Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  When you were as old as he was, you learned a few tricks.

  Still, Bear knew that Roan could read every word in those books and he still wouldn’t have the answer he craved. Mother, I am here; I am fighting for the peace you believed in, the peace you died for.

  Of course, she didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure whether the Western Oracle was gone forever, or if she was merely sleeping, her soul exhausted from the years of waiting.

  But that didn’t matter, because Bear was here. Bear was the answer, the truth of his mother’s wisdom inked on his very skin, hidden beneath his dark cloak. He’d lived many lives, but this one was the only one that truly mattered. I shall be the truthbringer, he thought. Mother, I will not fail you.

  He retrieved the book from his deep pocket; he’d removed it from the bookshelves days ago, safeguarding it until this very moment, when the time felt right. His large fingers brushed the tattered leather cover, tracing the letters etched into it. The Death of Absence, it was titled. A Story of Woe, by the Western Oracle. Despite the years, seeing his mother’s title, the one that had condemned her in the end, brought a tear to his eye.

  He dashed it away before it could fall on the book.

  He opened the book to the last page, which contained only two sentences. Four words.

  Absence lives. Find It.

  A shiver ran down Bear’s spine. He plucked a quill from the floor, dipping it carefully in a pot of ink. Slowly, he penned a brief message:

  Find Absence. Find the Truth. And find me.

  Bear Blackboots.

  On silent feet, he travelled the arc of the top-level corridor, until he was immediately outside the room. No sounds arose but breathing and the occasional turning of pages.

  He propped the book against the wall and left.

  It was time for another voyage, the first he had taken since his childhood.

  He’d departed Teragon a boy; he would return as a man.

  Seventy-Nine

  The Southern Empire, Citadel

  Windy Sandes

  The large, bearded man thought he was a ghost, floating in secret through the archives. But he wasn’t, at least not to Windy. The archives were hers, and she knew everything that happened within their bounds.

  Through a false mirror hanging on the wall, she saw the man write something in the old book and then leave it outside Roan Loren’s study.

  After the man left, and she assumed he was gone for good, she stole through the large, domed space, and took the book.

  Hours later, her eyes burning from lack of sleep, she turned to the last page. Saw the message. Bear Blackboots, she thought. The name sounded familiar, and yet she couldn’t place it. She’d read a lot of books over the years, more than she could count or keep track of. This was a fleeting name, one she’d probably come across in the midst of one scholarship or another.

  “Who are you?” she wondered aloud. And what have you to do with the Teran god, Absence? Or with the Western Oracle, for that matter. For she knew it was information on the Oracle and her legendary fatemarks that Roan was seeking.

  The urge to take the book to Roan Loren and demand answers rose inside her, but she tempered such hasty actions. She was a woman of patience, of wisdom. No, first she would see how this played out before offering the book in exchange for his story.

  And then, perhaps, they would take a trip south, across the Burning Sea. Together.

  Eighty

  The Southern Empire, Calypso

  Raven Sandes

  Guta had lived for a few more hours, drifting in and out of consciousness, before eventually succumbing to the smoke inhalation.

  Raven, more than ever before, wanted to sit down and cry. Instead, alongside Rider and Shanolin, she stared at Kesh as it burned all the day long and into the night. They didn’t sleep; they didn’t speak. Their dragons seemed to understand the gravity of the situation, remaining equally silent and calm.

  At dawn, Raven buried Guta in the middle of the destroyed oasis. It’s what he would’ve wanted, she knew. They picked through the still-hot rubble, finding dozens of other bodies. Guta’s employees, probably. Travelers, maybe. One of the guanero perhaps, whomever had survived the battle on the borderlands only to die in Kesh.

  Heavy footprints marred the sand to the north of the desert village, pushing northeast, back toward the border. The eastern army, Raven knew. It was the furthest they had ever ventured into the Scarra, a bold act that had struck a blow that might as well have been the heart of the empire.

  Staring at the destruction around her, it felt strange. The last time Raven had been here, it had been a vibrant oasis of joy in the midst of a harsh desert landscape. Now, it was nothing but a burnt tangle of sticks and canvas, palm and brush. Despite the change, she no longer felt sick, her stomach formed of leather and fire.

  No, she felt only anger, dragonfire in her blood.

  Rider shook her head, while Shanolin said, “This was an act of war.”

  “Yes,” Raven agreed. She could deny the dragon master no longer.

  “We must return to Calypso immediately and convene the war council.”

  “Soon,” Raven said. “First we must stop in Citadel.”

  Shanolin frowned. “Why? What is in the City of Wisdom that could possibly help us plan a war?”

  Raven had not informed her of her guanero commander’s secret mission. “Goggin, for one. And information. Something that could change everything. When we attack Ferria, our victory must be total this time. Next to what we are going to do, the Dragon Massacre will be remembered as a minor skirmish.”

  The City of Wisdom shone like a beacon in the midday light, flanked by an ocean so blue it might’ve been a painting.

  It had been many years since Raven had traveled to Citadel. The last time was when she was ten years old, spending the summer with her Aunt Windy, the keeper of the vast archives housed within the bowels of the city. Though Raven wasn’t much for books, except for the occasional tome regarding the history of dragonlore, she’d enjoyed her time there, swimming in Dragon Bay and exploring the library while her aunt studied books all the day long.

  She’d been sad when her mother wouldn’t allow her to return the following year. “You will soon be a woman. It’s time you began preparing for the future,” her mother had said.

  Raven hadn’t thought about Citadel much since then, throwing herself into training the dragonia and learning the art of combat.

  Now, however, her good memories from summers spent in this city came rushing back. She blinked them away; it felt wrong thinking of happy times.

  As they approached from the air, the scholars, as small as ants from this height, stopped their constant scurrying about the city to stare at the sky. Some pointed. Some began running for cover, as if they believed their own dragonia had come to destroy them.

  Raven steered Siri toward an old dragon landing platform set at the peak of the enormous glass dome of the Citadellian Archives. Rarely used, the platform was still in good condition and free of dirt or bird droppings, as everything in this city was. Aunt Windy still runs a tight ship, Raven thought as Siri landed softly on the large platform. Cronus and Heiron dropped in beside her.

  Briefly, Raven had told her dragon masters about Roan Loren’s sudden appearance in Calypso, as well as the deal they’d made. “You should have told us before,” Shanolin had said in response. “I’m telling you now,” Raven had replied, leaving it at that. They hadn’t spoken much since, each processing the events of the last few days in silence.

  Now, Shanolin said, “I’ll wait with the dragons.”

  “Good,” Raven said. “Thank you. Rider, with me.” It was better this way. Shanolin and Roan seemed to be at opposite ends of the spectrum and forcing them together would likely only cause trouble.

  She strode over to a hatch in the platform, pulling on the handle. Its hinges didn’t so much as squeak, well-oiled and maintained, despite having not been used in years. An iron ladder descended ont
o a marble platform, which was held up by a large column and connected to the rest of the enormous space by a series of shiny staircases.

  Quickly, efficiently, Raven descended the ladder. When she reached the platform, hundreds of oval-shaped faces were staring up at her wearing shocked expressions. They would’ve seen the dragons fly across the glass, Raven thought. “The archives are closed until further notice,” she announced. “Leave now.”

  Without complaint nor argument, the scholars turned away and filed toward the exits, of which there were many. A wry smile creased Raven’s lips. For better or worse, the scholars of Citadel knew how to follow rules.

  She clambered down the steps to the highest level, running her hand along the stone banister. Somewhere below, a voice called out. “Raven, First Daughter. Is it truly you?”

  When she peered over the railing, Aunt Windy looked up at her wearing a wistful smile.

  “Hello, Auntie,” Raven said. “Roan Loren is still here, I trust?”

  “You’ve changed so much, my dear. A girl flowers into her destiny…” She sounded as if she was quoting something, which Windy was known to do quite often.

  “Auntie, please. We can catch up later. Right now I need to know: Is he here?”

  “Oh, yes. We’ve spent a fair bit of time together already. A wonderful soul he is.”

  “Good. I need to speak to him. Immediately.”

  “He’s already left for the day, I fear. He’ll be back in the morning. Now come, have a cup of tea with me.”

  “Windy, I really must insist on seeking Roan Loren in the city,” Raven said. “War is brewing and we must be ready.”

  “War is always brewing, my dear,” Windy said, handing her a cup of a strong-smelling tea resembling boiled mud. “Hasty action serves no one. The empire will not fall while you enjoy a warm drink with your aunt.”

  Gods, Raven thought. She hasn’t changed a bit. Yes, a few thin lines creased her forehead and crow’s feet now limned the corners of her eyes, but that was to be expected for a woman who spent hours reading print so fine she at times required a magnifying glass. Other than that, she was the same as always, her brown frizzy hair sticking up in several places and interspersed with spots of gray, like woven spider webs. Her conservative clothes—a long-sleeved, high-collared shirt and mannish brown trousers—were wrinkled and dotted with old stains. She wore no shoes, her brown feet protruding like river trout poking their faces from the water. It was as if she reserved all her meticulous care for the archives and none for herself.

  “It might,” Raven replied. “Kesh is destroyed. I lost a tenth of my guanero in the desert. The world has gone mad.”

  Again, her aunt appeared unperturbed by the revelations, taking a sip of her tea, wrinkling her nose slightly. Taking another sip. “The world has always been mad. The degrees change, but the disease does not.”

  “Is that from a book?”

  “No, my dear. It’s from experience.”

  To Raven’s knowledge, her aunt hadn’t experienced much of anything, the entirety of her existence spent in a single city, most of it in this very building. But she wouldn’t be rude, nor would she argue with her eccentric aunt. The urge to head out into the city, where she’d sent Rider on ahead, began to tug at her feet again.

  “I have to go, Auntie. Thank you for the tea.” She started to stand.

  “You haven’t drunk any of it, so it’s odd you would thank me for it.”

  Raven sighed. She glanced at the tea. Though the memories had faded, she faintly remembered hating her aunt’s tea. Still, the sooner she drank it, the sooner she could be quit of this place. She made the mistake of smelling it first, recoiling like she’d been stung. Something is rotting in there, she thought. Taking a deep breath, she threw it back, clamping her mouth shut to avoid spewing the thick noxious liquid back out.

  “Mmm,” Windy said, nodding. “You’ll be alert for hours.”

  Raven swallowed, shivering slightly. A flip of a coin would decide whether she vomited it back up.

  A moment passed, then another. When she didn’t throw up, she said, “I must go now, Auntie, but I promise to return for a visit soon, when all of this is over.”

  “Oh, Raven,” Windy said, shaking her head in such a way that Raven suddenly felt very small, “this will never be over. For this is life, as eternal as the paths of the moons in the sky.”

  Eighty-One

  The Southern Empire, Citadel

  Roan Loren

  Roan had been in his private study when Empress Raven Sandes and her dragons had arrived. Like everyone else in the archives, he’d heard the beating of wings. His first thought was that Yela had betrayed him, but then he saw the fear in the girl’s eyes. Perhaps Lady Windy then. She’d figured out his quest and sent a stream to Calypso, informing the empress.

  However, as he and Yela had peeked through the doorway, he’d heard Windy lie for him. In truth, he hadn’t left the archives since he arrived. Neither had Yela. When they got hungry, Daris would fetch them food. When they got tired, they slept on the floor, using stacks of paper as pillows.

  Thus far, they’d found no other references to the horde. The fatemarked were mentioned numerous times, however, and Roan was learning much about his predecessors.

  “What do we do?” Yela asked now, after the empress had followed Windy inside her private room.

  Roan considered the question. Raven would eventually find them if they stayed here. Even if she didn’t, Roan would never know why she’d followed him to the City of Wisdom. And he needed to know. Something was happening, and though he longed to tuck his head back into his shell like a turtle, continuing to study the pages and pages of century-old information at his fingertips, that wasn’t a luxury he could afford.

  The door to Windy’s study opened, Raven’s voice echoing out. “The moons do not interfere in the wars of women, Auntie. But thank you for the advice.”

  Wars? he thought, his eyes meeting Yela’s. Were Calyp’s troubles with the east moving even faster than he expected? Or was the reference related to the civil war with Phanes? One way or another, he needed to know.

  He stepped from the room.

  Down below, just past the edge of one of the rotating bookshelves, the empress stood, looking away from him. Windy, however, looked up, spotting him. Her head shook, an almost imperceptible movement. A warning. Stay silent.

  Why was she protecting him? Why had she lied for him?

  “Empress,” he said, loudly enough that his voice would carry down several levels to her ears.

  Raven Sandes slowly turned, her gaze lifting. “Ah, Roan Loren. Thank you for making your presence known despite my Auntie’s lies.” If Windy felt anything at having been discovered, it didn’t show on her face, her expression as smooth as glass.

  “She was only trying to protect the privacy of my scholarship. Any falsehoods she told were at my request.”

  Raven chewed on this. “Back in Calypso you offered to provide details of Ferria’s defenses.”

  Roan’s heart skipped a beat. “I did. But you won’t need them. Attacking the Iron City would be a fatal mistake.”

  “A mistake, no. Fatal, yes. But for my enemies, not me.”

  Roan shook his head. “What has happened?”

  “An act of war,” she said. “One that will be answered in kind.”

  Something had changed in the empress’s eyes. They were the same—dark, intense—but different at the same time, the fires of revenge burning.

  They sat in Windy’s room—all of them. The dragon master, Rider, leaning casually against the wall. Goggin, mounting two chairs backwards to hold his bulk. Windy, pouring tea for everyone and attempting, without much success, to clear more space on the hopelessly cluttered table. Evidently there was another dragon master atop the dome, attending to the dragons.

  Yela was the only one who had been dismissed. Roan had seen the disappointment in her eyes, but she hadn’t argued, slipping away quietly.

  Rave
n had already told him what had happened in the desert. The thought of so many dead at the hands of Grian Ironclad’s legionnaires—soldiers Roan had once travelled with—sickened him.

  “Pull your forces back from the Scarra,” Roan said.

  “I already have,” Raven said. “Before leaving Kesh, I sent a stream to Calypso with orders. Even now, my armies are assembling, awaiting further command.”

  “To march to war, you mean.”

  She shook her head. “There will be no marching. We go by sea and air, as we did once before. My dragonia will rain fire from the skies over Ferria.”

  “I told you—”

  “Th eastern defenses are improved, aye, I heard. That’s why I need to know the specifics. Otherwise, by your own words, we will be annihilated. Now speak, my patience grows thin.”

  Roan could see the crossroads before him. He remembered the day Gareth had given him a tour of the castle, given him a demonstration of just one of the new iron-based defenses they’d implemented. He’d mentioned others. But, when speaking to Raven, he’d bluffed. He didn’t know much more than she. Now he would need to invent some “details” so fearsome as to change her mind, convince her to wait.

  “The Ironclads have an army of Orians,” he started.

  “That is not news. The Orians have fought by their side for years.”

  “Not within their legions,” Roan explained. “Within the castle. Atop the walls. Hidden in protected alcoves.”

  Raven frowned. “For what purpose?”

  “Defense.” Roan recalled how the blade had burst from the wall, giving him quite a scare. “They are expert channelers, each and every one of them.”