Fatemarked Origins: Volume I (The Fatemarked Epic Book 1) Page 16

  “I’m no worse for wear,” Roan grunted, trying to see past the shadows of the stranger’s gray hood, which hid his face from the fiery Southron sun. It wasn’t unusual garb for a Calypsian, their long cloaks designed to protect against both sun and dust.

  The hooded stranger extended a gloved hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Roan took it, allowing the newcomer to pull him to his feet. “Thank you, …”

  “No one. I am no one,” the stranger said, his voice of a timbre that reminded Roan of sand being gritted between teeth.

  “Well, No One, thank you all the same. I’m Roan.” He was genuinely appreciative—in Calypso acts of goodwill were rare and far between. In a gesture that was automatic, if pointless, Roan shook as much of the loose dirt off his clothing as possible. Stubbornly, his shirt remained brown and filthy.

  “You can see me?” the stranger asked.

  Roan eyed him warily, wondering whether the odd man had been chewing shadeleaf, which was known to cloud the mind. “Yes,” he said. “I can see you.”

  The royal procession continued to thunder past while Roan and the stranger watched it without expression. Throngs of dark-skinned Calypsians lined the streets. Though the plague—a strange flesh-eating disease transmitted by touch—had been running rampart through the city for years, the city dwellers obviously weren’t letting it affect their day to day lives. They wore colorful cloaks that stood out against the beige sandstone huts. Some cheered their leaders, but most remained silent. Perhaps they were weighed down by the heat.

  Amongst the horses in the cavalcade were several guanik, long, reptilian creatures armored with black scales. As they impressively kept stride with the horses, their pink, snake-like tongues flicked between rows of dagger-like teeth. Their riders were the guanero, the royal guardians of Calypso.

  While Roan watched the guanik and their hooded riders with narrowly disguised disgust, an authoritative voice suddenly shouted, “Halt!” Like appendages attached to a single creature, the line of horses and guanik reared to an abrupt stop, raising yet another cloud of dust.

  When the fog cleared, Roan saw a broad-shouldered man wearing leather riding armor slide from his guanik’s scaly shoulders. His black hair was spiked in a dozen places, held up by some kind of shiny liquid.

  Roan knew exactly who he was, and hated him for it.

  The shiva, the master of order in Calyp. This man had the authority of House Sandes, the empire’s governing family. Roan had once watched him run down a woman in the street for some crime she’d never had the chance to defend herself from.

  And now he was walking toward Roan and the hooded man standing beside him.

  “Ho, beggar!” the shiva called.

  Roan said nothing, but was dimly aware of the way the stranger beside him tensed up, shuffling back a step.

  “You are a stranger to these parts, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I have not once asked for anything,” Roan said. “Therefore I am no beggar. And just because I’m a stranger to you doesn’t make me a stranger to Calypso.”

  Regardless of whether he was or was not a stranger, Roan didn’t understand why this man would waste a moment on him. The shiva scowled at Roan. He was garbed from head to toe with leather armor marked with the royal sigil, a silver dragon over a rising red sun. He eyed Roan and the stranger warily, his dark eyes darting between them. “I spoke not to you, but to your companion.”

  Roan glanced at the hooded stranger. “He is not my companion. We’ve only just met.” And yet Roan found himself stepping in front of the man, blocking him. Defending him?

  “Then move aside.”

  Roan didn’t, and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because he showed me kindness. Perhaps because he cared.

  The shiva sneered at Roan. “What are you going to do, peasant?”

  Nothing, Roan thought. Choke on dust. Burn up under the sun. Help no one but myself. Live the only life I was ever offered.

  “Oh no. Not again,” the stranger murmured behind him. Confused, Roan looked at the man, who had thrown back his hood and was staring at his gloved hand in horror. The gray glove had a slight tear in it, on the heel of his palm, exposing a sliver of white flesh.

  Roan was instantly drawn to the man’s face, which was much younger than his voice had suggested. His skin was the palest Roan had ever laid eyes on, as white as the eastern clouds or the northern snowfields, a physical trait that was extremely rare in Calyp. His flesh was also parchment thin, doing little to mask the bright blue veins running beneath the surface. But more than any of that, Roan noticed the man’s eyes, which were as red as sunrise.

  And those red eyes were staring at Roan. “I’m sorry,” he said, stumbling backward, throwing his hood back over his head. He turned to run, tripping over his own feet before catching his balance and darting into an alley.

  Odd, Roan thought. Then again, he’d met a lot of strange people growing up as an orphan in Calypso.

  “Gods be with us,” the shiva said, jerking Roan’s attention back to the halted procession. The shiva was backing away, scrabbling at his leather breastplate, attempting to yank it over his mouth and nose.

  Roan frowned. The rest of the royal guards were backing away, too, the fear obvious in their eyes. “The plague,” someone said. Then, louder: “He’s afflicted with the plague!”

  A woman screamed, high-pitched and piercing.

  Roan shook his head. What are they talking about?

  That’s when he felt it. An itch on his cheek. He reached up to scratch his face and noticed something on his hand. A bump, red and puffy. He inhaled sharply, dropping his hand to rest beside the other. Before his very eyes, dozens of fiery bumps rose to the surface of his skin, seeming to jostle for position.

  Roan fell to his knees, still staring at his diseased hands. Beyond him, he could see the shiva’s black boots standing in the dirt.

  For some reason, he crawled forward, reaching for the boots, feeling the need to touch them. Maybe my hand will go right through them. Maybe this is a dream. In his heart, however, he knew it wasn’t.

  The moment before his fingers brushed the shiva’s boots, a shadow closed in from the side, swinging a weapon of some kind, which thudded against his skull with a vicious crack.

  He collapsed, his cheek pressed to the dust, a set of dark eyes materializing overhead. The shiva vanished from sight as he was pulled away by his guardsmen, who created a human wall around him.

  Roan’s vision was obliterated as a thick sack was thrown over his eyes.

  FATEMARKED by David Estes, available NOW!