Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

by David Estes

  She fell into his arms, relishing the strength and warmth they provided. “Wrath is good,” Ennis said, his pale blue eyes fierce. “We thought you—”

  “I’m not,” Rhea said, pulling back. “I’m here.” She rapidly brushed the tears from her cheeks. She couldn’t afford them right now.

  “Yes, you are,” Ennis said, taking in her strange garb but not commenting on it. “I’m sorry. Your father…”

  “Where did they take him?” Rhea asked.

  “You need not concern—”

  “Tell me.”

  Ennis stared at her for a moment, and then nodded. “He’s in his chambers. They are preparing his body for its final rest in the crypts. Only then can his soul make its way to the seventh heaven.”

  “Good. Thank you.” Her next question hung on the tip of her tongue, as if afraid to jump off and be asked. “What of Bea and Leo?”

  “Wrath, I should’ve started with news of them. They are fine. Unharmed. Their chamber guards were killed while the prince and princess slumbered.”

  Strange. It seemed that everyone but the royal guards and the king had been spared. But why? She refocused on her cousin. “And my guards, how many are left?”

  Ennis frowned. “Right now you need to rest, to mourn, to—”

  “I’m the queen,” Rhea said. “I need to hold court. There are decisions to be made. Our forces must be renewed, our defenses strengthened, the north will—”

  “Queen?” Ennis interrupted. “Yes, legally you are, but you are only sixteen and have not been anointed.”

  “And of sufficient age to rule, under western law,” Rhea said.

  “My brother has already been deemed King Temporanus,” Ennis said.

  He meant Jove, Rhea knew. Jove was the eldest of her cousins, near on half a century in age. Had his father—Rhea’s uncle, Ty Loren—lived a few years longer, Jove would’ve been king rather than Gill Loren. As it was, Ty died in an unfortunate hunting accident before his father, King Ennis Loren, was taken by Wrath. Thus, the kingship had fallen to Rhea’s father, diverting from Jove and his four siblings, of which Ennis the Second was the last.

  “By whom?” Rhea said, her eyes narrowing. Like all of the lords and ladies of Knight’s End, she’d been educated in western law and royal politics from a young age. It felt good to discuss something technical, something that would take her mind off of everything else.

  “The furia,” Ennis said.

  “The furia are gone,” Rhea said. They took Grease’s sister. No, Grey’s sister. He’d called himself Grey. And he has gone after them. She shook the thought away, trying to concentrate.

  “Some of them returned. Half perhaps. And one of the Three.”

  Wrath, Rhea thought. This was unexpected. But it didn’t change anything. “They don’t have the authority to make such a decision.”

  “With you missing, they did,” Ennis said.

  “Missing? Did anyone even look for me?”

  Ennis threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just the messenger.”

  “But do you think they’re right? Should Jove be King Temporanus?” She held her breath, her cousin’s opinion important to her.

  Ennis seemed to really consider it for a minute, and then laughed. “That arrogant bastard? I’d rather a Southron monkey be king. If you plan to make a bid for the crown, I will support you.”

  Rhea took a deep breath. Before, she felt it was her duty to return, to rule, to help the west survive whatever was about to come. But now…

  She had an out. Jove could rule until she was older, when she’d had a chance to sort things out in her mind. Everything could go back to normal, with her a princess of the court, free to do as she wished.

  The temptation was so strong she almost grabbed it with both hands. Almost.

  “I will be queen,” Rhea said.

  Cousin Jove was a gruff man with cold blue eyes and a smile that never reached them. No matter the nature of his expression, he always seemed to be calculating something, or trying to determine a weakness in those around him.

  Growing up, Rhea had never liked him, and he seemed to view children as something akin to toe fungus.

  “Thank Wrath you are alive,” Jove said now. Though his words were similar to those of Ennis when he first saw Rhea, there was nothing of substance behind them, and he certainly didn’t step down from the throne to embrace her.

  “You’re in my seat,” Rhea said.

  Bea, who had refused to leave Rhea’s side since they’d been reunited, snickered. Leo howled. For once, the twins seemed to be on her side, worried the castle would be taken away from them.

  Cousin Jove, however, did not laugh, his lips trembling in anger. “The furia have—”

  “With all due respect, brother,” Ennis chimed in, “the furia only have legal authority in the event that the heir to the throne is not of sufficient age.” Rhea spared a thankful look to her cousin.

  “Thank you, my dear brother, but Rhea is just a child. You cannot possibly support what she is suggesting.” He was flanked by his remaining siblings, each somewhere between Jove and Ennis in age. Sai, his chestnut hair neatly trimmed, seemed fully in agreement with his older brother, while Wheaton appeared bored. He kept eyeing the door like he’d rather be anywhere but in court. Gaia, with her piercing green eyes, had her arm linked with Ennis’s. The two youngest, they’d always been close, and Rhea was certain she would have her support.

  Not that it mattered. She was queen, no matter what anyone said.

  “I am a woman flowered,” Rhea said. “I’ve been a princess of the court for the last three years. And I am of age.”

  A sharp voice slashed from the shadows in the corner of the room. “You consorted with a criminal.”

  Rhea jerked to the side, where one of the three Furies had appeared, almost as if she’d stepped out of the wall. Her crimson dress flowed around her muscled frame like a flickering candle. Her attractiveness was undeniable, but severe, in the same way that a well-forged sword was appealing.

  “Not here,” Jove said. “This is a private matter.” Rhea knew he didn’t mean it, and was only pretending to care about her reputation.

  “Are the sins of a princess, of a queen, private?” the Fury said. “No. Never. Our ruler must be held to Wrath’s highest standard, as your father knew too well.”

  Anger boiled inside of Rhea. “Do not speak of him like you knew him. He was my father.”

  “Do you deny my accusations then?”

  Rhea knew she was caught in a trap, and a dangerous one. She tried to meet the Fury’s eyes, but found her gaze dancing back to Jove’s stern expression. “I am the one who brought the thief to justice, only yesterday. And I uncovered a sinmark born by his sister in the process.” And I hate myself for it, she added in her own head.

  The Fury glided closer, as if carried by the air itself. “Yes, I remember. And yet, something about your story didn’t”—she licked her lips—“taste right. It’s amazing what a simple threat from Wrath can do to loosen a person’s tongue…”

  Rhea shuddered, trying to hide her fear by saying, “I do not know what you speak of. Now as your queen, I command you—”

  “You cannot command Wrath!” the Fury growled. “You have been accused by three witnesses, all of whom will swear to your affair with the very same thief you brought to justice. You have—”

  “No!” Rhea screamed, but her response was swallowed by the stream of words from the Fury.

  “—sinned against your family, your kingdom, and yourself. You will confess your sins and be punished. Until Wrath’s warriors have found you repentant and contrite, you will be denied the throne. In the meantime, your cousin, Jove, has been appointed King Temporanus and will reign in your stead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rhea said. “I swear it.”

  “Too late,” the Fury said. “Take her away.”

  The dam burst and Rhea couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. The strength she’d fooled herself i
nto believing that she had ripped apart like wet parchment, and, if not for Ennis’s steadying hand on her elbow, she would’ve collapsed.

  Several furia marched into court and grasped Rhea’s arms, pulling her away from Ennis. She cried and bucked, but they were too strong, and she was only a girl—a child—just like Jove had said.

  I’m sorry, Father, I was weak. I ruined your good name. I failed you.

  The thought of her dead father pushed even more tears from her eyes, flooding her vision. Somewhere behind her, she heard Bea and Leo screaming her name, but not because they wanted her to come back, not when it was followed by another word, a word that pierced the very fabric of her soul.

  “Whore!” they shouted in unison.

  Rhea was terrified. She’d been stripped naked by the furia, forced to hug herself against the chill inside the Temple of Confession. “I’m a queen!” she’d screamed as they tore off the white frock, ripping it in several places. They even took her boots, the beautiful gift from Vaughn, leaving her with nothing but her regrets and sadness.

  The furia refused to speak to her, and if she tried to stand they roughly knocked her down. She was covered in bruises.

  Somewhere without the temple, a deep, booming bell tolled. The royal funeral bell. All of Knight’s End was being hailed to mourn her father’s death. “Please,” she begged. “I have to be there when they inter him. Please.”

  The six strong, terrifying women wouldn’t even look at her.

  The door opened and the Fury entered. Rhea stood, but was immediately pushed back down. She laced her hands together in supplication. “Please,” she said. “I have sinned. I am sorry. I repented to Wrath and received the warmth of forgiveness.”

  “You have received nothing,” the woman said. In one of her hands, something glinted. A knife, of a kind Rhea had seen many times before. A holy knife, blessed with pure water, untouched by human hands. She stared at it in horror.

  That was when she realized exactly what Grease had been through, because of her. Had that same knife been used to amputate his hand?

  “Bind her,” the Fury commanded.

  “Please,” Rhea whimpered, her voice that of a weak child. Pathetic. Whore! her siblings had cried. Were they right? She’d loved Grease—Grey—hadn’t she? She’d wanted to run away with him.

  She scurried back, her bare skin scraping against the stone floor.

  Furia surrounded her. Fight as she tried, she was nothing against their strength and numbers. They easily bound her with thick rope, so she couldn’t move her feet or hands. On each side of her, they held her down.

  The holy knife slid toward her face and she screamed.

  Twenty-Five

  The Northern Kingdom, near Gearhärt

  Annise Gäric

  The knights were from Castle Hill, Annise gathered as she listened through the wood. And, of course, they were searching for her and Tarin, as well as Sir Dietrich and Archer.

  What if they intercepted the stream we sent last night? What if they cracked the code? What if they already know we’re here?

  They were trapped in a mountain of timber with only a man who clearly hated them to keep them safe. The farmer, Killorn, said, “I plan to sell me goods at Gearhärt.”

  “You’re not worried about being so close to Raider’s Pass? The war could easily spill into the city.”

  “A man has got to eat. And I’ve lived with the threat o’ war my whole life. Wars are fer kings, not men like me.”

  “And you haven’t seen anyone on the road?” one of the knights, a man who introduced himself as Sir Vay, asked.

  “Nay. Naught but me horse and the ice faeries.” He chuckled at his own wit. Ice faeries were the mythological creatures northerners blamed whenever something went wrong.

  The knights didn’t laugh. “We have to search your wagon,” another of the knights said, his voice deeper than the first. Sir McGary he’d called himself.

  Annise found Tarin’s hand and squeezed it in the dark. Tarin squeezed back, twice. It’s going to be fine, he seemed to be saying. She remembered the way he’d defeated the four royal guardsmen, brutalizing them in the process. The anger and violence and bloodlust in his eyes as he began to choke the life out of the very man who was now protecting them.

  “Search away,” Killorn said, almost gleefully, like it was exactly the command he was hoping to hear. He wants us to get caught, Annise thought.

  Heavy boots crunched in the snow, approaching from the side of the cart. Someone tapped on the wood with something metallic. A sword, most likely.

  “Me timber is the finest in the Four Kingdoms,” Killorn bragged.

  “You’ve had the chance to compare to Southron timber?” Sir Vay mocked. More tapping, getting closer to where their empty crawlspace was located.

  “Nay, but I’ve heard the southerners build their dwellings from sandstone and mortar,” Killorn said. “Their trees are too thin and scraggly to produce true timber.”

  The knight didn’t respond, because he was too busy tapping his sword against the wood. Tap…Tap…Tap…Toop! The sword sounded strange when it hit the wood close to them, vibrating through. He tried again, with the same result. “Is this a different sort of wood?” he asked.

  Annise held her breath, waiting for the farmer to give them up. He didn’t. “Aye. You have a good ear. That there is blue spruce.” Annise knew he was lying, because all the trees in the farmer’s forest had been the same. He was lying for them. She exhaled slowly, quietly.

  “It looks the same as the rest.”

  “Are you a lumberman now?” Killorn said.

  There was a long silence, and Annise just about died not being able to see what was happening, but then Sir Vay laughed loudly and there was the sound of a hand slapping a back. “You could be a court jester,” the knight said. “May I see you in frozen hell someday, old man.”

  With that, the boots crunched away, a horse whinnied, and hoofbeats plodded into the distance. Silence fell, and Annise waited for the farmer to run after the knights, to shout for them to return. Instead she only heard a whisper through the timber. “A close call, aye?” Killorn said.

  “Thank you,” Tarin said, his deep voice rumbling. “You are a good man.”

  “Good man? Don’t know ’bout that. Me wife’s always called me a fool. Mebbe she’s right.”

  “You are no fool,” Annise said. “You have proven that.”

  “Jest don’ waste it,” Killorn said. “Don’ let ’em catch ya.”

  “I won’t,” Annise promised.

  The wagon lurched to a start and lumbered forward once more.

  The next time the wagon stopped was when it reached Gearhärt. Annise had never been to the border castle, because her father refused to let her or her brother leave Castle Hill. A zing of excitement crackled through her, along with a shiver of fear. This wasn’t the way she’d hoped to see the world—hidden within a timber cart, on the run from her uncle, her parents both dead.

  The boards above them slid away, and an inky gray shadow crept in. Night had fallen over the north, the stars and dueling moons shrouded by clouds pregnant with unreleased snow. It was a typical northern night.

  A hand reached into the alcove, and Annise took it. Killorn pulled her up and onto the stacked timber. She towered over the small man, who she could practically fit inside her torso. “Thank you,” she said. “And please pass along my thanks to your wife as well.”

  “Thanks don’ feed our hungry mouths,” the man said, but Annise could tell he was pleased by her response. He didn’t reach down to help Tarin, but the big man easily pulled himself out on his own. He echoed Annise’s thanks, but Killorn was already clambering back into his seat and grasping the reins. He glanced back. “Ye don’ know my name,” he said by way of goodbye.

  “No,” Annise said. “No, we don’t.” Tarin had already climbed from the cart, and he reached up to help her. She started to descend the icy lumber, holding one of his hands for support. Her feet
began to slide and she got the airy feeling in her stomach of falling, but then Tarin was there, holding her around the waist and slowing her descent.

  She landed softly on her feet, his hands on both of her hips. In that moment, she knew how the reedy, lithe castle dancers must feel all the time.

  She tried to pull away. “Thank you, Sir,” she said.

  “My pleasure, princess.” His hands hadn’t left her hips, though she no longer needed them to steady her. Her face felt warm, despite the cold. The cart rattled away, but she didn’t watch it go. Time felt frozen, the clouds unmoving, the wind pausing, her breath lingering in her lungs.

  “We must find shelter,” Annise said, breaking the spell.

  Tarin’s hands dropped and he peered down the empty, narrow street Killorn had left them in. It was an alley of sorts, running between tightly packed stone buildings. “We cannot count on the kindness of strangers here,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Kindness left this city years ago,” Tarin said. “War does that to a place.”

  It was an awful thing, but Annise had never really thought about the rest of the northern realm. Her entire life, she’d been so focused on how much she hated Castle Hill, with its prison-like walls and shadowy corridors and grumpy lords and ladies, that she’d forgotten how much worse it would be to live in one of the border cities, with the constant threat of invasion from the east or west.

  She was a selfish ice-licker.

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “Twice,” Tarin said, leading her down the side of the alley that appeared slightly darker. “Once to recruit soldiers to help defend the Razor, and once because my captain desired to visit the famed Gearhärt pleasure houses.”

  “Oh,” Annise said, her cheeks on fire. “And did they live up to their reputation?”