Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

The long, convoluted story took the better part of the evening, until long after the sun had vanished behind the horizon, leaving a trail of purple-black in its wake. Despite himself, Roan had laughed loudly several times, most notably when wife number three had called Goggin “a bastard of the highest order” and chased him from their dwelling with a scimitar.

  “A good woman, she was,” Goggin finished, sniffing sadly. “That’s one I wish hadn’t gotten away.” A moment of silence passed slowly. But then he clapped his large hands and said, “Time to make camp and drink the night away!”

  Making camp was a loose term which basically involved unfurling bedrolls under the stars. “Too hot for a fire,” Goggin declared, handing Roan a heel of warm, spicy bread and a leaf-wrapped strip of spiced meat.

  Roan bit into the bread, relishing the yeasty, zesty taste he’d enjoyed as a youth. There were a lot of things about Calypso he could complain about, but not the food. “You can have my meat,” he said handing the leaves back to Goggin.

  The man looked as if he’d been given the sun itself. “Did I mention you’re a good man?” he said.

  “Once or twice,” Roan said, though Goggin didn’t seem to hear, already chewing loudly, washing down each bite with a swill from a water skin. Roan recognized the distinct odor, sharp and spicy as it filled his nostrils. Simpre, a strong drink served in most taverns. Most Calypsians enjoyed a taste or two with a meal, but this man slugged back mouthfuls like water. When he’d drained the last few drops, he burped loudly. Then he reached into his pack and retrieved a second skin. This one he emptied into a clay bowl, which he placed in front of his guanik. The beast lapped at the drink greedily.

  “Monster likes a bit of simpre now and then,” Goggin explained.

  Although Roan thought this man’s definition of “a bit” was a little off, he kept that to himself. Then, inexplicably, the guanero extracted a third skin of strong drink from his pack, handed it to Roan, and said, “Drink!” with all the gusto of a round-bellied tavern keeper.

  Roan sniffed the skin, recoiling as the acrid smell assaulted his nostrils. If anything, this was even stronger than normal simpre.

  Goggin bellowed out a laugh, slapping his thighs. “Good stuff, eh? My own recipe, brew it at home. My fifth wife grew tired of the smell, so she took off. Chased her all the way to Teragon I did! Har!” His expression turned serious once again, and, in a lower voice, he said, “Now drink, son, the night’s a-wasting.”

  As politely as he could, Roan said, “Thank you, but I’ll stick with water.”

  “Bah! We’re off duty now and you’ve been as dry a companion as the dust beneath our feet. Drink or wrestle me, those are your choices.”

  Roan gaped at him, uncertain as to whether he was being serious. Wrestling a man as large as Goggin would result in his bones breaking in several places, so, holding his breath, he took a small sip of the dark liquid.

  fireburnscorchacidFIRE!

  With a gasp, he spewed a thin stream of liquid into the dust.

  Goggin roared with laughter.

  Roan couldn’t help his own laughter, which poured from him like rain from a gray cloud. And, he had to admit, Goggin’s simpre recipe was damn good.

  He took another sip; this time, he swallowed it, relishing the burn.

  Half the night later, a large portion of the simpre was gone, but both men were very much awake.

  “That group looks like an ore-monkey,” Roan said, pointing at a cluster of stars in the southern portion of the night sky. He felt warm all over, both giddy and calm at the same time. He was fairly certain that if he were to cut his skin, he would bleed simpre rather than blood. The thought made him giggle and then hiccup, which made Goggin slap him on the back as if he were choking.

  “It also looks like my ex-wife,” Goggin declared.

  “Which one?” Roan asked.

  He’d meant it as a serious question, he was having trouble keeping track of all the ex-Lady Goggins, but his question only made the man burst into laughter once more. “I’m not sure,” the large man said. “They all blur together these days. Strong women with angry faces. Har!”

  Roan had learned much about the man he traveled with, though he wasn’t certain how much he would remember in the morn. For one, Goggin wasn’t just another guanero, but the captain of all guanero, a prestigious position on par with the shiva, or master of order in Calypso. No wonder he’d made the comment earlier about Roan being an important person. Still, it surprised him that the empress would provide him with such a high-ranking escort rather than just sending a low-level foot soldier.

  The captain of the guanero slumped back onto his bedroll and yawned—it seemed the strange night had finally come to an end. A moment later, he was snoring.

  Roan stretched and unleashed a yawn himself. Staring at the sky, he wondered whether Gareth, high in his tower prison, was looking out at the same stars. At the same time, he felt bad that Gwen, confined to the dank, dark dungeons of Knight’s End, wouldn’t be able to see any stars at all.

  He sighed, watching the moons continue their nightly jaunt across the sky. Their paths would come close, but not cross. A near miss. Soon they would kiss, as the expression went. A week perhaps, or a fortnight at most.

  By then I will be able to help my friends, Roan vowed, even as he drifted off into a simpre-induced sleep, as deep and restful as any in recent memory.

  Sixty-Eight

  The Southern Empire, Calypso

  Raven Sandes

  “Whisper,” Raven said, gently stroking her sister’s shoulder. Dancing lines of sunlight were just beginning to form between the hanging guanik bones threaded across the opening to the sleeping quarters.

  Her sister stirred, her lips murmuring nonsense in her sleep.

  She looked so…peaceful. Raven wished she could let her sleep, but they didn’t live in that kind of a world. Plus, they were Sandes. Sleep was a luxury they could scarce afford.

  I need to prepare her. She needs to be ready to rule. War was coming, and Raven couldn’t ensure her own survival. The thought made her feel strangely calm. Am I prepared to die for my people, my country, my sister?

  Yes, she knew. Yes, yes, yes.

  Finally, Whisper’s eyelids fluttered open. “What is it?”

  “The war council will soon convene. You need to be there.”

  “No.” The answer was swift, certain, final.

  “Whisper—”

  “I said no,” Whisper said. “It’s not up for discussion. You can force me if you wish. Otherwise, go away.” Unlike the other day, when she’d sounded older than her years, now she came across as a petulant child. She is caught between girlhood and womanhood, Raven mused. She thought about how her maata had handled she and Fire growing up.

  “You have a voice,” she said. “All you have to do is use it.”

  Whisper blinked. Clearly, she’d expected to be forced. “I’ve made my opinions very clear,” she said slowly.

  Progress. “To me, yes, but not to the council. There, you’ve been as silent as a sleeping lamb. They all think you’re in shock, voiceless and broken.”

  “My voice works fine. And I’m not broken. I’m hurt, but not shattered like everyone thinks.”

  “I know. I don’t think that.”

  “Aren’t you hurt?” The question was so simple, so innocent, and yet it burned through Raven like a hot knife.

  She’d watched Fire die, watched her burst into flames in her final act. First their mother, then Fire...yes, she was hurt. The only difference was that an empress couldn’t waver, not for one second—her mother had taught her that.

  “Like you, I’m hurt but not broken.”

  “You don’t look hurt.”

  “I’m a Sandes.”

  Whisper released an exasperated breath. “People love to say that. Like a name defines who a person is.”

  Raven frowned. “It does. It must.”

  Whisper shook her head, her slightly mussed hair shifting from side to sid
e. “I reject that. We can be better. We can seek peace. There doesn’t have to be any more death.”

  Raven’s heart broke slightly. Despite all the tragedy Whisper had been forced to endure in the short years of her life, she still clung to the hope that they could simply live their lives. Sniffing flowers, painting, playing games, ruling with feather-soft wings and not the hardened, clawed wings of the dragonia. And although Raven knew her sister was being naïve, she allowed herself to dream of such a life. Just for a moment…

  And then gone. “Speak your mind at the war council,” Raven said. She stood and left.

  “Shiva,” Raven said as the man entered her quarters.

  The dark-eyed master of order in Calypso bowed stiffly. “Your Magnificence, I received your orders to attend you in your quarters, but I must voice my objection. This is highly unusual. People will think—”

  “Were you seen?” Raven asked.

  “Of course I was seen, there are a hundred guards between—”

  “Good. Let them think what they want. Rumors will shift with the desert sands no matter what we do.”

  But—”

  She held up a hand and he snapped his mouth shut. “If the guards believe you are coming here for another reason, a more scandalous reason…”—she offered a seductive smile to illustrate her point—“…then they won’t suspect the real reason.”

  His brows rose. “Which is?”

  “I need you to be Whisper’s personal guard, but secretly. No one can know that you’re protecting her—she most of all.”

  The shiva shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Will you protect her?”

  “Yes, of course, but it’s highly unusual. I am bound to Calypso, not to the throne.”

  “Calypso is the throne.”

  “Why me? You have a thousand palace guards at your disposal.”

  “I don’t trust them.”

  “Then Goggin…”

  “The commander has another mission. You’re my last option. Please.”

  His lips pursed, but it wasn’t a rejection. “I will do this thing. Whisper is safe with me.”

  “Thank you.” She spoke the last two words tersely, blasting from the room and into the hot morning air. Inside she was thinking Thank the gods.

  Raven tapped her fingers on the scaled arm of her throne.

  Her war council was smaller than before. Goggin was notably absent, escorting Roan Loren to Citadel, as she had commanded. His enormous form usually took up half the room. Ponjut was on her mission to the Scarra with her guanero. Also, Whisper had yet to arrive. Twice Shanolin had cleared her throat, anxious to begin the council. Twice Raven had ignored her. Whisper would come. She had to come.

  And then she was there, sweeping through the private rear entrance and settling into her seat with all the grace of the princess that she was. Unlike the previous times she’d attended the council, her eyes settled not on her feet but on the eyes of each person in attendance, eventually alighting on Raven’s.

  Raven was barely able to conceal the smile that tried to bloom upon her lips. Whisper nodded once, and Raven returned the gesture before addressing the council.

  “As you all know, the dragonia have passed the testing.”

  “With flying colors, it seems,” Shanolin said, beaming. There was a gloating note to his tone.

  “So it would seem.”

  “This changes everything,” Shanolin said.

  “Does it?”

  “Of course, Your Magnificence. With a fully trained dragonia, none can oppose us. Surely you have heard the voices of your people in the streets.”

  “I have, but Sandes women refuse to be swayed by public opinion.”

  Shanolin shook his head. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying we must be patient. Haste will only hasten our demise.” Roan’s words rattled around her head. …your entire force will be destroyed.

  Whisper was staring at her, but she refused to meet her gaze, lest she give away the fear she felt every time she looked at her sister. She thinks I might be killed if we go to war, when in reality it is her life in danger.

  Shanolin, as Raven had expected, refused to be rebuffed so easily. “Haste will catch our enemies off guard. They think they can poke and prod without retribution. They think Sun’s and Fire’s deaths have weakened us.”

  “Watch your tongue!”

  Raven’s eyes snapped to the side, for the rebuke came not from her, but from Whisper, who was on her feet, her eyes fiery and focused. “You will not use the dead as part of your argument for war. You, dragon master, do not rule this land. The Sandes do. And as long as we have breath in our lungs, we will not be bullied into action.”

  Raven would’ve kissed her sister if they didn’t still have an audience. Instead, she watched Shanolin intently. At first, she thought the dragon master might push his luck, diving into another argument, but instead, he bowed his head slightly and said, “I apologize. I am merely anxious for the dragonia to serve the empire.” Still, his eyes remained dark, and she thought she could detect a sneer in his tone.

  “And they will,” Raven said. “In good time. For now, we wait to hear from the guanero sent to the Scarra.”

  “As you wish—”

  Shanolin’s deferential response was cut off sharply when the sound of feet slapped the tile floor, coming closer.

  All heads turned toward the entrance to the council chambers, where a messenger appeared, his eyes wild with a mixture of excitement and something else.

  Fear, Raven realized. Oh gods. “Speak,” she said. “Please.”

  He gulped down a breath and then said, “Word has arrived from Kesh. A stream.” He paused, swallowing thickly, as if his next words were caught in his throat.

  “What has happened?” Raven said, though she already knew.

  “The defeat was complete. The guanero sent to the Scarra are dead.”

  Sixty-Nine

  The Southern Empire, between Calypso and Citadel

  Roan Loren

  When he opened his eyes, Roan released a sound more animal than human, halfway between a groan and a growl. He jammed his eyelids shut, though the sun, which was already a quarter of the way toward its peak, continued to burn across his vision. His head pounded. His muscles felt weak.

  He groan-growled again, wondering whether Gwen would consider it an abuse of power to use his lifemark to cure the aftereffects of a night of drinking. Probably. And yet, there was nothing for it.

  As warmth seeped from the three-leafed marking on his chest, the dull throbs in his skull began to lessen, before vanishing completely. His muscles and bones recovered, too, gathering strength like a bucket collects rainwater.

  Why had he drunk so much anyway? Why had he drunk at all?

  A chuckle answered his question, and when he opened his eyes, Goggin was grinning at him. His eyes were clear and he looked refreshed, seemingly unaffected by their night of madness. “We need to teach your body to hold its drink; I thought you would sleep the entire day. Har! Do not fear, my young friend, a few more nights like that and you will build a tolerance.”

  Roan didn’t want to build a tolerance. He wanted to quit being a fool and get back on track. While he had been drinking himself into oblivion, Gwen and Gareth had been passing another night in captivity. I’m a damn fool, he thought. He could almost hear Gwen’s answering response: Yes. Yes, you are. And Gareth’s: Next time you drink like that, I better get an invitation!

  “How many days until we reach Citadel?”

  “Five,” Goggin said, and Roan groaned again. “If we’re lucky.”

  Roan massaged his temples, though his headache was long gone.

  In the end, it took six days. Or perhaps five and a half, as they arrived at midday.

  Each night, Roan had, barely, managed to fight off Goggin’s pressure to partake of “the drink of the gods,” as the guanero commander liked to call his homemade simpre. He was only granted a reprieve when, f
inally, on night three the drink ran out. Goggin had tipped the last skin upside-down, peering inside as if someone was playing a nasty trick on him—like maybe the simpre was not gone, but hiding.

  “Pity,” he’d said, before rolling over and going to sleep. After that, the journey had picked up pace, as they rose earlier and made camp later.

  Now, sweat-sheened and dusty, the City of Wisdom appeared in the distance, almost like a mirage, the hot air making its white spires appear to shift and blur.

  “Thank the gods,” Roan muttered.

  “No. Thank me,” Goggin said, jabbing a finger in the air.

  “Thank you,” Roan said. Despite ‘the simpre incident,’ as he called it, the man had delivered him safely to Citadel, as promised. Twice they’d come across dangerous-looking men pulling carts filled with various knickknacks. But both times the men had given Goggin a quick look and then turned their path in the other direction.

  “Banditos,” Goggin had said. “Shame they didn’t want a fight. I could use the practice.”

  Roan, on the other hand, had been relieved.

  Now, he leaned forward, eager to reach the city that boasted the largest collection of history and books in all the Four Kingdoms. Compared to the Western Archives, it was a vast treasure trove that had the potential to solve the mysteries of Roan’s very origin. Gwen’s, too, as well as all the fatemarked. Would he learn what really happened to the Western Oracle? And her son? The very thought made him jab his ankles against his guanik’s sides, urging it to go faster. The beast glanced back darkly; if anything, it slowed its pace just to spite him. He would be happy to be quit of the temperamental animal.

  Slowly, pace by pace, Citadel began to come into focus:

  Tall, narrow spires split the sky, their faces as white as the snowy mounts that flanked Raider’s Pass in the north. Oddly, the first thought he had was: I wonder who cleans the outside of those towers? Beyond the city was a vast body of water, sparkling under the sun—Dragon Bay. His last memory of the sea involved nearly being eaten by dragons after narrowly escaping Plague Island. And then almost drowning. After all that, he’d met Gareth Ironclad. It was almost ironic, in a way, that he would find love so soon after dodging death.