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.”
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.