Sovereign (18 page)

She’d always known that Roland might test her in this way. And so she would play her only trump now and let fate take its course.

“It’s good to see you, Michael. I can’t say the same for you, Seriph. You were always the most mistrusting of us. I’m amazed Roland hasn’t put you down by now.”

A hint of a smile crossed Roland’s mouth. It was all she cared to see.

Jordin spoke quickly, taking advantage of the moment. “You know Sovereigns don’t take the lives of Immortals, so you have to ask yourself why I felt obligated to kill one of you. Simply to become Immortal?” She lifted a hand and watched her fingers move. “I admit, I like the skin. Feeling and seeing the way you do shows me how much I’ve missed.” She lowered her hand.

“But what none of you know is that unless I succeed in my mission, you’ll all be dead in four days. The survival of every Immortal is entirely in my hands. Bow to your petty pride, Seriph. Kill me now and take the life of every living Immortal with it.”

She let the statement stand.

“You believe you can deceive us with this ridiculous threat?” Seriph hissed, his face now closer to the color of his lips than his beard.

Roland lifted a hand to silence him. He studied her for several long moments. For perhaps the first time he found truth in her face. And how could he not? She was speaking it without reservation.

“Go on.”

“One of our alchemists has created an airborne virus that will swiftly infect the entire world population. He will release it unless I kill Feyn and return Rom to him in four days’ time.” She paced, feeling at last the liberty to move, to breathe. She, not Roland, was now in command of the room.

“It will bypass all Corpses and kill both Dark Bloods and Immortals within days. So you see…. I had good reason to do whatever was necessary to place myself here. If you weren’t so eager to cut down every Sovereign that crosses your path, I could’ve come in peace. Jalarod’s death is the result of your hatred, not my own.”

“And Sovereigns?” Roland said.

“They will survive,” Jordin said. “After all, it was one of our
alchemists who created the virus. It may mute Sovereign emotion. But they will survive.”

“Which is why you would become Sovereign again,” he said darkly. “Better to exist in peace, stripped of the emotion that drives us all to our insanity than to be fully alive. Isn’t that what Megas once said before he turned the world into a graveyard filled with walking Corpses? And so history comes full circle.”

Seriph pointed a crooked, accusing finger at her. “Heresy! This is what drinking Jonathan’s dead blood has brought to our door. Heresy and death.”

For an instant, his words struck her as nothing but true. The very notion of muting any aspect of life seemed profane. Giving up Immortality itself seemed like madness. Who would forsake the gift of expanded life as she felt it now?

And yet, Immortals were no less miserable than Sovereigns. So then where was Jonathan’s abundant life?

“Why would you return to Sovereign blood?” Michael asked. “You’ve only just regained full life.”

“Because it’s the only way I can lead you to Feyn.”

“What is this?”

“She claims that she can’t remember what she came to tell us,” Roland said, disbelief etched on his face once more. “Evidently, if she becomes Sovereign, she’ll remember.”

“More lies,” Seriph scoffed.

Was she lying—even to herself? Her mind was being pulled back into an abyss of forgetfulness, hardly remembering why she
should
become Sovereign again. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? She had to become Sovereign again, and soon, before she was hopelessly lost.

And she had to give them more or she’d never have the chance of finding her way back.

“You have to ask yourself why I’m here to warn you. What else would I have to gain by coming to you? I needed you to hear me, so
I became Immortal. Now I need to lead you, and for that, I have to become Sovereign.” She was groping in the darkness now.

“Sovereignty might not gift me with the expanded senses you know so well, but there’s more than simple memory at stake. As Sovereigns, we know more. Which is probably why I can’t remember the way into the Citadel now. These heightened senses seem to rob the mind of other capacities.”

“You think us stupid?” Michael said with an incredulous laugh.

“No. But Sovereigns have a different kind of sight. We can sometimes see glimpses of the future. It could be of great value on a mission to kill Feyn.”

The gift had never been predictable, and claiming it might only set up an expectation that would later damage her credibility—or get them all killed—but she needed every means to persuade them now.

She had to become Sovereign again, or all would be lost. The Immortals would all die, and she along with them.

“More insanity,” Seriph said with a deep frown. “If such a gift were remotely valuable, they would have used it to stay alive. She’s leading us into foul play.”

“Everything I’ve told you is true,” Jordin said.

Roland was watching her carefully.

“Then I’ll give you the opportunity to show me how true it is,” he said, crossing to the steps that rose to his throne. He ascended, calmly took his seat, and leaned forward, elbows on the arms of the chair.

“Tell me where the rest of the Sovereigns are hiding. Prove your loyalty, and I’ll allow you to become Sovereign. Refuse and you will die with us, assuming there’s any truth to your claim.”

She hadn’t anticipated the ultimatum. Hearing it now, Jordin felt her blood run cold. Revealing the location of the Sanctuary to Roland’s Immortals was as good as sentencing the Sovereigns to death.

“Or have you forgotten that as well?”

“I’m loyal, my prince. But—but my final loyalty rests with Jonathan.”

“Jonathan is dead.”

“He lives in the blood of Sovereigns!”

“Who are miserable and demonstrate far lesser life than Jonathan ever did. If you refuse and this virus of yours actually exists, then we all die, including you. Feyn will be dead. If Feyn turns Rom to Dark Blood, which she undoubtedly will, he too will die. And then what is left? A handful of heretics who call themselves Sovereign, perpetuating their own kind of misery.”

Jordin felt herself spiraling toward a full-fledged panic.

“If I tell you, you’ll only kill me and slaughter them all! Mattius has taken the necessary precautions—he’ll release the virus before you can stop him.”

“I won’t slaughter them all. Not now.”

“And me?”

His lips twisted into a menacing grin. “Your fate will be tied to mine. It’s the only choice I’m giving you.”

Jordin stood still, appearing calm, she hoped, but her mind screamed treachery and despondency, pushed to such a terrible choice.

The only choice, and yet hardly a choice at all.

“I need some time,” she said.

“Of which you claim we have none.” He paused, studying her. “You have until the sun goes down.”

“I may not need that much time.”

“Are you the keeper of time in my world?” He waited only a moment. “No, I thought not.” His eyes lifted to Rislon. “Take her back to her cell. Leave her in darkness.”

“Yes, my prince.”

His eyes were back on Jordin.

“And bring me the other one.”

S
TRINGED MUSIC filled the Sovereign office. Tense with poignant longing, the concerto was a study in Chaos and genius, as ancient as the old human emotions that had once ruined the world. Her father, once-Sovereign, would have condemned any who possessed or listened to such music. Her half brother had brought it to his fortress for his personal enjoyment. She now listened to nothing else—the staid music of Corpse composers felt rote and dead by comparison.

Because they
were
dead.

She’d donned the amber-and-onyx earrings. Fifteen faceted stones hung from each ear, set in gold, shimmering like dark fire nearly to her shoulders, framed by the dark fall of her hair. The velvet gown was her customary black, the sleeves glovelike past her wrists, ending in a tapered point over her fingers. It pooled on the floor behind her, an inky spill shot through with gold beading, the hem edged in gilt thread from the ancient Indus Valley.

For the first time in years, she stood before the great window, not looking out but at her own reflection.

Am I beautiful?

She’d never cared because it had never mattered. Beauty could not win her more than she already had: the loyalty of the world, the tribute of the continental treasuries, the unending devotion of the population to the Maker’s hand on earth.

It no longer mattered to them that she’d disbanded the senate and abandoned the Book of Orders along with her weekly visits to the basilica. The Book, basilica…. they were the undergirding of lives that required structure—an unbending roadmap to Bliss, or at least the hope of it.

Feyn knew better than to hope for the next life. No one knew what would become of one’s soul after this existence. There were no guarantees even for the most devout. They lived in fear until their dying breath, and what had it ever gained them but the misery of uncertainty?

She’d seen things she couldn’t explain—most recently six years ago, at the hand of Jonathan himself when he’d darkened her eyes and revealed her soul. But what had come of his little lesson?

Nothing.

It saddened her a little. She’d found herself wishing, almost, that there was something more to him than the strangeness of his blood and the mutation it brought. The death in his blood had only returned Rom and his kind to a lesser experience of life, and still they claimed to be superior. A delusion as dangerous as it was fascinating.

She tilted her head. Her former maid, Nuala, had never adapted to the heavier cosmetics Feyn preferred of late. Unfortunately, the maid had experienced an accident during her seroconversion, an error that resulted in an infection grievous enough to send her to the Authority of Passing. Feyn had held a quiet private dinner alone in her chamber in her honor. Caviar, if she remembered correctly.

She smoothed the edge of the dark liner around her eyes with the tip of a finger. She attended to these matters herself now. Far preferable to allowing the direct gaze of another, which she only found offensive. In any case, beauty had become far less interesting to her.

Until now.

How strange, to not feel like a caricature of oneself. To actually feel
seen
.

She studied the splay of dark veins up her neck and onto her cheek. The smudge of her lashes, the dark stain of her lips.

Am I beautiful?

Beautiful enough to win the heart and trust of a man with the will to deny her? A man and a heretic at odds with all that she was?

For the first time in years, she had an opponent worthy of interest in close enough range to engage. The first personal challenge she’d faced in years. She would relish the day that she played a similar game with Roland, but that would be a far deadlier game with much higher stakes.

A knock at the door.

“Enter.”

The servant came in with a cart, knelt beside it as the aromas of roasted meat, onions, and exotic mushrooms filled the chamber.

“My liege. Where would you like—?”

“On the table.”

Feyn allowed her gaze to travel down her neck to the broad neckline of her dress. Was one beautiful if she was called so by those afraid of her? Did they come, eventually, to believe it, if they hadn’t before?

The servant was still finishing when another knock sounded at the chamber door.

She turned away from the dark window. “Get the door,” she said to the servant, who hurried to the door and slowly drew its great bulk wide.

Feyn folded her hands.

Kneeling on the threshold were two familiar forms. Seth, with his godlike stature, and the figure of the man she’d known far, far longer.

She strode forward past the servant and stopped before Rom.

He was dressed in a simple gray tunic and trousers, wearing a pair of fine boots that were no doubt more expensive than any he’d ever worn. His hair was still damp, neatly tied at his nape. And as always, he was looking directly at her.

Why the stirring within her?

She smiled and reached out a hand.

“Come.”

He rose, and Feyn drew him toward the table. “Thank you, Seth.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw his brief hesitation before he rose and pulled the door shut. For an instant, she felt as much distaste for Seth, the creature of her own making, as she felt renewed intrigue for the man beside her. The servant finished, and Feyn waved her away, then turned to Rom, who’d lifted his head, listening in wonder.

“Ah, the music,” she said. “Do you like it?”

“It’s….” For a moment he looked like the impulsive young man she’d once known, eyes wandering as if to see the music in physical form. “It’s beautiful.”

She smiled. “Still the artist at heart.”

“Even as a Corpse, I sensed that the music I wrote was the palest shadow of something more.” The last word fell to a whisper.

“The dead, as you call them, cannot produce such fruit.”

“No.” His attention returned to her.

“Will you join me?” She stepped toward the table, the chaise situated near it. “I’ve requested venison. You probably haven’t had much of it these last years.”

He looked at the low table on which the servant had set the food. Feyn walked around the end of the chaise before it and sat down, then slid a little farther to make room for him.

“In another life, you might have come to the Citadel with me that day. We would have dined like this for the rest of our lives.”

“I never took you for the sentimental kind,” he said, taking a seat beside her.

“Of these last fifteen years, we’ve spent only a handful of days together. How strange you think that. And yet it’s true.”

“Perhaps because, in my mind’s eye, I’ve spent many days with you,” he said.

“Oh? How many?”

He hesitated and said only, “Many.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“You loved me once, I think,” she said. She lifted the heavy knife and a three-pronged fork and began to carve the venison. It fell away from the knife, tender to the bone. “I think that’s the reason for this mission of yours.”