The Living God, page 2
“Of him?”
He looked away. “Of him.”
“What—”
“I’d rather not,” Keleir said. “Not tonight.”
Saran nodded and shut her eyes as the Fire Mage settled down next to her, tucking his face in the crook of her neck.
“Do you remember when you were a child and you’d first come to the palace? You had such terrible nightmares that your screams kept half the orphanage awake.”
“Aren’t you a little young to remember this?”
“I can remember it enough. I remember that I’d snuck out one night to visit Leila …” Saran paused at the sad memory of her now long-dead friend. “And I went by the boy’s dormitory out of curiosity. I heard this great wailing, so I crept inside and found you rolling on a cot in a closet where the older boys had stuffed you to muffle the noise. You looked miserable and frightened. I remembered how Madam Ophelia would hug me after having a nightmare, so I crawled into bed and gave you this great big hug.”
“Please don’t finish this story.” Keleir rolled onto his back, staring up at the canvas ceiling with an immense frown.
“You woke up, wrapped your hands around my throat, and nearly choked me to death,” she said, laughing. Keleir let out an exasperated groan.
Saran snickered and rolled over him, lying across his chest. “Now I can do this and live.”
“If that is a fond memory of me, I’ve been doing something very, very wrong.” Keleir’s jaw tightened. He reached up and brushed his fingers through her tangled ringlets. “I have come a long way since then. I am master of my body now—I have been for some time—and I thank you each day for it.”
Saran smiled, snuggling closer to him. Whatever connected them, whatever this feeling was that lit her soul aflame when he was near, it had brought them together. She had saved his soul from the creature inside him, and in that she had given him a new life.
She thought back to their first meeting five years ago—at least her first meeting with Keleir and not the creature inside him, the Oruke. It was weeks after the healers had mended her fire-ravaged body. She’d been burned, almost to death, reaching inside him to make his soul whole. At first she’d been utterly terrified of him, convinced he was still the creature that wanted her dead. But he wasn’t, and he’d vowed to repay her, vowed to atone. They’d quietly worked side by side against her father ever since.
Saran’s gaze drove into the canvas tent. Eyes wide with fear that she squelched before Keleir could sense it. No, it was more complicated than that. What she had done to save him … it tied her to him, to his sanity, and to his control over the Oruke. She had to be near him, and because of that she had learned to love him out of necessity. But somewhere along the way, she’d truly fallen for him.
Saran lay for an hour or more listening to the rhythm of his heart. With daylight creeping ever closer, she turned her thoughts to the next day.
“Tomorrow night, while the others sleep, we’ll leave to meet Darshan,” she said, settling on her side next to him. “I don’t know how Father will punish me for what I’ve done. It may mean I can’t meet with Darshan afterwards, so it has to be tomorrow, before we get back to Andrian.” Her words were a faint whisper pressed to his ear. The brush of her lips sent a shiver through him. Now planning escapes into the night to plot against the king was the last thing on his mind.
“Aye,” he said. He paused before adding, “I won’t let Yarin harm you.”
“It has been a long time since Father had me beaten. He’s gotten more used to psychological torture … which is why you have to stay away from me, Keleir. I do not want him knowing that I care for you as strongly as I do. He will use that against me.”
The Fire Mage turned his red gaze on her, glancing sidelong as he took a deep breath. “He knows we’re friends. He will not know we are lovers, but you cannot deny our friendship. We’ve been friends for five years. Since you gave me back control over this form.”
Saran nudged him with her nose. “Go, before someone wakes and finds you leaving … and do not port! You’ll set my covers afire.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” Keleir sighed. “But I’ll take the slow way if you insist.”
THREE
THE ARMY TRAVELED for the length of a day in a line three men wide and two hundred men long, with servants handling horse-drawn supply wagons trailing behind them. A gloomy gray sky poured rain in a torrent, soaking through wool cloaks and leather armor. Not a single joyous person remained among the lot of wet and travel-weary soldiers. By nightfall they were well and truly miserable.
They came to a large field where the army spread out, and the servants started pitching tents and building fires to warm chilled bones and prepare food.
Saran watched with a somber frown as her servant wrestled with the wet canvas. He grumbled curses under his breath in a language she barely understood, one derived from a homeland somewhere across the First and far from Adrid. She knew that if she wanted to, the Core would grant her the gift of understanding, but it felt like an invasion of his private grumbling. He had brown skin, perhaps Droven in origin. But Droven men were large and built like great stone walls, and her servant had the framing of a malnourished mine worker. He stopped his wrestling and turned his dark eyes on her.
“I don’t think the Princess of Adrid should have her tent on the outskirts of camp. That’s all I’m saying, Your Highness.” He was a thin boy, barely a man. Saran pitied him even as she appreciated his loyalty. She had no choice when it came to servants. She’d rather not have any at all, but he had adamantly volunteered for the position when the roster went up in the great hall. She suspected he thought it better to serve her than the others.
“When I need a washroom, I shall not lift skirts or draw down pants among men. I will have discreet access to a bush, and no one will talk me out of it.”
The servant blew air through his nose and, shaking his head, went back to pitching the tent. She had no need to understand his language; the sideways glance he gave her proved a perfect translation for his garbled speech.
The battlefield is no place for the sole heir of a kingdom, least of all a woman.
War. Battle. Her father had granted her the freedom to fight among men without question. The King of Adrid took pride in a powerful heir, one who commanded respect among his military and was feared by his people. He didn’t consider the possibility of losing her in battle. His breast was too full of hubris, too high on his own glory to assume that he would ever know failure.
Near her tent, a few soldiers fought with damp wood in the hopes of building something to warm themselves with. They’d managed to start a withering flame and were taking great care in coaxing it to a fuller life. Saran rubbed heat into her arms as she sat around the fire with them, watching as they burned shredded pieces of fabric from their own packs in the hopes of keeping the flame hot.
Keleir’s tall form stepped out from the crowd and up to the pit, where he waved his hand over the flame. The fire roared up in a great whoosh, startling the soldiers bent so close to it. Except for a hooded form sitting on a wet log across from him, the gathered men gave a great yelp and abandoned the pit. Saran sat perfectly still, enjoying the rush of heat over her cold cheeks. She chuckled as the startled men found another pit to invade, one with fewer Mages around it.
The princess’s gaze fell on the seated man who chose to stay in their company. She saw the edge of a smirk pull at his lips beneath the shadow of his hood. “Rowe,” she said, greeting him with a smile. He lowered the cloth now that the mist had stopped and the fire burned warm. He was the same tall, broad man with blue eyes and black hair, who just the day before kept Odan from breaking her nose.
He gave a gentle nod in her direction, folding his arms and bracing them across his drawn knees. “Princess.”
Keleir took a seat on the split log between them, a self-satisfied smile plastered on his handsome face. “Pity they didn’t stay. The fire’s quite nice now.”
Saran chuckled and held her hands up to the flames. “Thank you. We are lucky to have a Fire Mage on days like this.”
“We made camp early today,” Rowe said. “I guarantee the men will be drunk and singing within the hour. Sleeping soon after.”
True to form, the men did exactly as Rowe promised. The clouds parted to a bright, moonlit sky full of stars, and they danced beneath it in fits of laughter.
Saran ducked off to change into dry clothes. When she returned, Rowe and Keleir had big, wide grins and pints of ale in their hands. Keleir held two, drinking from one and holding out the other for her.
“Pickings are slim now. All that’s left is piss ale,” he said, lifting it higher. “Drink up and sit down. Food is almost ready.”
Saran arched an eyebrow and turned up her nose at the foul-smelling liquid. “You really know how to sell a drink, Lord Ahriman. Unfortunately I’m not so eager to get drunk.”
“Pour it out,” Keleir whispered from behind his mug with a mischievous smile. “That’s what I’m doing.”
Her lips parted, but his narrowed gaze clamped her mouth shut. Rowe gave her a wink from across the fire, drunkenly slinging out his arm and sloshing the ale across the earth.
“I’ve had three of these! I feel nuttin’.”
“Then have three more!” someone shouted from far back in the camp.
Saran laughed, taking up the ale and pretending to sip. She choked on a gag from the smell, and after faking her drink, she gently placed the mug near her boot. They spent the rest of the evening laughing at Rowe, who, while not truly drunk, gave a good show of acting so. He stumbled around from person to person, draping his long arm over their shoulders and leaning all his weight upon them. He would speak for a few minutes and go to another who caught his eye. Eventually he skipped clumsily back to the fire, dropping his empty mug by a log. Then, with a huffing laugh, he stumbled around the fire and held out his hand to Saran.
“Dance with me!”
Saran stretched her legs across the earth, comfortably leaning back. “No.” Her green gaze fluttered up from the fire, narrowing on him. “You’re drunk.”
“Dance with me.” He pushed his hand farther toward her, curling his fingers in and out.
Music filtered down from the other end of camp. It had been playing all night without her noticing, but suddenly the sound seemed so much louder. Soldiers stood together in a group playing lively tunes with mismatched instruments.
Rowe stared down with bright eyes and a handsome smile. He nudged her with his hand and then reaffirmed his commitment by motioning to the small area with just enough room to dance. They were near in age, and both only a few years younger than Keleir. Looking at Rowe’s dark hair and bright eyes, it was hard to imagine them brothers. Then again, Keleir looked little like any man she’d ever seen. She wondered if the Fire Mage would boast the same black hair and blue eyes had the Oruke not stolen him as a vessel.
Saran huffed. “Fine!” Lumbering to her feet, she kicked over the full mug of ale as she passed.
Rowe curled his arm around her waist, giving a rough tug forward, and grinned devilishly down at her.
Saran’s green eyes lingered on him as his hand smoothed down her lower back. “Watch it, my lord. I’ll turn that arm to dust.”
Rowe’s grin broadened, and he carried her off, spinning about the fire with little care for falling in. She laughed as he tugged her along, not sure of her feet in this unrehearsed number. It was the type of dance one did in a bar after too many drinks, and Saran was unaccustomed to such merrymaking. She wasn’t too familiar with courtly dances either, as her father did not host the same balls and banquets that other rulers might throw from time to time. Saran was not the type of princess who attended etiquette classes. She ate like a commoner, danced like an invalid, and fought like a man.
Abruptly the musicians transitioned into a less brassy song. Their instruments, poorly tuned and unevenly distributed, left the air filled with a shrill wailing song that wasn’t fast enough to waltz to, but too slow and bad to enjoy.
Rowe led her in slower circles near the fire. His hand curled gently around hers while his hips swayed close. His face beheld a dreamy smile and his eyes roamed over her.
“What is this?” She sighed, aware of the intimacy in his movements.
“Keleir told me you were concerned that people might think you lie with him,” he whispered into her ear. “So I’m letting them think you lie with me.”
She shot a dark glare to Rowe’s older brother seated nearby. “This isn’t any better.”
“It’s better than him, isn’t it?”
“No.” Saran pulled her hand away and stepped back. She stood straight and regal, her head held high as any royal’s. Pride was the only thing she shared with nobles. “Thank you for the dance, Lord Ahriman …”
“Blackwell,” he corrected. Reminding her that while he shared the same blood as Keleir, he did not share the same cursed name. Ahriman, a surname given to all children born with an Oruke inside them, was Mavish for darkness.
“Lord Blackwell,” she whispered, going back to her damp log.
Keleir eyed her from where he sat and brushed his drying white hair from his face. She knew he’d heard their exchange, but he made no move to justify his brother’s willingness to throw himself before a sword. Rowe’s nature could be self-sacrificing and noble, just as much as he could be exceedingly selfish.
“Well,” Rowe exhaled, stretching. “I’ve been shunned by a beautiful woman and had more than enough to drink. I’ll sleep now.”
“Don’t feel so bad, lad,” said a soldier as he patted Rowe’s shoulder. “I know a couple of pretty castle maids who will be happy to comfort you when we’re home.”
Rowe cupped a hand over his heart. “Thanks for the kindness, but I’m afraid I only have eyes for one.”
“Oh, stop the melodramatics,” Saran spat. She glared across the fire at him. “You are lucky I danced with you at all. If it weren’t out of pity for hurting a drunken man’s feelings, I’d have left you be. I’ll not pity you again, that’s for sure. Now off with you. Sleep the drink off, you louse.”
Rowe’s blue eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a tight line. He gave a gentle nod. “Forgive me.” He left through the parting crowd, much like a wolf with his tail between his legs.
Keleir took a real gulp of ale, wincing at the taste. “Well, that was lovely.”
Saran angrily tossed a twig into the fire. “I won’t have him sacrificing himself to preserve our …” She tossed another and another, never bothering to finish her sentence.
Keleir nodded. “I do not want him sacrificing himself either. He gets these ideas in his head … I don’t know where they come from. I wish he’d consult me f—”
“He gets them from you. If you would not tell him about our conversations, he would not feel it necessary to throw himself upon the sacrificial altar to preserve our …”
Keleir let out a heated laugh. “You can’t even say it.”
“What?”
The Fire Mage leaned toward her with a tight smile. “Our relationship.”
“Shh!”
“If you say it, someone might hear. They might drag me off with a bag over my head. You’re afraid I’ll be assassinated or tortured by your father. After all, it would be one more thing he has to control you with.” The fire grew taller and wider. It ate up the wet earth as though it weren’t soaked and muddied. “I do not fear him or his Ekaru priests. If I wanted, I could slay him in a breath, and you know it. I could go there tonight and end this war.”
Saran bent and searched the Fire Mage’s eyes. She found the dreadful black of the Oruke sweeping across the whites. She called to him.
“He’s a weak, pathetic, old, and diseased man who hurts you because he believes he has power over you. I will not stand for the fear you have of him. It is misplaced. He is nothing to be afraid of!”
“Keleir!”
The Fire Mage stiffened, and the black that had threatened to take him over receded in a flash.
“Calm,” she whispered, touching just beneath her eye. A signal to him that he needed better control. She wanted to wrap her arms about him and ease his rage in the way only she could. The anger did not belong to him—not entirely, at least.
The Oruke’s malicious presence writhing inside him fueled that rage. That sliver of connection, that blind and consuming rage, was the only thing the creature could slip out anymore since she’d walled it away.
Keleir touched his cheek. He swallowed hard and gave a harsh nod, burrowing down into his cloak and glaring at the weakening fire.
Once Keleir seized control of his anger, Saran turned her attention to the neighboring group gathered around the fire next to them, wondering just how much of the conversation they’d heard. When she met their eyes, they looked away, one by one, until all of them buried their heads in music and ale for the rest of the night. An agonizing silence settled between Keleir and Saran. When the silence grew too uncomfortable, she stood, tugging the cloak tightly about her shoulders, and headed off to the comforting darkness away from the fire.
Night drew on, and the camp went quiet. When only a few remained awake, Saran emerged from her tent and went into the forest where Rowe and Keleir waited, cloaked in wool and shadow, among the trees.
“Wear your hood,” the Fire Mage ordered, tugging the dense fabric over her head.
“They already know who I am,” she countered, but she let the hood stay as he settled his warm hands on her shoulders.
“Darshan might, but there could be people in that camp that do not understand why you’re there. I don’t want them thinking they have an opportunity to assassinate the Princess of Adrid. It will end our relationship with the rebels if I find I have to put my sword through another’s heart. Do me this favor.”
She scowled. “I don’t really think anyone knows what the Princess of Adrid looks like.”
“They know she has hair of fire. That’s enough.”
“Lots of people have this color hair.”
