Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3) Page 8

  Gwen’s mind ticked over the facts, weighing the risks and rewards. If she locked him up and left, she could return to the east and rejoin her people. Gareth would be safe, for a time, as leverage over Roan. But can I really abandon him when there might be a way to save him now? If what this man—Ennis Loren—had said was true, then Gareth had attempted to rescue her before himself.

  She growled her frustration. Each option carried an equal number of risks, and none of them pleasant. “Lead the way, Loren,” she said. “But we better find a certain paralyzed dungeonmaster on the way out.”

  Gwen might have kicked the dungeonmaster in the ribs as they passed his stiff body. It also might have been unjustified, considering he’d been the one to feed her every day.

  But it had felt so good.

  Afterwards, they dragged him into her cell and locked the door. Gwen left her makeshift noose on his chest. With any luck, Rhea would believe Gwen had escaped completely on her own, fooling the master. The only problem was the paralyzing potion Ennis had used to knock him out. One way or another, however, the clues would lead to Darkspell, not to him. Hopefully by the time Rhea learned the truth, the three of them would be long gone.

  Now, Ennis guided her away from the main stairs to a shadowy side exit. She wasn’t too concerned that he would spin around and try to kill her; after all, she still had his sword. Plus, he hadn’t lied about the dungeonmaster. Then again, the best liars wove some truth into their deceptions. Thus, Gwen remained alert, prepared to shove Ennis’s blade through his spine if he led her astray.

  The lantern cast an orange halo as they ascended, the light bouncing with each step. At the top was a wooden trapdoor.

  “Where does it lead?” Gwen asked in a hushed voice.

  “Storeroom. Food is brought down for the prisoners.”

  “I wouldn’t call it food, exactly.”

  Ennis had no response to that. He raised a hand in the air, and she understood his meaning: Wait here.

  Though she was reluctant to leave his side, she had no other option. If he raised the alarm, she could always fight her way through, or flee back down the steps and find an alternate escape route.

  He pushed open the trapdoor, climbing out.

  Darkness and silence greeted him.

  He poked his head back inside the stairwell and said, “Come on.”

  Through a small room they went, the shelves on either side full of sacks and baskets of dry foods. Gwen ignored the ache in her stomach.

  Ennis had timed it well—which Gwen was certain was no coincidence. The kitchen was empty of staff, the stone oven unlit, the dishes from the day’s final meal washed and set out to dry. Ennis blew out his lantern and set it on a table.

  From there they exited through a door that led outside, where it was dark. The clouds were allies, white ships sailing across an ocean of night, obliterating the light from the moons and stars. Lush foliage—elm and spruce trees, holly bushes, and square-cut hedges—provided excellent cover from any lookouts who might be watching from the castle walls. Pink bougainvillea crept up the sides of the squat stone building that housed the kitchens, storerooms, and, apparently, the dungeons.

  Ennis reached inside a thick bush. Gwen watched him curiously, until he retrieved a long, white, hooded purity dress, which he handed to her. “Put this on.”

  If she’d had any doubt about his intentions before, they were chased away by this final part of his planning. Still, she placed the sword on the ground, standing on the broad side with both feet, and then rapidly pulled the dress over her head, tucking her silver hair beneath the hood. It didn’t fit particularly well; then again, based on the other women she’d seen wearing them throughout the city, she didn’t think it was meant to hug her form. No, it was meant to cover, a thought that made her teeth grind together.

  She picked up the sword. “I’m keeping this,” she said, just in case there was any doubt.

  Ennis didn’t argue. “Hide it under the dress.”

  She did, and he said, “You’ll have to wait in the gardens until morning, when they reopen the castle gates. Unless, of course, you can scale a sheer stone wall without a rope.” He chuckled softly.

  Gwen did not. “I’ll take the wall,” she said. “I don’t want to spend another moment inside this place. Not tonight.”

  He gawked at her. “They say the forest dwellers of the east are unusual, but I’d never met one until you.”

  “And?”

  “You are unusual, but not so different as I expected.”

  “Right. Anyway…”

  “If you truly can scale the wall by hand, return to the gardens on the morrow, when the moons approach each other in the night sky. I will be here, waiting.”

  She nodded. “When will Gareth return to Knight’s End?”

  “We received a stream from Restor today. The way the furia ride, he could arrive as early as tomorrow afternoon. If not, the following morning.”

  Gwen didn’t know what else to say, except, “Thank you. And I’m sorry I attacked you.”

  “Like I said, it was a good trick. You had me fooled. And you’re welcome, but I’m not doing this for you, nor Gareth. I only want peace and prosperity for the west. Unlike my young, misguided cousin, I’m willing to consider an alliance with the east to achieve that. Gareth is an opportunity I refuse to waste.”

  “Fair enough. Until we meet again.”

  With a burst of leaves, Gwen slipped through the bushes.

  Fourteen

  The Hinterlands

  Lisbeth Lorne

  Lisbeth awoke to a rough hand on her neck. Instinctively, she sucked in a breath before the hand began to squeeze.

  Her attacker’s soul was shadowy, but the white, pulsing soul of Crone appeared behind as she leaped atop his back, releasing a guttural scream. The male was strong—likely one of the warriors—and easily bucked the old female away, sending her crashing into the snow-packed walls of her dwelling.

  He squeezed Lisbeth’s throat harder.

  No, she thought. At the same moment, she saw his soul clarify, illuminated by the light that swarmed from the glowing eye on her forehead, probing into him, feeling around in his skull, gripping his soul as tightly as he squeezed her throat.

  It was Zur, the warrior who’d twice threatened her.

  His grip lost all strength and he howled, falling back.

  The young girl wearing the white dress waded into the water. Despite the snow and ice covering the land around the lake, the water flowed freely. Lisbeth could feel it—it was strangely warm—could feel the fluttering fear as the girl’s heart beat too rapidly in her chest. She turned and looked back, tears sparkling in her wide brown eyes. “Father?” she said.

  A question in that single word; a question without an answer.

  The male Garzi warrior—her father, Zur—said, “Be free, my star, and then he turned his back on her, his only child.

  The girl didn’t see the tears dripping from his eyes, freezing on his cheeks in silvery lines. She didn’t see the way his breath choked him, nor how he stumbled over feet that had always been sure in the past, now devoid of all strength and coordination.

  No, she didn’t see any of that, because his back was to her and she’d already turned around to face the water, crying, pushing off with both feet and letting the current surround her.

  “No!” Lisbeth screamed, clawing at her own face, as if she could drag the images from her skull the way she’d forced them from his.

  “Girl should hush,” Crone said, cradling Lisbeth’s head in the crook of her arm. The ancient woman winced as she spoke, and she was carrying her other arm strangely—too tight against her ribs. She’s injured, Lisbeth thought, the realization chasing away the images she’d seen in Zur’s head.

  Zur! she remembered. The warrior was on the ground, his boots scuffing trenches in the snow as he writhed and twisted, clutching his head. Blood flowed freely from his nose, his ears, his mouth.

  “What have I don
e?” she whispered.

  “Girl does nothing Zur would not do,” Crone said. When the woman tried to move, she hissed in pain, clutching her shoulder.

  Lisbeth barely noticed, however, her eyes focused on Zur, who had finally stopped squirming, his eyes closed, his body unnaturally still. Oh sun, oh moon, oh stars… “Is he…dead?” she asked. To answer her own question, she reached forward to touch his chest, to feel for a heartbeat…

  Zur jolted up with such abruptness Lisbeth fell backward, releasing a yelp of surprise. His eyes were wide, darting around, as if searching for something but seeing nothing, unable to focus. He scratched at his head, tearing at the strands of black hair, ripping them out. He shouted something in Garzi, spit flying from his lips: “Gash nom zuf dari!” He repeated the same phrase again and again and again, before collapsing from exhaustion, his chest rising and falling in huge waves.

  Lisbeth didn’t need Crone to translate his words: Girl steal soul. Girl steal soul. Girl steal…

  Lisbeth ran, into a storm-filled night, afraid of herself, afraid of what she’d done to the warrior Zur, afraid of what she’d seen in his head, that girl in the water.

  At any moment she expected strong hands to grab her, to go for her throat—she didn’t fear them, but what she might do to them—but none appeared, ghostly hands of snow her only companion as she raced onwards, past snow structures nearly invisible in the storm.

  Her plan was to get as far away from the Garzi city as she could, as fast as she could. It was what they wanted. She would miss Crone, her first and only real friend and ally, but that couldn’t be helped.

  An enormous shadow rose up on her right, and Lisbeth skidded to a stop, panting, icy nettles pelting her face, melting on her now-warm skin. She remembered what Crone had called this soulless place: Hall of War.

  And yet, despite the emptiness she felt as she looked upon it, despite the shadows that seemed to surround its icy flanks, which rose into the sky like a snow-covered mountain, she could see the pulses of color within, like hundreds of beating hearts.

  Souls, she knew.

  The urge was still there to flee this place, to leave forever and never return, but she also felt drawn to the Hall of War, to the souls within, which were…sleeping? No. Not sleeping, but not awake either. Something else. Something in between, like the place between living and dying, a void filled with ribbons of light.

  A place all too familiar to Lisbeth.

  She could feel their wills pressing against the walls, their resistance to leave this world.

  She walked toward the Hall, its open entrance the dark yawn of a slumbering beast. She stepped inside, feeling as if she was being swallowed whole.

  The inside, however, didn’t feel soulless or empty or dark. Though she was aware that, in the stormy night, there was no outward light in this place, light was all she could see. Pulsing forms of souls—crimson, lilac, jade…turquoise, amber, sapphire.

  The sight took her breath away, not only because of the kaleidoscope of colors beating in perfect sync with each other, like separate parts of the same heart, but because she could hear them speaking to her in the deepest recesses of her mind.

  The time has come, they said, as one. The north will soon fall.

  “Who are you?” she asked aloud, for they did not speak Garzi, and their mastery of the common language was flawless.

  Silence. Silence. And then: We are those who sleep, warriors from another age, another land. The soulmarked seeks what we offer.

  It wasn’t the clearest of answers, and yet Lisbeth felt the truth of their words thrumming through her. She felt the honor in their souls, the devotion to a cause that was a part of them, each one of them, as well as the collective whole. “And what do you offer?”

  Their response was a single word: War.

  Fifteen

  The Northern Kingdom, Castle Hill

  Annise Gäric

  The pact was an ancient agreement between anyone residing south of Frozen Lake and the peoples of the Hinterlands. According to what Archer had been told growing up, the pact had been signed thousands of years ago, well before the Crimean explorers ever set foot on the lands now known as the Four Kingdoms.

  The pact was a promise: No one in the Hinterlands shall travel south, and no one south shall travel north. In essence, don’t cross the line.

  Men had died for breaking the pact, including one of Annise’s most famous relatives, Heinrich Gäric, the great explorer who’d led the voyage that discovered these lands in the first place. The story had been passed down from generation to generation by his son, Tomas, who was the first Gäric to declare independence from the Crimeans.

  Tomas had seen his father die at the hands of the people who lived north—the Garzi they were called. Riding vicious beasts, they claimed all lands north of Frozen Lake.

  Exactly where Annise’s map indicated she would find the Sleeping Knights.

  The night was still and silent, but Annise couldn’t sleep, much weighing on her mind. Would she truly lead the hand-picked group into the Hinterlands, breaking the pact and sealing their dooms? Archer and Sir Dietrich and Sir Jonius and Sir Metz. Good men who had fought and miraculously survived by her side. Did she have any other choice? I could go alone, she thought. The risk would be all mine to bear.

  She knew they wouldn’t let her, and even if she snuck away, they would follow.

  And anyway, the north was ripe for the taking, and she knew their enemies would arrive to pluck it from the branch soon enough. She had no way to stop them. The legendary Sleeping Knights were a chance. A hope.

  We will risk it. I will risk it.

  The decision made, she knew sleep would continue to elude her, so finally—finally—she unraveled the scrolls Tarin had left for her before he slipped away. His stories, Annise thought. The parts of his life I know little to nothing about.

  And finally she was strong enough to read them.

  Tarin’s stories had made her laugh, cry, want to break things, and urged her to race off into the night to find him, to hold him, to tell him she was sorry for not understanding the depths of his fears, his sorrows, his doubts.

  In the name of war, he had done terrible things. Things he hadn’t even wanted to do, but which he’d enjoyed—or at least the monster living inside him had enjoyed. He’d killed without mercy. He’d shattered foes by the hundreds, singlehandedly winning several crucial battles for the north. He remembered all.

  At times, he hated himself.

  At times, he wanted to die.

  He feared being close to anyone, feared to love, to desire, for he knew, in the end he would destroy anyone and everyone around him.

  And yet, he’d tried for Annise. He loved her so much he had risked her life, just something else he regretted, hated himself for. He called it his “greatest act of selfishness,” a phrase that made it hard for Annise to swallow. How could what we have be anything but selfless?

  When she was finished reading, Annise rolled the parchment into a single, thick scroll, tied a bit of twine around it, and hid it in a box under blankets and pillows.

  When she closed the lid, she knew, Tarin was gone.

  Now, finally, she could sleep.

  Her hands traced the taut lines of his muscled arms; had they been forged of iron they would not be any stronger. His back, shoulders, and chest might’ve been chiseled by a master stone carver. His face, his jaw, speckled with half a day of stubble, were as strong as the rest of him. And they were hers—they were all hers.

  Oh Tarin.

  She arched into him, thinking this moment could slide into eternity—wishing it would. His hands were gentle but greedy, rolling over her as they melted into each other. As they became one.

  And the things he whispered into her ear, his gravelly tone full of desperation and longing…

  I prefer your eyes to the stars, your tongue to the sweetest wine, your lips to breathing…

  …they left her breathless and alive and trembling with de
sire.

  And when he said her name—Annise—like a word carried on a warm wind…

  All she could do was gasp and—

  She did—gasp, that is—shooting up in bed, her heart pounding, her sleep-tangled hair streaking her vision, her lungs heaving.

  Bloody frozen hell below, she thought. Did I really just have a sex dream?

  For a second she felt rather foolish, but then, remembering how it had been with Tarin in real life, how good it had been, how right, she felt less foolish. She sank back into her pillows, wishing she could close her eyes and have that dream again and again and forget about the madness of today’s venture into the Hinterlands and her shattered kingdom and just, for once, perhaps she could be truly happy.

  All that was chased away when the sun rose a moment later, blades of orange light slashing through her window. The sky immediately above Castle Hill was clear and blue and free of snow. However, to the east she saw the towers of thick gray clouds building, crossing toward her like the great warships of her enemies.

  With an exhausted groan, she dragged herself out of bed. She could delay the fate of the kingdom no longer.

  “You understand the risks?” Annise asked.

  She’d told them everything Arch had told her about the pact, with him correcting or filling in blanks where necessary. Despite that, each of her party of five nodded in turn, wearing grave expressions.

  “I will not command you to accompany me into the Hinterlands, especially given this new information. I will go alone, if necessary. It is a great risk, but I believe we have no other option, not if we want our great kingdom to survive the coming storm. Regardless of whether the Sleeping Knights are naught but a legend, I need to know the truth. We must seek out allies in every nook and corner we can.”