The Living God, page 5
“We need to go,” Keleir said, tugging her back toward the darkness where they arrived.
Saran wanted to go on another ride.
She wanted to know more about the big wheel with the flashing lights. She wanted to know how high she could go in it. Saran wanted to eat the ugly cake coated in sugar she kept seeing people snack on. She didn’t want to go back home. She didn’t want to be a princess. She didn’t want to be punished for saving people who would never see her as anything but an enemy.
But Saran nodded and followed along. They could not stay. Keleir, especially, could not stay. Even if she had the ability to hold back time, she couldn’t do it forever. She could move it forward, backward, and freeze it, but only temporarily. There were some things not even she could stop time from eroding, no matter how hard she tried.
FIVE
THE CAPITAL OF Adrid sat atop a massive hill, bordering on the edge of a six-hundred-foot cliff overlooking the Andrian Sea for which the city was named. Like many towns in Adrid, it had once been prosperous, a mecca to those seeking knowledge and wealth. Now, poverty stricken, most of the inhabitants and shop owners fled some years ago for neighboring cities or other countries, hoping to rebuild the wealth lost from taxation and a declining economy. Once filled with happy people, it now stood as nothing more than a glorified military fort.
The castle sat at the back of the city, at the crest of the cliff. Its towers wove up into a gray sky like narrow fingers grasping at the dreary clouds. Most of the castle was in fine shape, save for the older wings. The brickwork on the east end of the castle, the oldest, was crumbled, and some of the towers teetered more in the breeze than others.
The quiet city sat walled away from wide grassy plains, once lush in farmland and vegetables. Small farmhouses dotted the fields, most collapsed upon themselves, while the fields were overrun by waist-high weeds. The road that led into the city stood in such a state of disrepair that massive ruts filled with muddied water replaced the cobblestone paving.
The army passed along the trail toward the city in a slow, somber pace, more like a funeral procession than a formidable force. The wagons and horses limped along the beaten path, avoiding the deeper holes when possible, until they reached the threshold of the city.
Heavy iron gates opened with a low groan while soldiers in the gatehouse struggled with the heavy crank to lift it high enough for the wagons to pass beneath. The harsh weight of invisible chains latched around Saran’s arms and legs as the iron clashed to the earth behind her. Her prison door now closed, the cold stone walls squeezed in around her. She took deep breaths to calm her rattled nerves and reminded herself that it was merely temporary. A promise she made every time she returned, which she always did.
“We welcome you back,” said a burly soldier from the bastion wall. He clanked his armored hand against the stone before rapping it across his breastplate. “Did you paint the earth red with blood?”
Odan turned on his horse to glare at Saran. His hateful smile transformed into a grin too wide for his narrow face. “We had a problem with one of our Mages. It will be dealt with shortly.”
Saran’s eyes rolled. Once they were well into the city and at the foot of the castle steps, she passed the reins of her horse to the stableboy. He always waited near a guard who sat at the base of the steps and fed the great fire basins that sat upon short stone pillars at either side of the grand staircase. The guard gave her a curt nod as he splintered wood with a sharp hatchet and tossed it into the fire.
Saran turned to Odan. “I’m not worried.”
“You should be,” Odan said, working the gloves off his slender hands. “I wonder, has the king ever had you whipped? I’d very much enjoy the sight.”
“Scarring a royal heir is not his prerogative, especially one he wishes to barter like chattel for the right marriage proposal. Shall we?” She motioned with a quick wave of her hand for him to ascend the stairs ahead of her.
He blinked and did not move, looking very much like a man who thought to be set on fire any second. Saran sighed. “If I go with you to accept my punishment, rather than have you tattle like a scorned child, it ends all of this quicker. I desire a hot bath and a warm bed, and I can have that as soon as I’m done catering to you.” Saran snatched the leather gloves from her hands and motioned again for Odan to walk ahead of her. “It was a long road, and I must atone for what I did to you, correct? What difference does it make if it is now or later?”
Anxiety welled in her, but her face revealed nothing but a confident woman. Saran had practiced hiding her fears and sorrow behind a mask of aggression and bravado, and as always Odan Marki bought it. The Ice Mage snarled, turning with such melodramatic fervor that his long cloak slapped in the light breeze. Saran smiled and sauntered up the steps behind him.
In the grimness of a cold, dark throne room, where the windows hadn’t been cleaned in years and cobwebs hung from forgotten chandeliers, Saran lifted a bored gaze from the rough-cut granite floor. Her jade eyes fell on her father as he hobbled back and forth before his throne, his cane clacking hollowly along with him. The throne sat upon a wide, low podium, flanked by huge iron bowls full of burning coal, a decorative touch that matched the staircase entrance to the palace outside. The orange flames flapping in the bowls cast a harsh, hot light across the king’s wrinkled, angry face. At either side of him, at the foot of the podium, stood his personal Saharsiad—Mage Hunters—paid to defend him should any of his underlings seek to use magic against him.
For a long time, King Yarin D’mor paced in silence while he listened to Odan’s recounting of the village fight. The Ice Mage spoke of how, just as they’d achieved the upper hand, the princess left her horse and reversed their progress with the gift the Core granted her—time. When Odan’s story concluded, her father lifted his eyes, his lip twitching with a snarl. The words seemed to fail him until his whole body shook and they rattled out of him in one angry burst. “You conniving, traitorous bitch. Do you know what you’ve cost us?”
Saran clasped her hands behind her back, observing his anger quietly. Though used to his intimidation, she felt a sense of dread when his half-blind eyes settled on her, knowing part of her would always be the little girl who feared him. “There were no insurgents in that village. We were slaughtering innocent people. Frankly, Father, if I may be perfectly honest with you, you don’t deserve any praise from people who are starving.”
Yarin glowered at his daughter, nails scratching furiously at his dry flesh. He had aged much from the disease that riddled his body. Once a proud, robust man, he sat withered to a dry husk, with loose skin hanging over rotting bones.
He paused his self-mutilation to lift a finger at her. “If you were any other soldier, I’d have you drawn and quartered for such betrayal. But you are my daughter. You are the heir. I need you.”
Saran’s gaze settled on him, and her mouth opened before she could reign in her words or her temper. “You only need me as a bargaining chip for the proper marriage proposal. You couldn’t care less what happens to me after that. Just as you cared so little for my mother. She was a path to the throne and a belly for your cursed child!” Her eyes burned as she glowered at him. The ache of that truth weighed heavy in her heart. He had always hated her, she thought, because he wanted a son.
“Oh, shut up, Saran. Stop being melodramatic,” the old man hissed, scowling as he paced back the opposite direction.
“It’s true, isn’t it? I bet it sorely disappoints you every day that she bore a girl to your crown. Whenever you look upon your daughter, do you not weep for a son?” Her vision blurred with angry tears, and she quickly blinked them away, focusing on reclaiming the mask she wore so well before him.
“Shut up, Saran!” Yarin reared and slung his cane at her.
The princess’s eyes flared with white light, and the cane aged to dust well before striking her.
The room hushed. The advisers to the king slunk back while the Saharsiad stepped forward. Yarin appraised his daughter as a farmer would the prospect of putting down a lame horse. “Saran, you have used your power to thwart me. I allowed you freedom. I allowed you to learn your gifts. I allowed you to work alongside the Magi in the battlefield. You have threatened your own kingdom with this betrayal, and I cannot forgive it. You must be punished. Until such time as I see fit or until you have proven yourself noble to your father once more, I am restricting your powers and confining you to the castle.”
Saran’s gaze narrowed, and a dark chuckle escaped her. “I won’t allow that.”
“You have no choice.” The king nodded.
A harsh grip took her hands behind her back, and a metal band clamped around her wrist. Her knees buckled at the cold, depleting drain of magic as she was cut off from the Core. Saran twisted and tugged her arm from the soldier, examining the metal manacle around her wrist. It was thin and flat, scribed with runes that blocked her connection to the Core. Nostrils flaring with fury, she tugged on it, bit at it, and screamed when nothing she did could tear it from her.
“Take it off!”
“You are not allowed to the leave the castle. You are, however, allowed to roam it. Do not do something to risk losing that privilege as well. Ponder your mistake and make sure that you understand your place here, Daughter.”
Saran stopped short of snatching him up by his robes. She heaved angry breaths, clenching her fists at her sides. “The people you crush under your boot won’t take it much longer. You have months at the most. They will raid this castle, and they will string you up on the rafters.” She backed away from him. “Perhaps I will have to join you. Should it come to that … I will gladly swing alongside you.”
Yarin’s lips drew back with a sneer. “Guards, drag my daughter back to her room. She isn’t to leave or receive a single meal until I decide otherwise.”
The guard near her gave an apologetic look as his hands curled around her arms and tugged her from the room. “You sure don’t know when to quit,” he muttered, releasing her once the door closed.
“It is a personality flaw I’m working through.” Saran rubbed her wrist and the annoying metal bracelet. “You don’t happen to have a key to this, do you?”
“King Yarin has it, or he has given it to someone to hold on to. I’m afraid you won’t be using your element anytime soon, Your Highness.”
The guard did as instructed and guided her to the opulent room she occupied on the southwest side of the castle, perched on the cliffs overlooking the sea. The room’s rough-cut stone walls were draped in rich tapestries, the floors were polished hardwood, and the space was filled with intricately carved furniture.
Once inside, the guard took hold of the door and drew it closed. He paused a moment, giving her a sorry look before casting his eyes down in shame. “I have to lock you in. I am sorry.”
Saran gave him a soft nod. He closed the door, and moments later it locked with a click. Now alone, she set to prying at the metal band around her wrist until it cut into her skin. She tried everything, even pouring oil over her flesh and dragging the manacle over her hand as far is it would go. Nothing worked, no matter what trick she tried or what she pulled against. In the end, she only hurt herself.
Frustration boiled over into rage, and the princess stalked across her dim room to the ornate chair by the empty fireplace, falling into it with a growl. She needed the Bind off. Without her power, everything would slowly unravel. Without it, she wasn’t sure how long Keleir would be able to keep the creature inside him locked away. She had to convince her father to end her punishment—and quickly.
Hours passed while Saran fiddled with the band that blocked her magic, until sunset made her room grow dark. True to Yarin’s word, no one brought food. The maids who normally visited her in the evening hours to light the candles and run a bath didn’t show either. Not that Saran cared much for that, since she hated someone fussing over meaningless tasks for her. Instead she lit her own candles and took a cold sponge bath with a basin of stale water near the bed. She used the small hatchet near the fireplace to split wood into kindling, which she used to build a fire for light and warmth.
Boredom set in not long after that, and she paced her room over, wrapped in a loose, flowing cotton robe. She examined every object in her room as if it were the first time, running her fingers over books and trinkets that littered the cluttered shelves.
She’d collected a trinket from any place she visited on the Three, but more than half of them had come from the Second. They were little mementoes from the places she’d gone to with Keleir and Rowe when they found time to hide away there. They would go just at sunset, and being unable to return until dawn, would attempt to function the following day with no sleep. The nights they didn’t sleep were worth it. They were not beholden to anyone. They did as they pleased.
But they always came back. Rowe sought redemption from his past. Keleir stayed for Saran. Saran stayed because …
She lifted one trinket from the shelf, a two-inch-tall green woman with a crown, a book, and an arm outstretched toward the sky. The statue’s hand was broken off. Saran couldn’t remember what the statue once held, but she did remember that it represented freedom.
The balcony door creaked open, and a rush of cool sea air fluttered into the room.
Keleir closed the glass doors behind him, moving from the shadows into the candlelight. “I didn’t know he would banish you to your room without supper like a child.”
Saran stared at him in shock, dropping the trinket and curling her fingers over her heart. It cracked against the floor. The air lacked the familiar ripple of power. She should have sensed him the moment he appeared just outside her window. The vacancy nearly tore a cry from her. “Keleir,” she breathed, slipping her arms around his waist and burrowing against him.
“Something’s wrong … You don’t feel right. Actually I don’t feel you at all …” His red eyes narrowed on her, his fingers brushing over her cheek.
She lifted her arm to show him the silver band around her wrist. “It looks like I won’t be leaving this place any time soon, unless we do it the hard way.” Her eyes, full of concern, looked him over. She touched his face and hair lightly with her fingers, examining him as if she were looking for something broken. “How are you feeling?”
Keleir grabbed her arm as she lowered it, pulling her wrist closer for inspection. The red in his eyes lit like embers in the breeze. Dreadful horror stole his expression. To Bind a Mage was the cruelest of all punishments. “He Bound you?” Darkness crept into his voice, dropping it an octave lower than normal human tongue. “I’ll rip him apart slowly until he tells me where the key is.”
“Keleir,” she whispered, grabbing his hand and prying out of his tightening grip. She locked her hand with his, fast and tight, while she brushed fingers through his hair to soothe him. “Breathe. Calm. Please you weren’t well yesterday. You were too close to the edge. Don’t let it gain any more ground than it already has. Don’t give it an opening.” Not now, not when I’m like this. His red gaze settled slowly, his breathing returning to normal, and he framed her face in his hands. Concern creased his brow.
“It will just take a little longer,” Saran whispered, her voice as calm and smooth as placid water. She was used to this rage. Like a lion tamer calming a beast, she used her words and her touch to mellow his storm. She needed him, above all, to be calm. “Rowe will be patient.”
“I am not patient.”
She arched an elegant eyebrow at him, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, I’m quite aware of that.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head up to him. Slowly his lips found hers in a wash of heat, while strong arms drew her up against him.
“You need a distraction,” she said, pressing her forehead to his. Her hands snaked up his chest and unbuckled the clasps to his leather armor, dropping it at their feet. The metal clasps clanked harsh against the floor. Keleir sighed as her soft hands slipped under his dingy white tunic, lifting it over his head. He sought her wrists, grasping, pinning them behind her back as he drew her in for a kiss.
“I have missed you,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to hers. “Being so close on the road and yet unable to truly be with you …” He kissed her, hot and long, and drew her ever tighter into him as if he wished to merge her soul with his. A moment later he pulled away and gave a roguish smile. “I’m serious, I will kill Yarin and rid you of that thing. Tonight.”
Saran frowned. “Do not be so willing to shed blood—even if he is deserving of it.” Knowing that her serious tone drew them increasingly further from the playful mood she attempted to weave, she washed the thoughts from her mind and focused on things that usually quelled the beast in him. “It will be hard to help you undress without hands, m’lord. You’re hindering my attempt to distract you from your anger.” The princess tugged idly against him.
Keleir snorted. “I could just burn the pants off.”
Saran scoffed.
The Fire Mage chuckled, releasing his grip. He lifted his arms slowly out to his sides. He relished the sensual look she gave him while her hands snaked over his belt and drew it away. When he stood bare before her, his hands went to work drawing the cotton robe from her shoulders and gathering her light weight into his arms.
They worshipped each other with hands and mouths until they tangled together among the furs and silks of her bed. The wrestling ended with Saran mounted atop him, riding along a wave of ecstasy, while Keleir withered beneath her. He sought handfuls of flesh, and his mouth traced wet lines across her chest. Then, once they crossed the threshold of heaven, they lay in the quiet dark of her room, the moonglow bathing over them through rippled panes of glass.
Saran nuzzled into the crook of his warm neck. “Do you think he heard?”
“Hmm?”
