Ted Dekker - Mortal

JORDIN WAS UP EARLY by Nomadic standards. Early, and troubled.

Dawn had drifted to the valley hours ago, illuminating the foothills, spreading out along the valley floor. Sunlight dappled the water of the shallow river before spreading across the round tops of yurts and creeping up the great stair of the Bahar ruins against the eastern wall. If the sun held long enough, the marble steps would gleam white by noon. And if the sky remained cloudless through the afternoon, gold light would reach past the columns of the ancient basilica and illuminate the ancient stained glass with colorful fire.

The day was full of life.

But Jonathan was missing.

She never failed to find him somewhere-downriver, where he sometimes went to bathe, or with the horses, where he spent hours plaiting the mane and tail of his stallion, fixing them with the ornaments given to him in such abundance that he couldn’t possibly wear them all himself. Sometimes she found him in the foothills, carving, alone, or sleeping, having gone to the high knolls sometime during the wild revelry of the night before.

But this morning, he was nowhere to be found. Adah, who rose early to cook for him and Rom, had come to Jordin asking where he was. She’d gone looking in his small yurt at the center of camp, but there was no sign that he’d been there at all during the night. When she got to the pen she learned that his horse was gone.

So then where? If she could not locate him soon, she would have to tell Rom, which would cast a shadow on her role as his protector. It was one thing for the others not to know his whereabouts, but not her.

She strode along the edge of the western cliff, north of the camp, high above the foothills. Drawing a slow breath, she willed back the first fingers of panic and forced herself to see down through the valley past the waking camp.

Jonathan had been silent since their return from Byzantium, the day before yesterday. She knew he was haunted by the doomed girl, Kaya. And by the Corpses they’d seen outside the city. One look in his eyes and she knew he was deeply troubled in ways that no one-perhaps not even Jordin herself-could understand. He’d worn loneliness like a mantle since their return.

Jordin jogged along the cliff edge, fighting back fear-an emotion unusual to her in the years of her Mortality, but an easily recalled nightmare from her years as a Corpse. She had feared abandonment most of her life, until the day she met Jonathan. Now the thing she feared most was simply living without him.

She scanned the valley north to south from the horse pen on the northernmost edge of camp. Along the river to the broadening valley, out toward the main river which ran all the way from the wilderness to the western coast, out to sea.

She was about to head back to the south side when she saw the dark spot askance through the sunlight, far south, riding up the distant wash. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and squinted to focus.

A rider. A mile out, traveling at a walk as though having covered hours of terrain. Then she recognized the height and color of the dun horse, the posture of the rider…

Jonathan.

She stood fixed for a full second, heart hammering in her ears. Her first thought was that he was safe. Thank the Maker he was safe.

Her second thought was that her Sovereign had gone far. On a horse. Very far. Without anyone’s knowledge.

She had to reach him first. She had to be by his side when he came into camp. She had to know where he’d been.

Jordin ran to the rocky outcrop where she’d climbed up from the knoll, swearing to never leave him alone for more than an hour ever again. Not so close to his ascension.

She flew through the foothills, questions drumming through her mind. Down the last hill to the valley floor, running the half mile across the shallows of the river, cutting through camp, leaping over fires still smoldering from the night before.

Heads turned. Children paused their playing to look up. Warriors stared, mothers turned from their cooking and shouted after their children, who came trotting after her. The sight of Jordin running through camp in such haste was rare and could only mean one thing: Jonathan.

He was just coming into the south side of the camp when she caught sight of him, his stallion at a steady walk. She ran faster.

Only then did she see that others were staring his way. Not just watching but rooted to the ground. Fixated. She reached the steps of the ruins when she realized what everyone else was staring at.

He wasn’t alone.

Jordin pulled up short next to a dozen others, gathered to watch his return. There, behind him on his horse, was a second figure. Smaller, peering around Jonathan, clutching him by the waist. A boy, barely twelve, if that.

His scent hit her like a gust of hot wind.

Corpse.

Bringing any Corpse into the valley was an express violation of Nomadic law. Other than the spies who came to meet with Rom, she hadn’t seen a Corpse outside Byzantium since the last of the Mortals had been made. That was before the moratorium years ago.

A figure came stalking out into the clearing before the ruin stair, dark beads glinting in his hair, followed closely by another. The hair stood up on her arms.

Maro the zealot.

She hurried forward as several others came out of their yurts, noses covered by cloth or hands.

“What is that odor of death?” someone said behind her.

“Corpse!” She knew the booming voice well: Rhoda, the belligerent blacksmith who hit wine as hard and often as she hit steel. “Good Maker… He’s brought a Corpse to camp…”

Jonathan did not slow, did not show any concern. He wore a mask of simple resolve, as though the looks of shock had nothing to do with him at all.

But Jordin knew better. Her sovereign might be quiet much of the time, but his intelligence was superior in ways that few knew as well as she. And his powers of observation were keener than even Roland’s.

The first time she’d seen it, they been at the lookout above, two years earlier, legs dangling over the cliff, watching the camp far below. After half an hour of silence, Jordin had braved a question.

“My Sovereign?”

“Yes?”

“May I ask a question?”

He’d looked at her, mouth curved in amusement. “If I can ask one first.”

“Of course.” Then she added, “My Sovereign.”

“Will you call me Jonathan instead of Sovereign?” he asked.

She assumed the more formal title more appropriate-especially from one without position like her.

“Jonathan?”

“I like the way you say it.”

“Jonathan.”

His smile widened. “Thank you.”

In retrospect, she thought she’d fallen in love with him in that moment, staring into his bright hazel eyes, which never wandered from her own.

“Your turn.”

“Mine?”

“Your question?”

“Oh… Yes. I was wondering. What goes through your mind when you watch the camp for so many hours?”

He looked at the valley below, lost again in thought for a few moments.

“There are twelve hundred and eleven Mortals alive today. They all live in this valley. Seventeen are in the river now, bathing. Five hundred and fifty-three that I’ve seen have ventured out of their yurts this morning. Just shy of seven hundred still slumber, most of whom did not sleep until early morning. Three hundred and twelve danced around the fire last night…” He faced her. “I know all of their names.”

She was astonished at his powers of observation, the keenness of his memory.

“I think about every soul who has taken my blood, Jordin. They are forever bound to me. And some day their number will be more than I can count. I worry that I can’t know them all.” His eyes were misted as he said it. “What if I lose track?”