Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  Did I imagine it? Annise wondered. She thought perhaps this might be her way of coping with Tarin’s departure, a way of connecting with him on some level.

  Hello? Monster? Are you there?

  When nothing responded, she sighed, feeling foolish. Then again…

  Tarin had told her that the monster came and went as it pleased. And if it was somehow inside her…was it going to change her, too, the way it had Tarin?

  For her own sanity, she opened her eyes and glanced at her arm. Her skin was pale, but not unusually so, not like the chalk-white complexion Tarin bore. And her veins were hidden, not black and raised. No, so far she was unchanged.

  She almost felt awful for the relief she felt. She wondered what Tarin must feel all the time. She wondered whether she’d tried hard enough to understand what he was feeling. Is it my fault he left? Did my ignorance chase him away? If I had delved deeper into what he’d been through, what he was going through, could I have changed his mind?

  She sat up, pulling the blankets around her. Gritted her teeth. “No,” she breathed. She couldn’t think this way, couldn’t second-guess, couldn’t doubt. She was the queen, and she had to move forward. Tarin was gone, she might never see him again, and that voice inside her was—

  Yesss. Oh yesss. You are interesting. More interesting than that armored hunk of flesh you can’t stop thinking about.

  Annise froze. How is this possible?

  When, on the battlefield, your blood mixed with his…with Tarin’s, I slipped inside you.

  Her cold shock turned to hot anger. How dare you? You ripped us apart! You ruined everything!

  I saved him. There would’ve been no us, no everything to destroy.

  The truth was a slap in the face. She’d told Tarin as much herself. She took a deep breath, refocusing her energy. She needed information. How can you be in both of us at once? she asked.

  I don’t know.

  Not helpful. Is he hearing this conversation?

  No.

  What does he hear? How does this work?

  He hears nothing except what I tell him. All I can pass to him are your most powerful emotions. Fear. Love. Agony. Sorrow.

  The thought of weighing Tarin down with any of those things tightened Annise’s chest. Does he know about this? That you are talking to me? That you are…with me?

  A purr. Yes. He knows.

  Shite. Tarin already hated himself for, while in the throes of his bloodlust, hitting her. If he also knew his monster had somehow slipped a part of itself into her…

  She tried not to think about it. There was no point in thinking about it.

  Will you change me? she asked, holding her breath.

  That’s for you to decide, it hissed. She felt the moment the monster slipped away, disappearing like an eel into an underwater hideaway.

  There was no doubt in her mind the monster would return.

  Twenty-Eight

  The Northern Kingdom, Castle Hill

  Sir Christoff Metz

  The men were laughing at him, that much he knew.

  It hurt sometimes, but Sir Christoff Metz was used to it. His entire life he’d been laughed at. He didn’t take offense, however, for he knew most people were afraid of what they didn’t understand. They only japed to make themselves feel better.

  Christoff hated japes. Hated dry humor. Hated sarcasm. He didn’t understand why someone would say something that wasn’t real, hiding secrets between their words like lies whispered on the wind.

  And these men he’d been charged to train liked to joke quite a lot. The latest was some absurd story about the time the Ice Lord walked into a tavern, and how his heart had melted from the heat of the fire whiskey, or some such nonsense. Instinctively, Christoff knew the story wasn’t true, that the Ice Lord hadn’t truly become made of ice until he’d drunk Darkspell’s monster potion and fought them in the castle. He also knew fire whiskey wasn’t actually made of fire. However, when he tried to point these errors out to the soldiers-in-training, they laughed, shaking their heads.

  He liked the women better, however. They were more serious about the training, watching him with keen, observant eyes and mimicking his motions with precision as they learned how to wield a sword in combat. It was unusual seeing women training with swords, but then again the queen and her aunt, Lady Zelda, who was now the queen regent, had fought bravely against her uncle in order to retake Castle Hill. And anyway, once he got used to seeing them dressed in tight-fitting garb, moving and whirling, parrying each other’s swords, he got past the fact that a few of them made him stir inside something fierce.

  One of the most attractive ones—her hair black, her eyes green, her eyebrows sharp and thin, her nose small and well-shaped—approached him now, sheathing her dull-edged practice sword. “Don’t let them get to you,” she said.

  Sir Metz’s heart pattered in his chest. These feelings had always been strange to him, and when he had them he usually found his mouth dry and his senses trembling. “Get to me? Why would they get to me?”

  She laughed softly, a beautiful, musical tone, and though Christoff hadn’t intended it as a jape, he found himself glad he’d said it.

  “I only meant they can be mean, but they shouldn’t be. You’re doing a fine job training us.” Those green eyes, sparkling as she met his…

  He looked away; direct eye contact had always been hard for him. It almost felt like he was being touched, which was even worse. If he could choose between being touched by a human hand—hands touched all kinds of things and were almost always dirty, even if they’d just been cleaned—or have a thousand spiders crawl all over him, Christoff would take the spiders.

  “I know,” he said, and she laughed again.

  “Have you ever held back something that was in your head?” she asked. Her hand was still gripping her sheathed sword, and the pose—the way her hips sat atop her legs, the lines of her arms, the way the sun hit her jawline just right—seemed to make his blood run a little faster through his veins, though he knew that was quite impossible.

  “Why would I do that?” he asked, frowning.

  She raised one of those delicate eyebrows, paused, and then said, “After training today, can you help me with the basic dueling positions?”

  He couldn’t say anything but “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” She strode away, back to her training partner.

  By then, the brief break was over, and the men had finally stopped laughing at his expense. He took them through the drills, correcting errors in their positioning until they were more precise in the angles of their swords and the placement of their feet.

  Still, even after three hours, they were far from perfect, something that rubbed on Christoff’s nerves. If it was up to him, he would stop the sun from sinking below the horizon so they could train for a few hours more, until they were up to his standards. But, of course, that was impossible, and he didn’t like to waste time on foolish hopes and dreams.

  It didn’t help that new recruits continued to arrive each day, having heard about the open call to join the Queen’s Army. Lately, most of them were women, a steady flow of femininity and strength that seemed to bother some of the men, who muttered inappropriate things under their breaths. When Christoff heard such nonsense, he punished them with kitchen duty, polishing armor—though that hardly felt like punishment to him—or scrubbing leathers. On occasion, one of the women would take offense to something one of the men had said, and he would punish them, too.

  All of his soldiers were treated equally, as it was meant to be, even the green-eyed beauty now approaching him once more as the rest of the men and women headed for the barracks to get cleaned up and locate supper.

  He knew the woman’s name—Private Sheary—as he knew all of his soldier’s surnames. Remembering names had always come easily to him, just as easily as remembering numbers or facts or anything else most people considered useless. But to Christoff, it wasn’t useless—it was order. He created order from chao
s, like setting up a bunch of fallen-over boots in a perfect line. It was only this order that allowed him to remain calm in a world that always seemed to be changing.

  Christoff also liked making connections between things. Like how when the wind blew from a certain direction at a certain time of year at a certain speed, it almost always meant a storm was brewing. He could pretty much predict the timing and intensity of a storm down to the day, if not the hour.

  Another example was the name of the woman who now stood before him expectantly, as if waiting for him to say something. Her surname—Sheary—was the same as that of Tarin Sheary, the Armored Knight, who’d left Castle Hill in secret a while ago. (He tried not to fault the man for shirking his duty, especially after how hard he’d fought for his queen, but it was hard for him not to.) His thoughts spilled to his mouth, as they often did.

  “Are you related to Tarin Sheary?”

  The woman blinked. He’d surprised her. “Not that I know of,” she said. “I was born in Blackstone, grew up there. When my parents died several years back, my auntie raised me. She died a year ago and I’ve been making my own way in the world ever since.”

  “Oh.”

  She stared at him, like she expected him to say something else. But what?

  After a brief silence, where he could feel her eyes on his, where he directed his stare to her earlobe—which was quite nice, Christoff noted, for an earlobe—she said, “Are you ready?”

  “For what?”

  The edge of her lip quirked. “To help me with my basic positions. Remember, like we agreed before?”

  “Of course I remember,” he said. And then: “First position!”

  She flinched, as if surprised by his barked command. Though she shouldn’t have been, Christoff thought, the whole thing had been her idea in the first place.

  She unsheathed her sword and assumed the position. Badly. Christoff cringed. Her feet were all wrong, the angle of her sword so poorly placed that an enemy strike would rattle it right out of her hands. She was looking him in the eyes, Christoff noticed, which was the one right thing she was doing—an enemy’s eyes were the windows to predicting his next move. In fact, combat was the only time Christoff ever managed to look anyone in the eyes for an extended period of time.

  He talked her through her mistakes. “Widen your stance. No, wider. Yes, that’s correct. Now your feet are off-center. Good, better. Still not perfect though. Now your sword. Lift it by a hand. A little higher. Yes. Straighten it out. Straighter. No, no, no!”

  Private Sheary threw her sword down in frustration. “You know, you could be a little nicer about it,” she muttered, bending down to retrieve her sword from off the packed snow.

  Christoff licked his lips, which he knew was a bad habit, especially in the north where his saliva would likely freeze. “I was just being honest,” he said.

  She took a deep breath. “I know. I’m sorry. I feel like I’m falling behind the other women.”

  “And the men,” Christoff chimed in.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “I was being droll.”

  “Oh.” I hate droll.

  “Maybe if you helped me,” she said, stepping closer. Too close, too suffocatingly close.

  Christoff stepped back. He could breathe again. He said, “I am helping you.”

  Her eyes narrowed slyly, and she said, “No, I mean help help me. Like move my arms where you want them to go. My legs. My hips. That sort of thing.”

  “I—” His mother always told him to choose his words carefully, so he wouldn’t come across as rude, but Christoff had never really understood what she meant. He only knew one way to explain things. Directly. “I’d rather not.”

  He managed to meet her eyes for a bare moment, and he saw something flicker in them, though he couldn’t discern what. This time, it was she who looked away. “I’ll get cleaned up.” She started to leave.

  “But I thought you wanted help with the basic positions. We haven’t even finished with the first one yet.”

  She turned back. “It’s fine. Really.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t certain what he was apologizing for. However, he suspected he’d offended her in some way, unintentionally.

  Private Sheary frowned. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

  “Make?”

  Her amused smile was back, and Christoff realized how much he preferred it to that other, shadowed look. “I don’t understand you.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Christoff muttered.

  She breathed out an airy laugh, shaking her head. “Shall we continue?”

  “Yes. First position!”

  Christoff wasn’t certain what he was feeling, exactly. Private Sheary had improved her basic positions, but she was still far from perfect.

  Yet, all things considered, it had been a fine day, as far as days went. It had been a week since his queen had departed with the others on their mission to the Hinterlands, and he finally felt like he was settling into a good routine.

  He sat on the bench in his private captain’s quarters and got to work.

  After a few minutes of hard polishing, his armor was gleaming. In fact, he could see his own wobbly refection in it, the dark shadow of red-brown stubble on his chin and cheeks. He would have to shave before bed, and then again in the morning. The captain of the Queen’s Army couldn’t look sloppy; he needed to set a good example for his soldiers, both men and women.

  Though, from experience, Christoff knew most would’ve stopped polishing at this point, he did not. No, he sought out the nooks and crannies, the secret places where dirt and grime liked to hide, to fester, to build up. He polished until his forearms burned, his dirty cloths piling up beside him…

  He polished until his armor was perfection.

  And then he polished some more, just to be certain.

  His brother, Jordo, had been just a baby when he fell down the well.

  Christoff, only eight years old himself, was supposed to be watching him while his mother finished sweeping the floors. Jordo was playing with some rocks behind their house, and anyway, he had only barely learned how to walk. Plus, Christoff had been distracted by the older boys with the wooden swords play-fighting nearby. He forgot about Jordo, watching as the boys moved, how they shifted their feet, the positions of their swords, counting their strokes. Christoff focused his attention on the boys who were winning, soaking in their movements like a sponge drawing water from a washbasin. Learning. Wishing he didn’t have to watch his brother so he could join in the fun.

  His brother! he remembered with a hint of alarm. How long had he left him alone? The sun hadn’t moved much overhead so it could only have been a few minutes. Still, Christoff raced back, calling, “Jordo! Jordo!”

  He found the rocks scattered nearby, but the baby was nowhere to be seen. Christoff whirled around, searching the yard for any sign of his brother, but nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Not even Christoff.

  The house! he told himself, feeling foolish. Either the baby had gone back inside on his own or, more likely, his mother had come out and found Jordo alone, so she’d taken him. Oh boy, Christoph knew he was going to get in big trouble for leaving the baby like that. He willed it to be true, wanting to get in trouble—because that would mean his brother was safe.

  His mother was still sweeping, her back to him. Jordo wasn’t there, the floor empty.

  Christoff backed out quietly, thinking, panicking, desperately searching the yard for any clue he might’ve missed.

  Then he saw it, his breath rushing out of him in a gasp.

  The well.

  The bucket, which he definitively remembered resting on the circular stone ledge, was gone.

  He raced over, giving up any idea of keeping this a secret as he screamed “Jordoooooo!”

  He barely heard the door slam as, presumably, his mother came outside to see what the commotion was all about. He reached the well, slamming into i
ts stone side, heaving his head over the lip, staring down into the inky gloom.

  Dark, so dark, the sound of moving water lapping against the sides, the long rope, slick with moisture, trailing into the shadows.

  And then a whimper.

  “Jordo! Jordo!”

  A spluttering scream and more splashing. “I’m going to save you!” Christoff called. A promise to his brother. A promise to himself.

  He yanked at the rope, hauling it as fast as he could, watching as the tin bucket emerged from the dark, spilling water from its edges, tear-like drops cascading below.

  Save for the water, the bucket was empty. No no no no!

  His mother arrived just then, her face awash with fear, having realized what had happened. She grabbed the bucket, tossing the water out while shouting, “Get in, Christoff!”

  He didn’t hesitate, fully understanding the situation and the only solution—the only hope—they had left. The moment he squeezed into the too-small bucket, his mother began lowering it into the darkness, the air around him growing colder with each passing moment. He craned his ear, listening for his brother’s whimpering, listening for his splashes, listening for anything to tell him there was still time—please let there be time…

  Toward the bottom, the pace of his descent slowed and the bucket hit the water with a soft goosh sound. He looked around him, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. Where is he where is he where is he…

  There! Small pale fingers drifting beneath the dark…

  He grabbed them, pulling, feeling the wet hand slip from his, falling away, submerging…

  He dunked his entire head, shoulders, and arms, reaching blindly into the murky water…

  Finding…nothing.

  And then, Jordo! Bubbles exploded from Christoff’s mouth as he tried to scream his brother’s name, pulling him up up up grasping him under the arms hauling him into the bucket where there was barely room for either of them his brother’s eyes closed no they need to open please open them screaming something to his mother who got the message and began hauling the bucket up but his brother wasn’t breathing Jordo you have to breathe you have to try you can’t die please don’t let him die.