Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  Like everything else the girl said, her words sounded more profound in sum than when taken individually.

  Annise shifted closer to one of the ice columns, her fingers trembling as she reached out to touch it.

  “Careful,” Lisbeth warned.

  Annise glanced at her, considered, and then touched the ice.

  Rise o’ queen! RISE RISE RISE RISE!

  Annise fell back, stunned by the power, the sheer volume of the voice that burst inside her skull. If Lisbeth heard the voice, too, she showed no evidence of it, standing as straight and stoic as before. “They have waited centuries for this night,” she said. “It’s no surprise they should be slightly overeager.”

  “You can hear them?”

  “The moment we entered they began their shouting. I hear them still. It makes it hard to have a conversation with you.”

  Once more, Annise was amazed by Lisbeth Lorne. Annise knew she wouldn’t be able to think, much less speak, with that voice in her head. And Lisbeth was hearing hundreds of shouts, a cacophony of raw sound energy. She approached the column once more, but this time made no move to touch it. Staring into the ancient knight’s eyes, she searched for any sign of him still being in there, still being alive.

  “What do we do?” she asked.

  Lisbeth turned toward her, and those blind eyes of hers once more seemed to pierce her flesh, her heart. “First, you must understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “This.” The glowing blue eye began to form on the girl’s forehead, slowly at first, but then brighter and brighter, until Annise was forced to squint or else be blinded.

  And then the Hall of War was gone, vanishing in an instant, replaced by a field of red flowers, blooming on every surface, glistening under the bright sun rising overhead. Hundreds—no, thousands—lay amongst them, bathing under the perfectly cloudless sky.

  Overcome by weariness, Annise wanted desperately to join them, to lie down, to rest amongst the scarlet bouquets. To sleep and sleep and sleep some more.

  And then she saw him, his sheer size unmistakable next to the other normal-sized people.

  Tarin.

  He, too, slept, his hands folded across his chest, his expression one of complete tranquility.

  A smile burst upon her lips, and Annise ran through the flowers, mindless of how she trampled them underfoot. She weaved through the sleeping people until she was by his side, falling upon him, touching his face—his real, real face—with its protruding veins, which were no longer black but devoid of color, snakes of pale flesh. She frowned, not understanding, shouting his name, kissing his lips with hers, pulling back sharply when she felt the iciness of his flesh. The unnatural cold.

  The world changed around her. The field turned to snow, the flowers to blood, the sleeping people to corpses marred with dozens of wounds, their blank stares trained skyward at the thick blankets of gray clouds that replaced the clear blue expanse.

  And she couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe couldn’t—

  “Tarin!” she screamed. Her voice bounced from icy wall to icy ceiling and back again, and she found herself back inside the Hall of War, only Lisbeth Lorne and the Sleeping Knights there to hear her cry. She gasped, her eyes wide, trying to catch her breath. “What…was…that? What did you show me?”

  The girl didn’t answer her question. “Once you release these souls, you cannot recall them. Their violence will be complete. Their destruction total. Those who threaten the north will die.”

  “Will he die?” She couldn’t say his name, not after feeling those cold lips, his unbeating heart beneath his chest, which refused to rise and fall.

  “I am not a soothsayer nor fortune teller,” Lisbeth said. “Your soul speaks for itself, as does mine.”

  Annise felt like crying. Felt like throwing things. Felt like running away, fleeing north, never looking back. At least that way she would never have to face this decision. If she didn’t release the Sleeping Knights, the north would fall. And if she did, Tarin would. Love or kingdom? Happiness or responsibility? Passion or honor?

  Why did she have to choose? Why couldn’t it be both? Why couldn’t she be both?

  Because I am queen. Because I chose this. For my people. For my mother. For Archer.

  The words were there, but they stuck in her throat.

  Oh, Tarin. Oh, Tarin. I’m sorry. So sorry.

  She swallowed. Licked her lips. Spoke.

  “Release them. Release them all.”

  “A queen has chosen,” Lisbeth said.

  Her skinmark began to glow, blinding blue light radiating outwards as the eye formed.

  Voices rose as if in response, a hundred speaking at once, unified in their message:

  Time, time, defend the north, defend, fight, war, victory, VICTORY!

  Annise looked away from the light, plugging her ears against the cacophony.

  The ground began to shake, and the blue ice pillars began to crack, sparkling crystals tinkling across the white floor of the Hall of War. Annise stared at the knights, each of whom stood atop their pedestals, unmoving, unblinking, their limbs frozen in place and time.

  In a strange way, Annise felt relief. It hadn’t worked. They’d waited too long to find the knights, and they were beyond recovery, their slumber eternal. At the same time, she felt a sense of failure. Those two warring feelings did battle in her chest and mind.

  But then:

  One by one, the knights broke free of their pedestals, their movements jerky at first, but smoothing out as they shook off the haze of centuries of disuse. The knights were tall and strong, each clad in mail and adorned with fine weapons that seemed as equally preserved as they. Whatever magic had kept these men alive over the years was powerful indeed, perhaps as strong as Lisbeth’s skinmark.

  “We know our orders,” they said, as one, though Annise had not spoken.

  “We march for Darrin at once,” Annise said, waiting for some sign that they agreed.

  Instead of a sign, the knights fell into line, marching from the Hall of War and out into the night. The Garzi, gathered outside, backed away, staring in awe at the scene before them. None moved to follow them, save for Annise and her travelling companions, each of whose jaws hung open. “How?” Archer said.

  “The girl,” Annise answered.

  She noticed Lisbeth Lorne hanging back, conferring with one of the Garzi—the old woman who had welcomed them to the village. The girl looked shaken, weakened, clutching the woman’s shoulder. Lisbeth noticed her gaze. “I will follow you,” she said. “I promise. But I must attend to something first.”

  Annise nodded, gesturing for her companions to stride to the head of the knight army.

  None looked back as they started south by another, longer route, avoiding the cliffs and their deadly tunnels.

  Thirty-Eight

  The Hinterlands

  Lisbeth Lorne

  Lisbeth’s entire body was shaking like a leaf. Crone held her, rubbing her hands along her sides, trying to warm her. The woman didn’t understand that it wasn’t the cold. It was what she’d heard as she released the Sleeping Souls. What she’d seen.

  A single word, repeated over and over in succession: HORDE. The word in and of itself meant nothing to her, but when combined with the fragments of images that flashed through her mind—horrific scenes of war and bloodshed, entire nations thrown down by their enemies, their cities burned, their people annihilated—Lisbeth could hardly breathe.

  What is this new threat? she wondered. The images had been so fleeting, so full of destruction but lacking detail.

  And then Zur was there, the warrior’s soul very much alive and conscious as he stood in the doorway. “Girl saw my daughter,” he said. Rather than an accusation, he sounded defeated. Exhausted.

  Lisbeth could not deny it. “Yes.”

  His soul bobbed, nodding. “Zur saw her too. Saw what girl saw. Never knew she was strong at the end. Brave. Proud of her.”

  Lisbeth didn
’t know what to say. She’d thought she’d broken the man by touching his soul; instead, it seemed, she’d enlightened him.

  Crone said, “Girl tell Zur what told me.”

  Lisbeth hesitated, but Zur encouraged her. “Girl is no enemy, Zur knows that now.”

  Lisbeth pursed her lips. “Thank you.” And then she told him what she’d seen and heard in the Hall of War.

  When she finished, Crone said, “Zur knows what girl speaks of?”

  “Yes,” Zur said, without hesitation. “The Fall of All Things. It has been foretold for centuries. That is why we honor the pact. That is why Garzi must never leave these lands. Cold lands safe.”

  Lisbeth’s heart hammered in her chest. “I have to go,” she said. She needed to catch up with the queen and her knight army. Needed to warn them of what was coming, even if she didn’t fully understand it herself. She stood and moved toward the door, but Zur blocked her. “Garzi do not fight below the lake. Girl knows that?”

  “Yes,” Lisbeth said.

  “Good.” He stepped aside. “Wish girl luck. Never return to these lands.”

  “I won’t,” Lisbeth said. “I promise.” With that, she flew outside, following the churned-up path of marching warriors through the snow. None of the Garzi tried to stop her.

  Thirty-Nine

  The Northern Kingdom, on the road to Darrin

  Sir Christoff Metz

  Since departing Castle Hill for Darrin with only his battalion of female soldiers—in strict obedience of Zelda’s command: None of your men shall go to Darrin’s aid—Sir Christoff Metz had learned something important:

  Women complained less and worked harder than men.

  It was because of this truth that they were ahead of schedule, a fact that helped comfort his orderly mind, even as he counted their continued steps toward Darrin.

  Back in Castle Hill, he’d left several of his more experienced men in charge, to continue training and to await his return. By now, Queen Regent Zelda would have learned of his deception. Though he’d not broken the letter of her orders, he’d certainly shattered the spirit of them, and he wasn’t so naïve to believe there wouldn’t be consequences. He could be stripped of his position as captain, or even have his knighthood revoked. However, to him, these risks were worth it. The people of Darrin needed help, and he was in a position to give it.

  He’d appointed Private Sheary as his aide for the journey, and she’d been a great help thus far, organizing camp in accordance with his very specific orders. She’d even come to him late the night before, appearing at his tent with a simple question: Do you need anything else from me? For a moment he’d hesitated, tongue-tied, for something about the look in her eyes took his breath away, but then he’d said, “No, thank you, Private. That will be all.”

  Why she’d looked disappointed at his response continued to confound him the next day, as they rode eastward through the snow.

  Inexplicably, she appeared beside him now, riding her brown-speckled white mare. “Private Sheary,” he said formally.

  “Captain Metz,” she said, lowering her voice sternly, as if imitating him.

  “Did I call for you?” He knew he hadn’t, but there was no other reason for her sudden appearance. Strict riding formation was necessary in the event of an unexpected enemy attack.

  “No,” she said. Nothing else, just No.

  He frowned, trying to decide what to say next without coming across as rude. Nothing sprang to mind, so he said nothing, the words of his mother guiding the decision: When in doubt, say nothing.

  Private Sheary laughed, removing her helmet to run a hand through her silky dark hair, her jade eyes glittering in the sun.

  Christoff’s frown deepened. “Did I miss a jape? That happens to me a lot.”

  She shook her head. “You miss more than just japes,” she said.

  He looked at her. Well, more like at her lips, which were pink and moist and almost more uncomfortable to look at than her eyes. “Explain.”

  “Last night,” she said.

  “Last night?”

  “When I came to your tent?”

  “You asked if I needed anything.”

  “Yes. And you turned me away.”

  “Yes. Because I didn’t need anything.”

  She laughed again. “You’re the queerest man I’ve ever met.”

  “I get that a lot,” he muttered.

  “And yet I continue to find myself drawn to you—why is that?”

  He stared at the path ahead, afraid to meet her eyes. No woman had ever spoken to him this way. Most just got angry with him and slapped him or threw water in his face. “Perhaps it’s my magnetic personality,” he blurted out, having no idea where the words had come from. Ah yes. A jape he’d once heard another knight make. He still didn’t understand it, not truly, but the collection of people gathered in the tavern had laughed loudly.

  And so, to his pleasure, did Private Sheary. “You surprise me at every turn,” she said. “May I visit your tent again tonight?”

  “For what purpose?” His cheeks felt hot, though the temperature was anything but.

  “To talk.”

  “About what? We cannot determine the strategy for Darrin until we reach the castle and assess the situation.”

  “Not about strategy. Just about life. About you. About me.”

  Something about those last two sentences felt strange, like she had joined them together in her mind. Women are a mystery I shall never understand, Christoff thought, which almost made him laugh considering he was now leading an entire platoon of them to battle.

  “I’m certain I don’t understand what you mean,” he said. “I have little and less to say about myself.”

  “Then I shall do the talking,” she said. “I will tell you stories to lighten your mood.”

  “An example please.”

  She looked away, seeming to consider his request for a moment. Then she spoke:

  “Last night, while we slept on the cold, hard ground, I imagined it was something else.”

  “What do you mean?” Besides women and jokes, imagination was yet another thing Christoff had yet to fully understand. Your imagination was removed before you were born, his mother always liked to say.

  “Well, before I joined the Queen’s Army, I was a maidservant for a lady in Blackstone. Not one of the major ones, but a rich one nonetheless. She wasn’t a particularly pleasant woman, but she paid me well and I never wanted for food, clothing or shelter. Anyway, she had this enormous bed—it was so big I swear the entire city could’ve slept on it.”

  Christoff had the strong urge to inform her of the impossibility of her statement—no bed could be that large—but managed, barely, to hold his tongue. His mother would’ve been proud.

  She continued. “This bed was crafted of the finest goose down, an entire mountain of it that must’ve cost a small fortune to procure from the west, back before the trade was cut off. When she slept on it, I swear she looked dead—that’s how peaceful she looked.”

  Metz didn’t comment—he understood comparisons as well as anyone. Private Sheary looked at him expectantly, and he remembered that at this point in a story, most people had this strange habit. Rather than argue the point, he complied, feeling like a sheep being herded. “Then what happened?”

  She smiled, as if reacting to her own private little joke. “Well, my mistress went out for the day, as she did sometimes. She didn’t require my services on this particular outing, so I was left to my own devices. What do you suppose I did?”

  Christoff was certain he didn’t have the faintest idea. He shrugged.

  “Take a guess.”

  Christoff hated guessing games. “Took a nap.”

  She clapped her hands, dropping the reins. “Exactly! On my mistress’s bed!”

  Christoff’s eyes widened, surprised. In retrospect, he should’ve connected the two halves of the story, but establishing these kinds of relationships between facts were hard for him, especially when
an action was such a clear breach of honor, duty, and etiquette. “She should’ve terminated your service,” he said.

  Private Sheary was fully laughing now. “She did, you dolt! When she found me sleeping atop her goose down bed, nestled in the covers, hugging her pillow to my chest, she canned me on the spot. But it was worth it, Captain Metz. I’ve never slept so well in my life. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought I was sleeping on a cloud.”

  The knight could hold his tongue no longer. “But a cloud is a gaseous vapor, like smoke. If you slept on a cloud you would likely fall to a violent death.”

  “Thank you for that lovely image.”

  “You’re welcome?”

  “My point is, last night as we slept on this awful, awful ground, I imagined I was sleeping on my old mistress’s bed. And you know what?”

  He shook his head, as baffled as ever.

  “I awoke this morning as refreshed as the day I was terminated from my lady’s service.”

  “That’s impossible,” Christoff said automatically.

  “It’s true.”

  “You must’ve found a soft spot, a bed of soft snow, or winter moss. Something.”

  “No,” she said. “I checked. My resting place was as hard as everyone else’s. My imagination fooled my body.”

  Christoff struggled to make sense of the senseless. The facts, if indeed they were facts, spread out before him, refusing to come into alignment. “But how?

  “Sometimes belief is more powerful than truth,” she said. “Sometimes imagination rules logic and wisdom.”

  She flashed a final grin, and, with that said, rode away, back into line.

  Christoff realized the distraction had made him lose count of his steps.

  More importantly, he didn’t care.

  When, as she’d promised, Private Sheary came to his tent that night, he didn’t turn her away when she asked, “Captain, do you need anything?”

  Instead, he said, “Yes, please. A story, if you will.”

  She smiled as she entered, sitting cross-legged across from him. “Of course. It shall be my pleasure.”