The Living God, page 7
“Thank you,” Saran murmured, watching the woman exit as another servant entered. This one did not move with the careful, poised grace that Madam Ophelia carried so naturally. He poured sweat, heaving great puffs of air into his lungs as he slid and almost fell to a stop at her feet. He collected himself, standing straight and tall with his chest puffed out.
“Princess,” he gasped, clapping his heels together and bowing deeply. “The king requests your presence in the throne room. The Alar has sent representatives to court.”
SEVEN
KELEIR DRUMMED HIS fingers against the wooden table, staring off at the wall as his brother scarfed down his breakfast. The full dining hall had long tables with men and women seated at them, eating the morning meal. Everyone had a plate of food except for the Fire Mage, who had chosen to give his to Saran that morning.
The grand hall stood fifty feet wide and one hundred feet long, with towering ceilings and tall, wide windows lining one side, allowing bright morning light to drift warmly into the room. The thunder of voices reverberated off the ceiling, concealing all individual conversation in a haze of white noise. It made Keleir comfortable enough to speak of secretive matters without worry of being overheard.
“She didn’t get dinner?” Rowe asked, taking a breathless gulp of juice.
“I retrieved something from the kitchen last night and brought her my breakfast this morning. I’m not going to let her starve because her father’s a bastard. We should just kill him and blame it on his disease.”
Rowe nodded while trying not to laugh at his brother’s candid and remorseless suggestion. “Wonderful idea. Then you can spend the next hundred years hunting for the key he hid in Prophetess-knows-where.”
“I doubt he even has the key.”
“Exactly.”
Keleir stole a piece of bacon from Rowe’s plate. “We should torture it out of him.”
“Yes, torture is often misconstrued for natural death in the end.”
The Fire Mage scowled and reached across the table for another piece of bacon. “You are really killing my glory today, Brother. Can’t you agree with anything I say?”
“Someone has to be your conscience when Saran isn’t around. It might as well be me.” Rowe smacked Keleir’s hand away. “Get your own!”
“I had my own. I did a charitable thing and donated it. One more piece.”
Rowe dragged his plate closer to his chest with a feral growl, his lip curling up like a dog’s. Bright blue eyes bored into his brother. “No.”
The Fire Mage drew his hand back and observed the possessiveness with a coy smile. “You need a woman. It’s weird to protect food like your one and only love.”
“It is my one and only, at the moment. I am deeply invested in this. Why don’t you invest in some of your own, aye?” Rowe took a big smiling bite. “Or go find your woman.”
Keleir grinned, settling back in his chair. A faint rosy glow spread across his cheeks as he looked away. “She is confined to her room all day.”
Rowe bit his bacon and made a suggestive glance to the servant heading their way. Keleir righted himself on the bench and wiped the pleasant look from his face. The servant walked to the end of their table and gave a deep respectful bow. “Lord Ahriman, Lord Blackwell, I’ve been asked to summon you to court. The king requests the honor of your presence.”
The Fire Mage’s red gaze flicked to the servant. “Oh, it is we who are honored. Tell the king we will be there shortly.”
Rowe finished his breakfast, and the two men headed for the throne room, though neither of them rushed the journey. Court could be painfully dull, and the two, while favored among the top of Yarin’s Mages, were rarely needed. Court happened on rare and special occasions, as most of the nobles had given their land rights away or lost them in Yarin’s drive to consolidate power. As such, the event often felt somber and unproductive. While it seemed odd for them to be asked to join, neither questioned the summoning of a mad man. Nothing the king did as of late made any real sense at all.
The various methods from the Third that King Yarin used to prolong his life gave him an adverse reaction to sunlight. Because of this, he kept the throne room dark with thick, heavy curtains drawn over the windows to blot out the light. Even without the curtains, light would have found it hard to penetrate the layers of dirt caked upon the panes so thickly that they appeared frosted. It was a large room lit by torches and candles, with wide, round pillars and narrow skeletal arches peaked to vaults holding up the lengthy ceiling. Today a red carpet lined the center of the room from the heavy wooden doors to the steps leading up to the old king.
Court did not have many participants, and usually only a handful of nobles clustered about the king. That morning soldiers, servants, and nobles lined the tattered red carpet, chattering among themselves and filling the normally vacant room with enough noise that it echoed off the arched ceiling and reverberated from the walls out into the hall.
“What’s all this?” Rowe muttered to his brother as they paused at the open door.
Keleir shook his head, scanning the faces within view until his sight traveled down the length of the aisle to the king. Three tall men stood near him, all adorned in gold and white robes. They were tan of skin, black-haired, and they wore the traditional headdresses of the Mavahan people.
Saran spotted Keleir and Rowe at the threshold of the roaring throne room. She stopped next to them, peering bewildered inside. Having never seen such an enormous crowed gathered, Saran couldn’t possibly imagine why they would all be there … until she spotted the Mavish men. Her heart dropped to her boots. “Well, a lot of people have come to see me off. That’s nice, I suppose.” Nervous jitters traveled through her legs, and she thanked herself for dressing in skirts, as that would hide their tremble. Anxiety wrapping around her heart competed with the pain of a broken hand and the ache of a damaged nose.
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Keleir muttered, turning his gaze on her. His eyes darkened at the flush around her cheeks and nose. “What happened?”
Saran touched her face with the tips of her fingers and then reached down to the sleeve of her dress and drew it over her bandaged hand. “It’s a rather long story, one better discussed later when there aren’t eyes watching.”
Keleir shook his head, reached for her arm, and drew back the belled fabric hiding her bandaged hand. Embers lit in his eyes, and his jaw set tight. “Tell me now.”
Rowe coughed and nodded down the lengthy aisle to the king sitting impatiently upon his throne. Rowe wobbled in a nervous fashion, heel to toe, before stepping off. “Come, Yarin is glaring at us.”
Saran nodded and stepped after Rowe. Keleir gaped at her and followed quickly in her wake. “Saran …”
The princess ignored him and smiled at the rows of people greeting her. She bowed her head to those who offered her that courtesy and tapped her breast with her fist to any soldier that saluted.
Keleir caught her by the elbow near the end of the aisle.
Saran froze, her gaze darting out to the hundreds of eyes on them. She could feel her father glowering at her from his throne. She met the Fire Mage’s angry gaze, allowing the hardness in her eyes to speak for her. The Fire Mage paused, glancing to his fingers wrapped too tightly around her arm, and then to the soldiers and nobles with their curious gazes and craning necks. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he whispered, bowing deeply before going to his brother’s side.
“Daughter,” Yarin croaked as he motioned for her to take her place at his right.
Saran ascended to stand next to him as one might approach their own execution. She held a regal form but took no pleasure in the act. When she reached her appointed place, she turned to face the crowd that had gathered. Not until that moment, while overlooking them, did she find it within herself to truly be afraid.
Soldiers lined the red-carpeted aisle at the back of the room, while the nobles stood in rows toward the front. Representatives of the Mavahan Empire, adorned in their silks and jewels, lined the right front of the podium, while Keleir and Rowe stood to the left.
“Father,” Saran whispered, bending low to his ear. “What is this? What are you doing?” Again she felt a tremble in her legs, so she locked her knees, refusing to show any sign of fear or weakness before the people ogling her. She narrowed her eyes on the Mavahans. She imagined herself stuffed unwillingly into an ornately carved wagon, whisked across the dry, sandy dunes of their country, and gifted with a smile to the Alar, their king. The prospect of an unwanted marriage was the least horrifying thing about being sold away. What frightened her more than these men, more than the idea of living in the Deadlands, forever cut off from the Core, was the fact that she had all the power in the world to stop it—if only her father had not Bound her.
“I am securing the future of our kingdom, Saran,” he said, a sick smile pulling on his baggy face. “We both know I’ll soon be dead. I won’t leave it to be stripped of everything I worked so hard for.”
Panic raced through her. She clenched her fists tight at her sides and watched her father as he slid forward and struggled to stand. The cane in his hand wobbled as he thrust his disease-riddled body up out of his throne. He took one step forward and lifted his hand to silence the room. His subjects quieted. The silence became a physical weight wrapped around her neck. A thousand protests bubbled inside of her, threatening to burst out of her mouth and further dissolve the little autonomy she had left.
What could she do? What could she say? She was a woman. A daughter. A bargaining chip. She could easily be described as the most powerful Mage in her father’s possession, and yet he used her as nothing more than a dowry for peace. No matter how much she argued or screamed, it would not change the fate he had planned for her, whatever it might be. In order to be truly free, one of them, she or her father, would have to die.
It wouldn’t be hard to kill him. If his people knew the truth, if they knew just how fragile and powerless he really was, they’d rush the throne and rip him to pieces, if only for a chance to sit one second on his throne. The princess eyed her father, the words balled like a hard knot in the back of her throat. If she spoke them … Her gaze flittered to Keleir and Rowe. If she spoke them, what would she lose?
“It is no secret that your great king will soon return to the Core. Had I not been the great Mage that I am, nay, the stubborn soldier, I’d have gone a long time ago,” King Yarin began. “The time has come for me to lay the foundations of your future in stone so that you can take comfort. Many years have passed since Saran came of age, and my advisers have pleaded with me to ensure my lineage and marry her to a worthy successor so that the next King of Adrid would be accepted by the Core. It is time that such succession was established and such union announced. Hear me, people of Adrid, and know my word as law. Any man or woman who questions this decree, or who makes any attempt to sabotage what I have ordered, shall be executed as a traitor. Listen well and know that my daughter, Princess Saran D’mor of Adrid, will wed the feared warrior Lifesbane, and he will be your king.”
Saran heard the words. They fell from his lips to a muted crowd. Even as her mind registered them for what they were, she could not believe that he’d said them. She blinked and stumbled a step forward. Her hands shook with rage that splintered through her heart only to be doused with realization. Not the Alar. Not Mavahan. But Keleir. Adrid.
The throne room erupted in a flurry of voices. Some soldiers cheered in the distance where the shadows of the dark room obscured them. All became white noise to Saran as her green eyes settled on Keleir in shock.
A Mavahan representative bowed deeply and took a respectful step forward. He did not lift his head but opened his hands in a great parting of peace and with a forced smile spoke to the king. “That isn’t what we discussed, King Yarin, for the better part of six months. We would not have agreed to travel for a month only to see you promise the hand of your daughter to a common lord within your court, one not even of noble birth. The princess is to wed Alar Dago, as we agreed that she would.”
Yarin’s cheek twitched, and he hobbled close to the edge of the podium, bending to look at the representative with his half-blind eyes. “We agreed? I don’t remember. I have this poor diseased brain, you see. Did we already sign a marriage contract?”
“We were to sign it upon our arrival. Princess Saran will leave with us this evening, as agreed.”
“No contract? What madman thinks to come collect a bride that has not been signed for? Has your Alar sent me payment for her hand?”
“The payment, King Yarin, is in the form of peace. I assure you, that is the most luxurious and expensive gift our Alar could ever bestow you,” he hissed.
Yarin straightened, his face creasing with anger. “I need no such gift! I have all that I need here.”
The representative bowed deeper, as if he meant to touch the floor with his forehead. “The Alar will not take this well. You promised a queen. In exchange for your daughter, he would open trade and relieve the strangling grip on your kingdom. You would no longer fear invasion.”
“There is no need for the Alar to relieve a strangled grip,” Yarin said. “Lifesbane will. Go back to your Alar. Tell him the name Ahriman Lifesbane and watch as he quivers at the sound of it.”
The Mavahan man grew darker with rage. “Why waste our time by calling us here? What purpose does your announcement serve, if not to plant seeds of war?”
“I wanted you to see him for yourself,” Yarin said and motioned to the white-haired, red-eyed man. “Ahriman Lifesbane, future King of Adrid.”
Saran took a cautious step forward, resting her hand on her father’s hunched shoulder. “You’re marrying me off to Keleir?”
Yarin grinned. “If anyone can rein in your willfulness, it is he.”
Saran tried not to laugh. If her heart weren’t hammering, if she didn’t fully believe it a dream, she might have. However, when she looked out at Keleir to share her happiness, there was something terribly wrong. She could see it in his eyes, in the way he clutched his chest as if his heart were threatening to bound out from behind his ribs. The Oruke was speaking to him.
“Your Majesty, might I suggest that the princess be married to my brother, Rowe?” Keleir’s voice rang over the murmur of the crowd. His winced and forced his quivering hands at his sides. His voice rose above the loud room. “While he does not possess my deadly reputation, he is less likely to be controlled by an Oruke and more trusted by your people.”
“What?” said Saran, Yarin, and Rowe as one.
The king shook his head at the Fire Mage. “I’m giving you a kingdom, Lifesbane, and I’m giving you my daughter …”
Keleir turned a disdainful glare on Saran that made her stomach twist into knots. “I’ll gladly take your kingdom. I don’t want your daughter.”
Rowe choked.
Yarin laughed.
Keleir continued, “She’s willful, spoiled, and uncontrollable. I need someone that will bend to my whim, someone who will listen to me. A wife should be submissive to her husband. Saran is anything but.”
“You will marry her,” the king said, falling into his throne. “It is decided. It is law. You will control her—I have no doubt about that, Lord Ahriman. She will break under you.”
Keleir snarled, curling his fists at his sides. “If it is my king’s wish.”
Saran’s brow furrowed. Her heart pounded, and she felt at the Bind around her wrist. She needed it off. Off. Off. Off!
Yarin nodded. “It is your king’s command.” He turned his gaze to Saran and waved her off before addressing the crowded room. “That is all. Go.”
Saran brushed past Keleir and Rowe on her way to the door but didn’t bother to spare either a glance. When she’d abandoned the room, the nobles and soldiers began to file out behind her. The Mavahan representatives turned to the king without a word. They bowed low to him, in more respect than he deserved, and backed out of the room.
Rowe stalked after Keleir as he faded to the back of the crowd and into a dark corner of the throne room. The Fire Mage bent near the wall, clutching his chest, and heaved great gulps of air into his lungs.
Rowe placed his hand on Keleir’s shoulder and gave it a harsh squeeze. “What the hell was that about? The king just gave you permission to be with her. He gave her to you, and you tried to pawn her off on me? In front of her? I don’t want to be king any more than you do, but did you stop and think what that said to the woman you love?”
Keleir fell against the wall, craning his head back. His brow glistened with sweat, and his hand clutched at his aching chest, nails trying to claw out the thing inside him. “It is happy, Rowe. The moment the king named me his successor and gave me Saran as a wife, the Oruke was happy. I have never known happiness from it. It hates her … and it is happy.”
EIGHT
THE PRINCESS POURED herself a generous glass of Levlin whiskey, hoping that enough of it would drown the throbbing ache in her hand. By the second glass her chest felt warm, but her hand still screamed. The healer’s tonic had worn off hours before, and she’d sent her guard for more. He’d yet to return, though he’d been gone long enough to go and come thrice.
The door to her room opened in a sweeping groan.
“Prophetess, yes!”
Keleir closed it quietly behind him, lifting his gaze to her disappointed face. It still felt unsettling to view him there before her and not feel him in the room. Had she been without the Binding, she would have known immediately that it wasn’t the guard returning with her aid.
Often an overconfident man, the Fire Mage entered the room one quiet step at a time, as one might approach an unfamiliar canine. “I didn’t think he’d keep you locked in after giving you away. I’ll talk to him about it.”
Saran fell into her chair, holding a cold glass to her bandaged hand. “Do that, will you? Why don’t you speak to him more about how I should marry your brother while you are at it, hmm?”
He frowned and, shaking his head, draped an arm across the mantel. “It’s not … It is complicated.”
