Soulmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 3)

by David Estes

  “Christoff,” she said, her voice low and raspy.

  “Captain Metz, please,” he said, though he felt tingly all over when she called him by his first name.

  “I need you to be Christoff right now,” she said. “Please.”

  Though he didn’t exactly understand what she meant, he could not refuse her, not in this moment. “Yes…”—he recalled her first name, though he’d never used it—“Mona.” The name tasted good on his tongue, almost sweet. Strange, he thought. Names shouldn’t have a taste.

  “Hold me,” she said.

  He froze. “I—I shouldn’t. I can’t.”

  She stood. Stepped closer, her hands bridging the chasm between them. He tensed, waiting for her touch, that feeling of spiders on his skin, trying to bear it without flinching so he wouldn’t offend the woman who was beginning to mean a lot to him.

  And then her arms were around him, her warmth sliding against his, her dark hair brushing his cheeks, the crown of her head nestled against his neck. She tilted her head back and kissed the soft skin there tenderly, sending electricity through the whole of his body.

  There was no feeling of spiders.

  And then, even more to his surprise, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, his lips brushing her hair.

  “Thank you,” she said into the hollow in his neck.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, though he felt, perhaps, he should be the one thanking her.

  Forty-Eight

  The Northern Kingdom, Darrin

  Tarin Sheary

  Tarin awoke to darkness, wearing a broad smile on his face. He’d had the most wonderful dream…

  A sound snapped him away from his thoughts: a creak. A scuff. The release of a breath.

  “Tarin?”

  That voice. That voice.

  Everything came back in a rush: How he’d been on the verge of defeat, floating in a sea of enemies; the voice he’d heard in his head—her voice; the way he’d clung to it like a stone; how suddenly there were warriors around him, knights, their swords flashing, his enemies falling; and then her face, her beautiful face, and her tears falling like life-giving rain…

  “Annise,” he breathed, drawing her name out like a prayer.

  “I’m here.” And then she was, her hands clasped in his, which hurt slightly because of the cuts and bruises he bore. But he didn’t care—he squeezed back harder.

  Her lips found his, and he leaned forward into them eagerly, drinking from the only well that could possibly sate his great thirst. Her hands cupped his chin, sliding along his smooth skin tenderly. “I love you,” she said into his mouth, and they were the sweetest words he’d ever heard, ever tasted on his tongue. “Move over.”

  He did, very slowly, very gingerly, and she squeezed onto the bed beside him. He turned into her, her hips pressing against him, her body folding into him like time and distance had never separated them, like they were always this close.

  He winced as she groped at his chest, pain flashing from one of a dozen wounds.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, “perhaps we should wait.”

  Wait? That word was the enemy now, and Tarin wouldn’t be defeated by it. “No,” he growled. “We’ll be careful. We’ll go slow.”

  She nodded, her eyes burning in the shadowy darkness.

  Time melted into the night, and as their passion flowed like a river, one second could’ve been an eternity, a lifetime. In those stolen moments, Tarin lived many lifetimes with Annise, and those he hadn’t faded into the darkness of the past.

  Sometime later, Annise nestled into his shoulder, one hand resting lightly on his chest. Groggy, satisfied sighs slipped from her lips. “I thought I might never see you again,” she said, after a few brief moments of silence.

  Tarin knew the feeling. Worse, it was he who had made her feel that way. There was nothing else to say but “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Annise said. “Just don’t do it again.”

  “I won’t.” It was more than a promise—it was a vow pledged on everything he’d ever cared about. He paused, and then said, “Did you ever wish you could strip everything else away?”

  Tarin knew it was a cryptic thing to say, but Annise immediately laughed and said, “All the hell-frozen time.”

  “Really?”

  “More than anything. Have you forgotten I was the princess who wanted to flee to the Hinterlands?”

  He had. He could hardly imagine such a thing now. It felt as if Annise was always the queen. “So you wouldn’t drift away if you could? Live a simple life?”

  Annise’s lips brushed his chin, his neck, and for those brief moments he forgot what he’d asked. When Annise spoke, he struggled to concentrate. “There’s no such thing as a simple life,” she said. “Life, by its very definition, is a complex creature. Anyone who believes otherwise is a fool.”

  Tarin laughed, which made him hurt. He groaned. “Then I count myself lucky, for I’m as complicated as they come.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Annise asked.

  Who was he to deny her a question; even if she wasn’t the queen, he would deny her nothing, not ever again. “Of course.”

  “Is it my imagination or have you grown even larger?”

  He laughed again, louder, which hurt even more. But he relished the pain, for it meant he was alive. Perhaps more alive than he’d ever been. “Possibly. It’s hard to tell. Everyone just looks little to me these days.”

  “Well, perhaps you could put in a request to that monster of yours to stop the growing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you get much bigger, this”—she pulled him into her, grasped his hands, tugging them to her hips—“will become far too difficult.”

  “Good point,” he said, but his words were lost against her lips.

  “One more question,” she said, after they lay, exhausted once more.

  He laughed. “I should start charging.”

  “I’ll pay you in favors,” she purred.

  “Ask away!” he said with boyish eagerness that belied the man’s body he wore.

  “The monster…” she started. Something rumbled deep in his core, but he held it back with sheer force of will. “Is it gone? I don’t feel its claws in me anymore.”

  He hated to tell the truth, but he wouldn’t lie to Annise. Not ever again. “No,” he said. “It will never be gone.”

  “Good.”

  He frowned, a difficult expression to form considering her hands had begun to slide along his abdomen, exploring. “Good? How is that good?”

  “It’s a part of you,” she said. “You wouldn’t be the same without it. And it saved me. Twice. Out on the ice and in the tunnels. And in the midst of the battle, it saved you. You cannot deny it.”

  No, he couldn’t. As much as he despised the violent creature inside him at times, he couldn’t rebuff the connection he felt to it. Nor the fact that it had, in a way, strengthened his connection to Annise even more. Fooling him into believing she was dead was a nasty trick, but it only made him realize that he couldn’t live without her, even if it meant endangering her with his very presence. All he replied, however, was, “On the ice? In the tunnels?”

  “Oh, do I have a story to tell you,” she said. “And just wait until you hear about how the Garzi almost shoved us off a cliff!”

  Before he could respond, her lips whisked him away to another place, a place only the two of them could exist, for the third time in a night.

  And he didn’t mind one bit—they had the rest of their lives to tell stories.

  Forty-Nine

  The Northern Kingdom, Darrin

  Lisbeth Lorne

  Lisbeth stood on the killing fields, her breaths coming in waves, her hands on her knees, her entire body wracked with agony. She wasn’t injured, no—the pain was theirs. The fallen. She could hear their souls crying out to her as they left their bodies, mournful wails that seemed to cut her to the quick.

  I did th
is, she thought. I came to this place. I brought death. I am war. Yes, the queen had made the decision in the end, but to pass blame was to deny the truth of the matter: that she had a choice.

  Why am I here? To kill? To end lives? To destroy cities? Why? Please, tell me!

  She didn’t know who, exactly, the question was meant for—the universe perhaps—but it was the knights who answered. The Sleeping Knights ceased their prowling through the corpses—they were seeking enemies who still lived to put them out of their misery—each turning toward her. Their soundless voices joined as one. You are the bringer, they said, thunder in those four words.

  Bringer of what?

  You already know, they said, turning away, going back to the business of death.

  She remembered that word she’d heard before—HORDE. Am I the one bringing the Fall of All Things? she wondered.

  Lisbeth looked away, up toward the heavens from whence she came. Gold stars glittered. Green stars exploded. Red stars streaked across the cold, dark expanse of eternity. And she knew:

  No. I am the bringer of hope. Whatever is coming, I am here to help. My work is not yet accomplished.

  She closed her sightless eyes, but that provided no comfort, not when her third eye continued seeing—was always seeing.

  Just then, a man ran up, his soul pearlescent blue and weary, his hands trembling. His soul was young—far too young for war, and yet she could smell the coppery tinge of bloodstains on his hands. He held a scroll of wet parchment, which had a green soul of its own, a remnant of the tree from which it was harvested, rolled up and dripping. “Where is the queen?” he asked Lisbeth.

  “Sleeping,” she said. “What is it?”

  He paused, as if trying to decide whether the news should be shared with anyone other than the queen herself. In the end, he seemed eager to shift the weight of the information from his shoulders alone. “Castle Hill is under attack,” he said.

  Lisbeth froze. “By whom? The eastern legions?” Had the easterners attacked through the Pass, using the siege of Darrin as a distraction? And if so, why hadn’t she discerned this truth from the stars?

  “No. Northerners,” he said, and her heart sank. “They call themselves the Brotherhood.”

  Lisbeth said, “Thank you.” The boy turned away and she suddenly felt very tired. Her legs gave way and she would’ve fell if not for the strong arms that caught her, lifting her up easily.

  A man with a familiar faded blue soul looked down at her. Sir Dietrich, one of Annise’s companions on her quest into the Hinterlands. The amusing, charming one. Or at least he tried to be. “Thank you,” she said, suddenly breathless.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked, his soul fluttering with concern.

  She shook her head. “Just tired.”

  “Can you walk?”

  She didn’t think so. “I just need to rest for a while.”

  “Nonsense. I will find you a bed.”

  “No,” she said. “Please. Take me to the queen.”

  Fifty

  The Northern Kingdom, Castle Hill

  Zelda Gäric

  Due to the invasion, Lady Zelda had missed breakfast. She hated missing meals.

  Then again, for the first time in her life, she had no appetite.

  She’d fought alongside her men, but it was a losing cause from the beginning. Though they had the numbers, the dark-cloaked attackers had the experience, the skill.

  It was a slaughter.

  Sir Christoff Metz and the other half of their army—the women—were, of course, nowhere to be found. The funny thing was, she’d expected him to go to Darrin’s aid. Though, as the temporary queen, she’d been unable to give him the order, she’d offered him plenty of latitude with her command. She’d even watched him leave with his women soldiers.

  Moments before the battle began, Zelda had sent a stream to Darrin warning them of Castle Hill’s fall.

  The Brotherhood had left no man alive. Zelda would rather they’d killed the women too. I wish they’d killed me, she thought now, as the sellsword leader, Severon, approached her cell. He wore a fine suit of armor, likely stolen from a lord somewhere, the gleaming plate partially hidden beneath his dark cloak. He was flanked by two other cloaked men.

  “You killed one of my men,” Severon said without greeting.

  “Two actually,” Zelda said. “You just haven’t found the second one yet. Follow the trail of blood. Shouldn’t be too difficult, even for a yak-brain like you.”

  He grunted, but not in anger. It was more a sound of amusement. He pushed several tendrils of stringy black hair away from his face, tucking them behind his ears. They immediately fell back across his sharp green eyes. “Your entire pathetic army was decimated by my fifty-nine men, and—”

  “Fifty-seven men now,” she reminded him.

  A smirk. “Yes. Fifty-seven. None of your men could kill a single one of us, but you managed to kill two. Your reputation doesn’t do you justice.”

  The only reputation she was aware of was that she was a reclusive mad woman, but she didn’t mention that. Instead, she said, “Let the women go. They have nothing to do with this.”

  It was a fruitless request to make of a soulless man such as him, but she had to try.

  “No. Who else will clean the blood from our clothes? Prepare our food? Pamper us like the lords we now are, like the king I have become.”

  Zelda laughed. Loudly.

  He frowned, the scars on his face shifting, darkening. “Something amusing?”

  “Besides the smallness of your mind? Your arrogance, for one.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re a sellsword, Severon. Nothing more, nothing less. You and your men are a fungus on this land. Small, sad men like my brothers have kept you in business, but your days are numbered. When Annise returns…”

  “I’m trembling in my boots,” Severon said. “The real soldiers are all dead. I watched them perish until the waters of the Bay of Bounty ran red with their blood. The north died with them. A child queen is the least of my worries, especially one who’s run off on a fool’s errand.”

  So he knows. Zelda had heard the screams as they tortured a few survivors for information. But it didn’t matter, a man like him would never understand women like she and her niece. And he would always underestimate them, which was exactly the sort of advantage they could use.

  Zelda knew she would be smart to say nothing more, but she couldn’t help herself. “Do you really think the other kingdoms will recognize your claim on the throne?” she scoffed. “They’ll read your streams while counting their coin, and then come for you with their armies, and you will die the same way you lived—friendless and with nothing to call your own.”

  Severon, to his credit, didn’t rise to her bait. Instead, he only smiled. “We shall see,” he said, starting to leave.

  After a few steps, he turned back. Almost as an afterthought, he said, “I’ll let you watch as I slit Annise’s throat. And then I’ll slit yours.”

  Fifty-One

  The Northern Kingdom, Darrin

  Sir Christoff Metz

  The news had spread like wildfire, eventually reaching Christoff’s door in the form of a hard knock, jarring him awake.

  He stood, instantly alert, sensing something important had happened.

  When he pulled the door open, he was surprised to find Private Sheary there. The memory of their fleeting moment of closeness from the night before sprang to mind. He’d ruined it by pushing her away, by asking her to leave. He still didn’t know why he did it, only that as she began to kiss his neck he’d felt like the walls were closing in, trying to crush him.

  Now, embarrassment roiled through him for a second, until he saw the troubled look on her face. “What is it? What has happened?”

  “Castle Hill,” she said.

  “What about it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s fallen,” she said.

  “How?”<
br />
  She told him.

  He thanked her, closed the door, and slumped into a chair. Holding his head in his arms, he rocked back and forth, murmuring under his breath.

  My fault my fault my fault my fault…

  My fault.

  Fifty-Two

  The Northern Kingdom, Darrin

  Lisbeth Lorne

  They stood before her in perfect lines, their backs straight, their heads held high. Their souls were coiled with unspent violence.

  She did not fear the knights, though she’d seen them kill without mercy. If anything, she feared herself, for she was the one who had unleashed them on these lands. She was the one who might not be able to stop them.

  We may need you again, she said now, on orders from Queen Annise.

  We know, the knights said in unison, their voices echoing in her head.

  You serve the queen? she asked.

  Yes. For now, they said, a qualification that sent a shiver of fear through her. For as long as the queen serves the north.

  Lisbeth thought it was a strange thing to say, but didn’t comment. Now was not the time to anger their strongest ally. Good. At first light, we march for Castle Hill. Your mission is to defeat the invaders.

  It shall be done, they said, stamping their feet, a hundred sets of boots thundering in unison. The Brotherhood shall die.

  Not for the first or last time, Lisbeth wondered whether she was doing the right thing. She hadn’t told Annise about her visions of the Horde. She didn’t fully understand them herself. She would, eventually, but not until after Castle Hill was retaken.

  Briefly, she touched her soulmark, which pulsed faintly on her forehead.

  Fifty-Three

  The Northern Kingdom, Darrin

  Tarin Sheary

  Tarin wouldn’t have planned his reunion with Annise to involve a major battle in which he almost died, plus an invasion of Castle Hill, but he wouldn’t complain. No, he would take whatever he could get. Never again would he waste one single moment with this woman. And he would follow her to frozen hell and back if she asked.