Mortal

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

ROM STOOD ON THE COURTYARD STEPS with Jordin and the Keeper, facing a thousand Mortals who’d rushed to the ruins as word spread that Jonathan lived. Three hours had passed since first Rom, then Jordin, then the Book had taken Jonathan’s blood and entered the overwhelming light of the new Sovereign realm.

Mother and fathers, sons and daughters, Nomads and Keepers alike had listened with riveted attention for thirty minutes as Rom had made his impassioned plea for them all to die and rise again to find a new life they had never known. The Council stood abreast at the bottom of the steps watching with a blend of curiosity, hope, and skepticism. But it was Roland’s flat expression that drew Rom’s consideration.

The prince had heard Rom’s fervent call to life with interest, but as Rom tried to explain what this new life felt like, a shadow had descended over the prince’s eyes.

How did one express the certainty of life with evidence of things not seen to a people who’d embraced the Mortal hope? He had no new skills that he knew of, at least not yet. Surely they would come, as they had before, in stunning display that would render their former lives banal. But for now, neither Rom, Jordin, nor the Keeper could summon a storm as Jonathan had or snap their fingers and split the ruin’s marble steps.

Regardless, he could not mistake the overwhelming urgency of life that had pulled him from the darkness and filled him with explosive light and knowledge. A new power had risen in his mind and heart, unsurpassed by any he’d yet understood.

He knew.

Like a master who saw the workings of all he had made, he knew.

The Mortals staring up at him with blank faces, however, did not. Could not.

“I see you, not as I did yesterday, but in a new way. I see your love and your doubt. Your minds and your hearts.”

He paced to his right and looked out at the crowd.

“The first Keeper knew that a boy would bring new life into the world, and his words proved true. But Talus could not know how that life would change us. He said nothing of our Mortal sense or for how many years we would live. He assumed that change would come through political means-by force, if necessary. But Jonathan claimed he would bring a new kingdom through his death. A rule of Sovereigns.”

The words he would speak next would not be so welcome, but it hardly mattered now. Each Mortal, like him, would make their own decision: to die and live, or to live and die.

“We who have taken Jonathan’s blood stand before you as the first three Mortals who are Sovereign.”

Glances and whispers. Roland stood like stone.

“As Mortals of the Sovereign realm, filled with life greater than any yet tasted.”

“Greater?” the zealot Seriph said. “And yet you appear the same.”

“Greater,” Rom replied to the cynical Nomad.

“Show us.”

“Are we alive?” Jordin demanded of him, stepping out. “Do I look dead to you?”

“Does a Corpse appear dead?” Seriph returned.

“How dare you question what Jonathan has given?” she cried. “You, who would subdue the world with your sword and live a thousand years without knowing true life-is it yours to question his authority?”

Seriph spread his arms and looked around. He stepped out of line and faced the assembly with a questioning gaze. “Whose authority? Jonathan’s? If he lives, let him speak. Let him tell us that we must die and become tiny Sovereigns without purpose.”

“He lives!” Jordin said. She slapped her breast, face red. “In here!” She jabbed at her head. “In here!” She thrust her finger back toward the inner sanctum. “Take his blood and know, yourself.”

“Easy,” Rom muttered under his breath. “They don’t understand.”

“No,” she said under her breath, glancing at him with strange revelation. “They can’t hear.”

“They say we don’t hear,” Seriph bit off, face twisting with scorn. “This from a foolish lover as mad as the one whose blood she’s taken. I say let them show us just how deaf we are.”

Jordin was about to speak again, but Rom lifted a hand and she held her tongue.

“We will show you,” he said. “But it may take some time.”

“Time? This while Saric gathers his Dark Bloods to take as many lives again? Show me how to end death and I will gladly take your blood.”

“What blood?” Roland stared up at Rom. “Are you still a Maker?”

Rom hadn’t considered the question.

Roland spoke so that all could hear him. “No? And how much blood is left in the vessels?”

Rom went quiet. There were only two vessels left.

“Tell me, Rom, do you still see with Mortal sense?”

Rom felt his pulse quicken. He looked quickly around with dawning realization. He’d been so caught up in this change that he hadn’t noticed. Did the far cliff seem more distant? Did the sound of the ravens calling overhead come less vibrantly than before?

Seriph lifted his brows and glanced at Roland so quickly that he nearly missed it.

And then he knew. The perception to which he’d grown so accustomed… was gone.

He glanced at Jordin and the Keeper, both whose boldness seemed to have been shaken.

“Well?”

He turned back to Roland. “As I said, we don’t know the full extent of the changes. Only that we know more.”

“More of what? My mind? Can you smell the horses? The stench of blood in the ground? Can you hear as you once heard?”

Rom was now distinctly certain that he could not.

“No,” Roland said. “I don’t think you can. But that shouldn’t surprise you. After all, you drank the blood of a Corpse.”

“You dare call the one who gave you life ‘Corpse’?”

“I don’t need to,” Roland said. “The Keeper can make the case.” His eyes swiveled to the Keeper. “Tell them, old man.”

The Book blinked.

“Tell them the secret of Jonathan’s blood in his last days. Tell them what Rom insisted we keep from the people.”

“What is this?” the councilwoman Zara demanded.

When the Keeper still said nothing, Roland strode up the first three steps of the ruined Temple. Not far from his foot was a dark fissure that had not been there just days ago.

“Wasn’t it true that in his last days, Jonathan’s blood reverted to that of a Corpse? That when he died, his blood had lost all of the Mortal powers we yet possess? That from your own testing Jonathan had, in fact, become a Corpse? Tell them, old man!”

Murmurs punctuated by cries of outrage spread through the crowd.

“We don’t know,” the Keeper said.

“You don’t know? But your tests were clear-you said so yourself.” He turned back to face the assembly. “Jonathan’s blood had reverted.”

“Our tests cannot-”

“And yet you claim to have more knowledge than me. Jonathan died a Corpse. And now the question I would ask is: are you, too, Corpse as well? Carelessly, perhaps maliciously calling us to join you in death as our own enemies might?”

“How dare you speak this to your leader?” the Book rasped. “Do we smell like Corpses to you?”

Roland ignored the charge. “Then prove this new life of yours!” he shouted, hurling the challenge like a gauntlet.

“Prove how?” Book cried. “Rom has made the point clear, we don’t yet know what new powers we may or may not have. The fact that each of us stands before you changed is testament enough!”

“Spoken out of desperation,” Roland snarled. “You have lost the endless life all Mortals have. You expect us to die for this hope?”

Sanath, a woman in her fifties, maneuvered through the crowd, pushing a cart laden with the body of her husband, Philip, a Nomadic archer who’d been slashed in his chest during the battle and struggled to hold on to life.

Staring up at Rom with tear-filled eyes, she wheeled the body to the foot of the steps. One glance at Philip’s still form, and Rom knew that he’d passed during the early morning hours.

“You offer life?” Sanath said, her voice breaking. “Please! Give this life to my husband.”

Rom felt a lump gather in his throat. “Sanath… I don’t think-”

“You offer life!” Sanath cried, shoving her finger at Rom. “Then bring my husband back!”

“A reasonable request,” Seriph said. “Bring him back for all to see. Or have you lost your conviction?”

Without prompting, the old Keeper spun and marched back into the inner sanctum.

Seriph stood with a triumphant lift of his chin. Rom understood why.

Book emerged a moment later carrying a stent and the vessel with Jonathan’s blood. He hurried down the steps, jaw set. Making no attempt to offer argument, he unceremoniously slipped the stent into the vein on Philip’s right arm. Opened the valve.

They’d all seen similar scenes a hundred times. The precious blood seeped into the lifeless body for ten seconds. To bring life or to be wasted they could not know, but there was far too little blood to be used carelessly.

“Enough,” Jordin said. She clearly shared Rom’s concerns.

Casting a glance back at her, the Keeper withdrew the stent, shoved it in his pocket, and retreated up the steps, stowing the prized vessel of blood beneath his cloak.

All eyes were on Philip’s lifeless body. Ten seconds passed. A child asked her mother what was happening, only to be hushed.

“How long does it take?” Sanath demanded, face drawn with anxiety.

Rom nodded at her. “Give it more time.”

But more time wasn’t going to help. With each passing second, Rom’s certainty that they’d wasted the valuable blood grew.

“It’s not working?” Sanath said, fresh tears wetting her cheeks. “It’s not working. Oh, my Philip!”

“No, Sanath,” Roland said, moving toward her. He placed a hand on her arm. “We will honor Philip as a great man among all Nomads.” He faced Rom wearing a bitter stare. “For a thousand years we will honor him.”

Sanath sank to her knees, lowered her head to her husband’s chest, and began to wail. Roland motioned several nearby to help. They held Sanath up beneath the arms and led her away, the cart close behind. Death was an ugly sight.

The gathered Mortals now looked at Rom with vacant eyes. He was about to offer the possible explanation that rescue from true death was not what Jonathan had in mind when Jordin drew close.

“Triphon!” she whispered.

He glanced at her.

Triphon. Sudden understanding. Could Jonathan have intended this? Did they have enough blood to try it?

“Bring him,” he whispered.

Jordin hurried away, calling to several others to assist her. After some hesitation and a backward glance, they followed her around to the side where Triphon’s body had been moved.

Rom faced the Mortals. “Jonathan’s blood clearly wasn’t meant to bring life to the deceased-we know that now. But this doesn’t rob his blood of the power I have known. Many of you saw Triphon die, the rest have seen his body hanging as demanded by Jonathan…”

“This is absurd,” Roland said. “You would defile a second warrior out of desperation?”

“Triphon is not a Nomad!” Rom returned. “He was my friend, who died to save Jonathan. He would not object.”

To the crowd: “Do any oppose?”

No one spoke.

“Then we give him Jonathan’s blood.”

Jordin and the others came around the corner bearing the stiff, blood-caked body of their friend. Carefully, the made their way up the steps, laying him on the topmost one.

Rom looked at the old Keeper and nodded. “Do it.”

With a nod, the Book once again inserted stent into vein; once again opened the valve. Once again Jonathan’s blood flowed into a lifeless body, this one dead three days.

Once again the Keeper stepped back, the jar far lighter in his hands than before. This time there were grumblings of protest when Triphon’s body gave no sign of life after a full ten seconds.

Rom’s heart began to fall.

“Give it more time!” Jordin hissed.

Fifteen seconds passed. Another ten. Roland turned challenging eyes on Rom.

“More time? How long does this blood require to work its magic? An hour? A day? A month? Are we all to die in the waiting?”

Rom opened his mouth to respond, but stopped at gasps from the gathered Mortals. The stares-not at him, but at the step.

Triphon’s body had begun to shake. Cries rang out as his torso suddenly arched up from the stone.

Rom leapt down to the step and grabbed Triphon’s trembling leg to keep him from rolling down the ancient stair. His friend’s mouth snapped wide and he began to scream. The hoarse cry sent those closest below scurrying back-others rushing forward.

And then Triphon’s mouth snapped shut and his body collapsed back onto the step. He lay still.

“Is he still dead?” someone asked.

As if in answer, Triphon sat up, eyes wide.

Silence. But Rom’s heart was pounding as loudly in his chest as Triphon’s surely was in his own.

With a look of bewilderment, his friend turned his head and stared at the crowd. They stared back, aghast.

Triphon dropped his feet to a lower step, stood, and shook his head.

“I’ve just had the strangest dream.”