Fatemarked Origins (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

  “You are a vison,” the old king croaked. “And you will save my children.”

  Sabria didn’t know what to say. She was a woman grown, yes, but she was no savior. “I will be the best queen that I can,” she promised.

  “Peace,” the king said. “That is all I ask for. That is my dying wish.”

  “Peace, Father?” a deep voice interjected. “Really? After a lifetime of war, that’s what you think you’re leaving us with?”

  Sabria turned to find Wolfric standing in the doorway, limned with light from the corridor beyond.

  “He’s resting,” Zelda hissed. “Don’t start this again.”

  “Then when shall I start it?” Wolfric said. “When he’s dead and buried?”

  Sabria’s mouth opened slightly, shocked by the brazenness of his tongue in front of his ailing father.

  “It’s fine,” the king said. “My son has a right to speak. He will be king when I am gone.”

  “May we all freeze in hell,” Zelda muttered.

  “Thank you, Father,” Wolfric said, stepping inside the room. He offered a half-smile at Sabria, and she found herself returning it. He brushed past her, the back of his hand grazing hers. Was it intentional? she wondered. Her skin was hot, and not just from the inadvertent touch.

  “Son,” the king said, extending his hand. Wolfric gripped his father’s thin fingers in both of his. “Son, I know I have taught you too much of war, of bloodshed. It is much to undo in my last days.”

  “Then don’t undo it,” Wolfric said. “

  “I’ve made many mistakes. It is nigh time I corrected a few of them.”

  “No, Father. The only mistake you are making is seeking peace now. Our enemies will see it as weakness.”

  Sabria couldn’t hold her tongue. “They won’t,” she said.

  Wolfric turned, raising a dark eyebrow in surprise. “Have you fought in many wars, princess?” he asked.

  His mocking tone annoyed her. “No. But I have been to court my entire life. The west desires peace with the north. I wouldn’t be here if my father didn’t.”

  “The west wants riches,” Wolfric said. “This is about trade—not peace.”

  Sabria started to shake her head, but then stopped. She knew he was right, in a way. She could see the gleam in her father’s eyes when he spoke of the trade route with Crimea being reopened. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be about peace, too. She was about to say as much, but Wolfric had already turned back to his father.

  “Weakness will be met with violence,” he said.

  “I don’t want this life for you,” the king said. “There is so much more than war. Our ancestors knew that. The first Gäric to set foot in the north was an explorer, not a warrior.”

  “Yes, yes. Heinrich Gäric was a great man and all that rubbish. I’ve heard it all before. But that was five hundred years ago, Father!”

  “And yet it’s study of the past that saves us from mistakes in the present,” the king said calmly.

  “My bride was nearly murdered by your own subjects in the north!” Wolfric thundered, slamming his fist down on the bed. Sabria flinched back as the frame rattled. The prince’s voice dropped to a low rumble. “That is what your weakness has brought. Rebellion. Attempted murder. We cannot continue this charade any longer. The people know the truth, and they are laughing at you from their shacks. It won’t be long before our enemies circle like Southron vulzures seeking fresh meat.”

  What charade? Sabria thought. Understanding dawned in a rush of light inside her dark mind. The king’s recent victories hadn’t been his at all. They’d been Wolfric’s. He’d been pretending to be the king on the battlefield. But for how long?

  “I—I…” the king stammered. He sucked in a rapid breath, wheezing, coughing. To Sabria, it sounded as if a lung might heave from his mouth with each cough.

  “This is the reason you chose me to inherit the throne, not the Maimed Prince.”

  “Please,” the king said. “Do not call your brother that. His name was—is—Helmuth.”

  “Does it really matter what I call him? You’re the one who cut him out. You’re the one who drove him away. Anyway, he’s gone and never coming back, so don’t fret about his nicknames.”

  “I made a mistake with Helmuth,” the king said. His entire body seemed to give way as he slumped into his bed.

  “Would you rather he be king when you’re gone?” Wolfric’s tone was sharp, cutting. Words made of knives.

  “That’s not what I meant. I only meant that I should’ve been kinder.”

  Wolfric scoffed at that. “This is exactly what I mean. Rest, Father. I will take care of everything. Never fear. The north will be strong again, even if you are not.”

  With that, the prince whirled around and exited, offering Sabria’s hand a gentle squeeze on the way out. She barely felt it, her heart still beating too fast from his sudden outburst.

  The marriage ceremony was a small affair held within the bounds of the castle. “The people aren’t ready for you yet,” Wolfric said by way of explanation. “But I am.”

  He’d kissed her cheek, his lips warm on her skin. In that moment, she felt something stir inside her that she’d held back for a long time in the west.

  Now, his dark eyes were boring into hers as he took her hand, fitting a ring bearing the northern sigil on her finger. “Like the north, our marriage union will be strong. Cracked but never broken. Never defeated. Never challenged. Long shall our heirs rule the kingdom and its people.”

  Though Zelda had previously recited the royal marriage vows for Sabria, the thought of heirs still sent a shiver of…something…down her spine. Perhaps because to create heirs she would have to…

  The prince stared at her, his handsome smile looking somewhat amused. Your turn, he mouthed.

  “Oh. I mean, yes, of course.” Sabria fumbled for the ring with the thicker band that bore an identical sigil. She attempted to slide it onto the prince’s finger, but missed, causing a rumble of laughter from the small audience of lords and ladies. On the second try, she got it, and then her mind went blank. She looked out over the audience, finding Zelda. I will honor you, Zelda mouthed, rolling her eyes and making a face at the same time.

  Sabria turned back to Wolfric. “I will honor you as my husband. Together, we will be stewards of the north for as long as we both shall live. I will protect you with my life, even as you protect me.”

  Before the marriage could be finalized by an officiant knight called Sir Jonius, Wolfric had reached behind her, his hand firm against the small of her back. He swept Sabria off her feet, kissing her deeply on the lips.

  Sir Jonius’s official proclamation of their union was lost amongst applause and whistles, while Sabria tried to reclaim her breath. Wrath, was that what I’ve been missing out on all these years?

  Wolfric’s lips brushed against her earlobe. “I’ve wanted to do that from the moment I saw you enter the castle gates,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling her skin.

  Despite all her fears and Zelda’s warnings, Sabria felt warm inside. She felt right. She felt like for the first time in her life, she was doing something important, something that would help both her people in the west, and the northerners—her new people.

  She smiled. And she was happy.

  Sabria was thankful for the long dresses that covered her arms.

  They hid the bruises well.

  She’d been married to Wolfric for only four weeks, but already she’d become a ghost of the girl she was before. She could handle his violence in the bedroom—the first time he’d hurt her it shocked her, yes, but now she was prepared for it—but not the emotional abuse she suffered every day.

  She wasn’t pregnant yet. Useless, he called her. Barren. Pathetic. After he’d bedded her the night before—she’d laid entirely still until it was over, conjuring up images of the sparkling waters of the Bay of Bounty, of the shimmering castle at Knight’s End—he’d said, “You must provide an heir.”


  Sabria had lost it. Her husband wasn’t prepared for the explosion that roared from her—truth be told, neither was she. She’d rolled him off of her, tumbling him from the bed to the floor. Naked, she’d leapt from the bed, her fists balls of fury, pounding every part of him. As she’d hammered his flesh, she’d felt the release of all the anger, all the pain, all the regret.

  Of course, she’d done little damage, and the prince had easily subdued her with his superior strength. The look he’d given her as he held back her arms was one part amusement and two parts utter contempt—a strange mixture. Then he’d left her, bare and used, sobbing on the cold, hard floor. Tears running down her cheeks, she’d uncapped the vial Zelda had given her as a wedding gift and drank the last few drops. Morgwart, Zelda had called it. When the seeds of the plant were ground up and mixed with vinegar it could prevent childbirth if taken soon after the act was completed.

  Sabria wasn’t sobbing now. Her eyes were dry, her lips pulled into a tight line of indifference.

  The prince was conducting court on behalf of his father, who’d taken yet another turn for the worse. The throne room was a cold place, the décor stark and thin. Gray stone walls surrounded the lords and ladies in attendance, which didn’t include Zelda. A long banner bearing the northern sigil hung behind the throne, capping an enormous ice bear’s head, which was mounted on the wall.

  As was custom, Sabria stood beside the throne, but slightly behind it, too. The throne was made to look like ice, with clawed arms on either side and a high back. On the opposite side was the Ice Lord, a man Sabria had learned to fear more than Wolfric. Far more. He was gazing intently at the current petitioner, a shabbily dressed woman with curly brown hair spilling out from the edges of a woolen cap.

  “Petition denied,” Wolfric said, impatiently rapping his fingers on the arm of the throne. “Be gone.”

  “Please,” the woman begged, her hands clenched together as if in prayer. She was hauled from the room still pleading. All she’d wanted was justice for her daughter, who’d been allegedly raped by a soldier. She was asking for a trial. Denied—Sabria must’ve heard that word half a thousand times since arriving at Castle Hill.

  “Frozen hell,” Wolfric muttered as the next petitioner was brought in. The old man had to be at least a hundred years old, wheeled in on a cart by a woman with thick forearms and thicker eyebrows. Wolfric glanced at Sabria. “You want to take this one, my dear wife?”

  Sabria ignored him. It wasn’t a serious offer. He would never even pretend to give her a semblance of actual power, queen-to-be or not. Instead of responding to her husband, she addressed the man on the cart, who was without arms or legs, the stumps wriggling slightly. “Your name?”

  “You are more beautiful than the lovechild of the moons and the stars,” the man said.

  Sabria wanted to smile, but she knew it would only cause her more pain later on. And yet she loved how her popularity amongst the northerners had grown; mostly because it angered Prince Wolfric. “Thank you for your kind and poetic words,” Sabria said. “Your name?”

  “My name is of no import,” the man said, wiggling the left stub just below his shoulder.

  Wolfric breathed in deeply. Growled, “State your business or get out.”

  “I have no business,” the man said. His eyes still had not left Sabria, a brazen act that would surely enrage her short-tempered husband. She liked this man already. She also feared for him.

  Wolfric lifted his fingers and Sabria knew what was about to happen: a subtle flick of his wrist; the Ice Lord stepping forward; cold and shattered ice and death.

  “Why have you come?” she asked quickly, watching as her husband’s hand dropped back to the arm of the throne.

  “To deliver a message.”

  “A message from whom?” Wolfric asked, frowning.

  The man paused, his eyes continuing to bore into Sabria’s, a fact which was beginning to unsettle her. “The Western Oracle,” he said.

  Several lords and ladies gasped, and a general commotion arose amongst the court. Wolfric, however, was not impressed. “A jape. And not a funny one. The Western Oracle, if she ever existed at all, died a long time ago.” His fingers rose once more.

  “What message?” Sabria asked, once more delaying the inevitable. Truth be told, she wanted to hear what this man had to say. The Western Oracle’s legend had begun to dim in recent years, but this man’s strangeness and words made the thought of the sorceress blaze like lightning across Sabria’s mind.

  In the west, speaking the name of the Western Oracle was an act of treason.

  “Death shall come from a royal womb. A king shall die at the hands of his own kin. The fatemarked shall play the game of kings, and many will suffer before peace comes.”

  “End him,” Wolfric said, not even bothering to give the signal with his fingers.

  The Ice Lord strode forward, touching the man’s head with a single finger. The moment before the ice covered his face, the man nodded once to Sabria, his unblinking eyes never leaving hers.

  And she knew.

  She knew.

  The message wasn’t for Wolfric at all. No.

  The message was for her.

  Wolfric had insisted Sabria attend to his father with him. She didn’t mind. She didn’t know the warrior that King Wilhelm Gäric had been before, only the kind, gentle man he’d become as he’d shriveled with age and disease.

  She’d only known him for several weeks, but already she loved him like a second father.

  “Father—you have allowed the commoners too much freedom. They have grown bold and disobedient,” Wolfric said.

  Sabria shook her head. The man was dying. He deserved peace, but every time Wolfric visited his father he brought only argument and fire.

  “Douse your flames, son,” the king said. “Anger will bring you and the realm nothing but pain.”

  “You would have me be weak?” Wolfric said, his voice rising slightly. “You would have our enemies subvert my rule and destroy all you have built?”

  “I would have peace in the north before I die.”

  “Peace?” The word sounded foreign on the prince’s tongue, like he’d spoken it in some strange language. “There will be no peace until the north has conquered the Four Kingdoms.”

  Sabria stepped forward. She’d had enough of listening to this never ending disagreement. And she’d made a decision.

  She kissed the king on the forehead, turned on her heel, and walked out.

  She went to find Zelda.

  Sabria said, “You missed court again today.”

  “Pity,” Zelda said. “Anything interesting happen?”

  Sabria smiled. “There was…something.” She told Zelda about the old man and his message from the Western Oracle.

  “He sounds like he had a peg or two loose in his brain,” Zelda said.

  “Most would say the same thing about you.”

  Zelda laughed at that. “Which is exactly what I want them to think. Do you really think the old man spoke to the Western Oracle?”

  When Zelda tried to turn away, Sabria grabbed her wrist. “Maybe not recently. But he was very old, ancient almost. It’s possible he knew her.”

  “When he was seventy and she was one hundred?” Zelda said, removing Sabria’s hand from her wrist. The princess tugged the sleeve up to Sabria’s elbow, revealing finger-shaped bruises tattooed into her skin. Zelda bit her lip, hard.

  Sabria shrugged. “I got in a few good licks this time.”

  “Evil bastard,” Zelda muttered, pulling the sleeve back down.

  “He’s my husband by law, but not in spirit. And the old man’s message was for me. You should’ve seen the way he was staring at me.”

  “Even if it was, even if he actually spoke to the Western Oracle—which is impossible—why would he wait seven decades to relay the message?”

  “I don’t know,” Sabria said. “For one, I wasn’t born yet. Regardless of his reasons, my stomach says he was telling the
truth.”

  “The only thing my stomach tells me is that it’s time for lunch,” Zelda said, smirking. She turned back to the wooden table in her small hut disguised as a washerwoman’s residence. This is where she hid whenever she didn’t want to be found. Which, Sabria had noticed, was most of the time. Her hands deftly maneuvered a knife, chopping vegetables into perfectly sized morsels.

  “Zelda,” Sabria said, reaching beneath the folds of her dress.

  “Mmm?” Zelda looked back as Sabria held up the empty vial of morgwart. “Frozen hell, you’ve run out already? I’ll cook you up some more before you leave. You might need it tonight.”

  Sabria shook her head. “No. I won’t be needing anymore.”

  Zelda frowned. She placed the knife beside her pile of vegetables on the table. “There’s only one reason you wouldn’t need it: if my brother was dead. Is he dead?”

  Sabria shook her head again. “No. But I’m going to have his child. And his child is going to kill him.”

  One year later

  Using two hands, Sabria held her belly, which sagged like a ripe melon hanging from a clothesline. The child she carried was strong—she could tell that much. The baby kicked and punched all day long. All night, too. Sabria hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, but she didn’t mind. This child meant everything to her. This child was perhaps the only gift Sabria had left to give.

  She also loved the child because Wolfric barely came near her anymore. When she’d first announced she was with child, he’d been overjoyed, but as the months wore on, he’d been distracted by the only thing that seemed to matter anymore: his father. Not that the king was sick, withering away like unpicked grapes on a dusty vine, but that he was still alive. Wolfric cursed his father’s name constantly under his breath, as if the man was purposely hanging on to thwart his son’s claim to the throne.

  Sabria loved the king all the more for his unexpected months of life. She tended to him each day, washed his brow and spoke with him in soft tones. He smiled at the roundness of her belly, which, according to him, “Grows bigger every day.” He was already referring to the unborn babe as his grandchild. And every night, Sabria prayed to Wrath that the king would hang on just a little longer, so that he could meet the child.