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shreds first. Or worse.”
    “I’m not speaking about Triphon.”
    “Then who? The Immortals?” Jordin spat to the side. “They’re as much our enemies as Feyn’s monsters.”
    “Jonathan,” Rom said.
    A year ago, when the Sovereigns still numbered three hundred, Jordin would have readily agreed. She too had once attributed every turn of fortune to Jonathan’s ever-watchful eye from beyond the grave.
    But surety had evaporated with the passing of each Sovereignlife—and all but abandoned her a month ago with the passing of the old Keeper whom they had called “the Book.”
    “This wasn’t the Maker’s hand,” she said. “We were on the edge of the city—the Immortals could
smell
a kill and came in for it. If not for the Dark Bloods, they would have slaughtered me as well.”
    Rom drew the tips of his fingers along the altar’s edge and lifted his eyes to meet hers. “And yet here you stand. Alive.”
    “And Triphon is dead.” She turned her head away, blinking at the torch flame on the wall.
    “Then honor his death. As you did Jonathan’s. You were the first to take his blood. Do I hear regret in your voice?”
    She hesitated. Too long. There was no hiding from Rom. With the Book’s passing Rom had taken his place as Keeper—the last in a line of unyielding believers who’d given their lives over the centuries to see the day of salvation and life finally come. How could he remain so unshaken?
    “No,” she said, turning to him. “Not even you can pretend our end isn’t near. We haven’t seen a single sign of Jonathan’s purpose. He gave us this Sovereign life—why? Only to see us die? What are we now but a cloistered relic of Jonathan’s blood? We’re facing extinction! The few left are mostly old and children. I can’t hold the Dark Bloods off by myself for long. Open your eyes, Rom. It’s only a matter of time—”
    “Enough!” The echo of his voice ricocheted off the walls. Rom stood like stone, his emerald eyes blazing. “You loved him once. And now you doubt?”
    “How
dare
you question my loyalty?”
    “Then demonstrate it. Hold fast. The morale of the others depends on it. I was with Jonathan when he was a child. I watched him grow into a warrior. I heard him speak and saw him love before you knew he existed. You weren’t the only one who wept when he died. I’ll never deny the awakening I found by taking his blood.”
    Rom’s gaze remained unflinching, but his voice softened. “He’llshow us a way, Jordin. However mysterious, however yet unknown, Jonathan isn’t finished. And by the Maker, he’s not dead.”
    “No, he lives in our blood. But that too may soon be wasted on the ground.”
    Without a word, he took her elbow and guided her over to the far side of the chamber. There, on a carved shelf eerily sized just right for a child, stood a small, potted tree. Above it, a fissure through the bedrock allowed a sliver of light to reach the cavern during the day.
    “What do you see?”
    “Your tree,” she said.
    “Life where there should be none. Was there a tree at the head of Jonathan’s grave when we planted him in the ground?”
    She knew where he was going. “No,” she said quietly.
    “No. And yet you saw the large acacia tree at the head of Jonathan’s grave when we last visited, two years ago. You fell down by its roots and wept. It was the tree of life, you said.”
    She recalled the day clearly. There were no other acacia trees on the bluff—just the one. Seeing the tree over his grave, she’d suddenly been sure: Jonathan was alive. Not only in their blood, but
in person
. Somehow he lived and was soon to show himself and finally give them the abundant life that would allow them to crush the Dark Bloods and put the Immortals to shame.
    How much her sentiments had changed in the last year.
    “Two years ago,” she said. “We numbered in the hundreds then. Now we are only thirty-six.”
    “And we may only be one before we know the path, but that