The Living God, page 8
She smiled. “Complicated? We’ve been hiding ourselves away for years. Today my father announces to the whole kingdom that I am to be yours, and you call me a spoiled, willful brat whom you want nothing to do with. Then, as if that didn’t cut deep enough, you try to pawn me off on Rowe. It was so very uncomplicated, Keleir!” She jumped from her chair and went for the balcony, letting the rush of cold sea air calm her racing heart.
He followed and braced against the railing with his forearms, casting his gaze to the sea and the setting sun. The last threads of daylight lit her hair afire, and the wind tossed it like angry flames about her head. He enjoyed the sight and found peace watching her fight to contain it behind her ears.
“Something happened when your father made that announcement. The Oruke felt joy. I was afraid, Saran. I’ve never felt it that happy, especially where it concerns you.”
The princess turned her eyes upon him, strands of red brushing across her face. “And is it still so full of joy?”
“It is silent,” he said, rubbing his chest. “For the most part.”
“That beast craves power, and to be king is power, Keleir. It was more than likely happy about that than happy about having a wife, especially me.”
“I know—I mean, I understand that now. At that moment, I was shocked. I didn’t know what to think or what I was feeling. I only wanted to protect you from him.”
Keleir grasped her bandaged hand hidden beneath the sleeve of her robe. Saran yelped and drew it trembling to her chest. For the longest time, the two lovers stared at each other, each trying desperately to read the other. Without their connection, they had to rely on more human means of deciphering the other’s thoughts. Keleir reached for her good hand, taking it lightly in his fingers, and guided her back to her chair out of the wind.
“Let me see,” he said, his voice warm and gentle.
Saran nodded, taking the edge of her sleeve and drawing it up to her elbow. He peeked around the loose bandaging, cringing at the smell of strong healing herbs. Her hand quivered in his light grasp, aching at such a gentle touch. She desperately longed for the numbing herbs that Madam Ophelia provided.
“Are you ready to tell me?” Keleir asked, his voice too calm.
“Odan’s been watching us, Keleir. I’m not sure for how long. He found the note you left me this morning and he meant to take it to Father. We fought, and it ended with a knife lodged in his shoulder. It seems that there was no need to worry about it after all. The letter, I mean … given how things turned out.”
“I’ll have Yarin remove the Bind so a healer can treat you.” He released her hand, his fingers brushing along her jaw. His eyes darkened, the ruby red deepening as he stood. “And I’ll go speak with Odan.”
Saran rushed to her feet. “Don’t kill him.”
Keleir’s unreadable face transformed with a wicked grin. “I have a reputation to maintain, my love.” He swept his arm around and bowed deeply before turning for the door.
Her heart lurched up into her throat, and she nearly choked on her words. “Don’t!”
The Fire Mage stopped at the door, his fingertips grazing over the cool metal handle. He froze, and she raged, needing to know what he thought, what he felt. Slowly he turned back to her, questioning eyes appraising her.
“Don’t kill him.”
“Saran, he attacked you. He hit you. He broke your hand. I’m going to kill him before he does worse when my back is turned next.”
“I know. I understand. But don’t do it. He isn’t … You’ve gone a long time without killing, despite what you say. He isn’t worth it.” She went to him, taking his hand and pulling him away from the door. “Stay with me instead.”
He frowned. “You don’t want me to kill Odan for the same reason you don’t wish me to kill Yarin. You don’t want it to tarnish whatever polish you forged on me when sealing away the Oruke. Do you think if I kill him I’ll lose what is left of my soul?”
“Keleir, you are not a murderer.”
He leaned forward, his face pressing close to hers. He smirked at the startled look she gave him. Even after all these years, when he got angry, it proved hard to tell the difference between the Oruke and Keleir. “I am a murderer,” he whispered. “Please stop pretending I’m not.”
“You are not a murderer anymore,” she corrected. Saran straightened her spine and hardened her face. She believed with all her heart that the Keleir she’d brought back from the darkness was not a killer, and so far, after five years, he’d done nothing but prove her right. Still, a dark cloud of guilt followed him for the actions not done by his hand. No matter what she told him, he would forever take ownership for the murders committed by the Oruke.
Keleir shook his head and moved past her to the chair she’d occupied. He fell into it as if the heavy weight of that guilt were two hands shoving hard against his shoulders. “Having not killed in five years does not absolve me of the sins that came before. It doesn’t remove the blood from my hands. People know me as Lifesbane. They fear me. My village feared me long before I garnered that reputation.”
Saran frowned, remembering the long, painful tale of his childhood. His village had been superstitious and cruel. Every child born with an Oruke was marked by white hair and red eyes, but Keleir had also been born with a birthmark on his chest, right over his heart. It looked more like thousands of carefully woven knots in the form of a rabid, monstrous face. The village elders had ordered his mother and father to remove the mark. They believed it would sever the Oruke’s hold over their son. His father held him down, and they cut the mark from his chest, skinning the flesh away. It only came back darker, and each time it returned they held him down again and removed it. Now the mark remained, as black as any tattoo, but behind it was a gnarled and messy scar, like the shape of a layered eight-pointed star.
The last time the village cut it from him was the night Keleir Awoke to the gifts the Core had blessed him with. In anguish and consumed with newfound and unlearned power, he’d killed his father with magic. To kill with magic was considered a terrible crime by the Core, and one with a single price: a life for a life.
The Core claimed Her price, and while it should have killed Keleir, it did not. But it did give the Oruke total control over Keleir’s body for thirteen years, up until the point Saran brought Keleir back from the darkness.
She knew his story as well as any folktale. He’d told it to her on numerous occasions when his battle with the Oruke became particularly trying. Her heart ached for him, knowing no way to help him without her magic.
“You can clean me up, wash me off, keep me dry for five years, but it doesn’t change what I am or what I did,” Keleir whispered.
“You should see your face,” she said as she brushed her fingers against his cheek before squeezing his hand. “Someone with eyes so sad cannot be a monster. You feel remorse, Keleir. You hate what was done by your hands, but it was not you. It was him. It was the Oruke. You died, and for thirteen years the Oruke had control of your body. I turned back time enough to rebuild the wall between your soul and his. Technically I resurrected you. But I can’t do that again. What I did should have been impossible to begin with. If …”
“It nearly killed you,” he whispered, brushing his hand over her hair. “You saved me, risked so much for me, after all that I’d done to hurt you.”
“It wasn’t you. I saw you, buried in him … screaming. I can’t do it again. Which is why you must listen to me and ignore the urge. If you kill again with magic—”
“There are many ways to kill other than magic. What I did to my father was an accident, no matter how much he deserved it. I’m not saying I plan to kill again, I’m just saying …”
Saran’s face grew stern. “Kill only to protect yourself. Not for vengeance or pleasure. Kill for survival. Use your reputation, if you must, but do not become it. That is all that I ask.”
Keleir leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “That is a simple thing to give someone who has done so much.”
Saran stared at the fire while he drew her in tight against his chest. She listened to the rhythm of his heart, knowing that the Oruke lay just beneath the surface, knowing that with each passing day the Bind wrapped around her wrist, the Oruke grew stronger. Keleir didn’t seek out Odan. Instead they spent the evening together. Making love had always been the most effective means for quieting the darkness in his mind; however, it seemed to do little good that night. Eventually, and more reluctantly for Keleir, they slept.
NINE
“IT IS DYING. Look at how cold it grows. Look what they’ve done. They take everything given to them and they destroy it. It is not fair that they live, that they feel, and in return they do their world such an injustice. They’ll destroy it until there is nothing left. Like the Third—” Before Keleir’s eyes, a world of metal appeared. There wasn’t a spot of green as far as he could see. Huge turbines worked to purify the air to make the planet habitable. “And like the Second soon will be.” The view of the Third shifted into that of the Second, a world of a technology that slowly encroached on the Life of its Core. It was filled with a people constantly struggling to balance their need for consumption with their desire to protect their world from destruction … and they were losing.
It all faded, and they stood once more over a dying Core.
“The First is next, you know. You feel it. War is coming, and greed. Parasites. Cancers. They are the bane of life, not you,” the Oruke said to the Fire Mage as they stood side by side atop the molten soul of the planet, now frozen in a solid mass of black rock. The crevices still glowed hot with life, but how long before those cracks went dark too?
Keleir lifted his eyes to the man next to him, to the Oruke, but the face he saw was his own.
The Fire Mage’s eyes snapped open, and he ran a trembling hand across his damp face, staring up at a dark ceiling. The dying embers of the fire added little light to the black room, but he could see the detail in the fabric draped above the bed enough to remember where he was. He felt Saran’s heat next to him, curled on her side near the edge of the bed.
The Oruke moved inside, feeling much like a worm wiggling in his chest. The rhythm in his heart changed with what Madam Ophelia liked to call a palpitation, a term she learned while apprenticing in a Second hospital as a young woman. His head ached with the pressure of the monster beating at the thin walls, desperately wanting to get back in and show him more horrors than he cared to know. “Stop,” he whispered, fisting his white hair in his hands. “Please stop.”
TEN
SARAN GLOWERED AT the tapestry-laden wall, jaw set tight enough to hurt, while Madam Ophelia rubbed more herbs over her broken hand and rewrapped it with cloth. The healer had a gentle touch when she chose to. She could also be very impatient and harsh, but luckily for Saran, that morning Madam Ophelia had chosen the former method for treating her patient. Even still, it hurt.
The healer lifted her gray eyes to the princess, the corners of her lips tugging upward but never truly forming a smile. “I can’t imagine how you feel being unable to heal yourself or having a healer mend you.”
Saran admired the healer’s handiwork as the woman poured them both a small cup of tea, adding a vial of medicine to Saran’s. “It is indescribable.”
Madam Ophelia nodded and passed Saran her cup of medicated tea. “I hope you don’t mind, I thought I’d join you for breakfast.” She motioned for the servant near the door to bring forward a tray of pastries from the kitchen. “I had the cook work up something special for us.”
Saran gaped at the tray. “I haven’t had scones since I was a teen.” Back when they used to have variety in their meals.
Madam Ophelia gave a dry chuckle. “I’m sure you could ask for anything and get it. The servants here are very loyal to you.”
Saran sipped at the hot tea, enjoying the warmth of it on her cheeks. “I don’t like making special requests of people. I don’t like having servants. If I had my way, I’d live in a quiet cottage by a lake.”
“But that isn’t the hand that fate dealt, unfortunately.”
Saran pursed her lips together, exhaling slowly through her nose. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
“Your nose is very bruised today. I’ve brought a paste to cover the coloring. I know you aren’t fond of paint, but I think it would do some good to hide the abuse you received from Odan Marki. It is best if the people of this castle see you as untouchable.” Madam Ophelia snapped her fingers, and another servant stepped forward, placing a small glass jar filled with tan paint, the color of Saran’s skin, on the table between her chair and Madam Ophelia’s.
“I didn’t tell you who attacked me,” Saran mused.
“I guessed.”
“And how is Odan?”
“Resting. He won’t be troubling you anymore. His recent encounter was enlightening for him.”
“Near-death experiences are often so.”
Madam Ophelia smiled over her cup of tea. “Aren’t they?” She drank and set the empty cup off to the side before folding her hands in her lap. “Still, wear the paint to cover the bruising and long sleeves to cover your hand. The more people think you’re invulnerable, the better. The practice has suited your father all these years. Men quiver at his name. If only they knew that with a harsh breeze, they could see him fall.”
Saran paused midsip, taking the moment to rethink Madam Ophelia’s words before swallowing her tea. “I know your servants are loyal, but even that was bold of you. Not many people survive speaking ill of the king as you just did.”
“I’m the king’s healer. He’s dying. He has a month at the most. Soon you will be queen and you must begin to carry yourself as such. You cannot run from this, Your Highness. It is time to stop living a double life and own up to that responsibility.”
Saran set her half-empty cup of tea down and met Madam Ophelia’s eyes. “I don’t know what you mean by that. I have one life, and that is to be the Princess of Adrid. I have sacrificed a great many things to carry this mantle. Please do not suggest that I live a double life aloud ever again, for both our sakes.”
“Of course, forgive me.” Madam Ophelia held Saran’s gaze, her face a clean, emotionless slate. Her dull eyes bored into the princess’s. The healer had the look of a woman who could see you for everything you were and everything you weren’t. She rested her hand on Saran’s shoulder. “You are without your magic, but you are not broken. Perhaps this is a test of your strength. I find that we are all made better through struggle and that, in the end, we all come out stronger for it. You have great power, Saran, beyond the one the Core blessed you with, if only you had the courage to look past the veil of uncertainty.”
Madam Ophelia had been the one to deliver her when her mother gave birth. When her mother died several months after, Madam Ophelia swaddled her, found a wet nurse to feed her, taught her to walk and talk. She mended Saran’s bumps and bruises from her father’s abuse and her training as a soldier. She taught Saran what to do when she transitioned from a child into a woman the night her moon cycle came. Madam Ophelia, in more ways than Saran could count, had been the only mother Saran had ever known. Saran’s first words had been to call Madam Ophelia Ma. Madam was too complicated.
Despite these kindly, motherly traits, Madam Ophelia had always ensured a safe emotional distance.
Saran took up the half-empty cup of tea and sipped at it, pondering the healer’s words as she gathered her things into a leather satchel. Madam Ophelia bowed deeply to Saran.
I find that we are all made better through struggle …
The words sank in the pit of Saran’s stomach. How much better could any of them afford to get?
ELEVEN
THE ADRID COUNCIL chambers were lively the day after the king’s announcement. The narrow table lined with chairs took the full length of the room. Advisers occupied the well-worn seats that typically sat empty. The king lounged against the far wall, away from the windows and the light. He munched on birdseeds and spit the shells into a clay cup at the corner foot of the table, much to the disgust of the noble seated next to him. He missed often.
The early morning sun tried desperately to come through the dingy, dirty windows. It cast dim colors on the floor from the tinted glass at the top of the arches. Even that bit of light felt like too much. The dull glare tugged at Keleir’s nerves, and he sought to avoid it by hiding behind the shadow of a burly noble hovering over the table. Dark circles hung under his red eyes as he glowered at the creature of a man speaking to him.
“Wake up, Lifesbane,” said the duke, chuckling and slapping his shoulder. “Did the realization you couldn’t run a kingdom keep you up late?”
“Or your inability to wrangle a woman?” said another.
Keleir pressed fingers to his temple as he glared across the table at the laughing man. A dark smile tugged at his lips, and they parted to speak when a loud, resounding crack echoed off the low ceiling. The king lifted his cane and rapped it against the floor a second time, silencing the room.
“Let’s see,” he said, his voice as rough as the worn brick wall behind him. “Is everyone … Where is Saran?”
“You confined her to her room, my king,” Keleir droned, settling back in his chair. “She will not be attending the meeting unless you remove the guard outside her door.”
The king’s leathery face withered with a frown. He cracked his cane against the floor. “Someone fetch that damn daughter of mine before the Seconds get here.”
A servant ducked out of the room, and each of the nobles grew silent and stared blankly at the sick man. Keleir slid forward, leaning to the center of the table to peer down the length. “Seconds, my king? Are you saying Second Dwellers are coming here?”
Yarin nodded, wiggling into his chair. “Yes, didn’t I mention they were coming?”
Keleir shook his head, glancing to the other members of the council sitting at the table. Those nobles that regularly attended meetings shook their heads at him. The men seated at the table exchanged grave looks between themselves, the sort that only insane men could earn. “Are you absolutely certain Seconds are coming today, my king? Perhaps you are—”
