by Ted Dekker
This much was now obvious: the Roland she’d known as the Nomadic Prince was not the same man who commanded these Rippers. His new world was dark yet breathtaking; offensive but alluring. She felt oddly as one and alienated at once.
One of the men seated at the long table slipped out of his chair and approached, his stride as sinuous as a cat’s. His eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking dark orbs rimmed in light.
His black silk shirt was open in the front, draped over a lean, well-muscled chest and stomach. In his hand dangled a goblet of wine. At first glance one might think the man feminine, but Jordin knew she was looking at a vicious warrior.
A thin, wry smile pulled at the man’s face as he came close. His gaze dripped like hot wax over Jordin before lingering on Kaya…. and then returned to Jordin, as though tasked with a choice. He finally settled on Kaya, who stared back at him with painfully obvious innocence.
“Well, well, dear Sephan. What tender morsel have you brought me today?” He reached for Kaya’s hand and then glanced at Sephan. “I hope I’m correct in assuming she’s a gift.”
“That is for the prince to say,” Sephan said. “They came for him.” To Kaya: “Don’t mind Cain, pretty. He’s harmless. It’s the women you should stay clear of. Cain’s lover has been known to rip out the throat of her rivals.”
Kaya didn’t seem to hear Sephan. She lifted her hand and let Cain take it with deceptively thin fingers.
Had she lost her mind?
“We’re not here to play,” Jordin said, to Kaya as much as to the predator who had ensnared her with nothing more than oiled words and a gesture. “Only for Roland.”
“Only Roland,” Cain said. “Of course. But until Roland calls, I’m sure he would wish his prizes properly entertained. Isn’t that right, Sephan?”
“As I said, she’s for Roland. As for entertainment, I trust your judgment.” Clearly, Cain was higher on the pecking order than the Immortal who’d brought them—likely a celebrated fighter accustomed to his pick of the spoils.
Cain lifted Kaya’s hand and touched her knuckles with lips so dark they appeared nearly black in the dimly lit chamber. “What is the name of your friend, my little princess?”
“I’m Kaya,” she said, sounding lost.
“So you are. But I asked for the name of your friend. The fierce one who thinks I’m a viper.” His gaze slid to Jordin. “Perhaps she would like to see my fangs? It might make a night worth living for.”
Jordin was so caught off guard by his unabashed appraisal that she lost track of her thoughts for a moment. The allure of his undeniable attraction to her came like the strain of a song remembered, an urge fanned to flame once more. She’d thought the Mortal passion Sovereigns had surrendered in the name of wisdom dead in her. And so it had been. But it burned in Immortal blood. In her blood—searing the insides of her veins, enflaming and terrifying her both.
“You wrongly assume I have any interest in whether you live,” she said. “Let go of her hand.”
Cain paid no mind to her challenge.
“Now.”
Every eye in the room was on them.
“A prisoner commands the Rippers?” He made a deliberate show of releasing Kaya’s hand, of stepping past her toward Jordin. “You tempt my appetite for strong women. Now I must know you more.” He dipped his head and bowed. “Consider me at your service, madam.”
In that moment Jordin became aware that she could either take further offense or play the hand before her. She was Immortal, was she not? So she would only be served by being Immortal, if for no other reason than the sake of her mission, no matter how distant it now felt.
She glanced over his shoulder at the table where the others lingered with expressionless interest. And then it struck her: every surface in Roland’s sanctuary dripped sensual life, but the black eyes that stared back at her appeared as hard as the carved stone walls.
Only Cain, still waiting for her response, seemed to feed on any delight, and only because his lust was engaged.
“Then serve me,” she said. “We’ve had a long journey and need food. Feed us.”
His brow cocked, and he offered an approving smile. “And what is the name of the one who commands me?”
“That of a fighter who was killing Dark Bloods while you were still a Corpse.”
“She grows ever more mysterious.” He stepped to one side and swept one arm toward the long table. “Your food awaits.”
Jordin walked with him toward the table, ignoring the eyes of those seated there, aware of her plain clothing cached in dust and dirt.
“And I want to get out of these city clothes as soon as possible. I assume you can accommodate both of us?”
“It would be my pleasure. I will see to dressing you myself. Preferably alone.”
She took two more steps before stopping, suddenly aware that all eyes at the table had diverted to her left. She followed the direction of their gazes to one of the far corridors. There, a woman had entered the room.
She was dressed not in black but in deepest red, her gown trailing the stone floor behind her like a bloody spill. Her shoulders were not those of a fighter, but slender and bare, the long sleeves cut away to reveal white arms. She didn’t acknowledge the others in the room—in fact, she seemed not to even notice them.
Beside her strolled a young, golden lion, looking about the room with casual interest, never once straying from her side.
As singular as the sight of the animal was, every eye in the chamber was fixed on the woman. Awareness of her had robbed the room of sound. Where an Immortal had been lounging, he straightened; where eating, jaws had stopped moving. The dancer stopped and backed into the shadows. The group that was congregated around the settee near the bottom of the stairs stood and parted before her.
She didn’t acknowledge them as she passed. It was as though they didn’t even exist.
She rose up the stairs on bare and silent feet, the gown trailing crimson behind her. The Immortals below didn’t move.
The woman had risen halfway up the stairs when she stopped. As did the lion by her side.
Slowly, she turned her head to stare directly at Jordin. For several long seconds she fixed her with an unfathomable gaze, as if trying to remember why the sight of Jordin interested her.
Then she turned back, resumed her silent ascent of the stairs, and passed through one of the ways on the landing. Deeper into the Rippers’ sanctuary.
For three beats, silence. And then the room returned to its former state. Cain pulled out one of the chairs at the table.
“Who was that?” Jordin said. Kaya was still staring up at the passage on the landing.
“Talia,” Cain said. “Roland’s queen.” He gestured to the chairs.
A hundred questions ran through Jordin’s mind. She’d known Roland’s wife. This woman was not her.
Jordin slid into the chair, distantly aware of the intense focus the seated Immortals gave them both. Of Cain’s eyes on her as he seated Kaya, stroking her arm. Of the cutlery placed before her and the plate overflowing with meat and crusty bread…. the goblet reeking its sweetness beside it.
A woman came up to Cain, now seated across from them, and draped herself over his shoulders. He pulled her down into his lap, his goblet in one hand, the other on the woman…. his eyes never once leaving Jordin.
Kaya ate in silence, too much, too ravenously, drinking too deeply, but Jordin hardly had the presence of mind to stop her.
She was struck with the certainty that she’d made a terrible mistake in coming. To what end? To save Rom. To kill Roland. To kill Feyn. To save Sovereigns from deadened emotions. To save Immortals if only for the sake of Jonathan’s legacy, even if everything in her before had cried to kill them all.
Perhaps Mattius was right. Let his virus take them. But could she willingly let the Immortals all die? Wasn’t Roland her Maker now?
What was wrong with her?
The image of the queen, Talia, drifted through her mi
nd. The way she’d turned to stare. So silent, so otherworldly absorbed…. so deceptively aware. She glanced up at a drip of wax from a dying taper in the great chandelier. It hissed on the wood of the great table. The entire lair dripped with seduction. Haunting beauty.
And danger.
She desperately wanted space to think, but the curling tendrils of a thickening fog had begun to obscure her mind. By the look of wonder on Kaya’s face, she had begun to get lost in it too.
Her anxiety grew with the passing silence and she found herself deadening it with wine and praying that she be taken to Roland. She felt as if she might be falling into an abyss. As if those watching her had worked a spell to lure her into their grasp. But she was already in their grasp, if only by virtue of the very blood in her veins.
So lost was she in her own introspection that she didn’t hear Rislon’s approach. He touched her shoulder, and she jerked back, startled.
He glanced at her, then the others. Finally he nodded once.
“Roland will see you,” he said. “In the morning.” Then to Sephan, who lounged in a chair off to the side of Cain. “I’ll be back in an hour. Keep them out of trouble.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE TABLE had been set in the old hexagonal chamber. Tucked two stories beneath the Senate Hall, the chamber had once been a repository of sorts—of ancient artifacts like the weapons forgotten for a time by the world. Books, written for their sordid emotional journeys, goblets even, from a time when the ancient basilicas of Byzantium called the Maker by a far more arcane name: God.
They had been Saric’s playthings. Feyn’s brother had come here in the first days of his dark reawakening, drawn to the artifacts of Chaos after finding emotion through alchemy.
Feyn had stripped the room of its relics and moldy tapestries. But though the walls had been scrubbed and covered with fine Abyssinian linen, nothing could staunch the sweat of the stones, as though they harbored secrets too terrible for even the earth to bear.
Here, Order had been conceived. Here, its founder had been martyred by the first world Sovereign.
The table was set in the middle of the room, attended by two chairs. Two settings lay perfectly placed on its top; fruit, nuts, and thin slices of cold meats arranged on each of them.
She stepped to the large candelabra, leaned close enough to feel the heat of the nearest flame practically on her cheek, and inhaled deeply. Jasmine. A tribute of Asiana.
The heavy wooden door opened. A clank of iron chains. The shuffle of feet—one pair booted, the other near silent.
“Remove his chains,” she said, leaning in toward the candelabra again as one does a fragrant bush. She could smell the offensive odor. Him.
“My liege—”
“Now.”
The clink of a metal key, of the chains collected. She glanced over her shoulder and slowly turned.
Seth kneeled beside Rom on the thick Abyssinian carpet she’d ordered brought down earlier. The head of the handsome Dark Blood was lowered. She was accustomed to the play of shadows along his chiseled cheek at that angle, among others. Beside him knelt Rom, head erect, eyes on her.
But of course. He’d never observed her station from the first night he’d broken into her chamber to recruit her for his desperate mission so many years ago. And in her waking years since, he’d never failed to push her toward his own purpose.
The time for that had come to an end. She was no longer the naïve young woman she had once been; she too could play at these games.
She slipped out of her brocade shoes and walked on silent feet past the table to stand before Rom.
His eyes were remarkable, not only for their vibrant color, but also for their lack of fear. She saw no gratitude in them for the saving of his eye, nor anger for his severed finger, now bandaged. He appeared sure. But there was something new. Was it arrogance? No. Something else.
“Please. Get up. We’re past the time for that. We were a long time ago.”
He leaned forward, hand on one knee, and rose without a sound, albeit stiffly. Seth, beside him, did not move. Did not so much as twitch a muscle. He would stay there all day if she let him. What a contrast, these two men!
“Seth, wait outside.”
The Dark Blood did not glance upward so much as forward, along the carpet. She was both touched and irritated by his hesitation. She knew he didn’t want to leave her alone with the Sovereign. Out of protectiveness, certainly. Out of jealousy, perhaps. But after a beat he rose, fixed his gaze meaningfully on Rom, and then stepped out, quietly closing the door.
Feyn had no doubt he would be standing there in that very posture, listening intently, ready to seize Rom by the throat if she but lifted her voice.
“Come, sit with me. You must be famished,” she said, moving to the table and pulling out a chair. When was the last time she’d ever done that?
“Feyn—”
“Please.”
Every other man she knew would have quickly sat.
“I didn’t come to you for food.”
“Then indulge me. I’m hungry.”
He acquiesced with a slight dip of his head and gestured her to the seat instead.
She slipped into it. “That’s better,” she said with a smile, as he took the chair adjacent to her. But rather than eat, he turned toward her, elbows on his knees. Now she could see the signs of fatigue across his shoulders. In the straggle of his hair…. the shadows beneath his eyes. She’d ordered them not to allow him sleep.
“I’ll arrange a bath for you. Clean clothing. But for now, you must eat something. And as we do, you can tell me plainly what you’ve come for.” She crossed one leg over the other, the long slit in her gown opening to her thigh.
His gaze dropped toward her lap.
She plucked a rare fresh strawberry from her plate, held it out toward him.
“I already told you what I’ve come for,” he said. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the strawberry.
“Ah, that’s right. To make me Sovereign.”
He bit into the strawberry, and she tilted her head, watching him. His chewing slowed and his eyes closed—few were accustomed to fresh fare of this quality. His gaunt frame spoke the truth: the Sovereigns were barely surviving. She wondered when he had last had anything fresh to eat.
She gave a soft chuckle. “Here,” she said, moving the bowl toward him. “If you’re going to make me Sovereign, you’ll need your energy.”
“I am not the one who makes Sovereigns. Jonathan is.”
“His blood, you mean.”
“Yes. But him as well.”
“I wonder what possessed you to take the blood of a dead man into your veins. I’ve heard the stories, and my sources are reliable.” She sat back and regarded him. Strawberries were her favorite normally, but her appetite was ruined by Rom’s heavy odor.
He set the fruit down. “A vision,” he said. “A dream. Jordin’s, the girl who loved him.”
“And now he’s dead.”
“Jonathan isn’t dead.”
“Is his body not in the grave?”
“Yes. But he lives.”
“What a paradox. Explain it to me.”
“I can’t. I just know it to be true.”
There was something in his eyes….
“You truly want me to be as you are, don’t you?” she said with some wonder.
“Not as I am. As Jonathan meant you to be.”
“A Sovereign, which I am. Not your dead blood kind of Sovereign…. ruler. I was born to it. And yet here you are, once again asking me to embrace another life. Will you never tire of this game?”
“No.” There it was, the fervor of a zealot in his eyes.
“What did Jonathan come to bring you, exactly?”
“Life.”
“You say this over and over, and yet you live like a rat in hiding. You’re half starved. You’re hunted, not just by my own Dark Bloods, but by Roland’s Immortals. Didn’t he have the same blood as you once? And now
you’re at each other’s throats? This is what you hoped for?”
The zeal left his eyes. “No.”
“And so I ask you again: What has the blood brought you? Ease? Meaning?”
“I don’t know the answers. I only know that this is what I am meant to be. And that this is where I’m meant to be now. Here, with you.”
“And if I follow your way…. what will I gain? Has this life even brought you peace?”
He stared at her, silent.
“No peace, then.”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet. Clearly. Look at you.”
“Has yours? You own the world. Has it brought you peace?”
She gave a brittle laugh. “There’s little peace for me. The humblest artisan sleeps better than I do.” She tilted her head, studied her own hands. “You must remember something of that. You were a humble artisan once.”
He gave a nod. “Yes. Once.”
“No longer?”
He shifted his eyes and stared at a tapestry on the wall. “I have little time now.”
“No. You’re too busy trying to stay alive. Please, eat more. You’re not hungry?”
He returned his eyes to her. “I can eat later.”
Rom, the ever-focused one.
She picked up a strawberry, considered eating it, then set it on her plate. “Do you ever wonder if we might have been together, had things been different?”
He blinked, and again she was startled by the color of his eyes. She had to work to reconcile the grizzled man before her with the boy of fifteen years ago, but there—she saw him in flashes, in the turn of his lip.
His gaze slid to her hand.
“Perhaps.”
“I demanded a poem from you once. Do you remember? That day, in the meadow. You were a poet then, so young. But clever already. You had tricked me, giving me the blood. And I’d come to life. You were the first thing I saw, and I was in love. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“ ‘We rode together through the night, chasing love, chasing light….,’ ” she said softly, reciting his words.
