Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

  Roan remembered the king’s story about his brother, Coren “Thunder” Ironclad, and the sacrifice he’d made at the Razor. Seeing Gareth riding beside his brothers made Roan look away. Knowing Gareth would one day sacrifice himself for his brothers wasn’t something he wanted to think about.

  “The Foehammer is a powerful weapon, indeed,” Gwendolyn said, joining the conversation. She didn’t look at Roan. “Thunder was a rare warrior.”

  Her comment seemed to please the king. Something occurred to Roan. “You were there, weren’t you?” he asked the Orian. “At the battles at Norris. And at the Razor, too.”

  Her gaze remained fixed firmly ahead as they rode into a wide swathe of empty space inside the second wall. “Yes,” she said. “I have fought many battles and lived many lives. You are but a babe in comparison.”

  She spurred her horse and galloped ahead. The king leaned toward Roan as he frowned after her. “If it’s any consolation, we’re all just children next to her years. She will outlive us all!”

  For some reason, the thought made Roan sad. Perhaps because the girl with the golden eyes and silver hair had seen so much death and would see more still. She’d lost a bondmate, his memory haunting her like a ghost.

  The people of Norris gathered in the open area, many layers thick all the way to the walls. Regardless of age, background, or gender, they all looked hardened, as if layers of sediment had collected on their skin. Even the children had a stony look in their eyes, their lips tight and grim. None were strangers to a life on the front lines of an endless war. It made Roan wonder why any of them stayed in this place. Someone had to, he supposed, or their enemies would march straight through to the next town.

  The king halted his horse and, flanked by his sons, addressed the crowd, his voice booming across the village, echoing off the walls. “Long have the people of Norris defended our land from our northern and western foes.”

  His words were met with silence. No cheers. No smiles. Just flat, determined faces. The silence didn’t seem to bother Oren Ironclad, who let it drag on for several long moments until Roan began to feel uncomfortable in his saddle. Finally, he continued. “You may be called into service once again. For we ride for Raider’s Pass. For many years the northern bear has tormented our border towns, but now the beast is weak and confused. We shall tickle him under the chin and then slash his throat.”

  Again, no one cheered, but this time many of the people raised blades in the air, pointing at the sky. Their jaws were locked, and Roan felt like they were on the verge of rushing into battle this very moment.

  “We will have our vengeance for what they did to your queen. We will fight for Queen Henna Ironclad, mine departed wife, mine heart, a warrior in this life and in the next!”

  “Aye!” the people finally screamed. Roan could see in their eyes what the queen had meant to them.

  “Alas, if we are defeated at Raider’s Pass,” the king said, “the northerners will counter. Norris will be the first line of defense. So now I must ask you, oh defenders of the east, are you prepared for battle?”

  “Aye!” a chorus of voices responded, men, women, and children.

  “Are you prepared to die for your fellow countrymen, for your brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and children?”

  “Aye!”

  “Are you prepared to be a Shield to those you love?”

  Gareth spurred his horse forward, riding in a tight circle before the villagers. He raised his sword in the air. “Aye!” he shouted.

  “Aye!” the people replied. “Shield! Shield! Shield!”

  “Good,” the king said. “Now prepare for war.”

  Prince Gareth had been polishing the same breastplate for so long Roan had managed to water and feed his horse, brush its knotted mane, wash his own soiled skin, and collect plates of rations—some kind of meat and potatoes, he gave his meat to the prince—for the both of them. Yet still the prince polished, his muscles taut, sweat dripping off his chin, splashing on the metal, which gleamed like a red star under the lantern light.

  “Ho, Gareth,” Roan said, sitting beside him. Prince Gareth was alone, sitting in the grass, well away from any of the night fires. Only a small lantern provided light as he worked.

  Still he scrubbed at the metal, his concentration unbroken.

  Roan sat beside him, watching. “Eat,” Roan said, pushing the plate toward the prince. “I managed to procure double meat rations for you. I said it was because you needed enough for both yourself and your ego.”

  It was meant as a bit of light banter, but the prince only grunted and continued his work.

  “Careful, you might rub a hole through the armor, and then your heart will be unprotected,” Roan said.

  Gareth shoved the breastplate aside and it clattered against the rest of his armor.

  “Sorry, I—” Roan started to say, but the prince held up a hand to silence him.

  He reached for the plate. “Thank you,” he said. “I know the meat was yours.”

  Roan said, “I wasn’t that hungry.”

  “You never eat your meat,” Gareth said, chewing loudly.

  “I’m surprised you noticed,” Roan said, spearing a potato.

  “I notice a lot of things.”

  Something about the way the prince said it made Roan pause. “Like what?” Roan asked, waiting for Gareth to make a jest at his expense.

  He didn’t. “Like how rain can look like tiny crystals when struck directly by sunlight,” the prince said. “Like how in the springtime the wind will blow the long grass and you can almost imagine it’s dancing. Like how the golden stars remained fixed in formation in the sky, like a well-trained army wearing jeweled armor. Like how my own father refuses to look me in the eye, even now, on the eve of the battle where I will die.”

  Roan stopped chewing, unable to look away from the prince. “That’s not true,” he said.

  “Which part?” The prince looked up from his plate to meet Roan’s stare.

  “I don’t know about the rain or the stars or the grass, but you’re not going to die.”

  The prince laughed mirthlessly. “I was born to die,” he said.

  The man sitting beside him was a far cry from the warrior who’d raised his sword in front of the people of Norris. Which version was the real prince? Roan wondered. He couldn’t imagine living day to day knowing his fate was sealed the moment he was born. Or could he? In a way, he and the prince weren’t that different. He’d borne the weight of a fatemark his entire life, one his guardian had kept secret until the day when “It would be brought forth for all the realm to see.” Whatever that meant.

  “What if you don’t die?” Roan asked.

  The prince cocked his head to the side. “I don’t understand.”

  “What if you all live? All three princes. Your father. What if you are victorious tomorrow and avenge your mother?”

  The lines in Gareth’s forehead deepened. He seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. “Then I shall live to die on another day.”

  Although Roan knew he meant it as a statement for his own future… “That would be true for any man,” Roan said.

  “It’s truer for me,” Gareth said.

  “What if your father dies and you do not?” Roan asked, changing tact.

  “That won’t happen,” Gareth responded immediately. There was no doubt in his statement.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I won’t let it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s my duty!” the prince shouted, grabbing his plate and throwing it like a saucer, the meat and potatoes flinging off in a spiral of discarded food.

  The words felt like knives, penetrating Roan’s flesh. Duty. He’d never understood that word. Why was it anyone’s duty to die? “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off, not sure what to say.

  “It’s fine. You didn’t grow up in the east. You can’t possibly understand our traditions.”

  The prin
ce was right. On this point, they would have to agree to disagree. But there was still more that Roan wanted to know, so he changed the subject. “What does Gwendolyn’s fatemark do?” he asked.

  “She still hasn’t told you?” The prince’s typical smirk formed on his lips, and Roan was surprised to find himself glad to see it. He much preferred the sarcastic, laid back prince he’d met in the Barren Marshes.

  “I haven’t asked.”

  “Why not?” The prince raised an eyebrow.

  “Because she generally looks ready to cut out my tongue if I say or ask the wrong thing.”

  The prince laughed. “That sounds about right.”

  “But she did say her skinmark was like mine in some way. Is she a healer?” He knew it didn’t make sense, but nothing else did either. Clearly she couldn’t heal, or she would’ve healed Bark herself. And she moved like the wind, but was that her mark or simply because she was a pure Orian?

  “Not exactly,” Gareth said. “She bears the heromark. Once she told me that it forces her into dangerous situations. She can’t control herself.”

  Time stopped. That word again. Hero. He remembered what Gwendolyn had said about the word: That word is meaningless.

  Yet she wore a mark that represented it. He squinted into the torchlight, relishing the spots dancing across his vision, clearing his mind. He tried to understand. An arrow was nocked against a bowstring and it all made sense. Why Gwendolyn would rush into a pox-riddled town with little hope of saving anyone. Why the king didn’t try to stop her—couldn’t stop her. Why he didn’t reprimand her for being so adamant. “She can’t turn away from someone in need?” He said it like a question, but he knew it was true before the prince nodded.

  No wonder she thinks me a coward, Roan thought. She’s the bravest person in the Four Kingdoms. Roan thought back to all the times in his life when he’d turned his back on people who needed his help. People he could’ve helped. All because of one time when he’d helped a girl with a broken leg and it had gone all wrong. Horribly wrong.

  “I’m a fool,” Roan said.

  “I can’t argue with you there,” Gareth said.

  Despite the prince’s jape and the way Gwendolyn had treated him earlier, Roan knew he would miss them both when he escaped. But their war was not his war, and he had the power to stop at least one of the major conflicts tearing the Four Kingdoms apart. Aye, his path was leading in a different direction.

  Toward his true home.

  Time had run out, and he didn’t even know what any of these people meant to him. Nothing, he thought. He chuckled at his own lie.

  “What?” Gareth said, narrowing his eyes.

  Roan didn’t know when exactly the prince had gone from being his enemy to his friend, but in this moment he felt like he could be even more. “In another world perhaps,” Roan said to himself.

  “Have your senses dulled?” the prince asked. Roan couldn’t look away from the amused curl to his lips, the sparkle in his eyes, the way his hair fell across his forehead.

  He leaned forward, hoping against hope that he wasn’t being the fool the prince thought him to be. Gareth stiffened, but didn’t pull back, even as his lips met Roan’s, even as Roan reached up to touch his chin, which was as smooth as polished armor. Roan breathed him in, and the prince seemed to do the same, until—

  “What the hell?” Gareth said, jerking back, scrubbing at his lips with the back of his hand. He glared at Roan.

  “I—I’m sorry, I thought—”

  Gareth stood up, grabbing his armor. “I don’t know what is acceptable conduct in the south, but I’m a man, not some tender-gloved boy.”

  Something felt strange about the prince’s reaction, like he was forcing it. He had let the kiss linger for a moment, hadn’t he? Roan could still feel his heart galloping, his nerves firing. Their kiss, no matter how short lived, had not rang false.

  “Our customs are different in the south,” Roan said.

  “Clearly,” Gareth said. He stomped away, almost forcing the grace out of his usual stride.

  Roan watched him go, wondering whether he would ever see him again.

  Twenty-Seven

  The Northern Kingdom, Gearhärt

  Annise Gäric

  Tarin was waiting for Annise and Zelda upstairs, where four beds had been made up in a single room with a peaked ceiling. The only window was open, a chill wind drifting through, blowing a lacy white curtain around like a marauding poltergeist.

  “You made it,” Annise said by way of greeting. The glow of the wall sconces gave Tarin’s armor the appearance of being filled with sunlight.

  “So did you.”

  “I thought men weren’t allowed in The Laughing Mamoothen.”

  “Shall I leave?”

  Annise laughed. “You’ll have to take it up with Netta.”

  Netta appeared right on cue, hefting a pail of steaming water, which she poured into a large iron tub. “Take what up with me?”

  “He’s a man,” Annise pointed out.

  “He could be anything beneath all that metal,” she said. “Plus men are only barred from using the front door. Through the window is fine.” There was a mischievous gleam in her eye as she moved to slam the window shut against the cold. She turned back to face them. “Anyway, you are my only guests tonight, so we can make an exception, as we already have for Lady Zelda’s escort.”

  “Aunt?” Annise said, turning to Zelda, who had made herself comfortable on one of the beds. “You have a man with you?”

  “My husband,” Zelda said. She punched her pillow three times, creating a nest in the center for her head.

  Annise’s mouth hung open. “You’re married?”

  “Not openly,” Zelda said. “It was a small, private ceremony.”

  “Did my father know?”

  “Not exactly. That would’ve ruined everything.”

  Annise blinked. She was clearly missing something important. Before she could consider what, footsteps approached from the staircase. A familiar ruddy face appeared in the doorway and Annise almost fainted.

  “Sir Drunk—I mean, Sir Craig?”

  The knight offered a half-grin and tipped back a tin flask, swallowing twice. He pushed it toward Annise. “Thirsty?” he said.

  Frozen hell. My aunt is married to this drunkard? “Thank you, but no. I prefer to have my wits about me.” She remembered the last two times she’d seen him, first in the melee when he’d made a fool of himself, and then just before her father fell to his death. On both occasions he’d been drunk, which was no surprise.

  “Try it,” Zelda said.

  Annise turned toward her aunt, unable to hold back an angry frown. “I’ll pass. I am no lush.”

  “Neither is my husband,” Zelda said, smiling.

  Annise looked back at the man she’d always known as Drunk Craig or simply, Sir Drunk. His eyes were as clear as blown glass, his stance steady and somehow taller than usual. His words were equally crisp as he said, “It’s only water,” once more offering her the flask.

  She took it, shaking her head. “Aye, and I bear half a dozen skinmarks,” she said. She sniffed the flask’s mouth. To her surprise, it was odorless. She spilled a few drops onto her fingers, studying the clear liquid. Licked her fingers clean. The substance was basically tasteless, like water. “Taking a break from the drink?” she asked Sir Craig.

  “I’ve never had a drink in my life,” Craig said.

  Annise was about to bring up numerous times in the past where the knight was obviously inebriated, but Zelda spoke first. “It’s true. He may not be a drunkard, but he is a damn good actor.”

  Annise didn’t know what to say, what to think. “Why?” was all she could manage to splutter out.

  “He is my castle spy,” Zelda said.

  Annise’s gaze travelled from Craig to her aunt and back again. Craig shrugged. “Men have loose tongues when they believe they speak to drunken ears,” he said.

  She was dumbfounded, more surpri
sed than if Tarin had declared himself a wooly yak and stripped off his armor to prove it. “Then I have sorely misjudged you,” she said. “For that I am sorry.”

  He shrugged again. “It was my deception, not yours.”

  “Still, I have given you less credit than you likely deserved. I laughed with the rest when you stumbled through each tournament in last place.”

  Craig laughed. “I am no warrior. Feigning drunkenness was as good excuse as any to avoid combat. In battle, I might as well be drunk, for I am a clumsy man. Even my knighthood was gained by accident. Thankfully, your aunt saw something more in me than a witless fool.”

  “Yes. A courageous spy and gentle lover,” she said.

  Annise looked at Tarin. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I knew of many secrets, but not this. This was well-kept.”

  Netta returned with another pail of steaming water. She poured it into the tub, which was almost full. “It is late. I thought you might enjoy a bath before bed.”

  She would, but… “Here?” The tub was in the center of the small room, the four beds lined up like seats for spectators. Annise was confident the show would be both a comedy and tragedy.

  “The others will not peek,” Netta promised. She offered a glare at both Craig and Tarin. “Will they?”

  Tarin immediately closed his eyes and blundered toward the far bed, nearly tripping on the foot post, which was low to the ground.

  “You don’t have to close your eyes yet,” Annise said.

  “Oh,” he said, his eyes twinkling when he opened them. He eased onto the bed, his metal armor causing quite a ruckus. Annise shook her head. She still couldn’t believe he was able to sleep in full battle armor.

  Craig settled in beside Zelda, covering his face with a pillow.

  “See?” Netta said. “Can I help you undress?”

  “No!” Annise said, too quickly. “I mean, thank you, but I will be fine. Even in Castle Hill I wouldn’t allow the maidservants to fuss over me.” Nor see me naked.