Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

by David Estes

  Oh, Wrath, Rhea thought. She wanted to believe her cousin’s words so badly it hurt deep in her chest. But she knew his words were hollow, as false as a fire without heat. The Fury had used a holy blade, blessed by Wrath. Her scars would remain deep and jagged forever.

  However, his offer did give her an idea, a dark thought that would’ve made her cringe with disgust just a few days earlier.

  It was a wicked idea, and yet it was exactly what she needed in order to go on. She clung to it as she stood, allowing her kindly cousin to escort her from the room of mirrors and to her bedroom.

  She would have her revenge, or she would die in the process.

  Thirty-One

  The Western Kingdom, Talis

  Grey Arris (Formerly known as Grease Jolly)

  Grease Jolly was dead. Grey knew that. After all, Grease Jolly had been a slick operator, his left hand faster than a striking cobra. The master thief had died when his hand had been cut off.

  “I’m Grey Arris,” he said aloud, his true name sounding strange on his tongue after so many years of disuse. He was on the outskirts of a walled city he assumed was Talis, though he’d never been there before. It had taken him three days to travel from Knight’s End to Talis on foot. On day two, the heavens had smiled upon him, letting loose a light rain that he’d collected in his hands, licking the moisture from his skin. He’d scavenged for berries twice, and though his stomach was still mostly empty, the tiny fruits had been enough to sustain him.

  Now his muscles were aching, and he longed to rest. But he wouldn’t, not until he found Shae. Though the furia had a head start and were on horseback, surely they’d have to stop sometime. Once he found them, he would use his stealth to determine what had happened to his sister. Then he would do everything in his power to help her escape.

  Even more concerning, however, was his stump. It was leaking thick pus, greenish-brown and occasionally spotted with blood. He knew it was infected, but chose not to think too much about it, leaving the wound covered and out of sight.

  The city walls were far too tall to climb, and anyway, climbing walls was something Grease would’ve done. No, one-handed Grey Arris would enter the city the conventional way, through the front gates. The road curved around the outside of the city, toward the sea, which was frothing with angry whitecaps. A trio of gulls chased each other, cawing the news of Grey’s arrival.

  When he rounded the edge of the wall, he pulled up short, gaping. The front gate faced the sea, trailing a snaking staircase that descended to one of the largest ports he’d ever seen, nearly as bustling as the docks at Knight’s End. Half a dozen ships were anchored, hordes of seamen crawling across the decks, unloading crates and barrels. Small horses stood waiting on the docks, waiting to be loaded. Not horses, Grey realized. Donkeys. Several of the sure-footed animals were climbing the steep steps, driven by their masters, who used long sticks to encourage them forward. Each donkey carried an impressive load, their heads down, their backs bent.

  Grey could relate. Though not physical in nature, the load he carried at this very moment weighed heavily on his shoulders.

  Shaking away the thought, he continued along the path toward Talis’s front gate, watching the commotion on the docks. The ships were large and flew the yellow crescent flags of Crimea, their sides bristling with long oars to ensure safe passage even when the winds disappeared. He wondered if the north was aware that the Crimeans were diverting a portion of their merchant fleet south to Talis. Probably not.

  He reached the city gates just behind several of the donkeys and their masters. Following behind them, he marveled at the fact that the city entrance was unprotected during the daytime. He marched through without question, though his clothing was filthy and bloody.

  If the Phanecians ever manage to break through the border cities and cross the Forbidden Plains, Grey thought, Talis will fall quickly. Which would leave Knight’s End unprotected from the south. Caught between the Southroners and the northerners, the western stronghold would be squashed like a grape under a well-placed boot.

  For some reason that thought made Grey frown. Why should I care what happens to the kingdom that has done nothing but hurt me and my family? Grey wondered to himself.

  Because of her. Because of Rhea.

  She was likely queen now, and any turmoil for the kingdom would affect her. Gods, I’m a fool, Grey thought, wishing he could wipe his feelings for Rhea away as easily as a smudge of dirt from his face.

  His thoughts were, however, wiped away when he passed a marketplace and saw the glares fired his way by the owners of each cart and stall.

  At first, he ignored them, trying to figure out what their problems were. Was it his disheveled appearance? Surely they’d seen travelers before. He’d already passed several beggars—he was no worse for wear than they were.

  It dawned on him: his stump. Sure enough, he saw the sellers’ eyes flick from his face to his missing hand and back again, their angry frowns deepening. His stump was like having a tattoo across his forehead that read THIEF.

  Don’t worry! he wanted to scream. Grease Jolly is dead!

  Still, he would need to get food one way or another, and he had no coin to purchase it. Pretending not to notice the way one of the traders was staring at him, Grey sidled up to his stall. “I’m looking for a girl,” he said to the owner, a plump middle-aged woman with gray hair. He described Shae in detail, while she just stared at him. Then he said, “She was taken by the furia.”

  The woman flinched and seemed to lose her composure. “Ain’t seen nothin’,” she said. When Grey tried to force the issue, she quickly stepped back and swung a wooden gate closed across the front of her stall. Though she’d been unwilling to talk, Grey knew her fearful reaction was enough to confirm that the furia had been through the city recently—maybe were still here.

  He tried the next stall, but the owner had already shuttered the sides of his store. Grey could barely make out a pair of eyes staring at him from inside. Yes, he thought. I am close. After similar experiences with several more merchants, Grey knew a different tactic was necessary.

  He strode up to a stall further down the line, before the owner closed his gate or shutters. “Nothing is for sale,” the man said immediately, blocking Grey’s view of the fresh fruits and vegetables, which only made his mouth water more.

  “No?” Grey said, raising his eyebrows. “That’s good, because I’m not looking to buy anything.”

  The man was old, his flesh sagging under his arms and eyes. “You best be moving on,” he said. “The furia are in the city. They’re likely to take your other hand if you’re not careful.”

  Grey’s heart palpitated at the confirmation of what he already believed. “Where are they?” he asked. “The furia.”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  Something broke inside Grey. He stepped up to the man and grabbed his collar with one hand, shoving him hard against the cart. Several apples shook free from the pile and bounced to the ground. “Listen up, old man, I’m tired and hungry and I’m trying to find my younger sister. I don’t give two shites about you and your fruit. So if you don’t tell me where they’ve gone, I swear to Wrath that I’ll make you wish you had.” Grey was shocked by his own actions, but it was like his temper had a mind of its own. Was this who Grey was? Violence and threats?

  Someone said from nearby. “Hey, Briar, is there a problem?”

  Grey ignored the newcomer, his eyes boring into the old man named Briar.

  Briar opened his mouth slowly and said, “Everything’s fine. I’m just giving this fellow directions.”

  Grey released the man, using his one hand to brush the dirty fingerprints from his shirt.

  “Thank you.”

  The man nodded. “I don’t want any trouble. The furia arrived two days ago. They even have two Furies with them. The city’s been on its best behavior, but the holy warriors aren’t here to enforce Wrath’s will. No, they’ve been waiting.”

  Grey fr
owned. “Waiting for what?”

  “The ships,” Briar said. “Soon as the ships made port this morning, they headed for the docks. Seems they’re looking to take a voyage.”

  Grey shook his head. “A voyage to where?”

  “I don’t know. Sorry.”

  “Was there a young girl with them?” Grey asked, holding his breath.

  “You mean, like an acolyte?”

  Grey hadn’t considered the fact that the furia might be traveling with acolytes, the young girls training to be full-fledged holy warriors one day. Typically, the acolytes wore cloaks that were half red, half white to distinguish them from the ordained members of the holy sisterhood. Would they have disguised Shae as an acolyte? Grey wondered. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  The man chewed his lip and considered it. “Yes. They had an acolyte with them. Just one.”

  Grey had to fight to control the emotions that swirled through him. Was it you, Shae? Are you alive? “Thank you,” he said again. “I’m sorry I threatened you.”

  “I understand,” the old man said. “I had a sister, once. I would’ve done anything to protect her.” He lowered his voice. “And between you and me, I wouldn’t want her in the sisterhood either.”

  Grey nodded and turned away, heading back the way he’d come. It appeared his stay in Talis would be a short one. He had a ship to catch.

  “Hey!” the man called out from behind him.

  Grey half-turned, anxious to be on his way. The man tossed him one of the dusty green apples that had tumbled from his cart when Grey had assaulted him. “Take care now,” he said as Grey caught the fruit.

  Grey pursed his lips, found a clean spot on his shirt, and shined the apple. He took a big bite and raised it in appreciation, but the man had already started talking to another customer, haggling over prices. Grey turned and ran.

  As he hustled past the marketplace, he took small bites of the apple, immediately feeling the effects of the bittersweet fruit. He galloped through the front gates and began making his way down the steep staircase, dodging the piles of dung buzzing with flies. He passed several donkeys and their masters, but they didn’t give him more than a sideways glance before urging their beasts onward.

  The sun beat down on Grey’s face and his mouth went dry with thirst and anticipation. His sister was so close. If he could find her he was certain he’d find a way to help her escape.

  Finally, he reached the bottom of the steps, which gave way to a long wooden platform that extended out into the sea, supported by stone columns that disappeared beneath the surface of the dark blue water. Along the main dock were wooden offshoots to both the left and right. Seaworthy vessels of various shapes and sizes were anchored on each side. He stopped several times, using his hand to shade his eyes so he could scan the ships.

  Several of the workers were wearing red, but none of them were women. He continued on until he reached the end of the platform, where one final ship was docked and being unloaded.

  A young shirtless man with bulging muscles shining with sweat noticed Grey and said, “Watcha doin’?”

  “I’m looking for someone. An acolyte traveling with the furia.”

  The man squinted, his gaze zeroing in on Grey’s missing hand, as if only just noticing it. “The furia, huh? They were ’ere. Word is they chartered a ship all fer ’emselves. Paid a royal price, too, they did. Ya jest missed ’em.” He pointed southward, to a stretch of ocean off the coast.

  A shadow blotted out the lower portion of the horizon, the ship’s sails full with the wind.

  Grey closed his eyes and bit his tongue, anger and frustration roiling through him. His fist clenched and then unclenched as he sank to the wooden deck. His stump was throbbing and he could feel the warm trickle of fluid leaking out.

  It was over. Shae was gone, probably forever. Darkness closed in around him.

  “I know where they went,” the man said.

  Grey opened his eyes and the darkness lifted. He blinked. “Where?”

  “Ever’one’s bin talkin’ ’bout it. They’re headed fer the Dead Isles,” he said.

  Grey’s heart sank. The Dead Isles were a place of, well, death. Few lived to tell nightmarish tales about the island where it was said the dead remained alive, haunting the stone cliffs. “How do I get there?” he asked.

  “Our ship’s goin’ back to Crimea to pick up another load. You can try Smithers ol’ wreck. He sometimes makes the trek south, though most think he’s a fool fer doin’ so. An’ he’s always lookin’ fer new crew on account of payin’ so poorly.”

  “Where?” Grey said quickly.

  The man pointed down the row. “Sixth vessel on the left. The Jewel.” Grey counted and locked in on the ship, though its name was generous. The Junker was a much more appropriate title.

  “Thank you,” Grey said, and started back the way he’d come.

  He reached the boat, which was covered in barnacles and a mess of chipped paint. The bow was ornamented with a rusted statue of a woman, her bulging chest naked, descending to a lower half that had a long fish-like tail rather than legs and feet. THE JEWEL was scrawled onto the side in chipped blue paint.

  “Admiring me wife, are ye?” a man said, staring down from the deck. He was an old coot, with patchy gray whiskers and curly gray hair. He was leaning on one of the few sections of railing that wasn’t cracked or missing entirely.

  “She’s a real beaut’,” Grey lied. He wasn’t sure whether the man meant the boat or the naked statue.

  “Bloody right she is. What can I do ye fer?” he asked.

  “Are you Smithers?”

  “In the flesh. This here’s my lovely lady.”

  So he’d meant the boat when he referred to his ‘wife’ earlier. “I heard you’re heading south…”

  “Ye heard right. All the way to Phanes. Mebbe even Calyp, if the winds are right.”

  “Seems I’m going that way myself.”

  “How far?”

  It was a tricky question. If he lied and said he was heading for Phanes, too, the man would be skeptical. Westerners were not welcome in the south. “The Dead Isles.”

  Smithers blinked. Raised his eyebrows. And then laughed, the railing creaking as he slapped it with the heels of his palms. “Ye had me goin’ there fer a second. The Dead Isles. What a hoot!”

  Grey waited until the moment of frivolity had worn off, and then said, “It was no jape.”

  “Son, did ye lose yer mind when ye lost that hand o’ yers? Naught but one with a death wish would set foot on the Dead Isles. Well, ’cept fer the furia, and that’s jest another reason not to go there.”

  Grey was willing to die for his sister if that’s what it took to save her. “All the same, that’s where I’m headed.”

  Smithers shook his head, but it wasn’t an answer. “We’ll pass near the isles, but we won’t git too close, on account of the bad luck carried on the wind. You’d hafta swim the rest o’ the way.” He glanced at Grey’s missing hand again. “Can ye swim?”

  Grey had learned to swim back in Restor, which had several large ponds. It would be significantly more difficult without his left hand, but he’d find a way. He had to. “I can swim,” he promised.

  “You ever worked on a boat?”

  “No, but I’m willing to learn.”

  “We can’t pay ye. All ye git in return fer yer labors is a one-way voyage to the gates of hell.”

  “Deal,” Grey said. He made his way to the gangplank and clambered aboard the rickety vessel.

  Shae, I’m coming.

  I’m coming.

  Thirty-Two

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Rhea Loren

  Rhea was clean and perfumed, dressed in a chaste blue dress that swept around her ankles. By western law, she’d never be permitted to wear white again, her purity oath forsaken when she sinned with Grey.

  Though Ennis had insisted on having her handmaiden assist her, Rhea had refused. She didn’t want anyone to s
ee her. Not now. Not like this. For the first time in her privileged life, she’d bathed and dressed on her own. Unexpectedly, there was something liberating about it.

  She’d avoided her mirror the entire time, until now. She approached cautiously, her eyes downcast. Ennis had left a jar of healing salve on her dressing table. She reached for it, still refusing to raise her gaze to the looking glass she had once loved.

  Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin. Disgust coiled through her like a snake. Her eyes took pity on her and filled with tears, blurring her vision. She dabbed a finger in the gooey salve and pressed it to her face. The effect was instantaneous, cooling and numbing her shredded flesh. Shaking, she traced a path along the wound, from left temple to chin, up the edge of her lips to her nose, down the right side of her lips, and angling up to her right temple.

  Finished, she blinked furiously, watching her face take shape once more. Her saliva tasted bitter on her tongue as she glared at herself. “I hate you,” she breathed. The words were meant for many: for her cousin, Jove, for taking what was rightfully hers and so much more; for her self-righteous siblings, Bea and Leo; for her father for dying; for Grey Arris for stealing her heart and her purity; for the furia with their red cloaks and violence; for Wrath himself, the god of purity and punishment; and lastly, for herself, for being ugly and weak and young and stupid.

  Rhea grabbed the jar of salve from the dressing table and whipped it at the mirror, which shattered upon impact, jagged shards tinkling to the table and floor.

  Someone pounded on her door, shouting through the timber. Ennis. Worried about her. He must’ve been outside her chamber the whole time, waiting. He was a good man, unlike his horrid brother.

  Slowly, Rhea bent down and selected one of the glass shards, a long spike ending in a vicious point. Careful not to cut herself, she plucked it from the floor between two fingers, using one of her silk scarves to wrap it up. She tucked it beneath the folds of her dress and picked her way past the rubble to open the door.