by David Estes
Thank you to my beta readers, Laurie Love, Elizabeth Love, Karen Benson, Jenny MacRunnel, Kerri Hughes, Terri Thomas, Rachel Schade, Sheree Whitelock, Abalee Cook, Daniel Elison, and Anthony Briggs Jr. You challenged me at every turn, and my world is a million percent better because of it. May you each be fatemarked.
A leaping high five to my friend and fellow fantasy writer, Marc Edelheit, for all your support and advice during this journey. You are a truly generous person. To those who haven’t read Stiger’s Tigers, GET IT NOW.
To the giants of high fantasy who came before me, namely, JRR Tolkien, George RR Martin, Brandon Sanderson, and Robert Jordan, thank you for inspiring me to be a better writer.
Most importantly, to the thousands of readers who decided to read one or more of my books…YOU are the heroes in my story. Your support allows me to do what I love for a living, and your enthusiasm keeps me going!
The saga continues in other books by David Estes available through the author’s official website:
http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com
or through select online retailers including Amazon.com.
High Fantasy Novels by David Estes
The Fatemarked Epic:
Book One—Fatemarked
Book Two—Truthmarked
Book Three—Soulmarked
Book Four—Deathmarked (coming soon!)
Book Five—Lifemarked (coming soon!)
Fatemarked Origins:
Volume I
Volume II
Volume III (coming soon!)
Volume IV (coming soon!)
Volume V (coming soon!)
Science Fiction Novels by David Estes
“Someone must die before another can be born…”
The Slip Trilogy:
Book One—Slip
Book Two—Grip
Book Three—Flip
One of “15 Series to Read if You Enjoyed The Hunger Games”—Buzzfeed.com
The Dwellers Saga (also available in audiobook):
Book One—The Moon Dwellers
Book Two—The Star Dwellers
Book Three—The Sun Dwellers
Book Four—The Earth Dwellers
“Fire Country is a fast, fierce read.”—Emmy Laybourne, author of Monument 14
The Country Saga (A Dwellers Saga sister series)(also available in audiobook):
Book One—Fire Country
Book Two—Ice Country
Book Three—Water & Storm Country
Book Four—The Earth Dwellers
Strings (also available in audiobook)
“The Walking Dead for teens, with ruthless witches instead of bloodthirsty zombies.”—Katie Reed, agent at Andrea Hurst & Associates
Salem’s Revenge:
Book One—Brew
Book Two—Boil
Book Three—Burn
Connect with David Estes Online
David Estes Fans and YA Book Lovers Unite
Facebook
Blog/website
About the Author
David Estes was born in El Paso, Texas but moved to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania when he was very young. He grew up in Pittsburgh and then went to Penn State for college. Eventually he moved to Sydney, Australia where he met his wife and soul mate, Adele, who he’s now happily married to.
A reader all his life, David began writing science fiction and fantasy novels in 2010, and has published more than 20 books. In June of 2012, David became a fulltime writer and is now living in Hawaii with Adele, their energetic son, Beau, and their naughty, asthmatic cat, Bailey.
A sample of TRUTHMARKED, Book 2 in the Fatemarked Epic by David Estes
Available NOW!
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Rhea Loren
“The red-barbed funnel is the most poisonous spider in the world, did you know that?” Rhea asked.
The red-haired woman was huddled in the corner, her head down. Her hair was tangled and matted, covering her face. She didn’t respond. But Rhea didn’t care, it was meant to be more of a rhetorical question, a part of her ongoing monologue.
The spider crawled along her palm, repeatedly dashing its mouth against her skin, trying to sting her with the red barbs inside its mouth. The barbs containing the deadliest poison in the world.
Rhea laughed, letting the spider crawl across to her other palm. “So deadly, and yet it cannot use its poison against humans. See?” The spider tried again and again, never giving up its attack. Crawling and striking. Crawling and striking. “Its mouth is too small. Isn’t that amusing?”
Again, there was no response from the woman who used to be one of the Three, the Furies that led the furia, the righteous warriors of Wrath and servants to the crown. The woman who now appeared as broken as a china plate smashed on the ground.
“See how it strikes again and again, desperate to end me?” She placed her palm against the side of a table, and the spider crawled onto it. “And yet I am the one who holds its life in my hands.”
Her fist slammed down with a thud that made the Fury flinch in the corner. When Rhea raised her hand, the spider was crushed, a mushed body and tangle of broken legs. She noticed the Fury’s dark eyes staring out at her between a gap in her wall of crimson hair.
“Do you see where I’m going with this? You are powerful, oh yes, a strong warrior, fit to serve a queen. Probably strong enough to kill a queen. But you won’t, will you? Because if you try, I will crush you.” Rhea slammed her fist down again and again, and with each hammer blow the table shook and the Fury flinched.
She stopped abruptly, letting silence fall like a scythe. She stood. Approached the woman, who she had taken to death’s doorstep and back again. Reached down, enjoying the way the Fury trembled in anticipation of the blow she thought would come.
But Rhea didn’t strike her. Not this time. Instead, she peeled back the hair on one side, tucking it behind the woman’s ear. Then she did the same on the other side, until she could see her entire face.
A ragged W was carved in her skin, from temple to chin to temple, and for a moment Rhea admired her handiwork. It was a near perfect match for her own facial scars. At the time her own face was cut, she’d thought it was the end of her life, when, in reality, it had been the beginning. It had opened her eyes to a world beyond beauty, beyond wealth, a world that existed only on power, and those who had it.
It had only been a few fortnights ago, but it seemed an eternity since the W on her own face stood for Whore, though that wasn’t public knowledge. No, the people of Knight’s End, her loyal and adoring subjects, thought the mark stood for Wrath, a symbol of her righteousness and devotion to their deity.
The Fury closed her eyes as Rhea ran the fingernail of her thumb along the scab, which was finally beginning to heal. She traced the W from end to end and then back again, relishing the feel of it.
When she was finished, she said, “Whom do you serve?”
The woman’s lips moved, but Rhea couldn’t make out her words.
“Repeat. Louder.”
“I serve the queen,” the woman said through cracked lips.
“Be. More. Specific.”
“I serve the queen, Rhea Loren, first of her name, Wrath’s humble servant.”
“Yes. You do. And you will do great things. You have been forgiven of your sins. Now kiss the ring.” She held out her left hand and the ring that adorned it, its thick gold band studded with an enormous blue diamond, the only one of its kind, at least as far as Rhea knew. It was the ring of kings, a family heirloom passed down for generations.
She’d plucked it from her dead cousin’s fingers herself after she’d killed him.
The woman’s eyes flashed open, the surprise obvious in her expression. Rhea knew she expected more pain, more torture—not mercy. Which is exactly why she chose now to offer the woman a second chance—because she knew she would take it.
The Fury kissed her ring, the one Rhea had once kissed while her cousin, Jove, the king at the time,
had worn it. She’d killed him a moment later.
Rhea knew it was only the beginning.
Not only had the bootmaker given her shelter when she was at her weakest, but he had given her a beautiful pair of boots, the finest Rhea had ever seen.
Now Jordan Vaughn stood before her throne, looking uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His storm gray eyes darted from the Fury to Rhea and back to the Fury.
“Do you know why you are here?” Rhea asked.
“I, uh, well, no. Not ezzactly. I was hopin’ yer boots dinnit need repairs so soon?”
Rhea was surprised when a very real smile creased her face. This gray-eyed old man had showed her kindness when she wasn’t certain she deserved it, and she owed him. “No, good sir, the boots remain as perfect as the day you gave them to me.” She lifted her purity dress slightly to show him that she was wearing them, and he blushed.
“Good. I—that’s good.”
“I sent for you for a far more auspicious purpose. I could use your services.”
His eyes widened. “’Nuther pair of boots?”
“How about five thousand?”
His jaw dropped and he began licking his lips back and forth. Then his face fell. “I’d have to decline,” he said.
“Why?”
“I handcraft all o’ me boots. An order of that size would take years. Mebbe me whole life.”
“I thought you might say that. What if you created the pattern, and I provided a team of expert leather cutters and seamstresses to manufacture the boots. Would that be fair? I would pay you three Goldens per pair.”
“Three Goldens per…” The thought trailed away from the aging bootmaker, and he shook his head. “Aye. I accept, that’s more gold than I’ve ever dreamed of. But why are you doin’ this?”
Rhea stood up, floating down the steps toward him. She touched his cheek briefly with her palm and she felt him trembling. Fear, excitement, anxiety…it was all running through him, just beneath his skin. “Because you showed me great kindness once. And I need boots for my army. Your boots will help protect the Wrath-loving people of our great kingdom.”
“Thank you, Queen Rhea,” he said. “From the bottom of me heart, thank you.”
She watched him go, surprised at how warm she felt all of a sudden.
The Northern Kingdom, Gearhärt
Annise Gäric
Annise Gäric never expected to be a queen. Frozen hell, I never wanted to be a queen, she thought, sitting by Arch’s bedside. No, she’d planned to live out her time as a princess, until her father, Wolfric Gäric, the Dread King of the North, died of old age, and her brother, Archer, as the eldest male heir, took the throne.
However, she was quickly learning that the more you expected something, the less likely it was to happen. Her father had been murdered by the brother she’d thought died long ago, the brother who was now known as Kings’ Bane. And then she’d had a name day, leaving her as the queen until Arch turned eighteen, which was still almost two long years away.
Originally, she’d planned to relinquish all rights to the crown to her brother, regardless of his age. But then something had happened. She’d changed. And Arch had been injured in battle.
She’d held vigil by his bedside for days, taking her meals there, sleeping on a lumpy cot brought in by the owner of the tavern they were staying in, The Laughing Mamoothen, a formidable broad-faced woman named Netta who also happened to make the best mamoothen stew in all of the Four Kingdom’s, at least by Annise’s reckoning.
Now, as she stared at her brother’s handsome, peaceful face, she wondered whether, when he awoke, he would hate her for stealing his throne. She also wondered if today would be the day he finally opened his eyes. The healer said some people came out of such a condition in mere days. Others took longer, sometimes months, requiring liquid meals and water to be dribbled down their throats to sustain them. Annise didn’t want to think about the third group of people, the ones who never woke up.
There was a knock on the door, but Annise didn’t look up. It was probably Lady Zelda, her eccentric aunt, once more requesting a queenly decision on strategy. The truth was, Annise wasn’t ready to make a decision—not with Archer like this. And yet, she couldn’t delay much longer, for the more her uncle, Lord Griswold, sat upon the ice throne and played king, the more the northerners would assume the crown was his.
Annise sighed when there was a second knock. “If you don’t have a hot bowl of mamoothen stew, go away!” she shouted.
The door opened slowly, but not all the way. Just a crack. A white piece of cloth fluttered through the opening. “Don’t throw anything,” a voice called through.
Sir Dietrich. Though he was the best swordsman Annise had ever known and he had saved both hers and Arch’s lives during the battle at Raider’s Pass, twice they’d argued in the last two days. And yes, she might’ve thrown a boot at him, which explained his odd request.
“Are you ready to talk about the burn scar on your back?” Annise asked.
“We’ve already talked about that.” More white flag waving. Well, white shirt waving.
“Shut the door,” Annise said. Dietrich had given her a story about his scar, but Annise was certain it was a lie, or at least only a fraction of the truth.
“Frozen hell, woman,” the knight said, pushing the door open the rest of the way and dropping the white shirt. He crossed his arms over his face, presumably to protect himself from projectiles. He wasn’t wearing his armor, merely a white cloth shirt tied up the front and sturdy-looking trousers secured with a leather belt. A long sword dangled from a scabbard.
“One—don’t call me ‘woman.’ I am your queen. Two—I’m not going to throw anything at you, so you can stop acting like an unflowered maiden. And three—you don’t have any mamoothen stew for me. That perturbs me greatly.”
Sir Dietrich’s strong arms dropped away from his head, revealing his scarred, but handsome face, and two bright periwinkle eyes that always seemed to contain a hint of mischievousness.
Annise launched the boot she was hiding behind her leg. Dietrich’s arms came up, but they were too slow, and also too high, protecting his face. Unfortunately for him, she had aimed for his crotch, and she had excellent aim on account of all the games of Ice Wars she’d played as a child.
He doubled over, groaning and clutching his midsection.
“Now are you ready to talk?”
His only response was a groan. He staggered out, his face green. It looked like his breakfast might make a reappearance.
Annise sighed again. What use was being a queen if you couldn’t get information out of your subjects? She wondered if her boot-throwing antics could be considered torture, and whether she might eventually earn the title Dread Queen of the North, following in her father’s footsteps. She laughed at the notion.
Arch stirred in his sleep, his head rolling from side to side.
Annise froze, watching. Hoping. Please.
He continued sleeping, his chest rising and falling with mighty exhalations. At least he looks peaceful, Annise thought.
A shadow fell over her as a massive shape filled the doorway. She couldn’t hold back a smile as she looked up. Couldn’t prevent the loss of breath or the giddy sensation in her chest. But she could hide them. She was a queen, after all, and every queen had to be a master of their emotions. Or at least so Zelda told her, though her aunt was as spontaneous and unpredictable as a winter storm.
“To frozen hell with that,” Annise muttered, leaping to her feet and throwing herself at Tarin, who looked confused by both her words and her sudden movement.
Still, he caught her in his strong arms, holding her close. And then he did what would’ve seemed impossible a mere fortnight ago: He allowed her to lift his black mask, revealing those beautiful dark eyes she’d stared at for days on end while wondering what the rest of him looked like. She pulled down the mesh shield that blocked the lower half of his face. The face which, despite its gho
stly pallor and black, bulging veins, no longer seemed so foreign to her. No, she had memorized the lines of his strong jaw, the shape of his masculine nose, the feel of his thick brows.
The taste of his lips, which she tasted again now, pressing her mouth against them so hard she could barely breathe. In this moment, he was her breath. He was the beat of her heart and the blood in her veins. He was her knight in black armor, the only one who seemed to truly understand her.
And when their lips separated it was too soon, was always too soon, and Annise felt as if a part of her had been removed, like a severed limb.
How is this possible? she’d wondered to herself on numerous occasions. How is he possible? He was her best friend from childhood, a boy who she’d been told was dead from a horrible bone disease, now reborn as a man. Though Tarin Sheary considered the witch’s dark magic that had saved his life a curse—the source of his unusual appearance, superhuman size and strength—Annise would only ever think of it as a blessing, a second chance.
“You know, Sir Dietrich might never be able to have children because of your boot,” he said. She could feel the rumble of his voice as it rose from his chest, which was pressed tightly against hers.
“Pity,” she said, cupping his cheek in her palm.
“He saved your life. Perhaps he deserves a little patience.”
“I appreciate what he did, and have thanked him for his courage numerous times. But until he tells the truth, I will not see him.”
A look of amusement crossed Tarin’s broad face. “I think I’ve come up with your royal nickname,” he said.
Annise didn’t think she was going to like it, but she said, “Go on.”
“The Stubborn Queen.”
She tried to hit him, but he grabbed her hand and held it back and then kissed her again, softer this time, exploring her lips, her tongue. She explored back.