The Living God, page 23
“You cannot run from this! You cannot hide behind Lord Blackwell or Lord Ahriman’s demons. You cannot fix the broken and continue to break yourself, just as you can no longer shirk your path. A path chosen by blood and not heart, but none of us in this horrible, damaged world get the luxury of choice! Not even princesses! Sometimes we must be what we hate to do what is right.”
Saran stiffened. Sometimes we must be what we hate to do what is right. It was a variation of the mantra that Madam Ophelia had pushed on Saran since she was a little girl. Sometimes we must do what we hate to do what is right. Sometimes we have to be uncomfortable in order to make progress … in order to see a better outcome.
Madam Ophelia continued, “You have no idea how much the people here long for you. Do you truly think that all those residing under this roof are followers of Yarin? If you asked it of them, they would lay down their lives to make you queen. You, who turned time back to save them. You, who took beatings and imprisonment to protect them. You, who walk among them, eat among them, live among them, while their king rests comfortably upon his ill-gotten throne, sending them to slaughter. His madness has ruined this kingdom, and he means to ruin you.” The healer paused, letting her words sink through Saran like the cold of the dungeon managed to hours ago. “So I ask again,” the healer began, looming over Saran. “Have. You. Had. Enough?”
Saran stared unblinking at the stern woman, at the emotion welling in her eyes. This woman who, for as long as the princess could remember, had never shed a tear, never truly smiled, nor shown an ounce of emotion. She hid them behind a mask pulled tight.
“Yes.” The word burst out of Saran as if the healer had reached into her soul and snatched it out. “I have.” Her hands shook with anger, but not anger at Madam Ophelia, not even anger at her father. She felt angry with herself.
Saran had never wanted to be Yarin’s heir. She had never wanted to be queen. She wanted a cottage on a lake with the two men she loved, living their days out in peace. So she’d avoided that part of her life with every fiber of her being, because the closer attention she paid to it, the more she realized how inescapable it really was. She’d always, deep down, known the truth. There was no such thing as peace. Not for her. Not for Keleir. Not for anyone. Her life, and all the dreams beyond her reality, were a girl’s dreams. They had always been a girl’s dreams.
A part of Saran slipped away, passing like sand through her fingers. The dreamer in her quieted. Like the slow, graceful end of a season, the girl in her died.
The time had come, well past due, for her to be a woman.
No … that wasn’t it. She was a woman.
She needed to be a queen.
Saran stilled the quiver of anger in her hands and with clenched teeth shifted to stand. Her body throbbed from the effort, still reeling from last night’s beating.
The healer stepped back with a pleased smile and clasped her hands politely before her. “And what will you do?” she asked.
Saran took a slow, limping step toward the sunlight filtering in through the small, barred window in her cell. She admired the glint of dust dancing in the yellow beam. “In two days, Ishep Darshan will come to our walls with an army. If what you say is true, then have those who would wish me to be queen lower their weapons and join him. Those who would stand with Yarin will fall by our blade.”
THIRTY-SIX
KELEIR AND THE small band of Adridian men he led crept through the ziggurat, following the directions that Aleira had given him before parting ways to go to her husband. They wound their way up the staircase from the bottom level of the prison entrance to the middle level that connected the ziggurat to the arena. The prisoners he’d freed had spread out and gone ahead of them to cause chaos in the halls and to draw the attention of the few guards left on duty. The result was an empty and painless trek to the balcony that the Alar occupied with Xalen’s master, a few slaves, guards, and Luke Canin.
The knight sat in a chair just behind the Alar, a guard’s hand planted on his shoulder to keep him in check. Keleir peeked through the red curtains into the arena. The thundering roar of the crowd filled his ears and fed fire into his blood.
The rattling groan of the arena door opening told Keleir that Xalen’s opponent had arrived. He spotted the hulking Tomorron, with his white-painted skin and slicked-back black hair. He wore painted red marks across his cheeks and a leather cloth about his waist. Other than that, he was unarmored.
Tomorrons, like Droven warriors, refused the aid and restrictions of metal armor. It gave them an advantage in mobility, but a disadvantage in group combat.
While Xalen stood a tall man, the Tomorron stood a foot taller and twice as broad. Legend said that they interbred with giants that lived high in the mountains of Tomorro.
The Tomorron lifted a heavy wooden club tipped in long rusted nails. He slapped the smooth wooden side against the rough palm of his hand, a sneer curling his lip. Xalen’s chest rose with pride before his gaze turned to the space that the Alar occupied with his master and their private guards. He sought Aleira.
Xalen’s role in their escape was to deliver the greatest spectacle ever to befall Mavahan … at least until Keleir got his hands on the Alar.
The Droven Masodite choked up on his axe handle and held his arms out at his sides as a warrior greeting a warrior. The Tomorron did the same before rising to stand, if possible, even taller. The Tomorron warrior’s laugh carried across the arena before being silenced by a long, bloody blade protruding from his chest. The painted warrior stumbled forward and dropped his heavy club to the sandy earth. He reached behind him, struggling to pull the hilt of the blade free. Before he could draw it away, his knees buckled and he collapsed face-first into the dirt.
Behind the fallen Tomorron stood the lithe figure of Xalen Okara’s wife, a stern gaze creasing her beautiful brow. The crowd erupted in fury and delight, half hating and half loving the show. Aleira crossed the arena to meet Xalen, drawing the blade from the dead Tomorron’s back.
Keleir made a sound in the back of his throat, almost losing himself to irritation. That wasn’t part of the plan.
Xalen and Aleira greeted each other, pressing their foreheads together. They were too far for Keleir to hear what they said to each other.
Xalen and Aleira’s master leaped to his feet, raging at the guards to grab them. None of the guards in the stand or the arena bothered to move at his protests. Perhaps they all thought it part of the game?
A deep growl rumbled up from the Droven Masodite, and he turned from his wife, clutching his axe. He took three long, heavy strides forward, curling the axe behind him, and, on the third step, he heaved his body and the axe forward.
His master only had a second of realization to widen his eyes before the axe buried in his sternum, and he fell backward between his chair and the Alar’s throne.
The crowd erupted around him, the peasants rising to their feet with gleeful cheers. The guards, however, finally understood the point of the lord’s angry crowing. They jumped to their feet and pushed past the crowd to reach the sandy arena floor.
The guards posted in the arena box with the Alar rushed out into the hall, where Keleir and his men ambushed them before they could utter a sound of protest. Then they rushed the small group left on the balcony while the army below attempted to regain control over Xalen and Aleira.
The Challengers were surrounded by hundreds of spectators now fully aware of their betrayal. They moved through them, dancing as deadly razorlike tumbleweeds across the desert earth. The soldiers clustered around, hacking and slashing with little expertise. They fell in droves about the husband-and-wife Challengers until a shrill Mavish cry echoed over the clang of metal and cries of the wounded.
“Inak!”
Time in the arena shuttered to a standstill, and all eyes turned to the royal arena box where the Alar stood with his back pressed against the chest of the blood-covered Ipaba, a dagger held to his throat. “Inak,” the Alar repeated.
“Put down your weapons,” Luke Canin instructed in well-versed Mavish, standing at the Alar’s side.
THIRTY-SEVEN
KELEIR HELD THE ruler tightly, though the Alar did not struggle. The man heaved angrily in the Fire Mage’s grasp, too afraid of the blade at his throat to move. “They aren’t listening,” Keleir muttered, casting a glance to Luke. The knight shrugged and shook his head, offering no means for which they could gain control of the city other than pressure the Alar to order them to their knees. Keleir pressed the blade tighter to the Alar’s throat. “Order them to put down their weapons and accept defeat.”
The Alar growled. “So you are the Vel d’Ekaru. Clever actor.”
“I am Keleir Ahriman. Nothing more.”
The Alar turned a desperate glare on Luke. “You cannot let him be king! You cannot let him have the book. This is what he has always wanted! Don’t listen to him! He’s a demon.”
“Shut up!” Keleir barked. “I am not a demon. You brought this on yourself. You locked me away! You threaten Adrid.”
“He will take Mavahan’s throne. He won’t need the Adridian princess to make him king. He will have the book and with it he will have the Artifacts and keys to the universes beyond ours! He will destroy everything. Kill him. You know it is true! I see it in your eyes, boy!”
Luke’s eyes widened, and he turned an unsteady gaze on the Fire Mage. Keleir knew that look well. In seconds, he saw his ally morph into an enemy. He could see the unsettled uncertainty falter in the boy’s eyes as he tried to decide if killing him would protect the world.
“I’m not a monster,” Keleir spat. “I don’t want that stupid book. I don’t want to be king of anything. I just want Saran safe, and an army is coming for Yarin’s head in three days. They will kill her when they kill him, Luke. They will not care what it costs to see the king’s head piked.”
Luke swallowed and turned his eyes back to the Alar.
“Lies,” the Alar growled. “Lies! Clever deceiver. Demon!”
Keleir’s hand shook, and the dagger in his grip wobbled. Luke’s faith faded by the second, and the Fire Mage knew only one way to restore whatever the young turncoat had left …
Keleir gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes. If he killed the Alar, he would be their new king. Claim what is taken—the basis of all Mavish law. That is how this Alar got his power, and the Alar before him. It was the source of the Deadlands curse on their kingdom. The Alars of Mavahan had not been legitimate rules or bound to the Core since stealing the throne centuries ago from the rightful king.
If Keleir killed the Alar to earn his freedom, it would not look like freedom to Luke. Luke would see it as the Oruke grasping for power, and he would turn on the Fire Mage. Keleir would lose what allies he had in Mavahan, and he’d die well before reaching Saran.
“Fuck,” Keleir growled and drew the dagger away from the Alar’s throat. He took a healthy step back, tossing the blade away, and fell into the Alar’s throne with a heavy, sober sigh. Red eyes looked upon the king. Keleir could read the plan forming in the Alar’s mind as if he’d drawn out a map on his face in bright red ink. Keleir settled comfortably into the chair—his grave—accepting of the end after struggling for so long. Better to die a quiet man on a throne than a power-hungry villain.
The Alar snatched the dagger at his feet and lunged for Keleir.
Just as he meant to plunge the dagger into Keleir’s chest, a glinting sword swiped between them, and the Alar’s arm fell away from his body. It landed on the stone flooring with a splattering thump. The Alar screamed and stumbled back into the balcony railing. Luke shoved forward, driving his stolen, bloody sword through the Mavahan ruler’s belly. The Alar toppled over the arena wall, grasping hold of Luke’s tunic. The knight yelped and fell after him. The Fire Mage bolted from the throne as fast as his legs would carry and grabbed hold of Luke’s shirt. The fabric made a horrifying rip, but the Fire Mage managed to drag the knight back from the edge, and the Alar fell screaming to the earthen arena floor.
For a long while, Keleir could only hear the sound of his heart throbbing in his ears and Luke heaving great shocked breaths into his lungs. The poor young knight stared over the arena wall at the Alar’s lifeless body. Slowly Luke lifted his brown eyes to the soldiers around the arena pit and to the crowd in the stands. Luke worked to find his voice before so many eyes, and Keleir gave his shoulder a strong, comforting squeeze.
“Say it,” the Fire Mage goaded.
“I claim what was taken,” Luke said in quivering Mavish. The Fire Mage squeezed harder, like he was squeezing water from a flask, until Luke shouted, “I claim what was taken!”
The crowd murmured among themselves, the murmurs growing louder until they were deafening. Keleir held his breath as they turned angry. In his mind, he’d imagined this part to be the easiest. He imagined they would fall to their knees and accept a new king, as they had all the others before. But who would accept an outlander as meek as Luke Canin?
“Strength,” Keleir urged. “They will only respect strength.” He pushed Luke forward. “Be strong.”
Luke nodded. He bent and lifted the severed arm of the Alar and stepped toward the platform edge. He stood taller, if only by a bit, and held his head higher. He lifted the arm to the sky and cried his right to the people in their native tongue, “I claim what was taken! Blood on my hands. Body at my feet. I am Alar Luke Canin. I am your king.”
The arena went silent, as if every man, woman, and child had lost the ability to speak. They stared at Luke and then between themselves. One by one the people in the stands fell to bended knees, and one by one the soldiers lifted their swords and pressed the blades to their hearts.
Xalen and Aleira locked hands and dropped their bloodied weapons to the sand. They walked through the crowd of stone-still soldiers toward the arena gate and their freedom. It sat beneath the platform that the new Alar stood upon, and they had to step over the lifeless body of the old one to cross its threshold.
Beyond the arena, the sun began to drift into night. The day ended, and Mavahan welcomed its new king.
THIRTY-EIGHT
KELEIR HAD IMAGINED the Book of Kings to be grandiose, but it sat unassuming in his hands. Bound in plain, well-worn leather, void of ornamental gold filigree or hard iron locks to keep out prying eyes, it was thick and heavy. A black, eight-pointed star had been branded into the cover. Keleir held it while Luke watched nervously next to him. The Fire Mage admired all the details of the binding and the weathered edges of the pages but never bothered to open it. Legend said that only a king could open the book. Even still, the Fire Mage didn’t test it. He held it a second longer before handing it carefully back to the new Alar.
Luke relaxed, softening into putty as he clutched the book in his arms and passed it back to a servant who waited patiently next to him. “You don’t want it?”
“No,” Keleir whispered. “In fact, do as the old Alar said and ensure that I never have it.” He turned to Luke, the newly crowned Alar of Mavahan, and met his eyes. Luke had a hard time keeping the contact, but the Fire Mage persisted. “Never let that book fall into my hands. You will do me this favor, from now until I die. Never let it come to Adrid.”
Luke nodded, his face ashen. “I won’t.”
“Good.”
The new Alar turned his eyes to the floor. “I’d heard so many stories about you. I’d prayed to the Origin God that they weren’t true. I never believed my prayers would be answered. I was told that you and your brother were agents of evil, that you sought to corrupt our noble cause. I feel betrayed by my people and by my heart. I am so sorry to have thought ill of you.”
“Agents of evil?” Keleir smirked. “Rowe is anything but. We have devoted ourselves to righting the wrongs we made long ago. He, most of all, seeks atonement.”
Luke nodded, his face growing paler. He looked ill to the point that a servant pushed a chair behind him. He collapsed into it, clutching his head tight. “I’ve not been truthful with you.”
Keleir frowned at the boy. “What do you mean?”
“You have to go. Now. As soon as possible. You have to stop them.”
“Stop who, Luke?”
“Darshan, the rebels, you have to stop them. They’re going to kill him.”
Keleir nodded. “Yes, they’ll kill Yarin. That’s why I have to get back. As soon as I cross the border, I can Port there. I’ll make it if I leave tonight and ride the horse to its end.”
“No,” Luke said, loud and angry. “They’re going to kill your brother.”
Numbness seized Keleir. He couldn’t find the voice to ask, but Luke understood the shocked expression and continued, “Darshan planned to kill you both at Salara. But plans changed, and you went here instead. He sent me, not Princess Saran. He wants you and your brother dead so he can take Saran as queen and make his rule legitimate. He is going to kill your brother … and I was supposed to kill you.”
Keleir stumbled away, his feet heavy as he went to the wall and braced himself there. In two days there would be two battles, one in Salara and one in Andrian, and he wouldn’t be able to get to both. He couldn’t protect his wife and his brother.
Darshan intended for Saran to make him a legitimate king. That would offer her some protection. Rowe would be blindsided by the plot against him. He was the greater risk.
Rage burned in the Fire Mage’s eyes. After all that Rowe invested in doing the right thing, in believing in the rebel leader’s voice, he would be betrayed out of greed. Darshan never intended to give Saran the freedom of choice. He’d lured them into his web of lies, knowing he’d inevitably do to Saran what Yarin had done to her mother: use her to make himself king—one that the Core would accept.
“I have to go,” Keleir said, his voice too calm.
Luke nodded. “I’ll find the fastest and strongest horse for you.” He reached out to the Fire Mage. “I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t believe until today. You didn’t move to stop the Alar. You would have let him kill you rather than prove him right.”
