Mortal

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DOMINIC STRODE DOWN the grand hallway of the palace, boot heels clacking against the marble floor in time with the cudgeling of his heart.

A day had passed since the senate leader had witnessed the most horrific, profane act of his life in the slaughter of the Regent. And he’d heard the most unfathomable profanity from the man who had committed the act, right there on the senate dais, where Saric had effectively revived and then installed his sister as Sovereign.

That first night, he’d suffered nightmares. Nightmares of the Regent’s neck opening in that yawning gash. Of the naked Sovereign screaming from the great table, as if it were an altar and she the sacrifice. Nightmares of blood flowing from the stent in Saric’s arm into hers. Of the unmistakable scar that cut across her torso, clear evidence of the savage slash that had ended her life nine years earlier on the cusp of her own inauguration.

Of Feyn standing and speaking, not with her own voice, but with Saric’s.

You are dead. All of you. Dead.

He’d woken in a sweat. Paced his Citadel apartments. Come to stand at the window and look out at the dark night in the direction of the palace and the apartment of the Sovereign. Candlelight had burned there throughout the evening.

And then, the most terrible voice of all seeped into his mind.

His own.

You are dead.

Was it possible?

Chills had crept across his nape, had prickled the tips of his fingers and set his ears ringing. Fear, at its most visceral.

He’d passed the next day in sleep-deprived vigilance, his hands cold and numb, already anticipating more nightmares in the night to come. He had gone to evening basilica to settle his spirit. It wasn’t the customary day, but such services were performed throughout the week to allay the fears of those needing comfort, and to stave off dread of the eternal with one more proper act in deference to the only thing that would be reckoned at the end of one’s life.

Order.

We know the Maker exists within his Order.

It helped. That night he’d gone to sleep knowing two things: First, that the Maker was still the Maker, known within Order. To question Order was to question the Maker himself. This truth remained steadfast, a lone anchor in this sudden storm of events.

Second, that Feyn claimed the seat of office legitimately as Sovereign, no matter how stunning her resurrection from stasis or the blasphemous guardianship that she had been reborn under like a bloody moon.

There were no nightmares the second night. And Dominic had risen today newly collected. Newly resolved.

As he made his way to the outer atrium of the Office in the last hour of late afternoon, he glanced up, ignoring the dark cracks that snaked up the vaulted ceiling, focusing instead on the sheen of light reflected off its gilded surface. These ancient halls were hallowed since the days of Chaos, dedicated to the Maker when he had gone by a more arcane name: God.

He had only one objective now. He had to secure Feyn’s assurance that she would work to destroy her brother, who clearly stood against Order. Surely she saw that her own seat was in grave danger. Perhaps, even, her eternal destiny. They had to work together.

He nodded at the secretary whom he’d known so many years as Rowan’s man, Savore. How different, to see him keeping the desk of the office from which Saric held court, no doubt turning the resources of the world to his own dark purposes. Dominic all but imagined he could see shadows creeping from the great chamber beyond.

All of you… dead.

Savore rose to gesture him to the twelve-foot doors of the Office. The secretary wouldn’t touch them himself-it was for each man to bring his own weight into this space, to labor even in this way to attain an audience with the Sovereign, strong hand of the Maker on earth.

Dominic laid his palms against the intricately etched bronze door. It was usual for any prelate to pause and consider the symbols of each continental office: the alchemists of Russe, the educators of Asiana, the architects of Qin, the environmentalists of Nova Albion, the bankers of Abyssinia, the priests of Greater Europa and the artisans of Sumeria. Dominic himself had often done the same, going so far as to trace the Book of Orders beside the emblem of Europa, his own continent, with a fingertip.

But today he saw only the symbol presiding over them all: the great compass, the graded points of Sirin’s halo, by which they must all live and by which they would all be judged.

He pushed the doors open.

Inside, the heavy velvet curtains had been drawn shut against the obscure light of the waning day as a dozen candelabras sent shadows flitting and luring throughout the room.

That was the first thing he noticed.

The second was the two Dark Bloods on either side of his peripheral vision as the doors fell shut behind him with the ominous thud of a vault.

The third was the figure sitting at the desk. She was richly attired in velvet so dark blue as to appear the color of midnight. She was studying a report of some kind, as she sipped from a pewter goblet. Her nails were perfectly manicured.

She lifted her eyes with feline languor. They were dark and fathomless in the shadows.

Dominic went to a knee on the thick carpet, but for the first time in his life, he stared rather than lowered his gaze.

The figure behind the desk was indeed the Sovereign herself-fortunately, Saric was nowhere to be seen. But she was drastically changed.

She released the report with a flick of her fingers.

“My lord Dominic,” Feyn said, voice as smooth as a purr. It was the first time he had heard her since that first blood-chilling scream, and he found he could not reconcile the two sounds at all.

She rose from her chair, candlelight catching the obsidian of her chandelier earrings. Her hair was swept up completely off her neck and onto her head. The high, open collar of her dress accentuated her neck and her pale skin in a neckline that plunged to her sternum.

Again, he railed at the thought that this could possibly be the same woman. And yet there she was-Feyn as all had ever known her. And as she had never been known.

She came around the side of the desk, moving with unhurried grace. The light of the nearest candelabra swept up her face, revealing a shadow on one cheek, just discernable enough for him to wonder if it was a play of light.

No. A bruise, then?

She paused before him and he found himself dropping his gaze down to her booted foot. An open palm extended into the field of his vision. He took it and kissed the ring of office along the inside of her delicate fingers. They smelled like wine and musk and salt.

The hand withdrew, but not before he noted the mark on the inside of her elbow. A small puncture wound visible within the high split of her sleeve.

He started to lean forward with both hands on his knee but then he realized she hadn’t told him to rise. He blinked and shifted back, ignoring the pop of his kneecap in the carpet.

“Why do you come?” she said, moving back toward her desk and reclaiming the goblet.

He lifted his gaze, struck again by the regal tilt of her jaw, the very straightness of her nose, the set of her lips, moist after a sip from the wine. “To speak with you. I have concerns.”

“Everyone has concerns about something, Dominic.”

He glanced toward the doors and back. “May we speak in private, my lady?”

“We are in private.” The tone, though dispassionate, was strange, and again he thought that she reminded him less like the startled colt shaking on its own legs of just a day ago than a great panther.

“Please.”

She slid her gaze away in the direction of the guards. With a meaningful glance the two muscled forms dipped their heads and filed out through the great double doors, which fell heavily back into place.

And then they were alone.

Feyn moved toward a wingbacked chair off to the side of the curtained window. “Come, Dominic.”

He rose stiffly and then stood before her, uncertain. Rowan had always invited him to sit beside him in the chair’s companion seat. But Feyn only sat back and merely waited for him to speak.

He folded his hands. “Please understand the nature of my concern. You came back to us in… a most unusual manner. And while I’m certain you could not know the nature of the things your brother said before that moment, I must inform you that they were entirely disturbing.”

“Were they?” Her forearm extended along the arm of the chair, fingers holding the rim of her goblet.

“Yes. And I feel compelled to inquire as to your own… beliefs in these matters. Your loyalties.”

“You ask the Sovereign where her loyalties lay?”

“Indeed, my lady. I fear your brother has hinted at thoughts that no good man of Order should ever think. He has spoken highest blasphemy. And this is saying nothing of the fact that he murdered the Regent in cold blood before our very eyes.”

She glanced down, cradled her cup on her lap, and slowly traced the rim of it with a fingertip. Her eyes lifted. “And your point?”

“I must ask you, my lady, with all respect. Do you follow the Order? Will you serve it? Would you die for it?”

A strange turn of a smile formed at the corners of her mouth. “It would not be the first time I have died for this office, would it?”

“Yes, forgive me. And yet-”

“I will die for this office,” she interrupted. “And serve it.”

“Would you die also for the truth, lady-of the Maker, and of the Order that is his hand?”

“The truth? What is the truth, Dominic?”

He said what was said by all, learned in early childhood. “We know the Maker through his Order.”

“I see. Then I must ask you, Dominic, what is a Maker?”

“But of course, the one who gives life, my lady.”

“And do you have life?”

“Yes. Though your brother doesn’t seem to think so.”

“And I? Do I have life?”

He glanced at her hands, then her eyes. “Clearly.”

“How do you know?”

“You see, you breathe.” How could he not shudder at the memory of her first, ragged gasp of air as her chest had arched up off that altarlike stone table?

“And how do you know that you have life?” she asked.

“Because I stand here before you.”

“I see. And what is the purpose of our lives, if you don’t mind?”

“To serve the Maker.”

“Then we are in agreement.”

Dominic nodded slightly. “And we know the Maker through Order.”

“We know the Maker by his stamp upon us. By the life in our veins, do we not?”

“I… yes. In a manner of speaking.”

“And we know the Maker also by those inner leanings we all have to serve him, do we not? The fear of disappointing him in any way.”

“Indeed.”

“Some call it fear. But we, Dominic, know it as loyalty. As love. Do we not?”

Why did he feel the need to hesitate?

But no. He was simply taken aback to see her so well recovered. And clothed.

“Yes,” he replied. “By our love.”

“But do you really know what love is, Dominic?”

“It is the fear of the Maker. It is the thing we commit to, that we make our actions and minds beholden to.”

“And if we love our Maker, do we also love and serve his hand?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Am I the hand of the Maker on earth, Dominic?”

“Indeed, my lady. You are the One.”

“Was I not born and raised to be Sovereign by the laws of succession, chosen by the Maker?”

“There is no question, my lady. You are the rightful Sovereign.”

“You are a man of the Book, Dominic. I wonder, what is the punishment for anyone who would stand in the way of the Order’s elect taking office? Of one who would even rule… out of Order… in her stead?”

He paused.

“Dominic?”

“Death, my lady.”

“Hmm.”

Again, the image of Rowan’s head falling from his neck sliced through his mind.

“And yet you recoiled at that punishment when it was carried out. Do you object to the rules of Order?”

“Never! By my word, I have served Order all my life. Diligently, with the hope of Bliss.”

“So you will swear your loyalty to me?”

“But of course, my Sovereign.”

“How can I know for certain?”

Dominic was only just aware that his purpose in coming to Feyn had somehow been reversed. He was now the one under interrogation. Her power as Sovereign was evident even now.

“The Maker knows my loyalty,” he said. “Demand anything of me so that you will know as well.”

She watched him without expression, dark eyes unblinking, haunting.

“Kneel before your Sovereign.”

He lowered both knees to the thick rug in one motion.

Feyn rose, set the goblet aside, and stepped up to him.

“You give me your full loyalty?”

“I do, my lady.”

“The Maker has chosen me to rule over you as Sovereign. Will you defer to my judgment and wisdom in all things?”

“I will.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear.”

She stepped closer-so close that he might reach out and touch the velvet of her gown. Her hand rested on top of his head. He could feel the warmth of it through his graying hair. Again, the smell of musk, spice, wine…

“Even if you may not understand my actions, you will defer to me in all things, trusting that I am loyal to the Maker,” she said quietly.

Why this sense of relief, this abating of fear that came with such a clear path? “I will.”

“Even if it surpasses your own understanding, defies your own logic and will.”

“I will.”

“Then you do well.” Her hand slid down to his cheek. She tilted his face up and gazed at him with a hint of tenderness. “One day I may reward you with a gift. If I do, take it with grace.”

“I will, my lady. But serving is gift enough.”

His fear was nearly gone, replaced by strange and profound peace. Yes. Surely here was the mouth and hand of the Maker on earth.

“You may rise.”

He would have remained on his knees until they stiffened and he could no longer feel his feet. But he slowly rose to his feet, light-headed.

“My lady?”

“That is all, Dominic,” she said, retrieving her goblet from the side table.

He backed a step and bowed his head. “Thank you, my lady.”

Dominic made his way across the thick carpet to the double doors. This time, when he laid his hand on the image of the compass-the same one emblazoned on the other side-he drew a long, slow breath. Cleared his head.

He knew two things now: That the Maker was known by his Order. And that Feyn was the voice of that Order. He was devout. He would follow. And Bliss would come in its wake.

“Ah, Dominic?”

“My lady?” he said, turning back.

She was standing behind her desk, a pillar of velvet, candlelight warming her ivory skin.

“You should know one thing before you leave.”

“Yes?”

She lowered herself into her chair, gaze riveted on him. “I will not betray my brother.”

Feyn stared at the heavy bronze doors long after the senate leader had left.

Long after she had drained the goblet dry in one long draw. Even as the hand descended on her shoulder.

As she knew it would.

She turned her head as Saric leaned down and kissed her gently. But not so gently that she didn’t feel the bruise on her cheek.

“You did well, my love.”

Her need for him swelled. To hear those words, as though they were the very blood he had given her. He’d been watching her the whole time. She had known about the small corridor beyond the curtained wall behind the desk since she was a child. Her own father, Vorrin, had instructed her to stand in the corridor on many state visits to observe negotiations through the years of her training for this very office.

“You were pleased?” she said.

“How beautifully… how effortlessly, you dominate him with talk of loyalty to the Maker.”

“Yes,” she said, gazing ahead of her, somehow wishing that the curtains were open, even to the night. She would see to that.

“And who is that Maker?”

“You are, my Lord.”

“That’s right. I’m impressed by your skill. Let those who come to ply you think you have played into their hands. And ply them instead.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, turning her cheek into his hand.

“You see? You’re a natural, my love. And one day, he will be of great use to us.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded, then sat on the edge of the desk, sliding the empty goblet away. “I have something I must talk to you about.”

“Yes?”

“The Mortals came into the city from the north.”

She blinked. “Then we will search north.”

He lifted his head and gazed past her. “It seems they can smell our blood.”

Smell it? Was it even possible? And then she remembered the way the Nomad, Roland, had drawn back and turned his head as though to lessen some reek. The way Rom had steeled himself when he had first come close.

“My Dark Bloods have a disadvantage in scouting. There was an incident at an outpost… one body missing among the charred remains. A child of mine taken, I assume, by the Mortals. Any information he gave them would be false-my children are carefully trained and utterly loyal. But that he could be taken at all concerns me.”

When Saric looked back down at her, his eyes flashed with a terrifying intensity that brought to mind his harshest rebuke.

“You will dispatch five hundred of your men to the north. Guards, dressed as vagrants. They will scour the wastelands and canyons for any sign of the Nomads. At first sighting they will report back. We must find them. Is this clear?”

“As you wish, brother.”

Saric stared at her for the space of several breaths. Then he lifted his hand and stroked the fading bruise on her cheek with his thumb.

“Call me your Maker when we are alone. It pleases me more.”

“As you wish, my Maker.”