Fatemarked Origins (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  He shook his head, clearing his thoughts away. Her unexpected appearance had been a welcome distraction from reality, but he knew he shouldn’t tarry any longer. He slipped his hand into his pocket, closing his fingers over the empty vial.

  And then, torch held high, he descended the steps to the lower level.

  The particular elixir Sir Jonius’s wife needed was concocted by a grumpy old man everyone called Darkspell. Though he wasn’t a wizard—not using spells or magic of any kind, but natural herbs, roots and liquids—his elixirs felt like magic sometimes. Darkspell’s work, which was very expensive, was paid for by the king himself, out of the royal coffers. Sir Jonius only had sufficient gold to buy a drop or two of the elixir, while the king could provide a fresh vial each fortnight, enough to sustain Frieda on the right side of the knife’s edge between life and death.

  Sir Jonius was forced to pay the king back in blood.

  While the knight watched, Darkspell hunched over his stone worktable, which was covered with glass containers of various shapes and sizes, wooden tablets scrawled with senseless notations, and small bowls filled with powdered ingredients—red, yellow, blue, green. Concentrating, the man pushed his long gray hair away from his mottled face, his dark eyes trained intently on the transfer, careful not to spill a single drop of the valuable liquid. Using a glass funnel, he filled Jonius’s empty glass vial with the clear liquid, sealing it with the cork stopper when he was finished. Even after the wizened old man handed him the tiny bottle, Jonius couldn’t take his eyes off the enormous supply of the medicine leftover in a much larger, green bottle. It would be enough to care for his wife for years to come, maybe for the rest of her life.

  He blinked, as Darkspell said, “Here. Take it,” and for a moment he thought he meant the rest of the supply. But no, it was a small scroll, a roll of tan parchment sealed with a circle of wax printed with the royal seal, a cracked-but-not-broken shield.

  Instructions from the king. Suddenly, Sir Jonius’s blood stopped running through his veins and curdled, like milk left out for too long.

  Still, he took the scroll, because what choice did he have? Then he left, acutely aware of the strange man’s dark stare following him through the door.

  He didn’t crack the seal and unfurl the scroll until he was alone in the shadows of the royal gardens. Spindly, leafless trees shredded the moonlight to ragged slashes of icy light, which he used to read the words on the parchment, which were written in the king’s dark cursive.

  Tomas Henry is a western spy.

  Sir Jonius didn’t know who Tomas Henry was. He didn’t even know if the words were the truth, or if the king was simply testing him. He didn’t care, because it didn’t matter—it didn’t change anything. Truth or lie, the king had found this man guilty of treason, and Jonius had been commanded to carry out the requisite punishment.

  Death.

  He considered his options, as he always did, a pointless ritual that wouldn’t change his decision. He could pretend he’d never received the scroll, had never heard of the name Tomas Henry. Aye, I can blame it on Darkspell. The wrinkled potionmaster was old, after all, so he could’ve forgotten to give him the king’s instructions. But even if the king believed Jonius, it would only delay the task at hand. Or Jonius could arrest poor Tomas on suspicion of treason and force the king to hold a public trial. At least that will give the man a chance, and then I won’t have to carry out the execution. It would anger the Dread King, aye, but not so much as to impact their arrangement. He knew this was the coward’s option. Tomas Henry would still die, and Sir Jonius’s soul would still be soaked in blood.

  There was nothing for it. Sir Jonius would do what he always did, for the sake of his wife’s life:

  Obey.

  It wasn’t difficult to find Tomas Henry’s residence. The man was a drunkard with a big mouth, apparently. Every tavern owner under the shadow of Castle Hill knew the man’s name, and had a similar opinion of him.

  He was a wife beater, a lush, a swindler.

  But he was no traitor to the north.

  A test then. A test of Sir Jonius’s willingness to obey the king’s every order without question. He was a mindless pawn to the Dread King.

  Frozen hell, Sir Jonius thought, standing in the snow outside Tomas Henry’s door. How did I get to this place? How did I become this person? His thoughts strayed to another day, to another time, when he was as different as a snow cloud from a blue sky:

  He’d left home, a small town between Darrin and Walburg, three days past, seeking adventure. He was young, full of energy and hope. He believed in the future. A future that would always be better than the past, if he had anything to say about it.

  He dreamed of being a knight, as he had since he was naught but a lad pretending with a wooden sword and shield, parrying the attacks of his childhood friends, who preferred to play the role of invading barbarians from the east. He always made them submit, one by one. Everyone knew young Jonius was destined for greatness.

  Jonius was daydreaming about the future when he chanced upon the stalled wagon while riding along an autumn road, scattered with fallen leaves.

  The wagon had broken a wheel, but it had not been a stroke of bad luck.

  No, a trap had been set by vagabonds. They’d dug a long trench across the road and covered it with leaves. Then they’d waited, like spiders in a web.

  They’d already slain the driver, a travelling merchant with spiky white whiskers and eyes so gray they seemed to reflect the stormy sky above. Jonius would later learn that the man, Chester Choffney, had died defending his family from the thieves.

  Jonius, having not been spotted, wisely angled his mare into the woods, roping him around a tree. Then he crept through the forest, placing each foot carefully, so as to not crunch the brittle leaves under his trod and alert the enemy to his approach. His sword, an old but well-made antique given to him by his father on his eighteenth name day, was already out of its scabbard and at the ready.

  A woman was screaming, shattering the silence. Mourning the death of her husband, the old merchant.

  “Shut yer pie hole,” one of the thieves growled. “Or you’ll be next.”

  The woman quieted somewhat, but continued to whimper. Through the trees, Jonius could just make out her long white hair hanging like a frozen waterfall. She was on her knees, at her husband’s side. There were three thieves, one with a bow, one with a dagger, and one with a longsword, which was tucked under the woman’s chin, though she barely seemed to notice, her attention firmly fixed on her husband. The back end of an arrow protruded from his chest.

  Nearby, a young girl struggled against the hold of one of the thieves, the one with the dagger. “Quit fightin’ me or I’ll slit yer pretty throat,” the man said.

  She didn’t quit. Her hair contained many of the same colors as the fallen leaves, with shades of red, orange and brown, like the careful brush strokes of a painter. Her hair flew around her face as she struggled, breaking free of the man’s grip as she charged toward her mother’s captor.

  She was too slow. The man with the dagger grabbed her from behind, slinging her to the ground. “We got a live one,” he said, pressing his weight on top of her. “This mare’s got spirit!” He sounded strangely excited by the prospect.

  Jonius knew this was his chance, while they were distracted. He slipped through the trees silently, like a man made of wind.

  Though he’d never killed anyone before—only playing at sword fighting with his friends—he didn’t hesitate, not when the lives of women were involved.

  The first thief died without uttering a cry, run through from behind. It wasn’t the most honorable way of killing, Jonius knew, but what honor was there in thieving a helpless merchant and his womenfolk?

  Despite Jonius’s silent approach, the man atop the girl turned to see what had made his comrade slump to the ground. His eyes widened when he saw Jonius and his bloody sword. “Who the frozen ’ell are you?”

  “Jonius
of Carstill, defender of the innocent and keeper of the realm,” he said, words he’d tried out hundreds of times in his childhood.

  The man laughed, pushing off of the girl, who grunted. He rose to his feet, tossing his dagger back and forth, occasionally spinning it expertly. Jonius immediately knew he was in trouble. Though his sword had length, this man was clearly experienced with his short blade, and could likely attack from a distance without losing accuracy.

  Something his father once told him sprang to mind. ‘Confidence is your enemy. Thankfully, it’s also your enemy’s enemy.’

  This man was overly confident in his ability, something Jonius could use against him.

  “I can hit him from ’ere,” the third man said. “Git out of the way.”

  Damn. Jonius hadn’t considered the archer. “If you’re a coward, that’s what you’d do,” he said, staring at the man with the dagger.

  “Don’t,” the man said to his friend, who’d already nocked an arrow to his bow.

  The archer stared down the arrow at Jonius, considering, but then lowered it. “Fine. Have yer fun. But when yer dead, the spoils will all be mine.” He laughed heartily.

  The other man tossed his dagger back and forth, closing in. Jonius refused to be mesmerized by the motion, recognizing it for what it was: a distraction. Instead, he watched the man’s feet, waiting for the moment when they moved into a typical knife-throwing stance, the one he’d learned as a boy.

  Unfortunately, this man was far more skilled than that. He could throw from all different positions, even while moving. Jonius was caught unprepared, and the moment the man’s wrist twitched, flicking the knife, he knew he was dead.

  That was also the moment the girl decided to mount her own attack. She lunged at the man’s ankles, grabbing them tight, pulling them together, throwing him off balance.

  It was enough to disrupt his aim, and his knife wicked past Jonius’s ear, slicing off the top-most bit of cartilage. Though he was stunned, he took advantage of the distraction, leaping forward at his opponent, who fought out of the girl’s grip, stumbling away.

  The knife-thrower fled, crashing into the undergrowth with reckless abandon. Spurred by adrenaline, Jonius whirled, charging toward the archer, who was too shocked to react fast enough. Jonius slashed his sword down hard, splitting the bow in two. The archer tried to flee, but Jonius managed to trip him up with a well-struck blow to the back of his legs with the broadside of his blade.

  The man cried out and fell, striking his head on a rock and going still. Blood drained from a gash in his temple.

  Jonius spun around when he heard a sound, gripping his sword in front of him. “Oh,” he said, quickly lowering the blade. It was the girl, who now had the dagger in her hands. The one that had nearly taken off Jonius’s head. If not for her.

  “Go,” she said. “I don’t want to kill you.”

  He was so shocked by her declaration that he backed away a step. “My lady? I mean you no harm. I was only trying to help.” Her eyes were like trembling raindrops, her cheeks flushed from the fight.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  Jonius wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he found himself repeating his practiced introduction. “I’m Jonius of Carstill, protector of—”

  “—the innocent and keeper of the realm,” she finished for him. “You don’t look like a knight, and yet you recite the knight’s mantra like a child reading from a book.”

  He was stunned. This wasn’t the reaction he’d expected after saving a damsel in distress. Then again, if not for her quick actions, he’d be dead. If anything, they’d saved each other.

  The sound of muffled sobs drew his attention back to where the older woman was collapsed atop her husband. “Mother?” the girl said. “We have to go. We cannot linger here. It is not safe. Help me with the wagon.”

  The woman didn’t seem to hear her daughter, such was the depth of her grief. “I can help,” Jonius said.

  “What do you want in return?” the girl asked. “Because I’m not for sale.”

  Jonius frowned. “I would never…there’s no honor in such business. I only want to help. Your thanks is all I ask in return.”

  The girl stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment, before finally releasing a sigh that seemed to contain a wintry gale. “Thank you,” she said. “We would appreciate your help in repairing our wagon and burying my father.”

  “I’m Jonius,” he said for the third time.

  “Are you now? Well, Jonius, I’m Frieda Choffney. My mother is Nora. My father was Chester. He was a good man who deserved a better end.”

  “I’m sorry. Please. Mourn with your mother while I get to work.”

  She shook her head. “The time for mourning is after we’re safe and on the road again. Else we’ll all be dead.”

  The memory faded, and Sir Jonius realized he was still standing in front of the door to Tomas Henry’s house. He glanced around him, but luckily no one was there. Echoes from the memory continued to flit around him like phantom doves. After burying her father, he’d worked tirelessly with Frieda to repair their wagon wheel and haul the cart from the rut. He offered his protection for the rest of their journey, which she’d grudgingly accepted, and they’d ridden until nightfall and then made camp. The entire day, Frieda’s eyes had remained dry.

  It wasn’t until Jonius awoke in the middle of the night that he heard her cries for her father.

  That was the moment he knew he’d fallen in love with her, a love that would grow over time, into something magnificent, almost otherworldly. Frieda had told the tale of Jonius’s daring rescue—not taking any credit herself, though she had saved his life—again and again, until the crown had no choice but to bestow the realm’s highest honor, knighthood, on him. It was a dream come true, and yet he soon realized that becoming a knight had never been his true destiny. No, she was his destiny all along.

  Which was why he was standing here now, on this cold and snowy night, before the door of a stranger.

  A stranger he now had to kill.

  He lifted a fisted hand, and rapped on the door with his knuckles.

  Then he drew his sword.

  When he opened the door, Tomas Henry’s eyes were bloodshot, his lips twisted into a snarl. His breath reeked of mead as he shouted, “What is the meaning of this?”

  Then he saw the sword, as they always did, and he stumbled away, his hands held in front of him. Sir Jonius stepped inside, slamming the door behind him.

  A woman, her face battered and bruised, gasped. Wearing a long dressing gown, she backed up until she hit the wall, a lantern swinging wildly in her grip. Tomas tripped on a chair, knocking it over. He dropped to his knees, knitting his fingers together. “Please,” he said. “I won’t hit her again. I’ll stop drinking. I’ll stop whoring. I can change.”

  Jonius wasn’t surprised at the reaction. He’d seen dishonorable men before, men like Tomas Henry. They were full of bravado and courage when on the drink and facing a wife who was more scared of them than facing the Ice Lord himself. But when presented with someone stronger, they cowered like mice, begging and pleading, the lies spewing forth like bitter vitriol from the tongue of a serpent.

  No, this man was no traitor to the crown. But he was a bad man, and almost certainly deserved death.

  Sir Jonius knew he was rationalizing, but he had to sleep at night, and this was the only way he knew how. He backhanded Tomas across the face, spittle and blood flying from his mouth as his head whipped around. He collapsed into the fetal position, whimpering and clutching his face. A tooth lay on the floor nearby, next to a few drops of blood where it had been ripped from his gums. The knight didn’t feel bad about it, not one bit.

  Mrs. Henry dropped to her knees beside her husband, crying, raising her gaze to meet Jonius’s. “Please. He’s all I got. I love him. It’s the drink that makes him hit me. You should see him when he’s sober. He’s kind. Sometimes. Sometimes.”

  Sir Jonius wasn’t
necessarily moved by her speech. She was clearly a woman in denial, so used to the beatings that she could make excuses for them without a second thought. And yet, something gave him pause, even as he raised his sword, the tip hovering over Tomas’s fallen form.

  Guilt. Not his own, though that was there, too, but Tomas Henry’s. The crime he was being executed for was not his own. He wasn’t guilty of treason, though he was guilty of a lot of other things.

  He brought his sword down with a thunk. The hilt wavered in the air, springing back and forth. Tomas Henry was half-laughing, half-crying. The tip of the sword was buried two fingers deep into the wooden floor.

  “Thank you for your mercy,” Tomas sobbed.

  “Don’t thank me,” Sir Jonius said. “Go. Leave Castle Hill forever. You will not take your wife. You will not take your belongings, save for a small satchel with food, water, and clothing. If you disobey, or ever return, I will kill you myself. Is this understood?”

  “No,” the woman wailed. “Please, let me go with hi—”

  “Yes, I understand,” Tomas said, pushing his wife away from him. “Leave me, woman!”

  The woman’s bottom lip quivered, but then she snapped, “Good riddance, you drunk!” She threw a boot at him, hitting him in the head.

  Tomas tried to stand to go after her, but Jonius stood in his way. “Enough. Go before I change my mind.”

  Sir Jonius watched Tomas Henry leave in the black of night, his broad-shouldered form disappearing into the snowfall.

  Jonius waited a few minutes longer, and then left. He was certain Tomas would honor their agreement. A man like him would sacrifice his own mother to save himself. Jonius bit his own lip as he walked. Here he was thinking about honor when he himself had none.

  “What have I done?” he whispered to himself. Though Tomas Henry’s wife had been told to tell the story Jonius had given her—that the knight had entered their home in the middle of the night and slayed her husband in the name of the crown—there was still every possibility that the king would discover the truth. Mrs. Henry might tell someone. Or someone might see Tomas leaving Castle Hill. He’d taken a grave risk. And all for what? To save the life of a horrible man? He shook his head, trying to understand his own motivations.