THE ARMY TRAVELED for the length of a day in a line three men wide and two hundred men long, with servants handling horse-drawn supply wagons trailing behind them. A gloomy gray sky poured rain in a torrent, soaking through wool cloaks and leather armor. Not a single joyous person remained among the lot of wet and travel-weary soldiers. By nightfall they were well and truly miserable.
They came to a large field where the army spread out, and the servants started pitching tents and building fires to warm chilled bones and prepare food.
Saran watched with a somber frown as her servant wrestled with the wet canvas. He grumbled curses under his breath in a language she barely understood, one derived from a homeland somewhere across the First and far from Adrid. She knew that if she wanted to, the Core would grant her the gift of understanding, but it felt like an invasion of his private grumbling. He had brown skin, perhaps Droven in origin. But Droven men were large and built like great stone walls, and her servant had the framing of a malnourished mine worker. He stopped his wrestling and turned his dark eyes on her.
“I don’t think the Princess of Adrid should have her tent on the outskirts of camp. That’s all I’m saying, Your Highness.” He was a thin boy, barely a man. Saran pitied him even as she appreciated his loyalty. She had no choice when it came to servants. She’d rather not have any at all, but he had adamantly volunteered for the position when the roster went up in the great hall. She suspected he thought it better to serve her than the others.
“When I need a washroom, I shall not lift skirts or draw down pants among men. I will have discreet access to a bush, and no one will talk me out of it.”
The servant blew air through his nose and, shaking his head, went back to pitching the tent. She had no need to understand his language; the sideways glance he gave her proved a perfect translation for his garbled speech.
The battlefield is no place for the sole heir of a kingdom, least of all a woman.
War. Battle. Her father had granted her the freedom to fight among men without question. The King of Adrid took pride in a powerful heir, one who commanded respect among his military and was feared by his people. He didn’t consider the possibility of losing her in battle. His breast was too full of hubris, too high on his own glory to assume that he would ever know failure.
Near her tent, a few soldiers fought with damp wood in the hopes of building something to warm themselves with. They’d managed to start a withering flame and were taking great care in coaxing it to a fuller life. Saran rubbed heat into her arms as she sat around the fire with them, watching as they burned shredded pieces of fabric from their own packs in the hopes of keeping the flame hot.
Keleir’s tall form stepped out from the crowd and up to the pit, where he waved his hand over the flame. The fire roared up in a great whoosh, startling the soldiers bent so close to it. Except for a hooded form sitting on a wet log across from him, the gathered men gave a great yelp and abandoned the pit. Saran sat perfectly still, enjoying the rush of heat over her cold cheeks. She chuckled as the startled men found another pit to invade, one with fewer Mages around it.
The princess’s gaze fell on the seated man who chose to stay in their company. She saw the edge of a smirk pull at his lips beneath the shadow of his hood. “Rowe,” she said, greeting him with a smile. He lowered the cloth now that the mist had stopped and the fire burned warm. He was the same tall, broad man with blue eyes and black hair, who just the day before kept Odan from breaking her nose.
He gave a gentle nod in her direction, folding his arms and bracing them across his drawn knees. “Princess.”
Keleir took a seat on the split log between them, a self-satisfied smile plastered on his handsome face. “Pity they didn’t stay. The fire’s quite nice now.”
Saran chuckled and held her hands up to the flames. “Thank you. We are lucky to have a Fire Mage on days like this.”
“We made camp early today,” Rowe said. “I guarantee the men will be drunk and singing within the hour. Sleeping soon after.”
True to form, the men did exactly as Rowe promised. The clouds parted to a bright, moonlit sky full of stars, and they danced beneath it in fits of laughter.
Saran ducked off to change into dry clothes. When she returned, Rowe and Keleir had big, wide grins and pints of ale in their hands. Keleir held two, drinking from one and holding out the other for her.
“Pickings are slim now. All that’s left is piss ale,” he said, lifting it higher. “Drink up and sit down. Food is almost ready.”
Saran arched an eyebrow and turned up her nose at the foul-smelling liquid. “You really know how to sell a drink, Lord Ahriman. Unfortunately I’m not so eager to get drunk.”
“Pour it out,” Keleir whispered from behind his mug with a mischievous smile. “That’s what I’m doing.”
Her lips parted, but his narrowed gaze clamped her mouth shut. Rowe gave her a wink from across the fire, drunkenly slinging out his arm and sloshing the ale across the earth.
“I’ve had three of these! I feel nuttin’.”
“Then have three more!” someone shouted from far back in the camp.
Saran laughed, taking up the ale and pretending to sip. She choked on a gag from the smell, and after faking her drink, she gently placed the mug near her boot. They spent the rest of the evening laughing at Rowe, who, while not truly drunk, gave a good show of acting so. He stumbled around from person to person, draping his long arm over their shoulders and leaning all his weight upon them. He would speak for a few minutes and go to another who caught his eye. Eventually he skipped clumsily back to the fire, dropping his empty mug by a log. Then, with a huffing laugh, he stumbled around the fire and held out his hand to Saran.
“Dance with me!”
Saran stretched her legs across the earth, comfortably leaning back. “No.” Her green gaze fluttered up from the fire, narrowing on him. “You’re drunk.”
“Dance with me.” He pushed his hand farther toward her, curling his fingers in and out.
Music filtered down from the other end of camp. It had been playing all night without her noticing, but suddenly the sound seemed so much louder. Soldiers stood together in a group playing lively tunes with mismatched instruments.
Rowe stared down with bright eyes and a handsome smile. He nudged her with his hand and then reaffirmed his commitment by motioning to the small area with just enough room to dance. They were near in age, and both only a few years younger than Keleir. Looking at Rowe’s dark hair and bright eyes, it was hard to imagine them brothers. Then again, Keleir looked little like any man she’d ever seen. She wondered if the Fire Mage would boast the same black hair and blue eyes had the Oruke not stolen him as a vessel.
Saran huffed. “Fine!” Lumbering to her feet, she kicked over the full mug of ale as she passed.
Rowe curled his arm around her waist, giving a rough tug forward, and grinned devilishly down at her.
Saran’s green eyes lingered on him as his hand smoothed down her lower back. “Watch it, my lord. I’ll turn that arm to dust.”
Rowe’s grin broadened, and he carried her off, spinning about the fire with little care for falling in. She laughed as he tugged her along, not sure of her feet in this unrehearsed number. It was the type of dance one did in a bar after too many drinks, and Saran was unaccustomed to such merrymaking. She wasn’t too familiar with courtly dances either, as her father did not host the same balls and banquets that other rulers might throw from time to time. Saran was not the type of princess who attended etiquette classes. She ate like a commoner, danced like an invalid, and fought like a man.
Abruptly the musicians transitioned into a less brassy song. Their instruments, poorly tuned and unevenly distributed, left the air filled with a shrill wailing song that wasn’t fast enough to waltz to, but too slow and bad to enjoy.
Rowe led her in slower circles near the fire. His hand curled gently around hers while his hips swayed close. His face beheld a dreamy smile and his eyes roamed over her.
“What is this?” She sighed, aware of the intimacy in his movements.
“Keleir told me you were concerned that people might think you lie with him,” he whispered into her ear. “So I’m letting them think you lie with me.”
She shot a dark glare to Rowe’s older brother seated nearby. “This isn’t any better.”
“It’s better than him, isn’t it?”
“No.” Saran pulled her hand away and stepped back. She stood straight and regal, her head held high as any royal’s. Pride was the only thing she shared with nobles. “Thank you for the dance, Lord Ahriman …”
“Blackwell,” he corrected. Reminding her that while he shared the same blood as Keleir, he did not share the same cursed name. Ahriman, a surname given to all children born with an Oruke inside them, was Mavish for darkness.
“Lord Blackwell,” she whispered, going back to her damp log.
Keleir eyed her from where he sat and brushed his drying white hair from his face. She knew he’d heard their exchange, but he made no move to justify his brother’s willingness to throw himself before a sword. Rowe’s nature could be self-sacrificing and noble, just as much as he could be exceedingly selfish.
“Well,” Rowe exhaled, stretching. “I’ve been shunned by a beautiful woman and had more than enough to drink. I’ll sleep now.”
“Don’t feel so bad, lad,” said a soldier as he patted Rowe’s shoulder. “I know a couple of pretty castle maids who will be happy to comfort you when we’re home.”
Rowe cupped a hand over his heart. “Thanks for the kindness, but I’m afraid I only have eyes for one.”
“Oh, stop the melodramatics,” Saran spat. She glared across the fire at him. “You are lucky I danced with you at all. If it weren’t out of pity for hurting a drunken man’s feelings, I’d have left you be. I’ll not pity you again, that’s for sure. Now off with you. Sleep the drink off, you louse.”
Rowe’s blue eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a tight line. He gave a gentle nod. “Forgive me.” He left through the parting crowd, much like a wolf with his tail between his legs.
Keleir took a real gulp of ale, wincing at the taste. “Well, that was lovely.”
Saran angrily tossed a twig into the fire. “I won’t have him sacrificing himself to preserve our …” She tossed another and another, never bothering to finish her sentence.
Keleir nodded. “I do not want him sacrificing himself either. He gets these ideas in his head … I don’t know where they come from. I wish he’d consult me f—”
“He gets them from you. If you would not tell him about our conversations, he would not feel it necessary to throw himself upon the sacrificial altar to preserve our …”
Keleir let out a heated laugh. “You can’t even say it.”
“What?”
The Fire Mage leaned toward her with a tight smile. “Our relationship.”
“Shh!”
“If you say it, someone might hear. They might drag me off with a bag over my head. You’re afraid I’ll be assassinated or tortured by your father. After all, it would be one more thing he has to control you with.” The fire grew taller and wider. It ate up the wet earth as though it weren’t soaked and muddied. “I do not fear him or his Ekaru priests. If I wanted, I could slay him in a breath, and you know it. I could go there tonight and end this war.”
Saran bent and searched the Fire Mage’s eyes. She found the dreadful black of the Oruke sweeping across the whites. She called to him.
“He’s a weak, pathetic, old, and diseased man who hurts you because he believes he has power over you. I will not stand for the fear you have of him. It is misplaced. He is nothing to be afraid of!”
“Keleir!”
The Fire Mage stiffened, and the black that had threatened to take him over receded in a flash.
“Calm,” she whispered, touching just beneath her eye. A signal to him that he needed better control. She wanted to wrap her arms about him and ease his rage in the way only she could. The anger did not belong to him—not entirely, at least.
The Oruke’s malicious presence writhing inside him fueled that rage. That sliver of connection, that blind and consuming rage, was the only thing the creature could slip out anymore since she’d walled it away.
Keleir touched his cheek. He swallowed hard and gave a harsh nod, burrowing down into his cloak and glaring at the weakening fire.
Once Keleir seized control of his anger, Saran turned her attention to the neighboring group gathered around the fire next to them, wondering just how much of the conversation they’d heard. When she met their eyes, they looked away, one by one, until all of them buried their heads in music and ale for the rest of the night. An agonizing silence settled between Keleir and Saran. When the silence grew too uncomfortable, she stood, tugging the cloak tightly about her shoulders, and headed off to the comforting darkness away from the fire.
Night drew on, and the camp went quiet. When only a few remained awake, Saran emerged from her tent and went into the forest where Rowe and Keleir waited, cloaked in wool and shadow, among the trees.
“Wear your hood,” the Fire Mage ordered, tugging the dense fabric over her head.
“They already know who I am,” she countered, but she let the hood stay as he settled his warm hands on her shoulders.
“Darshan might, but there could be people in that camp that do not understand why you’re there. I don’t want them thinking they have an opportunity to assassinate the Princess of Adrid. It will end our relationship with the rebels if I find I have to put my sword through another’s heart. Do me this favor.”
She scowled. “I don’t really think anyone knows what the Princess of Adrid looks like.”
“They know she has hair of fire. That’s enough.”
“Lots of people have this color hair.”
“Are we going to stand here all night arguing about the covering of one’s head, or are we going to go plan a coup?” Rowe asked, crossing his arms. “You can work out what you really want to argue about later.”
Saran nodded. Her eyes glowed white hot, and the earth beneath their feet disappeared in a circle of light and mist. It swallowed them and deposited them in an open field hundreds of miles away. They settled near a wide ruin circle, where the grass stood hip high and wafted in a cool breeze. Fireflies floated about the field and in the dark forest around them in yellows, greens, and oranges. It was quiet, as silent as any tomb, and much warmer and drier than their camp.
Rowe swatted at an annoying horsefly as it buzzed too close to his head. “This doesn’t look very populated. I think you miscalculated, Saran.”
“I did not.” She smiled and pointed to the stone arch along the wall, motioning for them to follow.
The ruins were the span of a small village. A wide, short wall built from medium-sized granite rocks, standing three feet high in most places, surrounded remnants of a tower that once stood twenty stories high over the lush countryside of southern Adrid.
“This used to be a great school for Magi before my father had the teachers slaughtered, the children abducted, and the building burned some forty years ago. Now the ruins hide a secret.” Saran tried to imagine what the tower looked like long ago. It had been a time when children born gifted by the Core with elemental magic were delivered to be apprentices at the school. The Core chose and gave her gifts indiscriminately. No one really knew why some were born with an element and others weren’t. It was long believed that the Core gave gifts as they were needed, though it was anyone’s guess as to what they were needed for.
Saran held her hand to the stone arch leading into the circle of ruins, tilting an ear to the opening. “Can you hear it?”
“I hear nothing but crickets and wind,” Rowe said, folding his arms with a skeptical arch of his brows before he angrily swatted the fly again. “And this damn creature.” His eyes sparked a bright blue, and as he swiped his hand through the air, electricity crackled across his flesh and a tiny bolt of blue light zapped the horsefly midswoop.
“I know! Isn’t it beautiful? I’ve never heard of a masking spell so clever or so large. Come here, and I’ll show you,” the princess said, motioning for them to follow. She stepped through the opening beneath the stone arch and disappeared.
Rowe, in a panic, dashed after her and blinked out of sight.
Keleir stood quietly, admiring the arch where Saran and Rowe no longer stood. Instead of rushing after them, he looped around the wall and hopped over it. He landed in the empty plot of land visible from the outer rim and waded through the tall grass. The Fire Mage ran his fingers over the blades, pulling at it and twirling the slivers of green between his fingers. After he surveyed the wide circle and hopped back over the wall, he went straight through the arch.
The potent scent of food and campfire greeted him as strongly as if he’d run into a physical wall, a far more appetizing smell than their dinner earlier. Warm light flooded the space where hundreds of small campfires sat between cabins and tents. Torches lined a long, wide walkway leading to the back of the camp where a gigantic canvas tent had been erected. The people were happy here, dancing and talking with smiles upon their faces much the same as the soldiers they’d occupied time with earlier. But this was different. It seemed like genuine happiness, despite their poverty. It baffled the Fire Mage, and being so interested in their merrymaking, he barely noticed the armored guard patting him down or stripping him of the sword at his waist.
Perhaps it was the quickness with which the man went about it or the careful way he did it so as not to bring attention to himself. When Keleir peered down at him, the man’s face was white with fear. It was then that Keleir realized the person who should have covered their hair was him.
“Careful where you put your hands,” Rowe warned the man inspecting Saran.
The princess frowned at his protectiveness and turned her attention to the guard, who searched her as professionally and unfeelingly as any that had come before. “We will see Darshan. I sent a bird, so he is expecting us.”
The guard led them down the long, lit path to the massive tent at the back of the encampment, where he opened the flap and motioned them to enter. Saran passed through the threshold of fabric and into a wide stone room far larger than the expanse of the tent she’d seen outside.
They stood in a circular great hall with a towering vaulted ceiling supported by wide wooden beams. Tall, narrow stained glass windows lined the walls, each one depicting a different Mage with a different element. While it was night outside the tent, daylight filtered through each colored pane until the glass cast glittering jewels across the polished white marble floor. No furniture adorned the room save a wide table with parchment maps strewn across the top and two candelabras stationed at opposite corners. An older man, well past fifty, hunched over the maps, drawing wet lines with his finger that turned to inky black paths.
Saran coughed, easing toward the table and lowering the hood that covered her head. “Ishep Darshan,” she said, smiling as he snapped to attention like a ghost had called his name. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you. You seemed very into your mapmaking.”
“Saran D’mor …” he whispered, coming round the table, dressed in traveling clothes, a pale shirt, and brown pants. His speckled salt-and-pepper hair faded into a short white beard. “Forgive me, Princess. I was not expecting you until later in the week.”
“I sent a message two days ago about my change in itinerary. I guess it didn’t reach you.”
Darshan frowned. “I received no communication from you. But this is a pleasant surprise. I was just going over the maps for Salara.”
Saran followed him back to the table. “Salara is just what I came to speak with you about.” Darshan lifted his eyes to the two men with her, letting his gaze settle on Keleir with an uneasy cringe. “Perhaps we can speak in private?”
“Are we going over this again?” Saran muttered.
“It is not that I do not trust him,” Darshan said, frowning. “I simply do not trust what is in him. He is cursed.”
Saran didn’t need to look at Keleir to know he tensed at the accusation. Just as he sensed her awake or asleep, she sensed him. Each movement he made, the feeling of him, felt like a ripple in the air between them. She locked her eyes on the rebel leader and did not look away.
“I have secured the Oruke within to a confined place inside him. It has not broken free in five years. It will not. He is in perfect control.” And he would stay so, as long as there was magic in the world and as long as she lived.
Darshan pressed his hands together. “I understand that, and it is comforting. However, how do you know?”
“How do I know what?”
“That it is he and not the Oruke?”
The princess stared into his aged, ocean-blue eyes and struggled not to look back at Keleir in question. Her faith would not waver simply because one man didn’t believe it possible. She believed. She had to. She was the master of Keleir’s salvation, and if she didn’t believe, then no one would.
Darshan settled back as if to sit, and a wooden chair appeared from thin air to catch him. “When an Oruke takes a host, an unborn child, it takes a host completely. It is rare, if not impossible, for one to be born with their consciousness still intact. So how do you know, Your Highness, that the man behind you is not the Oruke having played you so very well all these years?”
The princess glided her fingers across the tabletop, letting her gaze follow their path. “Because, Ishep, the Oruke wants me dead.” Keleir’s presence tingled stronger in the air. “He has a sick fascination with it, actually. He wants my blood pooled on the floor beneath him. Out of all the people in the world, when I am near him, it drives him mad. He makes no sound decisions. He is overcome with bloodlust and rage. He’s told me this, while his hands were around my neck, choking the life from me.”
Darshan swallowed hard and turned his eyes to Keleir as if he expected some horrible monster to spring out from behind his flesh.
The princess straightened with a smirk. “If it brings you any comfort, Darshan, I can assure you that in the five years since I locked him away, the things that Keleir Ahriman does to me are nothing close to murder. He is in control. The Oruke inside him fights for freedom, but Keleir is in control.”
“How long do you think he can maintain that control?”
“Forever,” Keleir said, narrowing his eyes on the questioning man. “I can maintain it forever.”
“I hope you are right,” Darshan replied, and then he turned to the Fire Mage’s brother. His face softened fondly. “Rowe, my boy, how are you? Have you heard anything from Her lately?”
Rowe touched his head. “No. She’s been quiet. I’ve not heard anything in several months.”
“The Prophetess comes and goes as She pleases, I suppose. She offers help when we need it most. Be thankful to have been chosen to hear Her voice. Now I suppose we should get on to matters. You can’t be here all night.” The four crowded around the table over the map.
“In four months, my father will move on Salara,” Saran said. “At that point, the army will be away from the capital, making it the perfect time for an assault on the city. You will have to transition the militia from Salara to Andrian. When the army arrives in Salara, they will only find villagers there. However, this risks the villagers, since there will be no one to protect them. Without protection, the Salaran’s lives will be sacrificed. You have to be willing to risk that for this plan to work, and I’m not. My father is sick; his illness has exacerbated his deranged mind. Madam Ophelia, our head healer, says he has very little time left. We could save more lives if we wait for him to die.” Saran’s eyes met Darshan’s. “If we follow this plan of divide and conquer, even if you take the capital and the throne, you will lose rebels, but you will lose more villagers. Thousands are going to die. If you keep the rebels at Salara, they can defend the walls and defend the people.”
Darshan frowned, shaking his head. “He has been sick for many years. He has not died yet. I have waited long enough … and you are not married yet. There are whispers that your father intends you to wed the Alar in the south. As border quarrels are often a prelude to invasion, Mavahan has been incredibly aggressive of late. The empire is weak. We do not have time to wait for him to die. We must act now.”
Saran’s brows knit together. “Father has made no mention of marrying me off to the Alar. I doubt he would want to merge his kingdom with someone he could not control. Not to mention, it would leave no one to govern his throne at his death. The kingdom will be thrown to the proverbial wolves.”
“There is another whisper,” Darshan said, eyeing Keleir, “that he will marry you to the Alar and adopt a son, a Mage, one powerful and feared, one close to his heart.”
The princess laughed. “There are none close to his heart.” Even still, her knuckles curled over the table as she stared at the maps. She’d heard none of these whispers, and she lived in the very palace where they were born. Her gaze fell on Rowe, and then Keleir, and both men shook their heads.
“How did you come to hear this?”
“From a chambermaid who often sits at the feet of your father in his study. She goes by Betha. The Mage to take his place, whose real name has been forgotten for another, was brought before him as a child and raised within the palace walls. He who bathed in blood: Lifesbane.”
The wood of the table groaned beneath Keleir’s grip. “I have not worn that name for many years, Darshan.”
Ishep folded his arms across his chest. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a murderer. You might have staved off killing innocent women and children for the last couple years, but the king still admires your brutality. He will adopt you as his son, and you will be king in his stead, and I will not allow that. I will not allow an Oruke control of an army. The devastation would be unimaginable. Therefore, we will attack the palace on the same day that the army goes for Salara. Lives will be lost, but it will be worth it in the end.”
“If what you are saying is true, and there is a threat of invasion from Mavahan, then upsetting the ruler of Adrid will open a floodgate of opportunity for the Alar. Perhaps this is not the time to think of destabilizing a kingdom when we could very well be wiped out by another overzealous king?” Keleir hissed. “We have heard nothing of this Alar. This changes a great many things.”
“It changes nothing. There will be no destabilization. Saran D’mor will sit upon the throne. She is respected. The people will follow her.”
Rowe’s lip curled with a sneer. “They will kill her. The people know her as a warrior who fights in her father’s army. They do not know that she fights to save their lives in battles, instead of ending them. The legends that follow her name are not ones of glory or honor. The people do not see anything but another brutal savage set to inherit the throne. As soon as Yarin is deposed, they will seek her head too. If not that, then the nobles will move in and place themselves in power. They will want to fashion it so a man takes the throne. Either one of them or a son.”
“I have no desire to be queen,” Saran said, eyeing Darshan. “You know this. We discussed it. I would step down and pass the power to you. I would get to live my life as I wish it. The people respect you, Ishep. They love you. They will follow you. They will not follow me, nor do I wish them to.”
“The threat from Mavahan changes everything,” Keleir added. “Their army has grown in the time that we’ve been at war with our own people. We should not ignore the possibility that deposing Yarin will bring war from the south. Perhaps we should give this more time and more thought?”
“I will not,” Darshan said, standing. “That will leave more time for you to be named heir to the throne. You may not be Lifesbane now, but you could very well be again. I do not trust you, Keleir Ahriman. I do not trust the Oruke inside you. The Prophetess doesn’t trust you either. She chose your brother to warn us of your coming.”
Keleir slammed his hands upon the table, and Darshan jumped back an inch. Black seeped into the corner of Keleir’s eyes and then quickly dispersed. “I am not that man anymore! And I am not some monster whispered of in prophecy.”
“Are you so sure?” Darshan asked in a quiet whisper, watching as the Fire Mage struggled to reign in his anger.
Keleir stiffened, standing straight, and stared hard at the rebel leader before he dropped his eyes to the maps strewn across the tabletop. “I’ll wait outside.”
Saran started after him. “Keleir!”
Keleir lifted a hand and waved Saran off, ducking back through the fabric hanging across the door.
“He is a danger,” Darshan said. “You know what has been deemed by the Prophetess. No matter your feelings, Saran and Rowe, his destiny is beyond your control. He will bring devastation to this world.”
Saran shook her head in fierce denial, staring down at the floor. Blinking the mist from her eyes, she turned a stern gaze on Darshan. “I will ensure he does not.”
“You will fail.” The old Mage frowned.
A wistful smile tugged the corners of her mouth. “I will die trying, and if such a thing should happen, it will have been better to die having tried than to abandon him and let him fall freely into darkness.”
A long silence passed between them, with Rowe biting his tongue and curling his fist to keep from punching the old man across the table. After the air grew too thick with tension, Rowe righted himself and went to his brother. Darshan stared at the doorway as if hopeful that the Lightning Mage would return. When he did not, Darshan bent his head and ran his finger across the map, painting a watery line that eventually turned to black ink.
“I will attack the palace the day the king attacks Salara. We will kill the king and put you on the throne. You have the most command of the army in that area and will be able to quell any upset that might happen once he is dead. After a month, when we get word to the armies stationed in outposts throughout the kingdom that the king has died and you are queen, we will make a transition. Whether by marriage or avocation. Agreed?”
“No marriage, Darshan. I have already chosen the man I’ll spend my life with. The more concerning matter is, what if Mavahan invades?”
“Mavahan is a kingdom of men who do not believe in the Core, the Prophetess, or the Magi. They are surrounded by a great desert and live in the Deadlands. They have no magic, and no concept of how it functions. Those who cross our borders and feel the Awakening will have no idea how to hone that ability or use it to their advantage. We will crush them because of their ignorance. I have no doubt about this. Are we in agreement?”
“I believe we are, if you are so unmoving to compromise.” Saran straightened and folded her hands together. “There is another problem that we should discuss. I am to be punished, and I do not know how. I will send word once I’ve received it. It may not change your plans, but I need you to know so you can alter accordingly.”
Darshan nodded, and his gaze grew soft. “I hope … I hope he does not hurt you.”
Saran lifted her knowing gaze to him. “You know how he punishes those he cannot kill.”
The older Mage’s brows knit, and a dark cloud came over him. “Your mother was very strong, Saran. You are stronger. That is why she sought so hard to save you from him. She knew that you would do what she could not … in the end. I know she did.”
“Are you saying that to discourage any self-doubt I have?” Saran laughed at his mortified expression. “Do not worry, Ishep. I do not intend to make suicide the escape route from my father.”
Darshan choked on the awkwardness of her words. “Good! Well, be off. You have stayed here longer than intended, I assume. Be safe, Saran D’mor. The Three need you.”
Saran jolted. It had been ages since someone mentioned the Three out loud. Months since she, Keleir, and Rowe bothered to explore them in the little free time they had. Saran thought about the gleaming metal towers of the Second and how their civilizations faded sparsely into beautiful rolling green hills. The Second was slowly being devoured by its people and their wars. She could do little to help that world.
Then she thought about the Third. She thought about their gleaming glass cities that covered every inch of the world’s surface. She thought about the oceans that had turned yellow and acidic and all the life that had once lived in them now washed dead upon the shores. She thought about Roshaud, the president of the Third, a man her father kept in good company, a man that made her stomach twist with disgust. For a second his black shadow loomed tall over her, as it had when she was a child. Then it was gone, and the fear with it. She could do nothing to help that world either.
Darshan believed her to be something she was not. He believed her to be the Equitas, the counter to the Oruke in prophecy. A savior for her world and the ones beyond. But the Three didn’t need her as far as she was concerned.
“Just this one, really,” Saran said with a smile. “Just this one.”
Outside Keleir and Rowe stood close, muttering between themselves. The Fire Mage had kindling in his eyes, and their orange glow was a better sight than the seeping black he displayed in times when the Oruke battled for control. At least this anger was all his own.
“Rowe, go on ahead. We’ll follow closely behind. I need to speak to Keleir a moment,” she said, once in the quiet field outside the hidden fortress.
Rowe nodded, and a crackling electric-blue portal swallowed him up.
Cool wind tossed Saran’s red hair into her face, and she tugged it back behind an ear, lifting her eyes to the smoldering Fire Mage before her.
“He knows not of what he speaks,” she said, reaching for his arm.
He drew away, pursing his lips into a tight line, and stepped a half circle around her. “He knows exactly what he’s talking about. I’m slipping, Saran.” He turned his face to the stars and scratched angrily at the back of his head. “I can feel him clawing, grasping. He gains more ground with each passing year and ever more quickly as of late. I’m angry. I’m angry all the time.”
“I’ll push him back,” Saran said, recovering the ground she lost when he drew away. “I won’t let him have you.”
“He already has me! I can’t escape him because I am him. I am Lifesbane. I am a murderer and a monster. I have killed so many people, Saran … and eventually I will kill more.”
“You are not a murderer! It was not you who killed those people.”
“Yes, Saran, it was. It was me.” He curled his fingers in her hair and cupped her cheeks. “You love me and you see me as no one else ever will. You know my soul, and that blinds you to what I really am. You cannot see the beast because you only see me. But I am the beast. We are one and the same.”
She shook her head, pressing in against him. Her hands lifted to his face and she held him as he held her, looking deep into those swirling pools of red. “You cannot have him,” she told the Oruke because she knew it could hear her. “He is mine.”
Keleir kissed her, curling his hand at the back of her head and his arm around her waist. He drank her in until he could no longer go without air, and drawing away, he said, “When this is finished …”
“We will leave,” Saran said. “The three of us. Like we planned. We’ll find someplace peaceful, and your anger will be quelled. All this blood and war does you little good.”
“We could leave this world altogether …” Keleir appraised her. “We could go to the Second or the Third, if we’re really desperate.”
Saran frowned. Neither of those options suited her, especially not the Third. “Let’s not talk about this now.”
Keleir’s jaw worked, but eventually he nodded and drew her close. “I won’t let your father marry you off to the Alar,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her jaw.
“We’ll be good and gone before he can, far away, over the mountains, on a lake perhaps, with a cute cottage. We’ll fish and hunt and read all day. I’m sure you and Rowe can find plenty to entertain yourselves with.” She smiled at the wiry grin that broke out across his face. But then he paused, and the grin fell away. He set his eyes on the dark trees around them, staring off into a place that only he could see. It was like he could hear or see someone she could not.
“If—” Keleir clenched his jaw. His eyes flickered around with thought. “If it takes over—Hey, don’t shake your head. Listen to me, this is important. If it takes over, run. Don’t try to save me. It will be too late. There will be nothing left to save. Run. With Rowe. Go as far away as you can. I don’t want you to die by my hands, even if I’m not the one controlling them.”
Saran blinked her eyes, turning them to the stars to avoid him seeing her tears. “Run,” she said, laughing, watching the world blur. “I’m not good at running.”
“I know. I’ve borne witness to your clumsiness.” Keleir smiled for a while longer, watching her as she refused to look at him and show him her tears. “Run, Saran D’mor. Run from me. As far away as you can get. Run from this world so that I may never find you.”
Saran’s jaw set, and she turned away from him, swaying into the high grass and running her fingers along the sea of feather-soft tips. She turned back to him, tears gone. “You speak as if you’ve already lost.”
His lips twitched, and he pressed them to her cheek in a soft kiss. “I was lost all my life until I found you. As long as I have you, I’ll never be lost again. As long as I am who I am and as long as I am with you, I am a found man.”
She drew back and curled her fingers in his. “I can feel your presence in the very air around me, and you can feel mine. We are connected. My soul to your soul.”
“Do you think I’m your soul mate?” Keleir grinned. “Romantic.”
Saran scowled.
Keleir mused, “Maybe I am. Maybe that’s the feeling. This electric connectivity when we are near, and maybe that’s why he hates you so much. You are the redeemer of my soul, Saran. You balance me.”
“You are a clever wordsmith tonight, m’lord.”
“Some nights I feel inspired.” He clutched her hand tighter.
“We should go. The sun will rise soon.”
Keleir shook his head. “Not yet.” He curled his fingers around hers. “Can we go somewhere—”
“Keleir …”
“A Window is open. Let me take you somewhere. Just for a minute.”
Saran knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to leave their world, if only for a moment. He wanted to run from time, to run from the lives they had. Soon, she thought, they would no longer be bound by their oaths to Darshan. They would have the freedom to be whoever they wished and to go wherever they desired. For now, she’d let him pretend that they were free … just for a minute.
Windows to the other worlds only opened near sunrise and sunset. If he wanted to show her something on the Second, the morning before she faced her father’s wrath was as good a time as any.
“All right,” Saran whispered, giving him a gentle nod.
Keleir wrapped his arms tight around her waist, and his eyes glowed with orange embers. Fire crackled up around their ankles. It wrapped around them, heatless and brilliant.