Ted Dekker - Mortal

They didn’t speak as they descended toward camp. There was no need to fill the comfortable silence between them; in this way they were much alike.

Those bathing and washing clothes got to their feet as they crossed the river, several of them coming to greet him, reaching for his hand.

“Jonathan,” they murmured, lowering their heads.

He let them. He always let them, as they took his hand, their fingers touching the vein along his wrist-an acknowledgment of the life that flowed through it. A few, an older woman among them, reached up with aging fingers, to touch his neck.

And then they went on, along the edge of camp-passing through it would take far too much time. They slowed again as those working out behind their yurts came to touch him, to murmur his name. Even then some, seeing him, hurried into their tents and came out with bits of meat, a cup of wine, mare’s milk. He took them all, drinking the milk, tearing into the meat with a gusto that made those watching nod approval, tossing back the wine as expected.

It had never been a mystery to Jordin why he kept to the fringe of camp when he could. It wasn’t just for his sake-because he wouldn’t do anything other than accept each of their gifts with grace, no matter how tedious-but for their sake, because they could not see him without feeling compelled to thank him for the vast gifts of Mortal life. For the acute perception that served them so well in every hunt. For the wild existence they celebrated in everything they did from the riot of color in their clothes to the beat of their drums and strength of their wine at night. All of which they craved and consumed with abandon.

All of which Jonathan-and Jordin, too-enjoyed as much outside camp as within it. More.

They came to the temple ruins from the side. Above the stone stairs, the ancient pillars opened to the sky. The vaulted ceiling that had once covered them had long ago caved in and been carted away by scavengers. It had been a basilica at one time, before the time of Order, when men knew the Maker as another name: God.

In the face of the lone stone beam that bridged the two columns at the front of the courtyard, Rom had chiseled the creed by which all Mortals lived: The Glory of the Maker is Man Fully Alive. They said it had first been spoken by an ancient saint named Irenaeus during the second century of Chaos, twenty-three hundred years ago.

Today, the stone corners were broken away and tiny plants grew in the cracks between each step, but every time Jordin mounted these stairs her skin prickled. In the sanctum of this temple called Bahar-a name she was once told meant “Spring of Life”-she had come into Mortality on the high platform without mother or father to clasp her afterward.

It had been Jonathan who’d kissed her and welcomed her to life with the stent still in his arm.

They passed through the long corridor of pillars to the inner sanctum at the back, pulling open the double doors together and entering without a word.

The smell assaulted her without warning and she jerked back. Jonathan, too, hesitated.

Stench of Corpse.

Of something more…

Ten heads had turned, Roland, Michael, Rom, and the strange old Keeper among them. On the wide aisle before the altar, a large and very pale man slumped in a chair. Was that what she smelled? He looked like a Corpse. He was half again as tall as she, his tangled and unkempt hair hanging like ropes from his head. Her hackles raised at the sight of him.

Rom hurried forward to meet them as the others got to their feet. Roland and Michael were already standing.

“Jonathan,” Rom said. He lowered his head.

“Who do I smell?” Jonathan said.

“That’s the Corpse Roland and Michael brought back last night.” His jaw was tight. “We need a decision from you.”

Jonathan stared at the Corpse, the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing slightly as he swallowed.

“Please.”

Rom led Jonathan to the front of the chamber.

Jordin faded back toward the last row of stone benches, to stand on the edge of a fringed rug. Something was wrong about the Corpse, obvious by the sidelong glance of Siphus, the dart of Zara’s eyes from Roland to Rom and back. The set of Roland’s jaw.

Behind her, the doors opened and Triphon burst into the room. One of the doors slammed on the ancient hinges. The stained glass shuddered in the nearby window. The Corpse in the chair stirred at the commotion.

“I can’t find h-” Triphon stopped. “Ah, Jonathan.” He wrinkled his nose, apparently readjusting to the smell in the chamber, and then strode down the aisle to the front, giving Jordin a slight nod as he passed and went to take his seat.

“This… Corpse that Roland and Michael brought back,” Rom said, gesturing to the man stirring in the chair, “is new.”

Jonathan nodded, gazing at the man. His tunic was still dusty from where he had been sitting on the knoll.

“He claims to be alive. To have been given life…” Rom paused, as though unsure about what he would say next. “By Saric.”

“Saric?” Jonathan said, more sharply than Jordin had ever heard him speak.

“Yes. He claims Saric is alive. And that he has made three thousand other warriors-Dark Bloods, he calls them-like him. But there’s something else. This one…”

“He feels,” Jonathan said.

“Yes I think so.”

“He feels emotion.”

“That’s what we think.”

“Impossible,” Seriph murmured.

“Yes, impossible,” Rom said, his voice hard-edged. “But apparently the impossible has come to us here, today.”

Jonathan looked quietly from Seriph, to Rom, and then at the Corpse.

“He’s seen us here,” Roland said. “He’s heard too much. I would advise we kill him.”

Jonathan seemed to consider Roland before slowly turning his gaze back to the Corpse in the chair. He had just lifted his head and was blinking at them, slowly working his jaw, a heavy bruise along the pale skin of his face-a fresher one near his temple.

Jonathan walked past Roland, stopped just before the Corpse and reached out his hand.

Roland stepped forward. “Jonathan…”

Rom threw out his arm, staying the prince. The two of them stood back, posture taut, as Jonathan slowly touched the man’s head, his fingers coming to rest on the unruly dreads of his hair.

It was one thing for a warrior to touch a Corpse, but the council had agreed no unclean thing should touch Jonathan unless it be to bring life to that Corpse-a rare occurrence this past year so close to his reign. The risk was simply too great. Jonathan had to be protected at all costs.

The Corpse lifted his head to look at him, and Jordin shuddered at the cold glint of his black eyes.

“My master will see all of you dead,” the Corpse said.

“Silence!” Rom hissed. “That is your Sovereign you speak to!”

“My Sovereign is my Maker. And my Maker is Saric,” the man said.

Jonathan regarded him a moment longer and then slowly turned away.

“What do you say in this, Jonathan?” Rom said, the line of his mouth tight. “Should he go free, stay our prisoner, or die?”

“You’re asking for my advice or a decision?”

Rom hesitated, glanced warily at Roland. Anyone close to Jonathan knew that he had never expressed an interest in exercising explicit authority to make specific decisions that affected the safety of Mortals.

“Your decision,” Rom said.

Jonathan looked from him to Roland. “None of those. Make him Mortal.”

For a moment, no one could respond. Not a sound, not a movement.

Then Triphon and Seriph were their feet. Roland’s glare fell on Rom, its meaning unmistakable. Make him understand. The old Keeper slowly got to his feet but said nothing.