Three Weeks Later
THERE WERE SEVEN primary continents in the world. Seven houses that governed them. Seven, the number of perfection. Seven, the seal of the Maker.
The Sovereign who’d proclaimed herself Maker ruled them all from her seat in the Citadel, rising above the ancient city of Byzantium—such was the way of her Order.
But Byzantium had been ravaged by death and war and Order had fallen. Feyn was no longer Maker; she was simply a new Sovereign yet unknown to the sea of citizens who’d been urgently summoned to witness the new inauguration along the old processional way at the Citadel basilica. Among them, prelates, each of the continental rulers, and nearly half of the world’s twenty-five thousand royals.
Feyn sat on the stage staring out at the throngs gathered in fear to hear her words. Fear, because it was all they yet knew. Fear, because they unwittingly breathed death each day without realizing even that they were dead.
Today they would learn the truth.
She looked at Rom, seated in a chair beside her, watching her with the same gentle eyes that had once wooed her in a field north of Byzantium. The blood he’d given her that day had awakened her to life, but she had never known how abundant that life could be until three weeks ago.
He laid his hand on hers—a simple gesture of assurance. To say that she wasn’t concerned would be to lie. Not for herself, but for those who would hear words spoken that hadn’t been voiced in nearly five hundred years.
Her eyes flitted to Jordin, seated next to Rom, and Roland, who stood across the platform with his back to them, issuing final instructions to three servants who shifted nervously, casting glances her way every so often. How strange she must appear to those Corpses who’d once served under her iron fist. Today, their tyrannical Sovereign had shed her regal robes for a simple white dress. Her eyes, once black, had turned bright blue; her skin, once white, was now the color of living flesh.
Feyn smiled at the thought.
So much had changed.
Fifteen years earlier she’d stood on this very platform, anticipating her inauguration as Sovereign of the world. By the law of the Order, she’d been chosen from among eligible candidates not by peer or by merit, but by the hand of the Maker himself, according to the twelve-year Cycle of Rebirth, which had been completed three times in her father’s forty-year reign. The births of those royals born closest to the tolling of the seventh hour on the seventh day of the seventh month of each new cycle had all been recorded. And she had been born closest of all.
Was it chance or fate that Talus, the first Keeper, had predicted that a Sovereign with pure blood would be born to rule the world? Jonathan had been that Sovereign and he ruled today, but it was she who would rule this world of flesh and blood—“this dream,” as Jordin was fond of calling it.
It all made such perfect sense in hindsight. The order of Keepers, guarding the blood for so many centuries; Rom’s giving the blood to her; her own death and stasis that paved Jonathan’s succession to the throne; her resurrection that seized it back. Even Saric’s alchemy and her own dark reign. Would she be standing here today if any of it had been different? Would life—true life—now be seated as Sovereign if even one piece of history had not played itself out as it had?
Saric…
Her throat still knotted at the image of him yielding his blood to save the thirty-seven Immortals who’d taken it following his death. Having found life in the desert, he had delivered that life to save not one but many—founding a new race of humans who would in turn offer their blood to the world.
There were fifty-three in total now, having been judicious in the process of seroconverting others, taking the time to think through the massive undertaking before them. They’d agreed to call themselves Mortals once again, to avoid confusion with her office, despite knowing they truly were Sovereign, each and every one of them.
They would never manipulate or force any to take the blood. Never offer clever words of persuasion. Masses regaining the full range of emotions could wreak havoc in a society that had no tradition of dealing with those emotions.
She turned her eyes to the huge crowd gathered before the inaugural platform. They waited in fearful silence—waiting to hear what their transformed Sovereign had in store for them.
With Rom, Roland, and Jordin, she’d carefully laid plans for this day, agreeing not to thrust the truth on the world with too much haste. As a result, she’d told none of the governing body yet.
They would hear it all today. All of them. Across the globe, the blue light of television screens illuminated the city centers of every continent, broadcasting images of New Byzantium.
Traditionally, the observance of Rebirth was required to be witnessed by all. The passing of authority from one Sovereign to another was among the holiest of events. To Feyn’s way of thinking, today was no different; after all, she had truly been birthed to new life, the first ruling Sovereign to find that life. And so across the world, throughout the continents of Asiana and Greater Europa, of Nova Albion and Abyssinia, Sumeria, Russe, and Qin, the loyal gathered in the hundreds of thousands in every city to watch.
Roland turned and crossed the stage, dressed with Nomadic flare in leather and light wool, his hair braided with dark-blue beads.
Nearby, Kaya sat on a mat, running her hands over the back of Talia’s lion. Having stayed behind with Kaya and four others who did not fight in Byzantium and faced with the prospect of certain death from the virus, Talia had vanished into the desert to face her fate with her lion. The lion had returned alone.
“All will be ready in a few minutes,” Roland said, inclining his head to Feyn.
“I’m your Sovereign, not your queen,” Feyn said with raised brow.
He stared at her for a moment. His eyes shifted to Jordin. “No, that would be another.”
Jordin smiled and stood. Stepping toward him, she brushed aside a loose strand of hair hanging over his right eye.
“And such a proud queen she is,” she said.
He lifted her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “Always.”
“Always,” she replied.
Feyn glanced at Rom and winked. The look in his eyes had nothing to do with Jordin and Roland’s display of tenderness. In close circles it was already known that she and Rom shared a profound love that would surely require a breaking of the tradition that sitting Sovereigns did not marry.
“Consider the stage secure, my Sovereign,” Roland said.
He was still the Nomadic Prince, still the warrior with battle-hardened hands, but in so many other ways he was a completely new man, his strength displayed in love and composure.
If Rom were to lead the new senate, a matter still undecided, Roland would take matters of security in hand. The world would soon know full emotion as Sovereign blood reversed the death that had kept ambition and anger at bay. Conflicts were bound to erupt. Feyn would need a principled man of Roland’s strength and skill to navigate the dangerous passages of awakened emotions in a raw world.
The prince took his seat next to Jordin and draped his arm over the chair, legs spread out as one who possessed all he could see and more. Once a ruler, always a ruler.
Their first order of business following seroconversion of the Immortals had been to rid the city of the stench of death. Reaper had ravaged the fifteen thousand Dark Bloods who’d survived the Immortals’ onslaught. They’d gone mad with the disease, many of them fleeing into the wasteland, where they died. Thankfully, only two citizens had been killed; Feyn had feared far worse.
Clearing the battlefield had required the work of two thousand men. They’d loaded the Dark Blood carcasses on carts and hauled them into a canyon just east of Byzantium, where they had been burned along with every trace of Dark Blood alchemy, including the samples, the equipment, sarcophagi, and even the papers chronicling their making. The fires had burned for days, illuminating the horizon. When the last of them had burned out, the canyon had been filled with earth, forever sealing in the remains of darkness.
Roland and the other survivors had carefully laid the bodies of the fallen Immortals on a funeral pyre. Together, they’d paid their respects to the dead in Nomadic fashion—with stories, tears, and hope.
It had taken two full weeks to clear the rubble left from the homes of those unfortunate enough to have been summarily displaced by her orders. The mile-wide swath of leveled ground surrounding the Citadel was a stark sight to the royals who’d traveled for today’s re-inauguration. One she regretted. One she would rebuild.
For now, the grounds before the basilica had been planted with trees and strewn with flowers leading all the way up to the bleachers of the royals—if only to present a less shocking image to those who viewed the broadcast around the world.
Today, the sky over New Byzantium was clear and brilliant blue. Gone were the oppressive clouds that had hovered over the capital for centuries; strangely, not even a wisp had been seen in her skies for weeks.
The affair administrator, a blond woman named Brandice whom Feyn had known since school, hurried up the steps and took a knee before Feyn, head slightly bowed.
“We are ready, my Sovereign.”
“Stand up, my friend. Please don’t kneel before me again.”
The woman lifted her head, saw Feyn’s smile, and stood. “The broadcast is scheduled to begin in three minutes.”
“Thank you, Brandice.”
The woman dipped her head and stepped to the side of the stage to direct a nearby servant.
“Are you ready?” Rom said.
“As much as I can be.”
Roland leaned forward. “Remember who you are.”
“Who I am or who I was?” She sighed. “I don’t feel like a Sovereign.”
“Which will only make you a better one.”
Her identity had shifted so dramatically that she didn’t know how she should rule, particularly as a Sovereign responsible for ushering in a new age. She was only just beginning to understand her new self. Gone was the rage. Gone, the bitterness, deceit, ambition, and hatred. In its place lay an undercurrent of peace and love greater than any she had ever known.
Among them, Jordin’s transformation remained the greatest. Rom lived in a constant state of grace and peace, but he hadn’t encountered the same mystery except in small pieces. Neither had Roland, Kaya, or her.
But their eyes had all been opened, even if not as wildly as one plunging through a lake, breathing Jonathan’s love as if it were water. Feyn had teased the younger woman that she had probably just been dehydrated—a joke they all shared in every time they heard the story—but every one of them knew her transformation was undeniable, and they longed in their hearts for the same.
Brandice caught her attention and held up one finger. One minute. Feyn acknowledged the signal with a nod.
“Tell me again, Jordin,” she said. “What is the secret to fully living in the Sovereign Realm? I would hear it before taking the stand.”
“Surrender,” Jordin said.
She knew this, of course. So simple. So easy to forget. She would ask to be reminded again and again, the rest of her life.
She considered the woman with the deeply settled countenance. The gentle smile on her face was now a permanent feature. She was more their leader than Rom, Roland, or even Feyn herself, if only in matters concerning Jonathan’s realm.
“Surrender to what?” she asked, though she knew the answer.
“Surrender to Jonathan,” she said. “To unconditional love. To what is. To the awareness that beyond all you see with the eyes in your head, there is a greater reality full of love that knows no suffering. Surrender to that knowing, and the fear in this life will always vanish.”
“It’s that simple.”
“Yes. It’s that simple.”
“Surrender to love,” Rom said, gazing out at the royals in the bleachers.
“Love without judgment,” Jordin said.
“Surrender to the fact that you are Sovereign of the world,” Roland said with a wry smile. “And to the knowing that you were chosen to take this stage and abolish five hundred years of tyranny under an Order of fear.”
He paused.
She glanced up at the blue sky. A small, gray cloud hung on the distant horizon. The first in weeks. And then she nodded and pushed herself to her feet.
Thunderous applause erupted spontaneously, filling the air with what might be the first true expression of freedom in so many years. They didn’t yet know truth, but truth knew them.
“For you, my Sovereign,” she whispered.
“For Jonathan,” Jordin said.
“For Jonathan,” Roland and Rom repeated in unison.
Then Feyn Cerelia, Sovereign among Sovereigns, walked to the stand and lifted her hands to the roaring throng.
It was time to change the world.