The Living God, page 17
Saran towered over Roshaud while he clutched his wounded hand to his chest. She absorbed the damage she’d done to both the man and their political future. “Perhaps now you will remember.”
Saran stepped outside to where Lord Brenden awaited his orders. “See to it that the president of the Third has a safe journey home. There was an accident involving a fork, and he was injured. I believe he’ll wish to seek medical attention on the Third.” The Mage nodded with a toothless smile.
TWENTY-THREE
KELEIR EMERGED FROM heavy sleep with a ragged, wet gasp. He shot straight up from the floor, brushing his hands across his form as if expecting pieces to be missing. Ipabas were feared among most of the Mavahan people, but also worshipped and revered by others. There were rumors, where Adrid met Mavahan’s border, that some would steal pieces of those cursed with Orukes to be used in the only magic available in Mavahan: Dregs.
Dreg magic could be performed by those not blessed by the Core. Because Mavahan was cut off from the life and fertility of the planet, it did not allow for natural elemental magic. The magic available could be harsh and cruel, created from tangible means like plants, waste, blood, and bone. To those Dregs sorcerers, Ipabas were as divine an ingredient as anything in the world, and extremely rare. Those who practiced Dregs believed that parts of Ipabas made their magic work.
Keleir’s hands skittered over smooth naked flesh, with only a sparse remnant of cloth draped across his lap. He found all his limbs attached and, for the most part, unharmed. A hand curled at the top of his skull and drew the damp sack from his face, snatching with it a few strands of white hair. Blinding sunlight stole his vision, and he lifted his hands to shield his eyes. In the blur of the light and the effects of whatever those women had drugged him with, he could just make out the Alar sitting upon a stone chair at the edge of a balcony. Next to him stood his sister, Velora, the Keeper of His House. To her right were the women who’d accosted him.
“Ipaba dre dicaro Vel d’Ekaru,” the Alar said. He stared down his nose at where Keleir sat immodestly on the stone. “Detoro tag Deka z’Alaru.”
The balcony was shaded by a heavy red canopy, but it did little to keep out the heat. The stone scalded his skin, even sheltered from the sun.
“He says,” Luke’s voice piped up. He sat clothed and shackled just behind Keleir. “When this Oruke becomes the Living God, he will seek the Book of Kings. He asks if that is what you’ve come for.”
Keleir rested his forehead against his knee and wiped the sweat from his brow. “No. Tell him I am not the Vel d’Ekaru. Tell him I don’t know what book he speaks of, that I don’t seek it. Ask him to release you and the others. He may keep me, but no one else should be punished for my sins.”
Luke hastily translated Keleir’s words, but the dark expression on the Alar’s face did not lighten. He frowned and glared down at them. The Alar said another long line of words, so jumbled and fast that Keleir, who had picked up only a few Mavish words thus far, could not even find it remotely familiar.
There was hesitation in Luke’s voice. The young soldier shifted uncomfortably against the stone floor. “H-He, eh … the fact you do not seek the book does not disprove you are the Vel d’Ekaru, merely that you have not completely turned.”
The Alar went on, a clever smile creeping up his face. It was well-known that Mavahan were large followers of the Vel d’Ekaru religion. It was, after all, their language. Vel d’Ekaru, the Living God. It was Mavahan who brought the religion to Adrid, and Yarin who cultivated it. Once, the Alar made frequent pilgrimages to Adrid to commune with the Ekaru priests who waited in the land of magic for the Vel d’Ekaru to be born. Somewhere along the way, the Alar stopped believing. He stopped his pilgrimages, and the relationship with Adrid crumbled.
“The Living God will seek the Book of Kings ravenously,” Luke translated.
“You were expecting the Oruke?” Keleir muttered, looking down at the chains he wore. “Would you have bound him?”
“No,” the Alar replied in basic tongue. “I would not have lived long enough to do it.”
Keleir shook his head, his hands curling into fists. “Then unchain me if you know I mean you no harm! I am not the Vel d’Ekaru. I will never be him. I do not choose to be him!”
“It is not within your power to choose or not choose. It is an inevitability,” the Alar muttered. “I shared the same god as Yarin for many years until the Prophetess spoke to me as clearly as I speak to you. We are pawns, all of us, in a never-ending war between two creatures of time: the Prophetess with her champion, the Equitas, and the Oruke with his vessel, the Vel d’Ekaru. I will not let the Living God rise.”
Keleir relaxed on the floor. “So you plan to kill me?”
The Alar’s face twitched. He settled into his seat as if a heavy weight had fallen on him and crushed his limbs to the stone. “Unfortunately I cannot. I wish it were as simple as destroying the vessel, but the Oruke will live on. He is not fully bound to flesh and thus cannot be killed. He needs physical form, through and through, and even then I suspect he can live on. The safest thing to do is to keep you, as you are, in chains and imprisoned, until we find a way to purge the Oruke and destroy it forever.”
“Are you sure you’re not sore I stole your bride?” Keleir muttered with the hint of a smirk. “Seems like the easiest way to get rid of an Oruke is to kill him. What do you care if he comes back? By the time his next vessel is old enough to cause you any trouble, you’ll be long dead.” Keleir leaned forward. “Kill me.”
The Alar glared down at Keleir and leaned forward in his stone chair. “I would have brought Saran D’mor into my home. She is the Equitas and your destroyer. I would have protected her from you until she was strong enough to face you.”
Keleir groaned and stood in all his nakedness, casting his eyes about the room before settling a hard gaze on the Mavahan king. “She is strong enough.”
Luke coughed. The sound stole Keleir’s attention from the Alar. The young man avoided Keleir’s gaze for the obvious reason, his nakedness. The prince, who wasn’t the least bit ashamed, wrapped the cloth that had fallen away around himself.
“The Book of Kings,” Luke began, swallowing dryly. “It can only be opened by a king. It is a charter, a chronicle of recordings made by the rulers of the First. It exists outside of treaties and war. It never resides in one king’s hands for too long, as it contains the secrets of existence. A king, no matter how cruel, has never disobeyed that covenant.”
“Until it came to me a year ago from Droves,” the Alar muttered. “I will not see it go on to Adrid, not as long as I may live and breathe. Neither Yarin nor his replacement will hold that much power, even for a second.” The Alar turned to his sister, the Keeper of His House. “Velora, find the prince something comfortable to wear. He will be wearing it for a very long time.”
Keleir took a step toward the Alar, but the guards grabbed hold of him. “You cannot keep me here!”
“I can,” the king replied unsympathetically.
“My brother and my wife will not leave me here to rot!” Keleir warned.
“They will,” Velora said, her voice soft and musical. “If they think you’re content to stay here, which I’m sure was a concern of theirs given your predicament. Don’t worry, Prince Keleir, we will send your happy words and encouragement for a better future home to them.”
Keleir glowered at her before his expression softened to a wicked smile. “You will find I’m not easily contained, Keeper of His House.”
TWENTY-FOUR
WHEN ROWE WOKE, there was a fire crackling warmly in the bedroom hearth. Strange, as he’d managed to fall asleep as the last embers settled into ash. The roaring logs illuminated his quarters well enough to see the glittering gold titles on a stack of books he’d collected atop his desk. It also lit it enough for him to see the young, lithe, bald woman standing at the foot of his bed, her silhouette dark but familiar to him.
Her eyes opened, blinding white that spread until he could no longer see her. The power glowed from beneath her skin, and her clothes melted away until there was nothing left of her but a body of pure, endless light.
“Prophetess,” he cried, sitting straight in bed.
“Rowe,” the Prophetess greeted, her voice a flurry of low and high chimes all ringing together, like several versions of her speaking at once.
“It has been so long …”
Her chin lowered. If it weren’t for the light, he wondered if he would have found shame in her eyes. “I couldn’t—” The slump of her elegant, glittering form suggested great sadness in place of shame. She held that form for a moment longer before lifting her head and straightening her back, like a woman resigning herself to her duty. She lifted a hand and pointed a sharp, glowing finger at him. “Remember my words, Rowe Blackwell, and know that you will be betrayed. The Equitas cannot exist without the Living God. For the Equitas to live, so must the Living God rise.”
Rowe jerked as something hot or sharp scraped his chest. The room went dark, the fire in the hearth now as dead as when he’d first slept. There was no glowing woman at the foot of his bed, no sign that she’d ever been there at all. The only remnant that proved any of it had been real was the thin trickle of blood from the small scrape of a nail. It wasn’t an unfamiliar marking, she often left them so he would know the difference between imagination and divine appearance.
He threw the covers from his lap and wrapped his robe about his shoulders before going to his desk and drawing out a leather-bound journal from a squeaking drawer. He opened it, flipping through tattered parchment papers until he found the page he’d written the prophecy on some ten years ago.
The Three will be devoured by darkness, their cities will crumble, and their kingdoms will fall. The rulers of their nations will bring darkness to their lands. When the Vel d’Ekaru rises, the Equitas will come to balance time. They will be forged in pain and born from sleep. They will consume and become the Body of Life, and before them will fall the Hand of Strength and the Carrier of Power. The Soldier from the Eastern Mountains will fight with them, and the Prophetess will be their guide.
It was scribbled in faded ink but legible enough for him to read. He read it over and over before letting his eyes drift slowly to the counter prophecy, the prayer of the Ekaru priests.
When the Three are devoured by their darkness, He will see to the rise of the Oruke. Before the Vel d’Ekaru will fall the Body of Life, the Hand of Strength, and the Carrier of Power. The ashes of the Three will become One, and the Oruke will arrive in droves to purge the sickness from its soil.
Rowe frowned at the passages. They both spoke of the same three artifacts: the Body of Life, the Hand of Strength, and the Carrier of Power. Three legendary keys to the Three known worlds, and all hidden with no record of where to find them, at least none that he knew of. Each prophecy spoke of the hero or the villain gaining control of the artifacts.
The prophecies did little to concern him—he’d read them enough to become indifferent to them. He wasn’t sure why she desperately wanted him to recall them. Nothing had changed. His brother had grown darker and had fallen deeper into the Oruke’s clutches and closer to becoming the Living God.
What had changed?
Know that you will be betrayed …
Who would betray him?
He mulled over the two prophecies, both written from different ideological views. One spoke of a hero, and one spoke of the destroyer painted as a hero. For the Equitas to exist, so must the Living God rise. For the Equitas to live, the other had to …
He closed the leather journal with a hard thump and tossed it back into the drawer. Rowe and many others had always believed Saran to be the Equitas, the counter to the Living God. If this were true, Keleir would have to succumb to the Oruke or Saran would die.
TWENTY-FIVE
THREE MORE WEEKS came and went as swift as the passing of a storm, leaving just as much damage in its wake. Saran spent long hours on her balcony staring off at the sea, and Rowe took up his training duties in the barracks for the new recruits. They attempted, as best they could, to act as if nothing happened. But both of them, deep down, knew that something was terribly wrong.
When Keleir didn’t arrive home as expected, it caused little concern in the castle. Sometimes sandstorms swept across the desert and kept traveling to a minimum for days. When the second week passed from his scheduled return, even Yarin’s toes began to tap harshly and impatiently against the floor. By the third week a quiet resolve settled over Saran and Rowe like a pan-warmed blanket.
“We will do what we must,” she’d whispered, twisting the Bind about her wrist. “Then we will go find him.”
Saran was standing on her balcony, watching the sea, when she spotted the messenger pigeon arrive. She bounded up the well-worn west tower steps, clutching the cotton skirts of her day dress. Behind her, Rowe’s boots echoed as he gained ground, taking the twisting narrow stars two at a time, until he caught up to her. “It came from the south,” she said, her voice a breathless whisper.
“I know, but do not get your hopes up.”
“It is too late for that.”
The messenger, covered in feathers and bird dung, sat clutching a fluttering pigeon when they barged through his door. He’d barely begun to unroll the small note from its thin legs when they took it for themselves.
“That’s none of your—” The dark look that crossed Saran’s face, accompanied by the crackle of lightning in Rowe’s eyes, silenced the messenger. “Apologies, Your Highness.”
Saran hastily read the letter, two short lines written in careful script.
“I can’t return. Let me rest. I never wanted to be king. I’m sorry.” Her hands and voice trembled as she read the words aloud to Rowe. She passed the note to him, her eyes awash with tears.
Rowe read the letter for himself. He read it as many times as he could in the span of a minute while Saran collapsed into a dirty chair next to him. “At least we know for sure now,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied, careful to keep her face away from him. “Now we know.”
“It doesn’t look like his handwriting,” Rowe muttered.
“Would he dictate it?”
“Keleir doesn’t dictate anything.” Rowe read the words again. “He doesn’t mention anything about us.”
“Why would he?” Saran asked, lifting her eyes. “He expected the note to go directly to the king. He wouldn’t want Yarin to know that we might join him later or that we’re so heavily involved with the rebellion. You think I’m a prisoner now? We’d both be Bound or murdered if he knew.”
Saran remembered the messenger in the room. Her gaze locked on him, frowning. The messenger, old and thin with wild white hair, backed slowly away. “I won’t tell nothin’, Princess, I promise. Nothin’.”
Rowe’s form tensed, and he turned to Saran. “Deliver the message to your father.”
“Are you insane? Do you know what will happen if he thinks his prized Vel d’Ekaru won’t come back?”
Rowe pressed the note into her hand.
“It is either you tell him Keleir has abandoned you, or you risk him sending the army into Mavahan to retrieve him, which he may do anyway.”
Saran glowered at Rowe. “He won’t accept this.”
“And he won’t allow the silence that we’ve endured for weeks to go on any longer,” the Lightning Mage argued. “Go.”
Saran growled, shaking her head as her hand curled around the slender note. She said nothing more to the Lightning Mage, leaving him alone with the messenger.
When Rowe could no longer hear the gentle clack of her shoes down the stone steps, he turned to the old, white-haired messenger, electric blue crackling in his eyes.
“I promise,” the old man said. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Rowe stepped toward him, his frown deepening with remorse. “I know.”
TWENTY-SIX
YARIN GLOWERED AT the tiny, crumpled piece of parchment lying on his desk. His old brow wrinkled while his cane tapped irritably against the floor. “Run away?” he asked, glancing up at Saran. She stood across from him, her hands clasped in front of her, her sadness concealed by a mask of indifference.
“You have yourself to blame,” she whispered. “Insisting he is something he’s not. A king maybe, but the Vel d’Ekaru …”
Yarin shoved the note away and settled back in his chair with an angry frown. “Tyrinis Dago will not let him stay. Despite our recent disagreement, the Alar will honor the Ekaru.”
Saran took the chair across from him. “Why would the Alar honor the Ekaru?”
“We have our differences, the Alar and I, but there is one thing we share: the same god. He may have lost faith, but when he realizes who Keleir is, that faith will be reborn in him.” Yarin smiled at his daughter. “Keleir can’t escape his future.”
The princess hid the uneasiness from her posture, staring bored across the desk at him. “Father.” She sighed, resting her hands in her lap. “Can we discuss removing this Bind now? I’ve learned my lesson. At least I understand my place and why I’m useful to you. You’ve made Keleir king. I am happy with that decision, and the rebel in my heart has been tempered by the blessing of a strong husband—one that I love. Let me go into Mavahan and bring him home. He will listen to me.”
Yarin chuckled. “You can go to Mavahan if you wish, my beautiful daughter, but you will never approach Ahriman again without that Bind.”
“What’s so threatening about my element?”
“Everything,” Yarin replied, leaning his elbows against the desk. “I understand I’m old, and you think I’m insane, but I’m clever enough to know what you did to him. Though it took time to figure it out.”
Saran stiffened, an uneasiness rolling through her. She kept the tremble of fear out of her features so that they remained as placid and dark as a stagnant barrel of water. “I did nothing to him.”
Yarin waved a finger at her, a crooked smile on his face. “While the Origin God cursed me with the Equitas for a daughter, it has come with the added benefit of you being a terrible liar.”
Saran stepped outside to where Lord Brenden awaited his orders. “See to it that the president of the Third has a safe journey home. There was an accident involving a fork, and he was injured. I believe he’ll wish to seek medical attention on the Third.” The Mage nodded with a toothless smile.
TWENTY-THREE
KELEIR EMERGED FROM heavy sleep with a ragged, wet gasp. He shot straight up from the floor, brushing his hands across his form as if expecting pieces to be missing. Ipabas were feared among most of the Mavahan people, but also worshipped and revered by others. There were rumors, where Adrid met Mavahan’s border, that some would steal pieces of those cursed with Orukes to be used in the only magic available in Mavahan: Dregs.
Dreg magic could be performed by those not blessed by the Core. Because Mavahan was cut off from the life and fertility of the planet, it did not allow for natural elemental magic. The magic available could be harsh and cruel, created from tangible means like plants, waste, blood, and bone. To those Dregs sorcerers, Ipabas were as divine an ingredient as anything in the world, and extremely rare. Those who practiced Dregs believed that parts of Ipabas made their magic work.
Keleir’s hands skittered over smooth naked flesh, with only a sparse remnant of cloth draped across his lap. He found all his limbs attached and, for the most part, unharmed. A hand curled at the top of his skull and drew the damp sack from his face, snatching with it a few strands of white hair. Blinding sunlight stole his vision, and he lifted his hands to shield his eyes. In the blur of the light and the effects of whatever those women had drugged him with, he could just make out the Alar sitting upon a stone chair at the edge of a balcony. Next to him stood his sister, Velora, the Keeper of His House. To her right were the women who’d accosted him.
“Ipaba dre dicaro Vel d’Ekaru,” the Alar said. He stared down his nose at where Keleir sat immodestly on the stone. “Detoro tag Deka z’Alaru.”
The balcony was shaded by a heavy red canopy, but it did little to keep out the heat. The stone scalded his skin, even sheltered from the sun.
“He says,” Luke’s voice piped up. He sat clothed and shackled just behind Keleir. “When this Oruke becomes the Living God, he will seek the Book of Kings. He asks if that is what you’ve come for.”
Keleir rested his forehead against his knee and wiped the sweat from his brow. “No. Tell him I am not the Vel d’Ekaru. Tell him I don’t know what book he speaks of, that I don’t seek it. Ask him to release you and the others. He may keep me, but no one else should be punished for my sins.”
Luke hastily translated Keleir’s words, but the dark expression on the Alar’s face did not lighten. He frowned and glared down at them. The Alar said another long line of words, so jumbled and fast that Keleir, who had picked up only a few Mavish words thus far, could not even find it remotely familiar.
There was hesitation in Luke’s voice. The young soldier shifted uncomfortably against the stone floor. “H-He, eh … the fact you do not seek the book does not disprove you are the Vel d’Ekaru, merely that you have not completely turned.”
The Alar went on, a clever smile creeping up his face. It was well-known that Mavahan were large followers of the Vel d’Ekaru religion. It was, after all, their language. Vel d’Ekaru, the Living God. It was Mavahan who brought the religion to Adrid, and Yarin who cultivated it. Once, the Alar made frequent pilgrimages to Adrid to commune with the Ekaru priests who waited in the land of magic for the Vel d’Ekaru to be born. Somewhere along the way, the Alar stopped believing. He stopped his pilgrimages, and the relationship with Adrid crumbled.
“The Living God will seek the Book of Kings ravenously,” Luke translated.
“You were expecting the Oruke?” Keleir muttered, looking down at the chains he wore. “Would you have bound him?”
“No,” the Alar replied in basic tongue. “I would not have lived long enough to do it.”
Keleir shook his head, his hands curling into fists. “Then unchain me if you know I mean you no harm! I am not the Vel d’Ekaru. I will never be him. I do not choose to be him!”
“It is not within your power to choose or not choose. It is an inevitability,” the Alar muttered. “I shared the same god as Yarin for many years until the Prophetess spoke to me as clearly as I speak to you. We are pawns, all of us, in a never-ending war between two creatures of time: the Prophetess with her champion, the Equitas, and the Oruke with his vessel, the Vel d’Ekaru. I will not let the Living God rise.”
Keleir relaxed on the floor. “So you plan to kill me?”
The Alar’s face twitched. He settled into his seat as if a heavy weight had fallen on him and crushed his limbs to the stone. “Unfortunately I cannot. I wish it were as simple as destroying the vessel, but the Oruke will live on. He is not fully bound to flesh and thus cannot be killed. He needs physical form, through and through, and even then I suspect he can live on. The safest thing to do is to keep you, as you are, in chains and imprisoned, until we find a way to purge the Oruke and destroy it forever.”
“Are you sure you’re not sore I stole your bride?” Keleir muttered with the hint of a smirk. “Seems like the easiest way to get rid of an Oruke is to kill him. What do you care if he comes back? By the time his next vessel is old enough to cause you any trouble, you’ll be long dead.” Keleir leaned forward. “Kill me.”
The Alar glared down at Keleir and leaned forward in his stone chair. “I would have brought Saran D’mor into my home. She is the Equitas and your destroyer. I would have protected her from you until she was strong enough to face you.”
Keleir groaned and stood in all his nakedness, casting his eyes about the room before settling a hard gaze on the Mavahan king. “She is strong enough.”
Luke coughed. The sound stole Keleir’s attention from the Alar. The young man avoided Keleir’s gaze for the obvious reason, his nakedness. The prince, who wasn’t the least bit ashamed, wrapped the cloth that had fallen away around himself.
“The Book of Kings,” Luke began, swallowing dryly. “It can only be opened by a king. It is a charter, a chronicle of recordings made by the rulers of the First. It exists outside of treaties and war. It never resides in one king’s hands for too long, as it contains the secrets of existence. A king, no matter how cruel, has never disobeyed that covenant.”
“Until it came to me a year ago from Droves,” the Alar muttered. “I will not see it go on to Adrid, not as long as I may live and breathe. Neither Yarin nor his replacement will hold that much power, even for a second.” The Alar turned to his sister, the Keeper of His House. “Velora, find the prince something comfortable to wear. He will be wearing it for a very long time.”
Keleir took a step toward the Alar, but the guards grabbed hold of him. “You cannot keep me here!”
“I can,” the king replied unsympathetically.
“My brother and my wife will not leave me here to rot!” Keleir warned.
“They will,” Velora said, her voice soft and musical. “If they think you’re content to stay here, which I’m sure was a concern of theirs given your predicament. Don’t worry, Prince Keleir, we will send your happy words and encouragement for a better future home to them.”
Keleir glowered at her before his expression softened to a wicked smile. “You will find I’m not easily contained, Keeper of His House.”
TWENTY-FOUR
WHEN ROWE WOKE, there was a fire crackling warmly in the bedroom hearth. Strange, as he’d managed to fall asleep as the last embers settled into ash. The roaring logs illuminated his quarters well enough to see the glittering gold titles on a stack of books he’d collected atop his desk. It also lit it enough for him to see the young, lithe, bald woman standing at the foot of his bed, her silhouette dark but familiar to him.
Her eyes opened, blinding white that spread until he could no longer see her. The power glowed from beneath her skin, and her clothes melted away until there was nothing left of her but a body of pure, endless light.
“Prophetess,” he cried, sitting straight in bed.
“Rowe,” the Prophetess greeted, her voice a flurry of low and high chimes all ringing together, like several versions of her speaking at once.
“It has been so long …”
Her chin lowered. If it weren’t for the light, he wondered if he would have found shame in her eyes. “I couldn’t—” The slump of her elegant, glittering form suggested great sadness in place of shame. She held that form for a moment longer before lifting her head and straightening her back, like a woman resigning herself to her duty. She lifted a hand and pointed a sharp, glowing finger at him. “Remember my words, Rowe Blackwell, and know that you will be betrayed. The Equitas cannot exist without the Living God. For the Equitas to live, so must the Living God rise.”
Rowe jerked as something hot or sharp scraped his chest. The room went dark, the fire in the hearth now as dead as when he’d first slept. There was no glowing woman at the foot of his bed, no sign that she’d ever been there at all. The only remnant that proved any of it had been real was the thin trickle of blood from the small scrape of a nail. It wasn’t an unfamiliar marking, she often left them so he would know the difference between imagination and divine appearance.
He threw the covers from his lap and wrapped his robe about his shoulders before going to his desk and drawing out a leather-bound journal from a squeaking drawer. He opened it, flipping through tattered parchment papers until he found the page he’d written the prophecy on some ten years ago.
The Three will be devoured by darkness, their cities will crumble, and their kingdoms will fall. The rulers of their nations will bring darkness to their lands. When the Vel d’Ekaru rises, the Equitas will come to balance time. They will be forged in pain and born from sleep. They will consume and become the Body of Life, and before them will fall the Hand of Strength and the Carrier of Power. The Soldier from the Eastern Mountains will fight with them, and the Prophetess will be their guide.
It was scribbled in faded ink but legible enough for him to read. He read it over and over before letting his eyes drift slowly to the counter prophecy, the prayer of the Ekaru priests.
When the Three are devoured by their darkness, He will see to the rise of the Oruke. Before the Vel d’Ekaru will fall the Body of Life, the Hand of Strength, and the Carrier of Power. The ashes of the Three will become One, and the Oruke will arrive in droves to purge the sickness from its soil.
Rowe frowned at the passages. They both spoke of the same three artifacts: the Body of Life, the Hand of Strength, and the Carrier of Power. Three legendary keys to the Three known worlds, and all hidden with no record of where to find them, at least none that he knew of. Each prophecy spoke of the hero or the villain gaining control of the artifacts.
The prophecies did little to concern him—he’d read them enough to become indifferent to them. He wasn’t sure why she desperately wanted him to recall them. Nothing had changed. His brother had grown darker and had fallen deeper into the Oruke’s clutches and closer to becoming the Living God.
What had changed?
Know that you will be betrayed …
Who would betray him?
He mulled over the two prophecies, both written from different ideological views. One spoke of a hero, and one spoke of the destroyer painted as a hero. For the Equitas to exist, so must the Living God rise. For the Equitas to live, the other had to …
He closed the leather journal with a hard thump and tossed it back into the drawer. Rowe and many others had always believed Saran to be the Equitas, the counter to the Living God. If this were true, Keleir would have to succumb to the Oruke or Saran would die.
TWENTY-FIVE
THREE MORE WEEKS came and went as swift as the passing of a storm, leaving just as much damage in its wake. Saran spent long hours on her balcony staring off at the sea, and Rowe took up his training duties in the barracks for the new recruits. They attempted, as best they could, to act as if nothing happened. But both of them, deep down, knew that something was terribly wrong.
When Keleir didn’t arrive home as expected, it caused little concern in the castle. Sometimes sandstorms swept across the desert and kept traveling to a minimum for days. When the second week passed from his scheduled return, even Yarin’s toes began to tap harshly and impatiently against the floor. By the third week a quiet resolve settled over Saran and Rowe like a pan-warmed blanket.
“We will do what we must,” she’d whispered, twisting the Bind about her wrist. “Then we will go find him.”
Saran was standing on her balcony, watching the sea, when she spotted the messenger pigeon arrive. She bounded up the well-worn west tower steps, clutching the cotton skirts of her day dress. Behind her, Rowe’s boots echoed as he gained ground, taking the twisting narrow stars two at a time, until he caught up to her. “It came from the south,” she said, her voice a breathless whisper.
“I know, but do not get your hopes up.”
“It is too late for that.”
The messenger, covered in feathers and bird dung, sat clutching a fluttering pigeon when they barged through his door. He’d barely begun to unroll the small note from its thin legs when they took it for themselves.
“That’s none of your—” The dark look that crossed Saran’s face, accompanied by the crackle of lightning in Rowe’s eyes, silenced the messenger. “Apologies, Your Highness.”
Saran hastily read the letter, two short lines written in careful script.
“I can’t return. Let me rest. I never wanted to be king. I’m sorry.” Her hands and voice trembled as she read the words aloud to Rowe. She passed the note to him, her eyes awash with tears.
Rowe read the letter for himself. He read it as many times as he could in the span of a minute while Saran collapsed into a dirty chair next to him. “At least we know for sure now,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied, careful to keep her face away from him. “Now we know.”
“It doesn’t look like his handwriting,” Rowe muttered.
“Would he dictate it?”
“Keleir doesn’t dictate anything.” Rowe read the words again. “He doesn’t mention anything about us.”
“Why would he?” Saran asked, lifting her eyes. “He expected the note to go directly to the king. He wouldn’t want Yarin to know that we might join him later or that we’re so heavily involved with the rebellion. You think I’m a prisoner now? We’d both be Bound or murdered if he knew.”
Saran remembered the messenger in the room. Her gaze locked on him, frowning. The messenger, old and thin with wild white hair, backed slowly away. “I won’t tell nothin’, Princess, I promise. Nothin’.”
Rowe’s form tensed, and he turned to Saran. “Deliver the message to your father.”
“Are you insane? Do you know what will happen if he thinks his prized Vel d’Ekaru won’t come back?”
Rowe pressed the note into her hand.
“It is either you tell him Keleir has abandoned you, or you risk him sending the army into Mavahan to retrieve him, which he may do anyway.”
Saran glowered at Rowe. “He won’t accept this.”
“And he won’t allow the silence that we’ve endured for weeks to go on any longer,” the Lightning Mage argued. “Go.”
Saran growled, shaking her head as her hand curled around the slender note. She said nothing more to the Lightning Mage, leaving him alone with the messenger.
When Rowe could no longer hear the gentle clack of her shoes down the stone steps, he turned to the old, white-haired messenger, electric blue crackling in his eyes.
“I promise,” the old man said. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Rowe stepped toward him, his frown deepening with remorse. “I know.”
TWENTY-SIX
YARIN GLOWERED AT the tiny, crumpled piece of parchment lying on his desk. His old brow wrinkled while his cane tapped irritably against the floor. “Run away?” he asked, glancing up at Saran. She stood across from him, her hands clasped in front of her, her sadness concealed by a mask of indifference.
“You have yourself to blame,” she whispered. “Insisting he is something he’s not. A king maybe, but the Vel d’Ekaru …”
Yarin shoved the note away and settled back in his chair with an angry frown. “Tyrinis Dago will not let him stay. Despite our recent disagreement, the Alar will honor the Ekaru.”
Saran took the chair across from him. “Why would the Alar honor the Ekaru?”
“We have our differences, the Alar and I, but there is one thing we share: the same god. He may have lost faith, but when he realizes who Keleir is, that faith will be reborn in him.” Yarin smiled at his daughter. “Keleir can’t escape his future.”
The princess hid the uneasiness from her posture, staring bored across the desk at him. “Father.” She sighed, resting her hands in her lap. “Can we discuss removing this Bind now? I’ve learned my lesson. At least I understand my place and why I’m useful to you. You’ve made Keleir king. I am happy with that decision, and the rebel in my heart has been tempered by the blessing of a strong husband—one that I love. Let me go into Mavahan and bring him home. He will listen to me.”
Yarin chuckled. “You can go to Mavahan if you wish, my beautiful daughter, but you will never approach Ahriman again without that Bind.”
“What’s so threatening about my element?”
“Everything,” Yarin replied, leaning his elbows against the desk. “I understand I’m old, and you think I’m insane, but I’m clever enough to know what you did to him. Though it took time to figure it out.”
Saran stiffened, an uneasiness rolling through her. She kept the tremble of fear out of her features so that they remained as placid and dark as a stagnant barrel of water. “I did nothing to him.”
Yarin waved a finger at her, a crooked smile on his face. “While the Origin God cursed me with the Equitas for a daughter, it has come with the added benefit of you being a terrible liar.”
