The Living God, page 22
Darshan pursed his lips together and turned his head toward the opening at the back of the wagon. “We will not deviate from our plan. We’ve prepared months for this. You will go to Salara, Rowe. That is an order.”
Rowe frowned, studying the older man’s indifferent form. Orders. He hated them, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from questioning who Darshan thought he was to give them to him. “You’re risking much, Ishep.”
“I will risk it all!” Darshan replied, ocean-blue eyes turning from the muddied road to the turncoat Lightning Mage. “With the Prophetess on our side, we cannot fail, and she has spoken of our victory. You said so yourself, my son. You are the voice of her visions. After the battle of Salara, the kingdom will fall. It matters not how Salara ends. Once it is over, we will have our victory. It is foretold.”
“She hasn’t spoken those words in years, Darshan, and she came to me again with a warning. She said, ‘Remember my words, Rowe Blackwell, and know that you have been betrayed. The Equitas cannot exist without the Living God. For the Equitas to live, so must the Living God rise.’”
Darshan waved away his words. “She did not mention that we would fail in Salara, and you were betrayed, Rowe. Your brother abandoned you, abandoned us. He gave in to his own weakness, and now we are not one, but two Mages short. His betrayal is what she speaks of. Can’t you see it, or are you still blinded by your love for him? Your brother is dead and has been dead since before he took his first breath in this world. If he wasn’t, he is now. Her words speak truth to his lies. If I cannot convince you, perhaps she will.”
Rowe felt a cold hollowness swallow him, colder than the rain-soaked clothes he wore. It reached in and wrapped around his heart. He slumped along the wagon wall, the world growing heavy around his shoulders.
Of course, he thought. That made far more sense than every other scenario he’d driven into his mind. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? It was a warning, and it had come before Keleir sent his letter proclaiming his abandonment. He felt so blind. The truth had been right before him all along.
The Lightning Mage struck the side of his fist hard against the wagon wall once, twice—over and over until a thunderous growl left him heaving heavy breaths into his lungs. Darshan did not flinch at his anger, but instead curled his lips into a knowing smile. “Are you ready to believe, my son?”
Rowe shook with rage, and pained tears blurred his vision. His brother, who had taken him under his wing, who had taught him to slaughter and enjoy it, who had turned his life around and swore himself to the path of redemption, had turned away from that vow. He’d turned away from his wife and, unknowingly, their child. He preserved himself in the Deadlands and left them to die at Yarin’s hands.
He took a deep, calming breath. The crackle of electricity in his eyes dimmed. “I am ready.”
THIRTY-FOUR
BLINDING GOLD LIGHT fell down the long square shaft, warming Keleir’s face. He stood just beneath the opening, his arms relaxed at his sides, his head tilted back, and his eyes peacefully closed. The warmth of the sun chased away the chill dungeon air, and the hot wind blowing through the shaft smelled of salt. He imagined himself on the edge of the ocean, basking in the midday glow and relaxing along the shore with Saran and Rowe, just as they’d always dreamed. He could just see the small cabin nestled in the trees at the edge of the shore, where he would live with them, peacefully away from the Oruke. He smiled at the dreamy picture of what he’d never have.
Even without the ominous presence of the beast in him, he knew that it was too late for that. Once he returned to Adrid, the Oruke would be in control.
Besides, he was unlikely to survive the day.
He opened his eyes and let his gaze fall to the sandy dungeon and his malnourished neighbors. They minded their own business, as usual. None of them really liked him; they were too frightened of him to bother trying to make conversation, not that they would understand each other anyway. They were even more terrified to approach him now that he’d become friends with Xalen Okara.
Well, not exactly friends, he thought, but as close to friendship as Keleir was ever really able to get. Not for lack of trying, but no one liked an Oruke, least of all trusted one enough to befriend. He also wasn’t blind to the Droven man’s interests, and it didn’t bother him that they were selfish. After all, Keleir’s initial interactions had been for his own personal gain. But he’d grown to know the man in a very short time, mostly due to the Droven Masodite’s peculiar knack for verbal vomit. If their friendship managed to carry any further than the stone walls that surrounded them, he would be sure to never tell Xalen a secret that needed to be kept. He counted his blessings from whatever god would have him that the warrior had kept the plans of their escape to himself and their party thus far.
In the distance, the faint roar of the crowd filtered down the shaft. He imagined Xalen Okara taking to the arena to play his part. According to Aleira, the entire palace, save the most necessary of guards, went to watch the Challengers fight. Xalen promised a spectacle to keep them entertained while the rest of Keleir’s plan played out.
The Fire Mage flinched and stumbled as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder without warning. His red eyes flashed to the short, thin man standing next to him with a crooked grin and one blind eye. The old man pointed to the light and then motioned with his fingers like a rat scurrying across the floor. His smile broadened, revealing two rows of rotted teeth. He slapped Keleir’s shoulder again and nodded to the light.
“You want me to climb it, don’t you?” the Fire Mage asked the old man. He knew the Mavish man didn’t understand him, and despite that the old man laughed and nodded. Perhaps he understood the tone in Keleir’s voice. “Just to see me fall?”
The old one let out a wheezing laugh and scurried his fingers across the air.
Keleir shook his head and turned his face to the sky. “Nah.” He sighed. “Not today.”
Keleir ignored the old man as he kept poking at him, shifting to avoid his prodding jabs. In the midst of the bright light of the shaft, the Fire Mage spotted a shape toppling through the air. He grabbed hold of the old man and took three steps back just as an armored body plowed hard into the earth, crumpling onto itself feet first. Dust and grit filled the air. The old man coughed, raking his hand across his tongue to wipe the dirt off. He gave Keleir several hard pats on the back, tears in his eyes. He might have been crazed, but he knew gratitude.
The unexpected body brought a confused snort from the Fire Mage.
“Well, that is one way to get me a key,” he admitted, glancing to look at the old man. “Good work, Aleira.”
The body’s arrival attracted his cellmates, but the old man seemed the only one brave enough to get closer. Keleir knelt and began to remove the unfortunate guard’s belt, which held a ring of keys, a sword, and an empty dagger sheath. He helped himself to the dagger lodged in the guard’s mouth.
“I’m going to assume you deserved this fate,” the Fire Mage told the body.
The prisoners watched, silent and curious, as Keleir wrapped the belt around his own waist and buckled it. He took the knife and made a deep cut across the dead man’s throat. Blood spilled fresh, and he cupped his hands in it. He took the blood and splashed it over his head so that it spilled down over his face in red rivers. The crowd around him took a frightened step back.
Well, all, except the old man.
They whispered among themselves about the Ipaba. The cursed. Keleir did not need to know their language to understand what they thought of him or what he intended to do with the blood. That reaction was of course exactly what Keleir wanted. Among their heated whispers, he heard it. The word he would use to get everything he wanted from them.
Dregs.
Blood magic.
He had no real power, not in this place. He didn’t even know how to use blood magic, but he did have the gift of illusion, manipulation. He would use that to the fullest of his ability. They called him Ipaba, and that had power in and of itself. If he could convince him that he knew Dregs, perhaps the language barrier wouldn’t be an issue, and they would follow him whether they understood him or not.
Keleir stood up, awash in blood, and drew the sword at his waist. He held his bloody hands in the air, one brandishing the dead guard’s sword and the other grasping a ring of bronze keys. In an ill-practiced tongue, he cried the words taught to him by the Droven Masodite.
“Dejeko tamaron os preve! Ru og preve! Deloro mak!” Your path is freedom. I am freedom. Follow me.
The prisoners viewed him with blank stares, and part of him began to wonder if Xalen had lied to him about the meaning in those words. He waited a minute longer to gauge their reaction before he turned for the staircase leading up out of the pit. A twinge of disappointment bit at him. He doubted he would make it very far beyond the door without some sort of help.
When he reached the exit, he heard a soft padding of feet behind him. The old man, wearing a bloody handprint on his face, peered around Keleir at the door. Those who were free from chains stood over the dead guard and swiped their hands across the blood, painting their faces with it. Keleir wondered if they thought it gave them power. The trick had been to paint the facade of a Dregs magician.
And it worked.
Keleir choked up on the handle of the short sword he carried and slipped a key into the lock. On the loop there were many keys, but he’d paid very close attention to the ones the guards used to get in and out of the room, and he’d made sure to corroborate his findings with both Luke and Xalen. He knew the key, or at least he felt very confident in his observation.
Long, pointy-tipped, no middle bit, three grooves on the front, two on the back.
He knew he had at least three chances before the door swung open and a guard ran him through.
The Fire Mage held his breath, and the door clicked open. On the other side, wide-eyed guards sat clustered around a table, drinking ale from mugs and playing a round of chips.
Keleir was no stranger to fighting or killing, but he had promised Saran he would be a better man. He’d promised he would not kill unless to preserve his own life. He’d done very well with that promise for five years. But now he would break it.
He would kill.
Because he had to.
In the span of seconds, the shock wore off of the guards. They leaped from the table and brandished their weapons. Keleir spotted the remainder of the royal entourage that had accompanied him to Mavahan crammed into cells just behind the guards. A roar erupted from them in a tongue he could understand. They cried out for their prince to save them.
The Fire Mage greeted the first guard, swinging down on him with a hard, punishing whack. The metal in his hands felt light, the sword more ceremonial than useful. It shattered once it met real steel. Even fragmented, Keleir used it to his advantage and stabbed the man with the broken blade.
Behind him, a flood of blood-painted and ragged men flowed into the room, their numbers overpowering the small party just beyond the door. When all the guards had fallen to beaten piles on the floor, it still took several long, agonizing seconds for Keleir to come down from the rush of fear and adrenaline. When he did, he found they had successfully accomplished the first step to freedom. He stood over the bodies, heaving cooling breaths into his lungs in a desperate attempt to calm his blood. His hand clutched the broken sword, white knuckles bared and bright. The man he’d stabbed groveled on the floor, clutching a merciless wound to his gut. He’d die … slowly.
Keleir knelt near him and placed a hand on the top of his head. “I will not let you suffer,” he told the guard, who quivered from pain and the fear of death. The guard begged, the words incoherent noise to Keleir. He wondered what he looked like to the guard, his face covered in blood and his eyes the color of it. He looked exactly as people had always seen him: a demon.
“I’m sorry,” the Fire Mage murmured to the Mavish man. He took up the guard’s sword and pressed the tip over the dying man’s heart. Keleir pushed down quickly, ending his suffering the best way he knew how.
Keleir had slaughtered whole villages with a smile, long ago when his mind was not his own. This death, however, marked the first he’d taken with his own hands. It didn’t feel natural to him. Guilt twisted his gut worse than when he thought back to those hundreds of lives he’d taken in the blurred fragments of the Oruke’s memory. For the first time in his life, his hand quivered around a blade.
“Prince Ahriman!”
Keleir lifted his gaze to an Adridian soldier reaching through the bars to him. The prince took the large ring of keys hanging on a hook near the cells and went through them, one by one, while the prisoners he’d freed waited patiently for him. It seemed they still counted him their leader. When he found the correct key, he quickly went about freeing his men, who rallied around him with joy.
“Don’t sing my praises yet,” Keleir muttered. “We still have a ways to go before we reach any sign of an exit. We are lucky that fortune smiles on us. The biweekly games are being held, and a majority of the occupants will be in the arena. That works to our advantage in two ways, limited guards in the palace, and the Alar is confined to a central, inescapable location.”
One of the Adridian soldiers smiled. “Do you mean to take Mavahan?”
“The Alar committed an act of war by locking away the future King of Adrid,” Keleir replied, stern eyes staring into the floor. The Alar would not let him go. He knew well enough the power of a man driven by prophecy. “Adrid cannot afford another war. We will never win a direct fight with Mavahan.”
“What do you suggest?” another asked.
“We win by different means,” Keleir replied, boasting a clever smile. “At the end of this day, Mavahan will have a new king.”
When Keleir opened the groaning exterior door of the prison to the first level of the ziggurat, he stopped short of Xalen Okara’s warrior wife, Aleira. Her blue eyes peered like sharp diamonds through strands of brown hair. Blood splattered her tan face. She stood surrounded by four dead guards, wiping their blood off her sword on the fabric of her rust-colored dress.
“This better work, Ipaba,” Aleira warned, lifting her gaze to him.
Keleir smiled. “Can you translate for me? I’ve got some orders to give.”
THIRTY-FIVE
THE DUNGEON DOOR groaned open, remaining ajar for a long time before Madam Ophelia stepped into the room. The guard who dutifully watched the healer the day before did not follow her inside and closed the door behind her. The older woman stood tall and regal in her gray healer’s dress, her white apron pulled snug around her narrow waist. She clasped her hands before her and turned a pitying look on the princess.
“I told him this conversation was personal,” she said, answering Saran’s unspoken question. “He agreed to wait outside. Obviously a healer cannot hope to help you escape.”
“Obviously,” Saran muttered, sitting with her back against the wall. Her breath caught in her throat. She hurt, but she’d felt truer pain than this before.
Madam Ophelia stepped forward and stood just before the straw mat that made up Saran’s small bed. “You do not carry a child.”
Something dropped in Saran, settling in the pit of her stomach before swelling in her breast. Her physical pain replaced itself in a wash of heated blissful relief. “I don’t?”
“No,” the healer replied, her voice an edge darker than before.
Too many emotions ran through Saran’s mind in seconds for her to make any sense of what she felt about the revelation. A momentary pang of sadness fluttered through her breast at the thought of what might have been, but it warred with undeniable solace. Someday she would like to be a mother, but not today. Not when her life was so unsteady and dangerous. It left little room for a child. If anything, it would be cruel to bear one into her personal hell.
“This pleases you?” Madam Ophelia asked.
Saran glanced up from her thoughts. The healer looked primmer than usual, and the princess thought she spotted a hint of disdain in her eye.
“I’d be lying if I said that it doesn’t make me happy,” Saran replied. She willed herself to think no more of a child that had not been and would not be real for some time. Perhaps if she were someone else, someone with the luxury of time …
Saran snorted at the thought. How funny to think she once controlled time the same way a potter shaped clay. Now she had no power. She had no control. Even if she had, there was no room to mourn the loss of something that had not been real when she needed to escape a dungeon. She forced indifference into her voice and stretched her aching legs out in front of her, “I have no time for children.”
A glimmer of light appeared in the healer’s eyes. She straightened, a tall woman growing ever taller with pride. “And have you had enough?”
Saran cocked her head. “I’m sorry?”
Madam Ophelia took another step forward and peered down at Saran with a sharp gaze. “Have you had enough of this abuse? Enough of your father’s depravity? Have you had enough of your complacency in it, and are you finally willing to accept what you were born for?”
Saran pressed her hands into her sore cheeks and smoothed her hair back. “I swear, if you give me a speech about destiny, I will kill you.”
“I know nothing of your destiny, Saran D’mor, but I know of your bloodright.” The healer bent ever so slightly down to her. “For years I have watched you and waited. I have patiently tended your wounds. I have healed every strike that crossed your flesh that you could not reverse. I soothed your flame-ravaged body after you faced the Oruke in Lifesbane. I have yearned for you to take what is your right and burned for you to free yourself from the boot of your father. I have forever been your quiet supporter since the moment that I helped bring you into this world. I cannot be quiet anymore.”
The princess lost her words. She had them on the tip of her tongue, and they fell away. The revelation stole the protest from her, and the healer took great advantage of it, along with another step forward. The woman nearly stood on top of Saran.
