Star-Born Mage

by David Estes

Pierce (3)- a spearlike icicle attack

  Icepick (4)- when channeled through a mag-blade, this spell can turn an enemy into permanent ice with a single thrust

  Slip (1)- create a carpet of slick ice racing across any terrain

  Ice Shield (3)- the spell name says all you need to know

  Final Combination spell (5): Spear (1), Burst (2), Snowfall (3), Cannon (4), Melt (4), Blizzard (5+)

  Ice sphere (5)- creates a strong circle of protection around a large object or objects

  Miranda Petros- Air Mage, Class 5+

  Wind (1)- a wash of air that is, while not powerful, sustainable for a long period

  Gust (2)- a burst of wind only sustainable for a short period

  Tornado (5)- the name of the spell says it all

  Windblast (4)- the antithesis to fireblast, a hurricane-force burst of wind that can stop a moving object in its tracks

  Windwave (5)- a steady, sustained wind used to slow the progress of a large object or enemy

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my awesome squad of beta readers as follows: Karen Benson, Laurie Love, Rachel Hill, Anthony Briggs, Nancy Estes, Sheree Whitelock and Abby Cook. May you never be devoured by a Bronzian Grinder!

  "The best new fantasy I've read in the last decade." - Book-Absorbed Reviews

  They are the fatemarked. Misunderstood. Worshipped. Hated. Murdered at birth. Their time to step into the light has come.

  An ancient prophecy foretold their coming, the chosen few who will bring peace to a land embroiled in a century of mistrust and war. When kings start dying, that hope and belief swiftly turns to fear. Roan Loren is one of the fatemarked, but has hidden his mark of power his entire life, fearing the damage it might cause to those around him.

  A great evil is coming. He can't hide anymore.

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  Prologue

  The Northern Kingdom, Silent Mountain (circa 518)

  The newborn babe awoke in an empty cave, lit by a swathe of green moonlight. The weather was cool, but dry, and a warm blanket swaddled his arms and legs. For a moment he did nothing but stare at the point of a stalactite overhead, which stared right back at him. He was hungry, but he did not cry.

  Heavy footfalls echoed from an indeterminate distance.

  The cave mouth was soon filled by a mountain of a man, near as wide as he was tall, which was saying something considering his eight-foot-tall stature. He’d been called many names in his life, and none of them out of kindness: troll, ogre, beast, monster. I am all of those things, he thought.

  To his friends, who were few, he was known simply as Bear Blackboots, his birth name lost decades ago, squashed under his thunderous trod and what he had become after his mother had been murdered.

  Bear stood over the child, and his long brown beard tickled the nose of the swaddled babe, but the infant didn’t smile nor fuss.

  In one hand, Bear held a book, its brown leather cover worn, its pages yellow and brittle. In the other he held a torch, which he waved over the child’s hairless scalp.

  In a blaze of light that sent the shadows running, a mark burst into being, like a single glowing ember in the midst of a dying fire. The mark was a perfect circle, pierced in eight points by four fiery arrows that split the symbol into eight equal portions, like silver scars from an octagonal mace.

  The enormous man yanked the torch away from the babe with a gasp, and the mark vanished in an instant, leaving the child’s head pale and smooth once more.

  So it’s true, Bear thought. After over a century of searching, his life extended well beyond that of most mortals, he’d finally found his true purpose, the one his mother had foretold the day before she died.

  Because of you, child, the Four Kingdoms shall suffer, Bear thought. Unless I slit your throat now.

  He raised a meaty hand, thick and strong enough to crush small boulders. The edge of a knife glinted.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he dropped his hand with a sigh, letting the blade fall from his fingers. “What shall be, shall be,” he murmured, his voice grainy and rough from years of disuse.

  Who am I to destroy one with such a destiny, and only an infant who will never know his mother’s breast? Mother? Are you proud of me? Of course, no one answered. She hadn’t answered him for many years.

  From one of the many pockets inside his worn leather overcoat, he extracted a milk jug, capped by a drip cloth. “Eat,” he said.

  The child ate, and for fourteen long years he thrived under the mountain man’s surprisingly gentle care. Bear only referred to the boy by one name as he grew:

  Bane.

  One

  Fourteen years later (circa 532)

  The Southern Empire, Calyp

  Roan

  “Out of the way, cretin!” the horse master shouted as the royal train galloped past, charging for the trio of pyramids in the distance.

  Roan barely managed to fall backwards without getting trampled, his lungs filling with fine dust kicked up under dozens of hooves. As he coughed, he used a hand to cover his mouth with the collar of his filthy shirt. The tattered cloth was brown (though at one time it had been white, its true color eternally lost under layers of Calypsian dust) and as stiff as a leather jerkin.

  Royals, Roan thought, slumping against the side of the sandstone hut he’d crashed into when he fell. He’d been living on the streets of the City of the Rising Sun ever since he’d run away from his guardian, a large, gruff Dreadnoughter by the name of Markin Swansea, six years earlier. Three years ago, Markin had been murdered. As far as Roan knew, his guardian had gone to his grave still protecting his secrets, something he remembered every day of his life.

  “Are you injured?” someone asked, drawing Roan’s attention away from the passing cavalcade.

  “I’m no worse for wear,” Roan grunted, trying to see past the shadows of the stranger’s gray hood, which hid his face from the fiery Southron sun. It wasn’t unusual garb for a Calypsian, their long cloaks designed to protect against both sun and dust.

  The hooded stranger extended a gloved hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Roan took it, allowing the newcomer to pull him to his feet. “Thank you, …”

  “No one. I am no one,” the stranger said, his voice of a timbre that reminded Roan of sand being gritted between teeth.

  “Well, No One, thank you all the same. I’m Roan.” He was genuinely appreciative—in Calypso acts of goodwill were rare and far between. In a gesture that was automatic, if pointless, Roan shook as much of the loose dirt off his clothing as possible. Stubbornly, his shirt remained brown and filthy.

  “You can see me?” the stranger asked.

  Roan eyed him warily, wondering whether the odd man had been chewing shadeleaf, which was known to cloud the mind. “Yes,” he said. “I can see you.”

  The royal procession continued to thunder past while Roan and the stranger watched it without expression. Throngs of dark-skinned Calypsians lined the streets. Though the plague—a strange flesh-eating disease transmitted by touch—had been running rampart through the city for years, the city dwellers obviously weren’t letting it affect their day to day lives. They wore colorful cloaks that stood out against the beige sandstone huts. Some cheered their leaders, but most remained silent. Perhaps they were weighed down by the heat.

  Amongst the horses in the cavalcade were several guanik, long, reptilian creatures armored with black scales. As they impressively kept stride with the horses, their pink, snake-like tongues flicked between rows of dagger-like teeth. Their riders were the guanero, the royal guardians of Calypso.

  While Roan watched the guanik an
d their hooded riders with narrowly disguised disgust, an authoritative voice suddenly shouted, “Halt!” Like appendages attached to a single creature, the line of horses and guanik reared to an abrupt stop, raising yet another cloud of dust.

  When the fog cleared, Roan saw a broad-shouldered man wearing leather riding armor slide from his guanik’s scaly shoulders. His black hair was spiked in a dozen places, held up by some kind of shiny liquid.

  Roan knew exactly who he was, and hated him for it.

  The shiva, the master of order in Calyp. This man had the authority of House Sandes, the empire’s governing family. Roan had once watched him run down a woman in the street for some crime she’d never had the chance to defend herself from.

  And now he was walking toward Roan and the hooded man standing beside him.

  “Ho, beggar!” the shiva called.

  Roan said nothing, but was dimly aware of the way the stranger beside him tensed up, shuffling back a step.

  “You are a stranger to these parts, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I have not once asked for anything,” Roan said. “Therefore I am no beggar. And just because I’m a stranger to you doesn’t make me a stranger to Calypso.”

  Regardless of whether he was or was not a stranger, Roan didn’t understand why this man would waste a moment on him. The shiva scowled at Roan. He was garbed from head to toe with leather armor marked with the royal sigil, a silver dragon over a rising red sun. He eyed Roan and the stranger warily, his dark eyes darting between them. “I spoke not to you, but to your companion.”

  Roan glanced at the hooded stranger. “He is not my companion. We’ve only just met.” And yet Roan found himself stepping in front of the man, blocking him. Defending him?

  “Then move aside.”

  Roan didn’t, and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because he showed me kindness. Perhaps because he cared.

  The shiva sneered at Roan. “What are you going to do, peasant?”

  Nothing, Roan thought. Choke on dust. Burn up under the sun. Help no one but myself. Live the only life I was ever offered.

  “Oh no. Not again,” the stranger murmured behind him. Confused, Roan looked at the man, who had thrown back his hood and was staring at his gloved hand in horror. The gray glove had a slight tear in it, on the heel of his palm, exposing a sliver of white flesh.

  Roan was instantly drawn to the man’s face, which was much younger than his voice had suggested. His skin was the palest Roan had ever laid eyes on, as white as the eastern clouds or the northern snowfields, a physical trait that was extremely rare in Calyp. His flesh was also parchment thin, doing little to mask the bright blue veins running beneath the surface. But more than any of that, Roan noticed the man’s eyes, which were as red as sunrise.

  And those red eyes were staring at Roan. “I’m sorry,” he said, stumbling backward, throwing his hood back over his head. He turned to run, tripping over his own feet before catching his balance and darting into an alley.

  Odd, Roan thought. Then again, he’d met a lot of strange people growing up as an orphan in Calypso.

  “Gods be with us,” the shiva said, jerking Roan’s attention back to the halted procession. The shiva was backing away, scrabbling at his leather breastplate, attempting to yank it over his mouth and nose.

  Roan frowned. The rest of the royal guards were backing away, too, the fear obvious in their eyes. “The plague,” someone said. Then, louder: “He’s afflicted with the plague!”

  A woman screamed, high-pitched and piercing.

  Roan shook his head. What are they talking about?

  That’s when he felt it. An itch on his cheek. He reached up to scratch his face and noticed something on his hand. A bump, red and puffy. He inhaled sharply, dropping his hand to rest beside the other. Before his very eyes, dozens of fiery bumps rose to the surface of his skin, seeming to jostle for position.

  Roan fell to his knees, still staring at his diseased hands. Beyond him, he could see the shiva’s black boots standing in the dirt.

  For some reason, he crawled forward, reaching for the boots, feeling the need to touch them. Maybe my hand will go right through them. Maybe this is a dream. In his heart, however, he knew it wasn’t.

  The moment before his fingers brushed the shiva’s boots, a shadow closed in from the side, swinging a weapon of some kind, which thudded against his skull with a vicious crack.

  He collapsed, his cheek pressed to the dust, a set of dark eyes materializing overhead. The shiva vanished from sight as he was pulled away by his guardsmen, who created a human wall around him.

  Roan’s vision was obliterated as a thick sack was thrown over his eyes.

  When Roan awoke it was dark. The sun had long retreated beyond the horizon, and the night held an unnatural chill so foreign to Calypso that he instantly knew he was no longer in the city of his childhood.

  But if not Calypso, then where?

  Roan tried to think, but it was difficult when his head was pounding. He reached up to feel the side of his scalp, which was bulging and crusted with blood. His ear was badly damaged too, and he wondered if his hearing would be affected. Not that it mattered.

  He touched his face to find his once-smooth skin covered in bumps on top of bumps, each filled with heat. He scrubbed at them with the heel of his hand, which was also bumpy and burning. He had the sudden urge to run. To where, he did not know.

  As Roan fought weakness and fear to push to his knees, the wind howled over him, and he shivered.

  The first strange thing Roan noticed: Even after the breath of wind dissipated, its mournful howling continued like an echo through the night.

  The moan was filled with pain, and sadness, and hopelessness.

  The nightmarish events rushed back through his mind, pounding away like the throbbing in his skull: the royal procession; the gray-hooded stranger; the unexpected words spoken between he and the shiva; the torn glove; the fear in the eyes of everyone who stared at him.

  The plague.

  He had the plague, and he knew exactly who had given it to him.

  The stranger with the porcelain skin. Not again, the man had said.

  Something clicked in Roan’s mind. The plague had been tormenting Calyp for half a decade. No one truly knew its origin, or whether it could be stopped. Some said it was conjured by the Phanecians, a silent weapon in the ongoing civil war that had ripped through the Southern Empire for twelve long years. Others, however, whispered of the Beggar, whose simple touch supposedly transmitted the disease. The most superstitious believed him to be a wraithlike demon, while others said he was simply a man borne with evil inside of him.

  Now, after seeing the sadness in the stranger’s eyes, Roan knew the truth: The Beggar was a young man, like him, cursed with something he never asked for. Despite what the stranger had done to him, Roan felt sorry for him.

  Something scuffled nearby, and then a heavy force bashed into his side, knocking him off balance. A woman’s hot breath splashed against his face. A foul odor filled his nostrils.

  “Help me!” the woman cried, her plea punctuated by the howls of her companions, who suddenly surrounded Roan. They appeared to be Calypsians, all of them, their skin as dark as night. One of them held a torch, waving it around like a sword, illuminating grotesque faces that Roan knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Their eyes were bulging from their skulls, their tongues lolling from their lips, their mottled skin dripping from their bones.

  Even as he thought the word monsters, he knew it was not true. For they were merely human victims, like him, transformed by the fast-moving disease.

  Gnarled hands reached for Roan, as if to embrace him, but he swatted them away, feeling a burst of energy rush through his blood as something he’d kept hidden for a long time flared from his chest, right over his heart. For there he bore what the southerners referred to as a tattooya—a mark of power. In the west they referred to the very same as sinmarks, while in both the east and north
they simply called them skinmarks. One of the southern princesses, Fire Sandes, even had one—the firemark. But he’d heard of a half-dozen others, too, spread throughout the Four Kingdoms.

  He was one of them.

  But perhaps not for long.

  The heat spread from his chest to his face to his torso, flowing outward to his limbs like a ripple in a pond.

  This time the heat wasn’t from the plague. This time it was his own curse, the curse that led to his life as an orphan in a foreign land. For once, his curse felt almost like a blessing.

  His body healed as he ran, dodging arms and legs and bodies, each more horrifying than the one before. Bodies littered the ground, most unmoving, and Roan tripped on one, his ankle turning sharply. He cried out, but his yell was cut short when he came face to face with a living skull, its teeth rattling as its jaws opened and closed. What was left of the victim moved slowly, reaching for him.

  Roan slashed his elbow across the skeleton’s skull, knocking it away.

  Should be dead, should be dead, should be dead, he thought, shocked by how long the plague kept its victims alive before eventually turning them to dust. It was unnatural. Then again, so am I, he reminded himself as heat rushed to his ankle, healing his stretched tendons.

  He was on his feet again a moment later, winding a ragged path through the corpses, sighing in relief as the wails and moans faded into the distance.

  What now? Roan wondered, even as he realized exactly where he was. They called it Dragon’s Breath, an island off the coast of Citadel, the northernmost city in Calyp. The island, located in the glassy waters of Dragon Bay, was once home to a vicious tribe of cannibals, but the Calypsians had decimated them and rebuilt the land to quarantine all plague victims until the disease finished them off.

  According to city gossip, the island was surrounded by an immense wall. Victims were dropped over the sides. They should die from such a fall, but the plague wouldn’t let them. The plague held no mercy, only pain and torture to the very end. Roan must’ve been dropped, too, stumbling feverishly across the terrain to where he ended up. If not for the power of his own tattooya, he’d probably already be too far gone.