Ted Dekker - Mortal

THEY RODE HARD FOR AN HOUR, glancing back frequently to be certain they weren’t being followed, expecting to see Dark Bloods in pursuit at any moment. But there was no sign of them.

As long as they were in motion, Rom was able to comfort himself with the knowledge that he’d saved Jonathan from what would have been certain death. Every step was another toward safety, but the truth of the matter dug incessantly into his mind like a tick burrowing for blood. Nothing was safe. Nothing was right, nothing made sense. He might have saved the boy for now, but the world was collapsing around them.

Divisions were mounting among the Mortals. Saric had raised an army to destroy them all. Feyn had given her allegiance to Saric. Jonathan seemed to have lost his mind. Triphon was dead.

Rom led them into a wash to rest the horses and gather himself.

Triphon. Dead.

It was unfathomable. The bull of a man who had been Rom’s second-in-command was impervious to threat, fear, or injury. His closest friend from those first days when they’d both drunk the Keeper’s blood and committed themselves to its implicit charge could not die.

And yet he had. The image haunted him. Triphon, rolling off the Dark Blood and onto his back, hand grasping the sword in his chest. The same bloodied hand, falling to the earth.

More than once, Rom thought of sending the others on and going back. To be certain, just in case. But he already knew what he would find. He’d found no pulse and no breath. If there’d been any trace of life left in the man, it was now gone-the Dark Bloods would have made certain of that in short order. There’d been no way to recover his body without suffering further casualties.

Still, the fact that they’d left their comrade on the ground hounded him. Triphon had given his life to buy their escape. The best thing Rom could do now was to honor his friend by fulfilling their charge to see Jonathan to power.

“We stop here for a few minutes,” he said, when they reached the wash. But he didn’t immediately dismount. Thoughts flooded his mind like a deluge.

Roland had sent a volunteer as a spy to be captured by Saric. If the mission was successful, the prince might even now be meeting with Saric himself. If so, they had a chance to salvage everything. But acquiring Feyn was only the beginning. Rom still had the herculean task of persuading her to see the truth and recognize Jonathan as rightful Sovereign. He’d helped her find life once, a lifetime ago, but she was in Saric’s clutches now.

If he failed to persuade Feyn… Maker help them. The zealots might demand a far more assertive approach. War and death would overtake them all.

Even if they did gain Feyn’s support, there was still Jonathan’s state, both physical and mental, to consider.

What did it mean that his blood was reverting, and so quickly? According to the Keeper, Jonathan might have the same blood as a Corpse in a matter of weeks, maybe days. How was it possible that the boy who’d been born to bring life was apparently dying?

In two days’ time all Mortals would light the celebration fires of the Gathering. They would sing and drink and dance in Nomadic fashion in celebration of the life awakened by Jonathan’s blood. Little did they know that the very fountain that had first given them that life was drying up.

Or was the boy’s blood only reverting momentarily, gathering for its final push to full maturity? The Keeper had suggested this possibility, and Rom had chosen to embrace it. Nothing else made sense.

But Jonathan’s blood wasn’t the only problem. Even if the regression was a temporary set back, there was the matter of Jonathan’s psychological well-being. Instead of preparing for rulership, he was courting an obsessive fascination with Corpses, willing to risk the lives of millions who might find life for the sake of one child.

Rom finally slid of his horse and glanced at Jonathan. Perhaps he was too young. What childhood had he ever known, this future Sovereign raised in secret and coveted for his blood? Was this fascination with this Corpse girl a simple need for the company of those who demanded or asked nothing of him?

Had they all failed him in such a basic way that his loneliness drove him to risk his entire destiny to satisfy some deep-seated need? His frustration with the boy eased.

He reached for Kaya and lowered her to the ground. The girl had been pointing at the sky, blinking into the rain as they rode, occasionally closing her eyes as it washed away the grime-streaked tears on her face.

More than once he had found her fingering the beaded cuff of his sleeve. She had almost fallen from the horse completely when she had stretched out over the pommel to lay her hand against the horse’s neck, to touch the braids of its mane, feel the bristle of that short equine hair against her palm.

Any Corpse might have wondered what was wrong with her, but Rom knew exactly the cause of her rapt fascination. She was in the throes of new life.

So then… at least his blood was still strong enough to make other Mortals. Perhaps it was regaining strength. Perhaps…

Rom squeezed his eyes shut. His head hurt.

Kaya had fallen down to the ground to grab up a handful of earth. An instant later, she was sobbing, her wet hair clinging to her cheek, hands dug into the dirt. Jonathan hurried over, knelt beside her on one knee and whispered in her ear.

Rom glanced over at Jordin, just returned from a cursory circle of the area. She was as soaked as were they all, though the ground here was dry.

“We aren’t being followed,” she said. She glanced back at the storm clouds just now breaking over the southeast corner of the city. “Not even by the storm.”

He knew what she was thinking, despite her aversion to superstition. The Maker’s Hand. Nature itself seemed to have gathered to join Jonathan in protest over the Authority of Passing. But there had been nothing supernatural in this. Triphon was dead! They had barely gotten out alive.

He left Jonathan with the girl and stalked over to her. “A word, Jordin.”

She dismounted and followed him to a small rise beyond Jonathan’s hearing.

“What were you thinking?”

Jordin looked off in the direction of the abating storm. Her resolve surprised him.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I was protecting my Sovereign,” she said in a low, steely tone.

Frustration, anger… admiration… all welled up within him at once.

“Protecting? This is your idea of keeping him from harm?”

“He doesn’t take orders from me,” she said, still not looking him in the eye.

“But you take orders from me. You will never allow Jonathan to leave camp again without my knowledge or permission.”

“I can’t promise that,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

She hadn’t even blinked. “I can’t.” Now she looked at him. “He’s my Sovereign. I serve you, but I serve him first. If what he says contradicts you, I will follow him.”

For an instant he flashed back to Roland questioning Jonathan’s ability to inspire confidence-or to lead at all. And yet Jordin was following him without question. There was something in his way that inspired. But was it true leadership on his part or simply devotion on hers?

“You’re in love with him,” he said.

“He’s my Sovereign,” she replied, a little too quickly.

He glanced back at Jonathan. He was still on his knee talking quietly with the girl, who had stopped weeping and pushed back onto her heels to listen to him.

“I love him too, Jordin. And truth be told, I’m glad he has you by his side.” He looked at her. “But I beg you, for the sake of the kingdom, tell me when he demonstrates any such irrational behavior, yes? He’s my Sovereign as well, and I need to know.”