Ted Dekker - Mortal

Why did she feel the urge to hesitate?

“And?”

“And the boy. Jonathan.”

Saric stepped past her and walked to the large arching window to stare out at the night beyond.

“And how is Rom Sebastian?”

“He’s changed.”

“In what way?”

“He’s their leader-the ones who’ve come to find life though Jonathan’s blood.”

“To find life,” he echoed softly.

She hesitated. “They call themselves Mortals.”

“Mortals. How quaint.” Saric turned around to face her. “Tell me about Jonathan. What did he say?”

“That he was sorry for what I did. They tried to give me his blood.”

Saric stood as though carved of stone. “And?”

“And I refused it. They thought I needed saving.”

“And?”

“And I said those at the Authority of Passing would be better served than me.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because they’re dead. I am not.”

He dipped his head slowly, his first gesture of any approval. She found herself instantly eager for more.

“The boy’s blood… Did they say anything about it?”

“Only that it brings them to life.”

“So the boy is a Maker. He tried to make you?”

“They wanted me to take the boy’s blood. Or any of theirs.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rom said that they can make others from their own blood. But that Jonathan’s is still the strongest.”

Saric’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You’re certain of this? I need you to be precise. They claim they can make other Mortals from their own blood.”

“They claim to, yes. They looked at me strangely, as if offended by my presence. It was very strange, as though-”

“This boy you once died for… Do you realize what he is asking of you?”

“Please tell me, my Lord.”

“He would ask you to die for him again. You must understand this. Not a physical death, perhaps, but they would destroy you under the guise of saving you. Don’t you see? They have no place for you, Feyn. You are a pawn to them.”

“They put me in stasis-”

“Yes, to calm their weak consciences so that they could claim they did not kill. The letter of the law, isn’t it? Or perhaps they really meant to bring you back again at some point for some self-serving purpose before discarding you permanently, and no doubt more effectively than before.”

“They say that if I die you will be Sovereign, so they have no desire to kill me.”

“Yes, of course. This is common knowledge. But they will not stop until you are destroyed or a puppet in their hands.”

She glanced down at her own hands. At the moonstone-the reminder of a nonlife far simpler than truly living… and at the ring of power on her other hand that was her fate. Why did it feel to her as though she were winding her way through a carefully engineered maze?

“Knowing that, what do you think of them?”

She hesitated. Something within her said, Saric, too, wanted to kill you once.

But Saric had brought her to life. True life, and true purpose. And she loved and served him for it.

“I’m glad.”

“Glad.”

“Glad that I did it. And grateful to the Keeper who killed me. If I hadn’t died then, I would not serve you now.”

The need, by now, for a look, a touch, a word from him was overwhelming. It rose up in her chest, an urge far more powerful than the need to eat.

“So,” he said, as though to himself. “The boy is a Maker.”

“They say so.”

To this, Saric did not respond. He seemed to have stopped breathing.

Terrified that she had hurt him, Feyn stepped forward. “Saric… My Lord…” She stood before him, desperate for his love. “I hope I pleased you.”

She didn’t have the chance to react before his fist slammed into her face. She crashed to the floor onto her chest, unable to break her fall. For an awful moment her lungs felt like iron, refusing to expand. Sticky warmth filled her mouth and ran out to the floor.

“There can be only one Maker!” Saric said.

With a heavy gasp she hauled in a breath, then coughed up blood along with a bloody tooth.

A heavy step sounded near her head. She braced herself. But instead of another blow, he crouched down onto a knee beside her.

His was strangely gentle. “Didn’t you understand when I told you the first time? Only one. Anyone who stands in my way will die. Do you understand me, my love?”

She pushed herself up and slowly nodded, head still ringing.

“Please answer me.”

“Yes,” she said thickly.

He sighed. “My poor love.” He leaned forward and wrapped muscled arms around her. “Please don’t force me to do it again.”

She reached a hand up toward her lip, to feel the place just beneath it where the tooth had been.

“You’ve lost a tooth?”

She nodded.

“Please don’t cry-it’s beneath a Sovereign.”

Hot tears coursed down her face.

“You must understand, Feyn… All that I do, I do for destiny. For true life. For love. Until you submit fully to the life I have given you, you will never know its true beauty. Correcting my children is no easier for me than for them. It pains me to see your confusion.” He kissed the top of her head. “There is no greater love than mine. You will see.”

Saric rose to his feet, cradling her against his chest. Through the pounding in her head she was vaguely aware that he had bypassed her bed and strode to the open archway leading to the stair. He carried her up the stair and down the dark corridor to his own chamber above.

She hadn’t set foot in this chamber in far more than nine years. It had changed. It was flooded with candlelight. The hard clip of his boots muted the instant he entered, cushioned by thick rugs and animal pelts. Heavy silks hung everywhere, reflecting rich, crimson hues.

He settled her among the thick pillows of his bed, arranging the comforter over her, smoothing back a tendril of her hair

A Dark Blood appeared in the archway to the anteroom.

“Bring Corban,” Saric said. “The Sovereign has been hurt. Hurry.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Take a team and seal off the crypts. Close the tunnels. All of them.”

Time seemed out of place. Darkness threatened to steal her thoughts. She was only aware of Saric’s caring hand lightly stroking her cheek.

Corban came in, took a knee in the chamber, but only for an instant before hurrying to the bed.

“See to your Sovereign,” Saric said.

He bent and kissed her gently on the forehead before straightening. “She is far too precious to be hurt. Tend to her as if she were me. Not a bruise by morning.”

BELOW THE VISTA of the high limestone cliff overlooking the Seyala Valley, revelry had finally given way to sleep. The beating of the great Nomad drums in time to the hearts straining at full gallop around the fire had slowed to a nodding pulse and then quieted at last. The songs had landed on their final strains, and the echoes of ululating calls had died. Lovers had slipped away from camp and returned to darkened yurts to lie down in one another’s arms.

The Seyala Valley held the very promise of life preparing to burst onto the world’s stage. Or so they all believed. What would happen if they knew that another kind of life had taken to that stage with its own alien roar?

Panic would run through the camp like a wildfire. And so they must not know.

In four days’ time the annual Gathering would sweep the camp into a night of unrestrained revelry in anticipation of Jonathan’s coming reign. Nothing could be allowed to dampen the hopes and dreams that would be celebrated that night.

Rom glanced at the sky. His eyes were gritty from riding and sore with fatigue. In four short hours, dawn would illuminate this plateau, but it would be an hour more before the same light made its way into the sleeping valley below.