Ted Dekker - Mortal

Roland immediately regretted his tone. He glanced away, cursed softly, and then said: “I mean no disrespect. But you must appreciate my position. Rom is out in far field attempting an impossible task-a dangerous one, even if he succeeds. Saric is far more powerful than we first assumed.” He pointed in the direction of the outer basilica. “Meanwhile, twelve hundred Mortals prepare to celebrate their savior at the Gathering, not knowing that he’s dying . Everything we assumed about his ascension has come to a grinding halt. But I know one thing: I must save my people.

“I understand the words of Talus to mean that nothing must come between the boy’s blood and its power to bring life. If I’m wrong, tell me now. Otherwise, I will fight to honor the intent of these words. Mortals must survive above the life of any one soul.”

All eyes turned to the Keeper. But before he could respond, the doors to the inner sanctum flew wide. Javan, one of the men who’d accompanied Rom, stood in the gap, breathing hard.

“Forgive the intrusion.”

“What is it?”

“Rom. He’s coming.”

“She came then?”

He nodded.

“And? Spit it out, man!”

“She’s with him.”

“ What? ”

“She’s here. For the Gathering. He’s succeeded.”

Roland felt the blood drain from his face. No victory could be so easy. The thought of Feyn, a Dark Blood herself, coming to their valley struck him like a fist to the gut. Was Rom so naïve as to trust her without proof? The agreement had been for her to remain in their custody away from the valley until the new law had passed.

Now she came here to his people?

“You may go.”

Javan inclined his head and ducked back out, closing the doors behind him.

Roland turned to Michael, who was staring at him, waiting his order.

“Begin the preparations we spoke about immediately. Say it’s a training exercise. I want it ready before tomorrow night’s celebration.”

He strode toward the door.

“Preparations for what?” the Keeper asked.

“For what comes next, old man.”

“And what is that?”

Roland turned back at the door.

“War.”

PERSUADING THE COUNCIL to allow Feyn into the camp had taken a virtual act of the Maker, and even after they’d agreed, the sharp eyes of distrust that had been her only welcome became silent questions when they turned to Rom. To have even the scent of Corpse-let alone Dark Blood-among them as they celebrated their delivery from death was blasphemy. Even Rom wondered if he’d made a dreadful mistake.

But he saw no other alternative. Jonathan’s ascension depended on Feyn’s express willingness to place him in power. And for that to happen, she had to see life for what it was. And he could think of no better demonstration of life than the one that was to take place here, tonight.

The Council had only agreed with several conditions. Feyn would have to remain under constant guard in a yurt north of camp, where the prevailing breeze would carry her scent into the narrowing canyon lands beyond. She would remain there until the Gathering and come out only under cover of darkness and after Roland’s and Rom’s men had time to pass word that there would be a Dark Blood prisoner among them. They would share no other information. She must not be recognized and would therefore be veiled. Only members of the council would be permitted to speak to her. The warrior who’d come with her, Janus, must remain under guard in a separate yurt and was not to enter the camp under any circumstances.

Furthermore, Roland had insisted that he, not any other council member, stand near her during the celebration that night. He would keep her upwind of the main body. If Jonathan wanted to speak to her, he would do it beyond prying eyes.

Roland had expressed his distinct displeasure at the entire situation.

“She has a remnant of the Keeper’s blood within her,” Rom had insisted.

“You can’t possibly believe it’s enough to mitigate the Dark Blood in her veins,” Roland had said.

“I knew her when she was alive. And I’m telling you her heart remembers it.”

“ Her heart? Or your heart?”

“My heart is only for Jonathan.”

“You think I don’t see your eyes when you talk about her?”

“My heart, my life, is for Jonathan. That’s all you need to know,” Rom said, and walked away before the Nomad could respond.

Yes, there was at least a measure of truth to Roland’s suspicions. But he refused to see that it was the very bond forged between Rom and Feyn a lifetime ago that had made it possible to find Jonathan in the first place. Mortals were alive today because of his bond with Feyn. Was this not the way history was made?

And was love, in all of its forms, not the cornerstone of the life Jonathan had brought them?

Word had spread quickly about the Dark Blood near the camp. He knew it by the lingering gazes, the nods in the place of greetings, thick as the smell of cooking meat coming from the direction of the pits. Even Adah had considered him with silent questions as he collected a basket of dried meat and fruit he’d asked her to prepare. But if she suspected the food was for the Dark Blood, she said nothing.

Rom had seen to Feyn only once during the day, and then only in the company of the Mortal guard. She’d demanded to know how long they intended to keep her shut in, not bothering to touch the food he’d brought for her. He wanted to show it to her then, in the daylight, so that she could see the eyes of those who lived and the palpable anticipation for the coming celebration. But the terms had been agreed to, and he’d already pushed Roland and his zealots as far as he dared for now.

“Soon,” he promised.

All through the afternoon the camp seemed to vibrate with strange and growing energy. Defiance. By dusk, snippets of flute drifted up toward the cliffs. Random drumbeats sounded from the direction of the ruins as drums of all sizes-nearly a hundred of them-were lined up on the steps leading up to the open-air basilica. Laughter rang out throughout the camp, the sound of it flaring up like the myriad fires set outside the yurts and up on the cliffs, illuminating the dark forms of guards against the waning day.

The drums began as the last glow of twilight faded along the western edge of the cliff and the first stars appeared in a rare cloudless sky. A whoop sounded from the edge of camp, answered by another, louder than the first. Then a shrill ululation, answered immediately by another like an echo. Within seconds, a chorus of cries rose up from the valley, rolling upward toward the cliffs, reverberating from the limestone face.

The warriors came, shouting, tearing off their tunics as they made their way toward the ruin steps. Their faces were marked: black for skill, red for life. Their chests were painted with ocher and the ashes of last year’s fire, passed among them earlier in the day. Some of their nipples were newly pierced with thick metal needles, the ends of which were adorned with feathers. The women wore paints across their foreheads and bellies; those who were pregnant emphasized the swell of their abdomens with a wide circle of red, some of them spiraling in toward the navel. Braids of men and women alike were so thick with feathers as to have been transformed into the giant combs of birds trailing down to the waist. Every Nomad had brought out their best jewelry: earrings and armbands, beaded belts slung low over hips already relieved of more cumbersome clothing.

The cries rose to a deafening pitch as bare-chested warriors and sarong-clad women beat their chests with their fists; naked children darted through the thickening mass of fevered adults surging around the steps of the ruins. The entire camp had been transformed into a sea of brightly appointed souls.