Mark of the Mage: Scribes of Medeisia Book I

by R.K. Ryals

  Chapter 33

  The sky was a light grey brushed with pink and yellow when we stepped out of the castle. We were once again in the courtyard we'd entered when we'd first arrived, but it had transformed from the mud-covered stomping ground of horses and soldiers to a public arena. Hastily built scaffolding sat in the center of the yard with a line of barrels rolled beneath it, at least twenty in all. Villagers crowded into the area, their faces pale and quiet.

  There were no cheers as we were dragged through the mud. No one called for our deaths or spit in our direction. No rotten food was thrown. There were only lowered heads in the crowd, many of them avoiding our gaze.

  Upon reaching the barrels, the guards lifted us, placing a noose around our necks before backing away. The rope was coarse and rough against my skin, sharp in places, and I fought hard not to wince.

  I looked to Kye where he stood next to me. His shoulders were back, and his head was high despite his weakness. Dark, purplish shadows rested under his eyes. And still he stood tall, his gaze fixed on the castle walls. My gaze followed his, and I froze.

  There on a balcony just above our heads sat King Raemon, Captain Neill, and a group of other noblemen and women. My father, my stepmother, and my half sister were among them. Taran was whispering something into another woman's ears while fanning her face with yellow silk-gloved hands. Beside her, my half sister peered down at Kye and I, her eyes narrowed. I stared back.

  Mareth's eyes widened. I looked away. Out of all of my family, it hurt that Mareth was the only one who may have recognized me. I didn't care if she had. There was nothing to be done about it. I was going to die anyway. I bore the mark of the scribe.

  “Ho! Make way!”

  The guards' voices caught my attention, and I looked down into the yard to find a group of the king's soldiers leading a bevy of marked prisoners through the mud to the barrels beside us. One of them was Jule of Rendoh. I gasped.

  “Kye,” I breathed.

  The old woman's head came up, her gaze meeting mine before slipping away. She'd been treated roughly. A bruise bloomed along one cheek, and she walked stiffly as if she'd been beaten.

  “By the gods,” Kye muttered.

  I turned my head, my pain filled eyes mirroring the gaze that met me. Kye glanced back up at the balcony, his face hard.

  A kek,kek filtered down to me from the sky, and I looked up, my eyes searching.

  “Be strong,” Ari called down.

  Her words held something beneath them, her tone odd. A promise maybe? Stay strong. Much easier said than done. Even if I called out to the forest for help, I wasn't sure it would come in time.

  A drum began to beat. I wanted to reach out and take Kye's hand in mine, to feel one final connection to another human being, but our wrists had been tied together in front of us. I looked to the sky. Blue, pink, and yellow. Such beautiful colors.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, memories of those I'd lost and memories of those I'd killed flashed through my mind. I'd wanted more out of this life. I'd wanted to do something more, but I didn't regret where I was now.

  If I'd never left Forticry, I never would have met the rebels, the dragons, or Kye. I'd never know what it was like to be one of them, to be part of something, to be connected to someone by a mark even if I didn't know their name. I wouldn't know what it was like to love a country I'd only thought of as a place before rather than a home. I wouldn't know the truth behind the Archives. I wouldn't be able to put images with words I'd only studied before. And I never would have known Medeisia had a prince who was willing to die a martyr for the minority.

  The drum stopped beating. I opened my eyes.

  Before us stood a black hooded man, the white of his eyes the only thing visible through his headpiece. His hands lifted.

  “By order of King Raemon, these men and women are criminals of Medeisia. Bearing the mark of the shamed, they will hang here today an example of what we should strive not to be.”

  I, like Kye, held my head high. I was a girl. I was a young woman. I was a child who had once run through a manor with hidden pens beneath my dresses, crawling under dressers and tables to draw my name on the furniture or secret codes in Sadeemian I knew only I could read. I was a mischievous little imp who'd stolen cakes from the kitchen only to split them with Ari in my room or pass them under the table to a novice scribe in the Archives. I was Drastona Maree Consta-Mayria of Medeisia. I was the illegitimate daughter of Garod Consta-Mayria, once ambassador of Sadeemia. I was Aigneis' charge and Aedan's pupil. I was not the mark I bore. I was not ashamed.

  The drums beat once more, and then silence. I squeezed my eyes shut. The first barrel was shoved away, the sound of gagging audible from where I stood. The scaffolding shook as the victim struggled. My eyes burned.

  “Stone,” Kye whispered.

  I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He was gazing at me, his lips parted when the shadow fell over the courtyard, a large shadow that blocked the early morning light. People screamed.

  Kye's eyes widened, and we both looked away, our gazes going to the sky. There, his beautiful body glowing almost bronze in the soft hues of dawn was Lochlen. His scales gleamed as he dove, his wide mouth open, smoke curling from his nose.

  There was shouting everywhere.

  “Shoot it!” Captain Neill yelled.

  “Dragon!” a woman shrieked.

  “Run!” someone cried.

  Arrows were loosed into the air, but Lochlen merely shook himself as they struck his scales, rumbling laughter filling the courtyard as he landed.

  “Amateurs,” he roared. “You've forgotten how mighty we are.”

  And with that, he spit fire at the scaffolding. I felt my noose break free, the ends of the rope burning as it fell. I felt the burning fibers against my tunic.

  “The mud!” Kye shouted.

  I jumped to the ground, landing on my back in the sludge below, and the burning rope was extinguished. Soldiers ran toward us, swords pulled. Lochlen swung his tail, sweeping many of them out of the way.

  I rolled as a sentry grew too near, using my foot to catch him behind the knees. He went down, and I scrambled for his sword with my bound hands.

  The guard recovered quickly, flipping abruptly, his fist connecting with my face. Blood spewed from my nose as he grabbed me by the throat.

  “You fiend!” he hissed. It was the guard from the dungeon. “He was my friend!” He pulled his sword, lifting it up to strike. I didn't look away. The sword hissed downward.

  Another blade met his, the cling deafening.

  “Not today, soldier,” Kye's voice cried out. I fell aside as Kye's blade withdrew before making contact with the guards' arm.

  I brought my bound hands to my nose, staunching the flow of blood.

  “Here,” Lochlen called.

  I looked up to find the dragon looming over me, a claw extended, and I reached up to rub the rope against the sharpened tip. The fibers fell away.

  “Now, come! We must go!”

  Lochlen's insistence fed my urgency, and I scrambled to my feet. Soldiers were pouring now from the palace. Another shadow fell over the courtyard. Fire shot down from the sky. I knew who it was without looking. Feras.

  “Climb up!” Lochlen bellowed.

  I stared at him.

  He lowered his head. “Now, Stone!”

  “You want me to ride you?” I asked. “Me?”

  Smoke curled up from Lochlen's nostrils.

  “Now is a bad time to act all humbled by it. Get on!”

  I used Lochlen's horn to scramble onto his back, my legs scraped by his uncomfortable scales. Kye was right about one thing. Riding dragons was not comfortable.

  Lochlen spread his wings as I scanned the courtyard. Most of the spectators had scattered, and Kye was standing in the open, his arms raised, his hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword. His eyes were on the king.

  “I will destroy you, Father. This promise I
make you now. For Medeisia!”

  And with that, the sword hissed downward, sticking solidly in the mud in front of the balcony. An archer was poised nearby, and his arrow flew. I opened my mouth to scream just as Feras flew down, using his claws to pull Kye up into the air. The arrow moved through empty space.

  “The other prisoners!” I cried.

  I leaned over Lochlen's neck, my eyes going to the scaffolding. Three people still stood there, the nooses loose around their neck. A fourth hung dead. It was a young man, and I turned my head away.

  “We have to give them a chance,” I begged.

  A rumble moved up through my legs.

  “I had to get the rider with a conscious,” he complained, but he flew down anyway, fire burning the remaining ropes.

  “Hold tight!” he growled.

  I laid flat against his scales, my cheeks digging into the rough surface as I hung onto a ridge on his neck. Lochlen dove, legs first. A loud crack, a jerk, and the castle drawbridge was torn open. It fell to the ground, the mechanism holding it closed, broken. People poured out of the courtyard and into the villages beyond.

  Lochlen lifted and Feras flew beneath us, Kye on his back. Somehow he'd scrambled upward.

  “It's the best I can do,” Lochlen said before taking to the skies.

  “To the forests!” Kye yelled down to the prisoners.

  I glanced behind me. The palace was in chaos. The scaffolding was on fire. Bodies lay on the ground, some of them unmoving. The king stood, his face black with rage. And there in the midst of it all stood Kye's stolen sword, standing firm in the soil, a symbol of defiance.