Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

by David Estes

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “He will hunt you down.”

  “Yes.”

  “He will try to kill you, or accuse you of the same treason he laid on your brother.”

  “Yes.”

  Annise felt numb, and not from the cold. This was never her plan. She never wanted this. She never even wanted to be a princess, much less the Queen of the North.

  Annise shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. None of it. Not my name day. Not coming of age. Not my claim. Lord Griswold has already usurped power, and I will support Arch as he tries to reclaim the crown.” It wasn’t what she truly wanted, but it was better than claiming the throne herself.

  Tarin’s gloved hand slid down her arm to her fingers. She stared at it, wanting to squeeze his fingers so badly, but instead let her hand drop to her side. “Queen, the laws don’t work that way,” he said.

  “Don’t you start calling me that. I’m Annise. Not princess. Not queen. Annise.”

  “How about Bear-Slayer?”

  Annise couldn’t hold back her smile. “Although I must point out that I didn’t actually kill the bear, I will accept that. It’s better than Mamoothen Queen of the North.”

  “Stop,” Tarin said. “You are too hard on yourself. You are—you are—”

  Annise held her breath, trying to fill in the blank left by his unspoken words. There were so many words she wished he would say—could say—but she knew they were impossible and untrue.

  “Strong,” he finished, which wasn’t the worst word he could’ve chosen. “You are strong, Bear-Slayer. Like your mother.”

  “Or I just played Snow Wars too much as a child,” Annise said.

  “Regardless, the north needs someone strong.”

  “My uncle is strong,” Annise pointed out. He was probably already fortifying Blackstone and Raider’s Pass, moving soldiers from the Black Cliffs of Darrin.

  “But not kind. A monarch needs to be both.”

  “Have you met my father?”

  “Your father is gone. And just because he ruled by fear didn’t make him right. You would rule differently. Better.”

  Annise couldn’t take another false compliment, nor another reference to her ruling the realm. She turned away, heading toward the first hill to the south. “The royal tailors wouldn’t be able to procure enough material to make my coronation gown,” Annise said.

  Tarin fell in beside her. “Why do you do that? Always jest about yourself?”

  “Because if I don’t, someone else will!” Annise said.

  Tarin said, “You are more than what stupid lordlings think you are. I have seen more.”

  “Says the ice bear who called the snowman white.”

  Tarin sighed. “This isn’t about me.”

  “Well it should be. You hate the way you look so much you cover yourself up. At least I don’t hide my face.”

  “Your face is fine.”

  “Fine? Oh, I’m so glad it’s not boring and plain like I thought.”

  “More than fine,” Tarin said, and something about the way he said it made Annise’s breath catch in her throat. Stop. Just stop. He continued: “But my face…people would run. Children would run.”

  “Yes,” Annise said. “You are a monster from the Hinterlands, all right, straight from a nightmare. But I won’t run. I won’t even scream. You must remember the way I stared down that ice bear.”

  Tarin laughed. “How could I forget? You’ve got the claw marks on your face to prove it.”

  Annise was tiring of this conversation. The tundra fell away behind them as they crested a rise. She couldn’t hold back her smile as she took in the landscape, a sweeping vista of snow-covered land and trees rolling out like a royal carpet. A splash of sunlight broke through the clouds, warming her face.

  “We will find Arch and I will remind him of my age, and then I will formally relinquish all rights to the crown,” Annise said.

  “No,” Tarin said. “You cannot.”

  Annise let out a rapid breath, losing patience. “It’s not your choice.”

  “Look,” Tarin said, pointing downslope. He grabbed her hand and dragged her down the hill into the valley, where several large oaks provided a canopy against the snowfall.

  “What?” Annise said, not understanding.

  “Here,” Tarin said. He crouched, plucking something from the ground. A tiny flower, with rosy-cheeked petals and a long green stem.

  “A hope flower, so what?” Annise said. It was beautiful, even with the frost forming around the edges.

  “Do you know how the hope flower got its name?” Tarin asked, twirling the stem between his thumb and forefinger. Seeing the enormous black-armored knight spinning the tiny flower was almost comedic.

  “I didn’t know there would be a test,” Annise quipped. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  She could just make out his eyes through the slits in his helmet. In the shadows, they looked black, just like the blood running through his veins. “This flower can grow in even the coldest temperatures, so long as the soil is exceptionally fertile. When the first explorers trekked the land beyond the Mournful Mountains, it was this flower that gave them hope that they could grow crops and survive the harsh winters.”

  It was a nice story, but didn’t change anything. “It’s still just a flower.”

  “As are you, my queen. And you shall give hope to the north when they need it the most. Happy name day, Annise.”

  He handed her the flower. She paused for a moment, but then took it.

  Tarin had insisted on keeping the flower, even though Annise said it would only die. She was done arguing—at least until they found her brother and Sir Dietrich. Surely they would understand her point of view and help her talk some sense into the Armored Knight.

  The entire situation was stuffed. They were trudging through the valley, still leagues upon leagues away from Gearhärt. They were some pair. A queen who didn’t want to be queen travelling with a knight too ashamed to show his face.

  And yet Annise felt…alive. More alive than she’d felt in a long time. Being cold didn’t matter because she was free. Free of making pointless appearances at her father’s court, free of curtseying and making small talk with the insipid lords and ladies at Castle Hill, free of thick stone ramparts and groaning metal gates. Despite the fact that she was surely being hunted in every major castle in the north, Annise had never felt a greater sense of freedom, almost as if she had escaped across Frozen Lake to the Hinterlands.

  “Tell me something,” Annise said. “Last I saw you, you were a scrawny pipsqueak with less muscle in your entire body than I had in my little finger.”

  “Thanks for that colorful description,” Tarin said.

  “You’re welcome. So what happened? Did your training with the royal army really help you that much? I mean, you’re huge now.”

  “A time of growth.”

  Annise didn’t believe him. “The witch’s concoction…did it change you in any other ways?”

  “You mean besides thinning my skin and turning my blood black? Besides the malicious voice in my head that screams for blood?”

  “Yes,” Annise said. “Besides all that.”

  Tarin shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “So I’ve been told. Now tell me the truth.”

  “The truth is a moving target,” Tarin said. “Sometimes I think my whole life is a lie. That I am a lie. But to answer your question: Yes, the witch’s potion seemed to…enhance me…physically. I grew taller and bigger faster than normal children my age. My stamina increased as well, along with the shortness of my temper. That is eventually why I joined the army. It was the only place I thought I might find a normal life.”

  “Did you?”

  He didn’t answer for a long time, the only sounds their feet crunching through the snow. The storm had finally abated, the sky a sheet of white, darkening around the edges as the sun dipped precariously toward the horizon.

  Annise waite
d patiently for his response. She was getting more used to the lengthy silences between them. They entered a pine forest, the trees ramrod straight and lined up in perfect rows. This was no natural wood. The trees had clearly been planted. Tarin rested a hand on her arm and stuck a finger to the spot on his mask that covered his lips.

  They crept through the tree farm silently, eyes roving from side to side. The trees thinned out as the wood ended, giving way to a stone structure. A barn of some sort, with a wide opening big enough for carts laden with timber to be pulled through. Inside the barn Annise could see stacks of freshly cut wood, ready for transport. The cart, however, stood idle, a horse hooked to the front, stamping its feet in the cold, hot breaths pluming from its mouth and nose.

  A small distance from the barn was a matching gray stone house. It had a squat chimney, and smoke was curling from the apex.

  Where is the owner? Annise wondered.

  The wooden door suddenly banged open and Tarin grabbed Annise, shoving her roughly behind a tree before ducking behind another. Across from each other, they peeked out.

  Soldiers.

  Annise’s heart hammered in her chest. There were four of them, garbed in shiny mail over wool coats, steel swords hanging loosely from hip scabbards. On their chests was emblazoned the royal sigil of the north—the golden cracked-but-not-broken shield.

  One of them, a solid man with a thin black beard, shoved a short balding fellow outside. Another of the soldiers had a woman secured by the arm. Neither the man nor the woman were dressed for the cold. In fact, the woman was wearing a smudged white apron, as if she’d been interrupted while cooking a meal.

  Food, Annise’s stomach grumbled. Shut up, Annise thought back at it. This is not the time.

  “Where are they?” the solid soldier said harshly, pushing the bald, underdressed man. He stumbled and fell. The other soldiers laughed.

  “Who?” the man cried. “We live alone.”

  His wife was forced to her knees beside him. A soldier with thick tufts of reddish-brown hair poking from his helmet slid his sword from his belt. He shoved the tip against her throat. “Last chance. Where are they hiding? In the barn? In the forest? Where?”

  The woman started sobbing uncontrollably, the tip of the sword bouncing against her neck and drawing blood. The man clasped his hands together. “Please. No one is hiding. I’m leaving for Gearhärt tomorrow with our next haul. Search everything if you wish, just don’t hurt her. Please.”

  Annise looked at Tarin, who looked back at her. Annise mouthed Run? but Tarin shook his head. Once more, she could see his eyes behind his mask, as black as coal. Something glinted in them, like the reflection of sunlight on silver.

  He stepped from the trees.

  Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion as he strode toward the soldiers, who were too focused on their prey to notice Tarin until he was almost upon them, his Morningstar tracing scathing arcs around his head. One of them turned at the last moment, unloosing a shout just before the spiked steel ball collided with the side of his skull, knocking him to the side. The soldier with the sword was next, trying to raise the blade to block Tarin’s next swing, which crashed into him like a thunderbolt. The sword flew from his grasp and Tarin kicked him in the stomach. One of the other soldiers grabbed Tarin from behind, but he immediately flipped him over his head, slamming him on his back. The fourth and last upright soldier—the dark-bearded leader—tried to flee.

  Too slow. Tarin took two long strides and whipped the spiked ball around, catching him in the back of the head with a vicious clang. The soldier went down, his helmet flying off, his head caved in.

  Annise was in shock, her hand over her mouth. At some point she must’ve stepped out from the cover of the trees, but she couldn’t remember having moved at all. She scanned the destruction wrought by the knight. The two soldiers who had taken hits to the head weren’t moving, and were most likely dead. The soldier Tarin had flipped was also still, although his hand was twitching from time to time. And the red-haired soldier who’d been kicked in the chest was on one knee, trying to fight to his feet.

  Tarin stalked him like a wolf circling an injured elk, his Morningstar cutting a long, slow orbit around his head.

  “You,” the soldier said, glaring at the knight through tendrils of greasy hair. “You’re him. The traitor.”

  “You’re the traitor,” Tarin growled, and before Annise could utter a single word, he flung his weapon, releasing the chain. The man tried to dodge the blow, but didn’t make it, the spiked ball hitting him full in the face before rolling away, leaving a ragged trail of blood. The soldier flopped for a few moments before going still, a crimson pool expanding around his body, a fiery contrast to the packed snow.

  From behind the knight, the bald man spoke, only he wasn’t looking at Tarin. He’s looking at me, Annise realized. “You’re her, aren’t you?” the man asked. “One of the ones they were looking for. Princess Annise.”

  Annise opened her mouth to answer him, to lie, but Tarin lunged for the man, grabbing him by the throat, picking him up like he weighed no more than air.

  “No!” Annise cried, running toward him. “Tarin! Wait!”

  Tarin cocked his head to look at her, but didn’t release the man, who was struggling to breathe, his face turning red and then purple. Annise hurdled the woman, who was still crying, blood dribbling down the pale skin of her neck. Annise skidded to a stop just short of Tarin, whose chest was heaving beneath his black armor.

  “Please, Tarin,” Annise said, reaching out slowly with one hand. “He’s not the enemy. The enemy is down. He is just a tree farmer. Let him go.”

  Tarin stared at her, but something about the gleam in his dark eyes was so foreign to the boy she once knew and the man she’d gotten to know in their makeshift tent, that it scared the frozen hell out of her. His eyes boring into her, he squeezed harder. An unnatural gurgling sound rose from the man’s lips, his face turning as blue as ice at dusk.

  Annise stepped forward. She touched his free hand softly, gently. He stiffened, but she didn’t withdraw, sliding her fingers up his forearm, his bicep, all the way to his shoulder, and then to the mesh covering his face. Through the mask, she cupped his chin in her hand. “Please,” she said. “You are more than this. I need you to let go.”

  A rough growl tore from his throat, and for a moment Annise thought he would strike her.

  But then his shoulders slumped. His fingers unclenched, the bald man unleashing a gasp as he dropped to the cold, hard ground. He lay panting in the snow, clutching at his throat, but Annise wasn’t looking at him.

  She was staring through the slit in Tarin’s mask, where his eyes were full of horror.

  “What have I done?” he said.

  Eighteen

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Grease Jolly

  Grease awoke to a commotion. Shouts. Screams. Metallic clangs. What is happening?

  It was dark, the night spilling through a high window in whatever prison room he’d been confined to. Not a bad place, really. It was better than the Temple of Confession, that was for godsdamned sure. For one, it was warmer, and he’d been given back his dirty clothing, although he was still strapped to the bed.

  His hand—no, his stump—was throbbing something fierce.

  “Shae,” he said aloud, as another cry split the night. Rutting Princess Rhea, he thought. He needed to point his anger somewhere, and she was the easiest target. Otherwise he would have to hate himself. He wondered if they’d killed his sister yet. Her mark was her death sentence, and the Furies likely wouldn’t waste time in carrying out their punishment. They certainly hadn’t with him. With his hand.

  Oh Shae, I’m so sorry. Because the truth was, it was his fault and he knew it. When he’d first received that note from the princess, he should’ve burned it, or eaten it. Maybe laughed about it. But not acted on it. Not met her. Not kissed her, stolen her purity like the thief that he was. Not abandoned her at t
he crypts.

  All my fault. Sorrow welled up inside him and he coughed, choking on his guilt and anger and sadness. In that moment, he wanted to die.

  Screams. Something strange about them. Not war cries. Pain cries. Death cries. Is the city under attack? According to Rhea, her father had declared war on the north, because they executed his sister, Queen Sabria Loren. But what if the north had expected that, and decided to attack first?

  A thought struck him, the first sprig of true hope he’d had since the guards apprehended him: Maybe they haven’t killed Shae yet.

  Before he could truly consider the possibility, the door to his cell flew open and a wide-eyed Rhea burst inside, slamming the barrier behind her. Her chest was heaving and she looked frantic, her hair disheveled, her long white dressing gown hanging from one shoulder, revealing a moonlit sliver of pale skin that, under other circumstances, would’ve been a magnet for Grease’s lips.

  “What’s happening?” Grease said. “Is the city under attack?”

  The princess’s face was awash with horror. “Yes. No. I don’t know. They’re dead. So many are dead. Something. Something is here.”

  She wasn’t making sense. “The northerners? Did their ships make landfall?” Or perhaps they’d entered the west through Raider’s Pass, marching around Bethany and straight for Knight’s End.

  Rhea’s breaths were coming faster and faster, whistling through her teeth. She was in no condition to answer questions, and Grease’s window of opportunity was quickly closing. “Help me with these straps,” he said.

  She took a deep breath, and having a task seemed to calm her somewhat. She rushed over, her hands shaking as she pulled and yanked at the leather bindings. More screams rent the night, and Rhea flinched.

  “Focus, princess,” Grease said. “One strap at a time. Hurry.”

  She managed to get his right arm free, and then he was able to help her with the chest strap, following by the four others. His left arm was useless, no better than a padded club, the bandages soaked through with blood.

  Free, he swung his legs over the sides of the bed and tried to stand. His legs wobbled and he nearly fell, but Rhea steadied him. The room was spinning and his legs felt like raspberry preserves. Gods, I can’t rutting do this. “You must do this,” he hissed to himself. “For Shae.”