Forbidden (28 page)

I
n the world,
there were seven primary continents. And seven houses that governed them. Seven, for the Maker; seven, the number of perfection.

Byzantium ruled them all.

Now her population of five hundred thousand had swelled to nearly one million. Among them, senators, prelates, each of the continental rulers, and nearly all of the world’s twenty-five thousand royals.

Feyn had been chosen from among all known candidates not by peer or by merit, but by the hand of the Maker himself, according to the twelve-year cycles of Rebirth, which had been completed three times in Vorrin’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, among the others, had been born closest of all.

According to the Order, a Sovereign must be at least nine years of age to be inaugurated, and eighteen to rule. Feyn’s election had been announced nine years earlier, upon the end of the last cycle, and for nine years she’d prepared to take rule, devoting herself to all matters of Order and loyalty to the truth.

For nine years, the world had awaited this day.

This was the way of Order, and that Order brought peace to the world. Feyn’s rule was to begin a new age of Order, the first time that a Sovereign would be replaced by his own daughter.

The world prepared. Across the globe, the blue light of television screens illuminated the city centers of every continent, broadcasting images of the inauguration in Byzantium.

The observance of Rebirth was required to be witnessed by all, to a man, woman, and child. The passing of authority from one Sovereign to another was among the holiest of events. Across the world, they gathered in the hundreds of thousands in every city to watch and swear aloud their allegiance as Feyn Cerelia took power over the continents of Asiana and Greater Europa, of Nova Albion and Abyssinia, Sumeria, Russe, and Qin.

The most observant had camped by the Processional Way for days. The stands had been filled with spectators holding the best seats, which opened the day before yesterday. Tents and portable bathrooms and vendors had clogged the side streets of Byzantium for a mile radius since yesterday, so that the black cars of arriving royals and heads of continents had to be ushered through at a crawl.

Overhead, the sun shone bright on the city, seemingly on the entire world.

The new age was soon to begin.

R
om lay
facedown on the sand next to the pool. An hour passed in silence, so empty but for the pain that he wondered if the Maker had delivered on his prayer to make him dead again after all. Slowly his emptiness swallowed him and pulled him toward the next best place this side of the grave.

Sleep.

He dreamed, a dark nightmare locked on Avra’s face as the blade slashed through her chest, exposing her heart. But as happens in dreams, the scene left him, replaced by another filled with the image of a young boy who stood on the sand, arms limp at his sides, face stained with tears.

This was the boy whose life had demanded Avra’s death.

Rom stood still, looking at him circumspectly, unsure what the boy wanted or what he might say after all that had transpired. The canyon was silent except for the sound of his own breathing and the very faint sound of murmuring—the keeper spinning his tales for an eager audience.

“If I could bring her back, I would,” he said. “But my blood isn’t ready. And even if it was, I’m not sure it would work.”

This was the echo of something he’d heard the keeper say around the fire.

“I’m just a boy, Rom. And I need you to protect me.”

He’d made a promise to an old man in an alley about a vial unknown to him. That had been a different Rom. A dead one.

“If I share my dream, will you help me?” the boy asked.

Guilt settled over Rom with the boy’s sweet voice. Jonathan had felt the pain of death, too. He had lost a mother and wept. He was a cripple, a threat to all that the Order stood for, a defenseless young boy lost in a world that despised him. The world would hunt him to his death.

And here Rom slept, smothered by self-pity.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Rom said. “But I don’t know if I can help you. My heart’s broken.”

“Then maybe we can help each other, because mine is, too.”

For a moment the dream faded, then replayed itself as dreams sometimes do. This time he changed his response when the boy mentioned sharing his dream.

“What dream?” he asked.

“The dream I’m having of Avra,” the boy said.

“You’re dreaming of Avra? What does that mean? How do your dreams work?”

“I just dream. But I think they’re real, so maybe you’ll be able to see it, too.”

Rom hesitated and then said, “Let me see her. Please. Show me your dream.”

The boy walked forward and Rom was suddenly sleeping on his back there in the sand by the pool. The boy eased himself down and rested his head on Rom’s belly as if it were a pillow. He curled up, put one hand on Rom’s chest, and closed his eyes.

That’s strange
, Rom thought.
The boy who will one day rule the world is sleeping on me.

But then his dream changed again. He was standing in the canyon again, fully awake. He would swear it, even though a part of him was certain that he was sleeping.

“Rom?”

A voice whispered through the canyon, sweet and high. A voice he could never forget. His pulse quickened, and he slowly turned.

He recognized Avra at once despite the fact that her eyes, once so dark brown, were as pale as gold.

She stood ten paces away, clothed in white. Her skin seemed to both refract and invite the sun at once. Rom’s breath escaped him. They’d buried her in the ground yesterday and yet there she stood…alive.

“Avra?”

She stared at him, looking as startled to be here as he was to see her. She took an uncertain step forward. Then another, and another as she closed the gap between them.

Avra threw herself into his arms, nearly knocking him from his feet. He swept her into the air and buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent as if it were the only air that could give him life.

“Avra…” He tried to say more, but only a sob came out.

“Rom.” She was crying, barely able to say his name. “Is it really you?” Tears spilled down her cheeks.

He pulled back so she could see him. “Do I look like a ghost?”

“No,” she said.

She looked so beautiful, so perfect. Rom kissed her eyes, her hair. He touched her face with trembling hands, traced the line of her neck, the wide curve of her scar. He kissed the smooth skin of it, leaving tears in the wake of his lips. But surely…

He drew the neckline down in the middle, toward her sternum, where the sword had cut through it. The skin there was smooth, unmarked.

“I missed you, Rom.”

He ran his lips over her hand, her fingers, then took her into his arms. “I missed you,” he said. “I missed you so much.”

She was warm flesh in his arms; her heart was beating against his chest.

“The boy did this?” he said.

“I don’t know, but I’m alive. Maybe not in the flesh, but I’m alive.”

What was she saying? Rom looked around for the boy, but he was gone. Was he still dreaming? He must be, and yet…

“I can’t be with you now, Rom.”

“Then I’ll come to you!”

“Shh, shh.” She laid a slender finger on his mouth. “The world needs you. The boy needs you. Ask the keeper, he’ll know what to do next. Lead them, Rom. Remember my heart and lead them. Don’t let your sorrow stand in the way any longer.”

She sounded different now, wiser, older, as if in her death she’d lived another lifetime. He clung to her, suddenly afraid she might vanish.

“The human heart is a delicate thing.” She drew back and put her hand on his chest. “I know that now. It’s the sorrow you feel that allows you to crave love. Without that suffering, there would be no true pleasure. Without tears, no joy. Without deficiency, no longing. This is the secret of the human heart, Rom. You feel so much pain, I can see it in your eyes, but there is also love. In the end, the only thing worth living for is falling in love. Bring that love to humanity.”

He covered her hand with both of his. “I will, Avra.”

“Wage war on death. Live for love.”

His heart felt as though it might burst, hearing these words from her.

“I will. As long as I live I will fight for love.”

“You’ll have to learn to control your emotions. They’re new, like a child’s now, bursting with passion. Never let them fade, or part of you will die. But they can also destroy you. Hold them dear, but don’t let them take hold of you.”

“Never.” He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant, but she spoke with such tenderness and authority that he didn’t dare question her. It was Avra, dear frail, fearful Avra.

She was now his queen.

Avra smiled and looked deep into his eyes. “I love you, Rom.” She kissed him tenderly on his lips. “I love you with all my heart. Don’t let my love for you go to waste.”

“I won’t! I swear, I won’t.”

One moment Avra was in his hands, and then she wasn’t. For a long moment the world swirled around him, empty but still full of her. Of Avra.

His eyes snapped wide and he stared up at the blue sky, heart pounding in his chest. A dream. Just a dream! The blood drained from his face as the heaviness of his loss settled over him. She’d been there, in his arms, and now she was gone again.

He became aware of a weight on his stomach, and he lifted his head to see Jonathan sleeping with his head resting on his belly. The boy’s left arm was hooked up, lying on his chest, thin and frail.

The world stilled around him, leaving only this tender boy’s sleeping form, chest slowly expanding and contracting as he breathed through his nose, eyelashes smudging his cheek.

Rom knew then that he’d more than simply dreamed. He’d shared the
boy’s
dreams—those dreams that were not merely dreams but some kind of reflection of reality.

In a way that Rom could not yet begin to understand, Avra was still with him, begging him to save this very boy.

Jonathan’s eyes flickered open.

They stared at each other, frozen in the moment.

“You’re here,” Rom said.

The boy shoved himself up to one elbow. “Did you dream?”

“How…How did you do that?”

“I’m not sure.”

Rom scrambled to his feet, bumping the boy in his rush. “I saw Avra.”

The boy got his good leg under his body and pushed himself up. He looked up at Rom, uncertain. “So did I.”

“Was it real?”

“It must be.”

“Can you share your dreams again?”

“I…I don’t know.”

What a beautiful child. What a beautiful soul.

Truth. Love. Beauty, Feyn had said. Truth, he had found. Love, he had also found. Beauty stood before him.

What had become of him, that he had thrown away his loyalty so easily? He dropped to one knee, took the boy by his shoulders, and spoke past the thickness in his throat.

“I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

“I forgive you,” Jonathan said simply.

“You asked me to protect you. Jonathan, I promise that for as long as I live, I’ll be by your side.” His voice broke. He thought he should say more, but all he could manage was, “I promise.”

“Thank you, Rom.”

Their task suddenly blossomed in Rom’s mind. He leaped to his feet, grabbed the boy’s hand, and pulled him toward the camp. “Come on!”

Triphon and the keeper were still by the fire when he got to the outcrop. As one they looked their way. For a moment, none of them spoke.

Rom released Jonathan’s hand as he strode toward them. “Where’s the heart?”

“The heart?”

“Avra’s heart, man! Where is it?”

Triphon pulled out the bundle from his pack and held it out. Rom took the vellum, peeled back the wrapping, and held up the heart nestled in the soft leather.

“This will be our battle cry. We will not let Avra’s death go to waste. For Avra’s heart.”

Triphon glanced at the keeper and struck his chest with an open palm. “For Avra’s heart!”

“Always, always for Avra’s heart.” Rom turned to the keeper. “How long do we have?”

The keeper quirked a grin and turned toward his horse. “Five hours. Time is short.”

“Where are we going?” Triphon said.

“We’re taking Jonathan to the inauguration,” Rom said.

“We’ll never make it.”

“Then we’d better ride fast.”

T
he world
had become a drone outside Feyn’s window, the sound reaching even here, into her locked and guarded chamber. Inside her apartment, the tables and corners of the front room were crowded with fresh greenery of every kind brought in by the servants, the gifts bearing the names of the myriad royal families who had sent them.

Feyn had thrown herself into the preparation, selecting her own gown for the occasion, pausing to read the cards on the flowers, to hear the chanting of the crowds outside.

Anything to drown out the words of the keeper, haunting her.

Nuala had dutifully made her beautiful, dressing Feyn’s hair and applying her eyeliner, touching rouge to her lips. But her servant could not hide the fear in her eyes.

Then she, too, knew: Death waited beyond that podium. Saric would not let her live long.

Feyn stared at the image in the mirror before her: the icon of the world robed in new white. But her mind was far from Rebirth.

Nuala smoothed Feyn’s sleeve one last time. “The world awaits you, my lady.”

Feyn dismissed her with a nod.

What the keeper suggested was impossible. It flew in the face of the very Order she was destined to uphold. The truth. But that was just it, wasn’t it?

What was the truth? She, the slave to truth, was suddenly no longer certain of her master.

If what the keeper said was true…Dear Maker, she begged for it not to be so.

And yet, if it was, she alone could save that truth.

She glanced into the mirror. The face she’d known as the future Sovereign’s stared starkly back. Was it possible that the keeper’s way was the only one?

She walked to the window. The gray stallions, wreathed in flowers, stood ready at the gate. The gates, too, were adorned in evergreen. Beyond them, the city milled as one great living entity, a sea of people awash with green, waving leafy branches and flowers purchased from vendors on the street.

If she craned against the window, she could see the assembled royals, thousands of them gathering at the entrance to the Grand Basilica beyond the Citadel gate. Theirs were the seats at the end of the Processional Way, closest to the platform erected upon the basilica steps where the ceremony would take place.

Hundreds of thousands of souls, all come to observe Rebirth.

A pounding at the door. It opened abruptly to reveal a broad-shouldered guard.

In that moment, she had settled the matter in her mind: She would take Saric into custody within the hour of her inauguration and do what was necessary to protect the Order. If Saric intended to end her life, he would pay for his terrible crime with his own.

Then again, if what the keeper had told her was true, Saric would be the least of her problems.

“My lady, it’s time.”

“How much time?” Rom cried over his shoulder. The sun stood nearly directly overhead.

“Less than an hour,” Triphon said. “We won’t make it!”

They’d come to the edge of Byzantium’s hill country and found only empty streets. The whole world had gone to line the processional route or to watch the ceremonies from areas with televisions. Every spectator could count on the punctuality of Order. The new Sovereign-to-be would be received promptly at noon.

“Ride!” Rom shouted, thundering over the hill. “Ride!”

He rode with the boy, the horse straining beneath them. The keeper drew abreast, his tattered robe flapping in the wind. Rom spurred his horse faster. The keeper kept up. This man, whose kind had lived for this day, wasn’t about to let thirty minutes separate him from his destiny.

The boy had been silent. Riding in front of Rom, grasping the horse by the mane, he looked like any nine-year-old trapped by uncertainty might, frightened yet trusting at once.

Invigorated by the keeper, Triphon had sworn with fiery eyes his oath to the new Order of Keepers. He was still as exuberant and clumsy as a young bull, but his new mentor had promised to teach him the finer points of becoming a warrior. Triphon had latched onto that promise, reminding the keeper of it three times already.

And the keeper—Rom swore the man looked thirty years younger. The sun seemed to soften every line and crag of his face. Purpose was in his eyes, and though he knew himself to be dead, the corner of his mouth twitched on occasion, tempting life of its own.

If the keeper had a plan, he wouldn’t go into more detail, telling them only that they were all now at the mercy of truth. “Trust me, Rom!” His eyes were fired with destiny. “Trust me, the truth will find its way! Jonathan is alive!”

Yes, indeed, the boy bouncing on the stallion in front of Rom was alive, and certainly no ordinary boy, but that didn’t mean the keeper was not mad.

That they weren’t all mad.

Rom never would have thought that riding to one’s death could put a smile on anyone’s face, but there was little doubt in his mind that was exactly what they were doing.

“Ride!” he roared over his shoulder.

The world was Saric’s. Before him, the leaders of the houses of the seven continents stood on either side of the basilica steps. Below them, his elite guard stretched like a human gate, twelve strong on either side. Two hundred thousand spectators filled the Processional Way beyond, standing still in reverence, eyes fixed on their Sovereign.

They had held evergreen branches high and whispered Feyn’s name in awe as she dismounted. The sound of it was unnerving and astounding at once.

Her stallion was black, to stand out from the other Brahmin grays, a gift from Saric himself. There had been trumpets, and somewhere back in the narthex of the open basilica, a choir had sung as Saric and Feyn ascended the steps to the platform together, the ceremonial scepter’s warm weight in his hand.

Rowan stood waiting, the lines of his face drawn taut as he gestured them toward their places on the platform.

“My lady?” he said. Saric saw that the man noted Feyn’s rigid posture. She’d done surprisingly well, he thought, even with the knowledge that she would soon die. Surely she at least suspected by now.

Feyn’s gaze turned toward the gold basin that would hold the blood of the sacrificial bull. She paused, until Rowan took her gently by the arm and led her to her place. Saric came to stand at her side just as a great Brahmin bull was led to the base of the basilica steps on a golden rope. A white beast rippled with sleek muscle. He was magnificent.

Saric had heard of people being fearful at the sight of the bull bleeding out at his father’s inauguration. He had often wondered if he would feel his own visceral response to it here, at his own.

After all, this was
his
inauguration as much as Feyn’s.

For that reason it must be perfect, but for that reason also, he was filled with strange gratitude toward his sister. Without her, his rise to power would have been impossible, not to mention far less pleasurable.

The great basin was lifted from its stand and carried down the steps between the world’s seven prelates. Saric marveled at the hands of the priests laid upon the animal’s wide shoulders and head as the prelate of Greater Europa raised the broad sword.

He felt Feyn’s gaze on him, cool and heavy at once.

There was something unsettling in it.

The blade slashed through the flesh of the bull’s neck. The priest caught the first crimson spray in the golden bowl, then replaced it with another larger basin when the ceremonial one was sufficiently full. The animal sank to its forelegs, and then to the stage completely. Onlookers turned away.

The priest with the basin ascended to the platform and stood before Feyn. Rowan carefully lifted up her left sleeve; Saric held back the right.

But Feyn seemed not to notice, her gaze fixed on the dead bull.

“The basin, my lady,” Rowan said.

When she didn’t move, Saric took the basin and set it in her hands. She looked down. Blood sloshed up against the basin’s gold edges. Her hands and arms were trembling.

Rowan waited. The world waited. But she stared down at the bowl, saying nothing.

“The words, my lady,” Rowan whispered.

She only lifted her head and stared out at the crowd.

Rowan glanced between them. Several prelates looked back with anxious gazes.

“The blood of life. Given by the Maker!” Saric cried for all to hear.

They were the words a Sovereign anticipated speaking all his life. Saric felt them like a charge along his arms, all the way up to his shoulders.

“Born once into life, we are grateful,” the priests recited in response.

The voices of one billion more around the earth echoed the words as required: “We are grateful.”

In a matter of minutes the world’s leaders would come before Feyn to dip their fingers in the bowl and make their blood oath of loyalty. They would give her the scepter now held in trust by Rowan.

They would pledge their undying allegiance. And Saric would later demand it of them.

But for this moment, he could stand by and drink her in. Because even in fear and outside of herself, she was the most magnificent creature in the world, like the Brahmin bull, so sleek and singular before it died.

True, she would die soon. But until then, what a spectacle, what a moment! His sister, even fear-bound, was more than regal. She embodied something greater to the populace than they could conjure within themselves. Order. The hand of the Maker on earth.

He could almost believe it himself. For a moment, he almost wanted to. He gazed out past the stage toward the throng.

A movement down the Processional Way caught his eye. Riders, three abreast. One of them was a boy.

He stared, not sure he was seeing it clearly. They had actually come? The brazen stupidity of these country fools knew no bounds.

But they were too late.

He glanced at the clock and decided the matter then. In seven minutes’ time, Feyn would be Sovereign. And in ten, he would take the office from her.