KELEIR HAD IMAGINED the Book of Kings to be grandiose, but it sat unassuming in his hands. Bound in plain, well-worn leather, void of ornamental gold filigree or hard iron locks to keep out prying eyes, it was thick and heavy. A black, eight-pointed star had been branded into the cover. Keleir held it while Luke watched nervously next to him. The Fire Mage admired all the details of the binding and the weathered edges of the pages but never bothered to open it. Legend said that only a king could open the book. Even still, the Fire Mage didn’t test it. He held it a second longer before handing it carefully back to the new Alar.
Luke relaxed, softening into putty as he clutched the book in his arms and passed it back to a servant who waited patiently next to him. “You don’t want it?”
“No,” Keleir whispered. “In fact, do as the old Alar said and ensure that I never have it.” He turned to Luke, the newly crowned Alar of Mavahan, and met his eyes. Luke had a hard time keeping the contact, but the Fire Mage persisted. “Never let that book fall into my hands. You will do me this favor, from now until I die. Never let it come to Adrid.”
Luke nodded, his face ashen. “I won’t.”
The new Alar turned his eyes to the floor. “I’d heard so many stories about you. I’d prayed to the Origin God that they weren’t true. I never believed my prayers would be answered. I was told that you and your brother were agents of evil, that you sought to corrupt our noble cause. I feel betrayed by my people and by my heart. I am so sorry to have thought ill of you.”
“Agents of evil?” Keleir smirked. “Rowe is anything but. We have devoted ourselves to righting the wrongs we made long ago. He, most of all, seeks atonement.”
Luke nodded, his face growing paler. He looked ill to the point that a servant pushed a chair behind him. He collapsed into it, clutching his head tight. “I’ve not been truthful with you.”
Keleir frowned at the boy. “What do you mean?”
“You have to go. Now. As soon as possible. You have to stop them.”
“Stop who, Luke?”
“Darshan, the rebels, you have to stop them. They’re going to kill him.”
Keleir nodded. “Yes, they’ll kill Yarin. That’s why I have to get back. As soon as I cross the border, I can Port there. I’ll make it if I leave tonight and ride the horse to its end.”
“No,” Luke said, loud and angry. “They’re going to kill your brother.”
Numbness seized Keleir. He couldn’t find the voice to ask, but Luke understood the shocked expression and continued, “Darshan planned to kill you both at Salara. But plans changed, and you went here instead. He sent me, not Princess Saran. He wants you and your brother dead so he can take Saran as queen and make his rule legitimate. He is going to kill your brother … and I was supposed to kill you.”
Keleir stumbled away, his feet heavy as he went to the wall and braced himself there. In two days there would be two battles, one in Salara and one in Andrian, and he wouldn’t be able to get to both. He couldn’t protect his wife and his brother.
Darshan intended for Saran to make him a legitimate king. That would offer her some protection. Rowe would be blindsided by the plot against him. He was the greater risk.
Rage burned in the Fire Mage’s eyes. After all that Rowe invested in doing the right thing, in believing in the rebel leader’s voice, he would be betrayed out of greed. Darshan never intended to give Saran the freedom of choice. He’d lured them into his web of lies, knowing he’d inevitably do to Saran what Yarin had done to her mother: use her to make himself king—one that the Core would accept.
“I have to go,” Keleir said, his voice too calm.
Luke nodded. “I’ll find the fastest and strongest horse for you.” He reached out to the Fire Mage. “I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t believe until today. You didn’t move to stop the Alar. You would have let him kill you rather than prove him right.”
By midnight, Luke’s men found a healthy black horse that the stablemen claimed to be the youngest and fastest of them all. Xalen, Aleira, Luke, and the other surviving Adridian party members that had traveled to Mavahan waited to send Keleir off. The Fire Mage ordered the Adridian soldiers to stay behind and ensure a peaceful transition for Luke. He firmly believed that assassins loyal to the dead Alar would attempt to take the young man’s life and, if the assassins didn’t, some other Mavahan noble might.
Xalen Okara wrapped Keleir in a burly hug that nearly suffocated the Fire Mage. “Ipaba isn’t so bad!” He laughed at the struggling man. “Not bad at all.”
Aleira offered Keleir a smile and curt nod, less warm and inviting than her husband. “Thank you, Ipaba.”
“I have a name, you know,” Keleir grumbled under his breath.
“Thank you, Keleir,” Xalen returned, his jubilant demeanor growing more serious. “Truly. You kept your promise. We are free.”
“And you will stay free,” Luke added. “I’m going to free all of the slaves.”
“One step at a time,” Keleir told him, clasping hands with the new Alar. “I’d like to see you stay in power.”
“I’ll phase it out,” the young Alar corrected with a dim smirk.
“Be strong,” Keleir replied. “Predators devour the weak.”
Luke nodded.
Keleir mounted the black horse and seated himself comfortably in the saddle. He gripped the reins and turned the stallion toward the city gates. “If we ever meet again, friends … I may not be the same. Remember that. Should my shadow darken your door, forget your fondness, forget my help, and kill me as you would any other man who threatened you. Believe me when I say it would be a mercy.”
The Fire Mage did not allow them to argue. He tore across the desert, a speeding black shadow across pale, moonlit sand.