Fatemarked Origins (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

  Nothing would be able to hide the smoke from the Crimeans, which meant it was time to move.

  After all the waiting, Verner felt as if they were moving at double speed as they trotted up the incline, two thousand strong. The other two thousand soldiers were safely inside the castle walls, awaiting a signal from the spotters in the towers that it was time to unleash the final part of the scheme.

  The ground beneath their feet was riddled with heavy boot prints as they made their way along the wall. Ahead, shouts burst forth—the Crimeans had seen the smoke. Bells began to toll from the towers, ringing forth for all to hear.

  Though they hadn’t rounded the southeastern edge of the rectangular wall yet, Verner could just make out the heavy groan of hinges as the main gates were opened. He wondered if ever before in the history of warfare a battle had started with one side opening the gate to invite the enemy in.

  There’s a first time for everything, he thought.

  A familiar sound blotted out all other sounds: the chaos of war.

  The men in front and back of him released a cry of “Freedom!” which Verner gladly echoed, and began running, spilling around the corner of the wall, weapons raised.

  The battle was already raging, with the Crimeans funneling through the city entrance, already making decent headway.

  However, those in the back and on the sides swiftly realized they were being flanked. Confusion set in, the captains focused forward while their men were forced to decide what to do. Some pushed forward harder, shoving their allies ahead, while others turned to fight. Still others tried to flee, but the same fire trenches that had been so useless before now prevented their retreat.

  With a final cry of “Freedom!” Verner and his comrades met the enemy.

  The fighting was fierce, with most of the enemy choosing to push into the city rather than try to flee. Though Verner’s plan had worked to perfection, the Crimeans were natural soldiers, and, surrounded, fought like cornered wildcats.

  As Verner fought, the difference between life and death—once a wide gulf in his mind—felt as narrow as the width of a single strand of hair. He killed because the only alternative was to be killed. Every stride required the dodging of corpses underfoot, and his feet slid and slipped on the blood running down the streets.

  By the time the last Crimeans were cut down, he’d taken several injuries and was lightheaded from loss of blood. His sword hung aimlessly in the air, searching for enemies where there were none left. His comrades stood all around him, their eyes as wild and vacant as he suspected his were. They were covered in life and death, painted with souls.

  They were freedom. They were vengeance.

  They were killers, every one.

  They were heroes, every one.

  And then his father and mother were there, by his side, embracing him, embracing each other, and the tears flowed.

  The tears flowed.

  Like rain.

  Two thousand of their own had perished. Two thousand souls seeking independence. Two thousand heroes fighting for a cause greater than the sum of their lives. Verner thought about those men and women, and wondered whether, before they took their last breaths, they knew of their own greatness. He hoped they did.

  Five thousand Crimeans had died. The few whose injuries did not kill them had been treated and were being held prisoner. They all told the same story—that King Streit was on his death bed. He would not last the fortnight, according to rumors. A long-flying pigeon would be sent across the great waters with a message for King Streit and his heirs.

  We are free. You may come for us, but you will not survive.

  For we do not fight for land or wealth or power, we fight for our very lives.

  And we shall not fail.

  Standing atop the wall, Verner and his family looked down upon the streets of Knight’s End. They were stained red, but it was not blood he saw, but—

  “Roses,” he spoke aloud. “A layer of rose petals.”

  “Yes,” his father murmured. “I see it too.”

  “And I,” his mother agreed.

  And that was how the first independence war got its name.

  The War of Roses.

  King Streit was dead, but the Crimeans would never forget their defeat. They would come again.

  But Verner wasn’t worried about that now, only about the chance they now had. A chance to build a better world. A chance to forge alliances with their neighbors. A chance for peace.

  He hoped they wouldn’t waste it.

  14: Sonika Vaid

  The Southern Kingdom- Circa 524

  Civil war.

  The dissolution of the marriage alliance between Calypso and Phanes had been the most popular topic of rumor and gossip in Phanea for months. Fighting was fiercest along the Spear, with both sides taking major casualties.

  Good, Sonika thought. Let the Phanecian soldiers die.

  She was vaguely aware that she was scowling, but didn’t care. The leather-clad soldiers who were passing were oblivious to her animosity, too busy showing off for the crowds gathered to cheer them as they marched to war. They flipped and vaulted and sprung, a masterful display of the martial art of phen ru. Though they were weaponless now, when they ran into battle their feet and wrists would be strapped with deadly blades.

  Phen ru is an arrogant, bloodthirsty art, Sonika thought. I could defeat any of them with half as many maneuvers.

  She wasn’t certain if it was true or not—though she’d mastered the womanly dance of phen sur three years earlier, it was considered a dance rather than a martial art—but she felt better thinking it just the same.

  “You’re going to burn a hole through them with that stare of yours,” her brother said, standing motionless beside her. Gat Vaid was more than just her older brother—he was her best friend, and, at times, voice of reason.

  “Let them burn,” Sonika muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. All around them, chalk-faced people cheered, applauding and whistling for each aerial trick.

  “C’mon, we should get home.”

  She knew he was right—the more she watched the soldiers the more likely she was to do something foolish. She wondered why she’d wanted to come to watch in the first place.

  Gat’s tall, powerful body threaded through the throng, leaving a path for Sonika to follow in his wake. She ignored the stares that met her from all sides—she was used to it. There were very few Phanecians who didn’t powder their faces these days, and even fewer who, like she and her brother, were unadorned with gem and jewelry, fine silk and golden threads. Wearing basic clothing, not unlike that of the slaves, they stuck out like a couple of black eyes.

  When Sonika was certain she was going to hurt someone, they finally emerged from the press of bodies and into open space. The canyon walls stretched toward the sky on both sides, and Sonika longed to climb them, to rise above the world that felt more and more like a prison with each passing day. Later, she thought, promising herself.

  Lost in her own thoughts, she barely noticed the shops carved into the stone walls on each side. Fine silks woven with gemstones. Gaudy, brimless hats that seemed to serve no purpose other than to draw attention. A parlor where gems could be sewn right into your skin, permanently. Even the food sellers were of little interest to Sonika in her current mood—she’d lost her appetite the moment she saw the soldiers—but Gat forced her to buy a serving of stuffed pyzon with rice. It was delicious—smoky and sweet at the same time—but she had to force it down. She saved half of it. Gat didn’t touch his own portion, keeping it wrapped up the entire journey home.

  Home was a wide, deep gouge in the stone. To get there, they had to pass hundreds of other manmade caves, pockets carved into the canyon walls that made it resemble a honeycomb. At first they were lavish homes, complete with natural, flowing water, fine furniture, and marble steps curving back and forth from bottom to top and back down again. The wealthiest lived at the top, and even had pulley systems in place to save their legs from
the climb.

  The further along they went, the less populated the canyon became, until most of the caves were empty. Further still, they arrived at their own cave, the most basic of them all, set at the very bottom of the wall. There were no other caves above them, no stairs or pulley systems. Just a rock wall with plenty of interesting hand and footholds.

  To get water, they had to walk to a well and haul it back. To reach the markets, they had to walk nearly as far as the slaves.

  The slaves, Sonika thought. The slaves were the reason none of the Phanecians lived this far south in the canyons. Because, just a stone’s throw away, were the slave quarters: Thousands of tiny cubicles chiseled into the canyon walls, reachable via rickety, chipped steps that were more dangerous than they were functional. Occasionally someone would fall to their death—not that anyone cared. Slaves were easily replaceable.

  More than anything else, the thing that frustrated Sonika was that the slaves were so close to the end of the canyons, so close to freedom. But none of them would try to escape, for they were enslaved not by chains, but by magic—Emperor Hoza was slavemarked, able to capture the minds of anyone he chose.

  Thus, the slaves’ eyes were all the same color—black—regardless of what color they were before. They walked stiffly, going wherever their masters instructed them, doing whatever they were told.

  Sonika realized she had stopped, staring ahead, her face once more plastered with a scowl. “Coming?” Gat said, waiting for her.

  “Where?”

  “To make a delivery.”

  She nodded. First, they found a sharp stone and cut what was left of their meal—half of hers, all of Gat’s—into smaller portions. Then they went from cubicle to cubicle, giving a bite to each of the children who were too young to work, waiting for their parents to return from their labors. Most of the children just stared at them as they chewed. They were almost entirely Terans, from the nation of Teragon, a land located across the Burning Sea. Their skin was red, which was why the Phanecians started powdering their own skin—to look as different from the slaves as possible. Their eyes were wide and round, unlike the narrow scythe-like eyes of the Phanecians.

  They didn’t make it very far before they ran out of food. The children in the next cubicle stared at them, but didn’t beg. They were used to being hungry, and their parents would return soon with their meager rations for the day.

  Still, it broke Sonika’s heart in two.

  Finally, they entered their own abode, which was warm and cozy. Sonika’s mother, Brida Vaid, was preparing the evening meal—beans and rice spiced with cumin. She cooked the food in an enormous iron pot that could feed ten times as many people. She turned as her children—who were both old enough to leave home, if they wished—entered. “You stopped by the slave quarters?” she said.

  “And watched the latest group of soldiers leaving the city,” Gat said.

  Brida shook her head. “Not our business. The wars of emperors and empresses are of little use to working folk.”

  Sonika didn’t want to start another fight as soon as she’d arrived, but biting her tongue was something she struggled with. “How can you say that? If the Calypsians defeat us, everything will change. Empress Sun Sandes is against slavery.”

  It only frustrated her more that her mother didn’t react to her raised voice, her own demeanor as even as the ground beneath their feet. “We all do our part in our own way. We help where we can. But we are not soldiers—none of us.”

  “They tried to recruit me again today,” Gat said.

  Finally, Brida frowned. “I wish they would leave you alone.”

  “They won’t,” Sonika said. “Have you seen him? He puts half the army to shame.”

  “Only half?” Gat said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Give or take.”

  Her mother changed the subject, something she was quite adept at doing. “How was the dance today?”

  “The dance” was what she called Sonika’s work. Since becoming a master of phen sur, the dance of the sun goddess, Sonika had made a living teaching girls half her age. Gat worked with her, sort of. He helped recruit new students. Given the way he looked, he brought in a lot of business, even if most of her students were there just to stare at Gat and had no natural talent for the dance.

  Still, Sonika enjoyed her work and the extra coin it brought in, most of which they used to help feed the slaves. She also liked working with her brother, though he teased her mercilessly.

  “The dance was fine,” Sonika said. “Fine. Fine. Fine.”

  “What more could you want from life?”

  And there it was: the problem that had no solution. Their life was fine. She wanted for nothing. She enjoyed her work. She tried to help others. But it wasn’t enough for her. There had to be more. “Nothing, Mother,” she said, sighing.

  “Not even a hug from your father?” Lore Vaid said, entering the cave.

  Sonika turned, feeling a flush of relief at her father’s presence. For some reason, she only fought with her mother, while her father could always calm her restless energy. His narrow eyes held the twinkle of starlight, and his tanned, weathered skin proved a life of hard work as a stonemason. Though there were slaves available to do his work, none were as well-trained as he. Still, work had been on the decline for the last few years, as slavery became more prevalent. Why pay for work when it could be done for free?

  “Of course, Father,” she said, allowing herself to be pulled into a firm embrace.

  “He gets a hug and I get frustration,” her mother noted.

  “I’ve got a hug for you,” Gat said.

  Sonika felt bad as she released her father. She waited her turn, and then hugged her mother. “Sometimes I think we’re too much alike,” her mother said. Sonika frowned, pulling back to look at her mother, but she was already twisting away, going back to stir the beans.

  Alike? More like as different as the moons from the sun, as different as fire and water.

  Behind her, Lore laughed, embracing Gat, who was a head taller than him. They slapped each other’s backs. “How goes the stone breaking?” Gat asked. It was a familiar joke that managed to chase away the last of the tension Sonika felt between her shoulder blades.

  “The stones broke well,” her father answered, his standard response.

  Dinner was soon served, and Gat ate three portions before standing to heft the pot full of leftovers on his shoulder.

  “Want company?” Sonika asked.

  “Nah,” he said. “Help Mother clean up.” Sonika groaned, wishing she’d been quicker to grab the pot.

  As soon as he was gone, Brida said, “Get out of here. We’ll manage.” A smile danced across her lips.

  “Really?” It was unlike her mother to let her shirk her chores. As long as you live in our cave, you will do your part, was her mother’s favorite saying.

  “Really. There will be plenty to clean another day.”

  “Thank you,” Sonika said, offering her mother a more real hug than the last one. Nervous energy thrummed through her as she raced from the cave, turning to face the wall, which was sheathed in sunlight. She stared up, her eyes quickly locating the hand and footholds that would provide the easiest climb to the top, a climb she’d completed more times than she could count.

  She wasn’t in the mood for easy.

  Instead, she chose the most difficult of the routes, using protrusions and indentations that offered just enough space for her toes, or three of her fingers. Before she was halfway to the top, sweat poured from her brow. She paused in a decent resting spot where she could cling with one hand, and reached back into the pouch strapped to her waist. It was full of the chalk powder meant for her face, but which she used it to coat her hands, sopping up the sweat and improving her grip.

  As she began to climb again, the canyons began to darken, the sun slipping past the top of the opposite wall. She’d have to hurry if she was going to make sunset.

  Her muscles straining, her fingers
and toes beginning to ache, she extended her arms and legs, skipping holds. At one point, all she could reach was a sheer rock wall. Above it were plenty of decent clefts, if only she could get to them.

  Mother would kill me if she saw this, she thought.

  And then she leapt, extending her hand and grabbing the rock, her feet scrabbling at bare wall beneath her. Her other hand slapped down, gripping another hold. Slowly, inch by inch, she hauled herself up.

  The rest was easy, and soon she clambered over the canyon’s edge, flopping onto her back and staring up at the darkening sky, which was now splashed with pinks and purples, speckled with early stars and the dim outline of Ruahi, the red moon god. Luahi, the green moon goddess, was still hiding, waiting for her mother, the sun goddess, Surai, to vanish completely over the horizon.

  Lying like this, seeing the vastness of creation, listening to her own breaths as they joined the cool breeze blowing over the plateau, Sonika could almost believe there was no slavery, no cruelty, no war.

  And then she heard a familiar sound.

  She cringed, rolling to peek over the edge, back into the canyon. Hundreds of people walked, their gaits identical in their stiffness, all heading in the same direction. They didn’t speak, the only sounds from their feet, which seemed to whisper to each other.

  The slaves had returned from another day of oppression and hardship.

  Sonika spotted Gat returning with the pot. Some of the slaves would return to their cubicles to find extra food for them and their families. Others would have to fend for themselves.

  We should be doing more, Sonika thought, not for the first time. But what?

  Another form caught her eye below: her father, emerging from their cave, looking up. He waved to her, but it wasn’t a greeting. It was the signal they’d established long ago, when Sonika was naught but a girl who liked to climb. It had been months since her father had asked if he could come up to join her.

  Grinning, she crawled over to the long coil of rope she’d brought up years earlier, securing it to the cliffs with a metal stake driven deep into the rock. Her father was a decent climber, but the cliffs were beyond his ability.