by David Estes
For a week she’d mourned Alastair’s death all over again. It was strange, feeling that sharp pain, like a knife to the chest, all these years later. She’d thought killing a dragon would give her closure, but it had had the opposite effect, reopening wounds she thought had long healed, their scars fading.
Finally, however, she returned to the castle, eventually bullying several guards into allowing her to visit the king in his private quarters, where apparently he’d been holed up ever since he gave the command to pull back all legionnaires currently across the borders.
Gareth sat in a wooden, high-backed chair, his head in his hands, his long dark hair falling in waves across his face.
Gwendolyn entered the room silently, taking a seat. Listening to Gareth’s breathing, his deep, mournful exhalations. He’d lost a family. Not two years ago, he was one of five. Not two months ago, he was one of four. Not two weeks ago, he was one of two.
Now he was one.
The only Ironclad left in the Four Kingdoms, save for a single cousin, Hardy. The end of a long line of strong rulers that had protected their people from being overrun by their enemies over the centuries.
Gwendolyn could relate. When she lost her mother and father in short succession, far too soon in the lifespans of Orians, it had broken her in half. If she was in Gareth’s shoes—and she had been, once—she wouldn’t want to hear condolences. No, she wouldn’t want to hear much of anything, save for the beating of her own heart to remind her she was still alive.
A distraction, she remembered. Distracting herself had been the only way she’d been able to cope with the deaths of her loved ones. She’d thrown herself into helping others, using the Orion-given abilities she’d been blessed with to do as much good as she could. At the same time, she’d closed her heart off from the world, sheathing it in iron.
“Go away,” Gareth said, his face still hidden.
“No,” Gwen said.
Gareth looked up, his eyes tired but dry.
Gwen said, “What? You can visit me at home but I can’t reciprocate?”
“Suit yourself. Wallow with me.”
“I would, but I’m all wallowed out.”
Gareth snorted. His fingers pulled at his sweat-soaked tendrils of black hair. “I don’t know why I even care,” he said after a few moments of silence.
“Because he was your brother.”
“Aye, and a shite brother he was. Growing up, he mocked me mercilessly. He had a huge iron chip on his shoulder at having been born third, and he was always trying to compensate for it. I think that’s why he did what he did. Why he disowned me and waged war on three sides at once.”
“None of that matters now.”
“Because I’m the king?”
Gwendolyn shook her head. How to explain… She wanted to scream at him: You’ve been the king since the moment your father took his last breath, you dolt! But she suspected berating him would be counterproductive. Something her father once told her, an old story, sprang into her mind at that exact moment, catching her by surprise. She hadn’t thought of the story in decades, and yet she remembered her father’s tale word for word, a perfect recollection. After he’d finished the story, Gwen had begged him to tell her again, but he’d refused. “It’s a story to be heard once,” he’d said.
“Have you ever heard the Story of the Telling Tree?” Gwen asked.
Gareth frowned. “Does it involve war, drinking, and tickling fair maidens?” he asked. “Because those are the only kinds of stories my father told us growing up.”
“No.”
“Then no, I have not heard it.”
“Good. I shall tell you. Many years ago, long before the Crimeans discovered the Four Kingdoms, the Orians lived in Ironwood. My ancestors were very different in those times. They felt connected to the forest, but they couldn’t exactly explain why. Back then, the forest appeared just like any other. There were trees and plants and animals—panthers, hawks, squirrels—”
“Monkeys?”
Gwen didn’t miss a beat. “Aye. Frisky monkeys that would steal your food between your plate and mouth.”
Gareth nodded, as if the story was suddenly becoming more familiar.
Gwen continued: “The Orians called themselves the Tellers. They knew nothing of Ore, or Orion, or channeling.” Gareth cocked his head to the side. “It’s true. You wouldn’t recognize us or Ironwood. We were a peaceful people, deeply attuned to the whisperings of nature. There was a tree, deep in the heart of the forest, the largest of them all, broader and taller than any other in Ironwood. It was known as the Telling Tree, and it was worshipped by the Tellers.”
Gwen could tell Gareth’s interest was piqued, his body language having changed. He leaned toward her. “Go on.”
“The Telling Tree was where my ancestors went to pour out their problems. They kneeled on a bed of sharp stones, which cut into their knees. The purpose of these stones was to remind them to make the most of their time with the Telling Tree. The most determined, those Tellers who could ignore the pain, would earn their just rewards.”
“What rewards? More time talking to a tree?”
“That’s just the thing. It wasn’t just the telling that was important. They received answers.”
Gareth rolled his eyes. “I should’ve known it would be a talking tree.”
“Not exactly. After telling their problems to the Telling Tree, they would arise and be filled with answers. Maybe it was the tree’s doing, a reward for them having suffered great pain to speak with it, or perhaps the answers were already there, simply unlocked because of their faith.”
“Which is it? Was it a magical talking tree or not?” A hint of mocking had entered Gareth’s tone. Gwendolyn viewed it as a good thing. She ignored the question and continued the story.
“One day, a Teller who had lost everything kneeled before the tree, pouring out his problems. The stones bit into him, but he ignored them, talking and talking throughout the day. He didn’t stop until long after the sun was gone and the stars twinkled in the night sky above the forest.” She paused, recalling her father’s exact words. “When he arose, streams of blood running down his knees, pooling at his feet, he heard the tree’s answer in his head.”
“What did it say?” Gareth asked, and she almost laughed because as a young girl she’d voiced the very same question at that very same moment.
“Give up,” Gwen said. “The Teller was very angry. He’d suffered day and night before this tree to find a way to solve all his problems, and the Telling Tree had told him to give up? Rage boiled within him, spilling over. He withdrew a sharp instrument that his people used for cutting thick branches when they fell from the trees. And then he began cutting.”
“If the tree was as big as you say it was, he probably didn’t get very far.”
“Wrong. This was a determined man. He cut all night and into the next day. When people gathered to tell their problems to the Telling Tree, he threatened them with the blade. They backed off, unaccustomed to dealing with such violence. They were scared and uncertain. For days on end he cut and hacked and sawed, until he reached the tipping point, where the weight of the tree above could no longer be supported by the diminishing base.
“But the man didn’t notice. Sweat was pouring into his eyes and he was blind to anything but cutting, cutting, cutting…the base snapped, clamping down upon his blade and his arm, cracking them both in half. He howled, watching as the tree shifted, raining leaves and branches from the lofts of its uppermost boughs. Any satisfaction as to the progress he’d been making was lost to his fear and pain as the tree began to fall.”
“Poor bastard.”
“Aye. The tree fell on him and he died. It destroyed hundreds, if not thousands, of other trees, too. Thankfully, none of the other Tellers were hit. Perhaps it was luck. Perhaps it was some other power, a final gift from the Telling Tree.
“When the dust cleared and the Tellers began to gather at the tree’s base, the strangest thing happ
ened. The ground opened and took the fallen tree into it, swallowing it whole. Any signs of the man were gone as well, leaving only a stump as broad as a plateau. One by one, the Tellers climbed onto it, their mouths gaping in amazement.
“For there, written upon the endless rings were their stories, their problems laid bare. That’s when they realized that the answers had never come from the tree—which merely collected their problems, taking the weight of them from their shoulders—but from their own hearts, their own perseverance. The determined man who had cut down the tree had received the only answer his heart could give him: to give up. He was determined to tell his problems, but not to solve them. He wanted an easy solution, not the truth, which was that it would require a lot of hard work and time to overcome the adversity he faced.”
Gareth groaned. “I’m sensing a moral, but I think I’d rather take a punch in the face.”
“As satisfying as that would be,” Gwen quipped, “I think you’ve taken enough hits lately.”
“This isn’t a true story, is it?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I’ve never heard about a stump in Ironwood. All the trees are huge and unbroken.”
“Just because you haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. After the people finished reading their problems from the top of the stump, they departed. That’s when something magical happened. The deposits of ore that had been hidden beneath the forest were drawn into the Telling Tree’s roots, becoming a part of the stump, sheathing it in armor. The other trees took note, realizing it was the answer to their own problems: that they were susceptible to being chopped down, a fact they’d never realized until now. Soon the entire forest was protected by the ore, and so it remains to this day.
“My ancestors adapted, beginning to worship the Ore, learning how to channel it. Becoming one with it, a mutual respect developed over time. In short, they became the Orians.”
“Wait, am I supposed to be the stubborn dead guy, the Telling Tree, or the ore monkey?”
“That’s for you to decide,” Gwen said, allowing herself a wry smile.
“All three,” Gareth said. “At one point in my life or another. I’ve been many things in my life. An arrogant prince, a royal prisoner, a disowned brother…”
“And now?”
“A king,” he said. “Now I am a king.”
One-Hundred-and-Twelve
Unknown location
Bane Gäric
Bane felt numb. He’d opened the door to his secret place to the Peacemaker, and all Roan Loren had done was close it in his face.
He’d tried threats. He’d tried violence. He’d tried fear.
He’d tried truth.
Each time, the same result. He was alone.
He didn’t understand. He’d offered Roan everything he was seeking, and still, he’d turned him down. The Western Oracle had intended for them to work together, hadn’t she?
Chavos’s body seemed to glow in the lanternlight. He looked so peaceful he might be sleeping. For a moment, Bane pretended he was, and that he’d soon open his eyes and they’d eat and talk, and then Bane could fall asleep and not be alone. The man had been too weak-stomached and soft-hearted for the work that needed to be done. He was the same as Roan, but without the courage and valor. He shook his head. No, that wasn’t true. Chavos had been courageous, in the end, even if that courage was misguided.
Bane knew the plague would eventually kill him, unless he could convince Roan Loren to save him.
This world doesn’t want peace, he thought, turning away from his dead friend.
And I have no one.
This was supposed to be his purpose, the entire reason he’d been put on this earth, in these lands, in this time, being deathmarked and raised in a cold cave with Bear Blackboots. Even his own father had abandoned him.
No more.
The two words surprised him, because he’d never considered them, never truly contemplated a different path. No, his destiny had been placed before his feet long before he was born, and he had no choice but to follow it. Right?
But what if there was another way? What if, despite the Western Oracle’s best intentions, the fatemarks were unable to achieve the peace she’d envisioned? She was, after all, a human, and capable of error. Of failure.
But you haven’t failed, thought Bane, hoping she could hear his mind, wherever she was. I won’t fail you.
Achieving peace would simply require a different approach. Yes, killing the foolhardy, warmongering rulers was a necessary evil, but new rulers only arose to take their places. Unless there was one strong, peace-loving ruler to oversee all of the Four Kingdoms, the cycle of war and violence would continue forever, or until everyone was dead.
Yes, he thought. The Four Kingdoms shall become one.
And I shall be their king.
With that last thought circling his mind like a hungry vulzure, Bane fell into a deep sleep with the beginnings of a smile on his face. The thrum of the plague through his blood faded into a dull beat eclipsed by the hammering of his heart.
One-Hundred-and-Thirteen
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Rhea Loren
Wrath, why does everything have to be so difficult? Rhea wondered, as she stood atop the wall, watching the fires burn ever closer.
Wrath had forgiven her for lying to her people, right? Wrathos could’ve killed her in an instant, but instead she’d been spared. All for what? To go up in flames with the rest of her kingdom?
Ever since that day of triumph on the banks of the Bay of Bounty, the refugees had begun to arrive, a trickle at first, and later a waterfall. They brought news of the wildfire, which had somehow managed to leap from the Tangle into the dry grasslands, swarming furiously across the plains. Unnatural, they called the fire, as if some demon spurred it ever onwards.
Rhea called is a bad stroke of luck. She, of course, welcomed the refugees with open arms, providing her soldiers to set up a makeshift camp for them. There wasn’t room inside the walls of Knight’s End, so they would be the first to burn when the fires arrived. She had a feeling that the walls wouldn’t stop the flames anyway.
So far nothing had, though they’d tried all the usual methods relied on during the dry season. Controlled fires had been set, burning the grass away until there was nothing left for the flames to eat. And yet, the wildfire had simply streamed across the dirt, unflinching. Next, trenches had been dug, but the flames simply released sparks, which were carried on the wind, landing across the ditches, bursting into flame once more. Several determined farmers had even attempted to form a water brigade, passing barrels down a line and dumping them on the flames.
Many had lost their lives in the attempt, before the survivors eventually fled, joining the other refugees at Knight’s End.
Perhaps the fires are unnatural, Rhea mused. Perhaps it is the punishment we have earned.
Closer and closer the flames came, like a merciless army clad in burning armor.
The refugees on the outskirts of the walls began to scream and run, knocking each other over to try to escape to the ocean. Others attempted to infiltrate the city via the gates, but they’d already been closed for the night. The guards were under strict orders not to open them for anyone, lest the flames find a way into the city.
The camp was taken by the fire. Flames licked at the walls, and then began climbing.
“Your Highness, we have to go,” one of her Furies said, grabbing her arm.
Her eyes darted to the woman’s strong grip, and she slowly released it. “Please. We’ll all perish if we stay here.”
“Wrath will save us,” Rhea said. He had to, else what was the purpose of her great victory in the Bay of Bounty, her defeat of Darkspell, her conquering of Wrathos? What was the purpose of any of it?
“What of the people?” the Fury asked. “The streets are flooded. They are demanding for the gates to be opened, so they can flee to the ocean.”
In a w
ay, it was amusing. People on opposite sides of the gates, all pounding. Some to get in, some to get out. “Do not open the gates,” Rhea said. “Tell them to return to their homes. Wrath will save them on this night. Tell them to have faith.”
The faithless Fury nodded and left. Rhea continued to watch the carnage, the chaos, with interest. Fear is a greater enemy than any other, she realized. Faith is the only shield in dark times.
The fires reached the tops of the walls, streaming down the opposite side, spurred by a stiff breeze brought by an armada of clouds blowing in from the north.
Rhea stared at the sky, feeling her skin start to tingle. Could it be?
Screams. The slap of feet. Cries of fear. The first homes began to catch fire, the stone itself burning like dry wood. The castle, too, was afire now, the walls springing flaming leaks.
But Rhea only had eyes for the sky, the boiling cauldron of gray clouds billowing like smoke.
The first raindrop hit the back of her hand. As she reached down to touch it, the second hit her nose, making her laugh. She stuck out her tongue and caught another there, tasting its sweetness. The answer it contained.
The seventh heaven opened, emptying its contents, beginning a new season. Wrath’s Tears, it was called, when their god cried for the sins of the people, the souls lost, the souls claimed. All else had failed to extinguish the flames, but now, in the steady downpour, the fires began to disappear, a few at first, and then across the board.
Rhea was soaked to the skin in an instant, the water pouring from her round belly, but she didn’t care. Once again, Wrath had saved her. Her child, too.
Wrath’s vengeance was headed south, and she would be its bearer.
Want to know more about your favorite characters from Fatemarked? Grab Fatemarked Origins Volume I and Volume II for eleven short stories from the Four Kingdoms, featuring the origin stories of Gwendolyn Storm, Tarin Sheary, Shanti Parthena Laude, and Bear Blackboots!
