Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  “What are you saying?” Grey said slowly.

  “Tell him, lass,” Smithers said, gesturing to Kyla.

  She was beaming. “We’re coming with you, Grey.”

  What? “No. You can’t.” This, of all things, was not what he wanted. Pirate’s Peril was a danger he and he alone would face.

  The captain stood, moving around the desk to slap him hard on the back. “We can and we will. That’s the deal, unless ye’d rather swim.”

  Grey groaned. “Sailing a merchant vessel into Pirate’s Peril is like…” He searched for the right comparison.

  “Like a lamb wanderin’ into a lion’s den?” the captain offered, looking all too pleased with himself. “’Bout right, I esspect.”

  “But the other men,” Grey said.

  “They’ve already agreed to it. Days ago.”

  Grey shook his head, trying to make sense of the nonsensical. “Kyla?”

  Kyla said, “I’m going, Grey. I told you you’re stuck with me. Get used to it.”

  “Shae?”

  Shae, still grinning, said, “This was always my path. I think we both know that.”

  Grey did. Though he’d had the best intentions of slipping away on his own to seek answers on her behalf, in the honest part of his heart he always knew she wouldn’t allow it. Nor was it his place to do so.

  “Why?” Grey asked the captain, who’d stuffed a plug of tobacco under his lip.

  He chewed for a minute and then spit in a tin cup. “Boredom, I guess. Me and me men, we’ve bin sailin’ this route fer a long time. Too long. It’s exhaustin’. We barely turn a profit as ’tis. A bit of a pirate adventure seems jest the thing we need.”

  Grey didn’t know about that, but he also knew having a ship would offer them a much greater chance of escape, when the time came. He had nothing else to say, other than, “Thank you, Captain. For everything.”

  The man’s smile faded away as he said, “Don’ make me regret it, son.”

  Sixty

  The Southern Empire, Phanes

  Jai Jiroux

  Vin Hoza, the Slave Master, was dead.

  And yet, nothing had changed. After that fateful night in which it felt as if everything had changed, when the metaphorical chains were broken, the slave marks vanishing from thousands of slaves’ necks across Phanes, Garadia Mine, Jai’s prison, had erupted in cheers. Men, women, and children, most of Teran or Dreadnoughter origin, had rushed through the tunnels, racing for the mine’s entrance. They could smell freedom, sweet and fragrant. Finally, at long last, within their reach.

  The masters, including Mine Master Axa, had reacted swiftly, slipping from the cavern and dropping the steel gate, barricading the mob inside. One of the masters had been too slow—there wasn’t much left of him when the mob had finished. The previously docile slaves had raged, screaming threats and curses through the bars, but their words were empty, lost on the wind.

  A day later the reinforcements arrived from the canyon city of Phanea. Hundreds of armed soldiers trained in the martial art of phen ru marched on the mine. By then, hungry and exhausted, the slaves had had no choice but to succumb to the force gathered against them.

  The few who had fought back were killed, an example set for the remaining slaves.

  It was at that moment that Jai Jiroux, previous Garadia Mine Master, realized two things:

  First, that it had never been Vin Hoza and his slavemark alone that had enslaved the people.

  Second, that true escape was impossible so long as a Hoza ruled the empire.

  It was these two truths that fed him now, day by day, as he toiled alongside his people in the mines, chiseling away rock to uncover enough raw diamonds to make the new emperor of Phanes, Vin’s son, Falcon, a very rich man. All the while, Jai was making plans.

  Not to escape, no, such notions had been futile, pointless. Childish dreams as unattainable as touching the stars in the night sky.

  Weighed down by ball and chain and a heavy axe he swung again and again and again, he glanced down the line of slaves. There was poor Jig with his gimpy foot, gathering rock dust to be sifted. There was Sonika Vaid, the previous leader of the all-female rebel group known as the Black Tears, her eyes as dark and sly as ever, hammering away. Twice since her slave mark vanished, she’d attempted to escape. Now her strong back bore the scars from the beatings. In private, out of earshot from the mine masters, she told Jai she would keep trying until she succeeded, or died in the attempt.

  One didn’t cage someone like Sonika Vaid and expect a good result.

  Jai had other plans.

  This time he would fight back. Gods help anyone who tried to stop him.

  “We’re leaving tonight,” Sonika hissed. Her smooth brown skin was dotted with black tears, permanently etched in her flesh. A reminder. Once Jai had believed the rumors—that each tear was for someone she’d killed. Instead, each tear was for someone she’d lost.

  Sonika Vaid had a lot of tears. Too many.

  Jai shook his head. “It’s too soon. The masters are watching you and the Black Tears like vulzures.”

  Sonika looked away, scanning the cavern they ate in, slept in, bathed in, lived in. She’d been the one to give these slaves freedom once, even if it wasn’t permanent, and Jai wouldn’t be surprised if she accomplished the same thing a second time.

  If she didn’t get herself killed first.

  When she looked back at Jai, her face was determined. “I can’t stay another night in this place. I have to try. The Tears are ready. It’s already planned.”

  Jai knew there was no point arguing further; it would only draw attention, and when Sonika had made up her mind about something, there was no changing it. “May Surai’s light shine upon you.”

  “Thank you, but the Goddess of Light can shine on you, too, Jai. Come with us.”

  A swell of sadness rose inside him. In truth, he wanted nothing more than to escape this place. And he would, eventually, but under his own terms, in his own way. The wheels were already turning, just in a different direction. “We will meet again,” he said. “I promise. It will be a beautiful day indeed.” He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them. She was the sister Jai had never had.

  When he met her eyes again, he was surprised to see tears sparkling in them, more beautiful than the diamonds speckling the mine walls. And then she was gone, carrying her lead ball on her shoulder, her chains clanking.

  He hoped he wouldn’t see her again, but feared he would, fresh scars etched into her back.

  “You’re not eating,” Marella said, nodding toward Jai’s plate.

  He flushed. He hadn’t even realized she’d filled his plate with the day-old bread and mushy beans. His mind had been elsewhere, wondering where Sonika and her Tears were. The mine had been abuzz ever since they escaped the night before.

  She did it, Jai thought. She really did it. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised—she was the most capable woman he’d ever met, save perhaps for Shanti—but he was. Garadia was a fortress these days, with more mine masters than Jai had ever seen in one place in his life.

  Other slaves were talking about revolting, but they were a minority. Since the escape, the guards had used their whips more. Jai knew an outright revolution wasn’t the answer. Sonika would do her part, he was certain. But it still wouldn’t be enough.

  The only answer was to fight from within. It was something he’d believed in as a mine master, and he still did, only a new approach was necessary.

  “Jai?” Marella’s wide eyes were narrowed into a look of concern.

  Oh gods, he’d done it again.

  “Sorry, Marella. My mind is heavy on this night.”

  “Is it because of the Black Tears’ escape?” Jig, Marella’s son, asked. The straw-haired boy was literally bouncing with excitement.

  “No, idiot, it’s because of his arm!” Viola, Jig’s older sister, said. The young girl was the spitting image of her mother, from the coppery hair to the round blue eyes to h
er heart-shaped face. Her hair was beginning to grow long again, a requirement for all female slaves, while Jig’s was chopped short. The family was of Teran descent, and in their culture it was the males who usually wore their hair long.

  Jai was only half-Teran, his mother having been a slave, but his eyes had none of the narrowness typical of Phanecians.

  “I’m not an idiot! You’re an idiot!” Jig retorted, pushing his sister.

  Marella cleared her throat and raised a single finger, and that was all it took for the siblings to quiet down. “Viola, you will not call your brother any names, is that clear?”

  The girl nodded meekly, while Jig beamed.

  The boy’s grin faltered, however, when Marella turned her wrath on her son. “And you will not push your sister. Correct?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Good.” Jai smiled in appreciation of the stern but warm woman he’d been friends with for more than five years. She’d faced enough heartache and tragedy to make the strongest of souls falter, but she hadn’t. Nor would she ever, Jai knew. “How is your arm?” she asked now.

  Viola leaned closer to Jai, batting her eyes at him. The girl was naught but twelve but she’d been infatuated with Jai since she was nine.

  Jai cradled his left arm against his body, while using his right to use the bread to scoop up some mushed beans. “Could be better, but it won’t kill me.”

  “Now you’re like me,” Jig said. “Except with your arm instead of a leg.” The comparison seemed to make the boy happy.

  “Correct you are, young Emperor,” Jai said. The nickname made Jig giggle and Viola roll her eyes.

  The leg will be next, Jai thought. If his plan was to work, the injuries needed to believable, if temporary. Earlier that day, he’d thrown down his pick in sight of Garadia’s Mine Master, Axa. Axa, who was in on the plan, had reacted the only way he could: with extreme violence. He’d thrown Jai to the ground and kicked him repeatedly in the arm. Jai had to hand it to him—the man could kick. He thought it might be broken, but he wasn’t certain.

  Axa’s eyes had met his for a spare moment as the master walked away, and Jai had seen the self-loathing in the man’s expression. Jai relished seeing that look, because it gave him hope. Not in the world—but in people. Axa had once been the nastiest, most violent of Jai’s mine masters, and yet he had changed for the better. All it took was his enslavement—seeing what it was like. He’d walked many miles in the shoes of his victims and found compassion in his heart somewhere during the journey. Even the sting of his betrayal at the Southron Gates had faded; after all, Jai knew it wasn’t his fault—Axa had been cursed with a slave mark at the time.

  And now he was helping Jai in the exact manner Jai had requested: By beating the living rock dust out of him.

  If Sonika and her Tears could escape, so could he. He would walk right out the front door, none the wiser.

  Sixty-One

  The Southern Empire, Phanea

  Falcon Hoza

  Falcon Hoza, newly anointed Phanecian Emperor, had a real mess on his hands.

  And he felt utterly unprepared for it. His father, the Slave Master, was supposed to live forever. He now realized how ridiculously foolish that belief had been. How childish.

  I am no emperor, he thought now, sitting in the very chair that said the opposite. The plush throne was so big, and yet his father had always seemed to fill it so completely.

  Falcon was positively swimming in it. More like drowning, he thought, as the three generals approached. No, not the generals, he thought. My generals.

  As they approached, he glanced back at his younger brothers, Fang and Fox, each of whom looked utterly unperturbed by the situation, their white-powdered faces and narrow eyes expressionless. Behind them, the Three Great Pillars rose to the ceiling, seeming to bear the weight of the world upon their backs. Each was etched with a different marking: the Fist, the Sword, and the Whip. Symbols of violence and justice; at least that was what he’d been taught as a young boy. The Fist for brothers, the Sword for enemies, and the Whip for slaves.

  Falcon turned to face his generals, using the one talent that had served him better than any thus far: faking it.

  Growing up a Hoza had forced Falcon to either pretend to be like his father and brothers, or be stomped beneath their collective trod. So he did, day after day. As a young boy, he’d mastered phen ru before either of his younger siblings, and then he’d used it to defeat them in hand-to-hand combat again and again, until they knew he couldn’t be beaten.

  Sometimes, afterwards, as he rinsed the blood from his hands and feet, he would dry heave into the wash basin.

  When he turned twelve, Falcon had his head shaved, save for a narrow scythe of hair down the center. Gaudy emeralds were supposedly sewn into his scalp. He pierced his ears and adorned them with diamonds. He powdered his face daily, in the way of his people.

  And now, just yesterday, in the traditions of Phanecian emperors of the past, he’d had his eyebrows permanently removed, “sewing” jewels in their stead.

  To anyone who couldn’t see into his heart, he was a Phanecian emperor, haughty, powerful, and absurdly wealthy.

  “Speak,” he said now, addressing the general in the center, a grizzled veteran of war named Killorn.

  The man stood up straight, his dark eyes devoid of fear. He wore leather battle armor, flexible enough to flip and spring in. His chest bore the four-eyed lioness, the symbol of Phanes. Strapped to his footwear were blades. Similar blades were lashed to his wrists. This man had killed hundreds, if not thousands, of foes in battle. He was violence in the body of a man, and he bore the scars to prove it.

  “Before he died, your father chose not to repair the two destroyed Gates,” General Killorn said.

  “I know this,” Falcon said. “He wanted to welcome our enemies across the border. He wanted war.”

  The general nodded. “We are prepared. Those north of us believe our defenses have been weakened, but it is the opposite. The slave army is stronger than ever, ten thousand strong. Prepared. Trained.”

  Falcon shook his head, trying to hide his discomfort at all this talk of war. “But not loyal. Before, my father controlled them with magic. Now they could easily drop their weapons on the battlefield and join the ranks of those who march upon us.”

  The general smiled, which made Falcon frown. What was this man not telling him? “Your father was a man of secrets, even from you,” he said.

  Falcon’s frown deepened. This was not what he had expected. He’d been ready to declare that the Gates be rebuilt, that war be averted, or at least delayed. “What secrets?”

  “The slave army was never marked by chains—your father never controlled them the way he did the other slaves.”

  Falcon didn’t need to ask why—it all became clear in an instant. “He knew he’d be killed eventually.”

  It wasn’t a question, but the general said, “Yes. His life was threatened daily. He pretended it didn’t affect him, but he prepared for his eventual death. He wasn’t willing to risk his army’s loyalty on his tatooya alone. For his army, he only used child slaves, those he could mold into warriors, those he could influence, those he could break. This army is his legacy.”

  “You’re saying the slaves are loyal to Phanes?”

  “They are obedient, which is almost the same thing. If you’re asking whether they will fight for you, the answer is yes.”

  Deep inside himself, Falcon sighed. On the exterior, he forced steel into his eyes, his expression. He said, “Good. Then we shall plan for war. May our enemies’ blood run like rivers through the desert.”

  Falcon was preparing for bed. First, he wiped the powder from his face. Then he removed the jewels from his scalp, eyebrows, and ears. He couldn’t bear the weight of them any longer; not the weight on his skin, but on his soul. For he had seen the mines, the slaves toiling in those horrid places. None knew the gems weren’t truly sewn into his skin, but only stuck on each day, using the adhes
ive sap from the lyptus tree.

  His father was a man of secrets, yes, but so was he.

  Beside his father’s enormous bed—the same bed Vin Hoza had been murdered in—Falcon prepared a thin mattress and pillow. He needed no blanket as the Southron air was hot and thick. The first night after being made emperor, he had tried lying in the bed, but tossed and turned uncomfortably for several hours before shifting to the floor. He’d slept there ever since.

  Hidden in his bedroll was a book, one he’d procured in secret. He’d read it half a dozen times already, as he did with most books, before eventually getting a new one. According to his father, literature was for women, whereas men should focus on things of substance, like training, power, and wealth. His father only made exceptions for true works, which he had read to his sons so they could learn from the past failures and successes of their ancestors.

  This particular book would’ve turned his father’s face red in anger.

  It was fiction, for one, a story invented by a famous Dreadnoughter storyteller. The story was centered around a forbidden love between a man and woman on opposite sides of a bitter war between kingdoms. The man was a prince, the woman a princess. Their fathers hated each other. Their people killed each other.

  Falcon eagerly turned the pages, soaking in the author’s words, the growing suspense as the young lovers were nearly discovered in the throes of rapture on numerous occasions. And yet, despite the risks they faced, they refused to let their love be consumed by the hate between their families.

  In the end, he knew, they would die because of their beliefs, their love. Still, each time he approached those final pages, Falcon hoped their story might change. That they might escape, sail to a faraway land where they could live in peace and happiness.

  And each time he was disappointed as they died in each other’s arms, killed by their own kin.