Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

by David Estes

  Thankfully, he was able to choke the meal down, chasing it with a few swigs from a waterskin he’d been provided. All in all, he was being treated reasonably well considering he was from the south. He wondered if that would change if they knew he wasn’t as useful to them as they previously thought. Also, he’d made no attempt to escape. Yet. When he did, he feared the treatment would be far harsher in the event he was caught.

  Which was why he wasn’t planning on getting caught.

  After his meal, Roan dozed for a few hours, until his cell door clanked open once more. This time his escort was Gwen, and she seemed to take no joy in the task, waving him out the door without so much as a single word.

  When they’d left the dungeons and moved out into the late afternoon sun, which was already casting long shadows across the castle grounds, Roan said, “Where are we going?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  “I’ve already seen all of the rings of the castle,” Roan said. “The prince was even kind enough to give me a firsthand demonstration of the wall’s defenses. Though I was almost impaled in the process.”

  “You could have healed yourself anyway,” Gwen said, smiling slightly at the prospect of him being skewered. “But we’re not touring the castle. We’ll leave through the western gate, which I’ve arranged to be opened.”

  Roan’s eyebrows shot up. “The king trusts me outside the castle walls?”

  Gwen laughed. “With me? Aye. You are no more dangerous than an ore kitten.”

  Roan tried to think of a retort, but came up empty. He’d seen the way she could move. Any notion of escape while under her guard was a fool’s mission.

  As she’d promised, the western gate opened for them, melting and sliding away. Gwen raised a hand in thanks to whomever had controlled it—an Orian, presumably—though Roan couldn’t see anyone.

  The western gate didn’t lead into the town of Ferria; rather, a long metal-lined path led into Ironwood, the branches so thick overhead that it became difficult to see the sky. As they walked, Roan squinted at the trees, which seemed to be…there was no other word for it…melting.

  Gwen noticed Roan’s gaze. “The liquid ore is pulled from the ground by the trees’ roots. It is what sustains them. Sheathes them with armor.”

  “But I thought it was your people who controlled the ore.”

  Gwen’s eyebrows arched. “Control the ore? No. The ore controls itself. We can only channel it if it allows us to. There is a mutual respect between the forest, the ore, and its inhabitants. If that respect is ever shattered, I fear the ore will destroy us all.”

  Suddenly, Roan didn’t feel so safe in the wood.

  “Come,” Gwen said, beckoning him forward. They walked, side by side, for a long while. Roan was lost in his thoughts. The east was so different than the south he could hardly believe the two places eventually connected with each other. The land in the south seemed to be in constant war with its people. Relentlessly, the dunes tried to press in on Calypso, piling high on the dwellings, whipping through every crack and crevice. Until arriving in the east, Roan couldn’t remember a day without the constant taste of gritty sand on his tongue and between his teeth. Even the sun in the south was different, a hot blade knifing down during the day.

  In the east, there was no battle between the land and its people. They were allies, determined to coexist peacefully. It was like a smaller version of what Roan wished the Four Kingdoms could be.

  Eventually, Gwen veered to the right and led Roan along a smaller path into an even deeper, darker portion of the woods. Metallic vines hung from the trees, curling like the tentacles of an ancient sea creature. On the edge of his vision, Roan swore he saw the glint of round orbs amongst the foliage, but anytime he tried to look directly at them, they disappeared.

  “Did you see something?” Gwen asked. There was the hint of a smile playing on her lips.

  “Eyes,” Roan said, realizing what they were.

  “Just a trick of the light.” But, of course, there was very little light this deep in the woods.

  They came to a barrier, a metal gate that reached high into the trees. It was split into two halves. One half was a series of swords, soldered together, their points aiming skyward. The other half was of leaf and flower, and words were carved into the metal. Roan started to read the first line—Night black, day bright—but Gwen said, “These words are not for your eyes,” and steered his gaze away. The gate opened, swinging before them without so much as a creak or groan.

  Light bloomed before Roan’s eyes, glittering like diamonds on every surface. He blinked, spots dancing across his vision, explosions of orange, white, and yellow. Cupping a hand and using it to shield his face, he cracked his eyelids, still blinking rapidly.

  Slowly, slowly, things began to clarify, coming into focus.

  They were in a small, circular clearing, spotlighted by the sun, which had a little daylight left before dusk. The ground was metal, but multi-faceted, like a well-cut gemstone. Each facet caught the light on a different angle, which accounted for the sparkling. In the clearing was a single tree, large, but not as enormous as some of the other trees Roan had seen in Ironwood. The tree was also shimmering, and etched with the same edges and angles.

  Craning his head back, Roan gazed higher, his eyes adjusting to the brightness of this place. Every part of the tree, from the leaves to the branches to the trunk, were metal, the surface of the armor uninterrupted. It was…

  “Perfection,” Roan said. “What is this place?”

  “My home,” Gwen said.

  “You live here?” Roan couldn’t have disguised the awe in his tone if he’d wanted to. For some reason he’d assumed she lived somewhere within the bounds of the castle.

  “When I’m not scouting.”

  “Alone?”

  Although he’d meant it as a light jest, her yellow eyes darted to his, reflecting iron. “I like being alone.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know. Yes, I live here alone.”

  “You could have any man or woman in Ironwood,” he said.

  At that, she smirked. “Or woman?”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t…I’m not…”

  Roan laughed. “You prefer men.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. I prefer men.”

  “Good thing I’m a man,” Roan said.

  “Depends on the definition,” Gwen said.

  Roan laughed again. The Orian was rather a quick-wit when she wasn’t trying to impale him with sharp weapons. “Well met,” he said. He cast his eyes about the clearing and tree once more. He realized he’d been so distracted by the beauty of the tree and the interplay of the light amongst its iron, he hadn’t noticed the hammock hanging between two of its branches, open to the sky, to the light. “What if it rains?”

  Gwen didn’t respond, striding forward. Something about her gait was different. She seemed more relaxed in this place. Less…serious. Like she’d been carrying around a heavy iron yoke that she’d left at the gate. Roan watched her as she deftly climbed the tree, pulling herself from branch to branch, reaching the hammock quickly. She sat on one side, swinging, looking down. A large leaf grew from one of the branches, providing a canopy. “If it rains, the ore shelters me,” she said.

  Roan didn’t move. Something about this place seemed sacred, and he was afraid that if he trod all over the place he would disturb it. He almost regretted his earlier jokes. “What were those words on the gate?” he asked.

  Gwen said nothing, but stopped swinging.

  Though he hadn’t had the chance to read the second line, something about the way the words ebbed and flowed, like water splashing against a shoreline, made Roan think of a book of poems he’d once read. “Was it your poetry?”

  Gwen shook her head, but Roan wasn’t sure whether it was an answer. “Do you think you can climb this high?” she asked instead.

  Not as fast as you, Roan thought, but he sa
id, “Yes.” Something occurred to him. “Isn’t the metal hot?” Surely being in the sun all day must’ve heated the iron to an unbearable temperature, but Gwen hadn’t so much as hissed through her teeth as she grasped each branch.

  “It’s only hot if it wants to be hot,” Gwen said.

  “Does it want to be hot?”

  “Not for me. For you…I guess we’ll find out.”

  Roan approached the tree, reaching for the lowest branch. The moment his fingers touched the metal, he flinched back, letting out a cry of pain.

  “Funny,” Gwen said from above.

  “How did you know it was a joke?” Roan asked, once more grasping the branch, which was as cool as a wet stone.

  “Because of the idiotic look on your face.”

  Roan pulled himself up. His fingers were sweaty and slippery, and he had to be quick to avoid losing his grip. “That’s just my face,” Roan said.

  “I’m sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry.

  After about triple the time it had taken Gwen, Roan reached the hammock and eased down on the opposite side. The ground spun beneath him—he was higher up than he’d thought. He closed his eyes, waiting for the world to stop spinning, and then opened them. Better.

  He glanced at Gwen, who seemed preoccupied. “Why did you bring me to this place? To your home?” Roan asked.

  She hesitated, her gaze drifting away, back toward the gate. “To show you my freedom,” she said.

  Roan thought he understood. She was marked, like him, and yet free. “What does your skinmark do?” he asked.

  “You know, in the west there was once another name for the marks,” she said. He was growing somewhat tired of how she dodged his questions, but now she had his interest piqued.

  “You mean sinmarks? They still call them that.”

  “Yes. And they execute anyone born with one,” Gwen said. There was anger in her tone. “But that’s not the word I meant.”

  “What other word is there?” He wracked his memory for anything else his guardian might’ve taught him. Nothing sprang to mind.

  “How long did you live in the west?” she asked. Her abrupt change of subject made his head spin.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  She was trying to trick him, which meant she suspected at least one of his lies. Maybe all of them. “Never,” he said. “I was born in the south, and never left. Well, until now.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but instead of further questioning, she said, “Fatemarks. They called them fatemarks.”

  Roan frowned. “Why would they call them that?” And why have I never heard that word before?

  “The bigger question is: Why did they stop calling them that?”

  He had the sudden urge to tell her about his past, about the little girl who’d broken her leg. What his guardian had done to her. How he’d been unable to do anything to stop it from happening. How he’d caused it. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I lost someone once,” he started. A huge empty space opened up in his mind, and he wasn’t sure how to fill it. With his mother? His father? His guardian? Those two poor kids he barely knew?

  “You know nothing of loss,” Gwen snapped, her eyes darting back to meet his. Though they were still yellow around the edges, the black centers had grown, obliterating much of the color. “You are but a child next to the lifetime I’ve already lived, the loved ones I’ve lost.”

  He knew she meant her father, perhaps her mother, too, but were they the only ones? Something about the poetry on the gate made him think there was someone else.

  “There are children who know loss better than those on their death beds,” Roan said. He wasn’t angry, just certain. Regardless of what she’d lost, he’d lost too. Maybe they were more alike than either of them knew.

  The world flipped as Gwen rocked the hammock upside down, spilling him out. His stomach did a somersault as he fell toward the unforgiving metal ground. Just when he thought he would break every bone in his body, a strong hand caught his own flailing fingers, stopping his descent. He hung, dangling in the orange light, staring up at Gwen.

  “I shouldn’t have brought you here,” she said. “It was a mistake.”

  Roan felt solid ground under his boots, and when he turned his gaze downward, his eyes widened. A platform had risen from the clearing, reaching up to secure him. Gwen released him and the platform descended. Above him, Gwen sank into the hammock, rocking slightly.

  Roan left, the gate opening before him. He didn’t stop to read the poem carved into the front. Like Gwen had said, it wasn’t for him. He didn’t stop until it was dark and he arrived back in his cell, which the guard closed behind him.

  Fifteen

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Rhea Loren

  Oh Wrath, what have I done? Rhea thought when her father told her the news.

  The king paced back and forth, his white robe of purity trailing behind him. He wore an expression that was hard to describe, a mixture of concentration and surprise. Her twin younger siblings, Bea and Leo, stood off to one side, practically bouncing with excitement. It wasn’t every day that one of the sinmarked was discovered. “Because of you, my princess, my daughter, we have captured a major threat to our city,” the king said.

  Paintings of Wrath’s golden eye hung on the stone walls, flanked by banners bearing the royal sigil of the west—the rearing stallion. Wrath’s eye seemed to bore into her, reading her mind and her heart, condemning her the same way her father condemned the city’s criminals.

  There was something stuck in Rhea’s throat. As they did with all criminals, the furia had examined Grease Jolly’s sister from head to toe under torchlight. To Rhea’s surprise, they’d found a mark on her palm.

  “What will happen to her?” Rhea asked. Memories of the city gates swarmed through her head. She’d expected to feel good about getting her revenge on Grease Jolly, triumphant even, but instead she’d felt only empty inside as he’d reached for his sister’s hands, desperation and fear in his eyes. She didn’t even know he had a sister. Would it have changed anything? she asked herself. She liked to think it would have, but in her heart she knew her anger was a fire that wouldn’t have been easily sated.

  Her father stopped pacing to look at her. “The law is clear on this matter,” he said matter-of-factly, though his expression was weary. Rhea had expected him to look…happier.

  She wanted to argue with him, to point out that Grease’s sister was just a child, no more than thirteen or fourteen name days old, but the words wouldn’t come. And even if they had, she knew they would mean nothing to her father. To him the sinmarks and those who bore them were an enemy to Wrath, to the holiness of the city. He was doing Wrath’s work, and none could convince him otherwise.

  Oh Grease, I’m so sorry, she thought.

  “Can we watch?” Bea asked, her turquoise eyes sparkling like the waters of Bounty under the light of the morning sun. Her sister was quickly becoming a lovely woman, perhaps even more attractive than Rhea, a fact that made her dislike Bea even more.

  “Yes, Father, can we?” Leo echoed, pushing his long golden hair out of his eyes. Lately, her younger brother had become obsessed with learning about the various punishments carried out by the furia.

  Rhea’s stomach heaved, and she had to take a deep swallow to keep from vomiting.

  “You will all be present for the burning,” King Loren said. “You must learn what it takes to keep the Holy City holy.”

  “Like when the furia burned down the brothels of the East End with the whores inside?” Leo said, his eyes wide and shining.

  The king approached his only son, roping an arm around his shoulders. “Somewhat,” he said. “Those brothels were an infected gash on the skin of the Holy City, yes, but they were only the sins of humans. This girl, this demon, is not of our world. Her heart is black and shriveled, and until she is extinguished, none of us can rest easy.”

  “I hate her,” Leo said.

&nbs
p; “Me too,” mimicked Bea, plucking at one of her blond ringlets. “Don’t you, Rhea?”

  Rhea had no choice but to nod thinly, bile burning the back of her throat.

  What have I done? she asked herself again.

  Sixteen

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Grease Jolly

  “Let my sister go,” Grease said. “She had nothing to do with any of this.”

  The two furia standing before him didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t blink. Truth be told, they were starting to give him the creeps, even more than the enormous depiction of Wrath’s golden eye staring down from the ceiling. The eye was ringed with fire, and seemed to be burning through him with each passing moment.

  Ever since Princess Rhea had pointed him out at the city gates, he’d been told nothing. He was separated from his sister and brought to the Temple of Confession, hauled to this cavernous space, where the vaulted stone ceiling hung like a stormy sky, and stripped to his underclothes. The walls were covered in sins, scrawled by the faithful seeking forgiveness.

  I bore false words to my wife.

  I lusted after the baker’s daughter.

  I spoke ill of my father.

  Some of the truths were written in dark, shaky letters, perhaps smudged with wet ash, while others were red and thin and gave Grease the shivers. Worse still were the words carved directly into the stone, shallow grooves that spoke of violent crimes.

  Cut out her filthy throat.

  Gutted the nasty child like a pig.

  Beat him, beat him, beat him bloody.

  Grease shivered.

  “I’m cold,” he said. “Can I please have my clothes?”

  The furia didn’t move, didn’t react. Grease wondered whether his thoughts had made it to his lips.

  “Please,” he said, begging now. He’d screwed up, but he couldn’t live with himself if anything happened to Shae. “I’m the thief. Punish me. Confine me to the stockades. Just let her—”