Forbidden (29 page)

T
he sea
of bodies on either side stilled as Rom turned his horse onto the middle of the Processional Way that led to the platform, half a mile distant. He stopped, dismounted, and, with a glance back at Triphon and the keeper, led his horse on foot with the boy perched atop.

Whispers rose in the air only to die again. Even the wind had fallen quiet. Around them, the world had seemed to stop.

For a boy.

Jonathan rode in silence, eyes round, flanked now on either side by Triphon and the keeper, whose plan still unnerved Rom to his core.

Rom glanced up at the keeper. “Are you sure about this?”

“About what, son of Elias?”

“About Feyn.”

The keeper nodded. “We are all in agreement.”

Rom fixed his eyes on the inaugural platform with its banners as tall as the basilica’s great columns, the stately torches upon their stands, flames licking at the bright sky. Though he couldn’t make out faces from this distance, there was a figure in a white gown in the center of it all, standing expectantly amid the others. It could only be Feyn. She was there, and alive. Perhaps less so than she’d been in the fields with him, but
alive
. He made out Saric and the senate leader flanking Feyn, standing expectantly on the platform, watching their approach.

The eyes of the world had turned on them. Above them all, cameras mounted on tall poles peered at them, sending images to the corners of the world.

The bright sun coaxed sweat from the pores on Rom’s forehead. A fly lit on the neck of his stallion and took flight, chased by its quivering flesh. Their horses’ shod hooves sounded upon the pavestones, steady as a heartbeat. Yet the occasional snort of the animals gave away the fear in them all.

A dog’s bark pierced the stillness as they continued their approach. The rest of those gathered dared not utter a word. To a man, woman, and child they stood in perfect fear. Surely the world knew by now that something had gone terribly wrong.

Neah strained against the tower window. Her breath fogged it, and she wiped the glass clean with her sleeve. She could almost make them out, the small group coming down the Processional Way. The stage was obscured from her vantage by the basilica itself. Her heart had begun pounding the moment she recognized them.

The old man—was he the keeper she’d led Rom to see just days ago? And there, who was that on the horse led by Rom? It couldn’t be. But she could see clearly that he was smaller than the others.

The boy.

She could make out Triphon’s form, but it was the boy to whom her gaze returned. She had betrayed them, and there they were. She had betrayed them in the name of Order, which had represented truth to her all the years of her life.

If that boy was real…

She could not stomach the fear that gripped her. She twisted and slid down to the floor of her tower cell.

The pain of life was nothing compared with this fear. If she was wrong, and that boy was what they said, then he walked now to his death, and the world’s hope would die with him.

As for her, there would be no pit of Hades deep enough.

Feyn willed her legs to hold her upright. She hadn’t expected to feel so much fear at the turning of Rebirth. In the rest of the world’s eyes, she was finally and fully coming into her own, presented and crowned as Sovereign. But on the stage, she was staggering under the immense weight of that sovereignty already.

And through it all the keeper’s words whispered in her ear.
There is a boy, Feyn. The world is dead. I speak the truth and you are sworn to truth.

Someone had guided her hands through the motions of taking the bowl during the bull’s slaughter. When she looked down she could see the great bulk of the animal, lifeless before her. Her heart, so loud and erratic in her ears, threatened to give out. Within her damp gown, stuck to her sides with sweat, she struggled to breathe.

There is only one way he can rule, Feyn. You must trust me. You will not die.

The mass of humanity fell silent.

She looked up and saw that the crowd had turned. She looked down the Processional Way and immediately saw what they did.

Three horses rode up the Processional Way. On them, three riders. The figure leading them on foot was unmistakable even at this distance.

Rom!

But not only Rom. There! On the right, the keeper in his flowing robe and long beard.
The keeper!

And there, sitting on the horse led by Rom…

Feyn’s breath escaped her and her knees nearly buckled. The boy…

They had found him? Her mind fell silent except for a faint hum that dared her to doubt it. She had read about him in the vellum, heard the keeper speak passionately about him, sent Rom to find him, even. She had dreamed of him coming, worried what it might mean,
dreaded
what it might mean!

But she had never expected to see him.

He was so small on top of the large mount, sitting slightly hunched over. He might have been any other unremarkable child, except for what she knew about him.

He was here to claim his sovereignty.

The keeper’s words again:
If he does not ascend now, Feyn, he will never have a legal right to the throne. The world needs more than his blood. It needs his rule.

She felt Saric coil like a serpent beside her. Below them on the stairs, the elite guard poised like nocked arrows. The keeper would die before he reached the platform.

So now there was the boy, there was Saric, and there was her. They each would claim the throne. But it was
hers
! By birthright! Proclaimed by destiny. She could snap her fingers and have the boy killed. She could cry out Saric’s intentions to kill her and have him thrown in chains the moment she took power. What was there to stand in her way?

None of that would do, the keeper had said. There was only one true way.

Now she could see the old man more clearly. The keeper, who entrusted her with his deepest secrets steeped in centuries of alchemy and devotion to a life-giving boy. One word from her and the guards would destroy them all!

But now she knew, didn’t she? The keeper’s words had been true.

And she was truth’s slave, the claws of loyalty and duty having long sunk into her heart.

And Rom…Rom, who had gone to find the boy. Rom, who had once been the face of love. If she was capable of any emotion other than fear, she might weep at the sight of him. At the faint but unmistakable memory of something both greater and stronger than fear.

Rom had returned with the boy, as the keeper had promised. And by that, she was suddenly certain: Everything was about to change.

Why?

It was the one word that pounded through Rom’s mind as he led them forward. Not a soul moved to stop them. No one tried to cut them off as they advanced toward the platform. No guard cried for them to halt. No elite warrior sprang from the platform to bear down upon them.

Why?

Only one answer made sense: Neither Feyn nor Saric had put the word out to stop them. Surely their march would be cut short at one gesture from either.

Rom understood Feyn’s restraint. She knew what this boy represented, what he might mean to the world. But Saric made no move to stop them, which could only mean that their coming had played to his purpose. That they were indeed marching to their deaths.

Still not a word from the keeper.

The horses’ hooves clacked on the pavestones. Their equine shoulders flexed with each step. Sweat leaked down Rom’s back. He breathed through his nostrils, his chin held level. On either side, the throngs watched with dead eyes, lost to their own fear.

Rom could now clearly see Feyn, standing at the center, perfectly framed by the Grand Basilica’s twin pillars. They’d slaughtered a white Brahmin bull at the base of the basilica’s stone steps. Its body lay lifeless as a snowy mountain where it fell, drained of its lifeblood, which had been collected in a large golden bowl atop a pedestal between Saric and Feyn.

The leaders of each of the world’s seven orders stood as statues on the steps, looking between them and their Sovereign for direction. But none came.

Rom could now see the faces of the elite guard. Dressed in black, like wraiths arrayed on either side of the basilica steps, awaiting the order to kill.

“Steady.” The familiarity of the keeper’s voice brought only a small measure of comfort. The man had lived his whole life in anticipation of this day. He belonged here, as did the boy, saved by fate and by his mother for a purpose foretold half a millennium ago. And Triphon, who rode with his sword strapped to his mount’s saddle, had transformed into a warrior.

But
he
was now their leader, wasn’t he? Not because he’d asked to be, but because an old man had thrust a vile of ancient blood at him in an alleyway; because the boy had asked for his help; because, as the keeper said, Feyn had tasted life and love with him. Because she would look into his eyes and know that his heart was true.

Because Avra had begged it of him.

They were a hundred paces from the steps when Rom held up his hand and stopped them.

Feyn could see their eyes. She could see the face of the keeper, and beside him the boy.

And then there was Rom, watching her with a steady gaze. She’d convinced herself that the last hint of the love she shared with him had fled as the effects of the blood wore off. But she was wrong. It tugged at her heart once again as she stared into his eyes.

She despised it and craved it at once, the forbidden made real once again.

Her gaze darted out to the crowd, the cameras, and back to Rom, whose stare had not moved. Then to the boy behind him, who mirrored her stare.

He seemed so small, sitting astride the horse by himself. Not as pale as a Brahmin. By look alone she never would have taken him for royal. In fact, he was unremarkable in every way.

Why this boy? Why, a cripple, even?
And yet his very presence rendered everything true, everything written in the vellum, all she’d been told by the keeper.

Feyn struggled to inhale against the band of fear that had bound her lungs all morning. She opened her mouth to speak but found no breath to do it.

Help me.

Her gaze locked on the boy. On his eyes, locked in return, on her.

She felt her lungs slowly expand as breath finally filled them.

She now knew only two truths: The first was that the Sovereign of the world did not stand on this stage. The second was that she was bound by that truth.

The keeper’s words whispered in her ear again.
Trust me, Feyn. You will not die.

“My life is yours,” she whispered.

“The one who would be Sovereign has come among you,” Rom cried. His voice rang out in the stillness, rich and clear. A singer’s voice. “He asks if Feyn, rightful Sovereign, will bow to his name?”

Saric called out: “I am Sovereign here!”

The heads of the world’s leaders swiveled. A murmur ran through the crowd. For a moment, no one moved.

And then someone did.

Feyn.

Rom could see her gown trembling as she slowly sank to one knee, and then the other.

The keeper stared ahead, somber. “She is bound by truth.”

With a cry and a hard slap to the beast’s hindquarters, the keeper charged. He leaned over his mount’s neck, holding the reins with one hand. The ragged edge of his robe streamed behind him like the wake of a storm. The movement was so unexpected that gasps rose from the stands.

Rom steadied his breath. What was he doing? But he knew it was here: the moment all humanity had unwittingly craved. The world watched, stunned, as the old man thundered toward the basilica’s twelve steps at full speed.

“Kill him!”

Saric’s order, screamed to the guard.

But then another cry, this one from Feyn, who threw her arms wide.

“Let him come!”

The confused guard faltered, uncertain whether to heed the order of one Sovereign, or one who would be Sovereign. Still the keeper rode, whipping his horse faster, straight toward Feyn.

A sound of madness rose above the pounding hooves. A lone wail of terror. An anguished cry that sent chills down Rom’s neck. Terrible empathy lodged in his throat at the sight: Feyn, with her arms spread wide to the keeper.

The cry was hers.

Rom glanced at the boy behind him, pale and racked with trembling.

The keeper’s right hand swept back when he was fewer than ten paces from the basilica steps. His blade flashed high into the sun, and his intent became clear.

It was too late for anyone to stop him.

His stallion slid to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the steps, but the keeper did not. He leaped over the mount’s head, landed on the fourth step with his leading foot, and rushed forward, propelled by his own momentum. In three leaps he reached the top of the platform directly in front of Feyn, sword held high.

His blade sliced down into Feyn’s body, slashed through her neck and chest, and arced up behind him, bloodied for all the world to see.

Screams and shouts of alarm.

Feyn crumpled silently at his feet, slumping like the majestic Brahmin bull. Crimson bloomed through the white of her gown and began to pool on the platform.

Before Saric could react, the keeper spun and brought his sword to the man’s neck. “Her last order stands!” he cried out. “Let the new Sovereign of the world come!”

Saric had gone white.

Rom tried to breathe. His throat was dry. He could not speak.

The crowd erupted, fear spreading like fire. Wails of terror swelled like a growing maelstrom.

The keeper spun around, sword held high, and his voice cried over the entire assembly. “Feyn is dead!” He dropped his blade on the marble stones where it clattered and came to a rest.

Then he bent down, scooped up Feyn’s lifeless body in his arms, leaped from the back of the platform, and was gone.

T
he wails
of terror were almost as disturbing to Rom as the horrific shock of Feyn’s slaughter. Violence was not a thing witnessed in this world. Death was not a thing embraced by those given to Order. And yet the Sovereign they had all come to see welcomed her own death before their eyes. The first assassination since Sirin’s. The first public act of violence in nearly five centuries.

But now Rom understood the meaning of the keeper’s words: Feyn had done it only because the life she found with Rom was quickened when she saw him and the boy with the keeper. They were all complicit in her death, most of all Feyn herself. Now through Feyn’s willing death, the way had been opened for the boy to step into his place as the world’s new Sovereign.

On the platform, a shaken Rowan managed to gesture them forward. Rom looked at the boy perched in shock on top of his horse, staring at the platform.

“Don’t be afraid, Jonathan. This is as it was meant to be.”

“I have to follow the keeper! He told me we have to go back to the ruins where it’s safe.”

“Not before you stand before them and give Rowan the power to rule until you are of age. Can you do that?”

Jonathan looked down at him, still shaking, but nodded.

Rom led the horse to the foot of the basilica steps. Rowan stepped up to the edge of the platform and held up his hand to the crowd until a semblance of silence allowed him to be heard.

“Feyn gave her life willingly for the next seventh in line,” he cried. There was no denying his words. The keeper had called his challenge for all the world to hear. Feyn had bowed to the boy for all the world to see.

“Jonathan, son of Talus, is that next seventh, as the original birth record shows. As head of the senate, I have verified it, and the senate will see that my words are true and ratify it.”

Though the masses had quieted, the sobs of those unable to get control of themselves punctuated the stillness. The head of the guard looked at Saric, who caught his questioning stare and turned away. There was nothing he could do now. Even if he killed the boy, the law provided no means for Saric’s ascendancy because the boy was not yet seated. Feyn had cut him off at the knees in her death using his own law.

Rom lifted the boy off the horse and set him gently on the ground. Triphon and Rom led Jonathan, who limped up the stairs as leaders of the seven orders watched in disbelief.

The boy stopped by Rowan’s side, craned his neck for a view of the much taller man, then turned slowly to the crowd, seemingly at a loss. Behind him, Saric grasped the hilt of his sword. His face was still white with shock. He seemed as lost as the boy.

But Rowan was no longer lost, and he held up both hands to Saric. “Don’t be a fool, Saric. Your game is now lost.”

“I’m Sovereign of—”

“You’re nothing but a placeholder for the rightful Sovereign, who stands before you. Make a move and you’ll die as surely as Feyn died.”

Saric’s eyes darted frantically among the boy, Rowan, and the inaugural throng.

“Step back!” Rowan ordered.

Saric did so, but only slowly. Fear and disdain replaced the shock on his face. The boy, however, didn’t even glance at him. He seemed too fixated on the crowd, who returned his stare, collectively stunned.

Rom looked at Rowan. “May I speak?”

The senate leader nodded. “Say whatever it is you mean to say, but in three minutes the world must have its Sovereign.”

Rom turned toward the people and addressed the world.

“I am Rom, son of Elias, and I come to you with a message of truth. A forbidden message of hope. Of love. Of life.”

Beside him, Rowan cast a nervous stare at the crowd. Perhaps Rom was going too far.

“Feyn gave her life willingly and publicly for this boy, so that there would be no question of his legitimacy. He is a boy. He is a cripple. He is our destiny.” What else could he say? Nothing, not now.

Rom turned toward Jonathan and sank to his knees. Next to him, Triphon also knelt. But it wasn’t until Rowan settled to his knees that the other leaders, looking around to see if it was the right thing to do, slowly followed suit.

An instant later the masses knelt by the thousands. The sound of them falling to their knees was like the sound of pouring rain. And then a downpour. Thundering around them.

Jonathan stood before them all on weak legs, favoring his good one, sweating. He glanced over at Rom with questioning eyes. Rom nodded and looked at the assembly. The leaders of the world were on their knees, as was the senate, as were the very guard whom Saric had commanded only minutes ago.

Dead, all of them, to a person. But bowing now to the world’s only hope for life, though they did not yet know it.

Rowan stood, picked up the Sovereign’s scepter, and approached the boy. “I, Rowan, leader of the senate, confirm the birth record of the elect. Jonathan Emmanuel, son of Talus of the house of Abyssinia, now nine years of age, is the new Sovereign of the world.”

He held the Sovereign’s scepter out to Jonathan, who gave one last, hesitant look Rom’s way, then gingerly lifted the ancient symbol of power from Rowan’s hands.

Rowan bowed and spoke under his breath so that only Rom could hear them.

“My Sovereign, I’m afraid your life’s in jeopardy. There are still dark powers aligned to cut you down. I fear you won’t last the night.”

“He won’t be here by night,” Rom said.

Rowan glanced over. “Where will he be?”

“In hiding. Until then, he will appoint you regent in his place.”

The senate leader swiveled his head back to Jonathan. “Is this true?”

But the boy was still in too much shock to respond.

“Tell, him, Jonathan.”

“I appoint you as regent in my place,” the boy said in a small voice.

“My lord, you grant too much.”

“Only what’s his to give,” Rom said.

Rowan dipped his head, then stood and faced the crowd. “I present to you your Sovereign. Rise and receive him now!”

They came to their feet. The roar that rose from those gathered shook the very foundation of the basilica, so that Rom feared the roof might collapse. And he knew that the cries of the citizens around the globe would be enough to rattle the foundations of the earth itself.

The boy stood before them all, frail and young. Then, while the air still thundered, he tenuously dipped his head once, turned toward the back of the stage, and left them to cry his praise.

Gone to find the keeper.

Gone into hiding.