Soul Marked: After the Fire Book 1

by C. Gockel

  He takes a few bites of food. He’s so tired that he finds it hard to push his fork around the plate. He remembers how exhausted he’d felt after invoking the Destroyer, and then of falling asleep against the tree in the swamp, his arms wrapped around Tara, her body warm enough to offset the delta’s chill.

  “Lionel, are you falling asleep?”

  Leenine’s whisper makes him bolt upright. His eyes fall on Prince Rogier’s empty chair … and Tara’s. “I’m awake,” he says. “I have to go.”

  He pushes back from the table and heads to the exit directly behind him. As soon as he steps out of the dining hall, Alemie rushes toward him. “I was so worried … I went to the stables. The little pony of your mother’s is gone. I’m so sorry, Steward.” She looks down. “I mean …”

  “It isn’t your fault.” She’s so tiny, young, and distraught. Lionel has always thought of her as a little sister, and now touches her shoulder to comfort her, as he has done many times before. She looks at his hand, eyes wide and alarmed, and he pulls away as though he’s been burned. He’s not steward anymore. She is not his staff or adopted sister, and he’s frightened her. “Go back to Lady Benedal’s suite,” he advises, trying to hide how her fear hurts. “Even your magic apron won’t protect you if her rooms aren’t spotless by the time she’s done with dinner.”

  Curtsying deeply, Alemie backs away, turns, and takes off in a sprint.

  “Lionel.”

  He spins to see Leenine stepping from the dining hall. “What are you doing?” she asks him.

  He’s too tired to be evasive. “I’m going to try to save Tara from the attentions of Prince Rogier.”

  “She has the attentions of the prince?” Leenine says, her brow furrowing in bewilderment. “Surely they aren’t unwanted if that is so.” She gives him a confused smile.

  “No one wants the attention of Prince Rogier,” Lionel says, running a hand through his hair, thinking of many a servant in tears he’s had to deal with over the years. He looks one way and then the other. Tara left by the door behind her, on the opposite of the room, which would put her in the Northwest hallway, parallel to where he is now. Turning, Lionel strides to the next east-west passageway.

  Leenine catches his arm. “You’re being ridiculous—”

  “No, you’re being a lady, and you don’t know how he treats us,” Lionel says, not breaking his stride.

  “You’re not a servant anymore,” Leenine protests. “And Tara is a guest. I’m sure he’ll—”

  Lionel rounds on her. “I’m not sure!”

  Eyes wide, Leenine says, “You’re wrong, and in charging after him, you risk the ire of the prince and Her Majesty. You’re being foolhardy and …” Her words trail off.

  “Savage?” Lionel supplies. Possibly jealous, a little voice in him whispers. He feels like he might vomit, and then remembers Tara’s saying, you were just being protective, and feels himself lighten.

  Leenine backs away. “What do you think you’ll do? You’d dare take on a prince?”

  He remembers Tara, cradling his feet in her lap when he’d been in agony and the minutes had stretched into years. And he remembers the light that had gone out of her eyes when he’d used her name. “Yes,” Lionel says.

  Leenine draws back, eyes wide in shock.

  Lionel should have done something when Tara had failed to acknowledge him at the table. “Goodbye, Leenine,” he whispers. Before she can protest, he wills himself to become invisible—he doesn’t even need the key anymore—and then he takes off in search of Tara and his mother, spreading his avatars out past the palace gates.

  “You don’t really want to go back there, Tara of Chicago,” Rogier says. His voice is so oily that it makes the hairs rise on the back of her neck stand up, but her feet stop. He’s broken Lady Benedal’s spell—for purposes she knows are less than good.

  He tilts his head. “But you don’t really want to be with me, either.”

  Tara’s spine straightens. No, she doesn’t.

  “Oh, Tara of Chicago, you can tell me the truth,” Rogier says, movements so smooth he seems to ooze toward her. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  Her mind feels sharper and more alert than it has in hours, and she knows he wants her to be disgusted by him, to not like him. It turns him on. Keeping her face neutral, she backs away and tries to formulate a plan.

  Rogier smiles. “Oh, you’re going to try to run away? What fun.”

  Tara decides the oily prince is going to wear the bathroom’s golden towel holder over his head. She glances to the side, sees the door, and is almost there when he says, “Oh, no, not in there, Tara. My sister gets so upset when I get into trouble in the facilities. Inconveniences her guests and all that.”

  Tara’s hands ball into fists at her side. Unable to enter the bathroom, her feet keep retreating.

  He holds up a hand. “In fact, stop right there.”

  She stops, cursing inwardly. Stepping into her personal space, he sighs into her ear. “I’d love to chase you through all these halls, but I’m afraid that will put my sister out. We’d best go to Lady Benedal’s suite. It’s far too small, but will have to do … less room for you to flee, but I know you’ll fight me.” His hand comes up as though to caress her face, but Tara catches it and digs her nails into his wrist with all her might.

  Cursing, Rogier twists his hand away. “For now, you will keep your hands down!” he sneers. “Don’t kick me, either.”

  Tara’s muscles go slack.

  “Much better.” Rogier smirks, and then his eyes go wild, shooting from side to side as though there’s an invisible mosquito. “I sense you,” he roars into the air. Raising a finger to Tara, he hisses, “Stay here!”

  Spinning around, Rogier says, “Someone thinks he’s a mighty sorcerer.”

  Tara sees no one, but Rogier mutters something and raises his hands. The air before them shimmers, and a wall of flame emerges in front of him; its heat buffets Tara’s face. With a huff, Rogier pushes the air, and the wall of flame rolls down the hall, leaving smoke and blackened fixtures in its wake. Twenty feet away, it splits in two. In a spot of air that had been empty stands Lionel, body turned, hands upraised as though warding a blow.

  “Lionel,” Tara whispers.

  For just a moment their eyes meet. She can see the sheen of sweat on his brow. Tara’s eyes go to Rogier’s neck. She wants to strangle him, kick him; hell, she’s ready to bite him. But she can’t lift a finger or get a foot completely off the ground.

  Rogier hisses, “That was just a taste, boy.” Stepping back, his right side almost bumps into Tara, he raises his hands, and the air shimmers again.

  Down the hall, Lionel raises his own hands. Rogier chuckles. Tara can see sweat rolling down Lionel’s face.

  She has to do something … She remembers a prank she and her volleyball teammates would play on each other. Raising her leg as much as she can with a toe still on the ground, she ever so gently nudges Rogier right behind his knee.

  Just as it had worked as a kid, he loses his balance and his body sags. Lionel pushes the air, and Tara is hit by a wave of cold—all emanating from Rogier. He falls to the floor, eyes and mouth wide open and covered with frost. Lionel is at her side a moment later. “Tara Lupita Gibson, you’re free.”

  “Is he frozen through?” Tara gasps.

  At her words, Rogier moans.

  Lionel bends over, hands on his thighs as though he’s just finished a race. “No, I’m not that strong, but he’s very cold. Tara, I’ve just assaulted a prince. You must get away from me. Beg forgiveness from the queen. She won’t blame you.”

  No way is she abandoning him. “Not on your life,” Tara mutters. She decides to be mad at him later for even suggesting it. Looking toward the dining hall, she sees several elves with mouths agape, staring at the fallen prince.

  “We should run, then,” says Lionel, not moving. He looks like he’s about to fall over.

  Tara grabs Lionel’s arm and pulls him down the h
all. “Which way?”

  “They’ve locked the gates for the night,” says Lionel. His eyes become vacant and he stumbles. “My mother’s just outside. Mother, go, go to the Dark Lands. Find a safe house. I’ve got Tara. I’ll meet you there somehow …”

  His eyes come back into focus and he regains his footing. “She came back to the palace just as soon as Benedal’s compulsion wore off. She’d never have left you on purpose.”

  Tara’s gut constricts. “I know.” They reach an intersection, and Tara picks a direction at random. Ahead, servers are streaming back and forth, laden with dishes; they’re passing through double doors on either side of the hallway. From one pair of doors, Tara hears conversation and bubbling laughter, from the other, she hears pots and pans. Beyond that is another hallway.

  “Lionel, isn’t there a secret passage out of this place?” Tara asks, guiding him forward for lack of better ideas. Don’t all palaces have hidden escape routes?

  “Yes …” Lionel says, and her heart leaps. Hooray for The History Channel! Eyes going vacant, he whispers, “Checking.”

  Tara stops in her tracks just before the kitchen. Thirty feet past the servers going to and fro is a line of elves in armor. Hearing footsteps behind, she looks back and sees more armor-clad guards. The kitchen staff is nervously glancing side to side, but doesn’t stop their tasks.

  “Blasted basilisks, she’s blocked that one too,” Lionel whispers.

  From down the hallway, one of the guards bellows, “Lionel of South Vale and Tara of Chicago, you will—”

  Before he can finish and possibly put her under a spell, Tara drags Lionel into what she hopes is the kitchen. A cloud of steam hits her face. Someone screams. Someone else shouts, “Lord and Lady, you’ve made a wrong turn!”

  Next to her Lionel shouts, “This way!”

  Before Tara knows what’s happening, he’s darted down an aisle. Tara hears boot thumps behind her and dashes after Lionel, past elves protectively huddling over fancy dishes. “Sorry! Sorry!” she murmurs as she and Lionel bump past them.

  “To the wine cellar!” Lionel shouts, darting right.

  Catching up to him, Tara says, “Um … should you be telling them where we’re going to be hiding?”

  “Not hiding!” Lionel declares, grabbing her hand and dragging her past elves manning giant stoves and ovens. She hears the door boom open and whispers, “Duck!”

  Lionel does, and leads her at a crouch toward a dark doorway in the far corner. A man dressed in grey, carrying two bottles of wine, is standing there scowling down at them.

  “Where are they?” bellows the guard again.

  Lionel whispers to the man in grey guarding the door, “I attacked Rogier.”

  Elf in the doorway’s eyebrow hikes. Neatly stepping past Tara and Lionel, he says, “Where is who?”

  Lionel yanks her into the darkness beyond the door, thrusts something into her hand, and says, “Lock it.”

  She hears him run off.

  In the kitchen, she hears a guard respond with a roar. “The lord and the human who just came in here.”

  “Oh, them,” says guy dressed in grey. His hands are behind his back, and he’s gesturing frantically toward Tara in what must be a universal sign for “haul butt.”

  “Yes, them, you simpering sommelier—”

  Tara shuts the door as gently as she can, and doesn’t hear the rest. It’s dim in the wine cellar, but not pitch black. Fumbling with the thing Lionel thrust at her, she discovers it’s his key. Hoping it’s a master key, she inserts it into the lock. Thankfully, it catches, and a moment later, she hears the bolt click.

  She breathes out a sigh of relief, and then hears a loud thump on the door, and then another.

  Spinning, she runs down the stairs. The wine cellar is larger than her house. There is a wide central corridor bisected by aisle upon aisle of wines in bottles and barrels from floor to ceiling.

  “Over here!” Lionel shouts.

  Following the sound of his voice, she finds him in one of the smaller aisles.

  “Not here, not here!” he mutters.

  “What are you looking for?” Tara asks. “A secret exit?”

  “No, none here …”

  “Back door?” Tara asks.

  “No, no, the door we came through is the only one,” Lionel says, running a hand through his hair, looking like a madman. “Loki, Loki, Loki …”

  “What?” says Tara. “Are you trying to summon him?” She winces. Please don’t be like saying Beetlejuice’s name three times.

  “He said there was a gate here … somewhere.”

  Lionel charges past her to another aisle, and Tara charges after him.

  “The queen would never let me down here … she knew I’d find it. Norns bless Chignon for stepping out of the way,” Lionel murmurs. He turns to Tara. “I don’t really believe the Norns can bless anyone. I wish someone did. Chignon is … was … a friend. He deserves to be blessed.”

  “Lionel?” Tara whispers. Is he having a nervous breakdown?

  “I haven’t slept in over forty-eight hours,” he says, blinking at her. “Maybe more.”

  From the top of the stairs comes the sound of splintering wood. Lionel turns and dashes down another aisle. Tara follows. He turns, goes down the next, and the next. Tara hears footsteps on the stairs, and, “Lionel of the South Vale and Tara of Chicago, we know you’re here.”

  Skidding to a halt, Lionel whispers, “Here!”

  He holds up his hands midair and says, “Yes.” Turning, he clutches Tara roughly by the upper arms and kisses her forehead. He nods once. “I hope that works.”

  From the stairs comes Lady Benedal’s voice. “Let me through!” and then, “Tara of Chicago, you will—”

  Lionel shoves Tara’s head down and pushes her forward. Instead of a wine cellar, Tara finds her chin inches above a stone floor, head at eye level with silvery shoes … or boots. On either side seems to be wooden fence posts. She feels her feet lift, and she cries out in surprise as she’s launched forward. The boots jump away and someone curses. Tara goes head first between the posts, and then hears Lionel say, “Tara! Help.”

  Turning, she sees his hands and head reaching toward her, and then he slips backward, his head vanishing, and it’s just his arms dangling in midair. Tara grabs on and pulls. Someone shouts, “Help her.” There are more shouts, and the thump of boots, and someone grabs Lionel’s right arm and another pair of hands grab his left, and a man’s voice commands, “Pull!”

  Tara pulls with all her might, and then she hears her helpers grunt. Lionel comes lunging through what she guesses is a World Gate. Crashing into her, his weight knocks her over, and they both roll backward down a set of stairs, arms and legs akimbo. Tara’s sure she’ll be knocked unconscious, but a moment later, she is on her side, blinking at Lionel. Across his body she sees a rather nice floor with an intricate mosaic on it. Sunlight is streaming from above. In the direction they came from is a short stairway, and atop that, a throne. The “fence posts” were its legs.

  Someone says, “Intruders!” And she hears boots striding purposely in their direction. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she sees guys in armor, guys much bigger than elves. They’ve all got spears out and they are aimed right at Lionel and her.

  A shadow blocks out the sun, and she blinks up and finds herself staring at a man with a white beard and long white hair. One of his eyes is covered with a gold eye patch; the other is a familiar bright blue. His face is not exactly like the picture painted on the side of the “City of Gods” tour bus, but it’s close enough. “Odin,” she whispers.

  He raises an eyebrow, lifts his head, and in a voice like thunder rumbles, “Guards.”

  At the single word from Odin, Tara instinctively curls into a defensive posture next to Lionel. She waits for the hands to come drag her away, or the spear points to pierce her side.

  “You’re no longer needed,” Odin says, and Tara blinks. He isn’t speaking English, Spanish, French
, or Elvish. She remembers Lionel kissing her forehead in the wine cellar, like he had on the bluff in the Delta of Sorrows.

  Behind her, she hears orderly boot steps, and then a door shut. Lionel is rubbing his eyes, like he has a headache.

  She nudges his arm. “Um … Lionel,” she says and glances worriedly at Odin.

  He’s holding out a hand … to her. Tara gapes.

  “Miss Tara Lupita Gibson,” says Odin, or the man she’s ninety-nine percent sure is Odin.

  Tara’s too shocked to take the proffered hand. Odin knows who she is?

  Glaring at Odin, Lionel scrambles up and helps Tara to her feet.

  Eyeing Lionel, Odin rumbles, “Relax, Lionel, I am not an elf, and I’m not so charming as you. I cannot deprive her of her free will by speaking her name.”

  Tara blinks. That is just an elf thing. Good to know … Especially since everyone present knows her name now.

  Lionel is still glowering, but Odin only looks bemused. Turning to Tara, Odin extends his hand, this time as though he’s offering a handshake. Tara tentatively takes it. His hand is huge, and warm but dry, and she can feel calluses on his fingers and palm. His handshake is firm, but careful. He smiles, and his eye twinkles. “You are welcome here, Miss Gibson, and by my oath are in no danger now.”

  Tara is too shocked to do anything but stare dumbly at him. Why does his twinkling blue eye look familiar?

  Letting go of her hand, Odin turns to Lionel. “I had long hoped you’d join me in this chamber, but never envisioned anything like this.” He shakes his head and then he throws it back and laughs. The men in the chamber join him. Tara notices that except for Odin and one other man, they’re all wearing black robes. She blinks at the one man. He is wearing armor, and is incredibly tall, maybe six foot eight or even more. Standing atop the short flight of stairs where the throne sits surrounded by a few less impressive seats, the man’s holding a hammer in his hand, and his hair is long and red. Her eyes go wide. It’s Thor. She recognizes him from the news and countless viral amateur videos. He’s not laughing like the rest, but he’s smiling at Lionel in a way that seems bittersweet. Catching Tara’s gaze, he touches his brow.