The Living God, page 25
In the hall outside the dungeon doors, two long lines of Adridian soldiers stood ready at attention. Odan stepped around her and passed through to wait at the front, looking back at her with the patience of an irritated toddler. He loved her father, but he loved his life more, and at least she could count on that to keep him in line. The seven men who had been with him just outside her cell door joined the line of defecting soldiers, waiting for her to command them … to be everything they’d ever wanted in a leader.
Saran felt that nervous quiver in her hand begin again, so she curled it around the hilt of her sword and clutched the other into a white-tight fist. The length of the line of men lifted her spirits as much as it toppled them, because while it was a fair number of people, it was not enough to take a kingdom. Hopefully it would be enough to take a throne.
Longing wrapped around her heart, and Saran craved the presence of Rowe and Keleir. She wanted to draw from their strength and reassurance. She could let her guard down with them. She could question herself and her choices, but she could do none of that in front of these men. She would trigger doubt where she needed fealty.
As Madam Ophelia said, she could not hide behind the strengths and failings of Rowe Blackwell and Keleir Ahriman anymore. Saran drew on her own strength, on the hatred for the man who killed her mother, the man who tortured her, and the man who tore down the wall that had protected Keleir from the Oruke inside. She stepped toward her bloodright, each clunk of boot against stone growing surer than the last. The six soldiers, Ice Mage, and executioner fell in behind her, and the militia flanked their sides.
The halls emptied on the way to the throne room, with maids and servants ducking into open doors and empty corridors. The few soldiers that were in the halls made no move to stop them and pressed their backs firmly to the walls to get out of their way.
It wasn’t until Saran reached the corridor to the throne room that any real opposition appeared. The Saharsiad stood at attention in two short lines just before the tall latched door. Their leader waited patiently behind them, his back pressed against the mahogany wood. He lifted his hand to the veil he wore across his face and dropped it, revealing a scarred visage and a pleased smile. Saran remembered him as the one who nearly crushed her face with his barbed glove.
His men wore deep hoods and veils about their faces, less Adridian and more Mavish in style. They had worked for Yarin since the night he stole the throne from her grandfather. Their expensive fee for protecting Yarin was nothing short of economic blight.
Saran stopped, and the procession behind her came to an abrupt, clanking halt.
“We heard whispers of revolt,” the leader of the Saharsiad said, his boots echoing off the vaulted ceiling as he stepped from the long ranks of his men to just outside the edge of their protection. “We should have killed you. I’m sure His Majesty will see the error now. I’m sure he won’t mind if you die here at my feet.”
Saran appraised him quietly but did not give to his goading. She knew nothing of being queen or courtly grace, but she knew how to intimidate. She offered him unnerving silence, like the ethereal presence of death, and drew her sword slowly, letting the scrape of metal ring through the air. The men behind her followed the sound with a chorus of their own, drawing their weapons and letting the shrill sound signal their allegiance.
The princess admired the clean, sharp blade in her hand. Someone had taken the kindness to introduce it to a whetstone, as she’d ignored it of late. Her gaze flicked from the pale glint of steel to the dark-garbed Mage murderer.
“Four,” she said, glancing to the floor and then back to the Saharsiad.
“Four what?” he asked, confusion creasing his tan brow.
“That is how many steps I’ll take before you die,” she replied, resting the tip of her sword on the metal toe of her boot. Saran concealed her self-hatred with a blank, unfeeling mask, walling away every part of her that hated killing. Now came what she dreaded, the part of this horrid life she’d managed to avoid with the help of her element. She couldn’t avoid it this time, not if she wanted to live. “You see, Saharsiad, unlike all those other disobedient Mages you’ve slaughtered over the years, I had no mentors to teach me my element. I learned it slowly and with difficulty, and what I could not do with magic on the battlefield, I made up with swords and fists. Four steps, that’s all I’ll give you.”
The leader of the Saharsiad sneered and drew the curved short swords at the small of his back. He charged her, and Saran took four strong steps forward, arching the long length of her blade up. But just as she did so, she twisted and ducked beneath his swings and brought her sword blindly behind her, taking off the Saharsiad’s head with a strong, sure blow. Indeed, someone had taken care to sharpen her blade.
Saran stood in the midst of the Mage killers now, and they swarmed like hornets. Blood splashed across her face, and metal clashed against metal as her men met them behind her, punching through the line. Screams echoed. Limbs and bodies fell to pile bloody on the dirty stone floor. It only took a moment. The Saharsiad were good fighters, but today they’d chosen a poor strategy.
They’d grown cocky in their years of employment and had allowed themselves to be backed up against the heavy doors, becoming nothing more than cattle herded into the corner for slaughter. She lost two men for every one of theirs. While she had soldiers, the Saharsiad were better trained. When Saran tore her eyes from the last of the dead, she found her force roughly cut in half.
Odan had kept out of the fray, as she’d expected him to, since his magic would not work against the Saharsiad gauntlets. Saran counted him among the men who could handle a sword about as well as polishing his own boots, which of course he never did himself.
Two of her men grabbed the heavy rings that sat center each door to the throne room and drew back, putting their feet and knees into it. The doors slowly groaned open, and the dim firelight of the dark room greeted her.
Yarin looked up from his conversation with the scribe and various nobility at his feet. The king appeared calm, but his nobles shifted uncomfortably. She had no doubt that they were frightened from the screaming cries of battle, but they were also too frightened of the king to flee. Some of them brandished tiny daggers at their waists. She knew them enough to not feel threatened. If they were brave enough to fight, Yarin would not have stayed king long.
Yarin found his daughter wrapped in armor and hatred, emerging from the darkness of the hall with a lengthy procession of his own men at her back.
“What is this?” the king muttered, looking over his men as they filed out from behind Saran and formed a half circle around the king, the scribe, and the nobles that stood with him. Odan took his place just behind Saran but did not dare lift his eyes to see his unhappy master.
The princess looked each noble in the eye before she motioned harshly with her hand for them to leave. They scurried out of the way and fled through the open door. Seconds later, horrified screams flowed back into the room as the weak-willed men found the carnage in the hall.
Saran tilted her head at her father before speaking. “What do you think is happening?”
Yarin’s mouth worked, his expression growing sour. He turned his eyes to the blood spilling in from the hall. “It seems I’ll be hanging a lot of people today.”
“No one’s gettin’ hanged today, my king.” Desmav the executioner chuckled from Saran’s right.
The King of Adrid drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair before he turned his glassy eyes to Odan with a sneer. “You? Of all people? You hate her.”
“Aye,” Odan muttered, barely lifting his eyes. “I do not want this, but I am Bound by a blood oath that healer witch Ophelia placed on me.”
“Where is the key to my Bind?” Saran asked, moving another inch forward.
Yarin shook his head angrily. “You’re not getting it. Not even when I’m dead. You’ll search this castle over and you’ll never, ever find it. It cannot be seen!”
Saran’s jaw set tight. “Then I’ll go through this life united as one with my powerless people. Now get out of that chair. You are no longer ruler of this land.”
The king shook, rage turning his face a horrible shade of red. He struck his chest hard, and Saran felt it in her own. She did not wince, not even when he struck himself again. Did he truly plan to beat himself to death to get back at her?
“Odan,” Saran whispered. “Detain our king for his own safety.”
Odan’s cyan eyes lit frost-blue, and a cool draft filtered through the air. Ice seized the king’s hands where they sat and wrapped like protective armor around his body. It was, for Odan, a very kind gesture.
Saran started her ascent to the throne when the ground shook beneath her feet. The old stone walls cracked, and dust wafted from the ceiling, followed by a deep tremor. A harsh crash tore stone from the walls and rained it down across the floor, and a huge boulder rolled behind Saran, clipping her booted heel as it passed. Her men scrambled out of its way, some diving to the floor to keep from being crushed.
The boulder rolled to a stop, sitting still and quiet before shattering. Dust and rubble exploded into the air. As the dust settled, a woman of average height, with chestnut hair and deep brown eyes, emerged. She wore earthy toned leather and canvas, with mud smeared like war paint across her cheeks. She lifted her hands, and the rubble at her feet levitated from the floor and swirled around her legs.
Behind the Earth Mage, three rebels in patchwork armor emerged from the blood-soaked hall. She only recognized the old, kindly faced man in the center, whose eyes swirled ocean blue.
“Darshan.”
FORTY
KELEIR BARELY STOPPED to rest the horse. He knew what that meant for the beast, who foamed at the mouth and charged forward on straining knees. The desert heat would kill them both if he didn’t make it as close to the border as he possibly could. He felt shame and guilt for how hard he’d ridden the young horse. He tried to show mercy by keeping close to the shore, with its firmer sand and where the spray of seawater could cool him.
The rising sun on the second day sent Keleir’s heart into his throat. He could just see the dark hint of forest at the edge of his horizon, miles and miles away. The gold light cresting the sky blinded him, but he rode for it with all the muster he could coax into the horse he abused.
Soon the brisk gallop of the beautiful creature began to break with stumbles and annoyed jerks of the head. Keleir murmured apologies to the horse and pressed him onward. He tried to ignore the horror in him for what he did and he promised the creature that, when death came, it would come quick. He assured the beast that it died for good, that he would not fail to reach the border or his brother. He begged the horse to go on longer.
Just as he felt the creature give in to exhaustion, its gallop grew stronger. Keleir knew the horse didn’t understand him, and that it only appeared so by coincidence, but he wanted to believe that it willingly chose to give its life to help.
“Yes,” he urged, patting the beast’s neck. “Come on! That’s it! Go!”
The gallop grew fluid and swift. Keleir’s heart sang with hope. He laughed like a madman and sat up straighter in the saddle, thanking whatever gods would have him for their mercy.
Then the horse reared up with a great, horrible whinny and threw the Fire Mage onto his back before it collapsed sideways in the sand. Keleir rolled quickly to avoid the creature’s crushing weight. The beast gave great watery, heaving breaths before it flattened into the sand and died.
Keleir stumbled to his feet, shaking his head until he felt dizzy. “No!” He turned his eyes to the distance and the trees still so far away. “Get up!” He scooped the reins from the sand and pulled hard. The horse weighed more than he could lift, and the head just drew up with each futile tug. The beast never rose. “Get. Up!” Keleir tugged harder on the reins until the leather snapped and he fell back into the sand.
He knew, deep down, that the beast had covered an improbable amount of ground in the last day. He knew that it should have died a while ago, and only by some miracle had it survived as long as it had. Perhaps the beast had understood his urgency and attempted valiantly to get him home.
Keleir knelt near the horse with tears in his eyes and patted its sweat-slick neck. “Thank you for your sacrifice, my friend. I am sorry. I promise, it will not be for nothing.” He rested there a bit longer to offer the beast a moment of silence before rising to his feet and turning toward the distant green.
Then he ran.
FORTY-ONE
“PRINCESS.” DARSHAN SMILED, his eyes twinkling as they always did when he greeted her. The twinkle dulled when his eyes turned on the captured king. The rebel leader grew tall and triumphant. “Your people have you surrounded. The gate that kept you safe is open. The men meant to guard you have bowed and let me in, and the few that fought against us met the sword. The empire you carved out of the remnants of a once-great kingdom is no more, Yarin D’mor, and it fell without a fight.”
Yarin growled, wiggling against the cold bite of the ice that held him. “What I have made from the ashes of this lives on. You may have gained a castle, a title, and a throne, but the war, my friend, is won, and it is I who am victorious. This is fleeting compared to the glory that comes. The Vel d’Ekaru will rise.”
“He has risen and fallen in the same breath.” Darshan cocked his head high. “Luke Canin has seen to that. The Vel d’Ekaru will never return from the Deadlands. He is no more.”
Saran’s brow furrowed. She stepped hurriedly down from the podium, brushing past the rebel that stood protectively before Darshan. “What do you mean?”
Darshan’s eyes cast her a sad, sympathetic glance. “It had to be done, my dear. It had to be. He turned into the monster, and I honored Rowe’s last request. If Keleir could not be saved from the beast, he wanted me to end it before he hurt you.”
Saran’s heart dropped into her stomach. Her head felt light and her knees weak. “Last request …”
“His injuries were too grave,” Darshan whispered, brushing her hair back with his hand. “He didn’t make it. The healers had already been set to the road, and we did all we could to stop the bleeding. We couldn’t get him to them in time. Rowe Blackwell died a hero to us. His history is now rewritten. He has absolved himself of his sins against us.”
Saran shook her head fiercely. “No.” Darshan reached for her, but she pulled away. “No. He is not dead. They are not dead!”
“Keleir didn’t come back, because he’d already turned on you. He was the Vel d’Ekaru. Would he not be here, by your side, if he were himself? Would he have left you to this misery alone? No! Not if he loved you.”
Saran roared at him. “You had no right!”
“It is for the best, Child. The Prophetess has guided us to this moment. Your husband is dead, which means that a legitimate marriage can happen between the two of us. The people will be united with the army once more. Your grandfather’s kingdom will be united after all this time.”
“You dare speak to me of marriage on the day you tell me you murdered my husband?” Saran shook with rage, wishing so much for the power in her blood, for the ability to age him to dust. She cared little if she cursed herself for it. Rage consumed her soul, killing what fondness she had for the man who had loved her mother, until cold realization dawned. “You planned this.”
“This was all you,” Darshan replied, motioning to the soldiers in the room. “You drew the rug from beneath Yarin’s feet. I was surprised to arrive and find the gates open and the men ushering me in with open arms. This was you! You brilliant, beautiful, strong Queen of Adrid.”
“You killed Keleir so you could be king!” She lifted her sword from her side and pointed it at him. “As long as I live, as long as I breathe, I will never let your deceitful ass sit on that throne. I care not what unity it destroys; I will see your blood, Ishep Darshan. I will paint myself in it. The demon’s wrath you should have feared is mine, not the Vel d’Ekaru!”
Saran swiped her sword at him. The stone at her feet buckled and broke, and earth reached up before her in a great wall. The blade struck the stone and bounced off, chipping the metal. Darshan gave a heavy sigh behind the wall, and water trickled through the cracks in the rock and poured onto the floor at her feet. It swirled and danced around her before worming off, up the stairs to wrap about Yarin’s legs.
The rock wall dropped with shuddering protest.
“I don’t want it to be this way,” Darshan said as his water magic soaked into Yarin’s clothes. Saran, through the Bind, felt it constricting like a snake around his legs.
She turned to her men. “Remember what I asked of you.”
They nodded.
She flashed Darshan a final look before bolting for her father, grabbing Odan by the scruff of his shirt and pulling him with her. They collided with the king and his throne, knocking it backward. They rolled into the far wall, near the tapestry that hung behind the throne. “The door!” Saran shouted at Odan, who ripped the great tapestry sigil of the D’mor house from the wall and kicked open the wooden door hidden behind it. He went feetfirst, coating the spiral staircase with enough ice to create a slippery slide.
Saran pushed Yarin’s weak body through the door, feeling every bump and bruise made by the hard landing at the bottom. She followed close behind him, skidding round and round, down the never-ending ice escape. Desmav and Coban were next, leaving the others to keep the rebels from following.
A long, narrow corridor greeted them at the bottom, nearly pitch black save for narrow slits in the right wall where sunlight cast bright white lights on the stone. Odan waited until the last person slid to a stop, and then the ice melted. Water rushed in a torrent down the stairs and around their ankles.
“Coban, Desmav, bring up the rear,” Saran ordered as she scooped her aged father up by his weak arms and dragged him to his feet.
