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  “He’s obsessed with him as a Maker. I would need to convince him I could deliver him. But Jonathan has already made the way plain.”

  “How so?”

  “He has insisted that he and I meet alone tomorrow, the day he comes of age.”

  “Nonsense!” Rom scoffed. “Jonathan will be placed in no danger under any circumstances.”

  “Then take that up with him. I will go into seclusion. The rest will be up to you.”

  They stood in silence for long moments. Nearby, one of the horses snorted then dipped its head to chew at a tuft of grass, oblivious to the critical decision at hand in the wash.

  “It may be the only way to bring Jonathan to power,” Rom said. “The question becomes: what are we willing to risk to bring about his kingdom?”

  “We are here to save the life he’s already given us,” Roland said. “That is the kingdom.”

  Not entirely true, but Rom wasn’t about to argue.

  “Either way. Saric and his army present the greatest threat to all Mortals. We would risk only our fighting force. The others would be gone.”

  “Don’t discount the risk.”

  “I’m not, but neither am I discounting the potential gain.” Rom frowned. “You’re the tactician. The Keepers will support your decision. Make it now.”

  Roland mirrored Rom’s frown. He glanced once at Michael, her silence her unspoken endorsement.

  The Nomad faced Feyn, jaw set. “Tomorrow. See that he brings them all.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  SARIC SAT AT THE END OF THE EBONY TABLE, silver fork inverted in his left hand, knife in his right slicing through the salted venison steak like a surgeon, aware of the deliberate precision he applied to his task. The rare meat parted under the sharp blade, blood seeped from clean-cut fibers. He set the knife down, lifted his fork, placed the cubed morsel between his front teeth and pulled it free of the prongs. Warm juices flooded his mouth as he bit into the flesh.

  The taste filled him with a sense of contentment—comfort despite the concern, however minor, that had gnawed at him since Feyn’s departure.

  According to the scouts, she’d arrived safely, spent only an hour in the valley, and then been taken by the Mortals. His men had lost them in the canyons. He’d expected nothing less—Nomads were well known for their ability to cover their tracks and remain in hiding.

  For two days no further word had come, and Saric had courted the possibility that she’d been killed. If so, he would simply step into her vacated seat. Her loss would be disappointing, but minor; her only true value to him was in the serving of his whims and any part she might play in flushing the Mortals out of hiding—both roles that could be played by others in time.

  Still, he’d been pestered by concern. If the Mortals had a way to turn her blood and mind both, she might double-cross him. Feyn was subservient—that much she had demonstrated to his satisfaction. But his sister was a strong woman, intelligent and calculating to the bone. Could those same traits enable her to break free of his control?

  No.

  Just as he finished dinner, word came: Feyn had returned. Anxiety slipped from his shoulders like a silken robe. He immediately ordered Corban to see that she was properly bathed, powdered and dressed in white before joining him at his table. She would need to feed on more than food tonight.

  Two hours later the room was lit by candles—twenty-four of them in six candelabras, three on each wall adjacent to the table. Classical strings from the age of Chaos filled the room with haunting notes. A composer named Mozart. A requiem for the dead. But in Saric’s mind, the requiem was for death itself.

  He glanced at the grandfather clock on the far wall. One minute to eight. He would soon learn what gift Feyn had brought him. She would not disappoint, he was quite sure. His mind turned to Jonathan.

  The political power the boy might attempt to flex was of no concern. Nor was the threat from the Mortals who might defend him. Both were inconveniences that would be crushed soon enough.

  The power of the boy’s blood, however, was a different matter. However advanced Corban’s alchemy had become, he could no longer deny the possibility that the life offered by Jonathan’s blood was more powerful and therefore more rewarding than his own.

  The thought tightened his gut into a knot as two opposing obsessions raged within him: the need to embrace the greatest life in its truest form, and the need to rule over that life as the only Maker.

  If he crushed Jonathan and his Mortals, no threat to his supremacy would remain. But in doing so he would also effectively remove the possibility of tasting that same life himself.

  Did the Mortals feel more than he did when they tasted life’s pleasures? Was their ability to love and hate greater than his own? Were they driven by more ambition than any he had known?

  It shouldn’t matter, so long as his own power was unsurpassed. And yet it did matter. His desire for more inflamed him. Weakened him.

  He had to annihilate the Mortals and Jonathan with them. There could be only one Maker.

  A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

  “Come.”

  The door swung in and Feyn stepped into the room, alone. Her hair was drawn back into two thick braids. She wore the white dress he’d instructed Corban to give her. She was a vision with dark eyes that spoke of silent submission.

  He returned her stare for several long moments, waiting for her to speak out of turn. She did not.

  “You look beautiful, sister.”

  “Thank you, my Lord.”

  He nodded toward the chair at the far end of the table. “Please sit.”

  Her long dress flowed gracefully around her legs as she crossed to the table and sat. Fresh venison, vegetables, and a pristine place setting waited her. Saric came to lean over her, to cut a thick slice of venison onto her plate.

  “In honor of your return I will serve you tonight, my love. Does this please you?”

  “If it pleases you, my Lord.”

  He lifted his eyes as he set the knife down. “Would I serve you if it did not please me?”

  “No, my Lord.”

  “No.”

  He stood, carried the plate to her seat and placed the portion between the utensils before her.

  “I imagine you’re famished.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “For more than meat.”

  Her eyes lifted to meet his. “Yes.”

  “Eat,” he said. “Finish all of it.”

  Without waiting further instruction, Feyn picked up the silverware and cut into the meat.

  She ate in silence for several minutes, Feyn with eyes downcast, only looking up at him on occasion and then only briefly, as he’d taught her. She was beautiful.

  Saric leaned back in the seat where he had taken his dinner earlier, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers interlaced.

  “You earned their trust as I instructed?”

  She swallowed her last bite. “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Rom Sebastian, not the Nomad, came for me. He spoke of life and the boy and begged me to usher Mortals into power under my authority.”

  “I expected nothing less. You agreed?”

  “Eventually, yes. I thought it best they see my resistance before I offered any interest in their cause.”

  “Good. They took you to their camp?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know where it is.”

  “They took me in a hood. But yes. I know where it is.”

  He felt his eyes narrow slightly. “How is that possible unless your departure was actually an escape? After I expressly told you not to arouse suspicion. Look at me.”

  She raised her gaze to his. “No. I didn’t escape. They led me out hooded again. And they kept Janus for surety.”

  “If they led you back out in a hood then you don’t know where the camp is.”

  “My Lord, I could hear the river. The sun was out and warm from the east. I have an impec
cable sense of direction.” She offered a slight smile, as though uncertain if she were permitted to do so. “I could find your fortress now, if you asked me. And I was escorted here in a hood as well.”

  Was it possible? He studied her, the way she lowered her gaze again.

  “I’ve spoken with Corban and reviewed the maps with him. I hoped you’d be pleased.”

  Something niggled. And yet she was the picture of conciliatory submission.

  “If you have done anything to arouse suspicion, you will tell me now. If they suspect any foul play, they’ll vacate the valley before we can bring our forces to bear.”

  “No. They won’t. They’re a very cautious people, but they won’t.”

  “No? Why?”

  “Because they believe I’ve thrown my loyalty in the boy’s favor.”

  He studied her, searching for any sign of deception.

  “I see. And yet you point out their cautiousness.”

  “Only because they must not be underestimated.”

  “But they suspect no attack?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “Good. Did you learn of their forces? How many, how strong, what skills they possess?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “And?”

  “They are only seven hundred strong. The rest are too old or young to fight. Regardless of their skill, which is considerable, they would stand little chance against your army.”

  He had already concluded as much. His children might not have the wily skills of a Nomad or the uncanny abilities of the Mortals—he had heard the accounts—but they were unmatched in strength and speed.

  “They say they have strange perception. Tell me… what source do you suppose it come from?”

  “From Jonathan’s blood—that which they consider true life.”

  True life. Saric’s earlier thoughts about the boy returned. For a moment he craved that life like he’d craved his own Maker’s blood. To see and taste and experience the way Mortals might. He pushed the annoying thought aside.

  “They will soon see just how true their life is,” he said. “Their Maker will be dead by this hour tomorrow.”

  She seemed to choose her next words carefully. “That might be a problem, my Lord. They watch the boy constantly and keep him in seclusion for safety.”

  Saric picked up his goblet. “You tell me this only now?”

  “The boy trusts me. He’s asked me to come to him. I alone can give him to you.”

  Her tone smacked of manipulation. Curious…

  “I have a request,” she said.

  “Now you are so brave as to make a request?”

  Feyn slid back in her chair, crossed her legs and pressed on without reacting to his implicit correction.

  “If I am to rule as Sovereign under your authority, I would do so freed from the physical restraints and inconvenience of taking your blood every three days. The others you’ve made are loyal to you, born of your blood. And so am I. But I wish to be untethered.”

  She’d found the audacity to ask this? Saric leaned back in his chair and tapped the tips of his fingers together.

  “Your time away has filled you with boldness. What do you expect me to make of that?”

  “If I am bold it is only because I have your blood, my Lord. You can kill me at any time and rule in my place—I accept that much and as such, I am at your mercy. The life you gave me is yours to take. I only ask that you allow me to live free for as long as you would allow me to remain in your service. Anything else is no true life at all. Anything less is no true obedience.”

  This was the Feyn he recalled from their former life. So she hadn’t been stripped of her backbone… He found the revelation satisfying. Perhaps she would bring him more pleasure than he’d anticipated.

  “I’m not sure you know what you ask for,” he said.

  “Then tell me.”

  He cocked his head slightly. “You make demands?”

  “Forgive me. Could you tell me what I ask for?”

  “That’s better. There’s only one way to be freed from your need of my blood. Even if I were agreeable, you would be inviting more than you bargain for.”

  “I would become a full Dark Blood,” she said. “I don’t see how that is any different from what I am now.”

  “There is no way to go back. Ever.”

  “I’m Dark Blood already and dependent on frequent feedings to remain alive. I feel trapped. Caged. This isn’t the same life you have, brother.”

  Not Master or Lord. Brother. He could not suppress the grin that crossed his face. “I see. And you mean to use the boy as leverage to be granted your wish.”

  “I only wish to be alive as my own Maker is alive. Fully alive and free to serve you. I mean no disrespect. I merely point out the value I bring you and ask for this one favor in return. Make me free, my Lord. If you find any displeasure with me, then take my life and be Sovereign in my place.”

  She might consider conspiring against him now while her own blood still swam in her veins, but as a full Dark Blood all trace of disloyalty to him would die. Did she know as much? Likely not. Either way, she knew that she was his to keep or discard. And she had pointed out the obvious: her need to take his blood would quickly become a nuisance.

  “It would require a full blood transfusion.”

  “I accept that.”

  “You would be mine forever.”

  “I am already yours forever.”

  He nodded. “You are. Tell me, do you believe it’s true that the boy’s blood is poison to Dark Bloods?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you realize your blood could never be altered by Mortal blood.”

  “Mortal blood would result in my death.”

  “And if I refuse your request?”

  “I would know you don’t trust me.”

  “You would still give me the boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I will go to him alone only to lead him to you, to deal with him as you see fit.”

  Yes. She would. As any Dark Blood must and would.

  “And you, my Lord? You will march on the Mortal camp?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “First thing tomorrow.”

  Saric pushed his chair back, stood, and rounded the table to her side. He offered his hand, which she took with a light touch.

  “But for now rise, my love.”

  She slid back her chair and rose. With his thumb, he brushed a black speck from the corner of her mouth.

  “So beautiful, so strong. You have given me Sovereignty and for that you are deserving. I’ll grant your request, Feyn. I only hope my gift does not become a curse.”

  She dipped her head. “Thank you, my Lord.”

  “And then you will betray the boy into my hands.”

  “Yes, Master. I will.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE SUN ROSE IN THE EASTERN SKY, flooding the plateau above the Seyala with light long before it would break into the canyon below. Half a mile to the south, the broad valley Mortals had called their own for nearly a year had been returned to nature. The yurts had all been collapsed and loaded on carts. The stock pens had come down, the posts gathered up; fire pits raked and filled in with fresh soil, all traces of human life covered or swept away.

  From where Rom stood above the narrow northern canyon, only the scarred soil and the discolored ruin dais betrayed the recent presence of humanity. The inner sanctum had been purged of all relics by the Keeper and then of its silks and rugs. As was their custom, they’d left the leather bowl used for the commemoration of Avra’s heart erected between the twin columns. The pocked limestone beneath was still stained with blood, a macabre blemish visible even from this distance.

  Avra… the first Mortal martyr. Rom wondered how many would join her today.

  He turned on his heel and walked toward Roland, who was in urgent conference with Michael and Seriph. Massive boulders had been perche
d five deep along fifty paces of the cliff on either side of the canyon’s mouth. Beyond them, forty fifty-five-gallon barrels of oil that Roland had taken from transport raids over the last five years lay ten paces apart along a section of the cliff that dropped vertically into the chasm.

  The plan, long envisioned by Roland and once fully improbable to Rom, had now become their only means to escape certain death.

  “Tell me this will work,” he said.

  Roland turned. “Now you have your doubts?”

  “I always had my doubts.” He peered into the canyon to his right. “You’re sure the fire will catch?”

  “Forget the fire,” Michael said. “Worry about getting them into the canyon. If we can do that, we can cut off escape with the boulders. They’ll be trapped like mice and we can pick them off at our leisure.”

  There were only two ways out of the canyon: through the north or back the way they had come. The sand between had been soaked in enough oil to bring Hades to earth.

  But the engagement wouldn’t begin here in the valley, where Mortals would have less room to maneuver, but on the plateau, south and west of the canyon.

  “We’ll suffer our losses,” Roland said. “The only question is how many.”

  “How many would you say?”

  “As few as possible. If the losses mount, we retreat north as planned.”

  “How many before we retreat?” Rom pushed.

  “I’ll make that decision when I make it.”

  Rom nodded. He’d felt sick in his gut since their return. Here, away from a camp filled with Mortal children and the arthritic elderly, the risk seemed reasonable. But one glance back toward the valley where those under his care made preparations to leave or fight, and Rom found he couldn’t shake the fear that they’d made a terrible mistake.

  Ahead, a group of Keepers directed by Nashtu, one of his ranking fighters, leaned into one of several large boulders still to be placed. The position of the boulders was critical—it had to be precarious enough so that the pull of one wedge would send the whole pile tumbling. Rocks and debris had been loosened along the top of the cliff as far down as their ropes would allow then to reach. With any luck at all, the resulting landslide would be enough to close off any retreat.