by David Estes
“No, I—I haven’t heard. What marks?”
The man pulled on one of the hairs on Bear’s foot, as if testing its strength. “’Sall gossip and rumors, but there are those who are sayin’ a coupla babies have been born in Calypso with markings on their skin. Something’s wrong with them, that’s for damn sure. ’Tain’t natural.”
Bear’s heart pounded out a steady rhythm, slightly faster than before. He recited dozens of his mother’s prophecies in his mind. Prophecies about the fatemarked. Prophecies he hadn’t thought about in years.
“You say these marked babies are only in the south?”
“Didn’t say that. Just that the first ones were there. ’Twas one in the west, too, but ol’ King Loren, the bastard, had the child killed. His red priestesses said the creature was evil, a demon or the like.”
“The Furies?”
“Call them what you like.”
They killed one of the fatemarked. The same fools who’d killed his mother. The King. The Furies. Wrath. What did that mean for his mother’s prophesies? According to her, the fatemarked would help end the war and bring about peace. But how could they do that if they were being murdered as babes?
“Did the Southroners kill the marked babies, too?”
“Nah,” the man said. “They’re worshippin’ them or somethin’. The easterners have one, too.”
“And the north?”
The man laughed. “Too cold here,” he said, nodding firmly, as if that explained everything.
Bear considered all the information, as well as the source. Cobb was a crazy old kook, but he didn’t make things up. Embellished perhaps. Could it really be true? Had the fatemarked his mother had spoken of so often finally arrived? And if so, what would it mean for the war? What does it mean for me? Nothing. I am happy here. It’s not my concern.
The lie was bitter on his tongue, more so because he hadn’t spoken to his mother in over a year.
“I’ll have your boots ready first thing tomorrow,” the cobbler announced, pulling Bear away from his thoughts.
“That soon?” Bear feigned astonishment.
“I’m a master cobbler, you dolt! Course they’ll be ready that soon.”
Bear pretended not to hear the insult. In his three years since arriving, he’d learned how to play all the games required to get by in Walburg. “Will you accept half the coin in advance?”
“I suppose I could,” the bootmaker said. The greedy glint was back.
Bear handed over twelve Shields and the man snatched them up, stuffing them in a pocket. “The rest is due upon receipt of your boots.”
“I will bring it tomorrow morning.”
He opened the door and Sir scampered out ahead of him. Just as he shut it behind him he heard Cobb shout, “Shut the damn door!”
Thirty years later (circa 385)
The war dragged on into its third decade. According to rumor, the fighting was particularly intense at Raider’s Pass, where King Loren’s army was pushing hard, ten thousand riders strong. The easterners were gathering near the Razor, preparing to attempt an assault on Darrin. It was said that in the south the battles were even bloodier, with the Calypsians riding dragons into battle, slaughtering their enemies at will.
More than anything else, however, people loved to talk about those bearing skinmarks. Just the other day Bear had heard about a man in the east who could supposedly shoot arrows from his fingertips, ten at a time. Arrowmarked, he was being called. Grudgingly, Bear added him to the list he kept. The list already had twelve other names on it, though four of them were crossed out, dead, two murdered as babies in the west by Furies who still considered the marked to be demons, and two killed in battle. The latter pair had been Southroners, worshipped and revered and then sent to die.
The nine known living fatemarked were spread across all Four Kingdoms, just as his mother had said they would be. Even the north had two of them. One was stonemarked, a brute with impenetrable flesh, who could crush foes with his bare hands. He’d been sent to Raider’s Pass, where he was almost singlehandedly holding the enemy at bay. The other was a woman whose speed was unsurpassed. She wielded a blade with such quickness she could supposedly block arrows with its edge, cutting them to pieces. She’d been sent to Darrin to hold the border. Neither of them had been given a choice. According to northern law, those bearing marks belonged to the crown. Though they were treated like royalty, showered with unimaginable wealth and abundance, at the core they were naught but slaves.
Most of the other fatemarked were also participating in the war, in one way or another. Though his mother’s prophecies had said they would bring about peace, violence seemed to follow them wherever they went. What is the point of it all? Bear often wondered.
On numerous occasions over the years, Bear had considered whether to seek these extraordinary people out, try to talk to them, find out how he could help them.
Their fates will be yours, to help them is good.
The last line of his mother’s poem played almost nonstop in his head, and yet something about the timing didn’t feel right. Or maybe I’m just too content living a peaceful life in Walburg…
I am content, he thought, rubbing behind Sir’s ears as he stared into the flickering flames of the hearth fire. This was Sir number three, the first two having passed on after long and happy lives. They were buried in a small plot behind Bear’s cabin. Sir Three released a sigh of contentment. He was getting old, too, his hair thinning, his movement slower. It wouldn’t be long before Bear would have to bury another best friend, and seek out a new one. Some of his other friends were dying, too. Soup had perished when a fever raged through the city. His two sons had carried on his business, but it wasn’t the same. The soup was missing something, heart perhaps. Cobb had died, too, of old age, and now Bear’s boots were growing worn and thin.
Though his beard was longer and thicker and the hair on his head more tangled, Bear didn’t look a day older than when he’d arrived in Walburg, a fact that was beginning to be noticed by some of the townsfolk.
Their hearts will fail, their lives will end,
But yours will last, it will extend.
The meaning of the first two lines of his mother’s poem—no, her spell—were clear to him now. He suspected they always were, even if he didn’t want to believe it. His life would be longer than most. Am I immortal?
No. Wrath. I will die, as all men must. Eventually.
But am I truly a man?
Bear was no longer scared of changing into his animal form. He could control the instincts that came along with it, choosing when to attack, when to hold back. He usually only allowed himself to change once or twice a year, roaming the forest with Sir by his side, hunting.
Since that day in Raider’s Pass, he had not killed another human.
You can’t stay here.
His hand froze on Sir’s scalp.
He hadn’t heard that voice in over a decade, maybe longer—he’d stopped counting the years long ago. Now, he pretended not to hear it.
Sweetness.
No. No!
Henry.
“That’s not my name!” Bear growled. Sir whined at the outburst and scampered away, eyeing Bear warily.
You will always be my son, my Henry.
“You’re dead!” Then, remembering he didn’t need to speak aloud, echoed the thought in his head: You’re dead.
In the manner known to humans, yes.
What other manner is there?
The manner known to the gods.
Wrath?
Wrath, Absence, Orion…they are all the same Being, the One, the Creator.
Bear said nothing. He didn’t know what to say after all these years.
The people here will get suspicious. They will eventually come for you, turn on you. They don’t like what they don’t understand.
Bear already knew this. He hadn’t delayed his departure out of ignorance or naiveté, no. He’d stayed because the thought of leaving felt a littl
e like dying.
You know where you must go.
He did. When?
Immediately.
What is in Castle Hill for me? The northern capital had always been his destination; he’d known this in his heart for years.
Nothing. Everything. A new beginning. An old ending. Life. Death. Hope. Futility.
He chuckled. It was the only thing he could do. Is that all?
No. Fate is there, too.
That word again. Bear was beginning to hate it. Mine?
Yes. Yours. And others.
Bear sighed. You said I had a choice.
You do.
It doesn’t feel that way.
That’s because you’ve always had difficulty disobeying me.
Is that a bad thing?
Maybe. I—I don’t know. I know much, but not everything. I don’t know how this will end. I don’t know whether what you do will change anything. But I hope it will. Now I must go. This time it is forever, I think.
A pang of guilt hit Bear in the chest as he realized he felt only relief. Closure.
Henry?
Yes, Mother?
I love you. I always will.
I love you, too, Mother.
Goodbye.
Wait!
I’m here.
I’ll do it. I’ll go to Castle Hill. I’ll seek my fate.
I know. Goodbye, Henry.
Goodbye, Mother.
His last two words fell on deaf ears because she was already gone. This time he knew it was forever.
One hundred and fifteen years later (circa 500)
Bear had lived too long. He’d given up on making friends, because they always died in the end. He did, however, continue raising wolfhounds from pup to maturity. Watching them pass on was tough, too, but he handled it in his own way.
Although more than a century ago he’d planned to travel directly from Walburg to Castle Hill, that’s not what happened. No, his instincts had set a different path under his feet, one that led him westward, back to the land of his childhood. All these years had passed and still he hadn’t hidden his mother’s prophecies, their aged crinkled pages beginning to fade. So he’d done two things: First, he picked out the lines of text that seemed the most important, the true prophecies. He inked those on his own skin permanently. Now they can never be lost, so long as I am alive, he’d thought. Second, he hid the original copies in two places—the Dead Isles, an uninhabited island off the western coast; and Citadel, Calypso’s city of scholars. Instinct had guided him to these two locations.
From there, he’d headed back north, trudging over the Mournful Mountains to avoid the border fighting at Raider’s Pass. Then he turned eastward to Darrin, where he’d once again avoided the fighting by providing fresh meat for the army. He lived a life there, and then departed, heading back west, from shore to shore, all the way to Blackstone, where a naval battle with the west had broken out. He was no seaman, and no one tried to recruit him, despite his size.
The war for the Four Kingdoms had stretched over a century, with no evidence of ending anytime soon, and was now being called the Hundred Years War. Tales of the marked warriors from each kingdom doing battle continued to swirl through pubs and markets, until it was all anyone seemed to talk about. Many of them had been killed, but were quickly replaced by new marked births. The only exception remained the west, where any marked children were slaughtered as soon as they were discovered.
Bear kept his list, updating for those born, those killed. For what purpose, he knew not, but it felt better keeping track.
He stayed in Blackstone, biding his time, until his lack of aging became a problem once more.
Why am I here, Mother? he wondered. What is my fate? Where is the peace you prophesied about?
He waited and waited and waited.
And waited.
Finally, in the year 482, an inner sense told him it was time, and he turned toward Castle Hill at long last. The Undefeated King, Wilhelm Gäric, and his wife Queen Ida, had just given birth to their second child, a son, Wolfric, who was now the crown prince.
Bear knew what he had to do, though he didn’t know why.
Eighteen years passed slowly, with Bear gradually making his prowess as a hunter known to the stewards of the royal kitchens, until they offered him a position as castle huntsman, replacing an aging man who was struggling to keep up with meat quotas.
More fatemarked were born, though hardly anyone used that term anymore. Most called them skinmarked, while in the west they were the sinmarked, no better than demons. In the south, however, they referred to the marking as tattooya. Three years earlier, in Phanes, Emperor Jin Hoza had a son born to him, his first. The babe, named Vin, was marked with a chain around his neck. No one knew what power it would give him, but the royal marked birth sent tremors of fear across the Four Kingdoms. In the east, a man bearing the ironmark, Beorn Stonesledge, was singlehandedly devastating Calypsian armies along the border of the Scarra Desert. The north had one of the skinmarked, too, a tall, narrow-eyed man known as simply the Ice Lord. Though the king himself was lauded for his skill in battle, most knew that the Ice Lord was the real reason for his success in protecting the northern borders.
Hardly anyone spoke of the Western Oracle anymore, her legend fading into a past that was no longer relevant.
She foretold all of this, Bear thought as he approached the hunting lodge provided to him by the throne. And she foretold what comes next, too. Yet no one cares. Their ignorance will be their downfall. His latest companion, a beautiful snow-white wolfhound named Serenaia after his mother—though he called her Naia most of the time—trotted beside him. Years ago he’d given up the practice of naming each dog Sir. They were so much more than replacement companions to him, after all. They were his best friends, his confidantes, the only ones who truly knew him.
He opened the thick wooden door, sucking in a quick breath of air when he realized his cabin was occupied by another. He shook his head, laughing slightly. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Princess Zelda?” he said.
The square-faced girl squinted at him. “Father says I have a gloomy disposition.” Though the only daughter to the king was only eight name days old, she was already broad of shoulder and thick of limb. She was also slightly odd, and yet Bear tended to look forward to her regular visits.
Before Bear could respond, Naia, tail wagging furiously, sprinted up to the princess and jumped up on her, licking at her arm. Zelda scratched her behind her left ear, her favorite spot.
Bear said, “Gloomy? I wouldn’t say you’re gloomy exactly. More like…somber, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Regardless, you tend to cheer me up when you come around.”
“Really?” Zelda sat on Bear’s bed, patting Naia when she jumped up beside her. The princess picked up a hatchet, playing with it in her lap, one of Bear’s older ones that he rarely used anymore.
“Would I lie to you?” Bear stamped the snow off his boots and then slipped them off, leaving them outside. He closed the door behind him.
“Everyone lies,” Zelda said matter-of-factly. She ran her finger along the blade, which was too dull to cut much of anything anymore.
Bear couldn’t deny it. So much of his life was a lie. Frozen hell, no one even knows my real name. He changed the subject. “Where are your brothers?” He hoped far away; both princes had a mean streak a kingdom wide. Lately, the crown prince, Wolfric, had taken to growling at Naia, laughing when she flinched back. Unlike many of Bear’s previous wolfhounds, Naia was a gentle soul, though even she had limits.
The crown prince, Bear mused internally. The truth was, Wolfric was only heir to the throne because his eldest brother, Helmuth, had been born maimed, one of his legs practically useless. His nickname had swiftly become the Maimed Prince. Five years ago, the king had finally made the decision to skip over Helmuth in the line of succession. A year after that, Helmuth had run away. The rumor was he’d left a note behind promising to return to get his vengeance one day.
He hadn’t been heard from since, four long years later.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Zelda said. Bear chuckled, which made the girl frown. “It wasn’t a jape. My brothers can get stuck in a snowdrift for all I care. They are buffoons at the least, and village fools at the most.”
Trying not to laugh, Bear placed his hunting satchel on a table and lit the hearth. “Would you like some tea?”
“Tea tastes like snake piss,” she said without blinking. “Though mother once told me you could read the tea leaves after you finish drinking and they’ll tell you your future.”
“We could try it if you want.”
“But then I’d have to drink the tea!” Zelda said.
“Not worth it?”
Zelda shook her head. She held the hatchet over her shoulder with one hand, pulling it back. Then, before Bear could stop her, she flung it at the door. “What are you—”
Thump! Bear twisted his head to look. The hatchet—despite its dull edge—was stuck firmly in the wood. Wait. No. It was stuck in the direct center of a dark brown knot in the wood. Bear’s eyes widened in amazement. “Were you aiming for that?” he asked.
Naia barked in appreciation.
Zelda shrugged. “I’m good at throwing things. I hit Wolfric with an iceball from a hundred paces away yesterday. You should have seen his face! All red and angry.” She laughed. “He stomped around looking to see who had thrown it, but I was already hidden. What a buffoon!”
Bear didn’t know what to make of her, except that she was so different to her elder siblings. Where did you come from, princess? Bear wondered. “Well, just be careful what you throw. Don’t hit anyone. Other than your brothers, of course.” He offered a wink, which made her laugh even more.
Naia leapt to the floor, barking her head off. A moment later, fists pounded on the door. “Open up, you mongrel!” an angry-sounding voice hollered through the wood.
“Ugh,” Zelda said. “Speak of the village idiot.”
It was Wolfric’s voice. How much of our conversation did he hear? By the anger in his voice, all of it, Bear thought.
He opened the door. The crown prince glared at him, his brown eyes as icy as morning snowfall. “Morning, Prince Wolfric. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” He tried to keep his voice even, rather unsuccessfully.
