FEYN FOLDED her hands inside the observation room. Beyond the glass, Rom sat slumped in the ironwood chair. There was no need for restraints, though by the look of him he might have benefited from them, if only to keep him sitting erect.
An hour, Corban had said.
Too many had passed.
She stepped to the door and entered the inner room. Rom made no move, his head hung over his chest. She wondered if he was sleeping. She glanced over at Corban, who offered a single nod, then walked around the chair and stood before Rom.
“Good morning. I hear you had a rough night.”
Still quiet.
“I’m sorry you had to endure such a slow turning—only full surrender can give you peace. Do you, Rom? Feel peace?”
He looked up, the circles of fatigue beneath one eye as dark as the blackened bruise beneath the other. His skin had paled to a ghastly pallor since she’d seen him in the Senate Hall. The dark tree of veins along his neck, creeping up toward his jaw and over the back of his hands seemed less like the inky elegance of her own veins and more like dark fissures in something about to crack.
He lifted his head, struggled to keep it from bobbing back down. His eyes never made it higher than her knees.
She flashed Corban a glance, and he gave another reassuring nod. Standing near his table, the alchemist looked worn, though he was certainly in far better condition than Rom. He had changed his tunic, she noticed.
She returned her attention to Rom. One of his hands occasionally trembled, as one who has palsy. Was that a product of the conversion or the lack of sleep?
“Good. Full peace will come as you fully submit. Tell me, are you pleased about this new change in you?”
“I…” He swallowed deeply, looked around, a strange bewilderment in his gaze. She gave him time.
“I’m having trouble remembering the change.” His eyes rested on her.
“What about your change are you unclear about?”
“I… I don’t know. What it was like before.”
She gave him a slight smile. “Do you realize, Rom Sebastian, that this is the first time that we are of like kind?”
“I don’t know what you mean…”
“This is the first time you and I are both of the same blood. I your maker, you my slave. You said yesterday that you loved me, an appropriate sentiment for a slave. That you wanted me to be as you are. Now I have granted that wish.”
She paused. “You do recall that you love me, don’t you?”
“I don’t… I don’t remember the conversation.”
What else might he not remember? Clearly, he’d surrendered his state of resistance following the conversion, but if he couldn’t remember the details of his former life, all would be lost.
She looked at Corban, brow raised in question.
“Is it a ruse?”
“I don’t believe so. His conversion is complete—body and will. If not his mind or emotion. Those will follow, I’m quite sure.”
“I do love you,” Rom said. His gaze lifted to her face. “Yes… yes, I do love you.”
“As you should. Then you would do all that I ask of you.”
He was quiet.
“Am I wrong?” she asked more sharply.
“No,” he said, his tone strange, as though he didn’t understand the word—or that it had come out of him.
But in that moment Feyn knew she had Rom Sebastian, leader of the so-called Sovereigns. Truly had him, despite his failure to find full peace. What was peace anyway? She felt little of it herself, and her Dark Bloods knew even less. She needed only their unquestioned loyalty and service, not their joy or peace. Their love, not their pleasure.
“Then show me your devotion and address me properly.”
He glanced at Corban, then turned his eyes back to Feyn.
“Lower your eyes,” she said gently.
He did as she directed.
“Who am I?”
“My liege,” he said quietly.
“And?”
“My maker.”
“And?”
“The one that I love.”
“Good. Now tell me where the rest of the Sovereigns are hiding.”
His brows drew together.
“Now.”
“I can’t…”
“Now!”
His struggle to recall appeared genuine. She could not fault him for that.
“In ruins,” he said.
“Ruins? Where?”
“The city is full of ruins. You will tell me which. Now.”
“Ruins—south. The south part of the city. I can’t—” His eyes lifted, face drawn.
“Lower your eyes!”
He did at once. “Forgive me, my liege.”
“Which ruins? Think!”
Sweat had beaded on his forehead. “I can’t remember…”
“Focus!”
He went silent, his eyes searching the floor between his feet. The memory was beyond him.
Feyn turned toward Corban. “Send a thousand men. Sweep the southern sector of the city. Comb every ruin you find.”
“My liege, that could take days. And the virus, if what he has said is true, will release in three.”
“Then send ten thousand! Now!”
She turned with a rustle of black silk. “And keep working on our new friend. The information is hidden somewhere in that thick skull of his.”