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—”
“You are not king yet, Lifesbane,” Yarin warned, spittle landing on his chin. “I know what I’m talking about. I do not forget things. I might be old and diseased, but I’m not senile.”
“Of course.” The Fire Mage nodded and settled back in his chair, curling his hands over the arms.
It would be easy to convince everyone he’s senile and kill him. You could marry Saran and take the throne immediately.
“It would be easy,” Keleir agreed, glancing up. His insides twisted at the face staring across the table at him. The white-haired mirror of himself smiled a devilish grin, his eyes an inky black. He pressed a finger to his lips to hush the startled Fire Mage.
Shh, said the Oruke. No one can hear or see me. They’ll just think you’re talking to yourself. You don’t want to seem as crazy as the old man, do you?
Keleir stiffened.
You don’t look well, my friend, he said. Not sleeping? Bad dreams? They wouldn’t be so awful if you’d listen.
Keleir pressed his fingers to his temples hard enough to dent the flesh. He shut his eyes tight, concentrating on the sound of Yarin’s cane scraping impatiently against the stone while he droned on.
You can’t ignore me forever. I am part of you. I am you … The voice grew distant, fainter, and when he opened his eyes, the same ugly noble from moments before was looking across the table at him. The door to the council chamber rattled open, and Saran wandered in, dressed in a deep burgundy tunic and black pants, with her curly hair piled in a careless mess atop her head. Long strands dangled around her neck and ears. With no room for her at the table, she leaned against the wall between two great windows and cast a dark gaze to her father. “Aye, I’m here. What is it?”
“Perfect,” Yarin muttered, wiggling his flat rear in his narrow chair. “Before the Seconds arrive, I’d like to discuss what I announced yesterday. By now, even if you weren’t there, I’m sure you are aware that I betrothed my daughter, Saran, to Ahriman. Tomorrow, to make things official, there will be a betrothal ceremony, where Saran and Keleir will be bound to one another. We all know I’m one leg from falling over Death’s cliff, so let’s not pretend that I have plenty of time to get my affairs in order.”
The members of the council nodded. Keleir looked up from the table to Saran, who met his gaze with just the hint of a smile. Her face, less swollen than the night before, appeared to have been smoothed over with paint typically worn by wealthy noble women. “From here out, Keleir and Saran are one. When the Seconds arrive, Lifesbane will be introduced as my Name Heir to be wed to my Blood Heir.”
The room nodded slowly. No one whispered how unsure they were about the king’s decision, not when Lifesbane had a reputation for keen hearing and a quick temper.
A heavy knock sounded at the door, and a servant hurried to open it. He bowed profusely to the three men waiting on the other side. Two of them were dressed in deep blue trousers and nicely trimmed jackets adorned with medals across the left breast, a uniform commonly worn by Second soldiers. The other wore a sharp gray outfit: pants, a jacket, and a narrow blue strip of fabric dangling from his pristine white collar. Each man had a short hairstyle unpopular among Adridian men, cropped close to their heads, less than half an inch, and slicked down.
“Welcome, gentleman,” Yarin greeted them in English. He rose from his chair, arms quivering over his cane.
The three entered the council chamber and gave a swift bow of respect to the king before they fanned out. Three of the nobles at the table relinquished their seats and moved to stand against the far wall with Saran.
“King Yarin,” said the Second with the most medals across his chest. An older man with graying hair and a square face. While his lips smiled, his eyes did not. “After our meeting two months ago, I didn’t hear from you. I figured you had turned down our offer.”
“Never. I simply had to think it over.”
“With the Mavahan Alar breathing down your neck and the civil war, it must be hard to think straight. At any rate, we’re fully prepared to invest in Adrid’s defenses, provided that our compensation is still as we discussed.”
“Lords,” King Yarin said, waving at the three men. “This is General Pulaski, Sergeant McDonald, and … I’m sorry, I don’t know you, sir.”
“This is our lawyer, Mr. Oswald,” the general said, smiling. “You don’t have lawyers on the First, so you might not know what they do. Lawyers help us facilitate our business transactions, tie up loose ends, and make sure our contracts are perfect and legally worded. He is simply here to make sure this goes smoothly and that everyone gets what they want.”
“And what is it that we want?” Keleir asked, red eyes gleaming. “What is this, Your Majesty?”
“Forgive the outspoken boy. This is Ahriman. Most know him as Lifesbane. He is the future King of Adrid. Power, it seems, has already gone to his head.”
Keleir glowered and said in Adridian, “It is not power that causes me to question the appearance of Second soldiers in our world and at our council table. It is a valid question, my king, and one I’m sure all others present would very much like to hear answered—for those who can understand their tongue.”
The king squirmed in his seat, huffed, and tossed a dismissive gaze to the Fire Mage.
Pulaski chuckled, clasping his hands together over the table and turning his body to Keleir. “You’re hemorrhaging resources, rebels are overpowering your armies, and you’ve got a foreigner breathing down your neck and threatening to conquer your kingdom. King Yarin approached my government a few months ago with some legitimate concerns. We offered to help. In exchange for weapons, the United States government gets access to a resource-rich landscape. Resources, I might add, that you have no desire to utilize for yourself.” Pulaski’s faux smile transformed into a condescending grin. “We’ll give you boom-boom sticks, and you’ll give us your useless oil.”
Saran shifted off the wall and around the table. “That is horribly offensive,” she said in English, tapping the shoulder of one noble and motioning for him to move. She sat next to Keleir and across from the Seconds, draping her arms over the table. “Referring to your guns as boom-boom sticks like we’re illiterate tribesmen.”
“Daughter …”
“Your weapons do not belong in our world, just as our resources do not belong in yours,” she continued, casting her father a dark glare. “It is taboo to bring such items here. We do not need them.”
“I think you do,” Mr. Oswald said. “Princess Saran, forgive Pulaski. He’s terrible with people. How he reached the rank of general with his countenance, I don’t know.”
Saran cast a glare to Pulaski before nodding in agreement with Oswald. “This world is damaged enough. We do not need your demonic machinery introduced here. What you will give us is the very reason your world is dying. We do not need that influence on the First.”
“She’s right,” Keleir said. “The First has remained secure because we have not embraced the same ideals as those who have destroyed their worlds. Our Core is strong because we have left it intact. I would rather lose the entire kingdom than have this world mined to death like the Third, and like the Second will be shortly.”
Pulaski glowered at the Fire Mage. “Lucky for me, boy, you aren’t king yet. And as for embracing the same ideas, sure you have. You just don’t have the right equipment—yet.”
Keleir smirked. “You play the villain quite well, Pulaski. I hope you didn’t plan to make a deal today. Even if the king agrees to this damned scheme, as soon as I’m on the throne I will send your weapons back to you, ammunition first if I must.”
Mr. Oswald coughed, setting a leather case on the table. “The Treaty of Adrid was signed some two hundred and fifty years ago between your government and the governments of the Second. It states that we will not interfere in your world if you do not interfere in ours, unless explicitly asked, of course. King Yarin asked, and we are offering our interference because of it. The treaty binds each one of us from invading the other. If our government chose to, we could wipe Adrid from the map in a night, and all without the use of magic. Your Magi could do very little to save you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Saran glowered. “Are you threatening us, lawyer?”
“No, Your Highness. I am simply stating the agreement in the treaty so you know what it protects and allows. If Adrid were to break any portion of that treaty, the United States would not be in the wrong for retaliating. If we retaliated, we would turn your world to dust.”
Saran turned her attention to her ailing father as he watched quietly, munching birdseeds. “So what will it be, Father? Shall we take our chances against the rebels and Mavahan or the Seconds?”
Yarin mulled over her words. “We’re losing the war. If we lose Salara …”
“You won’t,” Keleir said. “I won’t allow it.”
“Can you promise victory, Lifesbane, after the last unsuccessful missions?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I promise you victory—I guarantee it. You will win Salara. The earth will be bathed in so much blood that the rebels will have no resolve left to continue. Of this, I have no doubt.”
“And what of your problems with Mavahan?” Mr. Oswald asked.
“I will handle that as well,” Keleir said. “I will go to Mavahan and speak to the Alar. I will handle him.”
Oswald laughed, along with the other two Seconds. “One man?”
Keleir leaned closer. “Take a good look at me. Do I look like just any man to you?”
Oswald narrowed his eyes at Keleir, appraising the young lord. “Admittedly your hair and eyes are unsettling. On the Second, however, a clever makeup artist can produce the same effect.”
“There isn’t much magic left on your world, so what I am is a rarity, I’m sure. Therefore, I’ll forgive your ignorance. I am what simpleminded men call a demon. I was born with the mark of the Oruke. Do you know what an Oruke is, Mr. Oswald?”
The lawyer shook his head.
“An Oruke is a creature created from the forgotten matter between worlds. He is made up of all the leftover energy from the birth of a universe. He is a bodiless being that can only survive in our world by bonding with a newly conceived child. The Oruke accidently, or purposefully, comes to our world by hitching a ride through a Mage’s Gate. It enters the womb and melds with the infant. It takes the full gestational period for the Oruke to worm its way in every fiber of the child, eventually destroying its human consciousness and replacing it. What is born is no longer what would have been. The entire child’s consciousness is solely the Oruke. They are bloodthirsty, powerful, dangerous, and impulsive. They are not mentally equipped to deal with the array of human emotions, so they feel things ten times stronger. For example, mild anger for you is colossal rage for them. Simple appreciation for a woman can be uncontrollable lust, and, well, there aren’t too many stories of sad Orukes. They are incapable of understanding empathy.”
Oswald swallowed. “So you are this Oruke?”
Keleir laughed. “Oh, no, I am something much worse. I am a man with an Oruke inside him, with full control of his body, and unlike most Orukes, the Core blessed me with Fire. I have devastated entire villages and armies alone. Should you say my name outside these walls, men will cower and hide with fear. A reputation can be a powerful weapon when utilized properly. So yes, Mr. Oswald, I will handle the troubling affairs of Adrid—without weapons from the Second. If I am not being overly confident, I would suspect that is why our king chose me to wed his daughter and inherit his throne.”
Yarin smiled large and proud, leaning back heavily in his chair. “My son,” he said, rapping his cane against the table. “It is settled then. While I wanted your weapons, General, it seems my people think otherwise. A smart king heeds the words of his advisers. I’m sorry you came here for nothing.”
Saran nearly choked at her father’s admission, unable to recall a single time in her life that he’d ever heeded the words of his advisers.
“If I didn’t know any better, King Yarin, I would suspect that we came here so you could show off your new heir.” General Pulaski narrowed his eyes at Yarin before turning a sneer on Keleir.
Yarin smirked. “It had the advantage of working out that way, but no, I was genuinely interested in your offer, General. But I have more faith in a demon than I do in man.”
Keleir smirked but did not meet the king’s amused gaze. “Well, if that is all of our business for now, perhaps we should adjourn. We’ve wasted enough of their time.”
“Yes, you have,” the quiet Sergeant McDonald replied as he stood up from his chair, holding out his hand. “Though negotiations didn’t go well, it was a pleasure to meet the future king.”
Keleir eyed the hand in front of him before standing and grabbing the sergeant by the forearm for a good shake. “Perhaps our future negotiations will be more in your favor, Sergeant.”
“If we are lucky,” he replied.
When the Seconds left, the nobles filed out, leaving the table empty save Saran, Keleir, and the king. The silence grew thick between them while they waited for everyone to clear earshot of the door. Keleir went to the end of the table and sat down to the right of the king with his arms draped across the tabletop, fingers clasped together. “We need to talk,” he said, red eyes fixing hard and fast on the old man. “It concerns your daughter.”
“You will marry her.”
“Oh, I’ll gladly marry her. But there is something you should handle first.” Keleir glanced away. “Saran, wipe the paste from your face.”
“Paste?” Saran chuckled as she took a cloth and gently wiped the flesh-tinted paint from her nose, revealing a tinge of purple and swollen flesh.
“Show him your hand,” Keleir continued.
Saran lifted her hand from the long sleeves of her tunic and showed him the bandaged, broken mess. For a fraction of a second, she thought she saw concern flash in the king’s eyes. It disappeared, like every other emotion the old man possessed. “What’s this?” Yarin asked, sneering. “Did you hurt her?”
“No,” Keleir growled. “And lucky for the man who did, Saran has asked me to have mercy. You will remove the Binding so that she may heal. It will remain off once a healer has completed her duties. Understood?”
“Are you giving me orders, Ahriman?” Yarin turned his aged eyes on the Fire Mage. “The Binding will stay on. Saran is not to be trusted.”
“You will remove her Binding. I will handle her unruliness. She is to my liking and she will keep to my will.”
Saran bristled at his words. Being of willful independence, she couldn’t help but feel annoyed, even though they were meant to placate her father.
Yarin smirked. “You admit it then?”
Keleir cast Saran a puzzled look. “Admit what?”
Yarin leaned toward Keleir, turning his face into the younger man’s ear. “You love her,” the old man rasped. The king sat back, turning a smug smile on his daughter. “Her Binding is as much to keep you in line as it is to keep her. I do not know to what extent she’s twisted your brain, but when a man as formidable as you goes from slaughtering whole villages to killing no one, not a single person, in five years, well … there are some questions.”
“Why make me your heir if you don’t think I’m up to your ruthlessness?”
“Because you will be.” Yarin smiled. “It is your destiny. If I must leave anything behind in legacy, let it be that I handed the man who would unite and destroy worlds the keys to a vast empire.”
Saran and Keleir exchanged bewildered looks before the princess eased forward. “Father, he is not the one the Ekaru priests told you of. Even if he were, I would not allow it. I cannot allow it.”
Keleir looked down at his hands and gave a heavy sigh. “King Yarin, you will remove the Bind on Saran.” His voice turned frighteningly calm, far too patient for the Fire Mage’s personality.
“It will not be removed. She’ll die with it on before I allow that. You don’t see it yet, but I do. I’m old. I’m crippled. I’m dying. But I have yet to be completely blinded or deafened. I have studied the madness that took my wife enough to know that Saran is a direct threat to your power, and while I cannot keep you from loving her or from wanting her, I can keep her from interfering in your destiny with magic. You are long awaited by your people, Lifesbane.”
The Fire Mage seized the king by the neck. “I will not play games with you. Be cryptic again, please. I’ve wanted nothing more than to slaughter you for the last five years. Please give me a reason.” The Fire Mage’s eyes kindled blazing orange, and the king’s neck sizzled.
Saran lurched up, knocking her chair over, and wrapped her hands around her neck. “K-Kel!”
He released the king and went to her, drawing her hands gently from her throat to find red rings of scalded flesh in the same pattern as the ones he’d left on Yarin’s wrinkled skin.
Yarin winced, feigning to touch his blistered skin. “A precaution attached to the Binding. The spell blocks the effect of magic, unless magic affects me. Any harm, magic or not, delivered by another’s hand upon me will also be inflicted upon her. Saran is my insurance. She will keep me safe from you until you have accepted your truth.”
Keleir couldn’t tear his gaze from her scorched skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered and pressed a quivering kiss to her forehead. He fought wave after wave of rage that grew stronger in him with every second he stared at the damage caused by his hand. His veins burned like molten lava, scorching hot and begging for release. He turned to the king, fire crackling in his eyes and a growl on his lips. “What if you die from natural causes?”
“Then she is safe but still Bound. You don’t understand how much of a threat she is. Not yet. You will, though, when He wakes.”
“Who?”
“The Oruke.”
Keleir’s fire snuffed out, and his eyes cooled to a deep ruby red. “Tell me.”
“When the Three are devoured by their darkness, He will see to the fall of the Corrupt and the rise of the Oru—”
“I know the prophecy, Yarin! Do you not think it was recited to me over and over while the people of my village cut the mark from my chest? I know that prophecy so well I recite it in my sleep. Saran is not a part of it.”
“She is,” the king said. His old gaze fell mournfully to her. “How unfortunate for my blood to birth the Equitas. I have known for a long time what she is. Her mother knew too.”
Keleir stiffened, and Saran stepped up next to him. He glanced to her, but her gaze remained locked on the old king in his well-worn chair.
“Speak no more of the woman you drove to suicide,” she spat. “Speak no more of this prophecy or Orukes or Equitases. We define our own destiny, Father. Not you, not demons, and not the dreams of man. There is no such thing as the Living God.”
“I killed her,” Yarin said. His lips twitched and wobbled back and forth between a cruel smile and a deep frown. It seemed the crazed old king could not decide between being happy or upset at the revelation. “I caught her trying to sneak you away with that damn traitorous Water Mage, Ishep Darshan. She meant to hide you in the Second, and I caught her. She knew what you were. She told me, after persuasion. She had visions the moment you were conceived, and the Prophetess told her that the Oruke would seek to kill you in the hopes of solidifying his future. Don’t you see what I am willing to do to make sure He exists? I’m willing to give up everything, even my wife. Even my daughter. The Vel d’Ekaru will rise.”
Saran’s hand clapped against the king’s leathery face hard enough to cock his head sideways and, thanks to her Bind’s enchantment, send herself spiraling into the table. Keleir looped an arm around her waist and steadied her against him. She clutched her reddening cheek and hissed at the old man.
“Let’s go,” Keleir muttered, drawing her away.
“No! I’m going to beat him senseless!” Tears stung her eyes as she glowered at the man she’d been raised to call Father. The man whose blood ran through her veins. A man that had killed her mother and passed the death off as if she’d done it to herself out of desperation and insanity.
“And beat yourself in turn? No. Can’t you see what he’s trying to do?” Keleir pressed his face into her curly hair and held her tighter. “Do not let him win. Let him die a lonely, old bastard.”
Saran shook with rage, glaring at her sickly father, who looked neither pleased nor displeased with the revelation. She found nothing but well-practiced hollowness in his eyes, a detachment that he’d adopted with her the moment he viewed her a threat to all his carefully laid plans, and desperately still, she sought some amount of humanity and affection in that bleak gaze. “Why do you want the world to end so badly? Why do you allow this torment?”
The king tilted his head. Confusion glittered in his eyes. “Perfection is born from torment, Saran. Torment weeds out weakness and strengthens you. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, Keleir? A perfect world?”
The Fire Mage’s arms tightened around the princess, and he drew her back to the door. Keleir’s touch quivered, a shake of fear or dread. “Perfection is unattainable, Yarin.”
Yarin’s body shook with a great laugh. “And still the Vel d’Ekaru pursues it for the sake of us all.”
Saran jerked forward. Keleir lifted her up by the waist and out the door, slamming it behind them.
“Let me kill him!” she seethed, twisting against his strong grip.
“And kill yourself? You are more important to me than vengeance. He’s old, Saran. Old and senile and wrong. He’ll die soon enough. We will find a way to remove the Binding ourselves, or we will use that old contraption in the dungeon to go to the Third.” He took her face in his hands. “Trust me. He’s wrong. I am not what he thinks I am, and you are not the Equitas. We are Keleir Ahriman and Saran D’mor, haunted, but nothing more. Do you believe me?”
Saran nodded, but he saw the questioning look in her eyes, he read the words she wouldn’t voice, and the Oruke inside him laughed.