Mortal

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

THE CELEBRATION OF TRIPHON’S RISING filled the valley with wild cries of jubilation and shouts of wonder, and in good form Triphon, learning what had happened, proceeded to give them all full assurance that he was indeed alive. First with raised fists and cries of victory, then with a clumsy dance on the top step.

Encouraged by laughter and jumping children eager for joy in a world otherwise turned to gloom, he danced again and then again, laughing and shouting with them all.

“I’m alive!” he shouted. “I am not dead!”

“He’s alive!” the children cried. “Triphon is not dead!”

Rom watched it all, heart bursting with gratitude. Book kept mumbling his approval between shakes of his head, giving way at last to the grin of a man decades younger. Jordin stood to one side, stoic as was her way, her eyes bright. This was, after all, her Jonathan’s doing. And evidence of his life in Triphon meant only one thing: that Jonathan lived, still.

Triphon’s rising was the first sign of hope the Mortals had seen in three days, and in the wake of so much heartache, most embraced it with astonishment if also with uncertainty.

What did it mean? Why hadn’t Jonathan’s blood brought Philip back to life? Clearly, Jonathan had chosen Triphon as a sign of his blood’s power.

What was that power? Why had the Mortal sense left those who’d taken Jonathan’s resurrected blood?

None of this was lost on the leaders of the Nomads, who watched with open interest at first, some of them shouting along with the children, only to give way to subdued glances as Roland stood his ground.

The prince let them carry on for ten minutes as dozens hurled questions and conjectures without clear answers. Only then did he ascend the first three steps and turn to gather their attention.

Silence settled over the assembled once again. His authority was a thing to behold, Rom thought. Right or wrong, the man had earned his leadership, perhaps more so than he.

“So, we have all seen that Jonathan had great power and for that we will revere him forever. It’s a reason to celebrate. He gave us all life, did he not?”

Voices of agreement rippled through the Mortals.

“He gave us emotion and Mortal perception and with it the unequivocal ability to distinguish life from death.”

“So it is…,” they said.

“And before he died, Jonathan gave us one parting gift to remind us of the power he granted each of us.” His arms swept to Triphon, who stood on the top step, still half naked, streaked with dried blood. “Triphon is that gift!”

Cheers rose in thundering accord.

“While he lived, Jonathan demonstrated his power to command the very skies. I believe Triphon is alive because Jonathan kissed his feet and gave him special blessing. Is this not so?”

No one could deny what stood before them.

Roland continued. “But, the blood did not return life to Philip. Nor will it to any others who lay in their graves. I’m eternally grateful to Jonathan, as Triphon will no doubt be. But we cannot assume the power of his blood any longer. Jonathan himself is dead. His blood died before Saric claimed his life. I daresay Rom has less life now than you or I.”

Anticipation turned to confusion on the faces of nearly a thousand. Voices mumbled questions and objection, uneager for such hopeless speculation.

Roland walked up the remaining steps to the platform and addressed the assembly as one accustomed to undeniable authority.

“Jonathan birthed in all of us the making of a new race, empowered in ways humans could only have dreamed of before. We will live for centuries. We were made to rule this earth. That is Jonathan’s truest and greatest gift. That is his sign.”

He glanced at Rom. “Now come three of our own who have climbed from the crypt insisting they, not we, possess life. Let them prove it. We test their blood. If they still have the powers granted to us by Jonathan, we listen. If they don’t… each one must make their own choice. But know that I will follow no man back into the grave from which I came.”

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small clear vessel, which Rom immediately recognized as belonging to the Keeper, and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. An ounce or two of amber liquid filled the capsule halfway.

And so Roland’s obsession with extended life had already been at work. He would need alchemy to monitor life among his own kind if they parted ways.

The Keeper’s eyes widened. “Where-”

“Is it not true that by dropping only a drop of blood in this elixir of yours, you can estimate by the color it turns how long a man might live?”

“It’s no elixir.”

“That the darker it turns, the longer the life?”

The Keeper mumbled a response filled with the jargon of alchemy.

“Be plain, old man. Is it true or do I lie?”

The Book hesitated, the set of his mouth grim before he said, “In general terms, however inexact of a science, yes.”

“Good.”

Without ceremony, Roland pulled out his knife and cut his thumb. He opened the vessel, tossed the cork down the steps, held the amber liquid out for all to see, and squeezed two drops of his blood into the liquid.

The red drops sank to the bottom leaving bloody trails. As they watched, the amber fluid quickly turned dark.

“Black,” Roland said, showing the crowd. “The Keeper says we might live as long as a thousand years with the blood in our veins. Here, then, is proof.”

Rom heard it all with only a little apprehension. Regardless of this test, knowledge lived in him like a breathing being. Light had blossomed in his mind like a white-hot sun. How he would show that light or to what end, he didn’t yet know, but he knew.

Yet Roland would have his day. The prince withdrew a second, identical vessel from his jacket, uncorked it, and approached Rom.

“Show us.”

Rom stared into the prince’s eyes and knew with certainty that the man’s mind was set, regardless of the test’s outcome. He offered Roland a conciliatory nod and held out his hand for the knife.

Without pause, Rom nicked his own thumb. He squeezed two drops of blood into the vessel.

The blood slowly sank to the bottom. Settled to form a thin layer of red. They waited for the change.

None came. The liquid remained amber except for a thin cloud of red blood that rose from the bottom.

Roland turned to the Keeper. “Does this look like the blood of a Mortal?”

The Keeper’s only response was the sudden pallor of his expression.

“No,” Roland said. He dropped the vessel on the stone, where it shattered. “I didn’t think so. You, old man, will live only a handful of years if you’re lucky.”

“It means nothing!” Jordin cried.

“No? Then we test each of you.”

In short order, Roland produced another vessel and applied the same test to Jordin. Again the liquid refused to darken.

Roland held it up to show them all. “She will live only a natural life span, if that.” He summarily dropped the vial and let it break on the stone.

He repeated the exercise with the Book and then with Triphon. Both with the same result.

Last of all, he tested Seriph. This time the amber liquid turned dark.

Roland held up the dark vessel. “Life!” he cried.

“This means nothing!” Jordin snapped. “We are alive! Mortal.”

“Perhaps you are.” Roland handed the darkened vessel to Seriph and faced the crowd. “But today is a new day.”

Roland lifted his voice again.

“Today, I no longer call myself Mortal! Whether Keeper or Nomad, this day I call all who celebrate life and vow to protect it: Immortal!”

The word echoed through the valley.

Immortal.

So. Roland would have his new race.

“All who would follow me, we leave today! We go north, where we will rebuild and claim what is ours. We who are Immortal will inherit the earth, by might and by sword and by any means required!”

He glanced at Rom.

“As for those who would follow these three, I will say what Jonathan himself said before he left us: Let the dead bury the dead.”

With that, Roland walked down the steps, strode past the leading edge of the crowd, swung into his saddle, and delivered his final charge for all to hear.

“Chose your destiny today!” he cried. “Immortality…”

He leveled a pointed finger toward Rom.

“… or death!”