by David Estes
As Cecilia watched her husband play with their son, she marveled at how many faces he was able to wear. Child-like father. Stern and pious king. Iron-fisted ruler. He was a rare kind of man, as multi-faceted as the rarest of gemstones.
The last year had been a mixture of emotions, from deep sadness—upon the death of King Ennis Loren—to beaming pride—at Gill’s coronation—to unfettered happiness—when their daughter, Rhea, was born. Sometimes Cecilia could only shake her head in disbelief at all that had happened in a mere four seasons.
And yet, behind each of those emotions was another, darker one.
Fear.
Though Gill had promised her they would never be found out, that he’d covered his tracks well, that Roan would grow up a prince of the west, the secret of his sinmark known only by them, Cecilia worried every day that the furia would smash in their door and take their son away screaming.
It was that suffocating fear that drove Cecilia to take every precaution against Roan’s secret being found out: he was never permitted to remove his shirt in public, even during the day when the use of torchlight would be unlikely; when he did remove his shirt, only she and Gill were present—numerous times she’d been forced to chase off keen chambermaids seeking to be helpful. (Little did they know, Cecilia had saved their lives.)
Everything had changed in Cecilia’s world, as if she’d been spun and flipped, only to have landed on her head. She could no longer think of those who were marked as demons with monstrous power. Her son was no demon. Roan was an angel. Her angel.
Despite the fact that Cecilia had celebrated her twenty-first name day shortly after her coronation, she felt as if she’d aged a decade since those lighthearted days spent practicing her royal signature. And though the king did his best to hide it behind a smile and a laugh, she knew he had his own demons to deal with. Already, streaks of silver lined his golden hair; crow’s feet had penetrated the flesh on either side of his eyes; and purple bruise-like circles marred the flesh over his high cheekbones. In short, he looked as old as Cecilia felt.
While Rhea suckled and the queen watched her husband play with her son, she saw the future: Roan at four years old, fast and mobile and not wanting to be shackled by cloth and stitching, shucking off his shirt and running rampant throughout the castle. Torchlight scattering across his skin. Light bursting forth from his sinmark for all the lords and ladies and servants to see. Or no, maybe not at four, but at fourteen. Roan courting a girl, a beautiful maiden of the realm. Removing their clothes, exploring each other’s skin under the light of a full moon. A torch is lit and then—
“Love?” Gill said. Cecilia was dimly aware that her husband was shaking her shoulders, repeating the same question again and again. Rhea was crying, no longer suckling. Roan was toddling about the room, shouting “Ree-ree! Ree-ree!” with unabashed glee.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Cecilia said. “I was lost in a daydream.”
Gill frowned, and she could tell he didn’t fully believe her, but he didn’t push the issue. Instead he said, “You’re tired. You should rest.” He gently pulled Rhea from her arms. “We’ll talk later.”
Yes, Cecilia thought. Later. After Roan is safe. Safe forever.
By chance, or fate, or the will of Wrath, Queen Cecilia Thorne Loren knew a man from the south. His name was Markin Swansea. He’d once been a refugee from Calyp, where his people—the barbarians of the Dreadnoughts—were being persecuted by the Southron empire. A young, orphaned boy of only twelve, he’d fled to the west to avoid being enslaved in the Phanecian mines or sold to the fighting pits of Zune. Despite his grizzled gray skin and broad, flat forehead, he’d been taken in by a kindly, Wrath-abiding family living in the western border town of Felix. Unable to bear children of their own, they clothed him and fed him and treated him like their own flesh, much to the disdain of their neighbors, many of whom believed all Southroners were barbarians.
Eventually, when the violence along the border became too much for them, they travelled to Knight’s End, seeking a more peaceful life. Markin’s adopted mother was a seamstress named Maud. His adopted father was a talented bootmaker named Jordan Vaughn. Though both his parents worked tirelessly, gold was hard to come by in the big western city. Markin was apprentice to his father, and learned the art of bootmaking, improving year by year until his own abilities surpassed his master’s, which made many westerners willing to ignore the unnatural hue of his skin and outlandish features. He opened his own shop, and his fame grew, until word reached a very powerful western house: Thorne. Upon seeing the quality of his workmanship for themselves, Grant and Gertrude Thorne immediately offered Markin Swansea a place in their employ. What an opportunity! Not only would he be able to make the finest boots in the Four Kingdoms, Markin could send half of his earnings home to his parents.
Because of the quality of his boots and his even-tempered nature, Markin’s relationship with the Thorne’s grew to one of trust and mutual respect. When they had a daughter, Cecilia, he loved her like his own kin, and looked out for her like a father or elder brother.
And Cecilia loved him back. She trusted him with her life, and now, with the life of her only son.
“Take him south,” she said, thrusting Roan into the man’s arms. She’d told him everything. The boy’s secret. What Gill had done to protect their family. The fear she felt each and every day. The words had poured out of her like waters long held back by a dam. He’d listened intently, his jaw growing stiffer and stiffer with each word. Now, as Markin, the man she’d grown up loving like a brother, held her child, she held her breath, hoping her trust had not been misplaced. He could easily turn them in and collect a reward. The king would be shamed and they would both be punished severely by the furia. But she was counting on the fact that Markin Swansea came from a land where those with marks were not hated, not feared. A place where Roan would be able to grow up in relative safety.
Markin slung Roan onto his shoulder and said, “I will do this for you.”
“Protect him with your life.”
“I will.”
“Do whatever it takes to keep his secrets.”
“I will.”
“Do not let him use the power of his mark. Not ever.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise you,” Markin said.
Cecilia kissed her son for the last time and went to face her husband.
Three years later
For the last three years, the Lorens had filled their lives with as many distractions as possible. Gill and Cecilia spent innumerable hours at court, ruling the realm. The Hundred Years War had intensified as of late, and King Loren was constantly in strategy meetings with his war council. However, when the king and queen had time away from ruling and war, they spent those precious hours watching Rhea grow up into a beautiful and rambunctious little princess. Cecilia got pregnant again, and gave birth to twins, Bea and Leo. The king and queen made love every night, and though it didn’t have the same excitement as it used to, it, like their many other activities, took their minds off the loss of their son, Roan. No one talked about the princeling’s mysterious disappearance three years earlier, because no one wanted to upset the king and queen.
It was as if Roan Loren never existed at all, which was precisely what Cecilia wanted. She knew her husband had never truly forgiven her for sending the boy south, but she knew it was for the best. The west was no place for one bearing a sinmark.
Though Cecilia strove every day to forget about her eldest son, his memory often sprang to mind unbidden. His toothless smile. His squeal of delight when she would kiss his belly. The peaceful nights nursing him, when all was quiet save for the wind brushing the branches and leaves of the alders in the royal gardens.
She wondered every day whether Roan was alive. Whether he was happy. As she’d requested, Markin never tried to contact her with information about her son. Now she was so desperate to hear from him, she wished she’d never made the reque
st in the first place. No, she chided herself. It was far too dangerous.
With the invention of streaming, a rapid method of communication that relied on the strange properties of the ink from an inkreed—namely, that the ink, when dipped in water, would always return to the waters from which the original reed grew—there was always the possibility that the message could be received by the wrong person. And then what she did would be discovered.
These were her thoughts as she nursed her twins and watched Rhea play with a rope doll made by her nursemaid. These were her thoughts when there was an unexpected knock at her bedchamber door.
She unlatched Bea from her breast and set her in her bassinet beside her brother, who was already sleeping. Rhea looked up, but then went back to playing.
Cecilia covered herself, crossed the room, and opened the door.
A young man with a satchel slung from shoulder to hip across his chest stood before her. He was surrounded by guards, and looked scared out of his wits.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Highness,” one of the guards said. “This messenger had strict instructions to deliver his scroll directly to you, and no others.”
Strange, Cecilia thought, but she held out her hand and accepted the rolled sheet of parchment, which was tied with a black ribbon in the center. Almost no one used messengers anymore, as streaming was far easier and faster, not to mention cheaper. “Thank you,” she told the messenger. “You have done well. Reward him with a gold coin before you escort him out,” she added, speaking to one of the guards.
“Th-Thank you, Your Highness,” the boy said.
They departed and the queen closed the door. Bea had begun to cry, but she barely heard her. She stared at the scroll, and a sense of foreboding filled her. It was tinged with a leap of excitement in her chest. This could be from Markin! The moment the thought entered her mind, however, she wished it hadn’t. Markin was not one to break promises, so he wouldn’t send a message all the way from the south unless it was horrible news.
Open it.
Now Leo was crying, too, the babies’ high-pitched voices joining together. Rhea tugged on her mother’s dress. “Make them stop, Mama,” she said.
But Cecilia was too focused on the black ribbon, which was tied perfectly, like someone had spent hours working the silky material to get it just right. In the west, black was the color of death. Of mourning.
Wrath, please give me strength, Cecilia prayed.
Bea cried. Leo cried. Rhea pulled harder on her dress. “Mama!” she complained.
With delicate fingers, the queen tugged on the end of the bow, watching with held breath as it uncoiled. The dark ribbon spilled from her hands, landing atop Rhea’s head.
Slowly, slowly, Cecilia unrolled the parchment.
With a gasp, she ripped the page into two pieces, rushed to the hearth, and thrust the message into the fire. Only after the scroll had blackened, shriveled, and turned to ash could she breathe again.
But that didn’t stop the words from echoing through her mind, burned into memory for the rest of her life:
We know what you did with Roan.
We know he was sinmarked.
And we can prove it.
Cecilia didn’t tell her husband about the message. She didn’t tell anyone. Instead, she let the words eat her alive from the inside, until they became a part of her, consuming her mind with fire, each word burning, burning, burning…
They were at court the next day. A petitioner was on his knees, begging for mercy, but Cecilia wasn’t paying attention as the fiery words spilled through her mind.
I know what you did…
Sinmarked…
Prove it…
It was impossible. She’d been cautious. She’d covered her tracks. She tried to remember back to the day she’d given Roan to Markin. Had anyone seen her? Or did someone find evidence of what Gill had done to the furia, the woman who had discovered Roan’s mark in the first place? No. This message was for her. Her husband wasn’t the one being threatened, which meant he was still safe. But for how long? And what did this person want from her? Gold? She would pay whatever it took to keep her secret. Power? She would convince her husband to appoint this individual to any position he or she wanted.
But something told her the message sender’s motives were far more sinister. He or she wanted to destroy the Lorens. So a rebel, then. Someone seeking to usurp the throne and replace the Lorens with another house. There were many powerful houses in the west, most of which had long envied the Lorens and Thornes. House Gallow perhaps. They were a brutal family. Or House Chavon. Another dozen houses sprang to Cecilia’s mind, but none of them seemed quite right. Any one of them could be behind this threat.
Suddenly the throne beneath her felt more like a tomb than a place of honor.
The king, unaware of the thoughts of his wife, finished with the petitioner and settled back in his own throne.
Instead of the next petitioner, when the doors opened again there was a messenger. And in his hands was a tightly rolled scroll.
Cecilia froze.
It was tied with a black ribbon, perfectly formed into a bow.
But wait. Another messenger appeared behind him, carrying a similar sheet of rolled parchment. It also had a black bow. A third messenger entered just behind him. Then a fourth, and a fifth.
This is it, Cecilia thought. The end of everything we’ve worked for.
The first messenger stood before her and handed her the message. The second provided his message to the king. Each of the other three couriers passed their scrolls to one of the Three Furies, the leaders of the furia, who often appeared at court in case their righteous counsel was required.
With trembling hands, Cecilia untied and unfurled the scroll:
It was a petition, claiming witnesses had come forth in the south. A man of Dreadnought origin had arrived in Citadel with a boy who was clearly not of his own blood. The boy had sun-drenched hair and bright blue eyes. The witnesses had spied on the boy and his guardian, and had discovered something: the boy was marked.
Several days later, the boy and his guardian vanished.
One of the witnesses had been able to identify the dark-skinned man of Dreadnought heritage: Markin Swansea, a known friend to the Thorne’s, who had disappeared on the same day as Prince Roan more than three years earlier.
Further, a western witness, one of the castle servants, pledged to having seen Queen Cecilia Thorne Loren escort two-year-old Roan to Markin’s residence the day before they both disappeared.
The bottom of the message contained a litany of signatures, from all the witnesses, as well as from several prominent houses that were behind the accusations.
Cecilia tried to swallow, but couldn’t, her throat as dry as sun-heated stone. She glanced at her husband, whose face had gone pale. He didn’t look angry or scared or even sad. He looked determined.
She’d seen that look before, the moment he made the decision to kill the furia and protect his son, Roan. She knew he would risk everything to protect her, to shield his family. In short, he would take the fall if he had to.
And it would surely cost him the throne House Loren had held for hundreds of years.
She couldn’t let him do that. She owed him everything. Her love. Her children.
The life of her eldest son.
Her life.
The Three had finished reading their scrolls as well, which surely said the same thing. The furia would investigate the accusations. Perhaps only her guilt would be confirmed, but what if the king was found to be complicit? Even if he wasn’t, she would be guilty of treason, and the only punishment available would be death. The king would be forced to sentence her to death.
But she knew he wouldn’t. He would break his own laws to save her. And then there would be open rebellion against the crown, led by the furia themselves. The realm would be entrenched in a civil war, and her entire family would suffer. They might even be killed.
She made a choice�
��the only choice. She would protect her family, the way her family had protected her all these years.
Before her husband could react, she reached across and snatched his royal dagger from his hip scabbard. He cried out, tried to grab for her, but she squirmed away, turning the blade back toward herself, gripping it firmly with both hands.
I’m sorry, she mouthed. To him, to her children.
And then she plunged the blade into her own chest.
Bright lights. Not sunlight, but something else. Something otherworldly.
Wrath. Wrath. Is that You? Is that the Face of my god?
The world rushed back to meet her, a blur of sound and colors and faces hovering over her. The Three, their cold faces devoid of emotion, staring down with dark, judging eyes. Several guardsmen, their mouths open, full of shock at what she’d done.
And him:
King Gill Loren’s brilliant azure eyes were wet, his lips quivering and bent. He was saying something, but she couldn’t make it out amongst the carnage in her mind. And then his face was all she saw, his voice all she heard. “I love you,” he said. “I always loved you.”
I know, she tried to say, but all she had left was a gurgle. He kissed her cheek, then her forehead. Finally, he closed her eyes, and he kissed them too.
As the life drained out of her, Cecilia considered how her life had changed from those days when all she wanted was the power and prestige of being a queen. Now she would die happy, if only because her children were safe.
And whatever heaven she ended up in, she would have no regrets.
3: Markin Swansea
The Southern Kingdom, Calypso- Circa 524
Red. So much red. As Markin Swansea passed through the Calypsian marketplace, it seemed to be the only color he could see. There were other colors, yes—bright yellows and pastel pinks and blues, and ashy grays and browns—but those colors seemed dull, fading away into the background, leaving only red.
