Sovereign (8 page)

No. And so this, too, she knew: if anything, the rumors surrounding Immortals did not do them justice.

Jordin slipped into tan pants and a long-sleeved shirt, over which she fastened a snug vest. There, she hid four additional blades, easily accessed by either hand. Her bow and quiver slid easily down her back, inside her shirt, the tip just barely hidden by her hair, which she left down to better cover its presence between her shoulder blades. She would not have ready access to it—the knives would have to suffice until she got clear of the city.

Except for her scent, which couldn’t be covered up without the use of other strong odors that would only attract their own attention, she might pass for any common Corpse.

She slung the pack over her shoulders, grabbed a pair of dark glasses, and headed for the tunnel to the surface. There, she would have to contend with the first-watch guard, after which word of her departure would spread like fire. First Rom and now Jordin, gone to the wolves.

They wouldn’t be wrong on either account.

She pushed back the sudden onset of doubt and ran toward the
exit, already sweating beneath her tunic. The tunnels were rougher here, unevenly cut, less care taken in the excavation of the caverns so many years ago than in the painstaking labor put into their original carving millennia before.

A form stood up from behind an outcrop of rock, startling her. Kaya. She’d forgotten the girl’s habit of reading alone. Now she saw the faint glow of lamplight, barely visible in the flicker of the nearest torch.

“Jordin?” The seventeen-year-old girl eyed her with suspicion. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything.” A beat. “Nothing.”

“Where are you going? To the surface?”

“Yes.”

“To find Rom?”

“No. No questions, Kaya.”

“It’s day above.”

“I know. That’s why I’m dressed like a Corpse. And that’s why you won’t spread alarm—it’s the last thing we need now.”

Kaya watched her with round eyes, the faint glow of light catching her high cheekbones. Jordin couldn’t help but notice the beauty the girl had grown into. Six years ago Jonathan had found her, dirty and locked in a cart bound for the Authority of Passing. He had snatched her from death then, and she’d followed him with a devotion that rivaled Jordin’s own.

Of them all, it was perhaps Kaya who maintained the most childlike love for Jonathan.

But clearly, Kaya was no longer a child. She might not be able to fight with the same skill Jordin did, but she loved as well. There were no more eligible men her age among the remaining Sovereigns—Jordin had always thought to help her find and seroconvert a handsome Corpse from Byzantium.

None of that mattered now.

“You’re going to find Jonathan,” Kaya said.

Jordin ignored the comment and made to pass, her mind on the wastelands already. Getting to them would be no easy task; she would only have one shot before the alarm went out or she found herself in real trouble.

“Rom went to find Feyn, and now you’re going to find Jonathan! That’s it, isn’t it?”

She rounded on Kaya, eager to shut her down. “Don’t be absurd! And don’t spread any rumors or get anyone’s hope out of balance.”

Kaya frowned, unconvinced. “No need to snap at me. If you’re not going to find Jonathan or go after Rom, then where are you going?”

“Kaya…. look, I wish I could tell you more, I just can’t. You’ve put your faith in Jonathan; keep it there, in him, not in me. I’m doing what I must, that’s all.”

“You’re leaving us,” Kaya said. “You’re going to find Jonathan, and you’re not coming back unless you do.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

On one count, Kaya was right. Jordin might not see her again—or any of them, for that matter. Jordin swallowed past the lump in her throat and clasped Kaya by her shoulders, drawing her close and embracing her.

“I have to go, Kaya. Don’t lose faith. Beg the Maker on my behalf.”

“Let me come with you.”

“You can’t go where I’m going.”

Before Kaya could push the matter, Jordin snatched the torch from the wall, dipped into a side tunnel, and took the rising stone steps in pairs. Then she extinguished the flame, drew a deep breath, and pushed aside the heavy, filthy canvas that obscured the entrance. She stepped into shadow; a thick screen of brush blocked most of the clouded sky beyond.

The Sanctuary existed beneath the massive footings of a ruin that had never been reconstituted or demolished. Stunted shrubs had taken up residence in the most recent decades, nearly obscuring the crumbling stone.

Jordin slipped out the opening, glancing back once to make sure the canvas had fallen over the breach in the old wall. Satisfied, she placed the glasses on her face and eased through the brush to check for passersby.

Only fifty-eight Sovereigns had come to the Sanctuary a year ago. Fifty-eight of the hundreds that had once been so sure, so fervent in their ways, survivors of an Immortal raid on their caves south of Byzantium. They had come to the city for refuge and to escape Roland’s horde…. only to throw themselves in the way of eighty thousand Dark Bloods and two million fearful Corpses.

The narrow path that snaked past the south side of the ruins was clear. Jordin ducked out and headed toward it, along the ruin wall. Rusted oil drums and heaps of rubble littered the vacant yard. The ancient ruin was located in a sparsely occupied section of the city far south of the Citadel. But she was about to enter the Dark Blood perimeter that monitored all activity to and from the city.

Keeping her head down, she walked naturally, as any Corpse out for a stroll in the morning might, hands stuffed in her pockets. She was just that, she kept telling herself. An ordinary Corpse out for a walk and lost in thought.

The first man she saw looked to be no more than in his twenties, squatting on a half wall on the far side of the compound fifty meters distant. His arms were wrapped around his knees, and he was watching her. She diverted her gaze. Had he sensed the spicy scent of her skin and breath? Which way was the wind blowing? Her pulse quickened.

Just a Corpse like him, Jordin told herself. Nod and walk on. It’s nothing.

So she did, without changing her pace. It had been at least a month since she’d seen a Corpse in daylight. They looked the same as any Sovereign except for the dullness of their eyes.

She came to the edge of the abandoned complex and eased sideways through a gap in the fence that circled the rubble and ruins.
She angled for an alleyway across the adjacent street, eager to cross before an oncoming bicyclist could scent her. There were far fewer people here than to the north, which lessened her likelihood of exposure. It also made her more noticeable to each Corpse she encountered.

Only when she reached the relative safety of the alley did her anxiety subside. So far, so good.

For an hour Jordin made her way south, cutting east and west to access alleyways, keeping as much distance as she could between herself and any Corpse by exiting those narrow ways only when the street was clear of carts, intermittent crowds of pedestrians exiting the underground, and the occasional car or truck, though they were few. The sun had climbed a third of the way into the sky by the time she reached the massive culvert that ran into the waterways beneath Byzantium’s southern neighborhoods. Dark Bloods often took up post at the end of the open drain, but likely more so as evening approached, guarding against any Immortal who might use the passage for easy entrance into the city.

She made it halfway through the culvert and pulled up hard. The circle of light at the far end was broken by the clear silhouette of a Dark Blood facing away from her. She glanced over her shoulder. Dark. They wouldn’t be able to see her approach.

The sound of her footfall was another matter. Dark Bloods often patrolled in groups of four, which meant three more might be loitering nearby. The wasteland’s barren hills waited beyond. She would have to reach them without raising an alarm—Dark Bloods had no qualms about giving chase during the day.

Jordin slung the pack off her back and pulled out the beige tunic and head wrap. Shrugging out of her vest, she changed into the lighter colors that would help her better blend into the wasteland. And then she gathered her pack and her bow and moved to within thirty paces of the unsuspecting guard. She set four arrows on the curved concrete, notched a fifth on her bowstring, and knelt to
steady her aim. At this distance the steel-tipped arrow would pack the power of a pickaxe.

She drew breath, held it, and sent the arrow directly at the Dark Blood’s head. She didn’t see it hit, but the sound of metal into bone was unmistakable. The Blood grunted once and pitched forward, dead before planting facedown on the ground. A cry of alarm sounded.

She strung a second arrow and waited, her sighting eye trained on the culvert’s left edge, ready to switch to the other side if they came from the right. Two Bloods stepped into view fifty paces beyond the culvert, far enough to avoid any projectile. They obviously had no intention of suffering the same fate as their comrade.

But staring into the dark culvert, they couldn’t see her. She eased to her belly and waited, eyes fixed on the Bloods, who waited to see if their attacker had taken a quick shot and ran or intended to engage them again. Bonded as they were to their Maker, Feyn, Bloods had little concern for their lives, which made them utterly fearless warriors. Brutal. Luckily, that same disregard for their own lives often put them in unnecessary danger. They rarely retreated or called for assistance, at least when Sovereigns were concerned. Immortals were a different matter, but Immortals did not attack during the day.

She watched them discuss the matter for a full ten minutes, during which time they were joined by a third Blood. Finally one of them strode forward, sword drawn. They’d evidently concluded that a Sovereign had made the kill and ran. After all, Sovereigns were cowards in their eyes, preferring to hide rather than fight.

Jordin waited patiently until the Blood was at the opening peering in, and then longer until he turned and waved the others forward.

She rose to a knee while the Blood was turned and sent an arrow at his head. Without waiting for the impact, she grabbed her remaining arrows and launched forward into a sprint. The Blood lurched, an arrow through his temple.

The other two seemed unaware that their comrade had been
attacked until he hit the ground, and by then Jordin had closed the distance by another ten paces. Twenty before they realized that they were caught in the open.

Jordin exited the culvert at a full run, leaped over the two fallen bodies, and slid to her knees thirty paces from the fast-approaching Bloods. In rapid succession, she shot her remaining three arrows into their bodies.

Two struck the one on the left, one in his gut, the other in his chest. He dropped his sword and let out a roar, clutching at the projectile in his breast, then fell to his knees.

Her third arrow took the last Dark Blood in his side as he turned to evade, hand on his hilt.

Without hesitation, Jordin sprinted to the one who’d fallen, keeping low. She grabbed his sword by the handle and rushed the upright Blood.

He spun to face her, face red with rage. Swung his steel with a grunt.

Nomadic instinct did not abandon her now. She ducked, committed, and sliced her newly acquired sword up and into the Blood’s jaw while the warrior was still ending his swing.

Her blade nearly took his face off. Roland had taught her how to compensate for her size with quickness. She’d successfully beaten many a larger opponent at the Nomadic games—on occasion, all of them. It was one reason she’d been chosen as personal guard for Jonathan.

Had the Dark Blood a jaw and mouth, he might have screamed. As it was, he flung his hands to what had been a face, lurched forward three steps, and toppled to the earth where he twitched for a few seconds and then lay still.

Dead by Jordin. Four with five arrows and one borrowed blade. The arrows’ steel tips would alert Feyn that these hadn’t been killed by Immortals, who preferred bone heads on their arrows, but by a Sovereign. It was the first such attack in several months, and she had all but inscribed her name in blood.

For the first time in days, Jordin felt alive.

She straightened and scanned the city edge. No sign of any more Bloods. Or Corpses. But she wasn’t alone.

Jordin stared back at the culvert, horrified by the sight of a lone Sovereign standing in plain sight, watching her through dark glasses, dressed in taupe leggings and a brown tunic.

Kaya.

“Kaya?”

The seventeen-year-old ran out to meet her, wearing an expression of relief, ignoring the dead Dark Bloods. Death wasn’t a stranger to Sovereigns.

“What are you doing?” Jordin cried. “You followed me?”

Kaya pulled up, yanking off her glasses to reveal wide, emerald eyes. “Yes!”

“No!”

The girl’s expression faltered.

“But I can fight too. You’ll need someone to watch your back—”

“No! You don’t even have a weapon. You’re a child!”

Kaya glared at her for a moment, strode to the blade abandoned by the faceless Blood, and snatched it up. “I may not be trained to do what you do, but that doesn’t mean I’m useless. Jonathan thought enough of me to save me, didn’t he?”

“Not for this!”

“Yes for this,” Kaya snapped. “I’m not going to stay in that hole and wait for the Dark Bloods to finish us off while you find Jonathan. I’m coming with you.”

“This isn’t about finding Jonathan, you fool.”

“Then tell me why you’re heading to the wasteland.”

Jordin dismissed her with a curt wave of her hand. “Get back before they know you’re gone.”

“They already know. Adah tried to stop me. But life isn’t worth living without Jonathan. I will go to him for love.”

Jordin ignored the pang Kaya’s words brought. The pain, still just
beneath the surface. The empathy. The strange and irrational jealousy. But of course the girl loved him. They all did. And then she realized it wasn’t Kaya’s love that roused her envy, but her unbending faith.

“How did you follow me? I left no trail.”