Lifemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 5)

by David Estes

  Well, what was left of it. Where once a proud and notorious forest had covered the miles and miles between Hyro Lake and the Mournful Mountains, now was a desolate wasteland, still smoldering from the fires that had raged through the wood.

  Why am I here? Gwen wondered, though she already knew. To start the search. It was the instinct of a tracker. Begin with a place where her quarry had been. From here, she would follow Siri’s path south, to where the battle had taken place. From there, she would take her best guess at where the dragon might’ve gone.

  She could be thousands of miles away by now, in Crimea or further. She gritted her teeth to crush the thought, because there was no sense thinking about it. She would spend what was left of her life searching for the dragon, and not only because of the promise she’d made to Raven.

  “Dragonsoul,” a voice said, startling her from her reverie.

  She turned sharply, her hand already reaching back for her bow. She stopped. Two nymphs stood before her. “You’re here,” she said. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  She could see the pain etched on their faces. “She has returned to the earth.”

  “Why did you come back to this place of pain?” Gwen asked.

  “When the fires die down and the earth cools, we will regrow the forest,” one of them, Colya, said.

  “That is a noble cause,” Gwen said, “but you don’t owe the Four Kingdoms anything. You are free to go elsewhere.”

  “We know,” the other, Lina, said. “But this is our home. For many years we were content to slumber, to let the wild things of the earth grow wild, to pretend our sister hadn’t murdered our mother and stolen our soul lockets. You changed all that, dragonsoul. You and your dragon. You showed us another way.”

  Gwen frowned. She hadn’t done anything but carry them across the lake to safety. “What way?”

  “The way of heroes,” they said together. “Find your dragon. Find your soul.”

  Two weeks later Gwen arrived in Calypso. She expected it to feel odd to be back, but it didn’t. On the contrary, it felt as much like home as Ironwood had.

  For a second, she stood unmoving in the busy marketplace, watching the flurry of activity around her. Great Forest of Orion, she thought, recognizing the tinted vision that was not hers.

  No, she was seeing this place through another’s eyes.

  “Siri?” she murmured, craning her head to look at the sky. Not so much as a cloud or a bird marred the perfect sea of blue.

  No dragon, no Siri, no soul. She took a deep breath, continuing forward, dodging carts and Calypsians, stepping aside as a convey of guanik lumbered by hauling wagons laden with heavy goods. No one bothered her. No one questioned why an Orian was in the south. She did, however, notice the stares. By now, every person who inhabited the southern continent would have heard stories of the Orian who rode the last dragon.

  She ignored them, making her way toward the palace, which was sealed up tight, a retinue of broad-chested soldiers guarding the main gate.

  “I’m here to see the empress,” Gwen announced to the first guard she came to.

  “We have orders to admit no one,” the guard said. Despite his outright rejection, she saw the recognition in his eyes. He knows who I am.

  “Ask her,” she said. “I will wait.”

  The guard hesitated for only a second, and then said, “Empress Sandes isn’t here.”

  “Where is she?”

  The guard turned eastward and pointed, his finger targeting the largest of the pyramids in the distance. “There. But you will receive the same answer from the guards. We’ve all been given strict instructions.”

  Gwen marched off, toward the great pyramid spiking into the sky, the place that had once been the home of the dragons.

  A thrill shot through her. Could it really be so easy? Had the instincts inside Siri carried her all the way home?

  Excitement churning through her, she began to run, and soon she was drenched in sweat beneath her plate. She slowed her speed as she approached the base of the pyramid, where several guards were gathered, their hands already on their weapons.

  “Has the dragon returned?” she asked, out of breath.

  “Dragon?” one man said. He was tall and strong-looking, twin scimitars dangling from dual hip scabbards. “No. You had better leave. The empress isn’t taking visitors.”

  Gwen’s heart sank. If Siri wasn’t here, she could be anywhere. Still, she needed to talk to Whisper. She needed information on dragons. “Tell her I’m here. She won’t deny me.”

  The man grimaced. “She already has. She expressly forbade us from admitting any Orian into the pyramid. You’re the only Orian I’ve ever heard about in Calypso.”

  Gwen wasn’t in the mood. In the time it took the guards to blink, she’d strung an arrow and fired off a shot meant to scare, not kill. The shot had the intended effect: the soldiers dove for the ground, the arrow sailing harmlessly overhead. Gwen was already running straight between them as they scrambled to their feet and drew their weapons, yelling, “Stop!”

  She ignored them, sprinting into the torchlit tunnel pursued by heavy footfalls, which echoed all around her.

  She emerged into darkness, swiftly locating a light at the far end of the enormous dragon sanctuary. A form knelt near the light, her hands clasped together as if in prayer.

  Gwen made for the light, seeing another form rise to its feet. This one was much larger, stepping in her path, holding a torch up and waving it across the ground. “Who goes there?”

  “Goggin?” she said. Gwen stopped, glancing back over her shoulder to see how far the other guards were.

  “Gwen?”

  “Aye, it’s me. Call off the dogs, will you?”

  “Halt!” Goggin roared, stepping around her.

  “She shot at us, slipped past us, too fast…” one of the guards said, clearly out of breath.

  “Leave us,” Goggin said.

  “But the empress—”

  “Can take care of herself. Leave. Now.”

  Gwen took another step forward, peering at the lone figure illuminated by a single lantern. “What is she doing?” she murmured.

  Goggin reached her side. “I don’t know. She’s been like that for many days. She pauses only to eat, drink and relieve herself.”

  “Has she spoken?”

  “Only to command the guards to allow no visitors.”

  “Aye, I got that much. Can I talk to her?”

  “Fine by me,” Goggin said. “But you might not get a reply. Take your time. I’ll make certain you aren’t disturbed.”

  Gwen offered her thanks and approached the young empress. She was on both knees, her hands clasped together, her forehead pressed to her thumbs. Gwen couldn’t see her face because of the way her hair fell around her head.

  “Whisper?” Gwen said, then remembered herself. When she met this girl, Whisper was a prisoner in Zune, forced to fight for her survival. But now she was empress, and deserved the respect of the station. “I mean, Empress Sandes.”

  Neither name seemed to reach her ears, Whisper’s head remaining bowed, her eyes closed. For a moment, Gwen thought she might’ve fallen asleep in the strange position. Until she spoke: “I’m afraid you’ve come a long way for nothing. We have not seen any signs of the dragon known as Siri since we witnessed her flee the battle for the west.”

  “How did you know—”

  “That you came here for her? Calypsians are dragon masters. Though I have never experienced it, Raven often spoke of the strength of her bond with Siri. She would go to the ends of the earth to find her. I suspect you are of the same mind?”

  “Yes.” The word came out as a whisper of truth, louder and more powerful than a shouted lie.

  Previously, Whisper’s eyes had stayed closed, but now they fluttered open and she tilted her head to look at Gwen. “The dragon is mad. We saw the heads. Not two, but three. Advanced madness. It usually takes a dragon many years to grow so many heads. The quicker th
e growth, the deeper the chasm of darkness. She will not know you even if you find her. She is lost. The last dragon is lost. Forget about her.”

  “I cannot,” Gwen admitted. Without Siri’s presence, without her nearness, Gwen felt like a hollowed-out pumpkin.

  Whisper stared at her. “You look like you’ve just broken a priceless vase.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m not fragile. Yes, I’ve lost part of my soul before. But the thing about souls is that they’re resilient. They heal. I love Siri and I loved your sister and I loved Roan Loren. I’ve loved others too.”

  Whisper frowned, and, if anything, her furrowed brow made her even more beautiful. “Go. Your dragon isn’t here. Why do you linger?”

  “Because you’re hurting too. I can see it in your eyes. How could you not? But I’ve also seen your strength.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me about my strength!” Whisper snapped, finally rising to her feet. “For years I had people—my mother, my sisters—tell me how I’m a Sandes, like that meant something, tell me how I have the potential to be strong, a leader, a warrior.” She spat the last word like a curse.

  “You are strong.”

  “Am I? Where was my strength as we watched the massacre from the safety of the desert? Where was my strength as the entirety of the Four Kingdoms united to defeat a threat to us all? Is that strength? Was giving the command to my archers to kill Goggin, strength? The man continues to protect me like it never happened, but I know it did, and I cannot bear the weight of my own decisions.”

  “You were trying to protect your people,” Gwen said. Though she’d been angry seeing the Calypsians hold their ground all those weeks ago, now she understood. Whisper had done what she thought was best for the people she had vowed to protect. There was no shame in that.

  Whisper shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I have no one.”

  “You have Goggin,” Gwen pointed out, earning herself a wry smile from the empress.

  “True. There’s more to him than I ever knew. He’s been a godsend these last weeks.”

  “And you have me.”

  “Do I?” Whisper said. “Why? When have I ever been kind to you?”

  “There was that one time…” Gwen started, feigning confusion. “Oh wait, no, that wasn’t you.”

  “Amusing.”

  “Look. I’ve said hurtful things to people who didn’t deserve it. But I’ve learned it’s never too late to make amends, and most people are open to forgiveness.”

  “People like you?”

  “Aye. People like me. Now, what do you know about mad dragons?”

  As it turned out, Whisper knew very little. Though she could recite facts and figures about most of the flora and fauna in the southern continent, when it came to dragons her knowledge was mostly hearsay. Luckily, her aunt, Lady Windy, was still in the city for a visit before returning to Citadel.

  “I’m sorry,” Gwen said when the gray-haired woman answered her knock.

  “For what?” Windy said, waving her inside. “Tea?”

  Gwen had been warned by Roan about the woman’s thick, noxious tea, but she also knew it would be rude to refuse the offer. Especially when she needed Windy’s help. “Please. Thank you.”

  The woman closed the door and stepped lightly to a table strewn with loose pages, pots of ink, and haphazardly placed quills. There were also books—lots and lots of books.

  Somewhere amongst the debris Windy located a teapot and poured two small cups, placing each on a saucer before sliding one toward Gwen. Gwen took a seat, but realized she couldn’t see the scholar past a stack of books, so she shifted to a different seat. Windy took a sip of her tea, made a soft sound of satisfaction, and indicated that Gwen do the same.

  Gwen sniffed at the liquid, wishing she hadn’t as the smell made her stomach roil. There was nothing for it, so she held her breath and forced some of the burning concoction down her throat, trying not to gag.

  She managed a smile, hoping her face hadn’t grown too pale. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “For what, dear?”

  There was no sense in beating around the bush. “For plotting to kill you and your nieces.”

  “Oh that,” Windy said, waving away her confession like it was as thin as a wisp of smoke from the end of a pipe. “I’d forgotten.” Gwen wondered what kind of woman forgot a threat on her life. One who’d received too many threats to count, she thought.

  “Also, I’m sorry about…” She couldn’t say his name, not right now. “…your loss. I know you were friends.”

  Windy sighed. “I feel guilty sometimes,” she said.

  “Why? You were only trying to help him.”

  She shook her head. “I was trying to help myself. I have a bad habit of putting knowledge above all else. In the back of my mind, I knew his mission would end in his death, but I wanted to know things. I wanted to know everything.”

  Her conviction sounded much like Roan’s own pursuit of the truth. “No wonder Roan liked you. Still, he was a stubborn man. He believed what he believed and his mind could not be swayed. I am glad he had a friend along the way.”

  Windy nodded, taking another sip of tea. Gwen took advantage of the pause in conversation to scan the papers scattered about the table. The ink on each page was in various stages of drying. “What are you working on?”

  “History,” Windy said. “I am a firsthand witness to many of the events that transpired in the Four Kingdoms. As a scholar, it is my duty to pass that information on to future generations. I am going to tell Roan’s story, or as much of it as I know. Perhaps you can help fill in some of the blanks?”

  “Perhaps we can help each other,” Gwen said.

  “You are here for information about dragons,” the eldest surviving Sandes said. Not a question—a statement. “I know all there is to know. But first, tell me your story. I will call for Yela to take notes.”

  Gwen’s eyes settled on a leather cover not yet bound to any pages. Etched on the front was a single word:

  Fatemarked.

  Gwen nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. And then she began her tale:

  “While riding through Barrenwood, I once met a golden-haired man named Roan Loren. I despised him for his name, and the way he looked, and the nation he hailed from, Calypso. As it turned out, he was the greatest hero the world had ever known.”

  EPILOGUES

  Archer Falcon Noura

  Bear Gwen

  The Future of the Four Kingdoms

  Epilogue 1: Archer Gäric-Sheary

  The Northern Kingdom, Castle Hill- Circa 546

  “Arr!” Garon shouted, thrusting his practice blade forward with reckless abandon.

  Archer took the heavy blow on the dull edge of his wooden sword, his hand and arm rattling. Their swords locked, Garon shoved forward until they were face to face. He loved goading his spitfire of a younger brother, and now was no exception. “Where’d you learn how to fight? Mother?” he said, grinning.

  Garon shoved him hard and their weapons disengaged. “Say that when she is around and see what happens,” Garon said, his teeth clenched as he swung once more.

  Archer parried the blow, giving his brother a silent point. In truth, his mother, Queen Annise Gäric, scared him a little. He refocused on the fight, noticing the subtle details in his brother’s stance, which indicated he was tiring. Though Garon still appeared full of energy, his chest was heaving, his hot breath ghosting from his mouth in the cold air, his hand clutching his sword a little lower than before. Beads of sweat rolled from his forehead, pooling in his thick black brows. At only twelve, he was the spitting image of their mother, while Archer, with his too-pale skin and dimpled chin, had always favored his da, the famed knight, Tarin Sheary.

  At least I don’t have his black veins, Archer thought, darting forward and landing a blow on his brother’s shoulder when he was too slow by half to raise his sword to block it. Archer couldn’t imagine what the girls would think of him
if his veins bulged from his skin, flowing with black blood.

  He shoved Garon hard, hooking his leg behind his brother’s knee, using Garon’s own momentum to trip him. His brother’s sword flew from his grip, landing in the snow.

  Garon wasn’t the type to yield, and he shoved backwards hard, sliding across the slick ground in a last-ditch attempt to regain his weapon. Archer had expected it, however, and was already racing past him, stepping on the broadside of the wooden sword and placing the sanded-down tip of his own blade at his brother’s throat. “Submit,” he said.

  He could see the anger and frustration in Garon’s blazing eyes, which darted about as if searching for an alternative—any alternative—to admitting defeat. Aye, Garon hated losing even more than Archer. “Don’t even try it,” Archer said. “Remember what Da told us? We must pretend these are real blades—sharp enough to cut us open. Only then will we respect them.”

  “I know,” Garon said, exasperation in his voice. Then, with impressive speed, he swatted Archer’s sword away with the back of one hand while simultaneously throwing a handful of snow into his face.

  Archer instinctively raised his opposite hand to scrub at his eyes, groaning when he took a firm kick to the abdomen, stumbling backwards.

  Heat rushed through him at his brother’s tactics. In the split-second before Garon attacked again, he glimpsed him through the snowmelt. Archer dropped his sword, not caring where it fell, swinging a short punch at his brother’s face…

  Crack! The impact was heavy, twisting Garon’s head around, spittle flying from his lips. Archer charged forward, tackling him around the waist, slamming him into the thin layer of packed snow, hearing an audible Oomf! as he drove the air from his brother’s lungs.

  Everything was spots of red and black, dancing before his eyes, mixing with images of Garon, who was scared now, his eyes wide and desperate, his hands raised desperately to protect his face.

  Archer hit him once, twice, thrice, and then more, again and again, raining down blows on his cheating, no-good brother who—