by L. P. Dover
My eyes widened despite my attempt to disguise my unease. Mareth sat up straight, her back firmly against the coach's cushioned seat, her green eyes brighter than they'd been before.
“You think no one will notice your lineage, Stone? You think no one will notice your scholarly ways. You will be marked, and you will die.”
“No,” I whispered. “Father wouldn't let it happen.”
Mareth smirked.
“You honestly think he could stop it? We aren't children anymore. You are a bastard child with an unknown history, and an uncanny interest in the Archives, in the past. Marriage is the key, Stone. If I were you, I'd play the giggling debutante and snatch the first nobleman drawn in by your fluttering lashes.”
I didn't answer my sister. Instead, I let my gaze move away, my eyes once more on the window, on the slight drizzle that had started to fall outside. I could still hear the kek, kek in the distance, and I tried in vain to see Ari in the sky above. Kek, kek. The falcon's call was eerie. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was calling out, “Run, run.”
Chapter 3
The first day through the forest was spent listening to Mareth switch between talk of the festivities at court and threats of my possible demise. It was a grim way to travel even with consistent stops to eat and relieve ourselves. Aigneis barely spoke.
It was a nice reprieve when Mareth finally nodded off to sleep, her head bobbing at an odd angle, her mouth hanging open. Her snores were nothing compared to her conversation. Snoring I could handle.
“They want me dead,” I said, my voice low.
Aigneis looked up at me then, her eyes glancing occasionally at Mareth.
“No, they want you married. It is against the law to harbor a scribe or a mage in any household. Taran will not have her dreams of power skewered.”
I looked down at my hands. “And if I fail to marry? If I slip up?”
Aigneis' face fell. “Then they will feed you to the wolves. Even if it means blaming your father to protect themselves.”
It was a heavy blow.
“Drastona—” Aigneis began.
She was interrupted by a jolt. The carriage rocked as it halted, and I grabbed onto my seat.
“Whoa there!” a voice shouted.
I glanced at Aigneis, my eyes wide. Mareth sat up across from us, rubbing the back of her hand against her mouth.
“What's this about?” she asked groggily.
Aigneis gripped the curtain over our window, moving it aside just enough to peer out of the opening, her eyes sharp. Mareth leaned forward, her breath ragged.
“It's not rebels, is it?”
After a moment, Aigneis sagged in relief.
“No,” she breathed. “Something in the road I think.”
Mareth scowled. “Damned nuisance.”
“Maybe,” Aigneis conceded. “But it's also a chance to stretch.”
She rapped on the door, and it was opened quickly by Jarvis.
“May we alight?” Aigneis asked.
The boy inclined his head, moving aside to offer his hand for support. We nodded at him as we stepped from the carriage. Mareth refused to move. Instead, she placed her legs on the seat we vacated, lounging unlady-like in the privacy of our coach.
“What's amiss?” I asked.
The ground under my slippers was spongy and damp. It had drizzled off and on since we left Forticry. It was getting dark now, filling the forest with eerie shadows. Mist lifted from the warm ground, swirling around the bases of dark, thick trees. Crickets and frogs heralded the night, and there was the distinct smell of rotted vegetation. Bloodthirsty insects landed quickly on bare skin, sucked greedily, and then flew away. I scratched irritably at a spot on my arm and another on my neck.
“Are we stuck?” Aigneis asked.
Jarvis would not meet our gaze. It was then I noticed the silence, the way the soldiers were standing at attention along the carriages. I didn't recognize any of their faces. My father's men were forced against the conveyances, their expressions hard, their eyes downcast. Aigneis gripped my arm.
“I should have known,” she hissed before looking down at me, her eyes desperate and hard. “Get back in the carriage, Stone.”
An older man stepped forward. He had black hair streaked with white, and he wore chain mail with a red, belted surcoat. Emblazoned along the front was an image of a howling black wolf and two crossed swords. The king's soldiers.
A carriage door stood open behind the man. My stepmother rested against the space, a lantern held high, her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted into a cruel smile. My father was behind her, his face grey in the shadows thrown off by the lamp. His mouth was gagged, his hands tied behind his back.
I cried out as Aigneis pushed me backward. The soggy ground was unforgiving, and I slipped, one hand sinking into the dirt as I caught myself.
“Aigneis Friel Gaffney,” the king's man said loudly. “You wear the mark of the mage. In the land of Medeisia, sorcery has been outlawed. You have been accused of using your magic after succumbing to the mark. Do you confess this to be truth?”
Silent tears were leaving tracks on my cheeks as my grip tightened on Aigneis' hand. I cowered behind her, but Aigneis stood tall, her head held high. Our carriage door had opened, and Mareth peered beyond it, her face pale.
“I confess nothing,” Aigneis answered.
Confession mattered naught. Any accusation meant death. She knew it. I knew it.
Soldiers began moving in on us, and I pulled on Aigneis desperately. We could run. Surely we could run!
“No!”
My wail was lost in the sound of stomping men, shouted orders, and rippling chain mail as Aigneis gently pried my fingers away from her hand.
“Let me go, dear heart,” she said, her voice calm. Only her eyes expressed any fear.
“No,” I mouthed, the sound weak, desperate, shocked.
“Listen to the forest,” she whispered.
Her hand moved to my face, and she swept her fingers over my damp cheeks as the soldiers seized her roughly. I tried grabbing for her as they dragged her backward, but I was shoved toward the ground, my fingers gripping soggy soil. The rotting scent from before was cloying now. It stank of death.
“Light a mage-fire!” the red coated man ordered.
I was screaming now, the sound shrill. The other men looked at their captain with wide eyes.
“And risk the trees?” a young soldier asked.
The older man's gaze moved to the private, and the boy shifted uncomfortably.
“The trees will not burn. Light a fire.”
The captain's voice was low and commanding with a threatening undercurrent no one seemed willing to test.
A hand was over my mouth now, and I looked up wildly only to find myself peering into Jarvis' youthful face.
“Quiet, miss. They'll only burn you as well,” the boy whispered against my ear. Even at thirteen, the boy was the same height as me, and he was strong. I fought him desperately, but he didn't loosen his hold.
“You've always been nice to me, miss. Please,” he begged.
Aigneis didn't struggle as they tied her to a hastily constructed pyre of wood. I screamed against Jarvis' hand, my head throbbing furiously. They couldn't do this! They couldn't!
“By order of King Raemon, this woman has been accused of sorcery. The punishment is death. All present bear witness. Light the fire,” the captain announced.
Another red coated soldier lifted a torch, saluting Igneet, God of Fire, before throwing it onto the pyre. Wood crackled as it lit, some of it sputtering, and I was suddenly hopeful. I pulled on Jarvis's hand.
“The wood is too wet! It's too wet!” I whispered furiously, but Jarvis simply re-covered my mouth before angling his head at the red-breasted captain. It was then I noticed the way the man's hands glowed as he held them toward the pyre. The man was a mage. The king's captain was a mage. I screamed again, and Jarvis held me.
I kicked furiously, finally breaking
free as the flames took hold, the wood near Aigneis' feet beginning to smolder and pop.
Two soldiers caught me before I neared the fire, holding me back when I tried to throw myself at Aigneis. Their fingers dug cruelly into the skin on my upper arms, but I barely noticed the pain. I wasn't even sure I was breathing. Each breath was a sob. My lungs burned.
The edge of Aigneis' dress caught fire, and I struggled against the men's hold. I wanted to shut my eyes but couldn't. There was banging from a carriage behind me, and I twisted just long enough to see my father kicking at the walls of the coach where he was bound. I tried to move toward him, but the soldiers' grips were too strong, too unyielding.
It was then Aigneis screamed. For the rest of my life, I would remember that scream; the pain, the despair, the fury in her voice. The same emotions roiled through my veins. My screams met hers in the night, in the forest where a mage-fire was being controlled by a sorcerer.
Screams . . . the smell of burning flesh.
Those screams would haunt me forever.
Those screams ripped through my heart.
Those screams tore at my soul.
Screaming . . . and then silence. Nothing left except the putrid smell of death, and the popping sound of flames. Someone sobbed. Someone yelled threats. Someone even scratched the faces of the soldiers.
In the end, I'm pretty sure that someone was me.
Chapter 4
I was a wild creature, snarling, kicking, scratching, and lashing out at anything or anyone who dared touch me. There was nothing sensible left in me. I wasn't worried about surviving. I wasn't even worried about dying. I was worried about death. Not my death. No, not that. My death seemed simpler than what I was facing now. What I faced now was horror.
The sights, the smells, the sounds . . . it left impressions on the brain. Grey impressions. It wiped all color from the scene as men stamped down any lingering flames, spreading ash into the air as they kicked at the remains left behind.
Ash caught in my hair, on my gown, along my cheeks. Some even entered my mouth as I breathed.
Ash. Aigneis.
It was all too much. Even as I fought, even as I screamed, I gagged. And then I was retching, spewing the contents of my stomach onto the ground as the soldiers threw me down in disgust.
“Do we burn her, too?” an irritated voice asked as I heaved.
Bile rose up in my throat, and my stomach cramped as the soldiers around me paused. There was no reason to dismantle the pyre if another mage was going to burn.
“Lady Consta-Mayria, do you accuse this young woman of magery?”
It was the captain's voice. I hated his voice, hated the way it cut through my clothes and chilled me to the bone one moment and then made me sweat the next. The anger in my blood was a palpable entity. He was a mage who had murdered a mage. I wanted to burn him, to see the way his ashes floated away on the breeze.
Ashes. Aigneis.
“No,” my stepmother replied after a moment. “No, I've not seen anything to suggest the girl is a mage. But scribery, yes. She is not a licensed scribe, but she practices it.”
There was kicking inside my stepmother's carriage. Muffled screams. My father.
“So be it,” the captain said firmly. “No death, but mark her. We'll leave sentencing to the king.”
My stomach was empty when the soldiers dragged me backward, my throat on fire, raw from acidic bile, smoke, and yelling.
“And your husband?” the captain asked.
I stiffened. My father. Taran laughed, and I struggled again. My cries were feeble and hoarse, but they were still cries, still screams for justice. I would fight or die trying.
“Garod is a naive man who took in a pitiful creature. She deceived him. I accuse him of nothing,” Taran said.
I fell limp, my chest heaving. The raspy groans escaping my lips were sighs of relief. My father was going to be fine. Taran still needed him. My maid and I were nothing more than collateral.
“Hold her down,” one of the young soldiers commanded.
A man at my back forced me to kneel, his knee and hands trapping me against the ground as another soldier pulled my left arm onto the rough bark of a fallen log. The timber was damp and uncomfortable, but I didn't fight them. Aigneis was dead. My father was safe. I had no energy left.
“Derrin!” a warrior yelled.
A portly, almost feminine-looking man with oily blond hair appeared next to me. He was nervous and his mouth twitched as he removed a bottle of ink along with a small, razor-sharp metal prong attached to the end of a stick. He tested the prong on his own skin, nodding in satisfaction before smearing ink along the pointed end. His breath smelled of wild onions and moldy cheese as he leaned next to me. I inhaled sharply, holding my own breath as he placed cold, grimy fingers around my arm just below my wrist.
“Hold still, you hear? Marking is a delicate thing, and I don't want to cut too deep.”
He gave me no time to answer. I fought involuntarily when the prong sank into my skin. The point bit into me, and I thrashed as the three soldiers surrounding me tightened their grips on my body. The increased pressure of the log was hurting the back of my hand even as the prong's bite transformed into a burn.
“Please,” I begged.
I hated the weakness in my voice, hated even more my obvious low tolerance for pain.
“Not much longer,” one of the soldiers said quietly, and I glanced toward him, my gaze finding the brown eyes of a young man not much older than me. Black hair fell over his forehead. Pity. There was pity in his stare, and I looked away, whimpering as the prong continued to dig into my flesh. I was tired now. So, so very tired, and my wrist was on fire.
“Tricky things these marks,” Derrin said jovially.
I kept my head turned away, my eyes on the trees. I was feeling faint, and I took deep, unsteady breaths in an attempt not to pass out. Aigneis had stood strong. Even knowing they were going to burn her alive, she had remained strong.
Again, I heard her screams in my head, and my breath caught. For Aigneis, I would not falter. For Aigneis I would bear the marking with pride and strength. The thought gave me new resolve, and I grit my teeth as the prong moved along my wrist.
The burning sensation had turned oddly numb, and I welcomed the reprieve from pain. The trees swayed in the darkness before me, the only light coming from the lanterns swinging from the carriages and the torches held up by the guards attending me. The dim glow made the trees look eerie in the darkness, like black figures beckoning me into the night.
“That will do it,” Derrin said. I cringed as spittle hit my arm before a cloth closed over my wrist. “Pour some ale on it and bandage it.”
The onion-cheese smell was overwhelming as Derrin leaned over me, his chubby face close to mine.
“Nice skin you have, dear. Soft as butter.”
I turned my head, and my eyes met his. Torch light glowed in his pupils, and I smiled despite the renewed pain in my arm.
“A curse on you,” I whispered.
Derrin's eyes widened, and I spit in his face. There were cries of outrage as hands tightened around my arms. A cruel tug on my hair pulled me toward the back of the carriages, and I stumbled over the loose soil and strewn branches littering the forest floor. Leaves crackled under my feet, and the humid breeze picked them up, throwing the dead foliage against my skirts. “Run,” they seemed to whisper.
“You only make it harder on yourself,” a voice said.
It was the black-haired soldier again. His hand was on my left arm, his grip firm. He nodded at the guard on my right side, and I had just enough time to note a brown, earthen jug before a cork was popped free. The cloth on my wrist was removed, and the dark-haired young man lifted my wrist while the other guard splashed ale onto the raised, angry design. It was my first real look at the inkwell now etched into my skin. An inkwell covered in cracks.
I hissed when the ale hit my wrist, my eyes stinging from the burn. It brought tears I had been fighti
ng hard not to shed, and I looked at the top of the soldier's head as he leaned over my arm, drying the wound before wrapping it with an old rag.
“You killed the only mother I have ever known.”
The soldier's head came up, and his eyes met mine again. I didn't look away. A solitary tear forged a trail down my mud-covered cheek as I gazed at him.
“And you want me to make it easy on you?” I asked.
I never received an answer.
“Cage her!” another guard hollered.
There were rough hands again, shoves and kicks. In the dark, I could make out little. The pain in my arm was intense. One moment I was stumbling, the next I was lifted up. There was a brief weightless sensation before my cheek met rough flooring, a crude surface made of hastily nailed wood.
“Move!”
The order was loud, harsh. It wasn't safe to camp in certain areas of the woods at night. A door banged shut behind me, and it was suddenly pitch black as the torchlight moved away.
I pushed myself up gingerly, ignoring the wet chill on my cheek as the wind pushed through spaces in the wagon walls. Blood was nothing to me now, although the scrape on my face was uncomfortable. I cradled my left arm against my chest. It still burned from the ale. My mark.
“Ho!”
The sound of horses stamping and wheels turning had me grabbing at the floor as the wagon jerked forward, and I was slung against the side of the cart. The fingers on my right hand found spaces between bars made out of thick wood, and I held on tight.
A soldier on horseback moved past, a torch held up as he took his place at the party's rear. There was light again. It was dim, but it was light nonetheless, and I looked at the small area brightened by the flames.
Fire. Ash. Aigneis.
I was in a rough prison, a wagon with wooden bars. The floor I sat on was littered with debris. Leaves, dirt, and other remains I refused to look at carefully. Those remains didn't matter.
My sobs were silent when they came, my shaking body camouflaged by the night and by the wagon's jerking motion. There were chains on my heart now. My flesh was caving in around me. It was a heavy feeling, a weight that sat solidly on my shoulders, and I felt like I was bleeding from every pore in my body. Aigneis.