that he already had a specific answer in mind. It was his way, these questions. And she knew the answer already.

  “They don’t know the depths of my loyalty to you,” she said. “But you do. Grant their request.”

  His right brow lifted. “To what end, my love?”

  “So that I can learn what you need to know about our enemies.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “It could be dangerous.”

  “They know that if they kill me, you become Sovereign.”

  “You’re saying they would prefer you as Sovereign over me?”

  “I would help them believe so. It only ensures my safety and draws their trust.”

  He studied her for several moments. When he spoke next, his tone had changed. Gone, the gentle Maker. Here, then, was the master who demanded absolute obedience.

  “You will go tomorrow with the sole objective of learning their strengths, their true numbers, and where they hide. If possible, you will win the boy’s trust. In three days you will return. If you don’t, you will die. They must understand this.”

  “And their request for an autonomy, my Lord?”

  He waved a hand. “It goes nowhere. Tell them it’s in process if you must.”

  “If they try to turn me?”

  “They can’t. As you yourself told me, the boy’s blood is lethal to our kind.”

  She nodded. Another wave of light-headedness darkened her sight. She’d felt fine again until a moment ago, and then weakness came upon her like a flood. She would have to remember how quickly life ebbed from her body.

  Saric was speaking again… She hadn’t heard his first words.

  “… quickly. Very quickly. In an hour you would be dead.” His hand touched hers.

  “Come with me. I will feed you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ROM PACED NEAR THE BANKS of the Lucrine River, glancing up for the second time in the last five minutes to consider the position of the sun’s dull glow above a thin blanket of stratus clouds. An hour past noon. He bowed his head, willed nerves that had steadily frayed over the last hour to calm. Perhaps they had had trouble finding the place.

  But no… just yesterday Saric had come here with his entire army.

  A dozen scenarios collided in his mind. Perhaps Saric had reconsidered and broken his word. Maybe Feyn had been compromised or imprisoned or, worse, killed. What if the Dark Bloods had found the Mortal camp in the Seyala Valley and were marching there even now?

  Perhaps Feyn had balked at the idea and refused to come. Or knew a better way. Or had a plan she would get to him via other means. Surely she wasn’t as untouched by the Mortal mission as she seemed.

  He schooled his thoughts and glanced at the river where Javan, one of the men who’d accompanied him, watered his horse. He was one of the most skilled Nomadic scouts. Telvin, one of Rom’s Keepers, sat on his mount on the hill, silhouetted against the sky. He would be the first to see any approach.

  The river was young in its banks, the waters of an older river that had changed course in the last half century. In the world of Order, it was the same waterway—one that had deviated from its proper path. But by Nomadic standards, the new waterway constituted a new creation, and as such had merited a new name as well. The nomads called it Chava. The name meant “life”—the battle cry, manifesto, hope, and purpose of every Mortal. The Nomadic map was littered with such altered names for valleys, grasslands, and waterways.

  Here the name was well given, Rom thought. The ground offered up pine and young oak near the river’s banks, and olive trees—a small natural grove of them—some thirty feet away. The tree had meant peace in the ancient world, he was told. He hoped it would mean the same today.

  Across the valley, the eastern hills opened to the southern plains. Even from here, Rom could see the evidence of Saric’s army in the churned earth. Roland’s report of the Dark Blood’s numbers had kept him awake half the night. He’d risen at dawn even more aware of the critical nature of his meeting with Feyn. It might be as doubtful as Roland insisted, but there was no better path before them. Surely, it was either this or war.

  He squinted to the south, drew a long breath.

  “How much longer do you want to wait?” Javan said, leading his horse up from the bank. He spoke as though Rom waited for the dead to rise.

  But Rom had seen Corpses rise before.

  “As long as it takes.”

  “How do we know they haven’t drawn us away from camp and aren’t even now—”

  “Do you doubt Roland’s ability to defend?” Rom snapped.

  Javan corrected himself quickly. “Never.”

  “I thought not.”

  But truth be told, Rom didn’t know how long they could wait. If she wasn’t here in the next hour or two, he would have to assume she wasn’t coming. Was the Maker determined to see every leg kicked out from beneath them?

  He cursed under his breath and started toward his horse. The whistle came then.

  Rom snapped his head up and saw Telvin riding down the hill at breakneck speed gesturing toward the southern horizon.

  Two riders had rounded the hip of the hill, both in dark leathers. One of them riding a gray stallion. The scent came, faint on the wind. Dark Blood.

  Rom’s pulse surged.

  He could make them out clearly: one man, broad through the shoulders on a horse larger than the other. Riding beside him… Feyn. The tilt of her chin, the dark braid over her shoulder, the gloved hands holding the reins unmistakable.

  She had come. Thank the Maker, she had come.

  Telvin pulled his mount up and dismounted on the fly. “You see them.”

  “Yes. Stand by, Javan. No aggression, either of you.”

  Rom paced, arms crossed, as Feyn and her guard made their way up through the valley with no apparent hurry. Now he could just detect the scent of slight fear. Wariness, on the part of the Dark Blood. Of something else—curiosity. And another scent that he could not place at all.

  At fifty paces off, Feyn held back, allowing her escort to approach alone. Javan spat to one side, a common reaction to stench among Nomads. Telvin, to his credit, held his ground, unmoving.

  The Dark Blood pulled up, studied them for a moment, then nodded. “You’re one man more.”

  “We didn’t know how many to expect,” Rom said.

  “Send one of your men back.”

  “Javan. Leave us.”

  The Nomad stared at him. Clearly he thought himself more qualified to stay. But to his credit, he said nothing, even as he glared at the Dark Blood, walked to his horse, mounted, and wheeled it round.

  He would join three other scouts who watched for the inevitable sign of the other Dark Bloods who undoubtedly circled nearby—Saric was no fool and neither was Rom.

  “Satisfied?”

  “You’ll talk in the open,” the Dark Blood said.

  “Of course. Alone.”

  The man narrowed his eyes.

  “What is your name?” Rom said.

  The Dark Blood hesitated. “Janus,” he said.


  “Then hear me, Janus. The Sovereign has come as surety for an exchange. Neither of us will leave your sight.”

  He seemed to weigh that, glancing back at Feyn, who gave him a slight nod.

  He’s concerned for her…

  The warrior turned back. “You will leave your horses with me and remain this side of the boulders.” He glanced north, where the valley began its bottleneck.

  “I will leave my horse with you and my man, Telvin. We will remain in the valley.”

  The man nodded and nudged his horse toward the bank where Telvin held both his and Rom’s mounts. Feyn waited until her escort had stopped and turned back, ten paces from Talvin. Evidently satisfied, she walked her horse slowly forward.

  Dark veins beneath her skin traced her neck and along her cheek like faint claws beneath the diffused daylight. Fathomless eyes watched him like peat-filled pools, unable to reflect the light of the sun. She wore no jewelry, only a leather riding coat and tunic, leather pants and boots.

  She slipped her foot from the stirrup, swung gracefully from the saddle. Her escort whistled and the horse headed toward the bank, as well trained as any Nomadic mount. Their enemy seemed more refined than Rom would have guessed.

  The smell of death, offensive as rancid meat, thickened in his nostrils as Feyn closed the distance between them. She was undeniably Dark Blood.

  And still utterly majestic.

  “I was told it would be the Nomadic Prince, Roland,” she said.

  “A change of plans. I only ask that you hear me out.”

  “This was only a ploy to bring me out. Why?”

  “You have nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

  Her gaze flitted past him, quickly scanned the hills beyond, then settled back on him. She began pulling off her gloves. The bulky ring of her office looked large on such slender fingers.

  “Very well, Rom Sebastian. Here we are. Say what you must say.”

  Rom settled to one knee and dipped his head before looking up. “Thank you, my Lady.”

  She considered him with frank appraisal and a hint of amusement. “Do we lean on ceremony, then, even here?”

  He gave a slight smile and took the hand she extended. As was customary, he kissed her ring, cold against his lips.

  “I show respect where it is due,” he said.

  You knew me once. I convinced you then. Let me turn your heart again.

  “The first time I laid eyes on you, you came to my chamber and kidnapped me. And now you kiss my fingers,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Have you become a man of respect?”

  “I was always a man of respect, but you know that already.”

  Rom pushed himself to his feet. During the nine years of Feyn’s stasis, Rom’s shoulders and legs had hardened from hours in the saddle, from the hunt and endless training. He’d noted the squint of the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the slight thickening of his eyebrows.

  But Feyn was as tall and slender as she’d been a lifetime ago. Though nine years older, she hadn’t aged. She might have been the same woman that he’d known when he was twenty-four.

  Might have been.

  But then there were those eyes. And the dark veins that flowed with a new blood.

  “No more formalities. You obviously went to a lot of trouble to get me out here. Let’s not waste time.”

  “Fair enough.” He glanced at his man who could undoubtedly hear them if he chose to listen, despite the distance. “Walk with me.”

  She walked toward the canyon beside him with a deliberate step, and he was suddenly uncertain of how to begin. Feyn cut the awkward silence first.

  “This request for a law to protect Mortals was always a sham.”

  “Not necessarily, no. As a fallback, I would press for it.”

  “You have no intention of giving up the boy.”

  So. Right to the point. But he’d known she’d assume as much the moment she saw that Roland hadn’t come as indicated to Saric. They might have been persuaded that the Nomad Prince would betray Jonathan, but never him.

  “No.”

  “Then don’t go through the pretense of entertaining or courting me. Say what it is you want.”

  He walked on in silence, choosing his words carefully before speaking. Clearly, this was going to be a difficult task.

  “Well?”

  “I want to see what we began nine years ago through to the end. Only you have the power to do that, Feyn.”

  “Seeing it through may not include Jonathan as you once thought. Despite what you may think, I’m not in a position to command whatever I want.”

  “You’re Sovereign.”

  “Still so naïve, Rom? I would envy your idealism if it wasn’t so misguided.”

  “Idealism? I would call it destiny. You know what we’ve both sacrificed to bring this day.” He pushed aside the anxiety sweeping in like a storm surge. Not like this. You won’t convince her like this.

  They stepped under the shade of a tree. Telvin and the Dark Blood hadn’t moved from their positions, and they were now far out of hearing range, even for a Mortal.

  She turned to him, arms crossed. He had to take her mind back to the place it had once occupied nine years earlier, when she’d first tasted life. Short of that his objective would be lost.

  “You already know this is foolishness.”

  It was her unflinching tone more than the words she used that shook him. Perhaps Roland was right: his hope in Feyn had been borne of irrational emotion over sound logic. As she said, foolishness.

  But no. There had to be a trace of true life behind her dark eyes.

  “The Order sees Chaos as foolish. Does Saric agree?”

  He’d caught her flatfooted, but she replied soon enough. “No.”

  “And you? Do you believe Chaos was foolish? That the life humans once lived was properly crushed? That any such life should be forbidden today? Is this foolishness?”

  “No.”

  “And yet before I brought you life you found it all foolish. Please don’t make the same mistake again. I am no fool.”

  “No, but we are all misguided on occasion. Maneuvering me out here alone so that you can bend my ear far from Saric is not only idealistic, but foolish.”

  She saw through all of it.

  “We will see,” he said.

  “I already do.”

  “Do you?” He glanced at Telvin, who stood near the Dark Blood down valley, idly chewing on a stalk of grass. “Tell me what my man eats now.”

  She followed his gaze but offered no answer.

  “A stalk of sweetgrass. Evidently my sight is far better than yours, as is the sight of all Mortals brought to life by Jonathan’s blood.”

  “You only say that.”

  “And your man is scratching at something on his neck. He has a rash?”

  She blinked. “So you have good eyes,” she said. “So does a dog.”

  “You compare me to an animal?”

  “No. Come, Rom, we both know why you’ve brought me here. You could have sent a runner to tell me why I should give up my Sovereignty for Jonathan’s sake. It would have spared us both wasted time. Was your intent to frustrate me?”

  “My intent is to use all the resources short of brute strength to help you embrace destiny.”

  Feyn moved toward the tree trunk and gazed down valley. He let her think for a few minutes and settled on a nearby boulder. They had time.

  But Feyn wasn’t eager to let time pass. “Let me tell you about destiny, Rom. It’s upon us already. I am alive, Sovereign according to every law of succession. Short of my stepping down, there is no way for Jonathan to take my place. But we both know that if I were to step down, Saric would kill me and become Sovereign himself.” She looked at him. “That, Rom, is destiny. And it can’t be altered. Not now.”

  “Unless Saric didn’t kill you. Unless we found a way to contain him.”

  “You haven’t seen his power.”

  “No, but Rola
nd has. Don’t underestimate the Nomads.”

  “You’re assuming I have any interest in stepping aside.”

  “No. I’m assuming that you will once you remember who Jonathan is.”

  “Then you assume wrong. Saric has my undying loyalty.”

  “Today, yes. Hear me out and that could change.”

  “I sincerely doubt it.”

  “Doubts can be erased.”

  A fire took to her eyes and he wasn’t sure if it signified defiance or amusement. Either way, she was set.

  “Please, Feyn. Just hear me out.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  He stood and joined her. “This isn’t about who is or isn’t Sovereign, Feyn. Jonathan could co-rule with you. Yes, Saric would have to be dealt with, as would the senate. Undoing death is a massive undertaking, granted. But I would beg you to consider the value of that task. The world must be set free.”

  “And live as they once lived,” she said, looking away again.

  “Yes!” He instinctively reached out and touched her arm, thought immediately to remove his hand from her, but left it when she didn’t pull away. “We can at least agree on that much as a beginning. I know life. You’ve known it. If it isn’t the duty of the Sovereign to offer life to the people, then what is?”

  “You misunderstand me, Rom.” She looked up at him. “I will bring life. But I will not give up my Sovereignty.”

  “Then we find another way for Jonathan to rule with you.”

  “I will bring my life. The life given to me. Not Jonathan’s.”

  His hand fell away.

  “Saric’s life is no life. Surely you can see that!”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Life, Feyn! Life, as you tasted once. With joy. Hope. Love. You loved once. Or have you forgotten?”

  “No. I haven’t forgotten.” The cords in her neck stood out as she said it. “And I love again.”

  “Love? Who? Saric? You call forced loyalty love?”

  “Who are you to dictate to me what love is? What love feels like? I knew love once, for a very short hour with you, Rom. I loved you and you denied me because of Avra. And I couldn’t even begrudge you. But I knew even then that a part of you loved me in return.”