Mortal

CHAPTER EIGHT

DOMINIC PACED BEHIND the heavy desk in his office, staring at the bookshelves. Staring without seeing. He needed to consult the texts. The commentaries on the Book of Orders. He needed counsel. He needed Rowan.

Rowan, whose head had all but toppled off his neck, blood spurting into the air…

What abomination, what profane act, had he just witnessed?

He shook his head, suppressing terrible fear. Not for Rowan, but for himself at the spectacle of death.

Saric’s claim that they were all dead still rang in his ears. Perhaps the most blasphemous words ever spoken in the senate chamber.

Dominic stared out the window and willed himself to feel something other. Other than horror. Other than abject fear at what he had just witnessed.

But he could not. Gone were the sentiments of a baser age called Chaos. Humanity had risen above them and peace had reigned.

It simply wasn’t possible that a virus had changed them genetically as claimed by Saric.

We know the Maker exists by his Order. It was the first line of the liturgy. The most basic statute of Order. Order was the hand of the Maker. To question Order was to question the Maker. By that alone, he knew Saric’s claims from the dais for sacrilege. That whatever dark blood flowed in Saric’s veins was anathema.

And yet… he had brought his sister back.

So then… it was possible to bring a body back from stasis. There was no end to Alchemy. Megas had been an alchemist-was it possible that he’d crafted this virus called Legion?

The thought stung Dominic’s mind. No. There was only one truth, given by the Maker in the way of Order as written by their prophets. The fear Dominic felt now was borne of righteousness. He knew without investigating any of Saric’s claims that the man was more than twisted.

He was evil.

Born once into life, we are blessed. And if we please, let us be born into the afterlife, into Bliss everlasting.

Dominic’s greatest fear now wasn’t for his own life. It was that in failing to act today he might have somehow left his fate unsecured. Or that in failing to act in the future, he might achieve the same. He dare not risk Bliss. He feared Hades.

He straightened, his purpose clear. Adjusting his robe, he strode for his office door, yanked it open.

The anteroom of his office was filled with senators. They were only slightly less pale than when they’d witnessed the horrors of just an hour ago.

He dipped his head. “Senators.”

“What would you say?” Senator Compalla of Russe said.

He strode forward, heart set. “Isn’t it obvious? Feyn is our Sovereign. We will serve her without question as we serve the Maker.”

“And what about Saric?”

“Saric,” Dominic said, facing her, “is a blasphemer.”

“And his claims?”

“You dare ask?”

“Not to question.” She faltered. “Only to know where you stand.”

“False! All of them.”

They were in the grips of fear, practically wavering where they stood. A nation could not be ruled like this. A world could not be ruled by the weak.

“I have consulted the archive. He fills your ear with lies. Guard your mind, lest you compromise your hereafter.”

It wasn’t the truth-he hadn’t gone to the archive, he’d spent the last hour pacing. But it was the truth. Order was infallible. It was far better to lie once than to display such lack of obedience as to go looking for proof that it was not.

The prudence of his decision-of his own obedience-was immediately evidenced in the slight, but very real, settling on the faces before him.

“We know the Maker exists by his Order,” he said. “And for that reason, hear what I say now. Saric must be stopped. At all costs.” He spun and walked past them.

“And how will you stop him?”

He stopped at the outer door and faced them.

“I won’t. The Sovereign will.”