by David Estes
“Would you two shut up and listen for a minute!?” Yela shouted.
They both looked at Yela, surprised at her outburst. The young scholar sighed. “I think I found something.”
“Well, go on then, girl,” Windy said.
Yela’s finger was pressed against the page, holding her place. “Her soul delights in the conquering of others, despite the darkness; but they will not come to her, no, not when they fear the fire that burns them.” Yela looked up, still wearing that frown of intense concentration.
Roan wrinkled his brow. “It sounds more like a poem than anything else.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
“By the gods, you are one for drama, my dear,” Windy said. “Out with it.”
Yela smiled thinly, returning her attention to the page. “She is the soulmarked, and she shall be unlike any of the others. For her power is without beginning nor ending, and she can chain them all or free them.”
Roan couldn’t ignore the passage now—it was a direct reference. And he suspected he knew who had written it, while his mother had dictated each word while in the throes of revelation:
Bear Blackboots.
Forty-Eight
The Southern Empire, Phanea
Lisbeth Lorne
Lisbeth felt like cursing, but she didn’t know any good ones.
She’d been at it for hours, sitting beside the Well of Truth, hoping the memory of what she’d done when she’d saved Roan’s life would allow her to recreate the power. Roan had arrived out of breath a while ago with a book, a passage of which mentioned her.
The words had frustrated her. She didn’t want to chain anyone. I want to free them, she thought, though she wasn’t certain what that meant exactly, only that it felt better than the alternative. Free them to do what?
“Try again,” Sir Dietrich said, ever patient with her. “A smaller stone perhaps. Maybe something of less weight will be easier.” He plucked a small, round stone from the water, placing it on a natural rock shelf set into the wall.
Lisbeth stared at it, not with her eyes, which were blind, but with her third eye, which burned hotly on her forehead. The object was a dark spot amongst a dark slab, soulless hunks of stone. Spots and streaks of color were all around it—things growing even in the harshest clime.
Still…she could feel something. She concentrated harder, feeling her face begin to ache as she constricted it with her mental focus. Yes. Yes, this is something. I can do this.
A surge of heat rushed through her and she almost toppled over; she would have if not for Sir Dietrich’s steady hand suddenly clamping around her arm, holding her up. “Lisbeth?” he said, his concern obvious in the way he spoke her name. “Maybe you should rest. Sit down.”
“No,” she said, though she very much wanted to. “The rock—did I draw it to me?” She peered with her third eye, which was still warm, searching for that soulless black rock.
“I will not lie to you,” Dietrich said. “It rests in the same spot it began. I’m sorry.”
Lisbeth’s heart sank. If not to draw the rock, what had the surge of power been? “I want to try again.”
“Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day…”
“Now,” she said. She didn’t mean to snap; the thoughtful knight was only trying to protect her, as he always did.
“Yes, my lady,” Dietrich said dutifully. “Perhaps if I drop the stone from a height, you will feel its peril and be able to pluck it from the ether like…”
As he explained his theory, she felt the pull of a smile at the corners of her lips. This man had been a starsend since the moment he came into her mortal life, however short it had been thus far.
Dietrich tried the “dropping technique,” several times, but with each attempt the stone clattered to the ground.
“Confound it all to the stars!” Lisbeth said as the stone ricocheted into the water with a plop.
Dietrich’s beautiful battered soul moved toward her. His warmth enveloped her, and she felt his rough hands on the bare flesh at the back of her neck as he pulled her against him. “You are even more beautiful when you’re angry,” he said, his lips tickling her ear. “And you don’t need to draw me into your arms, I shall come willingly.”
When Lisbeth was still just a streak of light dancing with the stars, she’d often dreamed of having a real body, of what it would be like to feel so much. Mortality was just the space between times of immortality, or at least that was how she’d thought of it.
Now, here, in this place with this man with these feelings—so many feelings—running through her…her dreams from before felt colorless next to the true vibrancy of being human.
He kissed her neck and she tilted her head to the side to give him more room to maneuver, a sigh slipping from her lips. The small, breathless sound only seemed to spur him on as he traced a path to her chin to her lips, his tongue finding hers, devouring her as she devoured him, his hands roaming now, lower, lower, navigating the wavelike swell of her hips...
Somewhere above her, the stars cheered as he laid her down gently, so, so gently.
Time seemed to stop.
Sir Dietrich slept, his arm curled around her as she lay nestled in the crook of his shoulder. His breathing was slow, easy, content.
She felt…happy, which immediately made her feel selfish which immediately made her feel sad. From the moment she fell from the stars to inhabit this wonderfully imperfect body, she’d dragged death and destruction behind her like a heavy load. Ever since the Sleeping Knights had been destroyed, she felt strange, hollow. And yet, with Dietrich she was happy. Why should she be happy when so many others had already suffered at her hands?
One soul in particular troubled her more than any others. He was one of the Garzi, the tribe that occupied the northern Hinterlands, and his name came to her—Zur—as did his soul, as dark gray and tremulous as shifting shadows. A man with demons. She remembered what she’d seen when she’d probed his soul, the willing sacrifice of a girl she now knew to be his daughter, her life given to the monster god of the frozen lake they relied upon to quench their thirst and feed their thousands.
Their thousands, she thought, swiftly pushing the idea away. She had hurt them simply by appearing in the Hinterlands. Even if she could bridge the hundreds of miles between she and them, she could not ask anything of them. Not even Crone, the kindly old Garzi woman who’d taken Lisbeth in, sheltered her and fed her while she tried to come to terms with who and what she was.
Lisbeth breathed and she saw them in her mind. Nestled amongst dark cliffs capped in snow, the Garzi’s ice-block huts stood sentinel. Females moved amongst them, some carrying younglings bundled in skins and furs, others drawing carts laden with supplies or wood. They moved with a gritty determination that told of the strength of a people who’d long lived under harsh climactic conditions.
And yet she felt their fear too. Why? she wondered. Did I cause it? Or do they sense what has arrived in our lands, the great Horde gathering beyond their borders?
With a start, she realized she wasn’t observing them as a star might, with omniscient, All-Seeing power. No, she was watching through the eyes of another, her own soul slipping inside one that was familiar to her. The last time she’d touched Zur’s soul she had harmed him. Then, she’d had little control over her fatemark. Now, the grace of her technique left the Garzi warrior oblivious to her presence.
She hadn’t even meant to inhabit him, but once she’d touched a soul she was always connected to it.
These people had the luxury of peace, and she wouldn’t strip it from them.
That’s when she realized she was no longer gazing upon the working people, but staring at the snow, watching a tendril of viscous blood ooze into a puddle. Zur was groaning, rocking back and forth, back and forth…
Oh gods, what have I done?
She already knew:
Her thoughts had betrayed her. She’d shown him everything. The Horde. The danger these lands were in.
And she had, at long last, broken him.
Zur
Voices murmured around him. Though they spoke Garzi, a language that usually sounded as poetic to his ears as the sight of hope flowers against a snowy backdrop, now their words sounded harsh, guttural barks from the back of their throats.
It was because of her, he knew.
Lisbeth Lorne, the mysterious human who had appeared like a wraith in the Hinterlands, only to steal their frozen warriors and depart like a ghost in the night. He’d felt many emotions toward the Blue One. Hatred. Anger. Resentment. Embarrassment. Frustration. And then, the biggest surprise:
Relief.
Not that she’d left, but that she’d stolen his secrets. Ever since she’d probed through his mind, his soul, viewing the most intimate parts of him even as she tore away his hidden armor, he’d felt the relief of a burden shared with another. The weight of his past, his unbearable loss, had lifted, and he’d felt…
“Free,” he said in the tongue of his people.
“Zur,” one of his captains said, a great warrior called Hurgaz. “You fell. You were speaking nonsense. About invaders and war and death.”
Zur tried to reply, but his mouth was as dry as heated stone, his lips crinkled like bark. He did, however, manage to get one word out.
“Horde.”
Forty-Nine
The Southern Empire, Phanea
Roan Loren
No more lies. No more secrets.
Roan knew he had to tell them the last of that which he’d been holding back, waiting for the ‘right time’ that was a figment of his own imagination.
“The leader of the Horde, this Klar-Ggra…” he started, pausing for no reason but to delay. This truth had almost broken his spirit, and he was afraid of what it might do to his last remaining allies, like a gust of wind scattering a pile of leaves over a great distance.
He’d gathered them together, but not for a ‘Fatemarked Council,’ for that had been the wrong name. This time he called it ‘the Council of the Four Kingdoms,’ though not every nation was represented anymore.
Across from him, Lisbeth Lorne’s milky eyes watched his hands, and he realized they were roiling over each other nervously. She clasped them together—held them firm. Beside Lisbeth, Sir Dietrich’s expression was an unreadable mask. Further down the table Rhea held her sleeping babe, cradling her in her arms. Grey Arris was close at hand, always attentive, his blade hand resting casually on the table. Directly beside Roan were the halfmarked, Shae and Erric, who met his eyes with interest. On his opposite side was Falcon Hoza, a man who continued to impress Roan. Windy and Yela had begged off in the name of scholarship. Neither were content with the brief reference they’d found to Lisbeth Lorne’s mysterious power, and they were determined to continue their research. Noticeably absent was Shanti Parthena Laude, who hadn’t been seen for several days. The rest of the large council table felt terribly empty, the power of those who weren’t there almost as formidable as those who had stayed.
The biggest surprise, however, was the shadowy figure of Bane in the corner, one leg bent, his foot pressed against the wall. Roan had invited him to sit, but he’d refused.
Roan realized that his pause had carried long past the point of awkwardness. Even Rhea had turned her attention from her daughter to stare at him. He cleared his throat. Started again:
“The leader of the Horde is fatemarked,” he said. He marveled at how easy it had been to speak those words, when learning them had been an adventure too unbelievable for even the most imaginative of the bards to sing about.
“What?” It was Sir Dietrich who spoke, his eyes sharpened to deadly points. “You thought only to tell us this now? Had we known earlier…”
He didn’t need to finish his thought, for Roan’s were the same. Perhaps we could’ve convinced the others to stay.
“I’m sorry. I was afraid of what it might do to—” The excuse fell from his lips. There was no excuse. If he was them, he would be angry. Knowledge was crucial in this world, and he’d kept this piece of it to himself, telling only Gareth in confidence.
“Do you know what this means?” The question came from Roan’s left, from Shae Arris, whose bright brown eyes were filled with an intensity he’d only seen one other time: when she’d used her power to bolster his strength in the Bloody Canyons.
“Shae,” Grey said, a note of warning in his tone.
“No,” Shae said. “This is our decision.”
And there it was. One of the many reasons Roan had withheld the information. Bane said, “What am I missing?”
“Not much,” Rhea said. “Only that Shae and Erric might sacrifice themselves to kill Klar-Ggra, only it will also mean that all of the other fatemarked will die too. That includes you.”
Silence hung for a moment, but then faded as several whispered side conversations began.
Roan cut into them. “I wanted all of you here, not just the fatemarked. But it doesn’t change that this is a fatemarked decision and it must be unanimous.”
“Even him?” Sir Dietrich said, nodding toward Bane.
“Yes,” Roan said without hesitation. “And we will need to receive a response from Gwendolyn Storm too.”
“I get a vote too,” Rhea said. “And I vote no. It’s not happening.” She glared at Shae and Erric, her eyes dancing between them.
Now it was Roan who felt like he was missing something, though his confusion was mirrored by everyone else at the table, even Grey. “Why do you get a vote?” Grey asked.
Her eyes met his and stayed there. Roan suddenly felt as if he were intruding on a private conversation. “Because, dear Grey, our daughter is fatemarked too.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Roan asked. What he really meant was Why didn’t you tell me? The council had been paused so that everyone could digest the information with the agreement to reconvene the following day.
Shae Arris and Erric—moving with impressive speed on his crutches—had slipped away quickly. Grey had muttered a curse and given chase. Lisbeth and Sir Dietrich had stayed sitting exactly where they were, while Falcon had said something about looking for Shanti. Bane had simply disappeared, though his shadow had remained for a moment before fading too.
Roan, on the other hand, had gone to his sister, to Rhea, requesting a word in private. Now, they sat on the edge of her bed in her quarters.
“Do you want to see?” she replied, not answering his question.
He couldn’t help himself—his excitement was palpable, thrumming through him like a restless energy. All his studies of the fatemarked seemed a fool’s errand next to the living child sleeping in her mother’s arms. “Yes,” he said, the greatest understatement of his life. “Please.”
“Bring a torch.”
He did, careful not to drop it from his trembling hands. Steering it closer, closer…
Rhea unwrapped the blanket covering the child’s skin, and then—
Light bloomed, not from one place only but from everywhere, illuminating markings on the babe’s arms, legs, stomach, and even its face. They were people and creatures, races and sigils and places and events. They were history, past, present and future. Roan didn’t know how he knew this, but he did, as clearly as he knew he was the lifemarked spoken of in the Western Oracle’s prophecy. The images danced and shifted, unlike the static marking on his own chest.
The child stirred, and though he didn’t want to, Roan moved back, watching as the markings faded into perfect, unmarred flesh. “What do they do?” he asked, aware of the awe in his every word.
Rhea laughed lightly. “Wrath take me to the seventh heaven if I know,” she said. “But when I first looked upon them, a voice spoke to me.”
“What voice?”
“Wrath? One of the other gods? The Western Oracle perhaps? How should I know?”
“What did the voice say?”
“‘The peacemarked…at long last she has come,’” Rhea recited, and a shiver ran down Roan’s spine. “
And I didn’t tell you earlier because I know how you are.”
Roan was about to protest, but he stopped. She had a point, which he was proving at this very moment. “You were trying to protect her.”
“Of course. I’m her mother. I know you think I’m a monster, but even a monster loves her own monstrous children, regardless of whether they come out as angels, like this little one.”
“I don’t think you’re a monster. Well, maybe once…but not anymore.”
Rhea laughed again, and this time the child’s eyes fluttered open and she yawned, her little hands fisted as she stretched. “Good to know.”
“I don’t want to hurt your little angel,” Roan said.
“No? Even if it meant bringing peace to the Four Kingdoms? Isn’t that your sole purpose in life?”
Roan shook his head, but he stopped himself, wanting to be certain of his own mind before answering. I would die if it meant peace. I would let others die if they were willing. Shae Arris. Erric Clawborn. Sir Dietrich. Lisbeth Lorne. Even Gwendolyn Storm, he knew, even if the thought brought an ache to his chest. But this child…the peacemarked…at long last she has come…was not supposed to die, was she? He knew the Western Oracle was as ruthless as she was determined to restore peace, but she wouldn’t require such a thing to be on the back of a newborn babe wrapped in swaddling clothes? Would she?
“No,” Roan said, but it was his answer and not the Oracle’s. “No, I swear I will protect my niece above all others. Even if it destroys us all.”
Rhea’s smile faded partway through his answer, and emotion flashed across her face. “I—I’m sorry I haven’t been a better sister. I…wish things could’ve been different, that we’d grown up together.”
Her words were spoken with such earnestness that Roan’s eyes watered. But there was no point wishing for a different world. No. They had to make one themselves.
