Ted Dekker - Mortal

“And yet we have the Citadel guard to protect us.”

“Yes… And Saric has killed more than one of our guard. You heard about the incident at the Authority of Passing today, I’m sure. Violence comes to us with his Dark Bloods. His words in the senate have not fallen on deaf ears. Fear grips the hall.”

“Then put their minds to ease, Dominic. Order provides for a personal guard to protect any Sovereign at their request. The Dark Bloods serve me in this way.”

“Then Saric serves you.”

“The whole world serves the Sovereign as much as I serve the world.”

“And yet Saric claims the world to be dead…”

“Yes, well. You must allow him some of these thoughts. My brother gave me life in a manner that few can understand. You can appreciate how that might affect him.”

He’d nodded slightly.

“Obviously I am alive. And as living Sovereign, I expect the senate to accept my choice of guard. Saric is in charge of my security until I choose otherwise. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my Lady. Of course.”

“His guard will be embraced as my own. Any word against them is a word against me.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you, Dominic. Serve me well, and I may open your eyes to a new life.”

He bowed his head again. “As you wish.”

She’d left Byzantium with Corban and the Dark Bloods and ridden north on horseback five miles into the dusk, until Corban had presented her with a silk hood to wear at Saric’s request.

Her first impulse to balk at being blinded had quickly bowed to submission. Saric was her Maker and his request was only an invitation to obey. How was she to refuse?

Three hours later, Corban removed the hood, and she laid eyes on the expansive fortress rising from the night like a monolithic wraith. But the moment she’d set foot inside and the thick wooden door shut behind her, life, not death, flooded her mind.

Saric’s life.

“This way, my lady,” Corban said, reaching for a tall iron door set back into the wall. He knocked and opened it at the call of Saric from within.

Music filled the air. Stings, vibrant and somber at once. Feyn stepped into a large sanctum that might be Saric’s office or his most holy place of meditation. Perhaps both.

He sat behind a large ebony desk with ornately carved legs. Feyn took the room in with a single glance-the large framed paintings of landscapes, the silk tapestries gathered in each corner, the thick rugs on the marble floor, the glass sarcophagus with a naked man inside to her far left-and immediately returned her gaze to him.

She bowed her head. “My Lord.”

“Look at me, my child.”

She lifted her eyes to his. For a long moment they remained unmoving.

“Corban,” he said, still gazing at her. “The prisoner we took at the Authority of Passing still lives?”

“Yes, my Lord. We’ve repaired the damage to his lungs and he clings to life with the aid of intravenous supplements. The Mortal is surprisingly strong. A lesser man would never have responded to resuscitation.”

“And yet dead without the life I give him. Be sure no further harm comes to him. I have use for him only if he’s alive.”

“Of course, my Lord. I see to it personally. He grows stronger by the hour.”

“Thank you, Corban. You may leave us.”

Feyn glanced over her shoulder, noting that the two Dark Bloods there had taken a knee, but Corban had only bowed as was his custom. She would learn more of their ways. They were her ways now.

Corban shut the door behind her.

Saric’s eyes glittered. He looked pleased to see her, she thought. The realization flooded her with gratitude. He wore a black jacket over a white shirt opened to reveal his pale chest. A thick silver chain with a pendant of a serpentine phoenix hung from his neck.

He tapped long fingers on the ebony top. She noticed, belatedly, that he had darkened his nails.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, my love.”

She walked to the middle of the room, feeling underdressed in her riding pants and leather jacket.

“I came as quickly as I could.”

“You’re pleased to see me?” he asked.

Her desire to please him surprised her even now, but there was more. A scent in the room that called to her like the smell of the sea.

“More than you can know.”

“Actually, I know it quite well. You’re bound to me, sister. What you do not yet know is that you can’t live without me.”

He walked around the desk, studied her with approval and lifted his hand. She knelt, took the hand in her own, and kissed his fingers. But this time, the scent of his skin awakened a sudden swell of urgency within her. Her ears began to ring and her head felt so light that for a moment she thought she might faint.

Saric chuckled softly. “The craving, yes?”

Craving? Feyn lifted her eyes.

“What is it?”

“Life, my love. My life. In good time.” He pulled his hand away and crossed to one of two large wingbacked chairs before a circular table that looked to have been carved from a single piece of amber granite. A bottle of red wine and two crystal glasses sat on a silver tray.

“Sit with me, Feyn.”

She followed him and sat down in the chair angled toward his. The cylindrical glass sarcophagus stood directly across the room, openly displaying its lifeless occupant. The sight, cursory on first glance, chilled her this time.

“Pravus,” Saric said. “My Maker.”

“He’s dead?”

“He lives in me now. Such a beautiful creature, wouldn’t you agree?”

She wasn’t sure how she felt about the pallid body, but she quickly submitted her confusion and embraced Saric’s point of view.

“Yes,” she said. “Quite.”

“Yes.” He gazed at the sarcophagus with gentle eyes that suggested more than mere appreciation. And then he took up the bottle of wine, plucked the cork out with strong fingers, and filled each glass half full. Replacing the cork, he set the bottle back down and offered her one of the glasses.

“To the life that conquers death.” He lifted his glass, eyes on her.

“To life,” she said, and took a drink. The bite of tannin and fermented grape lingered in her mouth and slipped down her throat like heat. She felt the effect of the wine almost immediately; the weakness that had nearly overcome her when she’d smelled his skin had not passed.

Was this what it was to crave-to live through the life of another?

If so, she wondered what kind of life could demand death? Saric had been brought to life by Pravus, and yet he’d taken his Maker’s life. It was difficult to imagine such a profane act of rebellion, unless it had been demanded by the master. Had Pravus demanded Saric kill him, then?

And if he ever required it, would she capable of such a thing? No! Perhaps. No, impossible. The mere thought was laden with deep offense.

“There are times when life must be taken,” Saric said, as though having read her thoughts on her face. “But only when that life is in direct conflict with greater life. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Tell me.”

It was his way, of late, to lead her with questions, to bring her along gently so that she could best serve him. So she could fulfill her purpose as one made in his image.

“You took his life because it was weaker than your own. It stood in the way of a greater life. Yours.”

“Life, Feyn. It’s all that matters in this dead world. We who live will subdue the earth and rule the dead as we see fit. And I saw fit to make my subjects dependent upon me in a way Pravus did not. It’s why you crave my blood.”

“My Lord?”

He lifted the back of his hand to her face. The scent of his skin filled her nostrils again, and her pulse quickened as the craving flooded her, stronger than the first time.