The Living God, page 24
By midnight, Luke’s men found a healthy black horse that the stablemen claimed to be the youngest and fastest of them all. Xalen, Aleira, Luke, and the other surviving Adridian party members that had traveled to Mavahan waited to send Keleir off. The Fire Mage ordered the Adridian soldiers to stay behind and ensure a peaceful transition for Luke. He firmly believed that assassins loyal to the dead Alar would attempt to take the young man’s life and, if the assassins didn’t, some other Mavahan noble might.
Xalen Okara wrapped Keleir in a burly hug that nearly suffocated the Fire Mage. “Ipaba isn’t so bad!” He laughed at the struggling man. “Not bad at all.”
Aleira offered Keleir a smile and curt nod, less warm and inviting than her husband. “Thank you, Ipaba.”
“I have a name, you know,” Keleir grumbled under his breath.
“Thank you, Keleir,” Xalen returned, his jubilant demeanor growing more serious. “Truly. You kept your promise. We are free.”
“And you will stay free,” Luke added. “I’m going to free all of the slaves.”
“One step at a time,” Keleir told him, clasping hands with the new Alar. “I’d like to see you stay in power.”
“I’ll phase it out,” the young Alar corrected with a dim smirk.
“Be strong,” Keleir replied. “Predators devour the weak.”
Luke nodded.
Keleir mounted the black horse and seated himself comfortably in the saddle. He gripped the reins and turned the stallion toward the city gates. “If we ever meet again, friends … I may not be the same. Remember that. Should my shadow darken your door, forget your fondness, forget my help, and kill me as you would any other man who threatened you. Believe me when I say it would be a mercy.”
The Fire Mage did not allow them to argue. He tore across the desert, a speeding black shadow across pale, moonlit sand.
THIRTY-NINE
SARAN WATCHED THE dust dance in the sunlight. It was all she had to do for two days since speaking with Madam Ophelia. She found it soothing to watch the tiny sparkling particles, their glimmer a slight reminder of the magic she’d been without for months. Her magic danced like gold sparks when it wasn’t invisible to the naked eye.
She missed it.
With her power, she could topple empires. She could’ve ended the war a long time ago. She could’ve rid the kingdom of her father, taken the throne, and turned back the awful tide of destitution and corruption that had ruined the land. Despite how much she hated and thought ill of her father, she truly was no better than him.
He selfishly spoiled the land, and she selfishly ignored it.
The realization weighed heavy on her heart. How many battles could have been prevented? How many lives saved, if she had only the courage and strength to accept a path she never wanted to tread? What good could have come from giving up the lust for freedom?
Madam Ophelia’s words struck deep in her soul and marred the polished brand of pride she’d woven like armor around her identity. Saran had run from her blood as long and as far as she could, and it only made matters worse instead of better. Maybe that was the lesson in all of this? Running from what you are does little good.
Saran felt ill prepared for being the leader of an entire kingdom, even if she’d spent her life hearing the title princess wrapped around her name. She’d never learned the art of tactful diplomacy so needed in successful rulers. If anything, she fearfully carried her father’s stubborn, unyielding ways. Saran was not graceful. She was not well-read, aside from spell books. She had never been tutored in anything but the basics of academics, war, and magic. Now that she thought about it, Yarin had only ever seen her as a means to get another man power. It explained why he’d never devoted much time to improving her life.
Saran lacked all the qualities to make a good queen, and perhaps that was why she’d run from it for so long. She carried the fear of being just as horrible as the man who spawned her. His blood, his derangement, flowed in her. It had all the potential to corrupt her into his image.
Though, there were qualities she possessed that her father did not. They offered the hope of salvation from becoming what she hated. Saran possessed goodness, courage, and love. She carried the light of her dead mother, Rebecca Vanguard, a woman she did not know, and all the qualities of her ancient house. She knew nothing of the Vanguard family, for they had been stripped from history within the walls in which her father raised her. He’d forbidden anyone to speak of them. But their blood flowed in her just as strongly as the D’mor line.
Saran focused on one sparkling particle in particular as it twisted in the air and caught just a bit more light than the others. She was the last tiny spark of the great Vanguard family that had ruled Adrid for thousands of years. Whatever she wanted, whatever she desired, she couldn’t run from that blood either.
The people of Adrid had loved the Vanguards, and while they hated Yarin D’mor, she was still the granddaughter of Dante Vanguard. If she could convince them that his blood was stronger than Yarin’s, maybe she could win them over.
Saran didn’t know if there was such a thing as life after death. She was raised in the religion of the Vel d’Ekaru, though she’d stopped attending services when she was old enough to speak her mind. Darshan believed in the Prophetess and the Core. He said that when the living died, their energy returned to the Core to be one with the life of the world. He claimed the dead could hear the living if they were spoken to and called by name. Saran had little faith in religion. She liked to believe in what she could see and touch, and perhaps there lay the source of her hatred for prophecy. Still, on this day more than any other, she needed all the help she could get from ghosts and all the guidance the Prophetess could offer.
Saran stood in the warm light of her small barred window, closed her eyes, and spoke the prayer that Rowe taught her long ago, when she eagerly sought the woman of light. “Prophetess guide me. Prophetess speak truth. Prophetess light my path. Prophetess …” Saran’s brow furrowed. She couldn’t force the words out of her mouth. She couldn’t recite such a silly prayer to a mystical entity who told riddles and made prophecies about her destiny but never once told them to her face. She clenched her fists, willing to give up. Instead she hardened her resolve to have the contortionist of destiny hear her words.
“Listen here,” she said to the air. “I don’t know what I am or what I was meant to be, and I don’t really care what you claim of me. I’ve never worshipped you. In fact, I hate you. I hate that you decided my life for me, told everyone around me about it, and then never bothered to show yourself. For all I know, you are a delusion that exists only in the minds of those who choose to believe in you. I don’t believe in you, but I have seen the power you have to sway others, and I need that power. I need those words that make men believers of fantasy, that turn villains into heroes, that set men on quests, and send them to die. So Prophetess guide me. Prophetess speak truth. Make them hear me. Make them see me for what I am, if I am worthy to be seen. Help me. Because if you don’t, you can go fuck yourself. If you do not help me now, I’ll never be what you want me to be. I’ll fight and run as long and as far as I can from you. Understand?”
Saran turned her eyes to the dirty stone floor, listening to the clank of metal and leather boots in the corridor outside her cell. “Grandfather, if it is true that you can hear me, then I ask for your nobility, your voice, and your courage. I never knew you, but there are those that did, and I ask that they see you in me.”
A jittering nervousness overtook Saran. The reality of her decision becoming more real the more she spoke to faceless figures.
“Finally I pray to whatever gods will have me that I live through this day. I pray that you protect Rowe and keep him from harm, and should harm befall him that you keep him alive.” The clash of metal keys in the cell door sent her heart racing. “I pray to see Keleir again, and if it turns out I can’t, do what I vowed. Save him from the beast. Keep my vow for me, when I cannot.”
The door to her cell opened, silencing her prayer. She stood with her back to the guard, staring at the swirling dust stirred by the rush of air from the swinging door.
“It is time,” Odan’s voice called to her.
Saran turned to find a healthier Ice Mage than the one she’d seen days before. He had color in his pale cheeks, as much color as a man so cold could possess, and the dark circles under his eyes had lessened. He wore the signature leather armor worn among Mages in the field.
“Time for what?” Saran asked him, arching a brow. Odan was loyal to Yarin; she knew this without doubt. He believed in the old bag of bones, even worshipped him, and followed him without question. A cold uneasiness took hold in Saran, pushing out the nervous jitters she’d felt before.
Odan stepped into the cell, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. His cyan-colored eyes hardened, and he cast them down to the straw bed. Then he looked her over, taking in her battered appearance, the cuts and scrapes from her beating. He frowned at her and turned to leave the cell, never bothering to close the door.
Saran waited a minute longer before inching through the threshold. He stood in the hall with six armored guards and an executioner. Saran’s stomach dropped. She straightened her back and lifted her head high. It had been a stupid thing to ask Madam Ophelia to speak to those who might follow her on her behalf. If she’d spoken to the wrong one …
A guard stepped forward, holding in his arms a long, folded cloth. Another stepped out from behind him, holding a pile of roughly folded riding clothes and leather armor. The first guard uncovered the object he held, revealing just the hilt of her sword. No one attempted to justify the items offered. They looked at her with quiet, reverent eyes.
Odan stood at the back with a stern frown creasing his face.
The princess felt heat in her cheeks, felt fire in her blood. This wasn’t an execution, but a rescue.
With Odan?
“My oath to Madam Ophelia binds me to this,” Odan said, reading the confusion in her eyes. “As long as she lives I cannot bring you harm or help someone else harm you. Therefore, if I want to live, my only option is to assist. Trust me when I say this is just as painful as dying, only less immediate and final.”
Saran nodded slowly, even if his words did little to comfort her. She couldn’t trust Odan, no matter what the healer had done to him.
The princess took the clothing from the guard and stepped back into her cell, where she carefully donned it over a weary body. Once dressed, they helped buckle her into the leather armor. The belt, sheath, and sword were the last items to be added, pulled snug about her waist.
No one said a word, the silence becoming the calm before a storm. Saran could almost imagine herself still sleeping on the straw bed, dreaming of her heroic rise to power.
“Thank you,” she told the guards.
“My queen,” they replied, bowing their heads and backing away.
The title jolted Saran. She’d gone her entire life being referred to as princess. She never imagined hearing someone address her as queen. She didn’t feel like one. She felt exhausted, ragged, and beaten. The look in their eyes made her dig deep down inside for the smallest shred of strength.
“Tell me what you know,” she forced out, curling a hand over the hilt of her sword. She gripped it tight to keep from shaking.
“Yarin waits for you in the throne room,” the guard who brought her sword replied. Saran stiffened at the use of her father’s first name, lacking the title King before it. Only she, Keleir, and Rowe had ever trifled with stripping it away from him. Hearing the king’s given name from someone else unnerved her and made her feel more out of place than she already did.
“Darshan?”
“No sign of him.”
Saran nodded, knowing there could be many reasons for Darshan’s tardiness. She also acknowledged the strong chance that Darshan wouldn’t come at all, especially if Rowe reached him. He may have changed his plans altogether if he saw the slightest chance of failure. They would have to do this without him, if that were the case, even if it greatly increased their chances of failure.
“I know your faces,” the princess said. “But I regret I do not know your names.”
“I’m Raener,” the guard already speaking to her said and motioned to the others. “That’s Coban, Velmier, Brock, Fao, Krevin, and our resident executioner Desmav. You are acquainted with Lord Marki.”
“Very,” Saran muttered, turning distrusting eyes on the Ice Mage. She took a step closer to them, looking at each one and attempting to memorize their faces with their names. “I’m not sure how many will stand with me today, but you are my strength now. You are my eyes, my ears, and my voice. A ruler is nothing without her people or their pride. I cannot express to you what it means to me that you stand here now and support me.” Because I have no idea what I’m doing, she thought. “The truth is, Darshan very well might not come today. Lord Blackwell went to him wounded after trying to help me escape, so he might suspect that Yarin would know his plans by now.”
“The army did not leave for Salara,” Coban said.
Her heart fluttered. There were both good and bad aspects to that decision. Salara would be spared from collateral damage, but if Darshan continued to move on the city, he would face the full force of Yarin’s army.
She needed to convince a substantial number of incumbent forces to switch sides. Or could it be even easier? Could she topple Yarin and claim her blood right with the few men in her possession? Hadn’t her father achieved a similar feat to earn his crown? The idea brightened her eyes.
“Lord Marki.” Saran turned her attention to the Ice Mage, a cool smile dancing on her lips. “I think it is time for the king to address his daughter. Can I count on you to keep your oath to Madam Ophelia?”
Odan sneered.
“Executioner, we will not be needing your services today, though I welcome your help. I need all of you to assure me that no harm will come to my father. This isn’t sentimentality talking. In truth, I’d rather you slit his throat.”
Odan winced away, but the others grinned gleefully at the idea.
“Whatever harm befalls my father will also fall on me. You are all charged with ensuring that, no matter what happens today, Yarin isn’t hurt or killed. This is the greatest request I could ever ask of you, because it means guarding my life while protecting your enemy. Do you accept my request?”
All except Odan gave a stern nod. Odan’s lips pursed tight together, his narrow face twisting with indecision.
Saran slapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Odan. Your king will not die this day, nor any other, until the time that nature chooses. Well, that or until the Bind is gone. As I am without magic, you need to be my proxy. Are there any other Mages that would join us?”
“Lord Brenden, the Lightning Mage,” Raener said. “I know of him for certain, but not of the others. He waits at the gate for Darshan.”
Saran nodded. “Mages respect power, and right now they think Yarin has it.” She took a few slow steps down the hall and turned back to them, mulling over the secrets bursting to spill forth from her lips. “What they don’t know is that he lost his magic years ago with his disease. Everything that he has accomplished with magic since has been through a proxy—me. If they see Yarin for what he is, they will not accept a weak and powerless ruler.”
It was a lie, to some degree. Yarin had not lost his magic. He just didn’t use it because it was killing him. Just as one day, she thought bitterly, it would kill her.
The men before her took her words like swords through their stomachs. Each one went ashen before coloring blazing red with rage. This whole time Yarin had been a powerless bag of wind that anyone could rid the world of, and none of them had known. It was her father’s one secret that she’d kept for him.
She’d never wanted Keleir or Rowe to know what fate waited for her at the end of the elemental gift of time. The lie she’d shared with them was the same that she told the men before her. If Keleir and Rowe ever knew the truth, they would not let her use her power ever again. But without it there was no one to keep the Oruke in check.
Desmav the executioner nodded off to Odan, whose stiff form leaned against the damp wall. “He accepted him.”
Saran turned her gaze on Odan, who seemed paler than before and a bit green. She gave him a sympathetic frown, watching the light of admiration fade from his eyes. “I imagine he didn’t know. Not many do. Those that realized it never lived long enough to tell anyone. I kept it secret because the repercussions of letting it out would have been … intolerable. People that I love would have died, and I would never have seen the light of day again, no matter how useful I was to him. My father’s legacy means more to him than anything.”
Saran placed her hand on Desmav’s shoulder. “Lord Marki has his reasons for being loyal to my father, who has often been like a father to Mage orphans raised in this castle. But whatever those reasons are or were, he is Bound to me in this task by blood. You cannot trust him, but you can trust the curse that controls him. Understood?”
The men nodded, and Odan shoved off the wall to head toward the dungeon exit.
Saran had spent very little time in the dungeon compared to most. Rising to the main floor still made her feel freer than she ever expected to feel in the walls of her home. For the longest time the castle had been a prison, a monolithic symbol of the life she desperately wanted to escape. She could have run away years ago, but something always held her inside them, something always brought her back.
All those years of leading armies beyond the city walls, she’d always followed them back. After every secret mission, she returned. After every outing, every Port to another world, to another city, to another future, she returned. Did that mean destiny proclaimed it or that deep down she knew the course of her life, even as she denied it?
