Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

  For now, what she required was comfort. Companionship. His arm was around her, her head tucked against his broad chest. Her work for the day was done, her commands given. The injured would remain behind, to be cared for by those with healing experience. The rest would march on Castle Hill. Tarin knew the monster would heal him swiftly, as it always did, and that he would be ready to march beside his queen when the time came.

  “Zelda is alive,” Tarin said now, because it felt like the right thing to say. It felt true.

  Annise’s head dipped back and she looked up at him. He could see the worry in her eyes, and it broke his heart. He would take it all away if he could. If she would let him. “How can you know that?” she asked

  “The same way I know I love you,” he said.

  She smiled and, briefly, kissed his cheek. She pulled away, and her sudden absence made him feel cold. He knew what she was doing, and he would endure an eternity of ice if it allowed her to be the woman she’d become. The strong queen.

  Standing before him, the worry was gone, chased away by that stubborn Gäric jaw and those fierce, beautiful Gäric eyes. “I love you, Tarin. And I love my kingdom, my people. I will retake Castle Hill. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.”

  There was nothing else to say but, “I know you will.”

  She nodded and left, slipping out into the night. The queen would not find sleep on a night like this.

  Fifty-Four

  The Northern Kingdom, Darrin

  Annise Gäric

  It was immensely difficult leaving the warmth of Tarin for the chill of the frozen night. Difficult, but not impossible. By now, Annise knew impossible didn’t apply to her. Not anymore.

  Leaving Tarin tonight was necessary. She had responsibilities. She had duties. People who looked to her for leadership. People who were willing to die for her.

  She swept through Darrin, checking on the injured, trading quips with the soldiers eating around campfires. She considered locating Lisbeth and the knights, but decided against it. Something about them made her uneasy. It was natural, she supposed, considering they were from another place and time, suddenly thrust back into a world they’d been away from for a long time.

  Instead, she found Archer, who was sitting with Sir Dietrich and Sir Jonius, watching red stars shoot across the sky. “Couldn’t sleep?” Archer asked, raising an eyebrow.

  She shook her head.

  “There are far more interesting things to do than sleep anyway,” Dietrich said. “I figured after you forgave that metal-head for running away you’d be shacked up with him every chance—”

  “Sir,” Jonius interrupted sharply. “You are speaking of Her Highness.”

  “And my sister,” Archer added.

  Dietrich said, “You’re right. I apologize. But you should still consider my advice. Go back to Tarin and have fun.”

  Annise shook her head as the knight left, likely off to cause trouble elsewhere.

  “How is the big tin can anyway?” Arch asked. “I trust you’re taking good care of him?”

  “Almost fully healed,” Annise said. “He’ll have scars, but his blood serves him well.”

  “Who would’ve thought there were advantages to being cursed?” Arch quipped.

  Exasperated, Annise said, “Perhaps I should’ve stayed with him. And he’s not cursed. He’s just…himself.” She thought of the way the monster had tricked him into thinking she was dead. Had it been playing games with him? Was it evil? Something told her the ploy had, in the end, been to help him, to fill him with enough pain and anger to keep him alive until she could arrive.

  Thank you, she said.

  You’re welcome, the monster answered. Do you see now?

  Yes, she thought. I think I do.

  Now if you could just get that stubborn man to understand.

  Annise laughed, and both Archer and Sir Jonius looked at her strangely.

  If only, she thought. But sometimes a person had to discover a thing on their own in order to fully appreciate it.

  She’d come a long way—they all had—but they still had a long way to go. The next stop was Castle Hill. I’m coming, Auntie, she thought. You saved me once. It’s my turn to return the favor.

  Another scarlet star arced overhead, soaring westward, in the direction of Castle Hill.

  Fifty-Five

  The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End

  Rhea Loren

  Something had changed in Rhea ever since she’d foiled Darkspell’s nefarious plans on the banks of the Spear. Or was it earlier?

  This thing inside of me.

  No, not a thing—a child. My child.

  She had looked into the eyes of her enemy—a prince of the east and his Orian companion—and had not found the vile monsters she’d expected to find. No, to her utmost surprise, she’d felt a kinship amongst those with a shared purpose. But what purpose? Peace?

  She laughed at the thought as she brushed the tangles out of her golden hair. No, there could never be peace—not on this war-torn continent. But perhaps alliances could be forged. Word had reached her ears of a great battle in the north, in Darrin. The streams were alive with the news. The north, despite all odds stacked against them, had emerged victorious. They weren’t dead yet, and perhaps the offer of an alliance from Rhea’s cousin, Annise Gäric, still stood. Better yet, with the easterners licking their wounds, she could play both sides, forging a second alliance with Gareth Ironclad and Gwendolyn Storm. Yes! A northern alliance! The thought suddenly excited her, as nothing had for weeks.

  All we need is a common enemy, she thought, placing her brush on the table. And, of course, they already had one:

  The Southron nations of Calyp and Phanes, embroiled in a civil war that would make them an even easier target.

  She glided toward the open doors to the balcony, a cool breeze rushing over her. As she stared into the blustery night, she considered.

  She could paint it as a war of good versus evil, but she knew an ulterior motive slid like a shadow around the fringes of her mind.

  Ennis.

  Though she would never be able to love him the way he wanted her to, she still loved him like a father, a brother, a friend. He’d been nothing but good to her, even in her darkest hours, and she’d ruined everything between them. But if she could find him, show him she was finally listening to his advice…that she had changed, then perhaps…

  She slammed her doors against the cold. Turned away. Folded herself under the warm blankets atop her bed.

  Closed her eyes.

  A common enemy. Phanes. The rutting Calypsians had already opened the Wrath-damn gates for them. All they had to do was march through.

  Yes. The slavemasters would fall, and she would be the one to push them.

  A plan formed in her mind.

  Her people were gathered, eyes turned expectantly toward her. It was time.

  They have no idea what’s coming.

  Her past speeches had been delivered within the castle walls, her citizens packed inside shoulder to shoulder, sardines in a can. On the broad banks of the Bay of Bounty, however, there was room to spread out, and her people did just that. The furthest spectators were nearly three quarters of the way up the gradual incline to the castle. She would have to shout to be heard by all ears.

  This was the exact spot where Wrathos had taken her sister, Bea.

  It was poetic, in a way, regardless of the outcome.

  A chill running through her, Rhea took a deep breath. It was time. She turned to the side for effect, tightening the folds of her bulky purity dress against her belly. “I am big with child,” she declared.

  Gasps. Whispers. Angry voices. Fists raised.

  She raised her hand, and despite their righteous anger, the crowd quieted. “I continue to wear this purity dress with honor,” she said. “For I have never lain with a man.” Well, not on a bed anyway. She and Grey had been on the mossy ground within the walls of her family’s cryptlands.

  More
gasps, this time alongside confused expressions.

  “Your humble servant, your committed queen, has been chosen by Wrath to bear this fatherless child. I was as shocked as any of you. I still am. I am but a lonely woman; who am I to claim this responsibility? However, it is not we who choose our destinies but Wrath above. But please, the truth of my words must not be believed on faith alone. I will put my words to the test and let Wrath decide.”

  The people were curious now, leaning forward eagerly. A typical trial of crimes was conducted by the Furies, but, purposely, Rhea had left them far away from this morning’s festivities. No man nor woman shall decide my fate, she thought. Only Wrath and Wrath alone.

  Her knees trembled in anticipation. Everything that had happened since the moment Grey had abandoned her in the cryptlands, leaving only his seed behind, seemed to lead to this single moment in her life.

  She locked her knees, steeled her nerves, and raised her hands. This time, Rhea didn’t have to say a word, nor did she have to look. She heard the churning waters, felt the waves sloshing against the shore, saw the monster’s great eye reflected in the horrified stares of the onlookers, most of whom gasped or screamed or backed away, or did all three in short succession. Children cried. Men drew makeshift weapons. Women prayed to Wrath to deliver them.

  Wrathos had come.

  Still refusing to look back, Rhea raised her voice above the din. “With Wrath as my witness, this child is mine and mine alone! If I bear falsehood, let Wrath’s servant swoop upon me and break my bones, crush my heart, devour my soul, send me to the first heaven to burn!”

  Silence fell across the crowd. Bubbling water lapped against Rhea’s ankles, overflowing the rocky embankment. She closed her eyes. Guilty, she thought. I am guilty. By my own words I have condemned myself.

  Screams poured from a thousand mouths and her eyes shot open. A thick, slimy tentacle flew past, curling around her, squeezing her pregnant belly slightly as it lifted her into the sky. The ground fell away as she ascended, the wind in her mouth, her heart in her throat. Though the instinct to scream was there, she refused. I will go quietly. I am not afraid.

  The great Eye appeared before her, and as she looked into it, Rhea felt as if she was staring into the eternities, a fathomless pit with no beginning and no end. Her judge. Her jury.

  Slowly, Wrathos pulled her away from its stare and toward its beaked maw, which opened wide, a black void sucking her into it. So this is it, she thought. This is what Bea saw, this is what she felt. Her fate is mine.

  The beak crunched down, making a raucous cracking sound.

  And then she was spinning away, the tentacle uncurling, ratcheting her back toward the shore. It set her back on the ground with surprising tenderness, sliding away, leaving her slick with slime.

  Grimy and soiled, yes, but alive. Something felt different, and she reached up to touch her hair. It was shorter, her long golden locks snipped away by the monster’s beak.

  A warning from Wrath, she knew. A recognition of her lies, but a willingness to ignore them if she did what was required of her.

  Though she felt heavy with the child growing inside her, energy rolled off her in waves. Purpose, too. She’d stared into Wrath’s Eye and been deemed worthy, her sins forgiven.

  I’m coming, Ennis, she thought. Wherever you are, I shall find you.

  She watched as the monster sank back into the depths; concentric, churning ripples widened as it descended. When she turned back to meet the stares of her people, no one blinked, no one breathed.

  Until she raised her hands.

  And then they cheered.

  Oh yes, how they cheered.

  After all, who could argue with the mother of Wrath’s child?

  Fifty-Six

  The Western Kingdom, the Southron Gates

  Ennis Loren

  The journey had been long and tiresome, but at long last they’d reached the last place in the Four Kingdoms Ennis Loren ever thought he would see. The Southron Gates.

  The wall rose high and thick, an impenetrable barrier against an attack from the west. And yet, between the jutting mountains of solid stone was a wide gap. The steel hinges were still in place, but the doors were gone, melted down into shapeless lumps of steel having cooled on the dusty ground. It was said that the Calypsians, led by Empress Fire Sandes herself, had destroyed two of the four Gates before being stopped by a large contingent of Phanecian soldiers, masters of the martial art of phen ru.

  The two furia who had chaperoned him this far, pointed to the gap in the wall. “Go,” one of them said. “If you try to flee anywhere but south, we will kill you.”

  Ennis was certain it was a bluff—Rhea would never have ordered his death, this he was certain of—but he didn’t want to run. He was ready, and he had made his choice, perhaps the final one of his life.

  He dismounted, the cracked ground beneath his feet nothing like the green plush lands of the west he was so accustomed to. Step by step, he walked forward, refusing to look back, to show his fear. No, he wouldn’t give Rhea’s vicious servants the satisfaction.

  The wall cast a long, angled shadow across him as he approached. He expected shouts from atop the wall, archers leveling arrows in his direction, swords raised. Instead, he got the one thing he hadn’t expected: nothing.

  Standing between the Gates on that mound of melted and then cooled steel, all he saw was dust and sand and burned land. I have entered the first heaven, he thought. I am being punished for my numerous failures. I receive nothing less than I deserve.

  The moment he stepped into Phanes, he got everything he’d expected:

  Shouts from above, loud and fierce. Arrows protruded from holes in the wall, aimed his way. Boots slapped stone steps as narrow-eyed Phanecians garbed in flexible leather armor charged toward him. Strapped to their wrists were long knives, leaving their hands free to perform acrobatic maneuvers—flips and cartwheels and gravity-defying aerial twists—as they surrounded him. Attached to each boot were long knives, which Ennis was certain could slash open his throat with a single kick.

  With that thought, he knew it was time. He thought of young Rhea as a child, the mischievous gleam in her eyes, her quick-to-laughter sense of humor. He remembered how, after being apart from her for several years in the army, how surprised he was to return to Knight’s End to find her a woman grown, flowered and beautiful. At first his unexpected romantic feelings toward his cousin had felt wrong considering their age difference, but little by little, over time, he’d become comfortable with them, like a stiff new pair of boots requiring breaking in.

  He thought of how she’d shattered his heart with her news of the child inside her.

  Yes, he thought. I am tired of fighting, of losing. I am tired of it all.

  “Kill me,” he said.

  To his surprise, the Phanecians laughed.

  Anger coursed through him. They would not deny him this final wish. “Kill me!” he roared, lowering his head and charging toward one of them, his eyes never leaving the gleam of the knives strapped to each limb.

  The man didn’t move until the last moment, leaping away and slamming an elbow across the back of Ennis’s head. Stars burst across his vision as he tumbled headfirst into the dust, scraping his nose and cheek.

  Voices, dull and muted, as if spoken from underground, drifted to his ears. “Foolish westerners,” one said. “Always thinking we want to kill them. Far more valuable as slaves, they are. A strong western slave like this one will make a valuable gift to Emperor Falcon Hoza.”

  No. Ennis gritted his teeth, the stars fading. Fought to his knees, trying to push to his feet. Someone lifted him up and he swayed as the world spun. “Sleep, slave,” the spinning Phanecian said.

  He slammed his head into Ennis’s face and everything went black.

  Fifty-Seven

  The Eastern Kingdom, Ironwood

  Gareth Ironclad

  Gareth was surprised when they entered the iron-sheathed trees of Ironwood to disc
over it still felt like home. For some reason he thought he’d feel like a stranger here now. An outsider.

  But no. If anything, it felt like he’d never left, a thrill running through him.

  “You feel it too,” Gwen said, glancing at him. “This is our home. Time and distance and the twisting pathways of life cannot change that.”

  He nodded, and for once didn’t feel like joking. He felt more like crying than anything. But he didn’t; the last thing he wanted was to be seen weeping as he returned. His brother would only use it against him, take it as another sign of his weakness.

  Having a heart is not weakness, he thought, remembering something Roan had once said to him. At the time, he’d laughed it away as overemotional drivel, but now the statement seemed almost prophetic.

  He was aware of the eyes that watched them as they slowly rode along the broad forest corridors that led to the city. They were Orians mostly, Gwen’s people, perched on airborne bridges and platforms, their bright eyes staring intently. He didn’t look at them. Though the urge was there to spur his horse to a gallop, he fought it off. A returning king must always remain composed.

  Is that what I am? he wondered. A returning king. Dressed in the torn, ink-stained, dirty clothing of a pauper, he felt like a fraud.

  No, he thought, gritting his teeth. This is my birthright, regardless of what happened at Raider’s Pass.

  As if sensing his inner turmoil, Gwen said, “Steady, Your Highness. The throne will not be reclaimed in a day.”

  Her words comforted him. For one, it was the first time she’d used his honorific without sounding amused. She believed he was the rightful king—that was something wasn’t it? Secondly, he wasn’t alone. It was an unusual feeling for Gareth, one he wasn’t used to. Even growing up surrounded by his brothers and parents, he’d never felt like he was part of the family. His title—Shield—had hung over his head from the day he was born, even if he wasn’t aware of it until he was slightly older.