Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  Grey eyed the remaining weapons, which included one longsword, and a strange-looking knife no one had wanted. He grabbed the sword, but Kyla gripped his hand and said, “No,” prying his fingers apart so he’d drop it back in the chest.

  She reached down and handed him the knife. “Is this a comment on my manhood?” he quipped.

  She leaned closer, brushing lightly against him. No one else was watching, too focused on getting a feel for their weapons. “Do you want it to be?” she whispered. When he leaned closer, desperate to taste her, she slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Don’ git fresh with me, ye scoundrel!” she snapped.

  He flinched back, so shocked by her reaction and the brilliant impersonation of her father that he couldn’t hold back his laugh.

  “See?” she said. “No reason to worry about me amongst the pirates. I’ll be fine.”

  In a small way, it did comfort him. He nodded. More carefully this time, he inspected the blade she’d chosen for him, turning it over in his hand.

  “It was my grandfather’s,” she said.

  The knife, though short, had two blades, both in need of a sharpening, but strong and solid-looking. The handle was carved from some kind of bone. “Where did he get this?”

  “It was a gift,” she explained. “From a northerner. You might’ve heard of him. King Wilhelm Gäric.”

  Grey looked at the blade with newfound respect. “The Undefeated King? That is a royal gift indeed. Who was your grandfather to earn such a reward?”

  She lowered her voice, her eyes darting to her father, who was still distracted by his scimitar. “Only one of the most well-regarded merchants in the Four Kingdoms,” she said. “The Jewel was his ship. Though it might not look it now, it was once the pride of the merchant vessels. He was the preferred supplier for both the western and northern thrones, providing exotic spices from Teragon and many of the Crimean tapestries that still adorn their royal halls. King Gäric gave him this knife as a token of appreciation. The handle is carved from mamoothen tusk, the blade forged from Orian ore. A rare combination. Before he died, my grandfather passed it on to my father.”

  “Why is it gathering dust at the bottom of a chest?”

  Once more, Kyla’s eyes darted to her father. “For a while, my father maintained his father’s reputation. But after my mother died…”

  Grey remembered her stories about her mother, what her death had done to them both. He nodded. She didn’t need to explain further. Smithers had struggled, his business faltering with him. Repairs to the ship had been ignored, his top sailors had left for higher-paying gigs, and Kyla had gotten pregnant.

  Somewhere along the lines, he’d likely thrown the priceless knife into the chest, closing the lid on a legacy he’d rather not remember.

  “I’m sorry,” Grey said.

  “It’s fine,” Kyla said, though it was clear by her expression that parts of her had been stripped away by the experience. She began to busy herself with a leather belt, wrapping it around the knife’s bone handle.

  “Hey,” Grey said, trying to cheer her up. “At least it led us to this place, where we get to play pirates!”

  Glancing once more at her father, she pecked Grey on the lips and said, “Thank you.” She began strapping the knife to his stump, cinching it tightly.

  “For what?” He watched her agile fingers work, longing to hold them, to kiss them.

  “For saving me.”

  He wondered if she knew that she, in a way, had saved him too.

  “There,” she said, retracting her hands. “What do you think?”

  He looked at his useless stump, which was now a weapon. He moved it around and the knife followed. “It’s perfect,” he said, though he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

  Grey cleared his throat, feeling awkward all of a sudden. He’d been meaning to talk to Kyla about his past, but the time had never felt right. Now they were almost out of time. She noticed his discomfort and said, “What is it?”

  “Back in Knight’s End…”

  She straightened up, pinning him with a stare. “You never talk about Knight’s End.”

  He forced out a laugh. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m embarrassed. I was a different person back then.”

  She took his hand, smiling. “We all change, Grey. I don’t care about the past, only what I see in front of me. But if it would make you feel better to tell me something, I will listen without judgment.”

  So he told her the parts of the story he’d always left out. He told her about Grease Jolly, the thief he had once been. And, finally, he told her about Rhea, and how he and Shae had ended up in their situation in the first place.

  When he finished, Kyla pulled back, dropping his hand. Shite, he thought. Maybe that was a bad idea. But then her eyes lit up and she said, “Grey! This is fantastic! I have a plan. But it’ll involve you becoming Grease Jolly again, I hope that won’t be a problem?”

  Seventy-One

  The Southern Empire, Phanes, Phanea

  Bane Gäric

  “Falcon Hoza,” Bane whispered, gesturing surreptitiously at the young man riding a chariot through the sunken canyon streets of Phanea. Chavos followed the man with his eyes, but said nothing.

  Bane watched the new emperor, too, trying to read him. Was he a bad man, like his father, Vin Hoza, had been? Was he a warmonger and a slave lover? Was he ravenous to expand his power and territory, as most of the rulers in the Four Kingdoms seemed to be?

  His father certainly was, which was why Bane had been forced to kill him. Because Emperor Vin Hoza was slavemarked, his death had instantly released all of the slaves from the mystical nature of their bondage. Then again, it hadn’t really changed anything—they were all still slaves—which told Bane much of what he needed to know about Falcon Hoza.

  On his chariot, his face powdered, his skin gleaming with gemstones, he was an iron-fisted emperor in every sense of the word.

  Bane was tempted to vanish and reappear on the chariot behind him and slit his throat, but something about it seemed too barbaric for this stage in his evolution. He was beginning to hone his skills, his methods, and he needed the people to start seeing him the way he saw himself—as a savior.

  Chavos was so near to him now that Bane was beginning to get nervous. Then again, they’d slept for a week in close proximity and the plaguemarked man hadn’t once tried to touch him.

  “Can I ask you something, Chavos?” Bane said, turning to face his companion.

  Chavos remained silent, offering only the slightest nod as a sign that he’d heard the question.

  “What is your purpose?”

  The young, pale-faced man blinked, surprised by the question. He licked his lips, looking uncomfortable. Finally, he said, “I have no purpose.”

  “That’s why you tried to kill yourself at the Southron Gates?”

  Chavos shook his head. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone else. If you hadn’t saved me, the world would be safe.”

  “From you, yes,” Bane admitted. “But not from the greater evils that are out there. You have an excuse. When you touch someone, they get the plague and die. You were born like that. But men like”—he spat the name out—“Falcon Hoza, kill hundreds or even thousands simply because they can.”

  Bane saw the look in Chavos’s eyes—he’d seen it before, when he’d first met him. Like a lost lamb, wide-eyed and scared. Maybe he isn’t going to kill me after all. In fact, I don’t think he has it in him.

  That thought comforted Bane greatly. Maybe he wouldn’t have to be alone after all.

  Chavos didn’t say anything for a long time, watching the dust settle as the emperor’s chariot faded away into the distance. Sweat dribbling down his face, forming tracks on his dry face, he said, “I want to help. I won’t fail the kingdom this time. I swear it.”

  Bane smiled, feeling warm inside, and not from the heat. “I know you won’t. Now let me show you something else.”

  Seventy-Two

  The Sout
hern Empire, Phanes

  Jai Jiroux

  Strong hands grabbed him, hauling Jai to his feet. He felt like he’d just fallen asleep, only to be jerked back awake by a force he was blind to comprehend.

  And then he was falling, hitting the ground with a vicious thud, the wind bursting from his lips. “Sorry, old friend,” a voice whispered in his ear.

  Axa’s.

  Pain bloomed in his knee, radiating up his thigh and down his calf. He couldn’t help it—he groaned in agony.

  Other slaves were awakening now, asking what was happening. Tired heads turned in his direction. Jig was on his feet, trying to help, but one of the other mine masters held him back, his little arms swinging at nothing but air. Don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him.

  Thankfully, they didn’t, probably on direct orders from Axa. Thank you, Axa, Jai thought, just as the man kicked him again, in the same spot. Something crunched—his bone perhaps.

  Stars erupted across Jai’s vision, and he almost blacked out, only just managing to curl up in a ball to protect himself from the next kick, which glanced off the thickest part of his leg.

  Axa grabbed the front of his tattered shirt and pulled Jai’s face directly in front of his. He was feigning anger, red and hot, but Jai could see right through it, could see the deep sadness again. The regret. “Never drop your pick again, slave,” Axa growled.

  A few slaves were crowding around now, but none tried to help him. There were three dozen mine masters, all heavily armed, there to dole out additional punishments if necessary. No one wanted to take a beating for no reason.

  “Do you understand?” Axa said, when Jai said nothing.

  “Yes,” he breathed, another slash of pain erupting from his knee.

  Axa shoved him down and stalked off.

  Jai longed to tell so many people what he was planning, but he couldn’t. The risk was simply too great. If his people, his friends, were questioned, he needed them to genuinely be able to say they knew nothing about what he was going to do.

  At the same time, he didn’t want them to think he’d abandoned them. They know me, he reminded himself. They know I wouldn’t do that.

  As he hobbled to the tunnels on one leg, hefting his axe over his shoulder, he prayed to every god and goddess in the sky and beneath the sea and on dry land that his and Axa’s plan would work.

  At his slow pace, other slaves passed him, most offering him pitying looks, some patting him on the back and urging him to “Stay strong.” Some even offered him the three-fingered salute he’d invented. One finger for the masters, one for the slaves, and one for them, people who, at least in their own minds, were neither masters nor slaves.

  At the entrance to the area of the mine currently being worked stood a despicable master named Carvin. Jai gritted his teeth, because Axa was supposed to be at this post on this morning. Axa was supposed to—

  “Jai Jiroux,” a commanding voice called from behind. Jai stopped, his knee almost buckling. Marella and Viola had cared for him the night before, using whatever materials they could find to bind his knee. It wasn’t enough; Axa had done his job well.

  Now Axa strode up to him, his eyes casting over Jai’s shoulder to find Carvin on guard. “You’re late,” Jai whispered.

  “You look incapable of mining today, slave,” Axa said. Under his breath, he said, “The bird was here early. I had to ensure he stayed.”

  Jai said, loudly, “Even without a leg and an arm I can mine as well as any two slaves.” It was all for show, of course, both for the other slaves and for Carvin. Several slaves laughed, but kept moving, flowing around him.

  “I won’t lose a slave because of your stubbornness. To the infirmary.”

  Jai didn’t look back to see Carvin’s reaction. He merely shrugged and said, “As you command,” and headed back against the human flow.

  The “infirmary” was a small cave with several dirty cots, a nasty healer nicknamed the Cutter, and a shelf full of surgical tools and vials of strange concoctions. Most of the supplies were used simply to ease a slave’s pain and get him or her back on their feet and working as quickly as possible.

  There were no other slaves in the infirmary today, another detail Axa had arranged.

  “Lie down,” the Cutter said. He was a short Phanecian man, his hair dark and plastered to his scalp. Though his face was powdered, he wore no jewelry—probably because he would only ruin it with the blood of his patients. He wore a bloodstained frock over his clothing.

  Jai obeyed, easing back onto the cot. Though the bed was lumpy and hard, it was the softest thing he had laid upon for months, and an audible sigh of pleasure rose from his throat, unbidden.

  “Don’t get used to it,” the Cutter said snidely, inspecting Jai’s leg. “Savages,” he muttered, sniffing at the dirty, makeshift bandages fashioned from bits of torn clothing. Jai wanted to point out that they’d done the best they could, but didn’t think the healer would be interested. No, people like him had minds so closed they were like steel vaults. A statement like The Terans are savages was as much a fact as The sky is blue or The emperor is rich.

  So Jai kept his mouth shut and persevered, as the man pushed and twisted, prodded and poked, until the pain was on the verge of making him pass out.

  “Hurts, does it?” the Cutter said, and Jai wanted to slap him.

  “A little,” he said instead, gritting his teeth.

  “Might need to amputate.”

  Hence, his nickname. It was his standard answer to most ailments. Jai thanked the gods Axa hadn’t accidentally kicked him in the head. “Please. Don’t take my leg.” Jai said it blandly, with no emotion. The act was over—Axa would be there any moment.

  The healer blinked. “I’ll get my saw.”

  “Get out,” Axa said, right on time.

  “But—”

  “Out.”

  “Yes, master.” Though the healer wasn’t technically a slave, he answered to Mine Master Axa just like everyone else in Garadia. Jai remembered those days, but didn’t miss them one bit.

  With the healer gone, Axa said, “I’ll pay him to keep his silence. He will be a very rich man when the day is done.” He got to work on the chains, unlocking them in four places using a thick iron key that hung on a chain around his neck.

  “And the bird?” Jai asked when he finished. He massaged his wrists and ankles, which were raw and chafed from the constant rubbing of the manacles.

  “Still here. He’s anxious to get back to Phanea, as he is under strict orders to return, but I ordered him to stay. It’ll hold him for a while.”

  Jai nodded. “What will you do to him?” This was the part he hadn’t asked about—he thought he’d rather not know, but now that it came down to it, he couldn’t not know.

  “When you say it like that, you make it sound so sinister,” Axa said.

  “Just tell me.”

  “Nothing so bad. He’s a slave. I’ll simply redirect him to another city, another master. No one will care.”

  It was true, Jai knew. Slaves were traded and passed around like common collectibles. The bird had been their code name for a common slave, a cripple, whose place Jai was about to take. “What else do I need to know?”

  “He walks hunched over, dragging his left leg behind him. His left arm doesn’t work properly, so he curls it under, like this.” Axa demonstrated the slave’s mannerisms. Jai tried it out, finding it wasn’t so difficult in his current condition. Having Axa injure two of his limbs had been Jai’s idea—he wanted to be the most authentic cripple he could be. The fate of the empire might depend on it.

  “What about my face?”

  “He’s young, about your age. His eyes are narrower than yours. His skin is redder. Here.” Axa rummaged in the satchel before handing him a pouch of dye and two clear, thin pins.

  Jai was beginning to hate their plan. However, he didn’t complain, using a small mirror and the pins to pierce the skin of each eyelid, pulling them to each side and fixing them in place
. It was harder to see, his vision blurred, but it would have to do.

  Next he spilled the dye into a large basin Axa pointed out in the corner. The water turned bright red. “How long do I need to be in?” he asked.

  “Just a few moments—the dye is potent. The effect will last several months.”

  Jai quickly stripped out of his slave clothing and stepped into the water, fully submerging himself. He held his breath for ten long heartbeats, and then rose above the surface. Axa handed him a towel, which he used to clear the dyed water from his eyes and lips, before drying the rest of his body, which was now a reasonable shade of Teran red.

  “Wear this.” Axa tossed Jai a satchel containing a white shirt and gray trousers. Considering they were meant for a slave, the clothing was in decent condition, free of holes or tears. Jai had been to the palace often enough to know that the slaves there were treated well, all things considered. Then again, not having one’s freedom was the cruelest life of all, no matter the circumstances.

  He quickly donned the new garb. Axa talked while he changed. “People see what they want to see, and a cripple is the most invisible of all. Everyone knows he’s there, but no one actually sees him.”

  “And I’ll be working for the Hozas?”

  Axa grinned. “In the palace, yes. Not directly for them, but cleaning their messes and emptying their chamber pots. Should be fun.”

  “Thank you, Axa,” Jai said. He wasn’t being droll. The mine master had risked much to help him.

  Axa, however, shook his head, unwilling to accept his appreciation. “My debts will never be repaid in this lifetime, but I will continue to try. And I will be there when you next need me. That is a promise.”

  Jai nodded, clasping the man’s arm. He offered the three-fingered salute with the other hand. There was nothing left to say, so Jai left, falling into the role of a man known as Birdie.