Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  First, her childhood, a time that felt happy but wasn’t. Back then, she’d thought she was strong, beautiful, untouchable. Unbetrayable. Rebellious but innocent. But she wasn’t any of those things. She was young and naïve. She’d fooled even herself.

  Second, the shortest of her three lives, passed in an instant, a time of pain and fear and brokenness and anger. And then, like a match struck in the dark, enlightenment. Truth. Transformation. In that second life, as short as it was, she’d grown up. She’d become strong, powerful. She’d killed without remorse. She’d tortured without guilt.

  Third was her current life. In this life she was a woman, a queen, a unifier, a battlefield general, the commander of monsters, the defender of the west. She was strong, confident.

  And she was broken. So broken.

  None knew the truth about what she felt on the inside. None could see that weakness, or she feared they would smash her into a million pieces. None could see the child growing inside her.

  Without her mother, without her father, without Grey-rutting-Arris, she was alone. Even with the child in her belly, she was alone.

  At least I still have Ennis, she thought now. At least I saved him.

  That was good, right? That was merciful, wasn’t it?

  Even she didn’t know anymore, her childhood beliefs flipped upside-down and drowned in the sparkling waters of the Bay of Bounty, pulled under by a thousand-tentacled monster known as Wrathos.

  Ennis stood nearby now, just another one of her guardsmen. His disguise was effective. His blond beard was thick, covering his Loren jawline and cheekbones. His hair had been shorn close to his scalp, and was covered by a helmet. Two scars had been cut into each cheek—he did it himself. It was those scars people would see when they looked upon him—not the resemblance to her executed cousin, Ennis Loren. He was Bern Gentry now, a lifetime soldier who’d been promoted to royal guardsman after most of them had been killed by the Kings’ Bane. None would suspect his true identity.

  She turned her thoughts away from Ennis—Bern. Her people were waiting, whispering to each other, pointing at the three red-clad women standing in a line beside her. Rhea let the moment simmer just a little longer, and then said, “This is an auspicious occasion. Though we are saddened by the deaths of the Three, we know they have gone to meet Wrath in the seventh heaven. Our God’s Furies shall receive the rewards they earned during their lives of righteousness and service.”

  The growing child inside her kicked, and she almost cried out. Soon, she thought. Soon I will tell them about you. At least the morning sickness had largely disappeared, thank Wrath.

  She refocused on the heads nodding in the crowd. Her people believed her. They trusted her. The Savior of the West, some were beginning to call her. It was possible she’d had several of the furia spread the nickname around the city.

  “But alas, this is a time of threats and war, of sin and fear. A time of dark magic. The rumors many of you have heard are true: our largest forest, the Tangle, burns. Some say it was caused by the evil power of the south, but I reject this! The largest fires are caused by a single spark—that is all. The fires will smolder down to nothing, and we will survive, as we always have. We cannot dwell on rumors, or rumors of rumors. We cannot dwell on the deaths of the Three. We must move on and honor their sacrifice with our actions, with our devotion to Wrath. Thus, today we will anoint the new Three, before Wrath and the people of the Holy City, not as replacements, but as sisters in righteousness.”

  More heads nodding, more looks of awe, craned necks to stare up at the dais. Before today, this kind of ceremony had been conducted behind closed doors, but not anymore. Rhea knew it was another opportunity to be seen, to gain favor amongst her people.

  “These Three Furies have taken the oaths, and now need only a royal blessing, which I shall offer humbly before Wrath. Approach.”

  The chosen Three—women Rhea had handpicked from the Furium, three warriors who had fought for her in the Bay of Bounty—kneeled before her, heads bowed. They all had red hair, though that was not the natural color—all furia used the same hair dye when they entered the Furium. They were all strong, their muscles taut under their red clothes.

  Annise touched the tops of their heads in succession and whispered the blessing. “You are the Three, the Chosen, Wrath’s warriors in this land. You are One and the Same. You will have God’s strength in your bodies, and wisdom in your minds, and courage in your hearts. You shall not fear death. You shall serve Wrath for all your days. Amen.”

  As each of the Three’s heads raised, the people said, “Amen.”

  Rhea knew this solemn occasion was not the time for another war speech, and sometimes less was more. She turned on her heels and walked back into the castle, her guardsmen shadowing her footsteps. Somewhere off to the left she could feel Ennis’s presence, feel his eyes burning into her. She refused to meet his gaze. She avoided the temptation to rest her hand on her swollen belly hidden beneath the shapeless purity dress she wore.

  Earlier, she’d sent a stream to Ferria, a message for Grian Ironclad:

  I have your brother, Gareth. But I’m willing to trade him for another. Give me Beorn Stonesledge, the ironmarked, and you may have Gareth. If not, he dies.

  Rhea held her breath as she entered the royal stream, a narrow, slow-moving body of water that was fed by the Crimean Sea via an inlet on the western shores, near the Cryptlands. The stream passed via a hole in the castle wall and flowed all the way through the palace grounds. Along this portion of the stream, a thick grove of inkreeds grew, making it the perfect location for sending and receiving messages. Years earlier, the method of communication known as streaming had been discovered, and was now used throughout most of the Four Kingdoms.

  Several of the stream workers straightened up when they saw her enter, looking nervous and uncomfortable. It was unusual for a lady or lord of the court to enter the stream, much less a queen. Most received their messages by royal couriers, who delivered scrolls all day long.

  Rhea breathed out, looking at the clear waters of the stream, which burbled along happily. “What news from the east?” she asked, to no one in particular.

  The nervous-looking stream workers glanced at each other. Finally, a woman, slender-looking despite the thick purity frock she wore, stepped forward. “We have received no response, Your Highness.”

  It took all of Rhea’s efforts to hide her reaction. Anger and frustration burned beneath her neutral expression. “Pity,” she said. “Please keep me apprised of any news.”

  She thought of the burning Tangle, how her scouts had said the flames were creeping from tree to tree, bush to bush, vine to vine, slowly consuming the forest, almost like the sands of an hourglass tumbling into the abyss.

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  She started to turn away to leave, but then the woman said, “Incoming stream.”

  Slowly, Rhea twisted her head back to look. Sure enough, dark, inky symbols were forming on the surface of the clear water. Words. Sentences. Sent from somewhere, a sheet of parchment dipped into the water, a message written with ink from the reeds harvested in this exact location, disappearing only to reappear right here, right now, almost instantaneously. On another day, at another time, Rhea might have been amazed, but not today.

  She watched the slender stream worker wade into the creek carrying a blank sheet of parchment, which she sank into the water over the still-forming words. The words clarified, soaking into the paper. With trembling hands, the woman lifted it, clambering back onto dry ground.

  Though she was buzzing with anticipation, Rhea pretended to wait patiently as the woman dabbed the wet sheet with a dry cloth.

  “It’s a message for you,” the woman announced. “From Grian Ironclad.”

  “Please,” Rhea said, her voice even. “Bring it here.”

  Obediently, the woman handed her the flattened scroll. Rhea scanned it, her excitement building with each line:

  Queen Rhea Loren
, First of Your Name,

  Although I am surprised to hear of Gareth’s appearance in the west, perhaps I shouldn’t be. After our defeat at Raider’s Pass, his mind became addled. He is of no value to me, but he is my brother all the same. I will make this trade. Bring Gareth to the Bridge of Triumph three days hence. I will deliver Beorn Stonesledge, the ironmarked. A man for a man, though I fear you shall receive the better end of the deal.

  Your Eastern Counterpart,

  King Grian Ironclad

  “Yes,” Rhea said.

  “Your Highness?” the stream worker said, but Rhea wasn’t listening, already turning away.

  For the first time in history, the west would have one of the fatemarked.

  Rhea was going to celebrate. It was time to carve her new Furies’ faces.

  Five

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Gwendolyn Storm

  I don’t love him, Gwen thought.

  The thought made her angry. She shoved to her feet, stalking in one direction, hitting a wall, turning, and pacing back the other way. In her tiny dungeon cell, she repeated this process again and again, her frustration mounting with each stride. She was an ore hawk trapped in a cage, unable to spread its wings and fly.

  And I don’t even love him, she thought again. Lying to herself should’ve gotten easier, but it hadn’t.

  I am forged from ore, strong, unbroken, and to ore I shall return.

  It was a mantra she’d recited for years, decades. It was truth mixed with lies.

  She slammed her fist against the stone wall, which crumbled upon impact. Pain shot through her knuckles into her hand, shivering up her forearm. She gritted her teeth, relishing the mind-numbing distraction.

  Her heromark pulsed on her cheek. Fat lot of good you’ll do me stuck in here.

  Within the bounds of Ironwood, she would have no trouble channeling the ore in the iron bars to escape, but here…the ore was as distant to her as light from a night star.

  Footsteps in the corridor, an orange light flickering on the walls. Quickly, she sank back down in the shadows, cradling her bruised hand. Don’t show them your strength. You are broken. You are weak. You are a prisoner, no threat to anyone.

  “Et,” a garbled voice said, stopping in front of her cell. Eat, she translated. The dungeon master was a squat man with no ears. Each day, he ambled along, past each cell, saying Et. Et, et, et, like it was the only word he knew. Maybe it was.

  Now, he held a rusty, iron tray with a hard heel of bread and something mashed on a wooden plate. A small tin of brownish water completed the unappetizing fare.

  “Can you push it inside?” Gwen asked, forcing a breathless rasp into her voice. She reached out a hand, letting it falter in midair before dropping. “Don’t have the strength to get up.”

  Though the man was clearly deaf—kind of hard to hear with no ears—Gwen knew he was a master at reading lips. She’d seen him do it often enough, and he was looking at her now, soaking up every word.

  He laughed, the choking sound of a man expelling phlegm from his throat. “Ol’ tricks,” he muttered. “Seen ’em all.”

  He left the tray on the ground just outside the cell, stood, and limped away.

  Gwen exploded to her feet, slamming against the bars, grabbing the tray, pulling it inside the cell, and throwing it against the wall. Hard bread and mush flew through the air.

  She sank back down, her chest heaving, the tray spinning circles before her, slowly coming to rest. She sat like that for a few moments before standing. First, she retrieved the bread, biting off hunks and trying not to chip a tooth as she chewed each piece a thousand times, forcing it down her throat. Then she scraped as much of the mush as she could from the wall, sucking it from her fingers. Last, she found the tin cup, which was on its side. It only held a few drops of brackish water, but she dribbled them on her tongue.

  Her anger had faded.

  Her thoughts returned. I don’t love him. I don’t I don’t I don’t…

  Why not?

  Because I’m not capable of love. A woman with no heart cannot love, cannot care.

  This was the truth she’d held onto for the long years since her bondmate was taken from her too soon. The hardest part was the fact that even if Alastair hadn’t been killed during the Dragon Massacre in Ferria, he would still be dead today, of old age or something else. From the beginning, she was destined to outlive him, a truth that now seemed like a great injustice.

  Furthermore, even if she did love Roan Loren—but she didn’t—she could never act on her feelings because she would most likely outlive him, too.

  She sighed. I’m a fool. I’m thinking of love and death and history when I should be plotting how to escape this confounded dungeon.

  Her mind ticked over this thought for a long while, her injured knuckles throbbing in accompaniment to her beating heart.

  An idea took shape, fuzzy around the edges at first, but then clarifying, striking her brain like a hard punch.

  I’m getting out of here, she thought. And I’m taking Gareth with me.

  Six

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Gareth Ironclad

  “Go to hell,” Gareth said.

  Rhea raised her eyebrows. “We call it the first heaven, not hell.”

  “You can go there, too.” Despite his bravado, Gareth’s heart was pounding away in his chest, seeming to chip at the inside of his bones. I can’t let this happen. I can’t.

  “This is going to happen,” Rhea said. “Your dear brother, Grian, has agreed to trade for you. We ride out first thing tomorrow.”

  “I’ll kill myself,” Gareth said.

  “You already tried that, remember?” Rhea motioned to the thick planks hammered over the window he’d shattered. The same window he’d tried to leap from, until…

  He swallowed thickly. He saved me. Roan saved me. How had he done that? Why had he done that? He said he loved me.

  He lied. He only said it to save me.

  Gareth was tired of thinking, tired of the questions with no answers. He’d vowed not to allow himself to be used against the east, and yet here he was, still alive, about to be ransomed.

  “Anything else to say for yourself?” Rhea said, filling the silence.

  Gareth shook his head. What was there to say?

  “Good. Now get some rest.”

  She left, leaving two guards behind. One of them was new, a fellow named Bern Gentry. He seemed different than the other guards, in that he didn’t yell or threaten so much. For that very reason, Gareth didn’t trust him.

  The guards watched him like a hawk as he moved about the room, which was located high in a tower. A prison fit for a king, the space was large and fitted with a comfortable bed, a table and chair with several quills and scrolls of parchment for writing, a large map of the Four Kingdoms on one wall, and even a bookshelf with sixteen books.

  Thus far, Gareth had built a tower out of the books, crumpled up all the sheets of parchment, and broken two of the quills in half. He had, however, slept in the bed, which was every bit as comfortable as it looked. He was frustrated, but not a fool.

  “I’m hungry,” Gareth said.

  “Then eat something,” the mean-tempered guard snapped. Gareth didn’t know his name—he hadn’t bothered to introduce himself like Bern Gentry had.

  Gareth eyed the untouched tray of food that had been brought in earlier. The eggs were certainly cold, the toast dried out, and the apple, well, Gareth planned to explode it on the wall later for amusement.

  “I’d prefer a side of bacon, a jellied roll with a drizzle of honey, and a bowl of strawberries, not too ripe. Some white sugar sprinkled on top, if the royal kitchens have any.”

  The guard glared at him. The edge of Bern’s lip, however, seemed to curl a little. Was that a smile? The unnamed guard said, “Coming right up, Your Majesty,” but didn’t move from his position.

  “The service is rather slow here, isn’t it?” Gar
eth quipped.

  Bern finally spoke. “Jarv, just put in the order or he’ll never shut up.”

  So he does have a name, Gareth thought. “Jarv?” He snickered.

  Jarv looked like he wanted to explode Gareth’s head against the wall for amusement, but Gareth knew he wouldn’t dare. Rhea needed him fully intact so she could ransom him.

  Shaking his head, Jarv left. Gareth suspected he would get exactly what he ordered, though he wouldn’t eat any of it—Jarv was certain to spit in it, and not just a little.

  Gareth said, “Thank you, Bern Gentry.”

  Bern didn’t respond, his lips pursed.

  “‘You’re welcome’ is the appropriate response,” Gareth said.

  Bern opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “I’m not who you think I am.”

  Gareth wasn’t often surprised, but this time he was. He hid it behind another quip. “And I am not truly Gareth Ironclad, but Montoya, dragon rider of Calypso!” He raised a finger in the air.

  “I am Ennis Loren,” Bern said.

  Gareth’s hand fell back to his side. “He’s dead.” All of Knight’s End had been talking about how Queen Rhea had executed her own cousin. Personally.

  “We faked it,” Bern said.

  “Why?”

  “She couldn’t bring herself to kill me, and I couldn’t allow myself to be banished. This was the only option in between.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because Rhea is making mistakes. She is too set on war. She’s going to destroy the west.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Gareth said, feigning a look of disinterest in the entire conversation. Truthfully, his mind was whirring through this new information, the true identity of the man standing before him.

  “She’ll destroy the Four Kingdoms in the process, starting with the east.”

  Gareth sighed. “What is your point, Ennis Loren? I can’t control the fate of the kingdoms any more than you.”

  “Your friend, Roan Loren, he wants peace, right?” Bern asked.