Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

  And yet it was the west where he knew he had to go, a place where his tattooya could get him killed. He remembered what Gwen had said a day earlier, about what westerners had once called the marks. Fatemarks. Did that mean there was more to his existence than randomness and chance? It’s just a word, he reasoned. And anyway, the westerners would rather slaughter me than speak to me.

  According to the king, who was riding at the head of the column, they were making their way toward Raider’s Pass, the neck of the north. “We go for the jugular,” the large man had said as he led them through the castle gates. Roan had subconsciously touched the fragile skin of his neck, feeling for a pulse.

  Roan and Gwen were well back from the front, but still in the first third of the legion, which was comprised of hundreds of well-armored men and women bearing all manner of weaponry. The three princes rode up and down the column, trading quips with their soldiers, each of whom they seemed to know personally and by name, a fact that didn’t fail to impress Roan.

  “These trees have been here for thousands of years,” Gwen said, gesturing to some of the tallest trees in the forest. They rose majestically toward the sky, sheathed in intricate ironwork. “They are our gods, along with the ore that protects them.”

  Roan raised an eyebrow. “So, basically, you worship nature.” He was unable to keep the mocking from his tone.

  Gwen fired daggers from her eyes, and he half-expected her to draw her bow and aim it at his heart. “Are the Southrons all that different?” she said. “They worship gods and goddesses of fire, of stars, of storm, of bird and beast. Are those your gods?”

  “I have no gods,” Roan said.

  “What about Wrath?”

  Again, Gwen’s dagger-sharp questions seemed calculated. Precise. Probing.

  “Wrath is far too angry a god for me,” Roan said. “The world is all that we have. After this, there is nothing.”

  “Then you are empty.”

  “Emptiness is better than angriness,” Roan shot back.

  Gwen cocked her head to the side, her silver hair shifting like moonbeams through a lace curtain. “Explain.”

  Roan tried to find the right words to explain his feelings. His guardian’s lectures came back to him. “Why do the westerners hate the easterners?” he asked. “Or the easterners the westerners? The westerners find your lot godless, because you don’t believe in their god, in Wrath, or the seventh heaven they live their entire life to try to reach. And the easterners believe the westerners are savages for brutally punishing sinners. And do you love the Southrons any more? To you they are heathens, barbarians.”

  He clamped his mouth shut, fearing he’d said too much. Gwen said, “Go on. And the north? How do you explain them?”

  “The northerners care only about avoiding the worst places in the afterlife. So their goal is to seek power and territory, but not cross some razor-thin line that will sentence them to a life of eternal damnation in a hell even colder than the one they already live in.”

  “What are you saying? That we should all change our beliefs to accommodate each other’s? Cast the ancient traditions of our forefathers aside for a fool’s chance of peace?”

  Roan shook his head. The truth was, he didn’t know. All he knew was that the current status quo hadn’t worked for hundreds of years, the Four Kingdoms locked in a war that killed thousands each year, leaving the land filled with orphans and widows and sadness. Even as he was trying to communicate the same frustrations he’d argued with his guardian about as a child, he knew he was being hypocritical. Because he didn’t believe in anything but life, and yet he’d watched men and women die. Men and women he could’ve helped.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  Gwen laughed. “At least my beliefs are clear,” she said. “And useful. I speak to the ore, and the ore obeys, Orion’s will be done.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. He’d watched her don her armor this morning, before they’d departed Ferria. The ore had moved with the grace of a dancer, swirling up her legs, around her slim waist, upwards to her ribcage and chest, and finally curled around her neck and over her cheeks.

  As unpredictable as Gwendolyn was, Prince Gareth was impressively predictable.

  The prince wedged his horse in between them, already smirking. “Ho, Roan the Skinmarked! How is your arse on this fine morning?”

  Now that he wasn’t required to hide his ability, every few leagues Roan allowed a portion of his power to seep into his hind parts. “Excellent, Your Highness,” he said. “As supple as cured leather. And yours?” Despite himself, Roan smiled. He hadn’t spoken to the prince since he’d shown him around the castle, and, strangely, he missed the pointless banter.

  “Riding is but an extension of walking to the easterners,” the prince said, spurring his stallion ahead. He veered to the left, forcing Roan’s horse to rear up sharply to avoid a collision. Roan tried to cling to the saddle horn, but the angle was too steep, and he tumbled awkwardly to the ground.

  The prince circled around while Roan groaned, rethinking whether he’d missed Gareth’s presence. Laughter surrounded him from the king’s soldiers. “First lesson of horsemanship, Southron,” Gareth said. “Always maintain control of your steed.”

  The prince chuckled and trotted ahead.

  “He’s right, you know,” Gwen said, dismounting and helping Roan to his feet.

  “He could’ve just told me the first lesson of horsemanship,” Roan griped, reaching out to secure his horse’s reins. They remounted and continued on.

  “Lessons are learned better from experience,” Gwen said.

  Roan thought back to all that he’d experienced over the years. He wasn’t sure he’d learned a damned thing from any of it, except that the world was full of tragedy and heartache.

  As he mused over his past, he saw something streak across the edge of his vision. He jerked his head to the side, searching the trees and undergrowth. “See something?” Gwen asked. There was a twinkle in her golden eyes.

  “Something moved. It was fast. I saw something similar when we entered Ironwood the first time.”

  “Hmm,” Gwen mused, although Roan suspected she was playing a wicked game with him.

  Leaves rustled and there was a flash of something metallic, there and gone before Roan could lock his eyes on it. “What the hell is that?” he asked. It moved like—well, like Gwendolyn. Faster than the wind. Faster than lightning.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in Hell.” Gwen’s eyes sparkled.

  If it moved like her, then maybe it was like her. “Someone you know?” he said. “A cousin perhaps?” He thought he was being clever, but then the thing dove from the opposite side, the barest glint of steel on the outermost edge of his vision.

  Roan tried to duck, but, compared to the thing, he was as slow as tree sap. He felt claws sink into his flesh and then muscle smash into his chest. Once more, he flew off his mount, the beast landing atop him, its paws pinning him to the metal ground, its eyes angry silver, its mouth full of tiny daggers. It was cat-like in appearance, with black stripes interrupting the gray sheen of its metal armor, but far larger and stronger than the ornery tomcats that roamed the streets of Calypso searching for scraps.

  Roan pushed energy into his lifemark, which burned in his chest, healing the scratches and bruises from the attack and subsequent fall; it helped alleviate the pain, but his powers would be useless when the beast bit his head clean off his neck. As if reading his mind, it opened its jaws wide enough to do just that, growling from deep in its throat.

  “Ho, Sasha!” Gwen shouted. “Off!”

  The cat snarled at him once more, and then bounded away, pushing off from his chest. Roan quickly rolled to the side, fought to his feet, and moved backwards from the creature—which apparently had a name, Sasha?—which stalked back and forth in front of him, like it was working off pent up energy.

  Horsemen and horsewomen parted like a river around a stone, mostly ignoring them, although Roan
caught a few laughs and smiles. Maybe he was supposed to be the jester, as Gareth had suggested.

  Gwen slipped from her horse with all the grace of a waterfall. She approached the beast, which stood almost as tall as her, its head reaching her chest. She extended a hand, palm down, and the animal nuzzled its muscular head against it, purring. “He’s not the enemy,” she said to the wildcat.

  Roan noticed she didn’t say “friend.” Still, he would take “not the enemy” under the circumstances. “What is it?” he asked.

  “An ore cat. This one is Sasha. Ironwood is full of them. She didn’t recognize your scent, which made her angry.”

  The ore cat rubbed against Gwendolyn’s leg and she laughed. Sasha approached Roan and he took a step back, stiffening. The cat growled. “She senses your fear,” Gwendolyn said.

  “I’m not scared,” Roan lied.

  “Let her sniff you.”

  Roan held out a hand, but recoiled when Sasha snapped at it. The cat prowled closer, and the way she curled her lips almost looked like she was smiling. First she sniffed Roan’s borrowed boots, scrunching up her nose at the smell. Then his legs and arms, her disgust seeming to grow with each odor. Finally, she backed away, growling.

  “She doesn’t like you,” Gwen said.

  “Oh, good,” Roan said.

  As quickly as she arrived, the ore cat leapt back into the forest, disappearing beneath the undergrowth with a metallic flash of her tail.

  Roan took a deep breath as they mounted up. He ignored Gwendolyn’s amused grin. “Are there any other ore creatures I should know about?”

  “Well, there are the ore hawks you saw the day you arrived, but as long as you don’t look up at them, they should leave you alone.”

  Roan had no clue whether it was a jest or not, but he refused to rise to the bait and look up. Gwen laughed. “Also, keep your possessions close to you at night, or the ore monkeys might steal them. Come on,” she said, spurring her horse forward.

  Good thing I have no possessions, Roan thought. Still, he glanced at the trees, peering between the branches. He didn’t see anything. Gwen was already moving away rapidly. He encouraged his mare to give chase, but quickly lost sight of the superior rider behind the ranks of mounted soldiers. He rode along the edge of the column, watching the forest warily for any movement that might suggest the presence of another ore cat. Several of the men and women hailed him as he passed. “Aye! Southroner!” they said. Again, these easterners were hard to read—he couldn’t tell whether he was being mocked. He offered a raised arm in greeting and rode on.

  Eventually, he reached the front, where the royal bannermen held flags bearing the royal sigil, flapping in the wind. The king was directly in the center, his triplet sons riding behind. On one side was Gwendolyn, and on the other Beorn Stonesledge, the ironmarked, his steed a massive armored stallion that was surely the only horse that could bear the giant’s weight.

  The scene felt like a metaphor for the East-West War. In the west, Gwen, Beorn and Roan would all have been killed the moment their so-called sinmarks were revealed. In the east, they were revered, permitted to ride with the king. Two very different reactions to the same situation. And in the north the marked were forced to serve the crown. Southrons were different still, those bearing tattooya almost worshipped like gods.

  Even stranger was the character who rode next to Gwendolyn, the man they called Bark, his brown, mottled flesh appearing as rough as sandstone next to the Orian’s smooth-as-silk complexion. Evidently his metalwork was so highly valued that he was given a position of prestige amongst the battalion.

  Gwendolyn looked back and met Roan’s eyes. She gestured for him to join them at the front. Pleasantly surprised, he weaved his way through the ranks and pulled up next to Bark, who was riding a grizzled horse that seemed on its last legs.

  The king craned his neck to look over. “Ho, Roan Born-of-Dust. How are you enjoying the ride?”

  Well, Your Highness, first your son knocked me from my horse. Then a playful ore cat named Sasha attempted to eat my head. “Very much, Your Highness,” he said.

  The king smiled broadly, as if reading the unspoken truth directly from his mind. “I heard you met Sasha.”

  Roan glared at Gwen, who smiled sweetly. “I told the king everything,” she said.

  “Thank you. That will save me the trouble of telling the tale myself.”

  One of the princes piped up from behind. Roan wasn’t sure if it was Guy or Grian. “Tell us, Roan, why are you not in the service of the Calypsians? Surely the Sandes would value a man of your…rare abilities.”

  Roan squirmed in his saddle. He wasn’t used to talking about his mark with anyone but his guardian. Even then, it had always made him uncomfortable. “No one knew about it.”

  Gwen arched her thin eyebrows in surprise. “How is that possible? We discovered it so easily.”

  “Because I rarely used it,” Roan admitted.

  Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “Why not? Is there no suffering in Calypso? Are there not people in need of what you have to offer?”

  Shame slithered through him. I have nothing to offer. “I—” He couldn’t admit the truth, that if he used his power and his father’s spies discovered him he’d be a dead man. “I was careful,” he said.

  “Why? Why hide your true self?” It was Gareth this time. “It’s not like you were in the west, where they’d execute you. The Southrons worship power like yours.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Roan said. “Just drop it. Please.”

  Gareth started to question him further, but the king cut him off. “The past is no matter. So long as, when the time comes, you do what is necessary for my brave men and women.”

  Roan didn’t respond, his heart thumping in his chest. He stared straight ahead, even as he felt Gwen’s scowl smashing into him from the side.

  When they finally cleared the edge of Ironwood, Roan found he could breathe easier once more. He wasn’t used to being so enclosed; Calypso was an open city, the sky always visible, turquoise and hot in the day, and cool and filled with both moons and a blanket of stars in the night.

  It also didn’t hurt that he no longer had to worry about ore cats pouncing from the shadows and eating his face, or ore hawks diving from above and tearing off his scalp, or even ore monkeys stealing the shirt off his back or the boots from his feet.

  Ahead of the column of men and women soldiers was a land greener than Roan had ever seen, with rolling grasslands broken only by the occasional copse of overgrown trees. Their legion seemed to flow across the land like a silver river making its way to some unknown destination, or to the sea, perhaps.

  Roan angled his mare’s path toward Gwendolyn. They hadn’t spoken in hours, and he was beginning to wonder whether she would ever speak to him again after having admitted he rarely used his tattooya to help anyone in need.

  “Ho, forest dweller!” he called, hailing her the way an easterner would.

  “Ho, coward!” she called back, and he couldn’t help the sting he felt in his chest at her words.

  Gareth chuckled, riding beside her.

  Roan wished he could show her his memories of his escape from Dragon’s Breath. Maybe then she wouldn’t be so quick to judge his character. Then again, he had left thousands of the afflicted to rot or die a fiery death, so maybe he was a coward.

  Gareth said, “Your cheeks appear sunburned, Sir Dust,” which only made Roan’s skin grow even hotter.

  Gwen looked away. Maybe she was embarrassed for him. He gritted his teeth and let the cool air tame his cheeks. “Tell me,” Roan said. “Are all easterners such jesters?”

  It was Gwen’s turn to smirk. “Only the arrogant ones.”

  Roan laughed, although her opinion didn’t seem to affect Prince Gareth. “There’s a fine line between arrogance and confidence,” he said. “I prefer to keep one leg on either side, just like riding a horse.”

  “You must be sore in the area between your legs then,” Roan
quipped.

  “Not at all,” the prince said, recovering easily. “Like all things in the east, I’m made of iron where it counts the most.”

  Despite everything, Roan couldn’t help but to appreciate the prince’s quick wit.

  Prince Guy pulled up alongside his brother. “We shall see the truth in battle, brother,” he said. “May the glory go to the fiercest warrior.” He raised his sword in the air.

  “Then I shall receive the glory,” Prince Grian growled from behind. “Though war is not for glory.”

  Although the darkness that seemed to be constantly in Grian’s eyes scared Roan a little, he couldn’t help but to agree. “War only brings death,” he said.

  King Ironclad split his sons in half, his enormous steed like an armored battering ram. “Then we shall bring death to the north,” he said. “And you shall bring life to the east with that skinmark of yours.”

  Days turned to nights turned to days, and Roan soon tired of the constant greenery. To his surprise, he longed to feel a bit of sand beneath his feet, rather than the leather stirrups strapped to his horse. They camped for short stretches, riding long after dark and arising well before the sun peeked over the eastern horizon.

  Gwendolyn had less and little to say to him, which left him with only Gareth to talk to. Not that he minded. At least, most of the time. “She’s likely to shoot an arrow through your eye if you don’t stop staring at her,” the prince said one day as they were riding. In truth, Roan hadn’t been purposely staring at the Orian. The four hours of sleep had left him exhausted and listless in his saddle, and he had little control where his gaze landed.

  “Let her shoot,” Roan said. “She’s done worse.”

  The prince tsked. “Your defeatist nature is a drag on my sunny mood.”

  “So find another riding companion.”

  “I would, but my father has instructed me to keep both eyes on you.”

  “Why? Is he afraid I might make a run for it?” The fact that the king and his sons believed they were forcing Roan to ride west made him laugh on the inside. In reality, they were going in the exact direction he wanted to go, more or less.