The Living God, page 10
“The Oruke.”
Keleir’s fire snuffed out, and his eyes cooled to a deep ruby red. “Tell me.”
“When the Three are devoured by their darkness, He will see to the fall of the Corrupt and the rise of the Oru—”
“I know the prophecy, Yarin! Do you not think it was recited to me over and over while the people of my village cut the mark from my chest? I know that prophecy so well I recite it in my sleep. Saran is not a part of it.”
“She is,” the king said. His old gaze fell mournfully to her. “How unfortunate for my blood to birth the Equitas. I have known for a long time what she is. Her mother knew too.”
Keleir stiffened, and Saran stepped up next to him. He glanced to her, but her gaze remained locked on the old king in his well-worn chair.
“Speak no more of the woman you drove to suicide,” she spat. “Speak no more of this prophecy or Orukes or Equitases. We define our own destiny, Father. Not you, not demons, and not the dreams of man. There is no such thing as the Living God.”
“I killed her,” Yarin said. His lips twitched and wobbled back and forth between a cruel smile and a deep frown. It seemed the crazed old king could not decide between being happy or upset at the revelation. “I caught her trying to sneak you away with that damn traitorous Water Mage, Ishep Darshan. She meant to hide you in the Second, and I caught her. She knew what you were. She told me, after persuasion. She had visions the moment you were conceived, and the Prophetess told her that the Oruke would seek to kill you in the hopes of solidifying his future. Don’t you see what I am willing to do to make sure He exists? I’m willing to give up everything, even my wife. Even my daughter. The Vel d’Ekaru will rise.”
Saran’s hand clapped against the king’s leathery face hard enough to cock his head sideways and, thanks to her Bind’s enchantment, send herself spiraling into the table. Keleir looped an arm around her waist and steadied her against him. She clutched her reddening cheek and hissed at the old man.
“Let’s go,” Keleir muttered, drawing her away.
“No! I’m going to beat him senseless!” Tears stung her eyes as she glowered at the man she’d been raised to call Father. The man whose blood ran through her veins. A man that had killed her mother and passed the death off as if she’d done it to herself out of desperation and insanity.
“And beat yourself in turn? No. Can’t you see what he’s trying to do?” Keleir pressed his face into her curly hair and held her tighter. “Do not let him win. Let him die a lonely, old bastard.”
Saran shook with rage, glaring at her sickly father, who looked neither pleased nor displeased with the revelation. She found nothing but well-practiced hollowness in his eyes, a detachment that he’d adopted with her the moment he viewed her a threat to all his carefully laid plans, and desperately still, she sought some amount of humanity and affection in that bleak gaze. “Why do you want the world to end so badly? Why do you allow this torment?”
The king tilted his head. Confusion glittered in his eyes. “Perfection is born from torment, Saran. Torment weeds out weakness and strengthens you. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, Keleir? A perfect world?”
The Fire Mage’s arms tightened around the princess, and he drew her back to the door. Keleir’s touch quivered, a shake of fear or dread. “Perfection is unattainable, Yarin.”
Yarin’s body shook with a great laugh. “And still the Vel d’Ekaru pursues it for the sake of us all.”
Saran jerked forward. Keleir lifted her up by the waist and out the door, slamming it behind them.
“Let me kill him!” she seethed, twisting against his strong grip.
“And kill yourself? You are more important to me than vengeance. He’s old, Saran. Old and senile and wrong. He’ll die soon enough. We will find a way to remove the Binding ourselves, or we will use that old contraption in the dungeon to go to the Third.” He took her face in his hands. “Trust me. He’s wrong. I am not what he thinks I am, and you are not the Equitas. We are Keleir Ahriman and Saran D’mor, haunted, but nothing more. Do you believe me?”
Saran nodded, but he saw the questioning look in her eyes, he read the words she wouldn’t voice, and the Oruke inside him laughed.
TWELVE
“THIS WILL EASE the pain and get you through the ceremony,” Madam Ophelia said as she passed a cup of hot medicated tea into Saran’s good hand.
“Thank you. Could you bring me more once the ceremony is over? I may have need of it depending on whether I make it out of the room without punching someone.” She took a deep swig of the near-scalding liquid. Her hand hurt too much to pay mind to the temperature, and she had little patience to wait for it to cool.
“Certainly,” said Madam Ophelia with a pleasant smile. “You look beautiful, I might add.”
Saran glanced to the mirror as her handmaiden, Ora, finished the last buttons and ties on the heavily embroidered burgundy dress. The very old and very traditional gown, belonging to one of her great-grandmothers, had all the trappings of a corset and layered skirts, proving to be one of the most uncomfortable things she’d ever worn. “I hate it,” she admitted with a sour frown.
“It is a little much, isn’t it?” Madam Ophelia agreed, smoothing her hands over the plain dress she wore. Healers liked plain cotton clothes of simple design. They were practical clothes, without the finery of corsets or embroidery or layers of unnecessary dressing.
“I’d rather be in riding clothes—at least they’re comfortable.” Saran took another sip of medicine. “It’s not to say it isn’t a pretty dress. It is a lovely dress. I meant no offense. It just isn’t … me.”
“Your hair looks lovely, at least,” Madam Ophelia offered with a smile.
“It is lovely … Ora does beautiful work. I wouldn’t know what to do with it, as you can tell from my usual unkemptness. I am the single worst princess ever produced for this kingdom.”
Madam Ophelia smiled, coming to stand just behind Saran. She met the princess’s eyes in the mirror. “You were raised by wolves, child. Had your mother survived, she would have taught you the ways of a woman, but instead you were taught the ways of a brute. I mean no insult …”
Saran laughed. “You speak truth. I learned to stab a man in the kidney before I learned to put on a dress.”
Ora gave a bashful smile as she pinned a gold peacock into Saran’s curly hair. “I think you’re ready, Your Highness.”
The princess downed the rest of her tonic and handed the empty cup to the healer. “Yes, it seems I am. I can’t delay any longer, can I?”
“Are you not excited to be engaged to Lord Ahriman?” Madam Ophelia asked.
Saran’s lips parted, but the answer never left her. Instead she pursed them together and shrugged her shoulders. “Someone will be king. He is a far better choice than others.” She could have told the truth. She could admit that she wanted to marry him. Though she’d never thought of marrying him in the fashion her father intended. Saran loved Keleir, but binding herself to him the Mage’s way meant also binding herself to the Oruke, and the Oruke to Adrid. “You could be queen without a king,” Madam Ophelia replied. “It isn’t necessary to have a man to rule.”
Saran smiled. “You are right. I have no need for a king. But I will have need of heirs and, well, Lord Ahriman is attractive and intelligent.”
The healer grinned. “’Tis true, Your Highness. Many admire him, though most are too fearful of him to make advances. The ones brave enough to approach are swiftly rejected.”
“His brother, however,” Ora said with a chuckle, “he’s very popular. The servant girls love him, and if the rumors are true, he loves them right back.”
Saran’s eyebrow arched. “Really now?”
“Oh, yes, m’lady.”
The princess smiled. “What a scoundrel.”
“If you ask me, a man who thrusts himself this way and that is either senseless or in pain.”
Saran froze, turning a careful eye on the servant. “Pain?”
“Yes, Your Highness. If it’s not too crude to repeat, they say his body’s willing but his thoughts lie elsewhere. Some say a woman he loved spurned him. A rumor, though.”
“Rumors always have some basis of truth, no matter how far removed,” Saran replied, eyeing herself, a stranger, in the mirror. She couldn’t imagine Rowe to be the type of man to take on multiple lovers or even lie with a woman for only a night. If the rumors were true, then she didn’t know him as well as she thought … or perhaps he’d changed. Her curiosity turned to the hypothetical woman who had stolen his heart and did not return his feelings.
Years ago, Saran had loved him. Part of her still did. But she’d been torn between that love and the developing feelings for Keleir. Saran had never meant to fall for Keleir. Her interactions with him began innocently at first, a means to an end to keep the Oruke inside him at bay.
For a short while, the three had been able to maintain some sort of strange shared love. Then Rowe pulled away. He told her that he loved another. She hadn’t pressed him further, partly because it hurt and partly because he insisted she devote herself to his brother. She tried to imagine what sort of woman had stolen his heart and why she didn’t love him in turn.
Before she could delve any deeper, the door opened, and an Ekaru priest gave her a careful nod.
There weren’t a lot of witnesses waiting in the throne room. Saran felt silly for being adorned in such heavily embroidered fabric for a handful of people. For the amount of time and care the servants put in, she might as well have been married that day. She hated the thought of her wedding if they put such fuss over attire for a simple betrothal ceremony.
Keleir waited at the foot of the king’s throne. A man who normally sniffed at the idea of fanciful clothing, he wore a regal tunic and a crimson cloak that draped over one shoulder. His brother stood close at his side, dressed as smartly as the soon-to-be king. The two were engaged in deep, whispering conversation until Rowe spotted Saran and lost the words in the back of his throat. He nudged his brother with a hard elbow and nodded toward her. Keleir’s gaze lifted, his head turned, and he met her with tired eyes.
She could not read the emotion on his face. She knew he hadn’t slept again, and not simply because he looked exhausted. He’d spent the night tossing, turning, screaming. Whatever that creature said to him tore him apart from the inside out at night, and she could do little to help him with the Bind. She could only obey her father’s wishes and hope that he favored her with release. Though that did seem unlikely now, given his superstitions. She needed to prove herself no harm to the Oruke’s plans and that she could even support them.
Saran turned her eyes on her father. He’d always been easy to fool. She couldn’t remember when she began her act or when she started working against him in secret. Perhaps at eleven, when she was ignored by him and allowed to sit in on his lengthy meetings. At some point, she found a way to make herself useful, to make him proud. She took interest in the military, and he gave her a position in his army. She won battles for him, and he praised her for it. Who would ever suspect that the daughter of the king whispered his secrets to his greatest enemy?
She’d been good at deceiving him, until she’d finally grown tired of the lie. Until it got harder to fix the damage once the armies left the burning cities. But she’d taken the mask off too soon, and she needed to put it back on now. If she didn’t, the world would get infinitely harder to fix.
The priest led her to them with his head to the stars, having such a pompous air about him that she thought he might float away. He took great pride in delivering her to the king, and once he reached the foot of the throne, he swooped into a deep bow. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I present the Princess of Adrid for her Claiming.”
“Yes, yes, get on with it.” Yarin sighed, falling back into his throne. He waved the priest off.
The priest stood between Saran and Keleir, taking Saran by the arm. She almost drew away from him but instead clenched her teeth and focused on being the perfect daughter. “Places, please. Left hands together!”
Saran placed her left hand in Keleir’s hot palm. The Fire Mage was pale and held deep circles under his eyes, but he smiled for her. His grip tightened protectively around her hand, and he bent toward her ear. “You are lovely.”
She pressed her bandaged hand against the tight corset. “I can barely breathe. I hate this dress.”
He offered a sympathetic frown, resisting the urge to brush his hand over her cheek. “It will be over soon. Painless, and then you can be rid of it and into something more comfortable.”
The priest began his incantation with a cough to clear his throat. He twined gold rope about their arms and wrists, and ended it with a knot over their hands. “You are Bound by Law and by Magic, never to be parted. You swear an oath this day to wed the other. To be faithful. To never waver or turn from one to another. To …”
Saran listened to his words, and even with the Bind, she felt the heat of the priest’s magic tickle the air. Her heart raced up into her throat, and she stepped toward the priest. “Those are wedding vows. This is a betrothal ceremony.”
The Fire Mage cocked his head to Yarin. “Explain.”
The king, slouched upon his throne, gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “I have no reason to explain. What you seek is only obtainable through her.”
Keleir met Saran’s wild eyes, filled with fear and uncertainty. He couldn’t deny that he, too, felt afraid for what the king wanted. “What I seek?” he asked, shaking his head. His attention turned to Yarin, his face growing red with rage. He tugged against the rope that bound his hand to his lover. “No more riddles, you decrepit sack of horseshit!”
The Ekaru priest, along with the very few witnesses in the room, gave a horrified gasp.
“Say a word,” growled the Fire Mage to the Priest. “One word and I’ll burn you alive.” He tugged his hand from Saran, but the ropes held them tight together.
“Keleir!” she called, jerking forward against the rope as the Fire Mage stepped toward the King. “Wedding now or later, what does it matter?”
“It matters! I will not give this thing inside me what it wants, what your father wants!” He pulled at the rope that bound them together, shaking with rage. Like a rabid dog tugging against his owner’s leash, he thrashed his hand to free himself from her. “My entire life I’ve followed the path this thing set me on. No more.”
Behind them, the priest scolded, “You are not finished with the spell, Lifesbane! Do not remove the Binding.”
The torches and candles lining the walls of the throne room roared fierce and hot. “THAT IS NOT MY NAME!” Embers crackled in Keleir’s eyes, and he set the cord about his hand aflame, snuffing it out before it touched Saran’s flesh. Once free, he stomped up the stairs and snatched the king by his robes, drawing him out of the throne as easily as a man could lift a child.
“Careful,” Yarin warned. “Saran bruises easily.”
The Fire Mage shook, rage coursing through him hotter than molten lava. It took all of himself not to throw the old man into the wall. If not for the threat to Saran, he would have. Black seeped into the corner of his eyes, and he sneered. “Talk.”
“Keleir!” Rowe bounded up the podium and grabbed hold of his brother’s shoulder. “Keleir, stop it!”
“I will not,” the Fire Mage seethed.
“Stop,” Rowe whispered. “Marry her. You’ve wanted this, haven’t you?” His electric gaze fell on the princess, where she stood hopeful and afraid, her hands clasped pleadingly together. He offered his brother a rueful smile. “You love her. Marry her. Marry her, or I will.”
The Fire Mage stiffened, glowering at his brother. Of course he’d try to trick him in such a way, always playing the scoundrel willing to whisk her away when it suited him. Keleir shook his head, growling out a sound more demon than man. “I can’t … If I do this, if it takes me over, she will not have the chance to be with another. It will Bind her to me, but worse, it will Bind her to the Oruke.”
Saran edged closer to the foot of the king’s podium. She eyed her father and then Keleir. “I know what this means. Shouldn’t it be my choice, if the cost is so great? I choose you.” She swallowed. “And I choose the Oruke.”
“Lovely.” Yarin sighed.
The princess glared at the king. “I am not doing this to please you.” She immediately regretted her words. Of course she needed to do this to please him.
“Why are you doing it?” Keleir asked, dropping Yarin back into his throne. He shook his brother’s hand from his shoulder and turned to her. “Haven’t we been happy with what we have? We don’t need this, to be Bound in this law. I’d happily marry you, Saran, but not the way of Mages. We don’t need that chain, especially with the risk of losing my battle. You will never be able to love another, be with another, as long as this form lives.”
“I am Bound to you, regardless of law. Without this Bind,” she said, glancing to the manacle around her wrist, “I feel you in the very air around me, Keleir.” Her eyes watered. How she missed that feeling. How she missed the kinetic energy of his power in the same room as her, as comforting as a warm blanket on a cold night. “But you’re right. If you don’t want this, then I will not agree to it.”
Yarin tsked them with a wave of his finger. A slow, cruel smile curled the corners of his mouth. “This isn’t a negotiation. Finish the ritual. Finish it or face the consequences.”
Keleir gave a devilish smirk. “And what are those consequences, my king?”
Yarin stretched his old legs out and reached into his robes. He pulled a dagger from the folds and plunged it into his leg. His face stiffened with pain, but the old man never uttered a sound of distress. He was, after all, used to misery.
Saran buckled with a cry, falling into a pool of burgundy skirts. Rowe rushed from the podium and fell to the floor near her, hurriedly pushing folds of fabric and underskirt away to wrap his hands tight around her bleeding thigh.
The Fire Mage snatched Yarin up. The king chuckled through clenched teeth, and he twisted the dagger in his leg. Saran screamed, writhing beneath the hard press of Rowe’s hands. She grasped to pull the offending weapon free but only caught air.
