Fatemarked Origins (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4) Read online

  Now Henry wished he’d never left home.

  At first, Teragon’s capital city, Shi, hadn’t been so bad, its red-skinned, copper-haired people welcoming, clamoring around Henry and his mother everywhere they went. The Teran men wore their hair long, occasionally braided down their backs, while the women’s hair was shorn short, sometimes all the way to their scalps. In their own way, they were a beautiful people. The sights were beautiful, too, their dwellings resembling arrowheads, constructed of timber and rope, thatched with large frond leaves. Everything was new. The food, a contradictory mixture of spicy and sweet, was delicious. Their rituals, which involved little clothing and seductive dances, made Henry blush, all the more so because his mother sat right beside him. And yet he’d loved every minute.

  Everything changed when his mother got down to business, her true purpose for the journey—revelation, as she’d said.

  She met with a man. His name was Carona, and he was Teragon’s equivalent of a Fury, a holy man. Though the Teran people knew nothing of Wrath, their god, Absence, was known to speak to Carona from time to time.

  Henry was not permitted to attend his mother’s meetings.

  When she returned each day, there was something different about her, something foreign. Though she looked exactly the same, her hair and eyes the same color, her skin the same shade, there was no mistaking the changes. She spoke differently, for one, her words charged with something Henry couldn’t quite describe. When she spoke, it was like he couldn’t not listen, like she held some power over him.

  She felt almost like a stranger.

  He didn’t like the way it made him feel, but she was still his mother, his only friend, and he ignored the feelings, doing his best to remember that she was the same woman.

  It got worse.

  The first time he awoke in the middle of the night to find her on her knees, swaying side to side, murmuring indecipherable words under her breath, he was so scared he hid under the covers and pretended he was back in Knight’s End.

  The second time he tried to wake her, only to find her eyes rolled back in her head. He ran back to bed and, once more, dove under the covers.

  The third time, he sat beside her, closed his eyes, and listened.

  Her words sent chills down his spine. She spoke of another war in the Four Kingdoms, one that would tear the realm apart for more than a hundred years. She spoke of corpses, of cities running red with blood, of wild beasts tearing soldiers limb from limb. She spoke of death and destruction and the end of the world.

  The next day, Henry asked his mother how she knew these things.

  Her eyes widened. She didn’t even know she’d spoken of them, a thought that scared Henry more than anything. “It’s working,” she said. “Carona’s god holds great power, and he bestows a portion on me.”

  Henry didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but before he could ask, his mother instructed him to write down everything she said the next time it happened.

  Henry did, sitting beside her in the firelight with quill and parchment, writing furiously so he didn’t miss anything. It helped, the writing. It was something to focus on, rather than the meaning of her words.

  In the morning, she read over his notes, nodding and murmuring and adding notations in the margins. “War is coming,” she said, when she’d finished.

  Henry shook his head. “Mother, there is peace. Can’t you see it? We would not be here otherwise.” It was true. None of the Southroners had accosted them at the southern border. Trade between the four kingdoms was flowing like the waters of the Spear. The rulers of each realm were content with the land and wealth they had. War was a thing of the past.

  “It has already started,” she said, ignoring him.

  Henry knew there was no arguing with his mother, and anyway, what was the harm? She could think what she wanted—it wouldn’t change reality.

  “There has to be a way to stop it,” she said, pouring back over her notes. Henry watched her for a while, but it was as if he no longer existed, naught but a ghost. Finally, realizing she didn’t need or want his input, he left, wandering aimlessly through the village.

  Well, not so aimlessly, perhaps, as eventually he found himself outside of Carona’s holy circle of huts, the temple. In the center of the circle was a wide hole in the ground. Henry approached it, peeking over the edge.

  Nothingness poured from the space, a blackness so complete it seemed to suck the light from the air around it. Henry stumbled back, suddenly scared of falling to his death. After a few moments spent gathering his nerve, he scooped up a rock and moved toward the hole once more. He reached over the edge and dropped the stone, craning his ear and listening. Seconds passed. Then minutes. Then hours, the sun sinking to the horizon, spilling fingers of red ink across the orange sky. Still he listened, desperate to hear something. The plop of the stone hitting water. The clink of the rock bouncing off the bottom. Something. Anything.

  Instead, the only sound was wind whistling through the circle of huts.

  And then a voice: “Absence.”

  Henry rolled over, spinning around—

  One leg slipped over the edge of the hole and a portion of the ground cracked under his weight, tumbling away—

  The earth seemed to pull at him, the depths of nothingness like a giant hand grabbing his ankles and yanking—

  He was falling.

  He was dead.

  No, worse than dead, Henry thought, his mind racing. He would never land, falling forever and ever through utter darkness, until his stomach closed in on itself from lack of food, until his body shook and trembled from thirst, until his heart stopped beating in his chest.

  Even after he died, he knew, his corpse would continue its endless descent.

  Whoosh! His fall reversed course as a strong hand grabbed his shirt and flung him upwards, tossing him back onto solid ground, where he landed with a thud that pounded the breath out of him. Carona, the priest, stood over him. His skin no longer looked bright red, darkening to deep crimson as night fell. His long, coppery hair was tied in three places, a long rope that twisted over his shoulder, angled across his chest. “You must be careful around Absence. She is an unforgiving god.”

  Henry struggled to breathe and talk at the same time. “What…have you…done…to my mother?”

  The man cocked his head to the side. His skin was so smooth it could have been marble. “Done to her? Nothing, youngling. I have simply opened a path that was hidden from her. She has chosen to go down it. Or perhaps the path has chosen her. Either way, she is destined for great things. She has the favor of two gods now, which is two more than most can claim.”

  Henry sat up, his breaths coming easier now. “She’s becoming paranoid. She’s rambling at night.”

  Though the man tried to hide his surprise, Henry saw the slight twitch of his cheek. “What does she say?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry lied. His mother could tell Carona if she wished to.

  “Mmm,” the man mused. “Perhaps she is ready for the Words.”

  “What words?”

  “They are not meant for your ears, youngling. Now go, your mother needs you.”

  Henry stood and started to leave, but then stopped. “Does the hole have a bottom?”

  “Absence has no bounds, no beginning nor end. It is and it isn’t. It takes away but only after giving in equal portion.”

  Henry struggled to make sense of the man’s words. “So don’t fall in?” he said.

  “Don’t fall in.”

  Henry returned to his mother, who had set aside Henry’s notes and was preparing dinner like it was any other day. She didn’t ask Henry about his day, and he didn’t tell her what had transpired.

  Three years later

  Thinking about their journey to Teragon three years earlier, Henry felt like his entire existence had been dictated by his mother’s decisions. Until now, that had never really bothered him, even if he sometimes felt scared by what his mother did. But now he wa
s angry. As he watched her being tied to the pyre amidst a barrage of jeers and thrown fruit, he wished he was stronger, more capable, a master of his destiny rather than a follower of hers.

  He wished he could save her.

  Is it too late?

  Even in her last words to him, she hadn’t given him a choice. She’d fallen back into prophecy or sorcery, or something in between—he wasn’t certain. And, he knew, as she took her last breaths, she would expect him to search her words for meaning, to carry on her life’s work, no matter what the cost to his own.

  I won’t.

  His thoughts felt empty, meaningless, devoid of passion or feeling.

  I even lie to myself. I am nothing, I am nothing, I am…

  He closed his eyes, which were blurring again. His lips quivered. His legs shook.

  I am weak. I am broken. I am lost.

  The truths spoken in his mind were knives, cutting, carving, removing pieces of him on the butcher’s block of fate.

  Though he hadn’t eaten breakfast, the thought of knives and blood made his stomach heave. He vomited a stream of bitter, brown liquid onto his fancy boots. The onlookers parted around him, muttering in disgust.

  An announcement was being made, a list of the charges his mother had been found guilty of. It was a long list. Henry had heard it all before, more times than he could count, and he didn’t want to hear it again.

  Nor could he watch his mother burn.

  He turned away, pushing through the crowd. He could barely see through the tears in his eyes and the curtain of black curly hair that fell over his face. My hair is too long; it needs to be cut. The mundaneness of the thought sent a sharp jab of fear through his gut, because, of course, his mother had always cut his hair. Who will cut it now?

  He jammed the heel of his hand into his forehead, chastising himself for his stupidity. His mother, the only person he had in the entire world, was about to be executed, and he was thinking about his hair?

  Cheers rose up and the acrid smell of smoke bit at his nostrils.

  Tears dripped from his chin.

  He could feel the thick pages of parchment tucked under his shirt, scratching his skin. His mother’s life work. Hide them across the kingdoms…

  More cheers, the bloodlust of the crowd pushing in from all sides.

  He choked on a sob, hiccupping.

  Stumbling, bouncing off of shoulders and elbows, jostled around.

  Alone amongst thousands.

  So alone.

  Alone.

  Three years earlier

  “The Words have opened my mind,” Henry’s mother said.

  “What words?”

  She shook her head. She wouldn’t tell him either. Carona and Mother have secrets between them, Henry thought bitterly. Mother used to tell me everything.

  “They are not—”

  Henry cut her off. “Meant for my ears. I know.”

  She sighed. “I’m only trying to protect you, sweetness.”

  “Aye, because I’m too small, too weak, a coward—”

  “You are none of those things!” his mother snapped, and the power of her response made him flinch back.

  “I’m not?”

  “No. You are the future.”

  “What future?”

  “Our future.”

  His ears swallowed her words, relishing them. What had he been angry about a moment earlier? What had he been sad about? Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Because he had her, and that was enough.

  “I need you to help me again,” his mother said, roping an arm around him and pulling him close.

  “Anything, Mother,” Henry whispered.

  “I need you to write down my words again tonight. Don’t miss a single one.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Three years later

  Henry sat in the dirt, staring at a pile of ash and timber, broken stone and crumbling mortar.

  Not his mother—no, he was far too cowardly to go back to where she had been burned.

  No, this was his home. Someone had torched it while he was meandering aimlessly through the streets of Knight’s End. Everything he owned was inside. All of the coin his mother had left him, too, save for the few Stallions that jangled around in his pockets. They wouldn’t last long.

  I have no mother. I have no home. I have no wealth.

  Our future, his mother had said three years ago.

  “You lied!” he screamed now. They had no future, not together at least. The truth bit into his legs, arms, chest.

  And yet his tears were gone, long dried by the heat of the smoldering rubble, tracks of salt on his smoke-darkened face. He felt like he should continue crying, continue mourning, until the sun exploded in the seventh heaven and the dueling moons crashed into each other in the night sky, surrounded by the flaming paths of falling stars.

  I should mourn forever. I should go back to Teragon, to that hole, to Absence, and throw myself into it.

  No.

  His head jerked up. The last word was not his own. It wasn’t even a thought, but a voice in his head, as clear as the ringing of a church bell. His mother’s voice.

  “Mother?” he said aloud.

  Henry was dimly aware of people staring at him, pointing. They’d been watching him for a long time, wondering what he would do. And now he was talking to himself. They probably loved that. But he didn’t care anymore, because his mother had spoken to him.

  Yes, sweetness, she said.

  He gasped. It was her!

  “I…I miss you.”

  You don’t have to, because I am with you. Always.

  “How is this possible?”

  I don’t know. Much of what I did in my life, and afterwards, I don’t fully understand. But I was chosen for this purpose the moment I accepted the Words. And what I did before I died was important. I must believe that.

  “Chosen by who? Wrath?”

  Maybe. Or Absence perhaps, I do not know. The One who showed me the Way never gave me a name. It is All Seeing, All Hearing, the Creator of the Land, the Sea, the Air we breathe. It despises war and eschews evil. And The One will have Peace again. It showed me the Way.

  “What did you do?”

  You don’t have to speak out loud, child. I can hear you.

  “Oh. I mean…” Oh.

  Yes. That’s it. Speak to me where only I can hear.

  Yes, Mother.

  Before I was taken, I performed a final spell.

  What spell?

  The rest of the Words came to me in the dark, the Words the fools said were false prophecies, the ravings of a dark sorceress. But they were not false nor prophecies. They were promises. I cast the Words across the land. The Words were not only for the west, but for the entirety of the Four Kingdoms. The fatemarked shall come, and they shall bring death and chaos and then…peace.

  At the final word, cool air blew across Henry’s face and he sighed. A smile creased his lips. Suddenly, he felt so happy. Everything was going to be fine. Somehow. Some way.

  I have your notes, I saved them from the fire. What do I need to do, Mother? he asked.

  Trust yourself. Trust me. You have a role to play, as we all do.

  I don’t understand.

  No response.

  Mother?

  Silence.

  “Mother!”

  Three years earlier

  His mother’s words scared Henry, but he dutifully scrawled them down as quickly as she spoke them, only the whites of her eyes showing, gleaming in her head like full, pale moons. They were words of disaster and destruction and fear and violence. There was no hope in them, not tonight. But what scared him more was what she did when he finished writing and her eyes rolled forward in her head.

  She looked not at him but at the sheaves of parchment covered in Henry’s handwriting and grabbed them, crumpling them in her fist. Then she threw them into the fire, watching them burn to ash. “Wrong. All wrong,” she said. “I am deaf. I am blind. I need to get closer. I nee
d to stay longer.”

  Shocked, his hand throbbing from writing for hours on end, Henry could do nothing but watch as she paced back and forth under the glow of the lantern light, which was growing dimmer as dawn beckoned from outside the opening in their conical hut. She’d spoken, and he’d written, all night. And she’d just destroyed every last word.

  “Mother?” Henry said, but it was as if he didn’t exist. Not to his mother, at least. She continued pacing, back and forth, back and forth. Then, with swiftness that made Henry rock back in his chair, toppling over, she dashed for the opening in the hut, rushing outside.

  Exhausted, sore from writing and being hunched over a table all night, Henry wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep the day away.

  But he didn’t. No, this time he followed his mother, keeping his distance so she wouldn’t see him. He wasn’t certain such stealth was necessary—she probably wouldn’t even notice him if he sprang in front of her naked with his tongue out—but he thought it better to be cautious given her current state of mind.

  Eventually, she reached her destination, the circle of temple huts, and slipped inside the ring. Henry crept forward, hugging the shadowy side of one of the huts, which faced away from the rising sun.

  The thin, red-skinned priest, Carona, was waiting for her with a rope. His hair was free of bindings today, fanning out down his back. “I warned you,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I was ready. I thought I knew the Words.”

  “The Words are not yours to know. Nor mine. They are Absence’s, and even those who listen in the darkness for years find themselves lacking.”

  “Lacking?”

  “Yes. Your entire soul must be open before you can receive your deepest desire.”

  “Please. I need the darkness. I need to listen again.”

  “As you wish,” Carona said. He bent down and tied one end of the rope firmly to a metal hoop pounded into the ground. Then he approached Henry’s mother, who raised her hands over her head. To Henry’s surprise, the priest tied the other end of the rope around her chest, under her armpits. She lowered her arms.