Mortal

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

READ IT,” Roland said. “I don’t want you to recite it. I want to know the exact words, translated from their original Latin.”

The Keeper held the ancient vellum in fingers that trembled due to his lack of sleep as much as from the weight of the words in his hands. He’d recited the passage from memory once already-they’d all heard it a hundred times, spoken around the celebration fires late at night. But now reality had conspired to challenge everything they’d assumed from those bold proclamations. They must now know the precise intent of Talus, the first Keeper, who’d written these words nearly five hundred years earlier.

The old man gazed at the others who’d joined Roland in the temple ruin’s inner sanctum.

Present: Roland, who’d demanded the meeting. Michael, his second. Seriph, whose views garnered more agreement among the zealots with each passing day. Anthony, a voice of reason and calculation to match Roland’s own.

At issue: the Keeper’s understanding of Talus’s prophecy. As both the last surviving Keeper and first among the new Keepers the Book’s role as sage remained undisputed. The only way Roland could see to avoid a crippling fracture between the Nomads and the new Keepers, those non-Nomadic Mortals, would be through common understanding and agreement of the first Keeper’s words.

And so they must turn to the man so appropriately known as “the Book.”

Torchlight played across the faces gathered around the altar. Outside, the final preparations for the Gathering sent intermittent laughter rolling through a camp punctuated by the tuning of instruments and the pounding of hammers. But to Roland, the din served only as a constant reminder of the false pretense that hung over them all.

Their greatest Gathering to date… in celebration of a diminishing Sovereign.

“Book,” Roland said. “We aren’t enemies here. But we need to know what the intent of the first Keeper was when he wrote these words. And we need to know your best interpretation now.”

The old man set the ancient vellum on the altar and opened the Book of Mortals. The leather-bound volume contained the names and details of every living Mortal, the last entry being the girl Kaya, whom Jonathan had brought back from the Authority of Passing. Only the latest indication of Jonathan’s failure to understand his role. In addition to their names, the basic precepts by which the Mortals celebrated and ordered their lives filled a dozen pages. In the back of the book: an exact translation of Talus’s vellum, which generations of Keepers had guarded for centuries in anticipation of Jonathan’s coming.

The wavering flame of a large white candle lit the page as the Keeper lay a weathered finger along the passage in question. He coughed once into his fist, then read aloud in a worn, gravely voice.

“Bloodlines should converge to produce a child, a male…” He skipped a few words, found the pertinent section, and then read: “Within his blood will be the means to overthrow Legion on the genetic level…” He cleared his throat. “In this child is our hope. It is he who will remember his humanity, who will have the capacity for compassion and love. And it is therefore he who must free us from Order, the very structures of which go up like a prison around the human heart. This boy will be humanity’s only hope.”

The old man’s eyes lifted. “The only hope,” he said.

“The question,” Seriph said, “is whether that hope is in the boy or in his blood. Within his blood will be the means to overthrow Legion, as you read. To free us from Order. Meaning his blood. Talus was a scientist, was he not? An alchemist?”

“He was more,” the old man said. “He is the one who prophesied-”

“You say he has prophesied only because what he predicted has come true. But his findings were made from calculations! There was no evidence of the Maker’s Hand, assuming such a thing exists.”

“Easy, Seriph,” Roland warned. “We only seek the truth here.”

“The Maker’s Hand is evident in the boy,” the Keeper said. “He was born in the year prophesied by Talus. Calculation, yes, but guided by the Maker’s Hand.”

“Either way,” Michael said, “I think Seriph makes a good point. The passage seems to mean that humanity’s only hope will come from the boy because of his blood.”

“There’s more,” the Keeper said.

Michael interrupted: “But doesn’t it say-”

Roland cut her off with a glance. “Read it for us, Book,” he said.

The old man coughed again, wiped a fleck of spittle from his bottom lip, then read again.

“I will establish an order of Keepers, and together we will vow to keep this blood and these secrets safe for the day that boy comes. I will teach them to remember what it was to know more than fear, so that our minds will remember even after our bodies have forgotten. Though we will surely die under the curse that is Legion, we wait in hope, having abandoned the Order in anticipation of that day.”

“And that would include Nomads, I would say,” Seriph said.

“Let him finish,” Roland snapped.

The Keeper leveled a gaze at Seriph and continued: “Until then, there is enough blood for five to live for a while… Let the blood ignite the remnant who will find the boy and bring an end to this death. You who find this, you who drink, you are that remnant. Drink and know that all I have written is true. Find the boy. Bring him to power so that the world might be saved, I beg you.”

He lifted his eyes. “This last was fulfilled by Rom and those who drank the blood and found the boy. Rom, whose presence would be most welcome now.”

But they all knew why Rom wasn’t with them. It wasn’t only because he was gone, attempting to convince the Sovereign to give up her seat to Jonathan. It was also because they all knew that Rom would undermine an honest discussion as to Jonathan’s purpose. As the firstborn among Mortals, the lover of the first martyr, Avra, and the one who’d found the boy, Rom saw Jonathan as his only purpose for living. His mind-his course-was already sealed.

Roland was determined to discover if the Keeper’s was as well.

“You speak now to the descendants of those Nomads who determined to remain separate from Order since the end of Chaos, who joined with the Keepers in support of their mission centuries ago,” Roland said. “We saw the truth long before Rom did, remember that.”

“That may well be. But these words do not lie. Find the boy. Bring him to power. The text is clear.”

“If you don’t mind…” Anthony turned to the altar, one arm crossed before him supporting the other, his finger on his cheek. “Considering the context, stripped of any of the folklore that surrounds this document, I would say that what the writer’s saying is quite plain.”

“Then at least one of you has good sense,” the Keeper said.

“I would say he’s simply talking about the genetic mutations that ultimately caused Legion to revert in the same bloodline from which the virus was made. Talus was responsible for Legion, after all. He made it-”

“Not with the intention of using it.”

“Nonetheless, it came from his blood. He then calculated and predicted that the virus would revert in one child and concludes here that the boy born with that blood must bring life to the world.”

“As Sovereign.”

“Yes, in an idealistic world. But if Talus were told that the boy could not come to power, what would he say?”

To even speak this way would be considered sacrilege to many, but they could not afford to adhere to the bounds of superstition now.

The Keeper shut the book with more force than was necessary. “You say the boy can’t come to power? Do you know who you’re speaking to?” He jabbed his chest with his forefinger. “We Keepers held fast to this belief of what ‘could not happen’ coming to pass while the rest of the world blindly followed Order for centuries. How dare you inform me of who can or cannot come to power now!”

“And we honor you for it, Keeper,” Roland said. “As prince I can assure you, you weren’t the only one to guard truth for centuries. Please, let’s put the cockfighting to rest.”

To Anthony: “Finish your thought.”

The elder Nomad glanced between them.

“First a question. When was it decided that these writings were inspired by more than the sharp mind of an alchemist who, in realizing his error, wanted to return humanity to a dead world?”

The Keeper blinked at him. “They’ve always been sacred!”

“Did Talus claim his writing was sacred?”

“Keepers have always known the words of Talus to be those of the Maker.”

“Fine. Even so, the meaning isn’t clear. The boy is our hope because of his blood. The vessel is secondary to its contents. It is the blood at stake here. If the boy were to suddenly become ill and die, would his blood be wasted just because he isn’t in power? His purpose is to rescue the world with his blood, not with any other power. Unless I’m missing something.”

The Keeper looked at Roland, face ashen. You told him?

He shook his head.

“What is it?” Seriph said.

Roland held the Keeper’s eyes for a moment, then decided it was time.

“Jonathan is ill,” he said. “In a matter of speaking. His blood is reverting. In less than a week his blood will be no different than the blood of any Corpse.”

The air seemed to leave the room. Stunned stares, all around.

“Corpse?” Michael said.

Roland nodded at the Keeper. “Tell them.”

After a long pause, the old man looked around himself as though at a loss, and sighed. He told them about the tests on Jonathan’s blood, adding in a final detail that surprised even Roland.

“As of last drawing just this morning, Jonathan’s blood has lost more than half of its potency. At this rate it will be gone by the time he turns eighteen.”

“That’s in three days!” Michael said.

“Then…” Seriph’s eyes, wide with shock, shifted between the Keeper and Roland. “How will he save the world if he comes to power?”

“His blood will change again,” the Keeper said.

“Will? Or may?”

No response.

“That’s it!” Seriph said. “It’s settled. We are the world’s salvation, not the boy.”

“Quiet!” Roland snapped. “No one’s abandoning Jonathan as long as I’m prince! And you’ll find my blade across your throat if you speak a word of this to any soul. I will not rob my people of hope!”

“Agreed,” Anthony said. “It would be disastrous.”

Seriph said, “Please tell me I’m not the only one who sees the obvious here.”

“The obvious is that Order reigns in a world that is dead!” the Keeper said. “We cannot fight amongst ourselves or turn traitor to our mission-our very reason for living. The very reason we live.”

“Point made,” Roland said. “Seriph may not have the smoothest tongue, but he’s no more traitor than any of us. Please, stick to the point.”

“I’m not sure the point has been made,” Michael said. “So let me say it.”

She stepped forward and placed her fingertips on the altar. Her hands were those of an archer-strong, bronzed from hours of sun, the nails of her thumb and forefinger on her drawing hand painted black for her marksmanship, one of twenty-three in the entire tribe who were granted the same markings.

“We are facing the possible annihilation of all Mortals at the hands of Saric and his Legion. The truth is, it’s only a matter of time before he finds us. As a warrior who commands seven hundred Mortal fighters I would know one thing: how many do we sacrifice to save the boy?”

There it was.

“All of them?” She paced and spun back, flipping her hand in the air. “Why don’t we let all Mortals die, for that matter? And then who will bring life to the world? Jonathan, with his Corpse blood? He will be dead!”

Anthony turned to the Keeper. “Are you certain Jonathan’s blood is reverting to Corpse levels? You’re sure of this?”

“I’m sure of nothing except what I see in the tests.”

“What about our blood?” Anthony pressed.

“We will live very long lives.”

“How long?”

The Keeper hesitated. “My most recent estimate is over seven hundred years.”

A collective gasp.

“So long? Then our blood is strengthening?”

“So it seems.”

Roland paced, hands on his hips. Distant laughter drifted somewhere outside, voices raised in the kind of jocularity that comes only on the cusp of a new beginning, a thing long anticipated.

If they only knew.

“Book, we’re running out of time,” Roland finally said. “Even if Rom succeeds, we can’t know if we can trust Feyn. We have to take precautions and we can’t afford division. So I need to know. Jonathan’s life flows through our veins. If our blood continues to grow stronger… are you saying we may find ourselves immortal?”

The Keeper frowned. “That’s a stretch.” A pause. “But yes, we have his life. And yes, it is lengthening within us.”

Those around him looked from one to the other.

“You heard him. Our life is more potent than ever. Will we just throw it away? No. We must protect it.”

“No one’s suggesting-”

“Follow my reasoning. You agree that Mortals must be protected at all costs. Then would you agree with me that the blood in us must be protected above any single life?”

The Keeper remained silent, his mouth set in a terrible line.

“It’s a simple question. Yes or no. Tell me what Jonathan would say.”

Finally the Keeper spoke, his voice like gravel. “He would agree.”

“Then you, his servant, would agree as well?”

The Keeper’s jaw muscles tightened. He gave a single, reluctant nod.

“Say it.”

“Yes. Assuming such a choice was before us.”

“It already is, my friend. Our army’s well trained but small. And so we must task ourselves with our primary objective, which is no longer to put the boy in power, but to protect the blood he’s given us.”

“That isn’t what I agreed to-”

“I’ve seen Saric’s army!” Roland said. “He’s twelve thousand Dark Bloods strong! If he comes against us, he’ll crush us unless we’re fully prepared. And I will employ any means at my disposal to avoid a slaughter.”

“Jonathan will come to power in a matter of days!”

“Jonathan’s blood is dying! He’ll be no more than a Corpse! Wake up, old man!”

Roland immediately regretted his tone. He glanced away, cursed softly, and then said: “I mean no disrespect. But you must appreciate my position. Rom is out in far field attempting an impossible task-a dangerous one, even if he succeeds. Saric is far more powerful than we first assumed.” He pointed in the direction of the outer basilica. “Meanwhile, twelve hundred Mortals prepare to celebrate their savior at the Gathering, not knowing that he’s dying. Everything we assumed about his ascension has come to a grinding halt. But I know one thing: I must save my people.

“I understand the words of Talus to mean that nothing must come between the boy’s blood and its power to bring life. If I’m wrong, tell me now. Otherwise, I will fight to honor the intent of these words. Mortals must survive above the life of any one soul.”

All eyes turned to the Keeper. But before he could respond, the doors to the inner sanctum flew wide. Javan, one of the men who’d accompanied Rom, stood in the gap, breathing hard.

“Forgive the intrusion.”

“What is it?”

“Rom. He’s coming.”

“She came then?”

He nodded.

“And? Spit it out, man!”

“She’s with him.”

“What?”

“She’s here. For the Gathering. He’s succeeded.”

Roland felt the blood drain from his face. No victory could be so easy. The thought of Feyn, a Dark Blood herself, coming to their valley struck him like a fist to the gut. Was Rom so naïve as to trust her without proof? The agreement had been for her to remain in their custody away from the valley until the new law had passed.

Now she came here to his people?

“You may go.”

Javan inclined his head and ducked back out, closing the doors behind him.

Roland turned to Michael, who was staring at him, waiting his order.

“Begin the preparations we spoke about immediately. Say it’s a training exercise. I want it ready before tomorrow night’s celebration.”

He strode toward the door.

“Preparations for what?” the Keeper asked.

“For what comes next, old man.”

“And what is that?”

Roland turned back at the door.

“War.”