Ted Dekker - Mortal

“Roughly,” the Dark Blood said. “And others who are not warriors like me.”

Triphon was on his feet. “He’s lying!”

“Sit!” Rom ordered. Roland’s hand fell on Michael’s wrist where it had reached toward her sword.

Triphon slowly lowered back down to his seat.

So the threat they had always feared had finally surfaced. But Rom refused to allow fear to gain a foothold among his council. For nine years they had protected Jonathan with regular communication from Rowan, Jonathan’s Regent and acting Sovereign. Never once had Rowan spoken of any true threat. And Rom would not abide any threat to him now. In eight days, Jonathan would claim the Sovereign office.

Anything else was unthinkable.

He turned to Roland. “Three thousand. Is that a problem?”

The Nomadic Prince answered deliberately. “It would be far less of a problem if we had known and acted sooner.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“If you’re asking if we can handle three thousand of these in direct confrontation, the answer is yes. But it would be foolish of us to think the threat doesn’t go deeper into the Order.”

“If there was a threat in the Order, Rowan would know.”

“Perhaps.”

Rom let it go. To the Dark Blood, he said: “Where is Saric now?”

“Where he can’t be found.”

“What is your name?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Do you feel fear?”

The Corpse shrugged.

“And hatred?”

“All men hate their enemies.”

And yet Corpses did not feel hatred, only fear.

“Sorrow?”

“When it is fitting.”

“Is it fitting now?”

The man slowly dipped his head. “My mate will weep when I fail to return.”

Rom felt a strange prick of pity for the man. Hatred and sorrow, then. These were two of the new scents they smelled. Which was which, he wasn’t sure.

“Joy?” the Book said from across the room.

“None today.”

“It’s a lie,” Seriph said. “Only Mortals feel these emotions he’s mimicking.”

“Hold your tongue, Seriph.”

Could it be possible Saric brought these emotions to life?

“What are your orders?”

“To seek any who threaten our Maker.”

“To what end?”

“To destroy,” the Dark Blood said.

“And now that you’ve seen us in action, do you think you can?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Do you know how many we are?”

“No.”

“And yet you believe you can destroy us. Why?”

“Because only Saric can prevail.”

“Jonathan has already prevailed!” Zara snapped.

Without warning, Roland strode to the prisoner and slammed his fist into the man’s temple. The Dark Blood slumped in his seat, unconscious.

Silence.

He shot Zara an angry glare and turned to face Rom. “He’s heard far too much.”

“Removing him from the room might have been easier,” Rom said.

“Killing him would have been easier.”

“We don’t kill Corpses out of hand.”

“We kill any enemy who stand in Jonathan’s way. And this enemy has given us all the information he can.”

“I haven’t agreed to kill him.”

“He’s unclean, full of death. We have no choice but to kill him rather than risk any harm to Jonathan. No unclean thing among us, isn’t that your own edict?”

“It is, but that doesn’t mean we just kill him!”

“And what would you propose? That we keep him in chains forever?”

Rom had already considered the issue and not landed on an answer. They had never allowed a Corpse to dwell among them except those who came to be brought to life. Separation from Corpses at all costs was a hard and fast law that he himself had argued for as the time of Jonathan’s ascension drew near.

“Kill him or not,” Triphon said, standing, “we have to acknowledge that if Saric’s really alive and managed to make three thousand of these, we have a problem.”

Rom turned away, picked up the wineskin sitting upon the altar step, uncorked it, drank deep.

Saric… alive. Was it even possible? And if it was, could he have fashioned a force of Corpses to some kind of life-and enough of them to take the Citadel by force?

Eight days. He would not be pulled into direct conflict with Saric with the end so close.

He handed the skin to Triphon and faced the council.

“This changes nothing. We do not alter course. We remain sequestered here and deliver Jonathan to the Citadel on the day of his inauguration. If we are challenged we will accept that challenge, but we won’t go seeking it. We can’t risk exposure before Jonathan assumes power.”

“What about after?”

“Then he’ll decide how to deal with Saric.”

“Jonathan decide?” Seriph muttered. “The boy’s a carrier of life and rightful Sovereign, but let’s make no mistake. He’s not a leader.”

“Silence!” Rom thundered. His voice echoed through the chamber. “Speak one more word and I will personally put you in chains for a week!”

Seriph shifted his gaze away in deference.

“Seriph misspoke,” Roland said, pacing to his right. “But we can’t ignore the popular call for a more proactive way to bring Jonathan-and Mortals-to power.”

“If you mean your zealots, I want nothing of it,” Rom said.

“You need to know their number is growing. And they grow more convinced.”

“Of what?”

“That Jonathan was always meant as a figurehead, not a leader. That he will begin the new kingdom as foretold, but that he need not necessarily rule it.”

“He will be Sovereign,” Rom gritted out. “And Sovereigns rule.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Don’t tell me you give them any credence.”

“I serve the Mortal life with my own, and Jonathan with the life of every Nomad. But to dismiss the sentiments of other Mortals who have sworn to protect Jonathan is dangerous. Jonathan has brought us life and we must protect it at all costs.”

“We will protect him. As our Sovereign.”

“Yes, of course. Meanwhile, a more proactive approach to eliminating any threat presented by Saric and these Dark Bloods”-he jutted his chin in the direction of the slumped prisoner-“might be the best way to ensure that he does become Sovereign. We should at least consider the option now, while we have it.”

“What? Ride into Byzantium and take the Citadel by force?”

Roland shrugged. “Whatever is required to ensure Jonathan’s ascension.”

“We will not bathe his rise to power in blood unless our hand is forced,” Rom said.

“No, of course not,” Roland said with a slight dip of his head. Ever the warrior, ever the statesman. “In the meantime, I expect that we kill this Dark Blood.”

Rom considered him, then glanced at each of the council members in turn, landing, at last, on his truest friend.

“Triphon,” he said. “Find Jonathan. He’s our Sovereign. Let him decide.”

THE CITADEL. Heart of Byzantium. Throne room of the Sovereign. Seat of world power.

Place of whispers. Place of secrets.

A day had passed since Saric’s world had changed once more. Now he strode into the outer foyer of the senate chamber, footsteps on the marble floor echoing through the hall’s vaulted ceiling. He was only vaguely aware of the two Citadel guards flanking him on either side, cowering in his wake.

He breathed deep.

It all rushed back in an instant: the Chaos of these ancient chambers. It seeped from her very stones like sweat from her subterranean walls. It flitted through her hallways like the ghosts of a former age, whispering songs of passion. Anger. Love.

Power.

Did those sitting within the Senate Hall have any idea how very wrong they were? How weak and flawed was the foundation on which they’d built their staid and stoic laws?