The Living God, page 15
Roshaud’s gaze darkened on the king, and he turned his chair slowly back to Saran. Bristling anger rolled off the jealous president, who might have hoped at some point to convince her father to give her to him as a means of keeping their wretched treaty going for years to come.
She straightened and smoothed her hands over her stomach, as triumphant as the last standing warrior upon a battlefield marred with blood, a warrior who knew just how to cut her enemy deeper. “He’s a good husband. Strong. Fit. He’ll make a fine king and a fine father.”
The president nodded, letting the anger rest in his eyes. “Good,” he said. “Well, shall we? I haven’t visited in a while, and it seems there is much to catch up on. Where is the future king, anyway?” The president glanced around, searching for Ahriman. Saran suspected that if he had the means, he’d drive any manner of object through the Mage’s heart for taking what he thought belonged to him.
“He is on a diplomatic mission to Mavahan,” Yarin said, guiding Roshaud into Mevog’s glittering electric portal, just off to the side from the Gate Maker they’d arrived through.
“Do come, Saran,” Roshaud called when she did not move to follow.
The princess shook her silver Bind in the air. “It doesn’t work with magic,” she told the president. “But fret not, old friend, I’ll meet you there shortly.”
“What’s with this Binding?” she heard the man ask her father as they disappeared through Mevog’s Gate.
Saran set out on the long walk to the council chamber where they would receive Roshaud as their honored guest and treat him to freshly cooked steak, potatoes, and wine. She nearly vomited in her mouth at the image of him gnawing on the meat, the juice spilling across his chin to pool on his hairy chest. So engrossed in her dark thoughts, she paid little attention to her path. The castle corridors were burned into her mind, a mental map trekked so often that she never really thought of where she was going, only where she needed to be.
She struck an immovable force, smashing her nose up against hard muscle and leather armor. Saran grabbed at her face with a whimper and turned a watery gaze on the black-haired tower in the middle of the hall. Rowe shook his head, clutching a stack of books in his arms. The library door swung closed next to him.
“Have you truly been in there for two days?” Saran asked, pressing fingers lightly over her sore flesh.
“No,” the lord said, curling the books under his arm and resting against the stone wall next to him. “Maybe half of the two days.”
Saran stepped around him. “Must have been very interesting reading.”
“Where are you off to?”
“I’m off to be the good daughter and entertain our guest, the president of the Third. Hopefully, if I’m well behaved, I get to have my Bind taken off.”
“Roshaud is here?” the Lightning Mage asked, his boots clacking against the floor as he raced to catch her.
“Father invited him for dinner, I suppose to show off his brilliant decision-making skills, as he has been doing as of late. Keleir isn’t here for him to brag on, so I must bear the brunt of his boasting. At least I get to see the hate in Roshaud’s eyes every time Father mentions Keleir’s name and husband in the same sentence.” Saran turned her smile on Rowe. “You should have seen it! Had he been a Fire Mage, he would have burst into angry flames.”
“I’ll accompany you. It has been a while since I’ve seen the president.”
Saran shrugged. “Mevog is attending to your Gate duties.”
Rowe frowned. “I don’t like that you have to be put in the same room with Roshaud.”
“He’s a disgusting human being, but as he cannot lift himself from his own chair, I doubt I really have anything to worry about. I’m not a child anymore. The most he can do is leer at me across the room.”
Rowe scowled at her. “Nor do I want him leering at you either. Let me help deflect some of his attentions?”
Saran hated being fussed over, and while Keleir partially understood, Rowe had always possessed an inability to grasp her loathing of it. The insistence that she needed a protector bristled her nerves. “Why fear that a man without the ability to walk would hurt me? I’ve gotten along just fine without a bodyguard. Please enjoy your reading.”
“Saran … stop.”
The princess slowed her pace and turned to her friend. She appraised the concern in his eyes and felt ashamed of her words. He knew the darkness in her thoughts, the memories she’d overcome, the hatred she had for the president of the Third. He didn’t want to protect her from Roshaud … he wanted to be the distraction from the specter of her past. A distraction from someone who had hurt her deeply, who had been allowed to hurt her by the one person who should have protected her most—her father. “Sometimes we have to do things we hate. We all have our monsters, Rowe, and only we can tame them. You can’t do that for everyone you love. Accept it and focus your energy on your own. I’ll be fine.”
TWENTY-ONE
WAVES OF SANDY dunes spread out for miles before hardening to a dry, cracked earth around a sandstone city. The tall walls were topped with elaborate mosaic tiles and narrow alcoves. To the east of its walls, the city bordered a wide, slow river that wove from the tall glacier mountains of northern Tomorro all the way to the dry seabeds of south Droves, the kingdom that shared Mavahan’s southeastern border. Four tall, spindly towers lifted to a cloudless blue sky, each tower topped with a gold dome that glinted blinding bright beneath a high-noon sun. The towering structures surrounded the palace, a massive sandstone ziggurat erected at the center of the city.
Keleir surveyed the desert from the top of his chestnut-colored horse. The heat bore down on them as heavy as the weight of a mountain. Sweat soaked his clothes and glistened along his skin. He wiped it from his brow and smeared it on the tan pants he wore. “Fucking desert,” he grunted, tugging the hood over his head to shield his skin and eyes from the harsh glare.
Despite the heat and its sweltering uncomfortable nature, Keleir felt more peace in the desolate sands than he had in months beneath the cool, tall redwoods and oaks in Adrid. Here, the only noise in his head was his own thoughts. The Deadlands muted the Oruke. Just as Keleir suspected. Here, he was free.
“Your Highness,” a soldier called behind him.
Keleir continued on with little recognition for the voice.
“My prince!” the soldier called louder, and again Keleir ignored him.
The young knight rode up from the ranks trailing behind him and slid to a stop in the sand next to Keleir. “My lord,” he said, peering through a swath of fabric wrapped protectively around his pale face.
The Fire Mage blinked at the young man and then looked back to the straggling army. “What did you call me?”
“My lord,” the man said, bowing his head low.
“Before that,” Keleir asked, biting his tongue to keep the edge of frustration from his voice.
“I called you prince. Noble law dictates that once a man has married a woman of higher nobility, he is to take the male equivalent title of her rank in succession to the throne. By law you are Prince of Adrid, and we must address you as such. That is also how we will introduce you to the Alar once we arrive,” the young man rambled, quick and nervous, nodding toward the glinting palace in the distance. He kept rambling, as if Keleir were not already aware of all the protocols he spoke of. Perhaps it was the young man’s only means of communication, this wild incessant chatter. The Fire Mage deeply hoped not. “You’ve not spoken much since we set out from Adrid, my prince. My name is Sir Luke Canin, your translator and adviser to the traditions of the Mavahan people. I meant to introduce myself earlier, but forgive me, Your Highness—I find you incredibly intimidating.”
He almost laughed at the boy. “Call me something other than prince,” Keleir muttered. “I don’t care what.”
“I-I’m n-not sure I understand,” the young man replied.
The Fire Mage sighed and turned a gleaming red glare upon the shaking boy. “If you cannot, by law, call me anything other than prince, call me Ahriman.”
“A-Ahriman,” Sir Canin repeated, nodding so fast that Keleir thought his head might pop off his shoulders. Canin’s eyes glittered with a smile. He straightened in his seat and pointed to the city. “Mavahan representatives will meet us at the gate and escort us to the palace. They view a noble—specifically prince, princess, king, or queen—as close to godliness as they will ever come. Therefore, the men in our troop will stop riding and walk alongside you. Your head, upon riding into the city, must always be higher than ours. To ignore this would be admitting to the Mavahan people that we view our rulers as equals.”
“Got it,” Keleir said, nodding. “And if we walk?”
“A ruler must always walk three steps before his servants; however in public spaces the ruler is to be flanked with at least one row of guards to each side. When we are greeted by the Alar, you must bow your head but never bow your shoulders, as it is a sign that you are lesser than him.”
Keleir smiled. “And what if I do not bow at all?”
“He will take it as an offence and probably have you killed. We are about to enter a city ruled by a king who seeks to invade our country. This is a diplomatic mission, is it not? We should attempt to follow their rules.”
Keleir shrugged. “If King Yarin wanted diplomacy, he would have married Saran to the Alar at the Alar’s request. We dishonored and embarrassed Alar Dago. He prepared for a queen, and we did not deliver. I doubt he intends any one of us to make it out of that city alive.”
Luke Canin swallowed. “But …”
“You’re walking into a trap, Sir Canin. I’m sure you didn’t expect that when you volunteered to follow the future King of Adrid to Mavahan. Don’t look so frightened. I have no intention of letting the Alar succeed. Magic or not, I’m very hard to kill.”
“While I admit that I have every faith in you. I do not have as much faith in myself. I’m not a fighter, my prince.”
“Ahriman,” Keleir corrected.
“I’m a simple linguist, a scholar. I’m not very good with swords, and I’m definitely not any good with magic. My sister had the gifts of a healer, but other than that, magic has no home in my family. If I were to come up against Mavahan’s famed warriors, I fear I’d be the first to fall.”
“And knowing this information, the wisest thing to do would be to turn back, correct?”
“Yes, I suppose it would be.”
“And you won’t?”
Luke smiled. “I imagine running would bring a lot of shame to my family.”
“You’re a very noble man,” Keleir whispered, staring at the city of their doom. “I find nobility to be rare among Adridian soldiers.”
“I believe there are more noble men than you think, my prince.” Sir Canin looked back at the soldiers trailing behind. “Adridian soldiers get a reputation for being evil, slaughtering, raping, pillaging thugs. However, consider that soldiers are bred and raised to follow orders. They are taught that the law of their king is the only rule book they should follow. What the king says, goes. If the king says to murder, a soldier murders, because he was fashioned to always obey.”
Keleir cocked his head curiously. “What about the human conscience?”
“Consciences can be bred out of men, can they not? Rigorous training and indoctrination can turn the noblest man into a monster. If you are fed a constant diet of hate, the most likely outcome would be for you to eventually embody that. You are, in essence, what you devour, after all.
“Look to the men back there, my prince. Each one had, and still has, the potential for goodness or to at least be better than they are. All they need is someone to show them the right way. They have had a king who glorifies destruction, persecution, and violence against their fellow countrymen. Most of the soldiers in the Adridian army are orphans raised as warriors. They never had the chance to learn love or respect for their fellows. They know only honor and duty to the man who fed them, clothed them, and bathed them in war. They hear only the voice of King Yarin, who feeds them their diet of hate. The king, my prince, is their conscience. What they need is a new one.”
Keleir smiled at Luke and tugged the tan hood farther over his head to shield his eyes from the sun. “You speak openly against your king, a bravery I admire. You risk much by not showering that old bag of bones with the praise he doesn’t deserve. But I counter your theory, Luke. All men are born with a moral compass of some sort. What say you of those soldiers who follow the orders blindly, who relish in the death and horror and do not feel guilt at the bodies that fall by their hand?”
Luke thought for a second. “I think you are right. Most have a moral compass of some sort, but what if you were never taught right from wrong? Wouldn’t your moral compass be skewed, my prince?”
“Call me Ahriman, and I’m not going to correct you again, understood? Next time I’ll strike you, and for every time you utter a title other than my name, I will strike you again. Clear?”
“Yes … Ahriman.”
“Now, before they catch us, answer me a second question, Sir Canin. Why does your moral compass swing a different way?”
“I was raised in a noble house by a loving family. A hard father, but a loving one. My mother can be thanked for my morality. I see the world as it is, not as the king wishes me to see it.”
“And you still serve him?”
“I think a lot of people still serve him, agreeing or not. Each has their reasons, but mine is very simple. I serve him in the hopes of outliving the horror. I dream of a better king that will surely take his place. There was a time when I thought I might not see it, and maybe I still won’t. I don’t know whether you will be a good king, I can only hope that you might.”
“That’s a fool’s hope, Sir Canin. All men of power are corrupt. You will never have a good king, and you will not find it in me. Do you not fear the Oruke that I harbor will set loose a wave of destruction far more devastating than anything Yarin could muster?”
The young knight went silent, his brown eyes appraising Keleir. “My sister says I have a sickness,” he began, turning his gaze back to the sandstone city. “Too much faith or not enough sense. She could never decide on which. I’m a dreamer, my pri—”
Keleir’s hand collided with the back of Luke’s head, knocking him forward in his saddle. The offending hand returned to its rest upon the saddle horn, and the Fire Mage never gave him a second glance.
Luke rubbed the back of his head.
Keleir smirked. “Saran spoke to you.”
Luke hesitated. “Her Highness approached me, yes.”
The Fire Mage’s smirk broadened into a grin. “Lovely woman, my wife …” Even if he’d repeated the word wife a thousand times in his head, saying it aloud still felt strange. He stole a glance over his shoulder at his men and then looked at Luke in a new light. “I suppose she spoke highly of me?”
“She did. She asked me to look after you, or at least to make sure you didn’t, and I quote, ‘do something rash that gets himself killed.’ I trust whom the princess trusts. She has never led me astray on that.”
“Where has she led you?”
“To the same path that you walk, that is all,” Sir Canin replied, his voice a careful breath as if he feared some lurking creature might overhear them.
“Ahh,” the Fire Mage mused. “So you are a traitor then? Like my wife?”
Luke’s eyes lit, and he sat straighter in his saddle. “N-No.”
Keleir laughed. “Do not fear, Sir Canin.” He turned his ruby gaze to the cowering man and, with a mischievous grin, whispered, “I’m a traitor too.”
Luke blinked at the Fire Mage, giving a vacant nod to show the prince that he understood what that meant. He turned his head back to the city.
“You will have your wish,” Keleir told the young knight. “You will see a good king one day, but it will not be me. I only hope that whoever it is will remain a good king for a long time. I have not the energy, nor the patience, for two coups.”
Keleir drew his horse to a slower pace and allowed his men to collect behind him. Luke gave them the same speech about Mavahan etiquette and instructed them in the way they were to conduct themselves once they crossed the threshold into the city. He did not elaborate on the details of their visit or on how their prince viewed their mission as nothing short of suicide.
Once they reached the heavy metal gates to the city, the soldiers accompanying Keleir went to their feet while he sat stiffly in the saddle. He appraised the tall walls and the iron doors, taking in every detail he could, from the cracks in the stone to the rust on the metal chains lifting the gate from the dry, sandy earth.
The rusted gate, a sheet of heavy metal with rounded bolts, had latches for huge hooks and thick chains to grapple the edges and hoist it above their heads. It moved with slow trepidation, revealing the inside of the city inch by uncertain inch. Half expecting a wall of men with bows and poison-tipped arrows to greet him, it surprised Keleir to find a mirror of his own situation once the door lifted enough to see.
Soldiers lined behind a man of average height. He stood, dressed in gold silks and ruby satin shoes, with his head wrapped in a heavily embroidered cloth. A man of middle age, he had dark, tanned skin and a thick black beard sprinkled with silver.
Keleir slipped from his horse, and a soldier took the reins and guided the creature to the back of the entourage. The Prince of Adrid smoothed his sweating hands against the insides of his thin tan coat and lifted them to draw back the protective hood, revealing a wash of stark white hair.
A deft silence stole the voice of the murmuring crowd behind the Alar and his soldiers. Peasants hung out of their glassless windows to see the foreign royal. At the site of his inhuman features, they shrunk back into their homes and drew their shutters closed.
The Alar smiled, revealing a row of too-white teeth, achieved only by chewing upon the acidic root of the Bagwa tree for hours. “Ve drago ta vel Jino Adrid. Abla greto sha toma, dres Ipaba, burso dur Ahriman, pres dre cro tugatta.”
