Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4) Page 4

  Sir Dietrich cleared his throat.

  Annise met his gaze, and something about it buoyed her up. Yes, they’d had their disagreements, not the least of which was his unwillingness to talk about his swordmark, hidden on his back behind a burn scar, but he was still her unflinching ally, as all these good people were.

  On another side stood Archer, and he nodded to her to begin. They’d discussed what to do together, not as queen and prince, but as sister and brother. As friends and advocates. At one time the throne had been his, but there was no grudge in his heart now, if there ever was.

  A swell of pride rolled through her. A queen should be so lucky to stand with warriors of this quality.

  I am lucky.

  And yet…Zelda’s life was in her hands. She could save it by surrendering. In doing so, she would let down each and every one of those standing before her, waiting for her to speak.

  “By now I’m sure you’ve all heard the news,” she said. Heads bobbed, hands went to hilts, jaws tensed. She refused to meet Tarin’s eyes, which she knew would be burning like lit coals. This was a decision to be made with cool heads, not with fire and emotion. A queenly decision, not her first or last.

  The voice that emerged from her throat seemed to come from a long way off, like Annise was a mere spectator, watching herself from afar. “I will not surrender. I will not bow to the will of sellswords and mercenaries. I will not rest until those who seek to usurp my throne have been laid low like the pond scum they are. This is my kingdom. This is your kingdom. What say you?”

  She’d expected a roar of approval, the shriek of swords from scabbards, the stomp of boots…something. What she got was silence. The quiet, however, was not idle. One by one, her diverse group of soldiers raised their fists. First over their heads and then lower, settling over their hearts.

  Dietrich said, “We were with you before you spoke, my queen.”

  Four

  The Northern Kingdom, on the road to Castle Hill

  Sir Christoff Metz

  Sir Christoff Metz felt sick.

  I did this. This is my fault. It was just like with his little brother, Jordo, who’d died tragically after falling down a well when he was supposed to be watching him. Castle Hill had been taken on his watch. Lady Zelda might die because he’d failed to do his duty.

  But I helped save Darrin. Tarin Sheary might be dead if I hadn’t acted. The eastern invaders might’ve even been marching on Castle Hill at this very moment.

  All those soldiers…men he’d trained, men who’d been willing to lay down their lives to protect the castle he’d abandoned.

  The world began to spin, a kaleidoscope of white and green and yellow shards of light. Christoff’s hands were on his head before he could stop them—

  Please please please no no no my fault my fault my fault

  Can’t save them can’t save Jordo not anymore can’t save any of them not one and Lady Zelda is going to—

  “Christoff,” a voice said from the side, jolting him from his inner argument, the mania that threatened to take hold. Slowly, slowly, the world stopped spinning. Christoff’s head was throbbing where he’d pounded on his own skull. He stared at the woman who had spoken.

  Her name was Mona—though he would never call her that in public, where she was Private Sheary—and astride the white horse she might’ve been the most beautiful creature Christoff had ever laid eyes on. Her jet-black hair flowed behind her like streamers carried on the breeze. Her sharp, thin eyebrows were narrowed, a look of concern on her face. A strangely warm feeling started in his chest when he met her eyes, racing down his torso and all the way to his toes. The day must be growing warmer than I expected, Christoff thought. Other than in battle, she was the only person whose gaze he could meet without flinching. Still, he could only hold it for a moment, those green eyes penetrating him to the core, before looking away.

  A memory of a forbidden embrace rose in his mind, but he blinked it away. They hadn’t spoken of that moment since it had happened, and Christoff didn’t want to think about it now. He was her captain, and she his private—anything else between them would have to wait until the war was over, lest they descend into chaos.

  “Private Sheary,” Christoff said, his eyes settling somewhere on her shoulder. “Please refer to me as ‘Captain’ or ‘Captain Metz.’”

  A shadow fell over her eyes. If anything, it only made her look more beautiful. Stop thinking such thoughts, Christoff chided himself. “Yes, Captain Metz,” she said, not trying to hide the dryness in her tone. For once, Christoff knew he was being mocked, even if he didn’t understand why.

  “Did you have a question?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I was going to ask if you were all right, but now I see that wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because your face was twitching as you rode and you were muttering under your breath. You started hitting yourself and making a strange sound. I was…concerned…for your well-being.”

  Christoff felt his cheeks flush. His mother used to call them “fits,” when everything felt like it was spiraling out of control and he needed to claw his way out of his body else be consumed by a mad world with no logic, no order. Over time, he’d learned to control them, to run away from whatever situation was causing his anxiety. In fact, this was the first true fit he’d had in many years.

  It’s hard to run from your own thoughts, he mused.

  He noticed Mona—no, Private Sheary—still looking at him, her brow furrowed. What had she said? Yes, that she was concerned for his well-being.

  Again, that warmth. He breathed out deeply, willing his feelings back to a place where he could control them, like a wild mustang confined to a corral. “Thank you, but I am fine,” he said, willing it to be true. “I should introduce you to my fellow captain, Tarin Sheary. Captain Sheary!”

  As he rode away from her, he felt like a hollow shell, everything vital scooped out from within.

  Five

  The Northern Kingdom, on the road to Castle Hill

  Tarin Sheary

  After a rushed introduction, Sir Christoff Metz rode off as if he was being chased by a pack of hungry wolves. It didn’t surprise Tarin in the least—since he’d known the man, he was always a bit…different than other knights he’d known.

  “Did Sir Metz say your last name was Sheary?” Tarin asked, focusing on the woman on the horse beside him. Annise was off somewhere, encouraging her soldiers, ‘riding the line,’ as she called it.

  “Mona Sheary,” she said. “I mean, Private Sheary.” She wasn’t looking at him, her gaze tracking Sir Metz as he rode away.

  “Don’t let him offend y—” Tarin started to say, but stopped when she turned to meet his stare. Though he’d seen her around—after all, she’d apparently helped treat his wounds when he was grievously injured—never in such bright light in close proximity.

  It was like a memory brought to life.

  A woman moving about a small one-room house, bustling in and out with armfuls of firewood—split herself, of course, she was a woman of the north after all—stoking the flames, stirring the stewpot, singing a soft melody under her breath.

  Whirling when she caught him watching, grabbing him under the arms, picking him up, spinning, spinning…until he was dizzy and laughing and tumbling to the floor in a heap.

  And her name.

  Her name.

  No, Tarin thought. Not her. My mother.

  My mother’s name was Mona.

  “Sir? I mean, Captain Sheary?” The woman was looking at him quizzically with that familiar face, so like his mother’s that he couldn’t stop staring at it.

  “We share a last name,” Tarin said, his voice low, almost reverent.

  She smiled the purest smile, one he’d only seen on one other person in his life. So long ago…

  “So it seems,” she said. “It’s not an uncommon name in the north, but still…the no
rth is growing smaller.” Even her voice was familiar. Frozen hell, can it be? Truly?

  “Where are you from?” he asked casually, as if making light conversation.

  “Blackstone. And you?”

  Tarin had participated in several tourneys at Castle Hill over the years. At one such tournament, he’d gathered his nerves in a bundle and sought out his parents’ old home—his old home—set within the castle walls, where his father had worked as the king’s horsemaster, breeding and training his royal stallions.

  The house was gone, razed to the ground, replaced by more stables.

  His parents were gone, too. He’d been so bold as to inquire about them, as if they were old friends of his family. Evidently, they’d left many years earlier, the same time he’d run away from home, a scared and changing boy swiftly becoming a man—at least in body, if not mind.

  His absence had driven them away, like a ghost haunting their steps. No one had known where they’d gone, but now he suspected this girl had brought him the answer.

  “Blackstone,” he said.

  “Where in Blackstone?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, I’m from Castle Hill.”

  “Oh. My mother spoke of Castle Hill often. She had a sister there, though I never met my aunt nor uncle. The only connection I have to them is my name.”

  “Mona.” Whispered, like a forbidden word spoken only in the shadows in the dark of night.

  “Was that so hard? Captain Metz seems to think speaking my name will cause frozen hell to open up and receive him.” She laughed lightly, oblivious to Tarin’s inner turmoil.

  Tarin breathed in. Out. “My mother’s name was Mona,” he said.

  “Truly?” That smile, like a mirror into a long-forgotten past. No, not forgotten, not really. Just hidden, like an ugly table covered by a cloth.

  “Yes. She was…beautiful.” Like you.

  Something changed in the woman’s expression. A flicker of recognition. A spark of truth.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I—what are you saying?”

  Tarin’s eyes met hers, which were emerald green, the exact shade his mother’s eyes had borne. If she was younger she might’ve been his sister. Instead, there was only one other possibility. “You bear more than my mother’s name. You have her nose. Her expressions. And her eyes. Mona Sheary, I believe we might be cousins.”

  Tarin had feared her reaction might be negative. Who would want to be related to a strange-looking giant of a man known for brutality in battle. What he got instead was something different entirely.

  Her face lit up like she’d won a prize at a festival and she clapped her hands with child-like glee. “I’m cousins with the Armored Knight,” she said with delight. “I used to watch you compete in the tourneys. You were Ma and Da’s favorite.” Her voice fell on the last part, her gaze slipping to the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” Tarin said, wondering whether his own parents were alive somewhere. Wondering if they were in Blackstone. If so, he wondered whether they ever thought of him.

  Mona looked up, her eyes wet. “It’s been three years,” she said. “I thought it would get easier.”

  “It does. It will.” Not lies, but not exactly the truth either. The loss of ones you loved was always there, a constant companion, even when time smoothed out the ragged edges, sopped up the hurt.

  “Thank you. It was an accident. A runaway horse. They were…trampled.” She paused, seeming to collect herself. “At least they passed on together, so they didn’t have to hurt the way I have.”

  It was at that moment that Annise rode up on a magnificent white stallion, his head bobbing with undisguised bravado. “The soldiers are in good enough spirits,” she said. Her eyes flicked between Tarin’s and Mona’s, her head cocking to the side. “Private Sheary, right? You helped Christoff tend to Tarin when he was injured. I don’t know that I ever formally thank you.”

  Mona blushed, bowing slightly. “It was my pleasure, Your Highness.”

  Tarin said, “Annise, we’ve just discovered something. Mona is my cousin.”

  As Annise’s eyebrows lifted, Tarin felt something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The feeling of belonging, that sense of being and familiarity that only family could bring.

  “Well,” Annise said. “This calls for a celebration.”

  Six

  The Northern Kingdom, approaching Castle Hill

  Lisbeth Lorne

  The souls of the Sleeping Knights, once a rainbow of swirling, ever-changing colors, were now a fiery red as they stood sentinel in the darkness of night. Thus far, they hadn’t slept since leaving the Hinterlands.

  Lisbeth had tried to rest, but somehow her lifeforce felt connected to these ancient warriors, and sleep continued to elude her.

  Her concern was growing by the day. The knights were unspent energy, like a boulder teetering on a precipice, impatient to fight, to destroy the enemies of the north. Sometimes she heard their voices in the dark recesses of her mind, ripe with violence, centuries of purpose, once full of honor and light, now darkening around the edges, flames turning honor to ash.

  She feared what they would do once Castle Hill was reclaimed.

  You control them. You can stop them.

  But could she? At first, she would’ve said yes; after all, it was she who had freed them from their icy prison. Day by day, however, she felt their leashes growing longer, fraying to naught but ragged threads.

  You cannot hide your fear from us, they said now, their souls pulsing as one. Red, darkening to crimson, darkening to black. But your fear is misplaced.

  You will not destroy this continent? she asked, hoping against hope for a simple answer.

  We will do what is necessary for the north. You should never fear for the north, only for its enemies.

  She looked away, unable to watch that restless energy any longer. That was exactly why she was worried. For she wasn’t convinced these reborn knights could discern friend from foe, their wills blinded by the wars of the past, by the need to conquer.

  If you will not obey me, you must obey the queen. She is the leader of the north.

  We will, they said. So long as she doesn’t stray from the path.

  Dread curled through her. This was the first time they’d so openly admitted such a thing. Tentatively, she reached out to touch their souls, one at a time and then all at once. She felt the blue eye on her forehead burst to life, squeezing, grappling…

  Agony spiked through her head, radiating through her body and

  she

  fell.

  To her knees.

  Her head clutched in her hands.

  Her blue eye fading. Flashes of red pulsing behind her eyelids.

  The pain…was this what the Garzi felt when she touched their souls? Bile rose in her throat, her body convulsing. She saw the past. She saw the present. And, worst of all, she saw the future.

  Broken bodies, carrion for massive birds with hooked beaks and blade-like talons. Fallen cities, smoke rising like wispy, gray clouds. Cries of mourning, rending the silence like an executioner’s scythe through flesh.

  Truth. Future. Pain. The Fall of all Things.

  And…that one word, a drumbeat resonating across it all:

  HORDE.

  “Lisbeth?”

  The pain faded. The images vanished. The sounds slipped away.

  Lisbeth opened her eyes to find a familiar soul standing before her, faded blue and rough around the edges. Sir Dietrich. She looked left and right, but the Sleeping Knights were not there, having moved away, off to release their pent-up energy elsewhere.

  “Are you hurt?” Sir Dietrich asked.

  Yes. “No.”

  “Your head…you were clutching it. Does it ache?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “Still, you should rest. We will reach Castle Hill tomorrow.”

  So soon? A shudder ran through her, though the night was the warmest yet. “I cannot sleep.”

&nb
sp; The knight chuckled. “I know the feeling. Sleep has been my enemy for many years. May I keep you company at least?”

  “I—” Ever since she left Crone’s warm house made of ice, the only company she’d had was fear. “Yes. Please.”

  Dietrich sat next to her, waves of blue and white crisscrossing along his soul. She curled her legs beneath her, letting her blue dress drift across her legs.

  Dietrich said, “This is a strange world.”

  She laughed, mostly because it summed up her entire experience in human form so accurately. It felt good to laugh. Almost hopeful. “Why? Because a blind girl with an All-Seeing Eye summoned ancient knights from an ice castle? Or because when you wield your sword it moves faster than the eye can track?”

  After seeing his soul in battle at Darrin, Lisbeth had inquired about the mysterious Sir Dietrich. She’d been surprised to find that he, too, bore a mark of power. Something about that fact made her feel more at ease with him than anyone else, save perhaps Queen Annise.

  He chuckled again, and she found herself quite enjoying the deep rumble and the fact that she had caused it. “I was thinking more about how I just met a fellow with eleven toes,” he said.

  The laugh that slipped from her throat included an unexpected snort, and she covered her mouth with a hand. “Truly? Or was that a jape?”

  “If I told you it would ruin the surprise of you possibly meeting this fellow one day. Now each time you meet a man, you will secretly hope he’ll take his shoes off.”

  “Do you ever speak seriously?” she asked, though his levity was like a breath of fresh air in the stale cave of darkness she seemed to reside in.

  “Not if I can help it,” he said. “But I will if you’d like.”

  There was something gravelly in his voice at the last, something that seemed to core her like a piece of ripe fruit. “What would you say?” she asked.