Mortal

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JORDIN WAS UP EARLY by Nomadic standards. Early, and troubled.

Dawn had drifted to the valley hours ago, illuminating the foothills, spreading out along the valley floor. Sunlight dappled the water of the shallow river before spreading across the round tops of yurts and creeping up the great stair of the Bahar ruins against the eastern wall. If the sun held long enough, the marble steps would gleam white by noon. And if the sky remained cloudless through the afternoon, gold light would reach past the columns of the ancient basilica and illuminate the ancient stained glass with colorful fire.

The day was full of life.

But Jonathan was missing.

She never failed to find him somewhere-downriver, where he sometimes went to bathe, or with the horses, where he spent hours plaiting the mane and tail of his stallion, fixing them with the ornaments given to him in such abundance that he couldn’t possibly wear them all himself. Sometimes she found him in the foothills, carving, alone, or sleeping, having gone to the high knolls sometime during the wild revelry of the night before.

But this morning, he was nowhere to be found. Adah, who rose early to cook for him and Rom, had come to Jordin asking where he was. She’d gone looking in his small yurt at the center of camp, but there was no sign that he’d been there at all during the night. When she got to the pen she learned that his horse was gone.

So then where? If she could not locate him soon, she would have to tell Rom, which would cast a shadow on her role as his protector. It was one thing for the others not to know his whereabouts, but not her.

She strode along the edge of the western cliff, north of the camp, high above the foothills. Drawing a slow breath, she willed back the first fingers of panic and forced herself to see down through the valley past the waking camp.

Jonathan had been silent since their return from Byzantium, the day before yesterday. She knew he was haunted by the doomed girl, Kaya. And by the Corpses they’d seen outside the city. One look in his eyes and she knew he was deeply troubled in ways that no one-perhaps not even Jordin herself-could understand. He’d worn loneliness like a mantle since their return.

Jordin jogged along the cliff edge, fighting back fear-an emotion unusual to her in the years of her Mortality, but an easily recalled nightmare from her years as a Corpse. She had feared abandonment most of her life, until the day she met Jonathan. Now the thing she feared most was simply living without him.

She scanned the valley north to south from the horse pen on the northernmost edge of camp. Along the river to the broadening valley, out toward the main river which ran all the way from the wilderness to the western coast, out to sea.

She was about to head back to the south side when she saw the dark spot askance through the sunlight, far south, riding up the distant wash. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and squinted to focus.

A rider. A mile out, traveling at a walk as though having covered hours of terrain. Then she recognized the height and color of the dun horse, the posture of the rider…

Jonathan.

She stood fixed for a full second, heart hammering in her ears. Her first thought was that he was safe. Thank the Maker he was safe.

Her second thought was that her Sovereign had gone far. On a horse. Very far. Without anyone’s knowledge.

She had to reach him first. She had to be by his side when he came into camp. She had to know where he’d been.

Jordin ran to the rocky outcrop where she’d climbed up from the knoll, swearing to never leave him alone for more than an hour ever again. Not so close to his ascension.

She flew through the foothills, questions drumming through her mind. Down the last hill to the valley floor, running the half mile across the shallows of the river, cutting through camp, leaping over fires still smoldering from the night before.

Heads turned. Children paused their playing to look up. Warriors stared, mothers turned from their cooking and shouted after their children, who came trotting after her. The sight of Jordin running through camp in such haste was rare and could only mean one thing: Jonathan.

He was just coming into the south side of the camp when she caught sight of him, his stallion at a steady walk. She ran faster.

Only then did she see that others were staring his way. Not just watching but rooted to the ground. Fixated. She reached the steps of the ruins when she realized what everyone else was staring at.

He wasn’t alone.

Jordin pulled up short next to a dozen others, gathered to watch his return. There, behind him on his horse, was a second figure. Smaller, peering around Jonathan, clutching him by the waist. A boy, barely twelve, if that.

His scent hit her like a gust of hot wind.

Corpse.

Bringing any Corpse into the valley was an express violation of Nomadic law. Other than the spies who came to meet with Rom, she hadn’t seen a Corpse outside Byzantium since the last of the Mortals had been made. That was before the moratorium years ago.

A figure came stalking out into the clearing before the ruin stair, dark beads glinting in his hair, followed closely by another. The hair stood up on her arms.

Maro the zealot.

She hurried forward as several others came out of their yurts, noses covered by cloth or hands.

“What is that odor of death?” someone said behind her.

“Corpse!” She knew the booming voice well: Rhoda, the belligerent blacksmith who hit wine as hard and often as she hit steel. “Good Maker… He’s brought a Corpse to camp…”

Jonathan did not slow, did not show any concern. He wore a mask of simple resolve, as though the looks of shock had nothing to do with him at all.

But Jordin knew better. Her sovereign might be quiet much of the time, but his intelligence was superior in ways that few knew as well as she. And his powers of observation were keener than even Roland’s.

The first time she’d seen it, they been at the lookout above, two years earlier, legs dangling over the cliff, watching the camp far below. After half an hour of silence, Jordin had braved a question.

“My Sovereign?”

“Yes?”

“May I ask a question?”

He’d looked at her, mouth curved in amusement. “If I can ask one first.”

“Of course.” Then she added, “My Sovereign.”

“Will you call me Jonathan instead of Sovereign?” he asked.

She assumed the more formal title more appropriate-especially from one without position like her.

“Jonathan?”

“I like the way you say it.”

“Jonathan.”

His smile widened. “Thank you.”

In retrospect, she thought she’d fallen in love with him in that moment, staring into his bright hazel eyes, which never wandered from her own.

“Your turn.”

“Mine?”

“Your question?”

“Oh… Yes. I was wondering. What goes through your mind when you watch the camp for so many hours?”

He looked at the valley below, lost again in thought for a few moments.

“There are twelve hundred and eleven Mortals alive today. They all live in this valley. Seventeen are in the river now, bathing. Five hundred and fifty-three that I’ve seen have ventured out of their yurts this morning. Just shy of seven hundred still slumber, most of whom did not sleep until early morning. Three hundred and twelve danced around the fire last night…” He faced her. “I know all of their names.”

She was astonished at his powers of observation, the keenness of his memory.

“I think about every soul who has taken my blood, Jordin. They are forever bound to me. And some day their number will be more than I can count. I worry that I can’t know them all.” His eyes were misted as he said it. “What if I lose track?”

Or perhaps it was with those words and those tears that she’d fallen for him.

Now that same young man rode into town on his horse with a boy behind him, face turned against Jonathan’s back, white fingers clutching his waist. Her Sovereign whom she loved more than her own life was bringing a Corpse among the Mortals. One whose name he would never forget.

He stopped adjacent to the steps to the temple ruins, ten paces from a loosely formed arc of expectant observers. Maro took two steps forward and stopped. Roland’s cousin was dark haired, hook-nosed, and famous for his notched arrows that screamed when put to flight.

Silence stood between them. The horse twitched its plaited tail, oblivious.

“What is the meaning of this?” Maro finally said.

“His name is Keenan,” Jonathan said. “He needs our help.”

Jordin eased forward and placed herself just back and off of Maro’s right shoulder, bothered already by the warrior’s tone. Behind Jonathan, Keenan had lifted his shaggy blond head and begun to stare fearfully about him.

“He’s a Corpse,” Maro said evenly. “Bringing a Corpse into our perimeter is strictly forbidden.”

Jonathan considered Maro for an even moment, and then silently lifted Keenan down from the saddle before dismounting behind him. The boy, a full head and a half shorter than Jonathan, was trembling. The closest Corpse outpost that Jordin knew of was nearly four hours’ ride from here. Had the young Sovereign gone expressly looking for Corpses to bring back?

He leaned over and whispered something to the boy, but before Jordin could wonder what it was or move toward them, Maro had stalked forward. The boy staggered a step backward, dirty face wide with fear.

The zealot nodded at Jonathan. “The law protects all of us. No one’s above it.”

“Remember whom you speak to,” Jordin bit out quietly.

Maro turned, saw her, and narrowed his eyes. “Censure from a deserter’s daughter?”

She felt the color rush to her face, hot.

Rhoda, the blacksmith, had joined the fray. “What’s this?”

“Jonathan’s brought a Corpse to camp,” Maro said, stalking to Jonathan’s right, as if to flank him. Surely he didn’t mean to actually confront him. How could any Mortal rebuke Jonathan?

Jordin moved with him, voice thick and low. “Back off.”

“What good is life if ruin finds us before the blood in our veins has come into power?”

“The blood in your veins? That blood in your veins isn’t your own. How dare you question your Sovereign?”

“It’s our blood that will allow us to rule a world of dead Corpses. And it’s our laws that protect Mortals until we can. We defend it to the death.” Maro jutted his chin toward the Corpse boy. “Against death.”

He turned, looked around at the crowd. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Seriph, the ranking council member, had by now joined the circle of onlookers.

“The dead will bury their dead,” Jonathan said quietly. “But I would give Keenan life.”

“By breaking the law?” Maro demanded. He looked over at Seriph. “What do you say?”

Silence settled in the valley. Even the breeze seemed to take note. There had never been a direct confrontation like this within camp, or between any man and Jonathan. Where were Rom or Roland to set things straight?

Seriph eyed the Corpse boy, seeming to choose his words carefully. “The law is clear. No Corpse may enter the Seyala Valley without council approval. No more brought to life until Jonathan ascends.”

“He breaks the law in bringing a Corpse here. Tell me this isn’t true.”

Seriph hesitated. Accusing a Sovereign of breaking the law was unheard of. Even the Nomads knew that. He seemed very aware that his words might be first of their kind spoken in public by a ranking council member.

“He breaks the law,” Seriph said softly.

“He breaks the law,” Maro repeated, bolder now. He paced again, to his right then back, as an interrogator before a prisoner.

“He is the Sovereign!” Jordin cried, indignation hot in her veins.

“Our valley will not become a graveyard for the dead,” Maro said. “For every Corpse lining up to be handed a life they don’t even understand. And we will not pollute the camp with stench of Corpse!”

Maro slid his knife out of its sheath and strode toward the boy without offering up any explanation for his intention.

Jordin knew what would happen before it did-the moment Maro moved she knew.

She knew that Jonathan would move to protect the boy, regardless of Maro’s intentions. Which he did, boldly and without compromise.

She knew that she would cut in between them to protect her Sovereign. She turned on Maro, who had the audacity to slash at her. Maker, had he lost his mind?

Jordin arched back, steel hissing a bare inch from her chin, her own knife instantly in her hand.

On the edge of the circle-Seriph, staring in shock. Beyond them, Triphon, Rom-coming toward them, Roland behind them. They strode across camp, but not quickly enough.

“Heretic!” Maro hissed, circling to his left. Deliberately, she knew, to draw her from Jonathan. She turned on her heel, holding her ground.

“You know what I think, Maro? That the day before you were made Mortal you stank twice as bad as this boy.”

His eyes narrowed, muscles along his shoulders tensing with his legs. She braced herself-but with a sudden cry, the Corpse boy bolted out from behind her.

“Get back!” she shouted. Too late. Maro rushed straight for the boy. Jonathan flew between them as Jordin lunged, slashing upward. No sparring match, this-she went for the tendons. Maro’s knife dropped free, but his arm, still in full swing, connected with Jonathan. Maro’s hand struck Jonathan’s jaw, snapping his head to the side and sending him reeling back onto the boy.

And then Rom was on Maro, grabbing the zealot from behind. He threw him forward, fell onto his back, grabbed him up by the hair and slammed his forehead into the hard earth with enough force to break his nose with an audible crunch. Not once, but twice.

Maro lay unmoving. Jordin could smell the life in him, but he was mercifully unconscious.

Knee still in the zealot’s back, Rom jerked the man’s head up, his face grisly with blood. Their leader was breathing heavily, not from exertion, but from fury. Jordin had never seen such a look on his face before.

“No one touches the Sovereign!” he roared. He released his grip on Maro’s hair and let his head fall with a solid thud. “Are we clear?”

Those gathered gave no argument.

To Roland: “Take this fool away. See that he’s punished. He’s not to come within twenty yards of Jonathan again or I swear I’ll put him in chains or worse.”

Roland’s face was set as stone, but he gave a curt nod.

Behind Jonathan, soft crying from the Corpse boy. Rom considered the boy for a moment, but when he spoke next, it wasn’t to Jonathan.

“Take the Corpse back to where he came from.”

Jordin blinked. Rom had addressed her. She glanced at Jonathan. Just two mornings ago he had bowed to Jonathan’s wish to turn a Dark Blood… no matter that it had ended badly.

“But-”

“I won’t have our mission compromised. There is far more at stake here than one Corpse. Do as I say.”

She could see it then: the strain around his eyes. The dark evidence of sleeplessness the lines at the corners furrowing deeper than usual. The tension around his mouth.

She glanced from him to Jonathan, whose eyes held on hers for a moment. And then he nodded once…

Jonathan dropped to one knee, leaned in, and whispered to the boy. Tears streamed down the boy’s face. Then Jonathan got up and, with one glance at her, walked through the crowd, which quickly parted before him.

She hesitated again, torn between obeying Rom and going after Jonathan.

“I’ll see to Jonathan,” Rom said, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

Jordin nodded. Steeling herself against the smell, she took the boy gently by the hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go get my horse.”

The boy was trembling as she led him away. She didn’t need to look back to see that more than one steely gaze followed her.

Or to know that Saric and his Dark Bloods were no longer the only threat to Jonathan’s sovereignty.