Ted Dekker - Mortal

Beside him, Roland pulled a flask from his saddle. Neither one of them had spoken of the previous night’s disaster on the ride home. Rom had sent Jonathan and Jordin back to camp ahead of them and then ridden with his second to the vista, a place they often came to discuss matters alone, away from the too-seeing Mortal eyes and ears of the others. The Nomad took a long pull and held the flask out to Rom, who ignored it. He’d lost his appetite for food or drink.

“Take some,” Roland said. “You need it.”

Rom accepted the flask and took a swig. It was wine, not water. For a moment he thought about spitting it out, but then swallowed it instead.

For nine years their path had been so clear: bring Jonathan back to Byzantium to claim his office as Sovereign of the world on the day that he reached eighteen. It had been simple, though he had never been naïve enough to think they might not encounter at least some resistance. But now…

He couldn’t get over the sight of Feyn, the ring of office on her hand. The strange turn of her lip when she’d told them to save those who need saving. The way she had yelled for the guard.

She had given her life for this very cause-for the cause of life itself! How could she refuse to accept it from Jonathan’s veins?

And how long would she refuse him his place on the throne?

He took another pull from the flask and set it on the rock beside him. Roland stood to his right, thumb hooked in the belt that held his scabbard, staring at the valley.

“Jonathan turns eighteen in six days,” Rom said at last. “This changes nothing.”

“Jonathan can’t succeed her now.”

“He has to. He was born to rule.”

“And so begins the last struggle for power,” Roland said.

“There will be no struggle for power,” Rom snapped. “Not the way you think of it.”

“I think of it only one way-either we win or we lose.”

Rom turned from the valley and raked a hand through his hair, which he wore free except for a few braids designating his rank among the the Nomads.

“If Jonathan can’t rule we’ve already lost. And I can’t accept that.”

Roland eyed him stoically. “I didn’t say Jonathan can’t rule. I said he can’t succeed Feyn. Her rule changes the succession. Even if she dies now, Saric becomes Sovereign. Saric has assured his own power. Or am I missing something?”

Rom scrubbed at his face with a hand.

No. He hadn’t missed anything. Saric had effectively snatched supremacy out from under them without warning or recourse.

“All I know is that Jonathan must come to power.”

“Must he?”

Rom jerked his head around and stared at him. “What are you saying?”

“How do we know that Jonathan ‘must’ come to power?”

“What do you mean how do we know Jonathan must come to power?” Rom demanded. “You question this now? After all these years?”

Roland turned his face to the dark valley. “No. But I’m not always certain what that power will look like. Mortal blood will rule this world, I know that much. And in that sense, Jonathan’s already ascended-in us. We’re alive, and the rest of the world is dead. We will live a very long time while generations of Corpses come and go. Our power is supreme . Meanwhile, Jonathan’s blood grows stronger-there’s no telling how powerful Mortals will become. In that way, Jonathan already rules through our blood. And perhaps it’s our privilege to rule with him.”

“Sovereignty is his right, not ours. Maker, what are you suggesting?”

“Only that we may be placing a burden on the boy that isn’t his to carry.” Roland squatted to his heels and squinted over at Rom. “Do you honestly see a ruler in that boy?”

Rom paused.

The Nomad picked up a pebble and flicked it over the lip of the cliff with his thumb. “You heard what happened by the Basilica of Spires.”

The boy hadn’t spoken a word, but Rom had quietly questioned Jordin on the ride back to the valley. He’d seen Jonathan peering into the Authority of Passing transport, the way he’d been rooted to the spot, unhearing, risking himself. Risking all. Jordin, ever-protective of Jonathan, offered no more detail other than his empathy for some girl being taken to the Authority of Passing.

“He’s got an unnatural fascination with Corpses,” Roland said.

The bluntness of his words grated. Grated, because they were true.

Rom himself had known a girl like the one in the cart once, who might easily have ended up in her same place. A girl destined for far greater things than to disappear behind institutional doors.

Thinking of Avra no longer hurt, but it did bolster his resolve. She, too, had given her life to this cause, the first among them to do so. Her death would not be-would never be as long as Rom lived-in vain.

The boy had to come to power.

“He’s the Giver of Life. What do you expect? Maybe we should all be as fascinated.”

“It’s self-destructive. There’s far more at stake here than a few Corpses, Rom. He jeopardized his own safety and by extension the future Mortal kingdom. Do you see a leader in that?”

“I see a Sovereign who understands love more than any of us. I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you-you, of all people. Nomads rule by bloodline. So will Jonathan. The only reason Feyn is Sovereign now is because of Saric’s interference. You vowed Jonathan your life. It’s not your place to question.”

Roland rose, jaw set. “You dare question my loyalty? I will defend his legacy to my death! But there’s more than one way to rule, Rom. Jonathan made us Mortal. We have his blood in our veins. We are his legacy. If anything happens to him, we are bound to honor and defend that legacy. That is how we win. Anything less than that-anything that brings death to Mortals-is defeat to us.”

“And what of Jonathan?”

“Jonathan-”

“Will you defend him or not?”

“Yes! Do not insult me by questioning my loyalty.”

Rom exhaled a single long breath, through his nostrils. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to direct my frustration at you.”

“Your frustration’s warranted. But the fact of the matter is I’m right. Everything has changed. A great struggle for power has begun. This won’t go down smoothly. And so we must consider all options, including the possibility that Jonathan may not be Sovereign in six days. There are other ways to win this war.”

“Now you call it a war?”

Roland shrugged. “Is it anything else?”

He had a point.

“We won’t be spilling any blood just yet,” Rom said. “You saw how strong the Dark Bloods were. How quick.”

“They only have a few thousand.”

“ Only ? We only have seven hundred warriors.”

Roland eyed him, brow arched. “Most of them Nomads and superb fighters. My men can defeat three thousand Dark Bloods, you have my word on it.”

“We don’t even know where they are.”

“No, but we can get to Saric.”

“How.”

“Via his puppet at the Citadel,” Roland said. “Let me take twenty men and I’ll bring you his head in two days’ time.”

“Kill Saric and his hive will come after us in a swarm.” Rom shook his head. “We can’t risk all-out war-not now.”

Roland seemed prepared for this answer. “At the very least I insist we send out scouts beyond our perimeter in search of the rest of his Dark Bloods. It’s a risk, but we can’t sit back and wait.”

“Fine. But we risk nothing more. Not so close to our goal.”

“But our goal just changed. Saric has to die.”

“That’s your only suggestion? To assassinate Saric and engage his army?”

The Nomadic Prince studied him. “You have another?”