Mortal Page 24

  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.”

  “I
t 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.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  PERSUADING THE COUNCIL to allow Feyn into the camp had taken a virtual act of the Maker, and even after they’d agreed, the sharp eyes of distrust that had been her only welcome became silent questions when they turned to Rom. To have even the scent of Corpse—let alone Dark Blood—among them as they celebrated their delivery from death was blasphemy. Even Rom wondered if he’d made a dreadful mistake.

  But he saw no other alternative. Jonathan’s ascension depended on Feyn’s express willingness to place him in power. And for that to happen, she had to see life for what it was. And he could think of no better demonstration of life than the one that was to take place here, tonight.

  The Council had only agreed with several conditions. Feyn would have to remain under constant guard in a yurt north of camp, where the prevailing breeze would carry her scent into the narrowing canyon lands beyond. She would remain there until the Gathering and come out only under cover of darkness and after Roland’s and Rom’s men had time to pass word that there would be a Dark Blood prisoner among them. They would share no other information. She must not be recognized and would therefore be veiled. Only members of the council would be permitted to speak to her. The warrior who’d come with her, Janus, must remain under guard in a separate yurt and was not to enter the camp under any circumstances.

  Furthermore, Roland had insisted that he, not any other council member, stand near her during the celebration that night. He would keep her upwind of the main body. If Jonathan wanted to speak to her, he would do it beyond prying eyes.

  Roland had expressed his distinct displeasure at the entire situation.

  “She has a remnant of the Keeper’s blood within her,” Rom had insisted.

  “You can’t possibly believe it’s enough to mitigate the Dark Blood in her veins,” Roland had said.

  “I knew her when she was alive. And I’m telling you her heart remembers it.”

  “Her heart? Or your heart?”

  “My heart is only for Jonathan.”

  “You think I don’t see your eyes when you talk about her?”

  “My heart, my life, is for Jonathan. That’s all you need to know,” Rom said, and walked away before the Nomad could respond.

  Yes, there was at least a measure of truth to Roland’s suspicions. But he refused to see that it was the very bond forged between Rom and Feyn a lifetime ago that had made it possible to find Jonathan in the first place. Mortals were alive today because of his bond with Feyn. Was this not the way history was made?

  And was love, in all of its forms, not the cornerstone of the life Jonathan had brought them?

  Word had spread quickly about the Dark Blood near the camp. He knew it by the lingering gazes, the nods in the place of greetings, thick as the smell of cooking meat coming from the direction of the pits. Even Adah had considered him with silent questions as he collected a basket of dried meat and fruit he’d asked her to prepare. But if she suspected the food was for the Dark Blood, she said nothing.

  Rom had seen to Feyn only once during the day, and then only in the company of the Mortal guard. She’d demanded to know how long they intended to keep her shut in, not bothering to touch the food he’d brought for her. He wanted to show it to her then, in the daylight, so that she could see the eyes of those who lived and the palpable anticipation for the coming celebration. But the terms had been agreed to, and he’d already pushed Roland and his zealots as far as he dared for now.

  “Soon,” he promised.

  All through the afternoon the camp seemed to vibrate with strange and growing energy. Defiance. By dusk, snippets of flute drifted up toward the cliffs. Random drumbeats sounded from the direction of the ruins as drums of all sizes—nearly a hundred of them—were lined up on the steps leading up to the open-air basilica. Laughter rang out throughout the camp, the sound of it flaring up like the myriad fires set outside the yurts and up on the cliffs, illuminating the dark forms of guards against the waning day.

  The drums began as the last glow of twilight faded along the western edge of the cliff and the first stars appeared in a rare cloudless sky. A whoop sounded from the edge of camp, answered by another, louder than the first. Then a shrill ululation, answered immediately by another like an echo. Within seconds, a chorus of cries rose up from the valley, rolling upward toward the cliffs, reverberating from the limestone face.

  The warriors came, shouting, tearing off their tunics as they made their way toward the ruin steps. Their faces were marked: black for skill, red for life. Their chests were painted with ocher and the ashes of last year’s fire, passed among them earlier in the day. Some of their nipples were newly pierced with thick metal needles, the ends of which were adorned with feathers. The women wore paints across their foreheads and bellies; those who were pregnant emphasized the swell of their abdomens with a wide circle of red, some of them spiraling in toward the navel. Braids of men and women alike were so thick with feathers as to have been transformed into the giant combs of birds trailing down to the waist. Every Nomad had brought out their best jewelry: earrings and armbands, be
aded belts slung low over hips already relieved of more cumbersome clothing.

  The cries rose to a deafening pitch as bare-chested warriors and sarong-clad women beat their chests with their fists; naked children darted through the thickening mass of fevered adults surging around the steps of the ruins. The entire camp had been transformed into a sea of brightly appointed souls.

  Rom stood atop the steps, pulse quickening at the sight of the thick band of humanity brimming with emotive celebration. Beside him, Roland inhaled as though he would breathe in their collected fervor—that one voice that was neither man nor woman, old nor young, but that was simply and exceptionally alive.

  On either side of the ruin steps, wood had been stacked, each the height of a man. Behind Rom three thick wooden poles had been erected and bound together at the top to form a rigid tripod that supported a sagging leather bowl.

  With a glance and a nod at Roland, Rom stepped forward to the edge of the top step and thrust his fist up toward the sky.

  “Life!”

  Life! the entire camp echoed.

  “Freedom!” Roland thundered from his side.

  Freedom! the reverberating cry.

  Rom and Roland each seized a torch from the nearest of the ancient columns. Rushing down the steps, they shoved the torches into the resin-soaked woodpiles. With a whoosh, twin flames leaped into the air. Ululating calls pierced the night. A hundred drums beat in unison.

  Rom ran back up the ruin’s steps, fists lifted high and wide, crying out his approval as the valley filled with the dissonant roar of unrestrained triumph. Sparks flew to the sky as wood popped within the fire. For a few minutes, thoughts of Feyn fell away.

  The Gathering’s celebration filled the Seyala Valley.

  He leaped to the ground, ran into the circulating mass, and caught a young woman with braided blond hair up into his arms. She threw back her head and stared at the night sky with bright Mortal eyes highlighted by large red circles. He swung her around then brought her down into his arms and kissed her.