Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

by David Estes

  “An attack came, but not from the Phanecians. From the Calypsians, who had managed to sail a fleet of small warships across the Burning Sea and up the Spear, undetected. They set fire to the city, pouring hot oil from the walls, which they had scaled under the cover of night. Flaming arrows fell upon us like falling red stars. Sadly, most of the soldiers fled rather than fought. Later, they faced the king’s wrath for cowardice in battle.

  “Bark did not flee, though he was not a soldier. He saved many lives—men, women, children. I even saw him carry a hound away from the smoke and flames. And yet, like me, he kept going back to save others. He didn’t bear a mark, like me. But that didn’t stop him. Eventually I had to pull him away, because there was no one else to save—the others all dead. No one but him, of course. From that day forward he refused to call me anything but a hero. But it was he, not I, who was a hero that day. He who had a choice, and still he risked his life for the sake of another.”

  When the tale was finished, she looked right at Roan. “You are nothing like him.”

  Roan felt his cheeks turn red, but it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was because the truth was like a hot sun beating down on him, burning his skin. “I never said I was a hero. I’m not. I never will be.” The unsteadiness in his voice only served to help make his point.

  “Is that the truth? Because you never seem to say what you mean.”

  Truth swelled on his tongue, but Roan swallowed the words back down. He couldn’t say what he wanted to. Didn’t know how. He only said, “Yes. It’s the truth.”

  Gwen growled. “How long did you live in the west? Who are you really? I know a lie when I hear one, and your tongue is full of deceit.”

  Roan wanted to tell her, truly, but he couldn’t, for it would mean his death if she passed the information on to King Ironclad.

  Gwen spat in the dirt. “I thought you were different. I’ve never met someone with a mark like yours, like mine. Something used to help people. Beorn Stonesledge only uses his ironmark for killing. Then there’s the Ice Lord in the north, Fire Sandes and her damn firemark in Calypso, and the Slave King, Vin Hoza, in Phanes. Their marks are used for terror. For power. For control. You could be different. You should be different.”

  But he wasn’t. “I’m sorry,” Roan said, hating every word crowding inside his mouth. Hating how true they were, how pathetic. “You don’t know me. What I’ve done. I cannot do what you ask of me.” He wanted to tell her about the dead girl haunting his dreams in the dark of night, but he knew it would only sound like another excuse, and he was done with excuses.

  “And you think you know what I’ve done?” Gwen said, her voice rising. “What I’ve lost? You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

  It wasn’t the response Roan expected. “Tell me about your bondmate. The poet soldier.”

  She shook her head, grimacing. She stood up, not bothering to look at him, and remounted her horse, which had stopped when she’d leapt off. She galloped away toward the sunset.

  Twenty-Three

  The Western Kingdom, on the road to Talis

  Grease Jolly

  Grease Jolly stumbled along the southern road. His stump was throbbing something fierce.

  No, he thought. Not my stump. My hand.

  Which made him crazy. Or delirious. Or both. Because he didn’t have a second hand. The Furies had made sure of that. And yet…he could still feel it. He could feel the aching in each individual bone in his hand, his fingers. My hand hurts.

  “Godsdamn madness,” Grease muttered.

  But still he staggered onward, because they had his sister, a fact that was far worse and more painful than losing a hand.

  One question kept bobbing around in his mind, like a makeshift raft on the open sea. Why? Why was Shae still alive, despite being marked, an enemy to the kingdom? Why had the Furies abducted her? And where in the cursed western kingdom were they taking her?

  He’d been following the dirt track for hours, long after the sun had breached the horizon’s defenses and fought its way into the sky. Though the impressions weren’t deep, Grease had no trouble following the hoofprints left by the furia’s horses as they’d fled Knight’s End.

  This is her fault, Grease thought, trying to convince himself once more. He wanted someone to blame, someone to curse, but, try as he might, he couldn’t. Princess Rhea’s actions had been rash and unjustified, but what he’d done to her had been awful too. Seeing her at the end, so destroyed by her father’s death, had nearly wrenched his heart from his chest.

  He jammed his bloody stump against his forehead, his mind clearing as pain lanced up his arm. “My fault,” he said, the words chasing the princess, who he’d likely never see again, from his mind. He’d promised his parents that he would protect Shae, and now she was in grave danger because of his own stupidity. Which left him with only one choice: get her back or die trying.

  Thunder growled in the distance. Grease looked up at the sky, which appeared clear as far as he could see. The thunder continued rolling toward him, getting closer.

  Not thunder—horses, he realized. He needed to get off the road. To the left was prairieland and to the right the sea. The road ahead curled around a series of large cliff-facing boulders, disappearing from sight.

  The hoofbeats were getting closer. He veered left, tripping twice over his own traitorous feet before diving behind a thick bramble of brittle plants that poked his skin, drawing blood.

  Not a moment too soon. The furia burst from behind the boulders, stampeding around the bend and past him, right where he’d been standing. Through the nest of branches, he watched them, their red capes flashing like sunbursts.

  Shae, Shae, Shae… He pleaded with his eyes to find her, to see her alive and breathing, carried by one of the holy warriors. The last of the furia whipped past and then they were gone, heading back toward Knight’s End.

  Shae wasn’t with them. And there’d only been one of the Three Furies, riding at the front, leading her warriors. The group of furia had seemed too small, like they’d split up, half returning to Knight’s End while the remainder made for some other location.

  But where?

  Energized by the possibility that the rest of the furia—and his sister—might be close, Grease fought to his feet, ignoring the spots of blood welling from his punctured skin, and returned to the road.

  He ran. Slowly at first, but then faster, curving around the boulders, weaving right and then left as the road snaked away from him. He cleared the final obstruction and then stopped, his chest heaving, his lungs burning, his hands on his knees.

  The coastal road stretched onwards to the south, narrowing as it approached the horizon, and then disappearing entirely.

  The road was empty.

  Twenty-Four

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Rhea Loren

  Her golden hair was greasy and flat, matted against her sweat- and tear-soaked cheeks. Her dressing clothes were filthy, crusted with dried blood and evaporated rainwater, and she was missing a shoe, her naked foot muddy and bloodstained, sticking out like a pale fish. She refused to let the thin old man anywhere near her, even when he offered her clean clothes. “Don’t touch me!” she’d screamed as he’d corralled her into his boot shop and up the stairs to his living quarters. She knew she wasn’t being fair to the kindly man, but the thought of being touched made her skin crawl with thousands of spiders.

  He was back now, and she couldn’t help but to shrink against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “Name’s Vaughn. Well, Jordan Vaughn, but ever’one jes calls me Vaughn.” He crinkled his eyes and tried to smile, but it came out forced. “Your Highness, I mean,” he added.

  Rhea tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak.

  Her father collapsed in her mind, bloody and lifeless. Again and again and again…

  She hadn’t liked him most of the time, but she had loved him. Some called him harsh, some a tyrant, but he’d been a
man of principle, as unfaltering in his beliefs as anyone she’d ever met.

  Who could’ve killed so many guards and then him? Rhea wondered. It was impossible. Knight’s End was a fortress.

  “I brought you some soup,” Vaughn said. He stepped forward and Rhea tried to push herself through the wall. “Don’ be skeered. I won’ hurt you. Won’ touch you. Soup’s thin, prolly not what yer accustomed to eatin’, but it’ll help some. Gotta git yer strength back.”

  Rhea just stared at him, wishing him away. Wishing Grease would come back and hold her, protect her, the way he had as they fled the castle.

  He never would. Not after what she had done to him and his sister.

  A thought occurred to her: This is punishment.

  She’d sinned against Wrath and, just like her father and his priestesses had warned her entire life, their god had brought a fist down like a hammer. Her lack of faith, her lies, her sneaking around and fornicating with a boy she barely knew, a boy she desired all the more because he was a sinner, like her. She’d done this. She was sure of it.

  Vaughn squatted and placed the bowl on the floor, pushing it toward her. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours. Already got a few customers awaitin’.”

  He moved to leave, but she managed to croak out, “Wait.”

  He stopped, turned, his scraggly eyebrows pushing toward his brow. Waited.

  “Thank you,” she said. He nodded and left, his boots clomping down the stairs.

  She stared at the bowl, the surface of the soup like brown glass. Her decisions had ruined so many things. Grease’s hand. His sister’s secret. Her father? She should take the scalding hot soup and dump it over her own head. She should find a knife and stab it into her chest. She should—

  Tears streaked down her cheeks. She knew she wouldn’t do any of those things. It was her emotions that had caused all the trouble in the first place. Staring at the soup, it felt like the most important decision of her life.

  And then she reached for it.

  “Take me back to the castle,” Rhea said. Startled, Vaughn turned to look at her. He was sitting at a wooden desk, stitching several thick folds of leather together. One finished boot already lay on the slab in front of him. The one he was working on would be its pair. Even from across the room, she could tell the workmanship was excellent. “Please,” she added, remembering her manners.

  He looked her up and down, taking in the ill-fitting, but clean, clothes he’d given her, a white frock of purity that must’ve belonged to a woman twice her size and half her height. “’Twas my wife’s cloak,” he said. “Wore it to the temple ever’ day.”

  Rhea didn’t want to ask what had happened to his wife. She couldn’t take more talk of death. Not now. “Thank you. I will return it as soon as I’ve had it laundered. Now please escort me back.”

  “The castle isn’t safe,” Vaughn said. “You shuld hear the rumors. Ghosts and goblins and e’en worse things that’ll make yer spine tingle.”

  I know. I was there. I saw the worse things. “I have to find my brother. My sister. They’ll be scared. I’m the eldest. It’s my duty.”

  She’d never cared about her twin siblings before. The spoiled brats practically ran the castle. She could hide her face with the frock, head south, try to find Grease—Grey. Maybe help him rescue his sister. It was one way she could make up for what she’d done.

  But she’d already made a choice. “I’ll go on my own if I have to,” she said.

  Vaughn chewed on his dry lips for a moment. “I’ll take ya. Gimme two licks.” Without another word, he went back to work on the half-finished boot, his fingers agile and well-practiced as the shoe began to take shape.

  Rhea slowly made her way over to him, but kept her distance, watching over his shoulder. He finished a few minutes later and held both boots up next to each other, examining them for defects.

  “Perfect,” was the only word Rhea could think of to describe them. And they were. The boots had solid black heels, tight tiny stitches securing them to the black-leather sides. Gold stitching formed an ornate depiction of the rearing stallion—the royal sigil—on each boot.

  “You like ’em?” Vaughn said, looking at her expectantly.

  “Yes. How could I not?” she said.

  “They’re yers,” he said, extending his arms, and the boots, toward her.

  She frowned. “But your customer…”

  “I made ’em fer you.”

  “But I have—” She stopped and looked down at her feet. She’d lost one slipper in the castle and discarded the other one upstairs. “I will pay you a fair price,” she said. “My father—” She swallowed thickly. “The royal treasurer will make sure you receive a royal compensation.” She hoped he was still alive.

  Vaughn shook his head. “They are a gift.”

  Rhea shook her head, confused. “They are beautiful, but I can’t accept such a gift.”

  “They’re fit fer a princess, don’ ya think?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And yer a princess, no?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then they’re yers, and I won’ hear anuther word about it.” Vaughn stood and handed her the boots, and this time she didn’t back away. She’d never met a man so…genuinely kind.

  “Thank you. I shall repay you in spades someday.”

  “Yer smile is repayment enough fer me,” he said.

  Rhea had to reach up to touch her cheeks to confirm she was actually smiling. Her lips drooped and the smile vanished. “Well, I will send business from the castle your way, all the same.”

  “After you, Princess,” he said, waving her toward his shop door.

  As they left, he hung a sign on the door and locked it behind him. Rhea pulled the droopy white hood over her head and around her face.

  “Princesses don’ need to hide,” Vaughn said. “You will be safe with me.”

  She reached up and grabbed the edge of the hood, but she couldn’t do it. Within the cocoon of fabric, she could only see straight ahead. She could focus on the road stretching before her, on her feet marching one in front of the other. But if she pulled it back, too much information would flood in, and then would come the horrors from the night before.

  Left foot, right foot, left foot… She chanted in her mind, ignoring the greetings hollered at Vaughn as he passed. Ignoring the hustle and bustle of the city, which she used to love. Ignoring the brightly colored fruits on the stands on either side. Focusing on only one thing: walking.

  The castle gates loomed ahead, and a slice of fear seemed to open her up from skull to feet, leaving her exposed. Vulnerable.

  She stopped. Vaughn said, “Princess?”

  She breathed. In and out. In and out. Her heart, her mind, and her gut all urged her to turn, to run, to flee the castle that had once been a haven, a home—now a living nightmare.

  Left foot, right foot, she thought, but they wouldn’t obey, frozen in place, like stubborn mules overloaded with sacks of potatoes.

  “We can go back to my shop,” Vaughn said. It was a kind, generous offer, but not one she could accept. The kingdom needed her; and maybe she needed the kingdom, she wasn’t sure.

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Spoke, mustering as much strength and courage as she could. “Thank you, Vaughn. For everything. I will see that you are rewarded for your kindness. You are a good man and I know Wrath smiles upon you.” It was something she had heard her father say once. She knew she sounded too formal, too rehearsed, but the façade was a shield, protecting her from the emotions welling up inside her. She was a princess.

  No.

  “I am the queen,” she whispered.

  “Your Highness?” Vaughn said, tapping a finger to his ear.

  “Nothing,” Rhea said. “Just…thank you. Goodbye.”

  Though her heart tried to slam through her chest, though her breath stuck in her throat, though her legs felt wobbly and detached from her body, Rhea threw back her oversized h
ood, lifted her chin, and marched through the gates, which stood wide open and unguarded.

  Because the guards are dead, Rhea reminded herself. But did any survive?

  Inside, there was a flurry of solemn activity. Castle maids rushed hither and thither, carrying pails full of soapy water and brushes. Several were scrubbing at crimson stains on the ground. More than one were sobbing as they worked.

  A large wooden cart was piled up with—

  Rhea looked away, swallowing bile, her mouth watering, her head pounding. The bodies were stacked like goods about to be unloaded and delivered to the royal kitchens. Dead eyes stared in random directions—she swore several had been looking at her. The castle walls seemed to close in around her as nightmarish images rushed through her head. She bit the inside of her mouth and refused to vomit. She couldn’t show weakness, not when the kingdom was broken in half and leaderless.

  Wrath, Rhea thought, give me strength to do my duty.

  She said loudly, “Stop.”

  At first no one seemed to hear her, still moving, still cleaning, still loading the cart with the dead. But then, at once, everything froze and all eyes moved to her.

  “P-Princess Rhea?” one woman, a maid, said, standing. “Is it you? We thought you to be dead.” Her cheeks were streaked with moisture.

  “Queen Loren,” Rhea said, acutely aware of how ridiculous she must look in Vaughn’s wife’s old purity gown. “And not but Wrath himself could kill me. As you were.”

  Stunned, the woman didn’t seem to understand, but then fumbled her brush, dropped to her knees, and continued her work.

  Left foot, right foot… Rhea moved forward, toward the entrance to the atrium, where her father had been—

  She marched directly over where he’d collapsed, the marble floor already scrubbed to a perfect shine, the king’s body removed. Someone rushed from the side and gripped her arm. She flinched visibly and struggled against the force.

  “Rhea, it’s me. Your cousin. Ennis.”

  Rhea stopped struggling, taking in the form of her youngest cousin, who was still twenty-five years her elder. His shaggy blond hair had streaks of gray, and his cheeks were covered in rough stubble. Growing up, Ennis, who had been named after their grandfather, King Ennis Loren, had been her favorite of her five cousins, always willing to play with her, or amuse her with silly jokes.