The Living God, page 6
“The guard outside. Do you think he heard?”
“If he did?” Keleir asked with a laugh. “You’re already confined to your room like a child and cut off from the Core—what would it matter if your father found us now?”
“Your head on a spike,” Saran replied. “I’m pretty sure that matters to both of us.”
“The only reason I don’t kill him is because you have restrained me. But if he doesn’t release you from that contraption tomorrow evening, I will find my restraint sorely lacking.”
“The Saharsiad,” Saran reminded him. “They’d kill you or you’d have to run for a very long time.”
“We’re already going to run, Saran,” Keleir said, sitting up over her. “What difference does it make whether he dies tonight or after Salara? People will still hunt us. They will hunt you for your title, and they will hunt me for the Oruke …” Keleir’s brow furrowed. “But they will not find us. Not if we go someplace no one would ever dream to look.”
“Keleir, please …”
“We could go to the Third.”
Saran pursed her lips together, thankful for the shadows to hide her frustration. He couldn’t go to the Third. Her power wouldn’t work there, and he’d eventually … It wasn’t a guarantee, not by any means, but if they were there, the spell she’d woven over him would be gone.
“We can’t go to the Third.”
Keleir brushed fingers across her cheek. “On the Third, without magic, I wouldn’t be like this. I wouldn’t have this …” He cupped a hand over the gruesome star-shaped scar on his chest and the intricate demon-faced tattoo that decorated it. “I wouldn’t have it, and it wouldn’t constantly seek to control me. I’d escape the horrible visions of our future, and I’d live in peace with you.”
Saran wanted desperately to believe that. “Peace? On the Third? We’d end up slaves to Roshaud or living in the slums.”
“So? I know the slums aren’t what you’re used to, Princess, but I think we could build a nice little home in the underbelly of Roshaud’s city. We might even start a kingdom of our own among the poor and disillusioned.”
Saran smiled, running fingers up and down his arm, and then across his chest and over the mark of the Oruke. Tears brimmed her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She sighed, pressing kisses to his lips. “It’s nothing.”
“You don’t believe I’d last there, do you? You think the Oruke would be the one in control.”
“No. That’s not it,” she lied. Saran pursed her lips together and drew the man she loved into a warm hug. She whispered to him, “If it comes to that, we can go to the Third. I will live with you in the slums.”
“And a fine slum queen you’ll make,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her temple.
SIX
SARAN SAW NO need to change into proper clothing. Her door was soundly locked, and the guard told her it would remain so until her father decided otherwise. Knowing the old man, he could very well die before giving her freedom.
The time she spent locked away allowed her the benefit of quiet, enough to organize her thoughts and plot a way to get her magic back. She knew if she seemed too desperate for it, her father would only take pleasure in withholding it longer. However, if she wasn’t urgent enough, she might not get them back before things began to really unravel.
Saran lounged in her robe near a small fire, reading a book that she’d pored over several times in the past few years. Her gifts were well beyond its advice and the limits that it set, but she read it anyway, as if it would inspire her to other feats not heard of by Mage or mortal. The thick book, with its tattered leather cover stained from the oils of a thousand hands, smelled of old parchment.
She distracted herself with researching elemental enchantments, anything that might help her unlock the Bind herself. She ended up stalled on the page concerning Alikons, elemental creatures formed using human or animal hosts as a starting ingredient. A Mage could reach into the heart of a living creature and force their elemental magic into it, creating a monster that would blindly and willfully follow their commands. Alikons didn’t last long, not on record at least. Like the spark of an ember, they burned out quickly. It was also taboo and borderline forbidden to perform, especially on a person, and it came with the adverse effect of the creator being tied to the pain and loss of their creation. Her fingers roamed over the spell, frowning deeply before turning the page. The frown didn’t last long.
Out of all the books on the shelves, this was her favorite. It reminded her of when she learned magic alongside Rowe in a small group of young Mages, though she had mostly taught herself. Mages learned by apprenticeships, but she’d converted their common elemental spells for earth, water, fire, and wind for her own use. There were no books on time magic, and there were no tutors to offer her guidance. Her father would have been the only Time Mage to teach her … but he never did. It was possible that he couldn’t, given his illness. What Saran knew she garnered from reading books and mimicking others.
Saran met Keleir many years before meeting Rowe. The head of the orphanage quarantined him often because of his violent nature. Rowe arrived years later as a teenager, when he Awoke to his gifts. Eventually only Rowe could be near the infamous Ahriman Lifesbane without a terrible catastrophe ensuing. They fought alongside each other and, even as teens, earned a bloody reputation. Rowe never explained if he understood that he’d befriended the Oruke and not Keleir. Rowe didn’t say much of anything about that time other than to express a desire for redemption.
Rowe could not bear the weight of bloodshed like the Oruke. He would do the bidding of his king without question, but he mourned each life that left by his hands. When he grew into a young man, the weight of death hung so heavy upon him that he would not eat or drink. He shriveled to a husk, sickly and near death.
Saran had forced water through his parted, dry lips and coaxed soup into his belly. No one could make him eat, not the sternest maid in all of Andrian, except the daughter of his king. There, under candlelight, in the dark and cold military-issued room, she fed him little by little for days until he gathered the strength to sit.
His men thought he’d been cursed, but he told Saran the truth. He’d murdered, and he deserved the slow and agonizing death that starvation would surely bring him. On that day, while she fed the Lightning Mage, they bonded over a unified hatred for the cruelty of her father’s regime.
Afterwards, she introduced him to Darshan, who had often snuck into the castle when she was a young girl. Darshan had loved her mother, and Saran suspected that he thought of her as a daughter. She wondered what sort of person she would have become if not for the influences of Ishep Darshan or the resident healer, Madam Ophelia. She might have become her father. Sometimes Saran feared she still would.
The princess jumped as the balcony door blew open in a rush of cold air, far too chilly for the afternoon temperature. Frost licked across the hardwood floor, up the drapes and tapestries on the wall, and snuffed out the fire she read by. Her breath rushed from her lungs in hot fog about her face.
The princess closed the book and placed it on the small table near her chair. She drew the robe tighter against her chest and glared down at the dead fire. “Do you mind?”
Odan Marki bowed deeply between the open doors, a clever smile plastered on his thin face. “Apologies, Your Highness.”
She scowled, folding her arms across her chest in an effort not to shiver at his chilly entrance. “I suppose because I’m Bound you wish to seek retribution for the slight I made against you? You were deserving of it. You know that, don’t you? Those were innocent people.”
“In the eyes of our princess perhaps, but not the eyes of our king,” Odan mused.
She exhaled a tight breath through her nose, turning her attention to the dead fire, where the frost that touched the embers began to melt. If she had her element, the fire would reignite and Odan would be a frozen statue adorning her chamber for as long as stamina sustained her. Though Keleir would argue it a waste of her Life.
Odan closed the doors behind him and went to the fire, where he knelt and pressed kindling between the dimly glowing embers. In a matter of minutes, the smoldering brush lit and fire warmed her bare feet. He sat silently, poking at the fire until it regained its former warmth. Then he stood, sweeping a bony hand over his blond hair. Cyan-colored eyes fixated on her, and a cruel smile hardened the edges of his pinched face.
“You think your status protects you, Princess? It doesn’t,” he said. “I don’t fear you.”
“You say that while I currently lack the power to send you back to be swaddled by your mother. Oh yes, you can be quite fearsome when you target defenseless people, can’t you? Women, children … Bound Mages. I could still wipe the floor with you, magic or not. Don’t throw your words about, expecting me to cower at your feet. You will be sorely disappointed, Lord Marki.”
Odan sneered, fingers flexing at his sides with the urge to smack the smug look from her pretty face. He turned his gaze away to gather what shreds he could of his control and spotted the silver platter and crumbs of food sitting atop an engraved tray. His sneer transformed into a brilliant smile, like a lily opening to the sun. “He visited you, did he? Brought you food?”
The princess stiffened and opened her book. “Maids like me. Unlike certain nobles, I do not drag them kicking and screaming into my room for the night. They often break rules to make me comfortable when my father is being a child.”
“A maid didn’t bring you that.” Odan grinned, stepping around her chair. He shoved the tray and silver plate to the floor with a loud clatter, scooping up the folded parchment hidden beneath.
Saran jumped to her feet and marched to him. He lifted the letter, admiring the paper, and then let his gaze settle on her. “I sometimes enjoy sitting on your balcony at night, you know.”
She seethed, reaching for the letter. “I will be sure to make it so no Gates form there after today.”
Odan snatched his hand away, taking a step back. “I sit there, wondering what it would look like to kill you. To be named your father’s heir. At any rate, I witness many things while perched on the railing. For example, I see Lord Ahriman—”
His head cocked sideways with a loud smack before he could finish, and Saran drew her fist back for another blow.
Her hand broke on impact with an iron-hard shield of ice that formed over his face. She drew it to her chest, choking back a scream. Had it not been for pride, she might have cowered with tears. Instead she glared at him, calculating how easy it would be to throw him from the balcony he trespassed so frequently.
“Give that back,” she said, nodding to the letter.
“I’m going to show this to your father immediately and let him know what his daughter does against his wishes and behind his back. We’ll see how much he treasures you or Lord Ahriman then.”
Odan turned for the door, and Saran lunged at him, wrapping her good arm around his neck and planting her knees in the small of his back. She drew back with all her weight, bracing against him for added leverage. She choked him as hard as she could until he stumbled back and fell on the bed, gagging.
Odan grabbed hold of her broken hand, squeezing tight. At first the princess refused to yield. She gritted her teeth, tightened her grip, and held as fast as she could. But then the shattered fragments of bone cut nerves and she released him with a strangled wail.
The Ice Mage lurched up from the bed, whirling on her, sword in hand. Saran’s own lay across the room, leaning against the stone fireplace. Again, had she her element, it would have been within her grasp in seconds.
Odan laughed at her helplessness. “What was it—”
Saran kicked him square in the jewels and, when he doubled over, planted her foot in the center of his face. Odan’s nose crunched under the force of her kick, and the Ice Mage fell back against the tapestry-laden wall. His sword clanked to the wooden floor. Saran rolled forward, bending to scoop it up, but ice glued it to the boards. He returned her kick, leaving them both heaving on separate sides of the room, nursing bloody noses.
The Ice Mage used frost to cool the fire that reddened his face and stifled the blood with a cloth from his pocket, while Saran curled the hem of her robe up against her nostrils, glaring across the room at him.
Odan waved a finger at her as he blotted his nose. “You won’t tell who hit you.”
Saran sneered and immediately regretted it, already feeling the tightness of swelling in her skin. “What makes you think I’d obey you?”
Lord Marki held up the bloodstained parchment in his hand and shook it in the air.
The princess rested against the ornately carved bedpost, feeling the sharp edges dig into her skin. She leaned harder against it, if only to distract herself from the throbbing of her face and broken hand. “What else is it you want? Not tattling about how I soundly kicked your ass can’t be your only bargain.”
Odan grinned, looking mad with a river of blood staining his upper lip and chin. “Oh, there are a great many things I want from you.”
Saran scowled at him. “I’ll take that note to my father myself before I indulge whatever depravity you can muster from that twisted brain of yours.”
“Truly? Then let us go together.” Lord Marki bowed, sweeping a thin arm to the door.
Saran took a step to her wardrobe, seeking to draw on something a little more substantial than the dressing gown.
“Do you think your father will have him beheaded or quartered? After all, your price is severely diminished now. Not many kings make offers for power in exchange for used goods.”
She paused, her hand resting on the wool cloak hanging just inside the wardrobe. Saran glared daggers at the wooden door. Her hand fisted the fabric as her eye caught the glint of metal just under the wardrobe roof. Seconds turned into minutes while she toyed with her choices. Freedom for her lover and his brother was mere months away and all lost if Odan called her bluff.
She imagined Keleir Bound and disemboweled for treason. No matter how much Yarin favored the Fire Mage, he would not tolerate this betrayal.
Couldn’t she swallow her pride? Was it such a heavy price to pay? And when the blasted Binding left her wrist, she’d make sure that Lord Odan Marki became a pillar of dust at her feet.
Saran drew her hand from the wool coat and ran it across the roof of the wardrobe as she shut the door and turned to Odan, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “If I do this, you will keep our secret?”
He nodded once and tucked the parchment into his waistband. “I’m glad you finally see reason.”
The princess said nothing, but she held his gaze long after he wanted to look away. “I guess it heals your pride to have such control over me?” she asked, lifting her broken hand up to her chest. “Does it make you feel better?”
“You are caught in a narrow passage now. If I tell your father, Lord Ahriman will surely be punished. But if you tell Keleir about our arrangement, while he might kill me, I daresay he’ll abandon you for giving in to me. He is not a forgiving man, and he won’t forgive you, no matter your reasons.”
Saran’s face became a blank slate even while her insides twisted into knots. “A week,” she spat. “You have me for a week and no more. Then it ends, and no one says a word to anyone.”
Odan reached out and curled his fingers in her crimson hair. “Agreed.”
The princess glowered at him. Then her glower brightened into a smile. Firelight caught the glint of a dagger. She plunged it into his shoulder, at the curve of his neck, before he could even flinch. Odan howled, reaching up to draw the blade free as her good hand snatched the parchment from his waistband. She tossed it into the fire, watching the flames lick up around it.
“You …”
“I’d visit a healer quickly if I were you,” Saran said, stepping around him and plopping down in her chair. She reached to the table and drew her book into her lap, opening to the marked page. “I think I nicked something vital.” She smiled as he stumbled, dripping blood across the floor, onto the balcony, where a wash of icy wind stole him away.
The princess waited a short while before opening the door to her room. It took a bit to pick the lock, especially with one hand, and once the door opened she found the guard sound asleep. That explained why he’d ignored all the commotion. She nudged him awake and sent him after a healer and an enchanter to make sure that Lord Marki never graced her bedroom balcony again. Unfortunately that also meant that Keleir would not be able to either.
The bracelet around her wrist kept the healer from using magic to mend the bones of her hand. Instead Madam Ophelia wrapped it in bandages and gave Saran a bag spelled by an Ice Mage to press over the aching bone.
“This elixir isn’t so much magic as it is herbal. It will help ease the pain and the swelling, Your Highness,” she said, handing her a cup of hot tea. “Your nose isn’t broken. There will be light bruising and a little swelling. The bleeding has stopped.”
“Thank you,” Saran said, curling her fingers around the warm ceramic cup and lifting it to her lips.
Madam Ophelia gathered her tools into a leather sack and stood straight. She was a prim woman, with gray hair slicked back into an overly tight bun that pulled the lines of her aged face smooth. “Are you ready to tell the guards who attacked you so that they may meet justice?”
Saran sipped the tea. “I have dealt justice to him … a measure of it. I want him cowering in some corner, glancing over his shoulder, wondering when and if there will be more. No, I am not ready to divulge his name. But when I am, palace guards will be of little use to me.”
The healer grinned, a dark and happy smile that sent a little shiver down Saran’s spine. “Men,” Madam Ophelia said, bending closer. “It is a great pleasure to see a woman make them quiver. I long for you to take the throne, Your Highness. For then they will know the true power of the Grand Feminine, the power of woman, the power of a queen. Please call me if you require any further assistance.”
