Sovereign

Hachette Audio

JORDIN CROUCHED atop the warehouse on Byzantium's eastern perimeter, dark hairlifting with the gust of an oncoming storm, eyes scanning the darkening streetsbelow for any sign of Triphon. There could be only one reason why he would leavehis watch at the door.

Dark Bloods. Hosts of hell.

More than eighty thousand of the vicious warriors hunted throughout the city,guarding the Citadel where their maker, Feyn Cerelia, ruled the world with aniron fist, determined to rid it of Jordin's kind.

Triphon had undoubtedly followed protocol and made an attempt to draw dangeraway from the provisions bank, one of only a few on the edges of the city fromwhich Sovereigns "borrowed" food.

Jagged lightning lit the eastern horizon, baring the low hills a mere hundredmeters distant. Beyond lay the wastelands, home to Roland's Immortals.

Immortals. They had rarely been sighted by her kind, and then only at adistance. They were lethal by any estimation, both to Feyn's Dark Bloods and tothe few Sovereigns still living. Ghosts in the night.

Most Mortals had soundly rejected Jordin's appeal to follow Jonathan in hisdeath and had vanished north with Roland, defiantly embracing the promise ofimmortality. Only a handful had remained to seek new life—newwisdom—as Sovereigns.

But now, six years later, that life had been all but stamped out by the BloodWar between Feyn's Dark Bloods and the Immortals, neither of which courtedtolerance for Sovereigns. Jonathan's selfless love had spawned only hatred andthe ruthless bloodshed that had held Byzantium in its grip for the last year.

Only thirty-seven Sovereigns still drew breath, hidden deep in the expansivecaverns beneath Byzantium. Once over seven hundred in number, their ranks hadbeen whittled down to a remnant in dire need of food and supplies. Underperpetual threat of death, they emerged only under cover of darkness and thenonly in pairs. Being caught alone was too dangerous; more than two presented thepossibility of too great a loss if trouble found them.

Jordin turned and hurried along the two-foot-wide concrete wall bordering thetop of the building in a crouch, her rubber-soled boots soundless on the asphaltroof. No sight of Triphon, no sound but the thunder rolling to the east.

She scanned the streets to the south. Empty. There was a Dark Blood post twostreets over, beyond her line of vision, one of thousands positioned throughoutByzantium.

She twisted to the west. Five miles distant, the Citadel's ominous spirestowered over the city. Heavily fortified rings of Dark Blood patrols had takenposition, expanding out from the world's capital buildings to protect Feyn fromthe increasingly aggressive attacks of Roland's Immortals. But the Dark Bloodsand the Immortals were not Jordin's only concern.

Well over two million Corpses crowded the capital, each of them loyal to Feyn'snew Order. Although the Corpses possessed no emotion save fear, that fearincluded a holy terror of Jordin's kind. Feyn had seen to that. And thoughCorpses would never raise a hand in violence, they were quick to report anycontact with a Sovereign. Anyone caught for not reporting a Sovereign wassummarily sent to the Authority of Passing—to death.

Hiding from two million Corpses was no easy task. Though Sovereigns looked nodifferent in appearance save their eyes, which had turned a brilliant green,Corpses could smell them. Apparently her kind gave off the pungent scent ofincense. Sovereigns: Loving all, loved by none. Then again, they had no problemloving Dark Bloods with a sword. Hadn't Jonathan done the same?

Jonathan. She would yet die for him without second thought. Some said he was outthere waiting in the flesh, others said he existed only in their blood. All sheknew for certain was that the expanded Mortal senses she'd lost in becoming aSovereign—senses presumably still retained by Roland'sImmortals—would be a welcome gift right now. With them she would know theexact location of the nearest Dark Bloods with a single sniff of the air. Shewould hear the scuffle on any street below ... even a mumbled word from ahundred meters.

Instead of Mortal perception, her kind held surety of true life and occasionalprecognition of the future, which, although intriguing, provedlimited—they could only see a few seconds or minutes ahead, and even theninconsistently. The "seeing" that had become the inheritance of all Sovereignscouldn't match the sheer strength of the Dark Bloods or the wicked skill of theImmortals.

Their enemies were hunting them to extinction.

She reminded herself that they were as they were meant to be, transformed byJonathan's blood. It was Jonathan's way, to bring life—how, they stilldidn't know. But there was deep mystery in their transformation, and they heldthat mystery with reverence along with the knowledge that Sovereigns were likeJonathan in ways Corpses and Immortals never could be.

She knew this, but it didn't keep her from lying awake at night, badgered byquestions without answers—questions she could speak to no one but Rom, andthen only when her frustration boiled over. She was their leader, side by sidewith Rom. The others couldn't know how deeply she suffered. To be Sovereign wasto be brimming with love in a new realm—they all said it. Jonathan hadsaid it. But saying it didn't change the fact that they lived like dying ratsbeneath the city while Dark Bloods and Immortals flourished in the sun.

Was it possible what Roland had said six years ago ... that Jonathan hadabandoned them all?

Jordin closed her eyes and let the ugly question fall from her mind. No. Theylived to bring Jonathan's life to the world—a last vestige of hope for aworld steeped in death. Thirty-seven Sovereigns left, and now one more of themseemed to have vanished. They couldn't afford to lose another, much less one oftheir warriors. Triphon was the only one who could wield a weapon as efficientlyas she or Rom.

A cry cut the night to the east, and Jordin whipped around, ears keen. She hearda shout followed by an unmistakable grunt.

Dark Blood.

Jordin reached the fire escape ladder in three running strides, grabbed the railwith her gloved hand, and threw her legs over the low perimeter wall. Her feetlanded on the fifth rung and she descended on the fly. She stood only an inchover five feet in boots, and her body was lighter than any of the large bags ofrice she'd dumped at the warehouse entrance, but her speed and skill made up forher lack of heft in any fight.

She released the ladder from ten feet up, landed lightly on the balls of herfeet, and then sprinted east along the southern wall, reaching for her bow.

"Jordin!"

Triphon's familiar voice rode the wind, flooding her veins with adrenaline. Hewould call out only if his situation was dire enough to warrant the risk ofdrawing Dark Bloods.

She rounded the warehouse to find an empty alley and then flew through thenarrow way. Beyond the last building the street broadened into open ground thatran into the hills. The fact that Triphon's shout had come from this directionmeant one thing: having been discovered by a roving patrol, he had led themtoward the wasteland. The Dark Bloods were wary of the wilderness—not forthe expanse of land itself, but for the Immortals who materialized from thedarkness without warning. With their singularly acute eyesight, Immortals ownedthe night.

But those same Immortals posed as great a threat to Triphon.

She ran faster.

A sliver of moon peered out from beneath the clouds on the eastern horizon,giving Jordin clear sight of the street. The scene snapped into form in a singleblink of her eye.

Triphon, sword drawn, was backed up against an unlit streetlamp. He was dressedfor the night in black pants, a short coat, and rubber-soled boots like her own.His hood had fallen back, the scant moonlight illuminating his green eyes,radiant even at a hundred paces.

Seven Dark Bloods were closing in on him, bold despite the knowledge that someof them would surely die. They weren't stupid. Sovereigns might not have thesuperior breeding of Dark Bloods, but by the way Triphon held his sword easilyin one hand, tipped toward the concrete, anyone could see he was trained in theNomadic way of the Mortals—the same Mortals who'd stood their ground onlysix hundred strong against Saric's twelve thousand Dark Bloods six years ago.

Jordin had killed countless Dark Bloods that day; she and Triphon could takeseven today.

To a man they towered nearly a foot over Triphon, built like bulls—muscleand brawn. But they moved with uncanny speed and took blows as if made ofironwood. Whatever alchemy had created such raw specimens of brutality couldn'tbe undone. They could not be brought to life like a common Corpse. OnlySovereign blood killed them.

Most still wore their hair in dreadlocks, but they had evolved over the pastseveral years. Their retinas were as black as their pupils, but rimmed now ingold. So well proportioned, they were specimens of perfection; loyal slaves,their insatiable lusts held in check only by Feyn herself. It was well knownthey abused common Corpses at will.

They hadn't seen her yet. She dropped to one knee, notched an arrow, and drewher bowstring.

The Dark Bloods pulled short, and the ringleader stepped forward, twirling hisheavy sword as if it were a stick of balsa wood. His mutter was full ofgravel—Jordin couldn't make out his words. She did, however, understandthe meaning of the sudden approach by the two warriors to the leader's left.

They were going in for the kill.

She steadied her breath and released the bowstring. The wind had lulled, and herarrow flew straight. It slammed into the leader's head as she quickly notchedher second arrow.

The Dark Blood she'd struck staggered back, bellowing a cry that momentarilyarrested the others. Triphon moved while their attention was drawn away, lungingat the closest warrior, swinging his blade up to catch the unsuspecting Bloodunder his chin.

Jordin sent another arrow at a third warrior and then she was on her feet.

"Triphon!"

Four heads swiveled to the threat at their backs. Without pausing, Triphon swunghis blade at the fifth's belly, missed, but arced the sword into the shoulder ofone of those who'd turned.

Another arrow—this one sent quickly into the mass of Bloods where itstruck one of them in the side. In the course of ten seconds they had cut downthree and wounded two more. They had once fought by Roland's side with as muchprecision, before the prince had turned his back on Jonathan's legacy.

She raced at breakneck speed, flipping her bow over her back, palming two knivesas she went in. Leaderless and stunned by such lethal attack from behind, theDark Bloods suddenly found themselves at a disadvantage.

She threw the seven-inch blade in her right hand from ten paces off, sidearm,but the Blood she'd intended it for slapped it from the air. The three remainingwarriors sprang back, more cautious now.

Three on two—they would fell these fiends where they stood. Outrunningthem would be far more difficult, and they couldn't risk leading them back tothe cavern. If Feyn learned where they lived, they would all be crushed in asingle blow and Sovereign blood would be no more.

"We kill them," Jordin said.

"We kill them," Triphon repeated with the hint of a grin.

The Blood to Jordin's left nodded and slowly straightened. A sick smile creptover his face.

"All of us?"

"All of you," Jordin said.

His gaze lifted past her shoulder. Triphon's followed. His face flattened.Jordin threw a quick glance behind her. Three Dark Bloods had emerged from thesame alley from which she'd come.

"Jordin ..."

She twisted back. More. No fewer than ten Dark Bloods had slipped from thecorners of both buildings at the end of the street. They were boxed in, cut offon either side by brick warehouses, to the front and back by Dark Bloods.

Her heart rose into her throat. She shifted to one side, all thoughts of an easyescape gone. A fresh gust of wind whipped a dusty dervish up from the knollbeyond the end of the street. If they could make a run for the wasteland, theDark Bloods might not follow. But getting past the line marching toward themwould prove difficult if not impossible—Bloods were anything but slow.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear your response," the Dark Blood said. "Are you sure?All of us?"

Jonathan, where are you now?

The sentiment that accompanied the question had become more bitter thaninquisitive as of late. But she hadn't always needed Jonathan to survive. She'dbeen his guardian once, when her skill as a fighter had been unquestioned evenby Roland himself. Her veins flooded with new resolve, fueled by anger. Theirquest to follow Jonathan and bring life could not end here, regardlessof the odds.

The sword of a fallen Blood lay on the ground three paces away. She still hadnine arrows in the quiver at her back. Two more knives were sheathed against herthighs. And if no way for escape presented itself, there was the sword.

The calm calculation that had served Jordin so well at Roland's side slipped foran instant as an image filled her mind: Jonathan spreading his arms wide, cryingout for Saric to kill him as she screamed, powerless, from the cliff above.Saric's blade arcing down into the chest of the only man she had ever loved,before or since.

She swallowed, mouth dry. Was this her fate as well?

Then so be it.

She whipped the knife in her left hand underhanded and watched it bite deeplyinto the eye of the Blood who'd spoken. His smirk exploded in a spray of blood.With a full-throated scream, she snatched the bow and arrow from her back.

Triphon's roar joined her cry, and he flew at the Bloods who'd first attackedhim. She spun to face the new arrivals, dropped to one knee, notched an arrow,and sent it into one of the three who were now running from the same directionshe'd come. A second and a third arrow, in rapid succession.

Her arrows found bodies but failed to take down two of the Bloods.

Jordin faced a critical decision. They'd have to split theBloods—surrounded, they stood no chance. She'd have to deal with the twoapproaching from the rear, but she also had to find a way past the line beyondTriphon.

She let a final arrow fly toward the two Bloods sprinting for her, alreadybringing their blades to bear. They seemed utterly oblivious to the threat ofdeath—what was death to the dead?

Without waiting to see her arrow find its mark, she twisted and came to herfeet. Five arrows left.

She strung one on the fly and started forward, angling left. Triphon had takendown one of two Bloods he had engaged and was lunging at the other like a bull.If she could break through the line of Dark Bloods between them and thewasteland beyond, forcing them into two fronts, they'd still have a chance.

The ten had become twelve, all at a full run fifty paces distant and closing,thinner on the left than the right.

"Split them!" she cried and tore forward, shooting as she ran. She sent fourarrows into the three warriors farthest to her left without precision, onlycaring that she stalled them enough to break past them.

One arrow left. She flung her bow over her back and ran at a full sprint towardthe two stumbling on her far left. She had to reach them. Get one of theirswords, engage from behind. It was the only way.

But that way was cut short by a terrible sound behind her. A wet thunkfollowed by a sick grunt.

The thunk she knew to be a blade cutting deep into flesh. It was thegrunt that made her start. She knew the voice.

Jordin twisted her head back. Triphon had killed the two Bloods he'd set upon,but a third had reached him from behind. Her arrow hung from the Blood's side,but it hadn't put him down.

Triphon's arms were thrown wide; his grimacing face tilted to the sky.

A sword protruded from his chest.

Jordin pulled up hard, stunned. The night stalled, ripped beyond the boundariesof time. Triphon was severed nearly in two, held up only by the Dark Blood whosesword was buried in his chest.

Jonathan had fallen to a similar blow.

The Dark Blood wrenched his blade free, and Triphon collapsed on the concretestreet. Dead.

Time refused to return. Triphon dead. At the hand of one she'd failed to kill.