Ted Dekker - Mortal

She dipped her head. “I’m sorry about Triphon.”

Now he could see that her eyes were red at the edges. He hadn’t noticed her crying during their flight from the city, but then, he’d noticed little except his own desperation.

Again, the image of Triphon’s bloody hand falling to the ground filled Rom’s mind.

“I know he was like a brother to you,” Jordin said.

He nodded once, felt his jaw tighten, said nothing. The eddy of so many thoughts at once threatened to drown him.

Other than Feyn, he was the only one remaining of those who had first tasted life from the Keeper’s vial. Avra. Triphon. Neah. Feyn.

It all came down to Feyn, and now even she might be beyond his grasp. No. Roland had to be successful in convincing Saric that he had every intention of giving up Jonathan, however treasonous the thought.

They had shielded the truth about Jonathan from the rest of the Nomads, but they couldn’t do it indefinitely. Once they knew that their own blood was more potent than Jonathan’s, how many of them-given the choice of protecting the Mortal race versus Jonathan-would choose the life in their own veins over that waning within his?

Would he?

That he could even ask himself the question terrified him.

Jordin was studying him intently.

Maker. He couldn’t think these thoughts in front of her. Though none of them could read minds, Mortal perception was far too keen. And he was too raw to school himself well.

He broke from her gaze and nodded toward the girl.

“Take that girl…” He stopped, lost for her name.

“Kaya,” Jordin said.

“Take Kaya. I need a word with Jonathan.”

She hesitated only a moment then headed back and collected her horse.

“Kaya? Why don’t you come with me? We’ll water the horses.”

The girl glanced up with a wondering smile, as though having already forgotten that she had been weeping just a moment ago. And then she got to her feet, not bothering to brush off her hands or the knees of her pants. Jonathan watched her go off with Jordin, who handed the girl the reins to her own mount as they walked farther down the creek bed.

Rom waited as Jonathan stood to his feet, struck by the onslaught of emotion that overcame him now that they were alone. By the time Jonathan turned to him, Rom’s hands were shaking.

“I need to know where you stand.”

Jonathan’s eyes were too placid. Too sorrowful and lucid and seeing at once. He wasn’t mad-Rom of all people could see it. But if that were so, he was frightened all the more because it meant the boy had purposes Rom could not understand.

Railing at the boy would do no good, so he willed the tremor in his hands to still.

“What do you need to know?” Jonathan said.

All efforts at control instantly crumbled at that simple question.

“I need to know why , Jonathan.” He lifted his clenched fists, and, finding nothing to grasp at but air, dropped them helplessly. “Please. Help me understand!”

The boy was quiet, which only added fuel to the surge of desperate confusion within him.

“In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never taken such risk,” Rom said. “Never risked such danger to yourself. Why now? Surely you know the stakes!”

Jonathan watched him with sad eyes. “I do know the stakes. And do you know me?”

“What do you mean do I know you? Of course I know you! Wasn’t I the one who found you as a boy in your mother’s house? Who told you about the prophecy? Who’s guided and watched over you all these years? How can you ask if I know you?”

Jonathan remained silent.

Those had been desperate days of discovery for them. He’d lost Avra in his quest to protect the boy. He’d committed his life to the cause of his kingdom. Was it so strange, then, that he should feel a sense of betrayal?

But even in recognizing it, he felt guilt. Who was he to berate the Sovereign of the world?

“What do you want, Jonathan? Tell me what you need?”

“Do you love me, Rom?”

“Love you? I’ve given you my life! We all have. And now Triphon…” He choked back a hard lump in his throat, willing himself not to spill emotion. “How can you, of all people, ask me that?”

Jonathan lowered his gaze, his dark lashes girl-like in stark contrast to his masculinity. He was so young still.

“I feel terrible for Triphon.” He shifted his gaze toward the distant storm. “But he died knowing the truth. He died alive. How many of those we left behind will die without hope?”

“And how many will die without hope if you fail to take power? Triphon died for that cause, not for a single Corpse among millions! As would we all. Jordin. Roland. Me.”

“Will you die for me… or I for you?”

The question hit Rom like a battering ram. It was true, Jonathan had poured himself out all of these years, never once complaining that his own lifeblood was poured out for their gain.

“You can’t think any of us mean to drain you of life. You must live . For me, for Jordin, for the world!” He flung his hand out, exasperated. “The thought of failing you… How can you say such a thing?”

“Then follow me, Rom. When the time comes, see that the world finds life through my blood. Life more true than even you can know.” Did Jonathan have any inkling that his blood was reverting? The Keeper had said no.

“I do follow you. I will-that’s not the point! You must live and fulfill your purpose to that end. And to that end you have to allow me to protect you now! This isn’t just about making Mortals, Jonathan, but about your people.”

“And who are my people?”

“Mortals! The ones whose veins flow with your blood! The ones who are alive.”

Horse hooves, coming up through the wash-Kaya and Jordin, their voices carrying like birdsong over the running of the brook.

Jonathan turned his head toward the sound.

“Even those alive can still be dead,” he said, and walked away.

FEYN WALKED DOWN THE MARBLE hallway of Saric’s fortress, struck by the severe arch of the ceiling, the ancient and emotive art lining the walls, the red silk that hung from ceiling to floor. Broad candelabras boasting candles a foot in diameter cast pools of amber light at regular intervals through the passage. Gold and crystal chandeliers hung from long chains twenty paces apart, their light extinguished for now in favor of the candles that illuminated the hallway as though it were the dark path through a garden of silk and illusion. So darkly immaculate. Kingly. Saric had always been a man of taste, and his attention to detail here was no exception.

They’d come for her late in the afternoon. Four Dark Bloods and Saric’s chief alchemist, Corban. Saric would see her, they said, tonight, in his fortress outside the city. She was to make arrangements to be gone three days.

She’d quickly set things straight with her servants and with Dominic, who would explain her departure as a time to rest and recover-an understandable course considering all that had happened the last few days.

“Your brother will be with you?” Dominic had asked.

“He may join me. This is a concern to you?”

He’d lowered his head. “Only if it concerns you, my Lady.”

“Then have no fear, Dominic. I serve the Maker.”

He dipped his head. “And I serve you, my Sovereign.”

“Then Saric is not your concern.”

He didn’t respond, but his silence voiced his insecurities in the matter loudly enough.

“Say what’s on your mind, Dominic.”

After a moment he said what she knew he would. “There is talk, my Lady. About the warriors who serve Saric and his intention to use them as a means of force. The law strictly forbids any use of force or the building of an army for any purpose.”