Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  He paused, his soul shifting ever so slightly. “I would ask what you saw when you first touched my soul. I would want to know whether it was the same thing I saw.”

  She froze. Since finding herself in these strange lands, in her strange but delightful human form, she’d touched many souls, each with their own memories. She experienced life through many eyes. Too many. When she’d touched Sir Dietrich’s soul it had been but a fleeting glimpse, and yet it was burned into her like a brand.

  A knife plunged into a man’s heart.

  A boy crying, leaving his mother to become a soldier.

  Many fierce battles. Friendship. Those he killed. Those he lost, none more poignant than being surrounded by enemies, his allies falling one after another, each taking a piece of his heart with them.

  The will to die.

  The will to live.

  Growing purpose.

  An opportunity. Lost.

  Renewed hope in the form of a giant of a man, the one they called the Armored Knight.

  There was one other memory, too, but she pushed it away, for it didn’t make sense. “I saw your scars.”

  Dietrich frowned. “Truly? But your blindness…”

  “I don’t know what physical scars you bear, but I see your scars all the same. Just not the ones the world sees.”

  She could sense his eyes were tethered to hers. “And what do they look like?” he asked.

  “Your best and worst memories,” she said.

  “All of them?”

  She considered the question. “I don’t know.” Again, that last image sprang to mind, unbidden. It was her, standing atop that snowy cliff, moving through the throngs of Garzi soldiers as they parted down the middle, her blue eye glowing. She’d never seen herself until she’d seen this image through Sir Dietrich’s vision. Through his eyes, she saw a woman in control, a woman with an honorable purpose. She saw what she suspected was the best version of herself, not the harbinger of death and war she knew she was.

  Was I the best or the worst of his memories?

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it was painful when I was…inside your head.”

  He laughed, though she couldn’t fathom what might be amusing. “It was. But it was the best pain I’ve ever felt.”

  “You’re mocking me,” she said, but didn’t really mind it.

  “Yes. But I’m mocking you with the truth.”

  She tried to unknot the tangled threads of his words. What was he saying, exactly? “You are…peculiar.”

  “So I’ve been told. Many times. But isn’t that the pot calling the kettle?”

  “Calling the kettle what? And in what land would a pot be able to speak?”

  Dietrich laughed. “Sorry. It’s just a saying. It means you are peculiar too.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. Sometimes she felt like a different species entirely.

  Before she could respond, however, Dietrich asked, “Do you ever wish you didn’t bear your mark?”

  The question surprised her. It would be like changing one’s eye color, or height. Her mark was simply a part of her, something undeniable, even if it made life harder sometimes. Well, most of the time. Then again, without it the Garzi likely would’ve killed her on that snowy hill in the Hinterlands when she first arrived in these lands.

  “Do you?” she countered.

  “All the time,” he said without hesitation.

  “Why?”

  “So I wouldn’t have to feel guilty anymore.”

  “About what?”

  “Not saving my father when I had the chance.”

  Pieces of a convoluted puzzle clicked together one by one. Seeing the best and worst images painted on a soul’s canvas was like seeing half a picture. Now, however, the full scene came into view. The man who’d been stabbed in the heart was his father. Sir Dietrich was swordmarked—he could’ve saved him. Thus, the crying boy, leaving home, joining the army, fighting in countless battles, trying to atone for his failure as a son.

  “I feel the same way,” she said, feeling more than hearing the truth in her words.

  “I thought so,” he said. “The Sleeping Knights. They saved Darrin. They saved Tarin. You did the right thing.”

  Did she? Yes, they’d helped repel the invaders, but if what she saw in the future came to pass…they would cause far more destruction than they would prevent. If they were truly the HORDE she kept seeing, the responsibility would fall on her shoulders alone. “I don’t know,” she said neutrally.

  Dietrich stood suddenly, his soul brightening. A portion of it moved closer to her. His hand, she realized. “Come,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

  She took his hand and he easily pulled her to her feet. His hand was warm in hers, and it took all her effort to hold back her Eye, which pulsed rapidly, trying to slip into his soul. Just a taste, it seemed to say. I must drink or I shall become thirsty.

  No, she thought back. She didn’t want to hurt this man again. Life had hurt him enough as it was.

  He pulled her along at his side. Somewhere in the distance she saw a flashing sea of red-black souls—the Sleeping Knights moving and shifting, anxious for daylight so they could move closer to the impending battle at Castle Hill. To the opposite side were hundreds of souls of various colors, most lying on the ground, sleeping. Others patrolled the area, keeping watch, slightly brighter than the rest.

  Sir Dietrich, however, moved away from them all, toward a group of tall, silvery souls bearing many limbs. Trees, she thought. The largest soul of them all rose well above, springing from their midst, stretching toward the golden star souls, her friends in another life.

  Through the wood they went, weaving between the silvery spires. At some point along the way, Dietrich’s fingers threaded with hers. When they stopped, her lips parted slightly.

  A soul as wide as twenty men standing side by side with their arms extended stood before her. It was a hundred colors if it was one: silver and fuchsia and ivory, turquoise and lavender and gold, ebony, jade and scarlet, and countless others, stretching higher and higher into eternity, always moving, dancing amongst each other like bubbles in a fast-flowing river.

  “You see it, don’t you?” Sir Dietrich asked, his grip tightening on her.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s…”

  “Impossible to describe. Yes, I know. I’ve stared at this tree more times than I can remember. When I was…lost, it was the landmark I always found. It reminds me that I am small, like it once was. It reminds me that even the smallest things, like a seed, can become a mighty tree one day.”

  “Thank you,” Lisbeth said.

  “For what?”

  “For seeing more than just a blind girl who brings pain to all she touches.”

  “You’re welcome. And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For being the last best thing I’ve experienced in my life thus far.”

  Seven

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Rhea Loren

  Next to her short hair, Queen Rhea Loren barely noticed her scarred face.

  And yet, seeing her golden locks hacked unevenly, no longer than shoulder length now, didn’t bother her nearly as much as it once would’ve. After all, it was Wrathos’ sharp beak that had lopped it off, the shimmering strands falling into its gaping maw while the crowd screamed and Rhea considered whether testing her god was such a smart decision.

  In the end, it had been. Wrathos, the ancient hundred-tentacled sea monster, had been satisfied with her hair. Her people had stared at her with a mixture of awe and fear that was intoxicating.

  Still, the message from Wrath was clear: I can end you. Serve me, or die.

  Thus far, the vengeful god had provided one more miracle, when her city, Knight’s End, the beacon of independence in the west, was on the verge of burning to ash by the strange and unnatural fire started when Empress Fire Sandes—curse her name—perished while fighting the Phanecians at the Southron G
ates. The spring rains known as Wrath’s Tears had arrived just then, vanquishing the fires and sparing the city.

  Since those two events, the people of Knight’s End had flocked like sheep to the castle gates on a daily basis, wanting to hear Rhea’s speeches, wanting to be close to her, to soak up the light that seemed to shine from her white purity gown, which bulged at her abdomen like a ripe melon.

  Our child, she thought, her hand drifting subconsciously to her belly, as it often did. The growing baby inside kicked in response. She’s getting stronger by the day.

  In truth, it was Grey Arris’s child, created during a night that started with passion and ended in fear and betrayal. But the people believed it to be Wrath’s offspring, which allowed Rhea to maintain her veil of purity and righteousness. If they knew the truth, the furia would have no choice but to execute her in Wrath’s holy name.

  In front of her, the doors opened and light spilled through, chasing away the inky shadows.

  The crowd roared. Hundreds dropped to their knees, touching their chins to their palms. A sign of respect to their god, but it wasn’t Wrath who they faced.

  It is me.

  Rhea choked back the thought, trying to humble herself. I cannot be that selfish girl anymore. I almost destroyed us. Yes, I saved my people in the Bay of Bounty, but it was my own arrogance that caused Bea’s death.

  A bitter stew of revulsion and self-hate swirled bitterly in her stomach. She swallowed it back. Bea was gone. Though she and her sister had grown apart over the last several years, their animosity boiling over the pot of their relationship, she hadn’t wanted her dead.

  Wrath had taken her anyway, and Rhea knew what it was: a reminder. You are my servant. I can break you and everything and everyone close to you if I choose.

  “I will remember,” Rhea whispered to herself, lifting a hand to the sky. The rains had abated, but a spring mist continued to fall, leaving the entire city glistening like a bed of flowers on a dewy morning.

  She closed her eyes and soaked it in. What is Your command? she prayed. It still felt odd, praying. Though she’d acted in Wrath’s name since her coronation, it had been false. Now, however, she knew that whatever happened next would be her god’s will, and not hers.

  Wrath didn’t answer in words, but in feeling, dumping adrenaline into her bloodstream, gathering strength in her arms and legs, lifting her weariness.

  It was time for war.

  “That went well,” her Fury said, falling into step—not beside her, but a pace back.

  Rhea had handpicked her Three Furies, and they shadowed her steps like obedient dogs when they weren’t out in the city maintaining order and righteousness. This one in particular never strayed far.

  Rhea glanced back, saw the way the sharp angles of the woman’s face tightened slightly, how her lips pursed. She fears me still. Good. Let her obey out of fear, so long as she obeys.

  “Yes,” she said lightly, facing forward once more. “The size of our army tripled from one speech. Any word from the Furium?” The Furium was the home of the furia, a nondescript structure in the midst of Knight’s End where girls were turned into warriors, devout servants of Wrath. Which was much the same as saying servants of the queen—her own personal army.

  Rhea still remembered watching two young girls do battle with staffs, bloodying each other again and again, but never faltering, never failing to get back up for another round.

  “Young girls are flocking to its gates. It will take a week to process them all and begin their training.”

  Rhea stopped and the Fury stopped just as fast, as if she’d been anticipating it. “Not good enough,” Rhea said, letting the edge of a sword infiltrate her tone. “Process them all today. Begin their training tomorrow. Accelerate it. Even if we defeat Phanes, Calypso’s counter will be swift. We have to be ready.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the Fury answered. She didn’t bow, but Rhea could tell she had the urge to.

  “You may go.” Rhea turned away and marched on, shadowed by a dozen guardsmen.

  For a moment she forgot herself, allowing her eyes to scan their lines for her cousin, Ennis Loren, whose death she had faked, disguising him as one of the guards.

  She shook her head, pushing away the feelings of aloneness that often plagued her. Grey was gone. Ennis too. She’d pushed them away—no, shoved them. And Bea…

  Taking a deep breath, she walked on, toward the royal stream.

  She entered through a low archway, picking up her dress as she clambered down to the water’s edge. Two stream workers pretended not to stiffen at her approach.

  There is fear everywhere I go. Am I such a monster?

  She didn’t answer herself, hating the truth.

  There is time to atone. I will atone. She’d done so before, after all. First, she’d defeated the northerners in the bay. And then she’d saved both the east and west when she’d killed Darkspell and foiled his plans to release a contagion into the waters of the Spear.

  But could such magnanimous acts of good wash away the stench of blood on her hands? She had to believe it could. Wrath wanted her to go south, where the heathens kept slaves. Yes, there was word of a faction fighting against the Hoza empire, but as far as she knew Falcon Hoza was still alive. And as long as a Hoza maintained power, there would be slavery.

  So she would go south, riding with her army. For once her personal desires were aligned with those of the kingdom. Ennis is south, somewhere. Please be alive. Please oh please oh—

  “Highness?” She blinked. One of the stream workers, a young maiden about her own age, looked at her with doe eyes and held a dry scroll tied with a ribbon in one hand. In the other hand, she held another piece of parchment, dripping wet. She waved it lightly back and forth.

  “Yes. Thank you.” She reached out to retrieve the dry sheet first, deftly untying it. Unspooling the paper. Holding her breath.

  It was from her cousin, Queen Annise Gäric, in the north. A request for aid, the second such she’d received this week.

  She released her breath with a huff. Alliances could be so frustrating. Instead of marching south into battle with her cousin as she’d imagined, she was being asked to split her forces into two. In the long term, it might pay off, but who knew how many soldiers she would lose trying to help Annise reclaim Castle Hill from the sellswords.

  “Would you like me to respond?” the stream worker asked.

  Rhea considered. “Yes. Ask the queen to abandon Castle Hill and march south immediately. If she helps us defeat Phanes, we will reciprocate. Bring me the draft letter and I’ll review it.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  The other message—the fresh, damp one—dangled from her fingertips. Rhea took it, not caring that it dripped down her dress as she scanned it. It was from the east.

  Yes.

  Oh yes.

  Gareth Ironclad was now the king, his brother, Grian, dead from a surprise attack by the Calypsians and their dragons.

  Wrath works in mysterious ways, Rhea thought.

  King Gareth Ironclad, once her prisoner, was now her ally.

  For the first time in more than a century, there would be peace between the east and west.

  The easterners would march on the Southron Gates.

  Eight

  The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria

  Gareth Ironclad

  It was done. The unthinkable. An alliance with the west.

  Father is rolling over in his frozen grave, Gareth thought. Grian too. Guy, even in death, would support his decision, as would his mother.

  But they are not alive, not one of them. I am alone. Even Roan has abandoned me. And Gwendolyn, oh Ore, when she finds out what I’ve—

  The door to the courtroom slammed opened to reveal Gwendolyn Storm, the sleek, slender angles of her armored form pulled taut like a bowstring. She looked ready for a fight, which was about the norm for the fiery woman. Several legionnaires rushed in behind her, shouting protests, but she sprang away from the
m, catlike. No, Gareth thought. She is far faster than a cat. More like the wind, uncatchable. Then again, she did bear the heromark.

  She stood directly in front of him, the anger seeming to rise from her in waves. Even like this, she was beautiful, Gareth mused. No wonder Roan can’t resist her.

  “Your Highness, I’m sorry, we tried to stop—”

  Gareth waved his hand. “It’s fine. Leave us.”

  The legionnaires, looking relieved, hurried away as quickly as they’d arrived.

  “You,” Gwen said, stalking forward. After the speed and agility she’d demonstrated, the pace felt like slow motion now.

  “Me,” Gareth said. “Yes. That about sums things up, doesn’t it?”

  Gwen wasn’t amused. “The Calypsians attacked us with dragons. They killed your brother. Hundreds perished. Where was the west when we needed them? Have you forgotten so quickly?”

  Gareth knew she could kill him in less than the time it would take him to shake his head. But he also knew she wouldn’t. Not after everything she’d gone through to restore him to the eastern throne. Plus, they were supposed to be friends, even if he felt like mud under her tread at times.

  “I have not forgotten.”

  “Then why ally yourself with them in a war we care nothing about?” Beyond the anger, there was a note of pleading in her voice now. She truly didn’t understand. Sometimes the past obscured the present, creating a future that was no better for drinking than a pool of muddy water. Gareth knew he needed to tread lightly. The Orian had been through so much already, nearly ninety years of tragedy and pain.

  “We defeated the Calypsians. We killed the dragon masters. We—”

  “Not all of them,” Gwen growled.

  Gareth still remembered how Empress Raven Sandes had saved him. He also remembered how Bane had touched her and they’d both vanished. As far as he was concerned, she was dead, though he wasn’t certain yet how to feel about that fact.

  “We killed their dragons,” he continued.

  “Not all of them,” Gwen said again, taking another step forward.