The Rose Mark: Black Rose Sorceress, Book 1

by Connie Suttle

  I glanced up at the top row of benches lining the stands outside the training grounds.

  They waited there—the warriors, dressed in dark brown instead of the trainees' sand-colored fatigues. I jerked my head down again after that brief look; no sense drawing their attention by staring at them.

  I didn't want to know them. One of them would end up killing me, after all. The dog-woman lined us up last of all, while five other cohorts waited on her to make us presentable on the training field.

  "While you are here," the dog-woman barked, "You will follow the commands of your superiors. If you do not, you will be punished. While you are here, you will eat what is served to you. If you do not, you will be punished. While you are here, you will not copulate with anyone except the warrior you are paired with, and then only when he asks and you consent. If you do not follow this command, you will be executed. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Lady," we said in unison.

  My stomach churned at her last order; I worked to keep from dry heaving. My meager breakfast had long since vanished, leaving an empty, rumbling belly behind. Dog-woman's comments about food made me want to laugh; any food would be welcome, if not enjoyed—until her last command.

  The connecting. It was something I'd refused to think on until now; copulation with the one who'd kill you eventually. It was the worst of the insults offered by the King and his infernal book.

  CHAPTER 2

  K erok

  "I'd like to be there when those girls find out they won't be fed until they can produce fire," Merrin chuckled as I stomped down the back steps of the high stands. Clenching my fists, I ground my teeth until the retort cleared from my mind.

  "Oh, right. Shut the fuck up. Yes, Commander."

  He'd obviously seen my jaw working, if not the fists I'd made to keep from turning and twisting his collar in my grip.

  He and I—we'd been friends since childhood. Only in the past year had I begun to see him differently.

  He'd walked off the last battlefield, angry that his black-rose escort had died on him in the middle of a fiery blast.

  I'd walked off the battlefield half an hour later, knowing my escort was also dead.

  The differences were these; I walked back with Grae in my arms, tears in my eyes and deep wounds on body and soul.

  Grae and I had worked together for six years. I buried her ashes in my father's flower garden when I returned home, searching for healing and eventually, another black-rose escort to continue the fight.

  Merrin's escort's ashes were buried with many others in a mass grave on the battlefield. She and Grae had been friends.

  Merrin and I had been friends. He thought things hadn't changed.

  I learned from a tutor once that opening your eyes, no matter how long they have been closed, will bring you to enlightenment.

  He didn't say that enlightenment also came with a heavy load of guilt and pain.

  "Are we going to watch the march to trainees' mess?" Merrin turned to ask as we reached the bottom steps.

  I didn't reply, choosing to toss a hand in that direction instead. We'd see what these women were made of.

  In all, there were only one hundred thirty-five, from forty-six villages marching in to line up outside the mess hall. Many were so thin, I thought they might topple over before they reached the serving line.

  Word would be carried to the King about their conditions. At least they were out of the unforgiving sun, lining up as they were along the side of the mess hall. Drudges had recently replaced the roof and painted the stucco-and-brick building the usual color of sand, just like everything else.

  The Bulldog appeared at the head of her cohort while Merrin and I watched. They halted obediently at her command.

  "You will make fire in your palm," the Bulldog shouted. "If you do not, you will not eat. If you fail to make fire tomorrow morning, you will not eat. If you faint during your training tomorrow, you will be wakened and put back in your training group. Do you understand?" The Bulldog's hands were on her hips as she shouted.

  "Yes, Lady," the women chorused.

  "Do I have a volunteer?"

  Three hands raised. "Good. Step forward and show me fire."

  Sherra

  Several of my group went to bed hungry that first night. I was one of them. Not because I couldn't make fire—but because I refused to do it.

  Pottles, the blind pot seller in my village, befriended me when I was six. She was an old woman even then, whose callused hands felt the pots brought to her so she could determine a price to pay. Once I began to describe the color and condition of those pots to her, she'd feed me after my early lessons.

  I learned to cook from her, too; she sat near the stove and described to me what to put in the pot and how it should sound while cooking. Cooking for her meant at least one good meal a day.

  I learned from her what the black rose really meant—my father didn't bother to tell me. She'd lost a sister that way, long ago. The book she'd given me told me how to use what I'd been born with—the power warranting the black rose on my wrist.

  Her name was Doret, although everyone called her Pottles. Eight months ago, Pottles died. In normal circumstances, I might have been given her things. Instead, because I wore the black rose and Doret had no living family, the village divided her belongings and I was left to grieve for the only friend I'd had.

  For Doret and her sister, I refused to make fire that first night.

  K erok

  I stood against the wall, watching as the girls who'd produced fire the night before were allowed into the trainees' mess for breakfast. Some were even beginning to chatter quietly among themselves.

  Those who hadn't made fire were lined up along the opposite wall, waiting to make their second attempt as the others walked past them.

  Nine from the Bulldog's cohort stood in that line.

  Last in line was a tall, curly-haired youngling who stood at attention, like the others. The only difference I saw in her was the fire in her eyes.

  The Bulldog hadn't seen it.

  Couldn't see it.

  I imagined for a brief moment that her gaze could burn the Bulldog to a cinder. That's when she dropped her eyes to the floor and the fleeting image left me. Merrin joined me, then.

  "Captain," I acknowledged his presence.

  "Anything interesting?" Merrin asked.

  "Find out—discreetly, of course—the name of the curly-haired one at the back of the Bulldog's second-try line."

  "May I ask why?"

  "No reason. She just reminds me of someone."

  "It will be done, Commander," Merrin jerked his head in a mock salute. He didn't say it, although he thought it. Grae's hair had been dark and curly.

  There, the similarity ended. Grae had been a tall, graceful water bird among hawks and pigeons. She'd had few friends, but only because she was wary of most people. I'd worked very hard to gain her trust, and there was love in her eyes when she gave me everything she had at the last.

  I blamed myself for that, and many other things. "Have the information for me before midday," I instructed as I continued to watch the girl.

  "It will be done."

  This one was neither hawk nor pigeon. This one was wildfire in a fierce wind. She didn't speak with anyone while I watched her, and I kept my eyes on her while the Bulldog went down the line, demanding that each girl produce fire or go back to the barracks to await training.

  Merrin and I watched as three of the second-tries became third-tries.

  The curly-haired woman wasn't one of them.

  Sherra

  I learned her name was Yasa, but she preferred to be called Bulldog instead of dog-woman. Close enough, to my thinking. Everyone else referred to her as the Bulldog.

  The second morning before breakfast, she glared at me as I made a small fire in my palm when commanded. Three of those in line with me went without another meal.

  I wanted to bring them food. I couldn't, or I'd be punished. What I coul
d do, perhaps, they hadn't made a rule against. The moment I could, I intended to work with them so they could make fire.

  That morning, after breakfast, we learned to march in formation and turn on command. Dry grass crunched beneath my boots during endless steps and turns. Sweat ran down my face and between my shoulder blades as I kept the next woman's shoulders in my line of sight. That enabled me to stay in step as the Bulldog called the drill.

  By midday, the dust was so thick from the trampled ground I thought we would choke on it. The rest of us were sent to a midday meal; those who hadn't made fire were given water and nothing else.

  Whispers filtered through the trainees during the short meal break. Those who stood outside were called second and third-tries. A few trainees called them worse. I noticed that two of the three who'd volunteered for the Bulldog the night before were the source of those derogatory terms.

  The Bulldog was already culling her favorites.

  I learned what being in the second and third-try line meant when we were released to our barracks after a day of physical training.

  Six beds had been shoved against a far wall. Adjacent to those were three others—for the third-tries.

  Already, they were evaluating us. I was relegated to the second-try section. Would they let the last three starve if they couldn't produce a flame? I was determined not to let that happen.

  "C ome," I whispered to a third-try after touching her shoulder gently. Lights had gone out and I'd waited for what felt like forever, before making my way to the nearest of the third-tries.

  "What?" she spoke aloud.

  I clapped a hand over her mouth. "Quietly," I whispered against her ear. "You want to eat, don't you?"

  I felt her nod. "Good. Come with me." Pushing back her thin blanket and dropping legs nearly as thin over the side of her cot, she rose and followed as I moved in the darkness to the next bed, then the next.

  "They'll see," one woman, cross-legged on the floor beside my bed, hissed when I placed a shield about us and made a light in my palm.

  "They'll hear us," another hissed.

  "We're shielded, you can talk now," I said. "You've never tried to use your power, have you?"

  All shook their heads. "That's what I thought. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath and hold it for six counts. Release," I said when it was time. "Keep your eyes closed. Rest your hands on your knees, wrists up."

  They did as I asked. "Now," I said, "Take another deep breath. Hold it for six counts. When you release, imagine that your breath is fire."

  I smiled when six hands bloomed with flames. "Open your eyes and see," I said.

  Two of them cried. One laughed with joy.

  That night, amid the barest of whisperings to three hungry young women, I taught them how to look within themselves and find their fire.

  K erok

  "Sherra, from Merthis," Merrin dropped a scrap of paper on my desk. He'd listed her parentage, too; a living father and deceased mother. "You don't need a second-try," Merrin offered when I didn't respond.

  "Her education appears to be adequate," I said.

  "How did you find that out?"

  "I looked at the forms she filled out yesterday. I looked at all of them, actually. Hers was the best-written of the lot."

  "Why did you send me after the information, then?"

  "Because I wanted it at midday, not just before lights out."

  "I had to bribe someone to get that," he gruffed, pointing at the scrap of paper. "All you have to do is walk in and demand the forms."

  "A wager, then?" I blinked at Merrin.

  "Depends," he said.

  "I wager ten golds that the third-tries will get breakfast tomorrow."

  "Done," Merrin agreed immediately.

  Sherra

  All three of my secret trainees made fire and went to breakfast the following morning. It made me want to shout at the Bulldog for not providing proper training for them, but that would invite punishment.

  My mouth stayed shut as a result. Our beds never moved, however. In this crop of trainees, we'd always be the second and third-tries.

  A fter the first ten days of physical training, in which we were commanded to run, jump, climb under and over barricades, carry heavy packs and march in formation, our training began to include that associated with an escort's actual work—that of wielding the power we were born with.

  I thought of it as the curse we were born with, but never said it.

  Some of my group had begun to make tentative friendships with one another; that meant the barracks became noisy at night before lights out.

  The ones who wanted to speak with me came hesitantly at first; all of the third-tries wanted to be friends.

  Tera, Misten and Wend began to stand near me for our exercises, too—and sit near me for our classes. If they failed to understand any power moves described during classes, I made sure to explain them better after lights out.

  I hoped we wouldn't be discovered—I worried that someone would attempt to stop me from helping them.

  Yes, I understood about shields and put up the best I knew how, but someone could detect it if they were determined enough.

  So far, lessons on shielding had not been given, and I wondered at that. After all, I'd read about it in the presence of a blind woman, who never knew what I was actually doing.

  Or, if she did, she never said it to anyone. If the villagers had learned of it, they'd have been afraid of me. Instead, they barely offered a glance whenever I arrived at Doret's modest home to help her buy and sell pots.

  Fear does strange things to people. The barbarians were afraid of us; therefore, they wanted to eradicate all traces of us from the planet we walked. By attacking us, they created the very thing they feared—those who could wield power and destroy their machines of war.

  However you looked at it, I was caught in that vicious, painful vortex, with no road of escape open to me—or to anyone tattooed with a black rose.

  K erok

  "How did you know?" Merrin slumped onto the chair next to my desk.

  "Know what?" I stopped calculating expenses and looked at him for a moment.

  "Know that the third-tries wouldn't wash out and be forced to serves as drudges?" he asked.

  "I didn't."

  "Then why the fuck did you bet on them?" Merrin blew out a frustrated breath.

  "I didn't bet on them."

  Merrin frowned deeply for a moment.

  "Oh."

  He knew the who, now. He merely didn't know the why. He hadn't seen the fire in those dark eyes, as I had. "You lost more money, didn't you?" I guessed.

  "Yes. Fuck yes. I bet they'd wash out by the third week. Instead, they're getting along in all the classes."

  "Hmmph," I snorted and went back to my figures. "You make that sound like a bad thing. Drudges we have plenty of. Those able to act as escorts—you know how we're being drained in that area. I recall reading something about actual black roses teaching power classes instead of drudges—that happened in my great-great-great-grandfather's time," I pointed out. "When the enemy took more land and forced more races to bow to them, their armies became larger and more deadly. We barely beat them back last season."

  "What can a black rose teach that a drudge can't? They're still the same, even after the tattoo is covered over."

  "Yes, but remember those drudges never really did the work of an escort. There is no substitute for experience."

  Merrin made a rude noise in response. "I have my eye on one or two already," he admitted.

  "Good." My sarcasm was meant to convey to Merrin that I wanted the subject dropped.

  "The connecting," he began, ignoring my tone and intent. Immediately, I held up a hand to stop his words.

  "Merrin," I said.

  "Yes, Commander?"

  "Get out."

  Sherra

  Over the course of several weeks, I learned that the continual use of power made us hungry. Our rations increased as a result. It became
apparent that no black rose trainee would ever be overweight—after a full day, we were drenched in sweat and drained. Occasionally, one of our number would faint.

  None of my third-tries were victims of such—else it would have alienated them further from the others. It warranted a shower every day, too, before we went for our evening meal.

  I waited for the day when a handful of girls would begin tossing insults at the others—those girls had pleased the Bulldog with their talents and would probably get away with such against the rest of us.

  Those were always the ones chosen to go first, whenever a new talent was required. I slogged along, doing what was necessary to pass the trials and nothing else. The Bulldog hadn't earned my respect in any way, and it was clear she was prone to picking favorites instead of treating all the same.

  I hadn't failed to notice the black block of ink on her wrist—all our instructors wore those. Perhaps it was a way to differentiate them from us; I didn't know for sure. The Bulldog wore long sleeves most of the time, though, to keep her ink covered.

  "Today," the Bulldog announced as my fellow trainees took chairs at the four long tables inside the classroom, "We will talk about shielding."

  Wend shot me a glance before turning back to the Bulldog. It wouldn't do to let her see the thirds turning to me first.

  With my left forefinger, I tapped my right thumb. It was the signal to stay quiet in this. As I'd covered us with shields while teaching Wend, Tera and Misten before, they had a firm idea of how I'd formed my shield.

  I'd wager they could fashion their own, if they wanted.

  "Now," the Bulldog went on, "Proper shielding requires plenty of space. That means we'll have this lesson on the training grounds. Everyone follow Ura and Veri—in an orderly line, please. We may have an audience for today's work, so be prepared to do your best."

  She'd named her two favorites to lead us; they'd go first, too, to make a good impression. I had the idea that the warriors would be our audience, and I had no desire to be laughed at by the likes of those.