Alive.
The sound of her own breathing like billows in her ears, Jordin opened her eyes. Her first thought was: what happened to the music?
It was gone.
Her heart surged, skipped a beat, then rediscovered its rhythmic gait. Music was for dreams of awakening, not for life. In real life, she was here in Roland’s Lair, surrounded by his Rippers with their drawn faces. She’d screamed as one dying—if any of them had ever had the slightest curiosity about becoming Sovereign, they had surely lost interest now.
She lifted her hand and stared at her fingers. The skin had darkened already.
Jordin sat up and stared at Roland, who stood with arms crossed, his gaze wary. For a few moments no one spoke. Kaya looked on with black eclipses for eyes, obviously frightened.
“So this is what it looks like to die,” Roland said. “Terrifying. I always wondered why you would do such a thing.” He stepped up to her and took her hand with a curious frown. Turned it over, rubbed her skin with his thumb. Then sniffed at the air.
“What’s that scent?”
“Life,” she said.
“I know it—acacia.”
Her mind was still preoccupied with the power of life carried to her on the strains of that music. Sorrow pulled at her heart. Was this to always be Jonathan’s way—to whisper life and then vanish, leaving her alone?
“Corpses and Dark Bloods hate it,” she said, referring to the scent.
Roland studied her with obvious fascination. His hand took her chin and gently turned her head, as if inspecting the change in her face and eyes. Their eyes met. His lingered.
“So,” he said, releasing her face. “We have a Sovereign in our company. Please tell me that you remember what you came to tell me.”
She couldn’t recall what he was talking about. Her mind was still caught in the spidery web of death, life, the fading echo of Jonathan’s voice. She was here for a reason, she knew that much, but the details had escaped her.
“Tell you what?”
“You play me?”
“No. I’m just not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You’re Sovereign. Tell me where the others are hiding.”
Now she remembered that she’d become Sovereign to lead him to the others, but she couldn’t recall any of the details linking her to their hiding place.
“Byzantium,” she said.
“Where in Byzantium?”
She blinked. It was all she knew.
She glanced around the room. To a soul, their eyes were fixed on her, sitting on the table, disoriented and at a loss.
“I….” She faced him. “I’m not sure. But I’m sure I’ll remember.”
Roland’s jaw flexed with displeasure. “So you’ve said.” He turned to his right and headed toward the stairs. The Immortals fell away like rain swayed by a strong wind.
“Bring her to my chambers immediately. Michael, assemble a raiding party.”
And then he was gone.
J
ORDIN STOOD in Roland’s chamber, pulse thumping. Rislon and Sephan had dragged as much as led her up the stairs, down the long hall, through the throne room where she’d first encountered Roland, and into his inner bedchamber. If their treatment of her had been forbearing before, it was now intolerant. Bowing, they’d shut the door behind her.
Summarily left alone with him, Jordin took in her surroundings. The prince had reserved his most luxurious appointments for this, his private enclave, where he apparently ruled with as much passion as on any battlefield. Warmth seemed to beckon from the heavy sheepskins that covered the floor, the dark velvet drapes that blanketed the walls and enclosed the far side of the great canopied bed at the center of the room.
No less than six pillows in dark burgundy and gold silks sprawled against the black wood headboard. The headboard itself was carved with gothic arches the likes of which Jordin had only seen in the ancient basilicas of the city. Equally ancient crosses topped the bed’s four posters, their middles inset with amber. Beside the bed, a stack of books stood sentry on a low table, the faded gold of their titles obscured in the dim light, the candles in the iron holder beside them burned down to nubs.
Across the room a sofa sprawled low to the floor, another stack
of books near the foot of it rising halfway up the height of a candelabra housing no less than a dozen candles. She had never thought Roland the scholarly type, but there on the chaise, one of the books was upturned, open, as though it had been put down in haste, like a lover left in the middle of the night.
He’d removed his cloak, rolled up his sleeves, and was pouring wine into one of two pewter goblets that sat on an ornate wooden table. He lifted the cup, drank half of its contents in one long gulp, then set it down and topped it off before filling the second. Without turning to face her, he pulled the tie out of his ponytail. His hair cascaded to his shoulders. She had never seen it without the braids, beading, and feathers of the Nomadic warrior. But now, plain as it was, it might have been the envy of any woman.
He took another drink before he rested one muscular hand on his hip and drew a breath in through his nostrils. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, but she guessed it well enough by his impulsive movement. In her offer to be of service, she’d managed to awaken the beast in him.
Lead him, Jordin
.
Lead him where? Jonathan felt as distant as her Immortal senses and left her feeling just as hampered. She couldn’t understand why her memory was so fragile. Why she could hardly remember what it meant to be Sovereign, much less the details of where she’d lived or what specifically she was to do. Those details flitted through her mind, as elusive as specters.
Other memories, however, echoed with unmistakable clarity.
Why do you resist what is real?
What was she resisting? Was this chamber real? Was the distinction between Sovereign and Immortal real? How could she accept what was real if she couldn’t remember?
Why do you forget who you are?
Who was she? A Sovereign, yes, but who was a Sovereign? Was
her memory so tied to her blood as to remind her only what was important to the nature of that blood?
She’d died and then come back to life, she knew that much. The ordeal had been explosive, filling her with barely containable joy. But as the ecstasy of it had faded, her memory had with it, and now, without a clear context, she felt bereft of identity.
How she wanted back in the womb of that rebirth, to know who she was with as much clarity as she’d known it then. She couldn’t remember feeling this way the first time she’d taken Sovereign blood, six years earlier. Why this time?
Why do you forget who you are?
She wanted to scream:
I don’t want to forget. I want to know who I am!
Instead she stood at a loss, breathing deliberately through her nostrils, as if she could force memory into her mind like breath into her lungs.
Roland set the cup down and turned to face her, both hands on his hips. For a long time he only stared at her, eyes black. She was supposed to hate him, wasn’t she? Yes, she had hated him.
She’d come to kill him. That was right—she’d come to use him for something and then kill him. She could remember that much as well now.
Did she really hate him?
“Why am I here?” she asked.
He watched her as if undecided.
Jordin glanced around the room, struck again by the richness of it. It was filled with objects of comfort, peace, light. Every token of abundant life. And yet she knew somehow that Roland had forgotten who he was as well. For as much as the room had been designed to exude warmth, it could not suppress the chill of its cold stone walls, or chase the darkness from its corners. Just as the wine on the table could not guarantee rest.
“I don’t know what’s happened to me,” she said, facing him. “I’m
sorry…. I know you aren’t pleased, but I just can’t seem to remember things.”
“This is what it means to be Sovereign?” he said. “It’s no wonder you’ve become so miserable.”
“Miserable?”
“Perhaps more now than before you took the dead blood.”
Misery. Now she remembered that as well.
“No more playing,” he said. “You came to me with wild claims that a virus threatening all Immortals will be released unless we deliver Feyn’s head to your alchemist. My council seems to think your intentions are less than noble. That you don’t have the strength to survive so you’re resorting to deception with our demise in mind. That this nonsense regarding your memory is nothing but a charade.”
Slowly the pieces of her puzzle, her mind, began to fall into place.
“Your council’s wrong,” she said. “I swear on my life, my death and resurrection have swept my mind clean.”
“Is that so?”
“I think it is.”
A slight, wry smile softened his face. His gaze slipped down her body to her toes. He appeared genuinely curious, but she suspected his show of interest was only his way of manipulating her. He stepped to the table and took both goblets in his hands.
“If only I could read your mind and know, Jordin,” he said, turning. “Honestly, I don’t know whether to take you seriously. Sovereigns are nothing like I imagined.”
“And what did you expect?”
He came to her and offered her one of the goblets.
“I don’t know. Something less interesting. They say you’re conniving. But I see only a lost girl here in my room.”
He was attempting to soften her. To win her trust. Perhaps more…. She felt her pulse quicken, but she wasn’t sure why. She knew that she
hated him, but her heart hadn’t yet fully caught up with her mind on the matter, which in and of itself served as a warning.
She
did
hate him. Feyn’s wasn’t the only head she’d promised to deliver.
“No need to be frightened,” Roland said. He lifted the pewter cup to his stained lips and took a sip. “Truth be told, I have more faith in you than my council. I expect you’ll prove me right.”
“Of course I will.”
“Drink. We took this wine from a transport bound for the Citadel. Wine stolen from the Sovereign’s table, may she die in misery.”
Jordin took a token sip if only to appease him before he took the goblet from her hand and placed both on the stack of books on the table beside the bed.
“You might prove your loss of memory to me.”
“You already know I’m telling the truth,” she said. “If I knew what it is you wanted to know, I would tell you. Sovereigns are nothing if not truthful.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” He took her hand and lifted it, turning it over slowly. “Tell me, is it also true that Sovereigns love Immortals despite our differences? Wasn’t that Jonathan’s way?”
She wasn’t sure what to say. Love, yes, she supposed. But
love?
His eyes met hers. “No?”
“Yes,” she said.
He traced her hair with his fingers. “I find myself strangely taken with you.”
“You have the queen.”
“She doesn’t share my bed.”
The confession surprised Jordin. Even in her state of disorientation she couldn’t mistake his intentions. He was testing her to see if she recalled her hatred of him.
“My mind may not be as clear as it should be,” she said, “but I know I’m not here for love.”
“And here I thought love was all that Sovereigns cared about, being so saturated with it. You must know pleasure as few can.”
She knew he could hear her heart racing like a spooked horse. Feel the rising heat off her skin. Smell her perspiration. He might even mistake it for desire.
Was it?
He couldn’t possibly be sincere. And if he was, she dare not fall prey.
And if it was sincere?
She could not return his affection.
Another thought on the heels of the last: rejecting him would only undermine his trust. Winning his affection, on the other hand, might gain it.
Roland stroked her cheek with the back of his forefinger. “I never would have guessed that I would find the sight of the skin I left behind so appealing.”
She hesitated. “We were the same once.”
“We were the same an hour ago.” His voice was soothing. “You are the one who changed, as you did six years ago. So. Show me what it means to be Sovereign.”
“How can I when I don’t remember?”
“You’ve forgotten how to love?” Roland’s lips brushed against her hair, his breath hot in her ear. “Then let me show you.”
She felt like a trapped animal. Worse, a part of her did not want to push him away. And that frightened her.
His raw power called to her like a drug, terrifying and alluring at once. Her salvation came in a simple thought: whether he was truly drawn to her or toying with her, Roland obviously liked his women strong.
She withdrew her hand from his, stepped away, and turned to face him, her jaw set. “The fate of your kind is in the balance, and all you can think about is your bed? Am I just a flower to be plucked?”
He looked genuinely stunned. “Is that what you think?”
“How could I not?”
His face, so pale, had actually gone a shade of pink.
“What you need is locked in here, and not below my waist. Help me, don’t seduce me!”
“I
am
helping you!” he shot back. She was surprised by how easily she’d set him back on his heels.
“How?”
“I’m trying to free your mind.”
“Along with my dress?”
“Perhaps some liberation of your body would also liberate your mind.”
“And that’s all you were thinking.”
Roland gave a soft laugh as he relented. “Not entirely, no.”
She glanced at him sidelong.
“You find me attractive.”
“If I were pressed to,” he said. Then, as if in a forced confession, “Yes.”
“Only if you were pressed? Like one forced to consider the crumbs on the floor?”
“I said I find your skin appealing, didn’t I?”
“My skin.”
He hesitated. “More.”
“Then it’s a little more too much. I’m Sovereign, one you would kill, not bed. Or have you lost your memory as well?”
His face went flat.
What was she doing? She’d gone too far. This was Roland, the prince of the Immortals. Her enemy.