Fatemarked Origins: Volume I (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

by David Estes

  Sabria waddled down the corridor, searching for her chambermaid. She’d already finished her entire breakfast, but her hunger wasn’t sated. The child inside her had a ravenous appetite and wanted more. The thought made her smile, even as her ankles ached from bearing the added weight.

  She stopped suddenly when the child kicked hard. Bent over and half-gasping, half-laughing, Sabria marveled at the strength of her unborn babe. She started forward once more, but stopped again when the child kicked even harder. Clutching the wall, she called out, “Gemary? Are you nearby?” There was no response from her chambermaid.

  She sighed.

  And then there was an explosion of moisture, soaking all the way through her thick dress, running down her legs, and pooling at her feet.

  That’s when the pain began.

  Sabria couldn’t stop staring at the baby girl sleeping in her arms. Though she was exhausted from the ordeal, she didn’t want to sleep. The pain had been immense, but she was used to pain, and it was all worth it now.

  When she’d made the final push and the girl had come screaming into the world, Sabria had finally known true, unconditional love. She’d reached for the babe, who had nestled into her bosom, immediately latching onto her nipple with the strength of a blacksmith’s clamp. The child had drunk deeply and then fallen asleep. Sabria had barely noticed as her chambermaids cleaned her, changed her sheets, and dressed her in fresh clothes.

  Wolfric had yet to make an appearance, caught up in court. Sabria had forbidden her servants from revealing the gender of the child to her husband. She wanted to see his reaction herself.

  Finally, when the sun had yawned and slipped beneath the horizon, scattering shadows through Sabria’s windows, Wolfric filled the doorway. “My wife,” he said. “What tidings have you brought me?”

  “A child,” she said.

  “My son?” he said. She almost laughed at the hopefulness in his tone.

  “Your daughter,” she corrected.

  He took a step closer, peering at the babe in her arms. “No matter. We will try again. At least we know all the parts are working properly.”

  His reaction didn’t surprise her one wit. “Of course,” she said. Unless…

  “What shall we name her?” Sabria asked.

  “You choose. I will name our son, when he arrives.” Without another word, he turned and left.

  She shook her head in wonderment. The future ruler of the realm was colder than the frozen north itself.

  Once more, she gazed at her daughter. She was all Gäric, a fact that she knew should’ve disappointed her. She should’ve hated seeing her husband’s nose on her daughter’s face. His square, dimpled chin, his black hair, his dark eyes…but she didn’t. The girl was perfect in every way. Beautiful. Immaculate. One of Wrath’s angels brought to life.

  “What shall we call you?” Sabria asked the babe, who continued to slumber. But she already knew. She’d known for some time.

  “Annise,” she said. “You are Annise, and you will be stronger than your mother.”

  “Hurry,” Sabria said, as Zelda scrambled to light the torch. Her husband was due back from court at any moment, and she didn’t want to be caught in the act.

  Though Zelda wasn’t taking this nearly as seriously as Sabria was, she’d finally agreed to help her inspect Annise for skinmarks. For the last three nights, while her daughter had screamed and been inconsolable, the words spoken by the legless, armless man had haunted her.

  Death shall come from a royal womb. A king shall die at the hands of his own kin. The fatemarked shall play the game of kings, and many will suffer before peace comes.

  Annise screamed, her arms and legs moving nonstop in her bassinet. Sabria was used to it, though Zelda seemed frazzled by the ruckus.

  Finally, the torch caught and a flame blazed in a ball of heat. “Give it to me,” Sabria demanded, grabbing the torch.

  Slowly, methodically, she drew the flame past her daughter’s skin, careful not to get too close. For the first time in hours, the babe went quiet, watching the fire dance and writhe. Her skin was pale and clear. Sabria was careful to inspect every nook and cranny, having Zelda hold the baby so she could check her back and buttocks.

  Sabria sighed when she was finished, and she wasn’t sure if it was an exhalation of relief or disappointment.

  Annise was unmarked. She was not Death. She was not the king-killer the old man had spoken of before the Ice Lord silenced him forever.

  “I will try again,” Sabria said.

  Zelda shook her head. “This is folly. You are chasing a phantom.”

  “Even so, it is my phantom to chase. My sacrifice to make.”

  As if in response, the babe let out a shrieking wail.

  It was the first time Sabria had been away from her daughter for even a single moment, and she felt naked. The babe had been sleeping when she left, but still… What if she woke up hungry? What if she choked in her sleep? What if what if what if…

  So this was what it was like to be a mother—always worrying.

  She wondered if her mother still worried about her. She wondered if her mother was still alive.

  Sabria’s thoughts were chased away when she heard raised voices coming from the king’s bedchambers. She’d heard the king was having his best day in a long time, and thus she’d left her daughter to see him. Perhaps by the week’s end he’d be in good enough condition to meet his first grandchild.

  “You will not dictate the laws of my kingdom to me!” a voice roared. It was familiar, and yet…so different than what she was accustomed to. King Gäric’s voice was strong, powerful, a far cry from his usual weak rasp.

  “Your kingdom?” another voice answered. Her husband, Prince Wolfric. “While you’ve built an army of bedsores, I’ve built an army of warriors. And they are prepared to sweep across the kingdoms, taking what is rightfully ours.”

  “An act of war requires a king’s decree; and you, my son, are no king. Not yet.”

  “I have been the king for a long time,” Wolfric shot back. “I have ruled. I have prepared. I am ready.”

  “And yet you’re not the king,” the king reminded him. “I am. And I am recovering quickly. I can feel it in my bones. I’m not sure how, or why, but I can feel my old strength returning. Frozen hell isn’t ready to receive me yet, and I have more to accomplish before my lifeblood runs out.”

  “Absolutely not,” Wolfric said. “You are still too weak. You will remain in this room as I return the north to its former glory.”

  A mocking laugh. “Really? Are you going to imprison your king, your own father? Is that your plan, son?”

  Sabria reached the doorway and peeked around the corner. The king had swung his legs over the side of the bed and was staring at his son, wearing an amused expression. Though his legs were pale and thin, they looked a hundred times better than the last time Sabria had seen him.

  “Don’t test me, old man,” Wolfric growled.

  The king stood. His legs wobbled and he grasped the head of the bed for support.

  “You can’t even walk,” Wolfric said. “You can’t let your subjects see you like this.”

  “Better like this than on the battlefield,” the king said. “I shall wave the banners of peace, not war.” He released his grip and took a step forward, more confidently this time. His legs held his weight.

  “No. You will not,” Wolfric said. He shoved his father back onto the bed.

  “How dare you?” the king shouted, trying to rise once more. “How dare you tell me what I can and cannot—”

  His words were cut off as Wolfric launched himself atop his father, grabbing a pillow and shoving it over his face.

  Sabria stared in horror as the king’s legs and arms danced from side to side, trying to fight back. No, she thought. No!

  She charged into the room and flung herself onto her husband’s back, clawing at his skin, trying to pull him off of the king.

  Surprised, Wolfric looked back, momenta
rily losing his concentration. The king’s mouth escaped from the pillow and sucked in a shallow, wheezing breath.

  Wolfric slammed a fist into Sabria’s face and she tumbled backwards, seeing stars. Tasting blood. Dazed, she shook her head, each passing second feeling like an hour. Time was running out for the king. He hadn’t even met his granddaughter. She couldn’t live with that.

  She fought to her feet, wobbling slightly. Her eyes roved the room, searching for a weapon. She located a clay pot used to collect the king’s waste. She grabbed it, holding it high over her head, prepared to bring it down with enough force to knock the father of her child senseless.

  Somehow, by some innate sense, Wolfric was ready for it. He turned at the last second, slamming his elbow into her jaw. The chamber pot went flying, arcing well over the bed, spilling its filthy contents across the blankets.

  Sabria saw more stars, blazing streaks of light falling from the heavens.

  And then she saw nothing.

  Wolfric Gäric was declared king after his father was found dead “of natural causes.”

  Sabria’s husband had threatened to kill their daughter if she breathed a word of what she’d seen Wolfric do. “No one will believe you anyway,” he’d said.

  She knew he was right. She knew the only way she could protect Annise—beautiful, perfect Annise—was to stay far away from her. Any affection she showed for her own daughter would be meted out tenfold on the poor girl.

  Sabria was determined to give her daughter a better life, eventually. And so she and Zelda prepared for the future, a future neither of them ever expected to see.

  And Sabria dutifully went to her husband’s bed each night, sacrificing herself in the hopes of bringing forth the child who was destined to kill him, the one who would one day be known as Kings’ Bane.

  5: Sir Jonius

  The Northern Kingdom- Circa 521

  Keeping his wife alive was the most selfish thing Sir Jonius had ever done.

  He could see it in the pale lines of her gaunt cheeks, in the dark, sunken depressions that were once her vibrant brown eyes, in the thin smudges of her lips. He could see her desire so clearly, it was as if she wore her heart and soul on the outside, like a second skin.

  Frieda wanted to die. Was ready to die.

  She’d been fighting the disease for three long years, years in which they should’ve been starting a family of their own, watching their children grow into fine young lords and ladies.

  Instead, Jonius was chained to the crown. Because of his selfishness.

  I could let her go, he thought, watching her sleep. I could let her slip away into the night, like a warm breath vanishing in the frozen, inky air.

  Jonius held up the glass vial of the clear elixir he’d sold his soul for. He shook it, but there wasn’t enough left to swish around—only a drop or two. He could smash the bottle, or pour the scant contents into the fire, watching them sizzle and spit. Physically, he could, aye.

  But as he gripped the vial with white-knuckled fingers that were beginning to ache, he knew it was a lie as brazen as the one he was living.

  I can’t lose her, he thought. For he knew if his Frieda died, the sun would no longer rise in the morn’ and the stars would refuse to appear in the even’ sky. Not for him. The rest of the world might go on living, breathing, suffering. But not him. If his beautiful Frieda died, she would take the best part of him with her, a part he could barely recognize these days as it was.

  So, selfishly, he plucked the cork stopper from the vial and eased his wife’s lips open with two fingers. She stirred in her sleep, but didn’t awaken, her deep breaths as ragged as those of an old man who’d seen too many winters. Sir Jonius emptied the last two drops of the elixir onto her tongue, and watched as they rolled down her throat.

  In a few moments her breaths became clearer, deeper still, and he could almost believe she was the woman he’d married a decade earlier, when life was simpler, when love was free.

  After tucking the warm blanket under her chin, Sir Jonius secreted the empty bottle into a pocket and slipped through the door and out into the frozen dark. Though he wore the title Sir, he was no knight, but a devil in knight’s armor.

  He walked along the ramparts of Castle Hill, the proud northern stronghold overlooking Frozen Lake. Though storm clouds were gathering in the west, the eastern sky was clear, and a waxing moon cast a green light across the enormous waters, which, in the dead of the coldest winter the north had known in many years, was currently living up to its namesake. Typically, the walls of the castle shined white in the daylight, but at night, even covered with a fresh layer of snowfall, they appeared dark to Sir Jonius, like gray stones dipped in tar.

  The knight knew he was projecting his own tumultuous thoughts onto the castle, but he couldn’t help himself. He was taking the long way to his destination on purpose, delaying whatever horrors this night was sure to bring.

  Along the way, he passed several royal guardsmen, who nodded in his direction briefly, before returning their gaze to the area beneath the walls. Sir Jonius ignored them. The respect they gave him was out of fear.

  A fear he’d earned.

  What would Frieda say if she knew the truth of what I’ve done? Would she still love me?

  Sir Jonius stopped abruptly, realizing something. It didn’t matter. As long as she was alive, his wife could hate him all she wanted. He’d rather wear her hatred like a thousand scars than see her lifeless body embalmed in the crypts.

  One of the guards was staring at him, he noticed, and he forced one foot forward, then the other, until he’d left the walls and entered through an archway into the north tower. Descending the steps was easier, because the earth pulled him downwards, an inevitable force that seemed representative of the whole of his life.

  He made his way along a curving wall barren of decoration save for the occasional torch-bearing sconce. The staircase to the lower levels appeared on his right, a shadowy maw that made him shiver each time he saw it.

  Grabbing a torch from the nearest fixture, he took a step toward the opening.

  “Sir?” a voice said from behind.

  He froze. No. He didn’t need to turn to know who had spoken, her voice full of the typical curiosity that was reminiscent of any seven-year-old in all of the Four Kingdoms. He loved that voice, and the girl that was attached to it, but he also hated her, too, because she reminded him of everything he would never have, could never be.

  A family.

  A father.

  Innocent.

  He wanted to pretend not to hear her, but knew she would only follow him down the steps. Princess Annise Gäric didn’t like to be told she couldn’t do something, and that was because most of the time she could.

  “Now what in the name of the Four Kingdoms would a princess be doing wandering the castle in the middle of the night?” Sir Jonius asked, turning around. He forced amusement into his tone and a twinkle into his eyes.

  Annise grinned, jutting out her square chin in an expression that eerily reminded the knight of her father. Her round, pale cheeks were smudged with ash in a way that almost seemed purposeful, and her green dress was dirty and wet at the bottom. She wore thick deerskin boots that were too large for her feet by half. She held a stick like a sword in one hand. “Exploring,” she said. “I’m not scared of the dark.”

  You should be. “No, I suspect you’re not. Still, what would the king think of you being out of your chambers at such a time?”

  Though she tried to disguise it, Jonius saw the wings of fear flutter across her expression. She was a brave girl—wrestling with larger boys in the yard, and usually emerging victorious—but smart enough to know her father was a man to be feared. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

  Jonius pretended to consider it, but then winked. “Course not. So long as the little mouse princess scurries her way back to bed.”

  “Can I be an ice bear princess instead? They could call me the Lady of the Hinterlands!” She raised
a fisted hand into the air with her declaration.

  “Princess Annise, you can be whatever you want to be in this life,” Sir Jonius said.

  Her eyes widened with glee and a smile lit up her face. She dropped her stick and raised both hands into the air, making her fingers look like claws. She growled and the knight chuckled. “Am I scary?” she asked.

  “I’m shivering in my armor,” he said, still marveling at the girl’s spirit, which remained unbroken despite the tragedy of her infant brother’s death four years earlier.

  Annise snorted, and then curtsied grandly, a gesture that was out of place next to her rumpled condition. With another loud roar, she stomped off in the other direction. Jonius hoped she would find her way back to bed before her father really did catch wind of her nightly activities.

  His own words came back to him, like a whisper echoing down the long corridor: You can be whatever you want to be in this life.

  He hated having to lie to the young princess, but he refused to take away her childlike innocence so early in her life. There was plenty of time for that. In truth, he thought of Annise as if she was his own daughter, always remembering her name days and surprising her with little gifts. In the back of his mind, he knew it was his own attempt at redemption; but still, he loved the way he was always able to make the girl smile. And Jonius knew she needed a role model in her life, considering her mother, Queen Sabria Loren Gäric barely looked at her, and her father, the Dread King of the North, cared more for instilling terror in the hearts of his subjects than pandering to the interests of his eldest child.

  He shook his head, clearing his thoughts away. Her unexpected appearance had been a welcome distraction from reality, but he knew he shouldn’t tarry any longer. He slipped his hand into his pocket, closing his fingers over the empty vial.

  And then, torch held high, he descended the steps to the lower level.

  The particular elixir Sir Jonius’s wife needed was concocted by a grumpy old man everyone called Darkspell. Though he wasn’t a wizard—not using spells or magic of any kind, but natural herbs, roots and liquids—his elixirs felt like magic sometimes. Darkspell’s work, which was very expensive, was paid for by the king himself, out of the royal coffers. Sir Jonius only had sufficient gold to buy a drop or two of the elixir, while the king could provide a fresh vial each fortnight, enough to sustain Frieda on the right side of the knife’s edge between life and death.