The Living God

  THE

  LIVING

  GOD

  KAYTALIN PLATT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2018 Kaytalin Platt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Inkshares, Inc., Oakland, California

  www.inkshares.com

  Edited by WriterTherapy

  Cover design by Tim Barber of Dissect Designs

  Interior design by Kevin G. Summers

  ISBN: 9781947848931

  e-ISBN: 9781947848429

  LCCN: 2018937930

  Second edition

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my father. Thank you for teaching me that girls are every bit a strong and capable as boys and never wavering in your faith that I’d achieve my dreams. I miss you.

  And for Kathy, my friend and soul sister. You helped make this book possible. Thank you for being my friend, writing confidant, partner, and ally for over a decade.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  EXCERPT: THE BOOK OF KINGS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  GRAND PATRONS

  INKSHARES

  ONE

  EARTH DOES NOT understand the curse of time. It knows not the ravages of age, as it simply alters its form to endure. Rocks weather to dust, and that dust layers to weave stories of the past. Earth cradles the remnants of millennia. The living walk upon it and the dead are buried within it. The world belongs to the earth, and it returns to it, sheltered in sediments that defy time.

  All things are bound by time, but not earth. Not usually.

  Today the earth bent to time’s will as limber as a young sapling. The soil, muddied with blood, dried. Red stains swept back to the dead, their wounds closed, and their bodies rose from the sand.

  The frozen scene worked backward. Every hack, slice, and arrow drew away. Soldiers sheathed swords and mounted horses. Fires snuffed out, and thatched roofs regrew thin spindles of straw. The frightened faces slacked and reformed smiles, while the soldiers rode backward out of the city and up the hill to the trees.

  Each one passed a lone figure standing on the drying earth beneath the arched stone gate. Her eyes glowed white hot, and light wrapped in tendrils about her hands. She turned her head to the blue sky, to the birds flying in reverse and the dark receding clouds. The Time Mage convulsed with a wet, drowning gasp, and blood dripped from her nose to curl over her lips. She fell, digging her fingers into the soil, and vomited. The white light was snuffed from her eyes, and the world restarted anew.

  The quiet of lapsed time broke with laughter that silenced in confusion. The dead felt at their wounds in panic and, finding none, looked to the red-haired woman sick upon the earth. Behind her, past the tall wall and up the hill, soldiers mounted on horses burst from the forest.

  “Run,” she said to them, lifting her head. Green eyes burned through her disheveled, curly hair. “Run!”

  Screams tore through the crowd, and the villagers scattered. They scooped up children, grabbed their wives and their valuables, and fled. The stronger and braver of them snatched what insufficient weapons they had and greeted the army as it rode into the city with brandished swords and Adridian flags boasting the angry face of a gray dragon stitched to black cotton.

  Instead of fighting, they warded off the threatened villagers and circled around the kneeling woman. The horsemen, all adorned in armor, cloaks, and helmets, numbered in the hundreds. So many were there that not all of them could fit within the village, so they spilled outward and lined the brick wall.

  “Saran!” called a soldier upon a black horse. “You’re a fool.” He slid from the saddle and landed with a thud next to her, where he knelt and dragged her into his arms. He wore leather armor, unlike the bulky metal of most soldiers, and a fierce steel helmet in the visage of a dragon. She rested against the soft leather breastplate, letting her tense muscles relax in his arms, and smeared the blood from beneath her nose with a quivering hand.

  “Let go of that traitor, Ahriman,” said another. The man the voice belonged to lifted the helmet from his head, revealing a narrow, scathing face, and threw it hard to the earth. “The king will be notified of this. He will deal with your treason.”

  Saran turned her heavy eyes up to the angry soldier and then she shut them with an exasperated sigh, burrowing against the man who held her. She wished the world away with all her might, but upon opening her eyes again, everything remained the same. It always remained the same. “How fortunate that I am of a position that is protected.” The arms around her tightened, and her gaze lifted to the red eyes peering through the helmet’s narrow slit.

  “Idiot,” her savior whispered, and only she could see the edge of a smile pulling his cheeks high.

  The angry soldier continued, “We had the upper hand. We had the element of surprise. Now, because of you, the scum have run off!” The soldier’s arm slung out toward the hills. Behind him, villagers scattered for shelter in the forest.

  “Yes, the campaign is a complete failure, Lord Marki. I suspect we should just head home.” Saran pushed away from Ahriman and used his shoulder to steady herself as she stood.

  Lord Odan Marki slipped from his horse, rage turning his face a terrible shade of red. Marki’s bony fist, wrapped in a glove tipped with pointed metal barbs, swung for her skull. His fist rattled through the air only to be snatched up by another soldier next to him.

  This one wore no helmet and the same less-restrictive leather armor as Ahriman. He stood tall among the other soldiers, with a broad build and long coal-black hair pulled taut behind his head. His blue eyes settled with warning on Lord Marki.

  “Mind yourself, Odan. That’s a princess you’re about to scar, and I doubt the king would take kindly to it, no matter what foolishness she’s done,” said the man with a deep rumbling voice. When Odan calmed, the soldier released him.

  “If you think your title protects you from retribution, you are gravely mistaken,” Odan growled, knuckles cracking as his fists tightened at his sides.

  “It seems my title doesn’t afford me much more than protection,” replied the princess, casting them all a dark glare. “What othe
r royal do you know who is addressed so informally and threatened with physical harm? Hmm?”

  The wide arc of soldiers shifted with a rumbling clank of metal as they gave a halfhearted salute, bashing their gloved hands against their metal or leathered chests. She appraised them all, watching as they sat like stiff iron statues upon well-bred warhorses. She blamed her father for their forgetfulness. He insisted they know her as their own on the battlefield. He wanted her to earn their respect as a warrior before earning it as their future queen, just as he had earned it long before snatching the throne from the previous king. However, there were certain drawbacks to her whimsical status. Odan Marki’s lack of respect, for one.

  “My apologies for the improper address a moment ago,” came the courtly voice of Keleir Ahriman as he rose to stand next to her. “I was concerned, and it wasn’t intentional.”

  “You are forgiven, Lord Ahriman,” Saran said, nodding to him. “And so are you, Lord Marki. I understand how important this battle was for you. Its success would have marked your rise among the ranks and been quite the notch for you. However, our informants were wrong. There were no rebels here.”

  Odan’s face darkened to crimson, his eyes bulged, flashing bright cyan with power, and his hands shook. Frost licked across the earth from where Odan’s feet touched it toward Saran, turning the dirt snowy white. She stepped away just as it reached her.

  “Back to camp. We’ll return to the capital, and then you can complain to the king of my slight against you, Lord Marki,” she told the Ice Mage. She turned her back to them and let the exhaustion wash across her face. She wrapped an arm around her queasy stomach and walked back toward the village wall. The world rippled before her eyes, like something seen through the bottom of a whiskey glass.

  “You shouldn’t be walking. Where’s your horse?” Ahriman asked, reaching for her arm. She evaded his touch with narrowed eyes. He drew back his hand and clanked his fist against the hard metal sword hilt at his hip. “Princess! You should not be walking.”

  Saran stopped short, letting out a heavy sigh. She turned back to scold him for his concern, but her legs quivered, and she keeled sideways. Ahriman dove and slipped an arm around her waist before she hit the earth. She met his eyes again as he lowered his head to her ear.

  “Ride,” he said, voice firm and quiet. “Please.” He did not look down at her, nor did he offer to carry her. He helped her stand and guided her to his horse, where she drew herself into the saddle. Lord Ahriman climbed into the saddle behind her. “I’m porting Her Highness back to camp. She spent too much of her Life and needs rest to recover what’s been lost.”

  Heatless, bright orange flames sprouted from the earth and tangled like vines over them, and the fire of Keleir Ahriman’s Gate stole them away. A mile or so away, under the shade of clustered trees near the entrance to a large camp, the earth caught fire. A horse with two riders emerged, struggling to gallop out of a hole made of embers and molten rock. Once on even ground, the fire around them snuffed out, leaving the patch of dirt, leaves, and grass void of any signs of it having been there at all.

  The mostly empty camp had a few servants going about their duties. The servants did not look up or notice Saran and Keleir appearing just at the outskirts of the farthest row of tents. The two Mages waited just to be sure they had not been seen before the Fire Mage guided his horse behind a cluster of brush near a rippling creek. Shadows hung heavy beneath the thick, leafy canopy, allowing them to hide easily in their dark clothes. On a branch hanging low over the trickling water, a hawk watched them approach.

  Saran slid from the horse, and her escort dropped heavily next to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her to him so abruptly that her head spun. Pain splintered through her skull, and she closed her eyes tight with a groan.

  “If you didn’t smell like vomit, I’d kiss you,” Keleir said, one hand curling behind her neck and the other brushing through her unkempt hair. The pressure of his hand against her aching skull felt surprisingly refreshing. “That was foolish.”

  “Innocent people were dying.” She flashed her eyes open, taking in the fearsome dragon helmet and the red eyes peering through it. A wiry smile sprouted on her tired face. “And I could wash my mouth out.”

  He drew from his pocket a tattered red cloth and wiped the drying blood from her upper lip and chin, a gentle touch for someone wearing such a fearsome mask. “How are you feeling?”

  She closed her eyes, wavering on her feet, and assessed her body. Saran didn’t have to answer him—he already knew how she felt. Just as she could sense everything about him. Still, she knew he liked it when she said it with her own words. “Exhausted. My skull is splitting open from the inside.”

  Keleir pursed his lips together and curled his hands against her cheeks. “If you ever do something that dangerous again, I’ll …”

  “You’ll what, m’lord?”

  Keleir shook his helmet loose from his head. It clanked once against the earth and then rolled into the mud at the edge of the creek—he’d spend the afternoon scrubbing it. His stark-white hair brushed against his shoulders and strands of it fell across his face. He was a handsome young man, despite the misleading color of his hair, with a strong jaw and unsettling red eyes. It was a visage that most people on her world feared. It marked him as a man touched by a demon, and while that was frightening on its own, he was also a man who had been gifted by the Core, the life of their world, with the element of fire. He drew her in and rested his chin at the top of her head. “I don’t know. But it will be fearsome and vengeful.”

  “Vengeful?”

  He nodded, pressing a firm kiss to her aching temple. His arms squeezed tighter around her, and his voice wavered ever so slightly. “You could have died. Don’t ever push that far again. Know your limits, Saran D’mor. You are not immortal.”

  The princess frowned. He wasn’t wrong. She had used her power longer than necessary. But she had wanted to leave the village as they’d found it. They were well into the fall rains, and it would take weeks for them to repair the damage. By contrast, it would only take her a day or two to recover what she’d lost in giving them back their homes.

  Saran could hear the sound of hooves in the distance, still too far to feel the thunder of the army galloping toward them. She wanted to stay in his arms longer, to rest there where it was safe. She fed off the strength he radiated and used it to soothe the ache in her head.

  Keleir caught her just as she drew away. “Yarin won’t look past what you did. Not this time. It was blatant treason, and there is no way to justify it or convince him it was a mistake like all those times before …”

  “I will deal with those consequences. The most I’ll get is a scolding, I’m sure.”

  The Fire Mage shook his head. “What if it is worse?”

  Saran flinched, remembering the harsh crack of a rod against her spine, the hard thud of a boot in her gut. “Then I’ll deal with that as well. I could not see those people die, Keleir. I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. It was worth the risk.”

  Keleir frowned at her, and she felt his disappointment ripple through the air like a cool breeze. “But not worth your life.”

  Saran didn’t argue, partly because he was right and partly because her mind could not tolerate another moment of standing. She touched his cheek lightly, just as the army began to emerge through the brush. The princess turned and crossed the smoky camp, picking her way through the cluster of tents and trees, before collapsing through the front flap of her own.

  Inside the tent, Saran listened to the sound of the army riding back. She heard them dismount and disperse to their individual areas while she lay against her bedding with her hands pressed to her skull.

  Even with the conversation finished, Saran couldn’t help the bubble of worry Keleir’s warning brought. Most of her life she’d been her father’s good and faithful daughter … at least as far as he knew. Sometimes we do what we hate to do what is right, Madam Ophelia, th
e castle healer, would tell her. But more and more she grew sick of the act, and the closer they got to their freedom, the less she cared about keeping it up. The careful façade she’d woven around herself had crumbled, and she knew that if she didn’t piece it back together soon, the elaborate ruse she’d cultivated most of her life would be undone—and with it, their plan of escape.

  TWO

  AT NIGHT THE camp quieted, save the sound of crickets and snoring. Saran’s tent was modest for a princess and comfortable enough for two slender people. Fur and embroidered pillows draped the floor, the only luxury she allowed herself past the military-issued wool blankets and understuffed pillows. Her traveling clothes sat folded neatly at the entrance, and she lay beneath the furs wearing a thin cotton dressing gown.

  The night air had cooled enough to chill, and she burrowed down against the soft fur until it covered her nose. She couldn’t sleep for the aching in her head, and nothing could drown out the snarling, growling, horrible snores of the soldier sleeping in the tent next to her.

  A shadow moved along the canvas and around the front of her tent. Her heart leapt up until she registered the prickle of power in the air that told her Keleir was close and growing nearer by the second. Then he fumbled in. He pressed a finger to his lips and slid along the fur to lie by her side.

  “Are you mad?” she hissed at him, feeling his warm nose brush against her cheek. His arm curled over her waist and drew her tight against him. He felt hot, like fire. Not surprising, given it was his element. The chill that had settled over her dissipated in the presence of his heat.

  “It’s near morning, and everyone is sleeping. Even the dolt left to keep watch. I couldn’t sense you sleeping, so I thought I’d pass the time with you.”

  Saran sighed, choosing not to waste energy with arguing. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  The Fire Mage pursed his lips together and shrugged. “And you?”

  She touched the bridge of her nose. “My head is pounding to the point I wish to bash the rest of my brains to mush and end the pain. Were you having nightmares?”

  Keleir curled his hand along her side. “I dreamed.”