Ted Dekker - Mortal

“Tell me something, old man,” Roland said. “What would your founder, Talus, the one who first predicted that life would come again in the blood of one child, say your chief charge is?”

The man replied with marked hesitation. “To ensure that life is not suppressed.”

“And where is that life now?”

“In Jonathan. But you know this as well as I do.”

“Humor me. I’m a Nomad, not a Keeper. We may share the same resolve and blood, but our roles in this world are different.”

The aged eyes beneath the Keeper’s wrinkled brow did not offer agreement or disapproval. Roland pressed.

“There are twelve hundred Mortals now. Would Talus demand we preserve life in all twelve hundred, or would he suggest we sacrifice some to ensure Jonathan comes to power?”

“Both.”

“I agree. And I remain fully committed to this end. But now my question is this: how many should we be willing to sacrifice to ensure Jonathan’s ascension to power?”

The Book’s response came slower than the last. “That isn’t for me to say.”

“Yet you recognize the question that falls on my shoulders. And so I’m seeking your advice. How much bloodshed is acceptable to this end? Ten of my men? A hundred? A thousand? Tell me.”

“As you said, this falls on your-”

“Please don’t patronize me.” Roland realized he was squeezing the plum in his hand; juice dripped from his fingers onto the floor. “I want to know how you feel about the shedding of this precious blood that now flows through our veins. How much should be spilled?”

“As much as necessary.”

“To the last man if necessary?”

The Keeper’s left eyelid twitched. “I don’t think-”

“Just answer. Please.”

The Keeper’s frown deepened. “As much as is needed.”

“So you disagree with Rom on this matter?”

“No. Rom would agree, I’m sure.”

Rom might indeed agree. But not to the same extent as many Nomads. The zealots, he knew, would go to any measure to protect that life-including a preemptive strike of any magnitude that best facilitated victory. He let the matter slide.

“Then tell me this: the life foretold by Talus… In whom does it now reside?”

“In Jonathan.”

“Not in you?”

The old man stared him down for several long moments. Then he began to turn, as if intending to leave.

“My loyalty to Jonathan is unshakable, Keeper. I would cut any throat to save him-don’t mistake me. He must come to power for the sake of all Mortals. But I need to understand that path.”

A slight tremor shook the Keeper’s old fingers. He was sleep deprived, but there was more here.

“Please. Where does that life reside?”

The old man glanced back at him. “In all of us. To be protected at all costs. How is not my concern. I’m a Keeper of truth, not a maker of history. That responsibility rests on other shoulders, as you said.”

“But the rest of what you said is also true, no? That your blood-my blood-is now stronger than Jonathan’s. And as such you are a maker, if not of history then of life. As am I. A maker of life perhaps more powerful today than Jonathan. Is this not now a part of the truth you keep?”

“There’s more to the boy than his blood,” the Keeper said, warning in his voice.

“I’m no longer talking about Jonathan. I’m talking about a race of Mortal makers full of life-giving blood. Is this not the blood that will save the world?”

The Keeper was silent.

“And if it is, then we must take whatever steps necessary to protect not only Jonathan, but the Mortals who will become the makers of the world.”

“Perhaps.”

“And if it comes down to a choice between Jonathan’s blood and your blood? His blood and mine?”

“Pray it doesn’t.”

“I do. I will.”

The Keeper turned to go.

“Does Jonathan know?”

“No,” the Book said, his back to the Nomad.

“You took another sample this morning.”

“I did.”

“How fast is his blood reverting? I need to know how much time we have.”

The Keeper’s voice held a tremor. “At this rate, his blood may be that of a common Corpse by the time he ascends to power.”

Roland blinked, mind vacant. So fast! He had no idea. Still reeling, he spoke the first words that rushed to fill it.

“What power? How can that happen now?”

“He has already given us his power,” he said. “Use it wisely.”

Without another word, the old man left the yurt, shaking his head like a prophet who has lost the voice of his god.

Roland stared at the door after it had fallen back into place. So then the matter became clear. He would do as Rom asked and make the play to acquire Feyn. But he wouldn’t trust the fate of all Mortals to a single course of action.

They had to dispatch fighters far beyond the perimeter immediately with orders to take captive any Dark Blood they encountered. They had to find Saric’s stronghold.

They had to prepare for the worst.

Roland strode to the door, threw it open where Maland waited outside.

“Get me Michael. Now!”

DOMINIC STRODE DOWN the grand hallway of the palace, boot heels clacking against the marble floor in time with the cudgeling of his heart.

A day had passed since the senate leader had witnessed the most horrific, profane act of his life in the slaughter of the Regent. And he’d heard the most unfathomable profanity from the man who had committed the act, right there on the senate dais, where Saric had effectively revived and then installed his sister as Sovereign.

That first night, he’d suffered nightmares. Nightmares of the Regent’s neck opening in that yawning gash. Of the naked Sovereign screaming from the great table, as if it were an altar and she the sacrifice. Nightmares of blood flowing from the stent in Saric’s arm into hers. Of the unmistakable scar that cut across her torso, clear evidence of the savage slash that had ended her life nine years earlier on the cusp of her own inauguration.

Of Feyn standing and speaking, not with her own voice, but with Saric’s.

You are dead. All of you. Dead.

He’d woken in a sweat. Paced his Citadel apartments. Come to stand at the window and look out at the dark night in the direction of the palace and the apartment of the Sovereign. Candlelight had burned there throughout the evening.

And then, the most terrible voice of all seeped into his mind.

His own.

You are dead.

Was it possible?

Chills had crept across his nape, had prickled the tips of his fingers and set his ears ringing. Fear, at its most visceral.

He’d passed the next day in sleep-deprived vigilance, his hands cold and numb, already anticipating more nightmares in the night to come. He had gone to evening basilica to settle his spirit. It wasn’t the customary day, but such services were performed throughout the week to allay the fears of those needing comfort, and to stave off dread of the eternal with one more proper act in deference to the only thing that would be reckoned at the end of one’s life.

Order.

We know the Maker exists within his Order.

It helped. That night he’d gone to sleep knowing two things: First, that the Maker was still the Maker, known within Order. To question Order was to question the Maker himself. This truth remained steadfast, a lone anchor in this sudden storm of events.

Second, that Feyn claimed the seat of office legitimately as Sovereign, no matter how stunning her resurrection from stasis or the blasphemous guardianship that she had been reborn under like a bloody moon.

There were no nightmares the second night. And Dominic had risen today newly collected. Newly resolved.