Fatemarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1)

  “Hence the name,” Roan said.

  “Hence. Now the Pass is the front lines in the Hundred Years War. It’s the only geographical point where the western, eastern, and northern kingdoms meet. Much blood has been spilt between the shoulders of the Mournful Mountains.”

  And much more will be spilt, Roan thought, but I won’t be around to see it.

  The king and his retinue had stopped up ahead. The battalion formed ranks behind him. Regardless of what Roan thought of their traditions and intentions, he couldn’t deny the quality of the eastern training. The soldiers, whether male or female, Orian or human, were obedient and well-organized.

  Before the sun fell beneath the horizon, the camp was erected, the horses tended and shielded from the wind, fires made, supper cooked, and water barrels filled. Gareth disappeared into a secret meeting with his father and brothers. The only other attendee was Beorn Stonesledge with his ironmark.

  Roan lounged by one of the larger fires, internally chuckling at the three soldiers who pretended not to watch him, but who he knew had been assigned to guard him. Without being bound or jailed, he was a prisoner just the same. But not for long.

  To his surprise, a slim figure stepped into the firelight and sat down beside him. In the moon and firelight, her silvery hair almost appeared as white as the snow on the mountains. Gwendolyn spoke without looking at him, staring into the flames. “Thank you for saving my life. And the girl’s. I should’ve said it before, but all I could feel was anger and sadness.”

  “I tried to save Bark’s life, too,” Roan said. “I swear it.”

  “I know. I have trouble with failure. I think those with marks feel it more.”

  He remembered swinging from her hammock. “How do you know the westerners once called them fatemarks?” Roan asked.

  “My father told me. He told me about the Western Oracle. He said she’d prophesied about the fatemarks, about how they could one day bring peace to the Four Kingdoms.”

  “How?”

  “Why are you so interested in the west all of a sudden?”

  “Gwen, I can’t tell you everything. I want to, but I can’t.”

  She chewed on this for a while, and then sighed with resignation. “I don’t know what he meant about the fatemarks, but I’m not certain he did either. Twice he mentioned rumors of a Peacemaker, one of the marked. According to the Oracle, this was the one who would unify the kingdoms and bring peace. But no one seems to know for certain. Most of the Oracle’s teachings were lost. No one knows what happened to her. Some say she died, executed by the western king. Some say she just ceased to exist. And others believe she’s still alive, hiding somewhere, waiting for peace to return.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “That there’s always hope for a better world.”

  She’s lost so much, and still she has hope. “Because of your heromark?”

  Her eyes darted to his, surprised, but then moved back to the fire. “I don’t know. Perhaps. It’s like I can feel the souls of the dead crying out to me.”

  Roan’s heart skipped a beat. “I understand.”

  “Do you?” There was frustration in her voice. Not anger—not yet—but resentment.

  He’d heard the same cries. The girl he’d healed so long ago. The boy who’d been unlucky enough to be with her at the time. And since then, so many more—people he could’ve helped, but didn’t. An entire island of souls on Dragon’s Breath alone.

  And now the village of Glee.

  But one cry seemed to rise above all others, louder and stronger than he’d ever felt before.

  His mother’s. Now, this close to the west, this close to his birthplace, Roan needed more than ever to understand what had happened to set his life on this course.

  Roan shook his head, the horrific images burning through his mind. “Yes. I understand. But at least I have a choice.”

  Gwendolyn muttered a curse under her breath.

  Roan frowned. Had he said something wrong? He was about to ask, when Gwen said, “I’ve lied about my mark my entire life.” Roan had no idea what she meant, or how to respond, so he just waited for her to continue, which she did. “Everyone believes my mark forces me into dangerous situations, but in truth, it doesn’t.”

  “Then what does it do?” Memories bloomed in Roan’s head: Gwen moving like the wind, as strong as a man twice her size, dragging a small girl to safety.

  “You don’t know?”

  He did know. His mouth cracked open with realization. The only force compelling Gwen to rush to save the lives of others was herself. All her life, she’d been hiding the truth. Because…because why? Because she doesn’t want to be given credit for her selfless acts, Roan realized. “You are a true hero,” he said. “And not because of your heromark.”

  Gwen cast her eyes downwards. “Perhaps I just don’t want to waste the power I’ve been given.”

  It’s not what Roan wanted to hear, because it implied his own failings. Not to mention his future failings if he were to run from the impending battle before it started. How many would die because of his choice? “You never asked for your mark. Neither did I,” he said.

  Gwendolyn suddenly grabbed his arm, and her fingers were so hot they practically burned his skin. But still, he didn’t flinch away, his heart an entire battalion of thundering hoofbeats in his chest.

  “So what?” Gwendolyn said. “Do you think anyone asks for what they’re born with? Do you think I asked for the speed and strength to save some, but not all? Do you think I wanted to outlive most of my friends, to see death and life alternate like the changing of the seasons?”

  She gripped his arm tighter still, and Roan could feel the beat of his heart in his veins beneath her fingertips.

  “It’s not what you start with, it’s what you do with what you’ve been given,” Gwen said.

  Seeing the passion on her face, feeling the heat from her fingertips on his skin, this heroic woman had never looked more beautiful. She smelled of jasmine and steel, leather and talc. He wanted to taste her passion, to feel her warmth flowing through him, to discover whether his heart galloped when he kissed her as it had when he’d kissed Gareth.

  He remembered Gareth’s rejection, the anger in his eyes.

  He didn’t move, as frozen as the mountains.

  Gwen’s fingers lingered a moment longer, and then she released his arm, which continued to burn, stood up, and strode into the darkness.

  Roan blinked, looking around to see if anyone else had observed their exchange. To his surprise, the three soldiers assigned to watch him had been reduced to one, and the last man was asleep, snoring loudly.

  This was exactly the chance he’d been waiting for. Like a wraith, he would slip away. He had nothing left to stay for. Whatever he felt for Gwendolyn, for Gareth, was clearly not reciprocated. They would not miss him, would not care. Away from them, his life would be his own again, and this time he would make it count. Even Gwen’s last words to him seemed to agree with his decision to leave, to set out on his own and make a difference in this world. His past was the key to the future, he just had to turn it in the lock of his present. He would tell no one of her secret.

  He stood, creeping away quietly, heading for the frozen river. The embankment was rocky, but not particularly steep, and there was even a slice of red moonlight penetrating the clouds to light his way. For once, fate seemed to be on his side. In his chest, his lifemark seemed to pulse in agreement. My fatemark, he thought, remembering the word Gwen had introduced him to.

  Reaching the river, he took a tentative step onto the ice. He pressed half his weight, then all of his weight. Nothing. The ice was thick and strong and didn’t so much as crack or groan. He would literally be able to stroll across to the west. From there he could follow the mountain range all the way to the Bay of Bounty, eating snow to sustain him. If necessary, he would stop in Bethany and beg for scraps. From there it was presumably less than a week’s journey to Knight’s End. The thought made him f
eel a slash of something in his chest. Was it excitement or fear? He wasn’t sure.

  He was halfway across when he thought of Gareth. His feet stopped, almost of their own accord. Though he’d never intended it, the prince had become his reluctant friend, at the least. The prince believed he would die in the next day or so, somewhere between here and Raider’s Pass. Not my problem, Roan thought desperately.

  Right?

  What if I turn back and die in the battle? he thought. What if he never had the chance to return home, to face his father, to learn about the truth of his mother’s death? What then? Gwen herself had pointed out that he had a responsibility to use the power he’d been given, and between his lifemark and his lineage, he could make a difference more than anyone else, if he was only courageous enough to try.

  He took another step forward and stopped again. Took a deep breath, holding the icy air in his lungs, relishing the distraction provided by the burn in his chest. Released it, watching the white vapors escape into the frigid night air.

  But Gareth. But Gwendolyn. But King Ironclad and Beorn Stonesledge and all of the other easterners who were standing up for the death of their queen, a strong woman they respected so much they were willing to give their lives for her memory.

  It’s not my fight. My fight is elsewhere.

  Roan took two more steps forward, listening to the scrape of his boots on the ice.

  And then he made a decision that surprised even him.

  He turned around.

  He had a battle to stop.

  The war council was over, the princes and Beorn Stonesledge having gone to bed. The rest of the soldiers slumbered, too, and Roan was able to slip back into camp. He was surprised to find King Oren Ironclad still sitting by the main campfire, which had been reduced to a pile of glowing embers. Roan eased down beside him.

  “You have made your choice?” the large man said, staring into the dying fire.

  He knows, Roan thought. “I didn’t know I had a choice,” he said.

  The king offered a half-smile, but didn’t make eye contact. “There is always a choice, and I wasn’t about to deny you yours.”

  Roan was dumbfounded. “You allowed me to escape?”

  The king stroked his thick beard thoughtfully. “We have built our monarchy around the idea of choice. Our soldiers are free, as are our servants. They are paid well. We treat them as they are.”

  “And what are they?”

  “People.” Now the king looked up. “Tell me, Roan. Why did you come back?”

  Roan wasn’t sure the king would like the answer, but it was a moment of honesty between them, and he wouldn’t lie. “To stop the battle.”

  The king nodded, as if he’d guessed as much. “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “By speaking with you. Man to man.”

  The king laughed, a deep-throated chuckle, his eyes reflecting orange embers. “And what would you say to me? Man to man.” There was mocking in his tone.

  “That this war is folly. Defend your lands, aye, but do not go on the offensive. Countless lives can still be saved, including your own son’s.”

  The king’s smile faded into the firelight. “Do not speak to me of saving lives, boy,” he snarled. “I cradled Henna’s head as life faded from her eyes. She’d been stabbed through the gut as she’d slept, left by our enemies to die a slow, miserable death.”

  “I’m sorr—”

  “You don’t get to be sorry!” The king stood, towering over Roan, his fists clenched at his sides, anger seeming to pulse from every angle of his body. Beneath his shining, bald head, his face was awash with red light, his eyes burning with something Roan had trouble identifying at first. There was a mania in his expression that Roan had not seen before. It was a mixture of anger and unspent violence and something else. Roan suddenly realized what it was:

  Pain.

  Grief.

  Anger so deep and fiery it was an unquenchable inferno burning beneath the surface of his skin.

  This man, who was typically so in control, had become a slave to his pain, which seemed to be eating him alive from the inside out. “She’s dead. My blood cries for vengeance, and I will have it! Blood for blood. Death for death. If the Dread King is dead, then it falls to his wife. If she is dead, it falls to their children. If the children are dead, it shall be every northerner who stands in my way!”

  He bent down and grabbed the Foehammer, which had been resting beside him. With a roar, he raised it over his head and brought it down in the center of the fire, scattering blazing embers like splinters of a shattered torch. One such ember landed in Roan’s lap. He sprang to his feet, brushing the ember from his trousers, which had already begun to smolder.

  When he looked up, the king was gone, leaving what was left of the fire to burn itself out, along with Roan’s hopes of stopping the battle.

  Twenty-Nine

  The Northern Kingdom, Raider’s Pass

  Annise Gäric

  At Raider’s Pass, the northern forces were preparing for battle. Men donned battle-scarred armor, sharpened swords, battle axes, and mace, and drank from water skins. One company was beating their chests and shouting angrily at each other, as if trying to work themselves up to violence. Another company was huddled in a circle, and seemed to be praying. To what god, Annise didn’t know.

  Peeking out from under the edge of the tarp, she was so close to Tarin it was like they were joined at the hip. Zelda had stopped their caravan a while back to hide them beneath the sheets of thick canvas. Although Annise’s aunt was confident they would have even more allies at the Pass, she didn’t want to risk her niece being identified until she was certain it was safe. Despite the cold, Annise was sweating beneath her layers.

  The northern edge of Raider’s Pass was a rocky outcropping nestled between two enormous boulders perched at the base of the Mournful Mountains. The Snake River flowed swiftly downstream—though you couldn’t tell because of the thick layer of ice on its surface—cutting a narrow canyon between the white cliffs. Eventually the river would flow into Hyro Lake, which fed the Spear, finally emptying into the Burning Sea many leagues south.

  Annise scanned the camp’s activity for her brother, but all the men were too tall, too broad, and too grizzled by years of war to be Arch. Where are you? she wondered.

  That’s when Tarin whispered, “Sir Dietrich.” His head was angled to the left, and Annise followed his gaze excitedly, zeroing in on the tall, handsome knight immediately. The master swordsman stood sentry outside a large tent, his armor more dented and dinged than ever, almost like he’d purposely banged it against a sharp rock.

  Evidently, Zelda and her escorts had spotted him, too, because the carts and soldiers diverted their path toward the tent, stopping nearby, the horses stamping their hooves in the cold. Sir Dietrich approached warily, his eyes narrowed.

  “Who goes there?” he demanded, grabbing the edge of the tarp and thrusting it back with a flourish. The snow that had gathered on top flew in the air and landed on Annise’s head.

  “Frozen hell,” she growled, “we’re supposed to be in hiding.” She grabbed the tarp and struggled to pull it back down as Sir Dietrich’s eyes widened.

  “Princess Annise?” he said, dumbfounded.

  “Queen Annise, actually,” she said. “Who were you expecting? An ice monster from the Hinterlands?”

  “Queen…” he said, trailing off as if the word was spoken in a foreign language.

  “She had a name day,” Tarin explained.

  “Arme,” Sir Dietrich said. “She’s supposed to be at Blackstone.”

  “Tell her that,” he muttered.

  Annise was no longer listening, because she’d become aware of the fact that dozens of soldiers had stopped what they were doing to watch the commotion. They crowded around the cart, a dozen men thick.

  “The princess has arrived,” one of them said.

  Annise’s breath caught in her chest. All the hiding, all the fighting, was for na
ught.

  “Princess Annise,” another said.

  The men were so close they could clamber onto the cart in half a moment. Even warriors like Tarin and Sir Dietrich would be unable to stop more than a small portion of them if they wanted to take her, to drag her back to her uncle at Castle Hill. Still, Tarin’s hand shot to his Morningstar, which he uncoiled with the clanking of chains.

  “All hail, Annise Gäric, Princess of the North!” a man said and a cheer went up.

  “What?” Annise said.

  Sir Dietrich laughed loudly. “You have nothing to fear here,” he said. “Raider’s Pass is ours.”

  While Annise tried to process the idea of being safe amongst so many northern soldiers, another voice inserted itself into the conversation. Though Annise recognized the voice as if it were her own, there was something different about it, something powerful. “Sister?” the voice said.

  Annise turned. Her brother stood outside the large tent wearing a full suit of silver armor, missing only the helmet. Though he seemed exceptionally surprised at her presence, Annise could tell from his expression that he was pleased to see her.

  She leapt from the cart, landing in a crouch, and then barreled toward him. She was planning on tackling him and wailing on him like she always did growing up when he’d done something stupid. He seemed to think the same thing, because he put his hands up and began backing away. At the last moment, however, she pulled up, wrapping him in an embrace, squeezing extra hard.

  “If you ever run from me again, I will pop you like a grape,” she hissed in his ear.

  “Nice to see you, too, sister,” he said.

  Behind them, the men cheered and pounded their chests.

  Annise released her brother when Aunt Zelda approached and said, “Come inside. We have much to discuss.”

  “Those men who supported Lord Griswold have fled toward either Blackstone or the Razor. Those who survived, that is.” Sir Dietrich said the latter with satisfaction, as if he’d killed half of them himself, and chased the rest away with his sword held high.