Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  King Streit is not a good man.

  He huffed out a breath, wishing they would just get to Rockland and be done with it.

  Helmuth’s wish was granted three days later, the repaired wheel holding up remarkably well against the rugged landscape.

  Each day the earth had shaken at some point, though never as strongly as the first time. “Aftershocks,” Krako called them. “Happens every time there’s a quake. It’s just the way the earth settles.”

  By the third tremor, Helmuth barely felt alarmed at the movement, his eyes fluttering open for a moment before returning to his nap.

  Rockland was more than just the name of the famed Crimean capital city. It was also a perfect, succinct description of the place, which was unlike anything Helmuth had ever seen before, a far cry from the towering buildings of Moray.

  The city was constructed within the largest boulder field yet, each massive stone outcropping bigger than the last. If not for the life burgeoning out from them, he might’ve believed these were the ancient ruins of a long-lost civilization. Stone bridges stretched between the boulders, supported by exquisitely carved stone columns. Each bridge was a riot of motion, carts being pulled across by enormous beasts with long flat heads that ended in single, curving spikes that protruded from their snouts. Mongolbeasts, Helmuth thought in wonder. Though he’d never seen one in person, he’d read of them in his history books. During both wars for independence, the Crimeans had brought herds of these creatures across the great sea, riding them into battle like one might fight atop a horse.

  “They don’t have those in Blackstone, do they, boy?” Krako said, grinning from ear to ear.

  Helmuth shook his head absently. No wonder the columns are so thick. They were supporting an immense weight.

  Beneath the stone bridges was even more activity, the city alive with it, Crimeans coming and going, busily attending the markets, procuring everything from foodstuffs to massive saddles that must’ve been meant for mongolbeasts to strange-colored potions and elixirs from an apothecary tent.

  And everywhere: rocks. They were piled high on wheelbarrows, being sifted by beggars edging the thoroughfare, played with by groups of children who hopped over them in some sort of convoluted pattern Helmuth couldn’t discern. The rocks reminded him of how snow was treated in the north: common, but not without value.

  Krako steered the carriage into the throng, and Helmuth was surprised at how a wide avenue opened for them, as naturally as water diverting around a stone in a fast-moving river. As he peered through the window, hundreds of sets of eyes stared back at him.

  Blushing furiously, he slumped back inside the wagon. He had known the feel of eyes on him before, judging. That had been his life back in Castle Hill. That had been one of a list of reasons why he’d left. But he hadn’t felt this way in a long time. In Blackstone, he’d been just another beggar. Then he was a slave, no more interesting than the other boys until he’d felt that strangely dark power radiating from his chest. On the ship, none of the Crimeans had given him a second glance, almost as if they’d been instructed to treat him normally.

  But now. Now he was like an interesting bug trapped in a glass jar, peered at by hundreds of eyes.

  “Don’t mind them,” Krako called back. “They are only interested because they know this carriage.”

  The king’s carriage, Helmuth thought, plunged back into reality with the force of a slap.

  He refused to think the word’s Vrinn had said—his last words. Anyways, he didn’t need to think them to remember them; they were engrained in his mind like a tattoo on his brain.

  It wasn’t embarrassment that swarmed him now, the hot blush fading from his cheeks, replaced by another feeling, colder than ice.

  Dread.

  Helmuth hated this feeling of helplessness, for he’d felt it most of his life. The only time he’d managed to cast it aside was when he’d left Castle Hill. In Blackstone, it was better for a time, and though he depended on the generosity of strangers, at least he chose when and where to beg for his coin. But now it was back, leaving him feeling like an empty husk, hollowed out of everything that made a person a person.

  I don’t want to go back to Castle Hill, he thought. Naturally, he knew, this was a time when one wished for home, but he didn’t. No, wherever he was going could be no worse than his life in Castle Hill. Still, he longed to return to those days on the streets of Blackstone. He would take the harsh cold over the icy fear now settling deep in his marrow.

  He took a deep breath, then another, pushing the air out between narrow lips. He was halfway around the world, something he knew he needed to remember. Even if the winds of fate had helped blow him here, he had made it, and that was an accomplishment in and of itself. No one—not his father or brothers, or even Zelda—would believe it.

  With that thought in his mind, he firmed up his chin, turned to the side, and stared at those staring at him. One by one, their gazes faltered, until they looked away, no longer interested.

  He almost laughed, wondering whether a bug in a jar had ever tried such a trick.

  I am not helpless, he thought.

  They were in the thick of the boulder field now, and much of the sky was eclipsed by the massive rock formations. The buildings were built between the rocks, also constructed of stone, almost like camouflage. They were sturdy-looking, with thick walls and heavy doors and no windows.

  Because of the earthquakes, he thought, just as he noticed several large cracks running through the stone walls of one such structure. Darkly, he wondered whether the buildings ever collapsed on those living inside. He also wondered why the most powerful ruling family in the world had made this their capital city when they could live anywhere.

  Hours later they finally reached their destination, the boulder field culminating in the largest rock structure of them all, which would be better characterized as a bulging cliff. Built within its shadow, attached directly to the face of the rock was a castle, at least twice the size of the Gäric stronghold.

  Helmuth gaped as they rode through a high, wide gate cut through a boulder. Beyond, the castle’s numerous towers crawled up the sides of the cliff face, like enormous chimneys. The parapets touched the mammoth boulder on each end, curving around a broad area the size of the entirety of Castle Hill, before reconnecting with the opposite side of the cliffs. Within the walls were dozens of other, smaller boulders, each a part of the castle, like they’d grown there, much like a tree might. The boulders were linked by broad bridges and ramparts. Everywhere Helmuth looked were the alternating colors of green, black, and silver.

  Soldiers. Patrolling. Marching. Training. Riding mongolbeasts. There were hundreds, and this was just King Streit’s personal security force. His army would be many hundreds of times this size. The largest army in the world, Helmuth’s father had once called it. His father had also said that if Crimea was not separated from the Four Kingdoms by miles of ocean that King Streit would’ve retaken their lands centuries ago. At the time, Helmuth hadn’t thought much of it, but now he understood the truth of those words.

  The carriage followed a roundabout path along the inner edge of the wall, skirting several boulders before angling back toward center, where the path descended a slope that was eventually swallowed up by a cavern cut into a boulder.

  Helmuth blinked, his eyes trying to adjust to the sudden darkness after the brightness of the day. Balls of flame appeared on either side, casting orange cones across the pathway. It smelled damp and earthy, the air several degrees cooler underground. Still the trail descended, and Helmuth started to wonder whether he would ever emerge from this place of darkness and shadows.

  And then they did. Helmuth frowned, trying to understand what he was seeing. They were still within the bounds of the cave, every direction except forward and back blocked by gray stone walls, and yet light poured in from above. Not torchlight—real light. Sunlight.

  Krako brought the carriage to a stop, dismounting. The two soldiers droppe
d from their mounts as well, one opening the door for Helmuth while the other stood sentinel, at attention. Carefully, Helmuth clambered out, using one crutch to support himself and dragging the other behind him.

  On solid ground, Helmuth took in his surroundings. He followed the high walls to a wide, circular opening excavated through the boulder itself, much like the tunnel had been built. Sunlight streamed in through the gap. It would’ve taken decades to burrow such a space. The cavernous area was a marvel on its own, large enough to swallow his father’s throne room several times over.

  And in the center sat a natural stone platform.

  And on the platform rested a giant stone seat, carved from the boulder itself.

  And in the seat—no, the throne—rested a figure, his hands clasped casually in his lap.

  “Ah, you have arrived,” King Streit said. Helmuth froze, his mouth going dry. His crutches suddenly felt like glowing beacons and he had the urge to throw them aside and stand on his own two feet. Unfortunately, such a thing wasn’t just foolish—it was impossible.

  The king stood. He was a tall man, at least a head taller than Helmuth. He would’ve had a finger or two on King Gäric as well, Helmuth suspected. His hair was jet black, finely combed with a thin part off center. His eyes were as dark as his hair, but shone with a light that spoke of certainty and strength. This man is fearless, Helmuth thought. As certain of victory as his enemies are of defeat. No wonder he has conquered the world.

  The king stepped forward, loosely dropping from the platform. His jaw was clean-shaven, but in the center of his chin was a thin strip of black hair, curving outward on either side to surround his lips, connecting beneath his nose. Helmuth had the strange suspicion that not a single hair was out of place on this entire man’s body.

  The king stopped, not frowning so much as his facial muscles tensing as one. Only the slight narrowing of his eyes gave away the change in his mood. “Where is Vrinn?” he asked, his eyes flicking to Krako.

  “He…” Krako seemed to struggle to describe what had happened, though he’d had the entirety of the long trip to choose his words.

  Even years after, Helmuth couldn’t determine why he decided that now was a good time to speak up. Perhaps it was how much he’d grown to enjoy Vrinn’s company in the few short hours that he knew him, or perhaps it was just a random impulse because of what he’d witnessed atop the tallest tower in the world. Whatever the case, he blurted out, “He jumped to his death.”

  The king’s eyes landed back on him, hard, and it took all his focus not to look away from their scrutiny. “You witnessed this?”

  He’d used up all his courage, so he was only able to nod.

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  Helmuth sensed this man was never lied to, that even if he was he would know. But could he really tell him the truth?

  “Many things,” Helmuth hedged, and was surprised his voice didn’t falter. I’ve traveled halfway around the world, he repeated in his mind, and the statement seemed to give him strength.

  “Such as?”

  Helmuth remembered the lightness in Vrinn’s spirit, the way his grin had seemed to have an infinite number of shapes and sizes, like a kaleidoscope of mirth. He hadn’t truly seen darkness in the boy until those spare moments before he’d chosen to take his own life. Everything suddenly made sense. He knew he was going to jump when I met him. He was excited for it. “His hopes and dreams…” Helmuth said now.

  “And his fears?”

  Helmuth blanched. The words seemed to cut through the blank spaces in what he was saying, probing into his own thoughts. His own fears.

  He nodded, his teeth grinding together. He knew this man was supposed to be powerful. Feared. But he’d known kings—his grandfather and father were kings, and his younger brother would one day become one—and he knew they were just men, at their core. Anger coursed through him. There was a tightening in his chest, and then a throb. The thing he’d held back since Blackstone stirred in him and he knew if he opened himself up to it, even a crack, it would spill from him like light through an open doorway. He breathed deeply, holding that energy back. “Yes. He feared you. He killed himself because of you.”

  Helmuth expected a reaction. Fierce and quick. Perhaps the king would attack him. Perhaps he would order his soldiers to attack him. Krako must’ve feared the same, for he took a step forward and said, “Your Highness, we’ve had a long trip. The boy is tired. Anyway, I take full responsibility for Vrinn’s death. I allowed them to go to the top of the tower. I shouldn’t have. I will accept my punishment.”

  The king, however, didn’t seem angry at either of them. “Dismissed,” he said to Krako.

  “Your Highness, I—”

  “Go.” The word wasn’t shouted, and yet it held all the power of one that had been.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Krako bowed slightly, offered a look of warning to Helmuth, and then mounted his carriage, turned the horses around, and left. Without being instructed, the soldiers followed.

  Helmuth was alone now, with the most powerful man in the world.

  The king stepped closer. He wore a radiant green doublet adorned with black shoulder pads. His trousers were black, as well as his belt. Fine, black boots completed the ensemble, clicking slightly on the hard ground.

  “Do you fear me?” he asked, his chin cocking to the side.

  Though all of Helmuth’s weight was propped up by the crutches, he felt his knees quiver, a contradiction to that throb in his chest. He didn’t know the answer so he said nothing.

  Another step, so close now he could see the individual hairs in the king’s thin mustache. That…darkness inside him felt poised to leap, to lunge. Please don’t, Helmuth thought, pleading with it as if it was human. He remembered how it had felt the first time, the fear he’d sensed in everyone and everything around him. The dread.

  To his surprise, the throb receded, distant now. A reminder it was still there, nothing more. Not yet.

  “You shouldn’t,” the king said, extending a single pale hand. Helmuth wanted to move away, to avoid the inevitable touch he knew was coming, but also realized that would be a mistake. This man was used to getting what he wanted—as all kings are—and to deny him was to make him your enemy.

  And Helmuth couldn’t afford to make this man his enemy—at least not yet.

  “I will never hurt you,” the king said the moment he touched his skin.

  His fingers were smoother than Helmuth expected. He closed his eyes as they traced his chin, his lips, his nose. They stroked his eyebrows, fluttered his eyelashes. They probed beneath his earlobes, pinching them slightly. Every touch made him feel violated.

  “Yes,” the king purred. “I can work with this.”

  Helmuth’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

  The king smiled, and it was a devil’s smile. He ruffled Helmuth’s hair before retracting his hand. “You are an untouched canvas, and I am an artist. Call it a hobby, if you must call it anything. I take things that are thrown out, unwanted, and make them beautiful.” With the last word, a light seemed to radiate from the man’s very being. He even licked his lips slightly, a simple gesture that felt foul in this context.

  He could picture it now:

  Vrinn, younger and rougher around the edges, standing before this man. Hearing these same words. Perhaps he was relieved by them, his worst fears alleviated by the kindness in the king’s smile. Over time, however, that relief had turned to fear, self-hatred, enough to drive him to throw himself from the tallest building in the world.

  Helmuth, despite his anger, shivered slightly. The pulse in his chest sped up, louder, hotter.

  Hungry.

  The king leaned forward, until his lips were a breath away from Helmuth’s ear. “Tell me, child, how did Vrinn look before he jumped?”

  Helmuth didn’t want to answer, but he knew he had to. And the answer was a single word, more truthful than anything he’d uttered in his entire life.

  “Be
autiful,” he said.

  Thankfully, the king called for a servant after that, a woman with dull gray hair and sad green eyes. Without being commanded, she escorted him from the throne room, down a narrower tunnel that led to a series of open rooms on either side. As Helmuth passed each opening, he glanced inside.

  In each room was a bed, and on each bed sat another child—all boys. They wore either green or black clothes, basic pants and shirts. Their feet dangled from the beds, bare of shoes or stockings. They stared at him without expression. He had the distinct impression they were dead, even though his logic told him they were not. Still, their stares seemed not to settle on him, but cut through him.

  These boys are like Vrinn, Helmuth thought. The king’s playthings. None of them looked injured, not physically anyway, but Helmuth knew better than most that there were other ways to hurt.

  “Why are you doing this?” Helmuth asked the woman.

  She didn’t turn toward him, didn’t respond. He suspected she heard the pleadings of children all the time and had become immune to it. Or numb. Or both.

  Eventually, ten or so doors down the hall, she stopped, gesturing him inside a small stone vestibule. Finally, she spoke. “Change. I will wait for you.”

  Helmuth crutched inside, immediately locating the green trousers and linen shirt folded neatly on the bed. He sat, his pulse pounding. To put these on felt like defeat. Would he spend the rest of his life in this dark place, only seeing sunlight on the king’s terms? Would he suffer the king’s hands on his skin day in and day out at the ruler’s will and whim? Was this why he had left the oppression of his former life? Only to end up oppressed in an entirely different way?

  He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it on the floor. The woman bent over to pick it up, while he tugged on the new one. It felt light and clean. It felt like the bars of a prison.

  When he paused, she said, “Now the pants.”

  “No.” It wasn’t a sense of modesty that made him deny her. It was something deeper, something that had been building in him since the moment his father denied him his birthright.