Truthmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 2)

by David Estes

  “No,” he growled, pushing off with his feet and regaining his full grip. If he could just get over the crest of the beast’s skull…

  The pyzon dove downward, and it was all Jai could do not to be thrown off, his body rattling, his teeth clacking against each other as the snake traveled underground through darkness. The top of the tunnel scraped against Jai’s head, dirt spilling all around him, threatening to fill his mouth, his nose—

  And then they were aboveground again, the pyzon shooting into the air and landing with a thunderous smack. Jai had almost nothing left to give, his fingers stiff and sore from gripping the knife, his arm and shoulder numb from the climb and clinging for dear life.

  With a final kick, Jai pushed himself up and over the pyzon’s head, tumbling directly onto its face, sucked downward by gravity. One of its red eyes swept past and he had the presence of mind to swipe at it with his knife, missing, only managing to scratch the scale just under it. Still he fell, bouncing over its slit-like nose and then he was airborne.

  Fangs as tall as himself gaped apart, ready to snap him in two, surrounding a maw so black and empty it was as if he stared into the Void itself.

  If this would be his last act, he would make it a great one, one that might save his people.

  He threw the fireroot parcel.

  The pyzon snapped at him and he slammed off the broad side of one of its long incisors, tumbling away into a backflip. He landed in the dust, flat on his stomach, the impact pushing all of the air from his lungs with a whoosh. He rolled over, gasping for breath, clutching at his abdomen as if he could coax the air back into his chest.

  Above him, the red moon smiled while the green moon stared with an unblinking eye. The pyzon swayed, readying for a final strike…

  A muffled BOOM! split the night and the pyzon split in two, its enormous head and neck flopping forward while the rest of it tumbled sidelong. Dark flesh and red scales and clear liquid erupted like a geyser, spraying Jai and the area around him as the pyzon’s head landed nearby, its twin black eyes boring through him. Its maw released a final snap, the fangs so close that he could feel the air from their movement, and then the beast went still. The rest of the snake continued to squirm and writhe, as if still alive, but blind and incapable of attacking. Yet, by some instinct, it flopped and slithered and rolled until it found one of its burrows, disappearing underground.

  Air rushed back into Jai’s lungs and for a while he just sucked at the breeze, watching the golden stars glitter, red stars fly past, and green stars explode in the black sky.

  Though he felt like a fried side of bacon, somehow, by the will of the gods, he was still alive.

  Twenty-Four

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Rhea Loren

  Rhea stood, looking down from the highest tower in the castle, gazing across the Bay of Bounty, where her enemies were preparing for war.

  But her thoughts were elsewhere, taking her back to that day in the Furium, watching the young girls train to be warriors of Wrath, when the Fury had revealed the truth about the Western Oracle and Shae Arris.

  Rhea was thinking about lies. She had been lied to her entire life. In fact, all the people of the western kingdom had been deceived. The scary thing was, the lie had come before any of them were born, passed down from generation to generation. And why? Because her great-great-grandfather’s father had decided his most prized warrior, his original Fury, was an enemy to Wrath.

  He’d made her into the Western Oracle, Rhea realized. In distancing himself from her, he’d created her legend.

  All because of some prophecies she’d made about the Four Kingdoms being ripped apart by war and the death of eight rulers and other nonsense that a common fortune teller could make up.

  Then again, rulers were dying. Wrath, my own father was killed before my very eyes by a monster.

  Coincidence, had to be.

  And yet, Rhea couldn’t get the rest of what the Fury had told her out of her head. How the Three Furies discovered an old scroll within a hidden chamber in the Furium. How it contained symbols and a map. How several of the symbols matched known sinmarks, including the one discovered on Shae Arris’s foot. How the map showed the locations of other hidden documents, books. The Western Oracle’s legacy, or so they thought.

  There was the mention of peace in the Four Kingdoms, alliances between rulers. The end of war.

  “That cannot happen,” Rhea had said.

  “No, it cannot,” the Fury had agreed.

  At least they were in agreement on that point, Rhea mused now. She didn’t want peace, she wanted a righteous war to wipe out the barbarians to the south, the witches to the east, the godless citizens of the north. She needed her people to believe they were Wrath’s warriors, and if the Western Oracle was suddenly exposed as a Fury? Everything would be questioned, including her own devotion to Wrath. After all, she was the queen now, connected to the furia as none other was.

  And the girl—Shae Arris. Her mark was important somehow, or so the Furies believed, which was why they’d taken such drastic measures to get her away from Knight’s End alive, to study her. Based on the Oracle’s drawing on the scroll they had found, the Furies believed she was the key, both literally and figuratively, to all of the others who bore marks. To Rhea, this was a powerful notion, because many of the marked were her sworn enemies: the Ice Lord in the north; Beorn Stonesledge, the ironmarked, in the east; Fire Sandes in Calyp; the Slave Master in Phanes. If Grey’s sister could be a weapon against them…

  She’d immediately sent furia riders south to bring back news about the Furies’ discoveries, as well as the map. It was a fortnight later, and they had yet to return, a fact that troubled her greatly.

  How can a dead woman wield such immense power? she wondered. Though it annoyed her, it also intrigued her. Would she ever be able to maintain power even after she’d gone to her grave? The thought amused her, and she laughed.

  Ennis, who’d been standing silently beside her the entire time, said, “Do you find your enemy’s naval fleet amusing, Your Highness?”

  Rhea didn’t like his tone. Sarcastic. Condescending. More and more lately, that was how he sounded. A spark of anger burned through her, drying up her laughter, and she had to fight back the urge to push him off the wall.

  She forced a smile back onto her face. “Dear cousin, I don’t believe I asked for your counsel.”

  “Then why am I here, my queen? Why do you keep me on as your adviser when my words are wind, my counsel naught but dust under your feet?”

  It was a good question, a fair question, and it gave Rhea pause, for she didn’t rightly know.

  Something swelled in her chest, a balloon of…

  Rhea suddenly felt short of breath, her heart beating too fast, her legs as rubbery as boiled chicken.

  Ennis’s voice changed, growing less haughty with a note of concern, and he addressed her as a familiar. “Rhea, are you ill?” He reached out a hand to steady her.

  The balloon pressed against Rhea’s lungs and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—

  “I’m fine,” she snapped, pulling away from Ennis, forcing a deep breath into her shrunken lungs.

  “Are you certain? Because you look rather pale…”

  “I’m certain. Do not question your queen, and do not call me Rhea again, unless you insert ‘Queen’ before it. Do I make myself clear?”

  Ennis frowned at her, his hand still hovering midway between them, but then he said, “Crystal. If there is nothing else you need, I will retire for the evening. We will all need to be fresh tomorrow.”

  “As you wish, cousin,” Rhea said. She pretended to ignore him, though she watched his every move out of the corner of her eye, until he was well and truly gone, disappearing down the staircase.

  She shot glares at the two furia who remained, as still as statues. “Leave me,” she said.

  They obeyed without looking at her, and the moment they were gone, too,
Rhea collapsed to her knees, the tears welling up faster than she could blink them away, pouring down her cheeks. She choked on a sob, the moment of weakness making her cry harder. She felt like a crumpled doll thrown in a corner by a child who’d grown bored of it, moving on to newer and more appealing toys.

  Because she’d recognized that balloon in her chest for what it was. A feeling that had been lingering on the edges of her for days, maybe longer, perhaps since the moment Grey Arris had walked away from her, leaving her with a kindly old stranger who’d taken her in, made her soup, and cobbled her a beautiful pair of boots fit for a queen.

  She felt alone.

  And that was the answer to Ennis’s question about why she kept him around.

  Because he was the only one left who vanquished the dragon inside her. He was her only true friend.

  And yet, she was pushing him away, just like all the others.

  She hated this feeling, hated it as much as she hated her enemies, hated it as much as her own scarred reflection in the mirror.

  She dashed her tears away with the hem of her dress, pushed to her feet, snarled at the wall, kicking it with the heel of her beautiful boots, and flung a curse toward the north.

  “I am strong,” she said. “I am not alone. I have myself, and that is all I need.” Wrath, I’m losing it, she thought. Talking to myself, kicking walls, crying like a baby.

  It was all this talk of war, she knew. All the preparation, all the strategizing, all the hustle and bustle with no real results. The waiting was the worst.

  Focus. She had to focus. She unfurled the message she’d received from the north earlier that week via inkreed stream. This time it wasn’t from King Archer Gäric, but from his sister, Annise, who’d declared herself Queen of the North, as her brother was unconscious and she’d come of age under northern law. Her cousin stated that she’d received Rhea’s message of war, and that she wouldn’t try to convince her otherwise. Annise went on to say that in the current situation, she considered Rhea and the west an ally, if only because they had a common enemy in her uncle, Lord Griswold, who was intent on destroying them both. Because of this, she had offered information, gathered by Queen Gäric’s spies at Blackstone. The message was clear: Lord Griswold would attack Knight’s End with his entire fleet on the morrow, at midday, under the watchful eye of the sun.

  Rhea crumpled the message in her fist, and then stuffed it in her bodice. She would use it as kindling in her hearth later. For she didn’t need information from Annise, who was technically her cousin, the daughter of her deceased aunt, Sabria Loren Gäric.

  Long before she’d received the message from the north, she was ready for war, whenever it came.

  No, not ready. Starved. Yes, that was it. She was starved for war. And it seemed she would have her feast sooner than she expected.

  Her tears long vanquished, Rhea felt herself again, taking the stairs swiftly. Noon on the morrow couldn’t come soon enough.

  Annise Gäric had not lied, which Rhea respected. Maybe her cousin didn’t have to be an enemy, after all. She knew it was a child’s dream, but still, she liked the thought. Queen cousins forming an alliance to take control of the Four Kingdoms? It had a certain romantic appeal to the girl she once was.

  Regardless, whatever came next would have to wait. As the sun approached its peak, Lord Griswold’s ships set out across the Bay of Bounty, their sails unfurled like enormous gray wings, each stitched with the cracked-but-not-broken shield of the north.

  An ugly sigil, in Rhea’s estimation. She much preferred her own, the rearing stallion atop a cliff. It was more majestic, more royal. She loved the way the symbol sparkled on the full set of armor she was wearing. It spoke of battles past, of victory, of defeat, of a rightful claim to the realm.

  Beyond the first wave of enemy ships, hundreds more cast off from the northern shore into the bay, moving full wind ahead. Rhea had to admit, they were an impressive sight as they charged across the shimmering waters.

  “Wrath be with us,” Ennis said from beside her. Despite their brief altercation the previous day, he’d shown up at first light at her quarters. Utterly predictable, like the return of a misbehaving hound. In any case, Rhea didn’t begrudge him his sense of honor, allowing him to follow her around like a love-starved puppy all morning. He was wearing light armor and a broad sword but no shield. Rhea had the feeling he would offer himself as her shield if it came down to it.

  “Wrath is with us,” Rhea said. She turned to the Summoner, who was on her other side, dressed in a plain gray frock made of sackcloth, despite the armor she’d had custom made for him. Unless it was well hidden, he wasn’t wearing the armor. Will Wrath armor him? Rhea wondered grimly. “Do I bear falsehood?” she asked the holy man.

  His expression was grim, but it wasn’t a denial. “Nay,” he said. “You do not lie. Wrath’s fury shall be unleashed on our enemies this day.”

  Rhea glanced back, where her most violent pawn stood waiting, watching, garbed in blood-red armor. The Fury looked ready to murder the world, and Rhea wondered whether the Summoner meant fury or Fury. Either course would work for her, so long as she won the day. “See, cousin, we have nothing to fear.”

  Ennis didn’t look as convinced. He laid a tender hand on her armored shoulder, and this time she didn’t shrug it off. “There is still the opportunity for you to watch from the wall. Or better yet, from the tower.”

  They’d already had this argument to death, and thus, Rhea didn’t hesitate with her response. “No.”

  “But—”

  “I will not have my men”—she glanced at the Fury, who was standing behind her—“and women, risk that which I am not willing to risk myself.” It was a quote from the message stream she’d received from Cousin Annise, one she particularly liked. Though Rhea wore her image as righteous queen like a second set of armor, that wasn’t the real reason she wanted to be in the midst of the battle. No, I want to feel Wrath’s power around me, witness it from touching distance. I want to feel alive again, bursting with something beyond this world. Rhea couldn’t explain it, exactly, only that the thought of such raw power at her disposal was like an addiction, a drug she had to have. And she would have it.

  And it was better than being alone atop the tower.

  As usual, Ennis wasn’t displaced so easily. “I know you trust this man…” He nodded at the Summoner, who didn’t seem to care that he was being talked about without his inclusion. “…but you have no evidence of what he claims to be able to do.”

  It was true. Twice Ennis had tried to goad the man into Summoning something, anything, and twice the man had shrugged it off, saying Wrath did not perform like some festival entertainer. For all she knew, the Summoner could be a very effective fraud, and they were all about to die.

  So be it, Rhea thought. She wasn’t afraid of death, not anymore. Not when she’d stared into the Blade of Wrath and emerged forged by steel and fire. If I die today, let it be a bloody death.

  But she didn’t think she would die, at least not on this day, and she was willing to take the risk for what the outcast said he could offer. And anyway, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t taken precautions. They’d sought out the best divers in the kingdom, who had been busy for a fortnight, planting spiked metal balls deep under the waters of the bay, stringing them together with long iron chains. They’d recruited thousands of seaworthy men and women, who now filled their ships to overflowing, prepared to give their lives for Wrath’s righteous cause. In return, Rhea had promised them a place in the seventh heaven. Every blacksmith in the realm had been contracted to build armor and swords and other weaponry to outfit her growing army. Thousands of carpenters had flocked to the castle practically begging to assist in the war effort, creating contraptions that could fling almost anything nearly halfway across the bay.

  Finally, Rhea had charged the furia—save for the three-score who accompanied her as her personal guard—with manning the shores as the last stand. If all else failed, she would hav
e her finest warriors fight in close combat to the bitter end. And if, after all that, her kingdom was taken, then she would die in peace.

  She almost laughed at her thoughts. Peace? There will be no peace, so long as my enemies are alive.

  “I am going with the Summoner,” Rhea said. “But you are not chained to me, cousin. You may cower behind the walls like a simpering child if you wish. I will not hold it against you, I swear it.” She knew it wasn’t a real option, but she offered it simply because she enjoyed seeing Ennis’s loyalty spring to the surface each time it was called into question.

  “Your Highness, I would ride with you to the gates of the first heaven and back if you asked me to.”

  “Then ride now,” she said, stepping onto the gangplank. The furia who were already on board lined the edges of the finest ship in the fleet, Wrath’s Chosen, looking outward. Several seamen who had been hand-selected to sail the vessel pretended not to look at the queen, but Rhea felt their gazes flitting on her and away, on her and away, restless and nervous and full of anticipation.

  Behind her, Ennis followed, along with the Summoner and the Fury. The sun shone brightly, far too cheerful for a battle. As the men readied the ship for cast off, tossing lines across the decks and handling the sails, Rhea watched the rest of her fleet take form.

  The moment the northerners had set sail, anchors had been raised, and dozens of ships with various Wrath-inspired names had responded, setting out from the royal docks. Rhea could make out seamen scuttling like ants across the decks, steel glinting in the sun.

  The lead northern vessels were fast approaching the center of the bay. A volley of arrows shot out, and Rhea held her breath as her shipborne soldiers closed ranks and raised shields. One man was hit, tumbling overboard, but most of the arrows deflected away harmlessly.

  Rhea found herself turning back toward the western shores, waiting, waiting. Nothing happened. Why are they delaying? The northerners are in range.