Mortal

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THEY RODE HARD FOR AN HOUR, glancing back frequently to be certain they weren’t being followed, expecting to see Dark Bloods in pursuit at any moment. But there was no sign of them.

As long as they were in motion, Rom was able to comfort himself with the knowledge that he’d saved Jonathan from what would have been certain death. Every step was another toward safety, but the truth of the matter dug incessantly into his mind like a tick burrowing for blood. Nothing was safe. Nothing was right, nothing made sense. He might have saved the boy for now, but the world was collapsing around them.

Divisions were mounting among the Mortals. Saric had raised an army to destroy them all. Feyn had given her allegiance to Saric. Jonathan seemed to have lost his mind. Triphon was dead.

Rom led them into a wash to rest the horses and gather himself.

Triphon. Dead.

It was unfathomable. The bull of a man who had been Rom’s second-in-command was impervious to threat, fear, or injury. His closest friend from those first days when they’d both drunk the Keeper’s blood and committed themselves to its implicit charge could not die.

And yet he had. The image haunted him. Triphon, rolling off the Dark Blood and onto his back, hand grasping the sword in his chest. The same bloodied hand, falling to the earth.

More than once, Rom thought of sending the others on and going back. To be certain, just in case. But he already knew what he would find. He’d found no pulse and no breath. If there’d been any trace of life left in the man, it was now gone-the Dark Bloods would have made certain of that in short order. There’d been no way to recover his body without suffering further casualties.

Still, the fact that they’d left their comrade on the ground hounded him. Triphon had given his life to buy their escape. The best thing Rom could do now was to honor his friend by fulfilling their charge to see Jonathan to power.

“We stop here for a few minutes,” he said, when they reached the wash. But he didn’t immediately dismount. Thoughts flooded his mind like a deluge.

Roland had sent a volunteer as a spy to be captured by Saric. If the mission was successful, the prince might even now be meeting with Saric himself. If so, they had a chance to salvage everything. But acquiring Feyn was only the beginning. Rom still had the herculean task of persuading her to see the truth and recognize Jonathan as rightful Sovereign. He’d helped her find life once, a lifetime ago, but she was in Saric’s clutches now.

If he failed to persuade Feyn… Maker help them. The zealots might demand a far more assertive approach. War and death would overtake them all.

Even if they did gain Feyn’s support, there was still Jonathan’s state, both physical and mental, to consider.

What did it mean that his blood was reverting, and so quickly? According to the Keeper, Jonathan might have the same blood as a Corpse in a matter of weeks, maybe days. How was it possible that the boy who’d been born to bring life was apparently dying?

In two days’ time all Mortals would light the celebration fires of the Gathering. They would sing and drink and dance in Nomadic fashion in celebration of the life awakened by Jonathan’s blood. Little did they know that the very fountain that had first given them that life was drying up.

Or was the boy’s blood only reverting momentarily, gathering for its final push to full maturity? The Keeper had suggested this possibility, and Rom had chosen to embrace it. Nothing else made sense.

But Jonathan’s blood wasn’t the only problem. Even if the regression was a temporary set back, there was the matter of Jonathan’s psychological well-being. Instead of preparing for rulership, he was courting an obsessive fascination with Corpses, willing to risk the lives of millions who might find life for the sake of one child.

Rom finally slid of his horse and glanced at Jonathan. Perhaps he was too young. What childhood had he ever known, this future Sovereign raised in secret and coveted for his blood? Was this fascination with this Corpse girl a simple need for the company of those who demanded or asked nothing of him?

Had they all failed him in such a basic way that his loneliness drove him to risk his entire destiny to satisfy some deep-seated need? His frustration with the boy eased.

He reached for Kaya and lowered her to the ground. The girl had been pointing at the sky, blinking into the rain as they rode, occasionally closing her eyes as it washed away the grime-streaked tears on her face.

More than once he had found her fingering the beaded cuff of his sleeve. She had almost fallen from the horse completely when she had stretched out over the pommel to lay her hand against the horse’s neck, to touch the braids of its mane, feel the bristle of that short equine hair against her palm.

Any Corpse might have wondered what was wrong with her, but Rom knew exactly the cause of her rapt fascination. She was in the throes of new life.

So then… at least his blood was still strong enough to make other Mortals. Perhaps it was regaining strength. Perhaps…

Rom squeezed his eyes shut. His head hurt.

Kaya had fallen down to the ground to grab up a handful of earth. An instant later, she was sobbing, her wet hair clinging to her cheek, hands dug into the dirt. Jonathan hurried over, knelt beside her on one knee and whispered in her ear.

Rom glanced over at Jordin, just returned from a cursory circle of the area. She was as soaked as were they all, though the ground here was dry.

“We aren’t being followed,” she said. She glanced back at the storm clouds just now breaking over the southeast corner of the city. “Not even by the storm.”

He knew what she was thinking, despite her aversion to superstition. The Maker’s Hand. Nature itself seemed to have gathered to join Jonathan in protest over the Authority of Passing. But there had been nothing supernatural in this. Triphon was dead! They had barely gotten out alive.

He left Jonathan with the girl and stalked over to her. “A word, Jordin.”

She dismounted and followed him to a small rise beyond Jonathan’s hearing.

“What were you thinking?”

Jordin looked off in the direction of the abating storm. Her resolve surprised him.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I was protecting my Sovereign,” she said in a low, steely tone.

Frustration, anger… admiration… all welled up within him at once.

“Protecting? This is your idea of keeping him from harm?”

“He doesn’t take orders from me,” she said, still not looking him in the eye.

“But you take orders from me. You will never allow Jonathan to leave camp again without my knowledge or permission.”

“I can’t promise that,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

She hadn’t even blinked. “I can’t.” Now she looked at him. “He’s my Sovereign. I serve you, but I serve him first. If what he says contradicts you, I will follow him.”

For an instant he flashed back to Roland questioning Jonathan’s ability to inspire confidence-or to lead at all. And yet Jordin was following him without question. There was something in his way that inspired. But was it true leadership on his part or simply devotion on hers?

“You’re in love with him,” he said.

“He’s my Sovereign,” she replied, a little too quickly.

He glanced back at Jonathan. He was still on his knee talking quietly with the girl, who had stopped weeping and pushed back onto her heels to listen to him.

“I love him too, Jordin. And truth be told, I’m glad he has you by his side.” He looked at her. “But I beg you, for the sake of the kingdom, tell me when he demonstrates any such irrational behavior, yes? He’s my Sovereign as well, and I need to know.”

She dipped her head. “I’m sorry about Triphon.”

Now he could see that her eyes were red at the edges. He hadn’t noticed her crying during their flight from the city, but then, he’d noticed little except his own desperation.

Again, the image of Triphon’s bloody hand falling to the ground filled Rom’s mind.

“I know he was like a brother to you,” Jordin said.

He nodded once, felt his jaw tighten, said nothing. The eddy of so many thoughts at once threatened to drown him.

Other than Feyn, he was the only one remaining of those who had first tasted life from the Keeper’s vial. Avra. Triphon. Neah. Feyn.

It all came down to Feyn, and now even she might be beyond his grasp. No. Roland had to be successful in convincing Saric that he had every intention of giving up Jonathan, however treasonous the thought.

They had shielded the truth about Jonathan from the rest of the Nomads, but they couldn’t do it indefinitely. Once they knew that their own blood was more potent than Jonathan’s, how many of them-given the choice of protecting the Mortal race versus Jonathan-would choose the life in their own veins over that waning within his?

Would he?

That he could even ask himself the question terrified him.

Jordin was studying him intently.

Maker. He couldn’t think these thoughts in front of her. Though none of them could read minds, Mortal perception was far too keen. And he was too raw to school himself well.

He broke from her gaze and nodded toward the girl.

“Take that girl…” He stopped, lost for her name.

“Kaya,” Jordin said.

“Take Kaya. I need a word with Jonathan.”

She hesitated only a moment then headed back and collected her horse.

“Kaya? Why don’t you come with me? We’ll water the horses.”

The girl glanced up with a wondering smile, as though having already forgotten that she had been weeping just a moment ago. And then she got to her feet, not bothering to brush off her hands or the knees of her pants. Jonathan watched her go off with Jordin, who handed the girl the reins to her own mount as they walked farther down the creek bed.

Rom waited as Jonathan stood to his feet, struck by the onslaught of emotion that overcame him now that they were alone. By the time Jonathan turned to him, Rom’s hands were shaking.

“I need to know where you stand.”

Jonathan’s eyes were too placid. Too sorrowful and lucid and seeing at once. He wasn’t mad-Rom of all people could see it. But if that were so, he was frightened all the more because it meant the boy had purposes Rom could not understand.

Railing at the boy would do no good, so he willed the tremor in his hands to still.

“What do you need to know?” Jonathan said.

All efforts at control instantly crumbled at that simple question.

“I need to know why, Jonathan.” He lifted his clenched fists, and, finding nothing to grasp at but air, dropped them helplessly. “Please. Help me understand!”

The boy was quiet, which only added fuel to the surge of desperate confusion within him.

“In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never taken such risk,” Rom said. “Never risked such danger to yourself. Why now? Surely you know the stakes!”

Jonathan watched him with sad eyes. “I do know the stakes. And do you know me?”

“What do you mean do I know you? Of course I know you! Wasn’t I the one who found you as a boy in your mother’s house? Who told you about the prophecy? Who’s guided and watched over you all these years? How can you ask if I know you?”

Jonathan remained silent.

Those had been desperate days of discovery for them. He’d lost Avra in his quest to protect the boy. He’d committed his life to the cause of his kingdom. Was it so strange, then, that he should feel a sense of betrayal?

But even in recognizing it, he felt guilt. Who was he to berate the Sovereign of the world?

“What do you want, Jonathan? Tell me what you need?”

“Do you love me, Rom?”

“Love you? I’ve given you my life! We all have. And now Triphon…” He choked back a hard lump in his throat, willing himself not to spill emotion. “How can you, of all people, ask me that?”

Jonathan lowered his gaze, his dark lashes girl-like in stark contrast to his masculinity. He was so young still.

“I feel terrible for Triphon.” He shifted his gaze toward the distant storm. “But he died knowing the truth. He died alive. How many of those we left behind will die without hope?”

“And how many will die without hope if you fail to take power? Triphon died for that cause, not for a single Corpse among millions! As would we all. Jordin. Roland. Me.”

“Will you die for me… or I for you?”

The question hit Rom like a battering ram. It was true, Jonathan had poured himself out all of these years, never once complaining that his own lifeblood was poured out for their gain.

“You can’t think any of us mean to drain you of life. You must live. For me, for Jordin, for the world!” He flung his hand out, exasperated. “The thought of failing you… How can you say such a thing?”

“Then follow me, Rom. When the time comes, see that the world finds life through my blood. Life more true than even you can know.” Did Jonathan have any inkling that his blood was reverting? The Keeper had said no.

“I do follow you. I will-that’s not the point! You must live and fulfill your purpose to that end. And to that end you have to allow me to protect you now! This isn’t just about making Mortals, Jonathan, but about your people.”

“And who are my people?”

“Mortals! The ones whose veins flow with your blood! The ones who are alive.”

Horse hooves, coming up through the wash-Kaya and Jordin, their voices carrying like birdsong over the running of the brook.

Jonathan turned his head toward the sound.

“Even those alive can still be dead,” he said, and walked away.