Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4) Page 40

  “Lisbeth,” Sir Dietrich said. Next to her, his soul was a deep blue flame. It had always manifested itself as various shades of blue, but never with the fire-like quality it held now.

  “I—I don’t think I can do this again,” she said.

  “You can,” he said, his voice so full of certainty that it took her breath away. “But you don’t have to. They are not your responsibility.”

  She wanted to believe him. Desperately wanted to believe. But it was a lie. “I freed them.”

  “To save the north. Not to slaughter the rest of the realms.”

  “The two things are one and the same.”

  His soul tossed from side to side, frustrated. He hurts for me, she sensed. And yet still she felt so alone. Utterly alone.

  The Knights were running now, fiery souls filled with a level of rage that could only be achieved over centuries of imprisonment.

  “Stay,” Sir Dietrich said, grabbing her hand.

  “I cannot,” she said, and she pulled away, racing after them, already casting her soul out from her forehead.

  This time, Lisbeth lasted longer in the black pit of the Knights’ souls. Delved deeper. Felt their mania in the core of her own soul. She tried to impose her will upon it, but it only twisted and squirmed from her reach, as slippery as an eel.

  Her strength flagged.

  A blue-flamed soul strode into the mess of souls, most of which were fading, drifting toward the sky. He fought for her. Sir Dietrich spun and whirled and slashed and struck.

  For a moment, the dark souls weakened, and she pushed against them. There was a soft spot, a chink in their collective armor. She formed her own soul into a spear, probing for that weakness…

  Sir Dietrich screamed, falling back, hit from two sides by powerful blows. His sword flew from his hands, his soul ratcheting back off a hard part of the inner castle.

  The weak spot was gone, and Lisbeth was crushed by a hundred ancient souls pressing in against her. Do not become our enemy, enemy, enemy…

  Blessed blackness took her.

  Warmth.

  It was a strange feeling for her. Lisbeth had always felt warm, even in the frozen north, her soul like a living fire within her. But this wasn’t her own inner heat. No, this came from all around her, from a weight pressing into her back, from objects roped around her, holding her close.

  The blue flames were everywhere.

  They reached for her, soft against her skin. She felt her own soul respond, yearning for the touch of another soul, one other than the dark pit of the Knights. So close, so close now…a fingerwidth, a hairsbreadth…it was as easy as falling, as easy as sinking into a pool of warm water…

  No! she jolted upright just in time, the instant before their souls touched, before she could hurt him, show him his darkest memories, lay his forbidden secrets bare. She scrabbled away on hands and knees, spinning to ensure he hadn’t followed her.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” Sir Dietrich said, sitting up too, his hands held up at his sides. “I was just trying to—I was just doing as you asked.”

  Oh heavens, Lisbeth thought. I’ve offended him. Which wasn’t her intention at all. “No, it didn’t bother me. I…I liked it. You holding me, that is.”

  “You did?” His blue soul formed two pink spots. “Then why did you…”

  “I was scared I would hurt you. Like before, in the Hinterlands. My soul is a powerful thing. A weapon.”

  Dietrich eased forward, stopping just short of her. “You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

  That’s when she noticed the way his soul frayed on the edges, even more than before, wispy tendrils leaking away from the greater mass. “You’re hurt,” she said, horrified. Everything came back to her in a rush: the attack on Sarris, the Knights, Sir Dietrich…

  “I’ve been better,” he said, coughing out a laugh. “But I’ve also been worse. A few more dents in my armor. A few more scars on my skin. This is life as a swordmarked knight. I’m used to it.”

  How are we still alive? she wondered. The Sleeping Knights had spared them once more. They are bound by their oath to protect the north. We are not a danger to the north—not yet. But if we keep trying to stop them, they might change their minds…

  “I want to touch you,” Dietrich said, his voice husky. His hand was moving toward her slowly, gently.

  “Sir, please. I’m sorry. I can’t. Not right now.”

  The pink faded from his soul, which darkened to navy. “I understand.” He stood, his soul stiffening. “The Knights are preparing to move. They left none but us alive. You slept for a long time.”

  He turned to go. “Thank you,” she said. “For helping me. For holding me while I slept. For not leaving.”

  His soul softened slightly. “I’m not the leaving type,” he said. “Not when there’s something I believe in.”

  Sixty-Nine

  Sir Dietrich

  The Western Kingdom, Sarris

  I’m a damn fool, Sir Dietrich thought as he walked away from Lisbeth. She was an enigma, an untouchable flame. And yet he’d tried to touch her, believing, for some strange reason, that she was a part of a destiny that had long eluded him.

  But watching her lie there in her diaphanous blue dress, her chest rising and falling in slumber, the curve of her hips providing the barest suggestion of what lay beneath, had been enough to slay him.

  Hold me, she’d said before, the words like music to his lips.

  But then to see that fear in her sightless eyes, because of him…he never wanted to see that again, never wanted to cause that. He knew he would go to the ends of the earth for her, even if just to be in her company.

  He sensed her rising to her feet behind him, following in his wake, though he couldn’t hear her, Lisbeth’s grace akin to the flight of a hummingbird, the dance of a kite on the wind.

  Just ahead, the Knights marched south, the shadow of the Southron Gates falling across them. Dietrich hated them like he’d never hated anyone before, save perhaps the Dread King the moment he’d killed his father. He didn’t care that they’d helped save Darrin or Castle Hill, these ancient cretins were causing Lisbeth pain—and he simply could not abide such a thing.

  He jogged forward until he managed to match the stride of one of them, marching at the rear. “Do you have a name?” he asked.

  The Knight didn’t look at him. My name is unimportant, he said, using that eerie manner of communication that bypassed Dietrich’s ears and echoed directly into his head. We are One. Our purpose is One.

  “To protect the north.”

  The Knight didn’t answer.

  Dietrich said, “What if the north was under attack right now?”

  Every Knight halted at the question, their heads slowly turning toward him. The north will only be safe when its enemies are laid low, they said, as one.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  By whom? The stream was clear: the easterners and westerners have formed an alliance. They march on Phanes. The Calypsians were defeated at Ferria. Our enemies are here.

  “You can’t know that for certain, can you? What of the Garzi in the Hinterlands? They could be swarming the kingdom at this exact moment, and instead of protecting it, you’re massacring innocents.”

  There was a collective growl, and one of the Knights stepped forward, grabbing Dietrich by the scruff of his neck, lifting him high in the air. Frozen hell, they are strong. He didn’t balk, however, meeting the warrior’s ancient eyes. “You said I am not the enemy,” he said.

  The Knight stared at him for several long moments, and then placed him back on his feet. You are not, he said. You are merely a distraction. Do as you will. Your suggestions change nothing. The north is secure. We march on Phanes. Two kingdoms and an empire will fall with a single thrust. Calyp will be next.

  With that, the Knights marched on, lengthening their strides even more.

  Lisbeth appeared at his side, a wisp of blue on the edge of his vision. “I won’t fault
you if you leave, Sir.”

  “David,” Sir Dietrich said. “Please. Call me David.”

  “David,” she said, his name sounding more beautiful on her tongue than anything he’d ever heard.

  “And I’m not leaving.”

  He fell in behind the Knights, preparing himself for the fight of his life.

  Seventy

  The Southern Empire, Calyp

  Gwendolyn Storm

  Gwen wasn’t the least bit afraid of heights, and yet she held onto the spike in front of her like it was the only thing preventing her from falling hundreds of feet to her death.

  Because it was, the ground so distant it might’ve been a foreign land, the air rushing through her hair. Zune was a series of toy buildings—she could crush the fighting pits between her fingers if she wanted to.

  In front of her, Raven patted the dragon’s neck with one hand. Her other arm hung limp at her side. She whispered something and the dragon’s wings seemed to beat harder.

  Magnificent. They were magnificent. This creature is magnificent, Gwen thought, the realization as painful as anything she’d ever felt.

  Because she’d killed dragons. Yes, they were threatening her people, killing her people, but still…she’d killed them without thought. She felt…ashamed.

  Whisper was on her stomach, slumped over the dragon’s leathery back, in between rows of spikes. She looked dead, but Gwen could see the slight rise and fall of her chest. A bulging bruise stood out on her forehead.

  Raven’s head suddenly sagged.

  “Raven,” Gwen said sharply, forgetting her own fear and releasing the spike to get a better look at her riding companion. She sucked in a whistling breath when she saw her face. The swelling had gotten worse, blood continuing to leak from a dozen wounds.

  None of them are mortal, she thought. Which meant Raven had simply passed out from exhaustion or the pain.

  I am riding a dragon and I’m the only one awake, Gwen thought, allowing herself a nervous laugh. The world has truly gone mad. Gareth and Roan won’t believe it when I tell them.

  She hoped she would get the chance. She remembered the agreement she’d made with Raven. An alliance—a true alliance—with the east in exchange for her helping Raven take back her empire from her aunt. What was I thinking?

  You were thinking about being different. You were thinking about the future rather than the past.

  The dragon twisted its head to look back, and Gwen’s heart skipped a beat. Heated air rippled from its nostrils. Not it. Her. This dragon is a female, she reminded herself. What had Raven called her? “Siri,” she said.

  The dragon bucked her head upon hearing her name. There was something else there, too, a deep, fathomless look in her eyes. Gwen couldn’t read the dragon’s expression so much as feel it in the core of her heart.

  It was gratitude.

  Her heart was in her throat, the wind whipping past her so hard it was as if it was punching holes through her chest. The ground got closer and closer…

  Gwen tried to scream, but couldn’t find her voice. Her cheeks flapped against her teeth. Her armor seemed to squeeze against her until she couldn’t breathe.

  A side stream of wind hit her and she began to spin, the ground spiraling like a kaleidoscope.

  It was so beautiful, all painted colors and breaths of ocean and rolling desert sands.

  It was going to crush her.

  Time poured through her fingers. Her nine decades of life felt but an instant next to the inevitability of this end. Five seconds to impact, four.

  Three, two…

  Gwen awoke with a jerk, her body convulsing. She tipped from her precarious perch on the dragon’s back, scrabbling at the red scales, missing her attempt to grab one of the spikes, sliding away…

  A strong hand seized the collar of her armor, pulling her back astride. She panted, so tired she might’ve run a great distance. A dream, it had only been a dream…

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  “Siri would’ve caught you anyway,” Raven said. Her voice still sounded thick, like she was speaking with food in her mouth. “Maybe.”

  The final word was a stark reminder that Gwen was well out of her element, the armored trees of Ironwood as distant as the ground below her.

  “How is Whisper?” she asked, peeking around Raven’s back to find the girl still sleeping.

  “Dead to the world,” Raven said.

  “And you?”

  Raven managed a laugh, though it sounded strange and ended in a hacking cough. “You care?”

  “No. Maybe.”

  She laughed again. “I feel like I received the beating of my life.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  A pause. “Why did you spare me?”

  “I—I don’t know. Not exactly.”

  “That’s not exactly comforting.”

  Aye. For me either. “That’s the best answer I have.”

  “Fair enough. But you meant what you said about helping me?”

  “If you meant what you promised.”

  “I did.”

  “Then yes, I will do what I can to restore you to the dragon throne.”

  “And I will make peace with the east.”

  It was the weirdest conversation Gwen had ever had, and that was saying something considering how much time she’d spent with Roan and Gareth.

  “Your dragon…Siri…is beautiful,” Gwen said, after few moments of awkward silence. Something rumbled beneath her, shaking her entire body. “What was that?”

  “She’s pleased by your words. She’s purring.”

  Who knew that dragons purred? Gwen thought. “Women like to be complimented,” Gwen said.

  “Not me.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly. Give me a warm bath and a box of sweets any day. My ego doesn’t require a boost.”

  “That’s because it’s so large.”

  “Amusing. I wasn’t aware Orian assassins could be so funny. Though the fact that I can’t use one of my arms or one of my eyes would argue the opposite.”

  “I really am sorry for that.”

  “You’re forgiven.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make me say it twice. You spared my sister. You spared me. You gave me something I haven’t had in a long time.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hope. Siri! Descend!”

  The dragon banked sharply and then began to spiral downward.

  The dragon was sleeping, stretched out across the desert. Siri’s spiked tail twitched from time to time, and Gwen kept a close eye on it.

  Whisper was not sleeping, glaring between she and Raven, shaking her head. Gwen wasn’t certain who Whisper was angrier with. “You hit me,” she said to Raven. “And you…” She practically spat the word.

  “Sister, she saved us,” Raven said.

  “Your arm is broken, don’t think I can’t tell. And your face!”

  “It will heal. It was a good fight.”

  Gwen snorted. Despite herself, she was beginning to enjoy Raven’s understated humor.

  “Don’t you laugh,” Whisper growled. “You have no right.”

  It was true. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “I’m very sorry?”

  This time it was Raven who snorted, which almost made Gwen double over with laughter. She knew she was acting crazy, and not like herself at all, but something about almost dying and flying and sitting in the middle of the Calypsian desert made her feel giddy.

  “What is wrong with you two?”

  Raven looked at Gwen, and Gwen looked back. They both started laughing again.

  Dragon fire. Bodies piling up. Smoke and ash and death on all sides…

  Gwen stopped laughing, feeling cold in the heat. “I—we need to eat something to keep up our strength,” she said.

  Raven gave her an odd look.

  Whisper said, “We? Our? You are leaving. We”—she ges
tured to her sister—“are flying to Calypso.”

  Raven said, “No. We made a deal.”

  “What? She is the enemy, sister. She came to kill us.”

  “But she didn’t. And she’s not the enemy—not anymore.”

  Whisper stood up, shaking her head. “This is madness.”

  “The world is changing, sister,” Raven said.

  “No. No, it will never change. You taught me that. People will keep dying. Wars will keep raging. Families will be torn apart. Nothing changes.”

  “This will. You will see.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “We”—Raven gestured to all three of them—“are going back to Calypso. The throne is mine, and we will take it back.”

  Whisper’s eyes closed. Opened. “I’ll catch a few lizards. I trust you eat meat?”

  Gwen nodded, glad it was she and not Roan being asked the question. Roan, where are you? She blinked the question away. He was doing his part to achieve peace, and she needed to do hers.

  Raven was staring at her, as was Siri, one enormous eye trained in her direction. “What?” she asked.

  “Siri wants to know why you don’t want to kill her,” Raven said.

  Gwen shook her head. She was still getting used to the fact that dragons could communicate. “She can read my thoughts?” She remembered that deep, wise voice in her head back in Ferria, and then again in Zune.

  Raven shook her head. “Not like you think. Only if you want her to. There are some dragons that will try to force their way into your head, but not Siri. She’s a lady.”

  Gwen almost laughed, but she was still hung up on the first part of what Raven had said. “What would happen if a dragon forced its way into my head?” she asked.

  Raven tilted her head to the side as if the answer was obvious. “Why, you’d go mad, of course.”

  Gwen suddenly wished she was back in Ironwood with the ore creatures she understood.

  Seventy-One

  The Southern Empire, Dragon Bay