Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  Something about him was as familiar as the sunrise.

  Roan.

  She didn’t take the time to ponder the impossibility of his sudden appearance, or why he would be riding a Calypsian dragon, instead leaping from one wall to the next, her momentum carrying her across the battle-scarred landscape beneath her.

  Despite the efforts of the channelers, the invaders had broken through the gate. Hundreds of Calypsians had died, but many more were behind them. The dragons seemed to be everywhere, raining fiery hell from the sky. The ore hawks had appeared moments earlier, the ore panthers, too, but the dragons were winning—powerful, well-trained beasts born to kill.

  Gwen danced along the wall, deflecting arrows shot her way with her armor, catching a spear in midflight, launching it back from whence it came. The next gap between walls was too great a distance even for her, so she dropped to the ground. This far inside the castle’s walls, the fighting was less fierce. Still, she took the time to slash down three invaders who had surrounded a single legionnaire. The man nodded his thanks before racing off to find another foe.

  Several other legionnaires sprinted past her, followed closely by a shadow. The dragon released its flames and they died, cooked within their own armor, naught but charred corpses before their bodies hit the ground. The dragon landed before her, roaring.

  It was gray, the largest dragon she’d ever seen, its tail a mess of spikes and its teeth dripping black blades. The dragon’s rider was male, his dark eyes pinning her with a stare. He barked a command and the dragon reared back.

  Gwen felt no fear. Not here, not in her home. She focused on her armor, on the connection she felt to the ore while in Ironwood. She could feel the ore melting, shifting, changing. She didn’t move, not even as the dragon opened its maw, thrusting itself down upon her.

  As darkness surrounded her, Gwen thought, This is for you, Alastair. May we meet again.

  Raven Sandes

  Siri took to the air, soaring over the carnage. She saw Cronus and Shanolin. Killing, killing, so much killing. She saw three dead dragons, too, their enormous forms broken on the ground. Oh gods, we’re losing, she realized. It was just as Roan had said would happen. She watched as another dragon fell, a long metal spike having burst from the top of a wall, impaling it through the chest.

  Yes, they’d breached the gates, but the legionnaires were spread out enough to prevent the dragons from killing them in bunches. And the easterners fought back fiercely, holding the invaders at bay, helped by the Orian defenses, which launched blades and arrows from the face of the walls, hitting only enemies.

  There is nothing I can do, she thought. This fight was over before it ever started, a preordained defeat.

  “Siri!” she cried, her thoughts turning to Roan. The dragon stirred beneath her, its wings undulating in broad strokes as it wheeled about. An ore hawk, its broad wings and sharp beak armored with iron, dove toward her, but Siri melted it with a blast of heat. Molten drops of ore fell like rain.

  Raven steered Siri back toward the castle apex. She couldn’t save her soldiers—who weren’t really her soldiers anymore—nor could she save the dragonia. When Shanolin had betrayed her, he had sealed their fate. But she could save Roan. He had tried to help her and she would return the favor. It was this thought alone that kept her from throwing herself from Siri’s back.

  For the second time, Siri landed atop the iron dome, her claws skittering for purchase. “Down,” Raven commanded, and her dragon slid to the steps below, maneuvering its head through the doorway. Raven leapt to her feet and ran along the dragon’s neck, dodging spikes. Standing atop Siri’s head, she took in the situation.

  A wide crack ran down the center of the space, tearing the throne itself in half. On one side was darkness, a dark-cloaked form seeming to suck away all light. He had his hands clamped around another man’s neck. The man’s face was turning red.

  On the other side was Roan, surrounded by light, which was pouring from his fingertips. The light shot across the chasm, crashing in waves against the darkness. But again and again and again it was repelled. Roan’s eyes were focused but full of fear.

  He bears a tattooya, Raven thought. Like Fire. For some reason this fact didn’t surprise her.

  Raven didn’t know who either of the forms on the opposite side were to him, but this was her debt to repay.

  She snapped her whip at a cleft in the metal ceiling, felt it catch, and then swung forward, letting her momentum carry her toward the cloaked form. Behind her, she heard Siri shriek, although the meaning of the sound didn’t register in her brain, which was fully focused ahead.

  She leaned back and smashed her heels into the center of the cloak, surprised by the force of the impact, which was like hitting a stone wall. Still, the form toppled over and she landed on top of him. His fingers were ripped from the other man’s throat and a gush of breath exploded from the man’s lips as he twisted to the side, gasping and coughing.

  And then the dark-cloaked form was upon her and she could see his face—her mouth opening in surprise when she saw the young face, barely older than that of a boy, his smooth pale cheeks like frosted glass. Something burned atop his head. A marking that instantly reminded her of Fire, her sister.

  And she knew:

  This was the deathmarked boy everyone was talking about.

  He touched her and the world spun away.

  Everything was still; everything was silent.

  She blinked against the brightness of the sun. A pile of ashes rested nearby. The Unburning Tree, she thought, which had been burned to ash the moment of Fire’s death. I’m back in Calypso. Impossible.

  She stood, looking around, feeling as if she were in a dream. Where are the guards? she wondered. And then:

  Whisper!

  She charged across the dusty landscape, barreling into Whisper’s quarters.

  Empty.

  Whirling, she raced back the way she’d come, this time entering the council room from the private, rear entrance. The head of the dragon throne rose before her, golden scales shimmering.

  Thank the gods, she thought, seeing Whisper past the throne, kneeling before it. Her eyes were downcast and she seemed to be praying. When she lifted her head, her eyes were brown pools. Their eyes met. “I’m sorry, Raven,” Whisper said.

  The apology sent a shiver of fear through Raven, though she wasn’t sure why. “Sister,” she said. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Her own tears dribbled from her eyes as the events of the last day finally sank in, catching her from behind. Rider dead. Heiron dead. Siri’s scream, which she only just realized was one of pain. Goggin, left behind to drown. Her dragonia, her soldiers, all dead or dying.

  I have nothing, she realized, her tears flowing faster.

  Movement in the throne made her recognize they weren’t alone, that Whisper hadn’t been praying to an empty chair, but bowing to the seat’s occupant.

  A familiar face peered around at her. “Ahh, my dark-haired niece,” the woman said. “How I’ve missed you. And my throne.”

  Aunt Viper.

  Strong hands grabbed her from behind, shoving a sack over her head.

  Whisper screamed.

  One-Hundred-and-Five

  The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria

  Bane Gäric

  After transporting the Calypsian Empress back to her palace, Bane reappeared in Ferria. He still had some unfinished business to attend to. He stumbled, his energy flagging, even more so because of the plague now working its way through his body.

  Roan had found a way to cross the chasm and was now helping Gareth Ironclad to his feet, supporting his weight as the king gasped for breath. Angry red finger marks ringed his throat.

  To his surprise, Bane felt no satisfaction.

  Roan finally noticed his presence, and said, “Did you kill her? Did you kill Empress Sandes?”

  “No.” Although Bane had been tempted to end Raven Sandes the way he’d ended her mother, something had told him doin
g so would’ve sacrificed any opportunity he had to talk to the Peacemaker. And that was his priority.

  Roan nodded thoughtfully. “I won’t lie. I’m surprised. Still, I was hoping you were gone.” There wasn’t anger in his tone, not exactly. More like tiredness. Exhaustion. Bane understood. He was feeling exhausted himself. Using his fatemark always did that to him. He’d need a long sleep after today.

  “I’m glad I got your attention.”

  Roan sighed. Gareth’s eyes were fluttering. It seemed everyone was tired. “What do you want, Bane? Are you going to try to kill the king again? If so, get on with it.”

  Bane managed to laugh, though he really did feel on the verge of collapse. “I wasn’t really going to kill him.”

  At that, Roan’s eyes narrowed. “So you were just strangling him for your own amusement?”

  “I was seeing how far you’d go for him. I was seeing how committed you are to your role as Peacemaker.”

  “You were…testing me.” The words came out cold.

  “Yes. You see, cousin, we are one and the same, two sides of the same coin. Death and Life. Dark and Light. Violence and Healing. Without one, the other cannot exist.”

  “I am nothing like you.”

  “Oh? You mean your quest hasn’t taught you the truth yet? I can prove it. The Western Oracle breathed life into both of us from the same fatemark. That coin I mentioned? She split it in half.”

  Bane saw the light enter Roan’s eyes, and he knew he had him. The Loren prince was hungry for knowledge, and Bane was more than willing to show him one version of the truth.

  “Let me show you,” Bane said. “And then you can decide for yourself. Take my hand.”

  One-Hundred-and-Six

  The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria

  Roan Loren

  Roan knew it might be a trap, but he had to walk into it anyway. His body was bone-weary, but his mind churned with the need for information. Thus far, he’d discovered nothing of substance in Citadel, and he was at the end of his patience. Bane, despite seeming so straightforward at first—I kill rulers, had seemed to be his mantra—was fast becoming an enigma, another question with no answer.

  He could’ve killed Gareth. He could’ve killed Empress Sandes.

  But he didn’t.

  Roan needed to find out why.

  He lay Gareth gently on the ground, and then pushed some more of his healing power into him. Gareth’s eyes fluttered open. “I thought I was dreaming,” he said.

  “Do you dream about almost dying a lot?” Roan asked, cupping his hand to the king’s cheek. His skin felt warm, and Roan longed to feel it with his lips. In a perfect world, Bane would disappear and never return and they could be happy.

  But it wasn’t a perfect world—far from it.

  Gareth said, “It seems to happen to me a lot.”

  “You should really be more careful,” Roan quipped, his heart swelling with love for this man.

  Gareth said, “You found me.”

  “Yes,” Roan said, but Gareth’s eyes were already closing. “I will always find you.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.” Roan spun his finger in an arc, releasing shreds of light as he moved, creating a white shield around Gareth’s sleeping form. The effort took so much out of him he almost curled up in a ball next to the king.

  Taking deep breaths, he fought to his feet, where Bane continued to hold his hand out toward him. An offer. Something about his expression surprised Roan. He almost looked…sad.

  Roan took a step forward, breathing in and out, preparing himself for whatever was to come.

  And then he took Bane’s hand.

  The world he stepped into was a shadow world without beginning or end. Roan seemed to be floating or sinking or something else he couldn’t describe. His exhaustion had fallen away, leaving him strangely energized.

  Bane was there, watching him carefully, their hands still entwined. He, too, seemed refreshed, the weary lines on his brow having smoothed themselves out. “Watch. Listen. Remember.”

  The shadows vanished and all around him were words, clarifying and fading like inkreed messages dipped in water. He couldn’t read them fast enough to make any sense of what they said.

  And then she was there, a woman garbed in all red after the manner of the furia. Even without Bane telling him, Roan knew who she was.

  The Western Oracle.

  A boy was writing furiously at a table as she spoke, her eyes rolled back into her head. Instinctively, Roan knew he was her son, later to become the man who called himself Bear Blackboots.

  Bane motioned toward the table, which was lit by a flickering lantern. Look, he said, though his lips did not move.

  Roan craned his neck, anxious now. This was what he’d been searching for. This was the answer to all his questions about his origin and his purpose and the path to achieve peace in the Four Kingdoms!

  The words came into focus, the ink still wet, glistening darkly under the lantern’s glow.

  In the beginning, there shall be Death and there shall be Light.

  And they shall be two sides of the same coin.

  Roan felt as if he was falling as the scene faded, replaced by shadows once more. No! he tried to scream, though he failed to make a sound.

  Do you see now? Bane asked. Do you see the truth? We are bound to peace. Only together can we achieve it.

  I don’t believe you, Roan said. This is a trick.

  I am not a trickster, Bane said. You should know that by now. I kill because I must; because the deaths I choose will pave a path to peace. Just as the lives you save are necessary for the greater good.

  Something about his words rang true, and yet Roan couldn’t contemplate a world where Bane was necessary for the greater good. I don’t want to hear anymore.

  You would choose blindness over truth?

  I would choose life over death.

  There it was again—that sadness. The boy’s eyes were full of it, deep pools of melancholy as fathomless as the depths of the ocean. He blinked and they were gone, replaced by dark arrogance and casual indifference. A mask, or simply another face?

  What is happening to you? Roan asked.

  Nothing of concern to you, Bane said. Take this. It was a round, black marble, its surface swirling as if filled with restless storm clouds. It is infused with a measure of my power. You may use it only once to go wherever you will. I hope, however, that you will choose this place, where you will find me. We can talk at length as we rest. I can teach you all that I know.

  Roan knew it was a gift, even if Bane offered it only out of his own self-interest. Bane’s hand shook as he gave it to him. Thank you, Roan said. Though I shall not return.

  We shall see.

  The shadows disappeared and Roan was, once more, beside Gareth, the glowing ethereal shield casting a gentle white light across his sleeping form.

  Outside, a dragon released a mournful cry. Roan sensed the battle was nearly over.

  Roan considered Bane’s offer, and was sorely tempted. The boy, his cousin, despite the darkness inside him, knew much of the Western Oracle and her teachings. He could return to him and ask any question he wanted.

  But at what cost?

  He looked at Gareth, drawing his hand across his hair, brushing his dark locks away from his face. He is so peaceful, he thought. My presence here will only bring Bane back.

  As much as he wanted to linger in Ferria, to spend time with Gareth and Gwendolyn beneath the shade of the Iron Forest, to jape and tell stories about how they came to be here, he knew he could not stay.

  He was spent, the last of his energy drained, and he knew if he didn’t act fast, he would fall into a deep sleep. He held the dark, storm-filled marble in his hand, staring into it. And then he made a decision.

  When he blinked, Ferria disappeared, along with the marble.

  NO! a lonely boy cried.

  I am sorry, Roan thought.

  The world came into focus once more. A
familiar room stacked with piles of paper, maps, scrolls, and, of course, smelling strongly of thick, horrid tea surrounded him now.

  “I was hoping you’d return,” a voice said. He turned to find Lady Windy Sandes watching him with interest. She didn’t look surprised, as if she’d been expecting him to appear from thin air at exactly this moment. “There is something I need to show you.”

  “Tomorrow,” Roan said, his words slurring. “Or the next day.” Finally, his legs failed him. He slumped to the floor and slept, the light of his lifemark fading into the dusky darkness.

  One-Hundred-and-Seven

  The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria

  Gwendolyn Storm

  The moment before the dragon’s enormous maw had closed over her, Gwen had sheathed her entire body in ore, infusing it with power from her heromark. At the same time, she’d taken a deep breath, holding it in her chest as she felt the blade-like teeth crunching down upon her, clacking and clanking off her armor.

  The clanking stopped and the searing, burning heat arrived, seeming to surround her, as if she were standing in the direct center of a fiery inferno.

  I’ve been swallowed whole, she thought, feeling a shred of fear run through her at the realization that her insane plan had actually worked.

  Her lungs were starting to burn, so she figured she’d better get started with the next phase.

  She lifted her sword and started cutting.

  The dragon’s roar was more of a rumble this deep inside of the beast, but Gwen still felt it in her bones. It was like she was a part of it now—its pain was her pain. But still she hacked and slashed, her strokes becoming more vigorous as she gained more room.

  And then, with a final enormous swing, she felt its flesh give way and she spilled out. She channeled her ore away from her mouth and nose, sucking in beautifully cool air. Next, she uncovered her eyes. Thick, dark blood and ichor covered her, dripping from her armor, pooling on the ground. On either side of her was the dragon, split into two pieces, its chest ripped open, its enormous eyes staring at her but seeing nothing. Its spiked tail, to her disgust, continued to twitch, some kind of post-death involuntary reflex.