Fatemarked Origins (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4)

by David Estes

  That’s when he felt it:

  A throb of warmth in his chest. A rightness he hadn’t felt in a long time. Strength. Courage.

  Honor.

  He didn’t know if it was too late, but Sir Jonius was ready to be a true knight again, a protector of the innocent, a defender of the realm.

  Sticking out his chin, he headed back to the castle. He was going to see Darkspell one more time.

  A candle oozed wax onto the table, its flickering light casting dark, blood-like shadows on the stone walls of Darkspell’s potion room.

  Darkspell, however, was nowhere to be found.

  Could I really be this lucky? Jonius thought to himself. The green bottle containing the life-giving elixir he needed for his wife sat in plain view, unprotected. Pressing his lips together, he strode forward and grabbed it, holding it up to the light to ensure it hadn’t been emptied. Sure enough, the clear liquid sloshed back and forth, more than three quarters to the top.

  Yes, he thought. Yes. This was his chance to save Frieda and break away from the crown all in one night. His mind whirled with a hastily concocted plan. He would hurry home, pack a few things, almost the same way he’d forced Tomas Henry to pack, and then depart under the cover of darkness. After giving Frieda a healthy dose of the elixir, he could lash his wife to him and ride his trusty steed south. They would make for Raider’s Pass. They could seek asylum in the east in exchange for providing information on the northern king. He would beg if he had to. Nothing was beneath him, not anymore.

  Hurriedly, he wrapped the glass bottle in a thick skin, which he tucked under his arm.

  He spun around, half-expecting to find Darkspell hovering in the doorway, pointing a wrinkly finger at him in accusation.

  The way was clear.

  He ran.

  When he emerged from the lower levels, he slowed his stride to a steady walk. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. In reverse, the same guardsmen regarded him with the same forced respect. As before, he ignored them. His heart pounded and, despite the cold, sweat rose from his skin under his armor. He could hardly breathe, and he was forced to open his mouth.

  He only let out a deep sigh of relief when his cottage came into view, its curtained windows glowing around the edges from the fire he’d left burning. Everything was as he’d left it. Nothing was out of place.

  For some reason, when he reached the door, he paused before opening it. Something drew his attention downwards.

  Needles of fear prickled his scalp when he saw the footprints in the snow. There were at least three sets—maybe four—besides the ones that were clearly made by his own boots. And one of the sets was speckled with drops of blood, the crimson stains standing out against the snow’s whiteness like sparks in the dark.

  He knows what I’ve done. The king knows.

  Oh, Frieda. Please, don’t hurt her.

  He drew his sword as quietly as possible. If it came down to it, he’d fight for his wife’s life, as he’d done on that first fateful day when their paths had crossed on the road. “Love amongst thieves,” Frieda had liked to say, when she spoke of the origins of their romance.

  Slowly, slowly, he eased the door open.

  The first person he saw was Tomas Henry.

  The man was tied to a chair, his head lolling forward. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and blood oozed from a wide cut on his bottom lip, dripping from his chin. His shirt had been ripped off of him, hanging from his waist in tatters. Several thin slashes had been carved down his chubby chest, which was now covered in a thin layer of blood.

  “Run,” a weak voice said. “Run, Jonius.”

  Frieda. You’re alive.

  “Run?” a booming voice said.

  Jonius’s heart sank further into his stomach as he pushed the door open the rest of the way. King Wolfric Gäric sat beside Frieda’s bed, one hand stroking her hair while the other played the tip of a dagger along the pale skin of her throat. His dark, well-trimmed hair and goatee shined with moisture. Besides a long cape and bronze breastplate, the king wore an amused grin. He was flanked by two burly guardsmen, standing at attention.

  “Please,” Frieda said, swallowing slowly. She spoke directly to Jonius, still urging him to flee, to save himself. But he knew it was far too late for that, and anyway, he could never leave her, no matter what the risk.

  “Your husband will not leave,” the king said, still stroking her brittle hair. “He’s not the type.”

  “Please.” This time it was Jonius who spoke, begging for his wife. “This was my mistake. I should be punished, not her.”

  “You disobeyed a direct order, broke our agreement, and stole from my potionmaster.” The king nodded in the direction of the parcel still held under Jonius’s arm.

  “I—I—just wanted enough to keep her alive,” Jonius said, stumbling over the lie.

  The king shook his head and tsked several times. “I provide enough. I keep her safe, so long as you remain loyal.”

  “I know. I just—” He didn’t know what to say. Any excuse would be a lie. “I will make it up to you. I will never be disloyal again. On my honor as a knight.”

  You have no honor, a voice said, in the back of his mind.

  “Honor means nothing,” the king said, as if reading his thoughts.

  “Then on my wife’s life,” he said quickly. “I swear it.”

  “You already broke that promise once.”

  “I know, but I never will again.” He dropped to his knees, blinking back tears. He placed the parcel on the floor. Knitted his hands together. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

  “I know,” the king said. “Which is why I’ve decided to give you another chance. Your last chance.”

  Truth be told, Jonius was shocked. He’d never seen the king offer even a shred of mercy to anyone. Then again, having a loyal attack dog bound by the life of his wife was perhaps too tempting, even for a king. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

  “I know,” the king said again. “Now prove your loyalty, and I will leave you and your wife alone.”

  At first Jonius wasn’t certain what the king meant, but then Tomas Henry groaned and spit a gob of blood on the floor. “Not in front of my wife,” he said. “Please.”

  “Do it or she dies,” the king said. “My patience is waning.”

  “Jonius, no,” Frieda said.

  Ignoring her, refusing to even look at her, the knight stood. Somewhere in the background he could hear his wife’s pleas, begging him not to do this, but he had already gone to that other place, a place where reality vanished into nightmare and each time he awoke he was a new man.

  He raised his sword, gritting his teeth.

  For her for her for her for her anything for her.

  And then he slashed.

  6: Gwendolyn Storm

  The Eastern Kingdom- Circa 448

  Gwendolyn’s father, Boronis Storm, would not approve of the human boy. This she knew. She even knew exactly what he would say. “Gwenny, there are so few of us left, pure Orians. We have a duty to uphold. A duty to our people. A duty to the great Orion who watches over our forests and all those who inhabit them. This boy is not right for you. It’s better to keep your distance.”

  Their secret relationship had been going on for several months, and she longed for the precious days, like today, when her father was away from the forest on the king’s business, and she could meet Alastair Freestep deep in Ironwood.

  Because she knew what her father would say, she was glad he didn’t know about Alastair. She was even gladder he didn’t know what she was doing with him at this particular moment in time, because she was most certainly not keeping her distance.

  They were lying on a bed of moss, lit by slivers of sunlight sliding through the thick canopy of Ironwood. All around them, the iron-sheathed trees stood sentinel, silent witnesses to their passion. Alastair’s hips pressed against hers, his lips painting the soft skin at the base of her neck, roving upwards, finding her mouth. Sh
e hungered for him and her lips parted, allowing his tongue to slip inside, dancing with hers. One of her hands massaged the back of his head, ruffling his thick dark hair, while the other entwined with his fingers, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. His other hand sought entrance to her shirt, a thought that made her giddy with excitement.

  At eighteen years old, she’d kissed other boys—all Orian, of course—but none of them like this.

  She prayed his fingers would find her skin.

  And then they did, his fingers like trembling flames, scorching her firm abdomen, brushing the outline of her ribs with his knuckles, exploring higher…

  She arched her back, allowing him to once more kiss her neck, sending a summer storm of lightning through her body.

  Alastair pulled back suddenly, and it was like her very breath had been sucked from her lungs. “Gwendolyn,” he said, and she loved the way he refused to call her by her nickname, Gwen, like everyone else. “I have to stop or I might not be able to later.” He breathed heavily, his mouth open, his eyes shimmering gray pools. Though he’d removed his hand from under her shirt, he continued to grasp her other hand, as if letting go would be more than he could bear.

  Gwendolyn said, “Then don’t stop.” She retracted her hand from behind his head and caressed his jawline, relishing the thin even stubble that resembled a dark shadow on his cheeks.

  “Don’t tempt me,” Alastair said.

  “Why not?” Gwendolyn released his hand and tugged at the base of her shirt, revealing a long, pale sliver of skin.

  “Orion, save me,” Alastair breathed, biting his bottom lip. “Your father will murder me.”

  “Wouldn’t it be worth it?” Gwendolyn said, running her tongue over her lips. She couldn’t believe her own boldness, but this boy made her feel crazy, out of control. It was a much-needed break from the rigidity of the other Orians, and she wasn’t going to waste one moment.

  She craned her neck and kissed the side of his mouth. He tried to protest, but the moment his lips parted she devoured him. His satisfied groan sent a burst of adrenaline through Gwen’s veins.

  With an agile twist of her hips, she rolled him over and pressed down on top of him, her strong hands and arms pinning him to the ground. Finally, he gave in.

  “You are perfection,” Alastair said later, running a thumb over her bottom lip. His other hand stroked her thigh. He can do that forever and it won’t be long enough, Gwen thought to herself.

  She looked at the boy who’d stolen her heart, wondering whether the rest of her life could ever live up to this moment. For some reason, the thought made her sad. “Only when I’m with you,” she said.

  “Slender rays of moonlight, cast by godly hands.

  Formed into a woman, shifting desert sands.

  Strength forged by iron, a mighty fighting sword.

  Tender as a flower, a supple leather cord.

  Wisps of smoke, cool raindrops.

  An eastern wind that never stops,

  A bow pulled ’cross a violin.

  A perfect chord, oh, Gwendolyn.”

  She gasped on the last word. Though she’d oft listened to the beautiful imagery of his poetry, he’d never before written anything for her. “Recite it again,” she requested.

  He did, and this time she soaked in every word. Was this really how he saw her? As a wisp of smoke? Shifting desert sands?

  He smiled at her reaction, and it made her want to kiss him again, to start all over. Then, unexpectedly soon, his smile faded away. “I can’t lose you,” he said.

  She tried to laugh his comment away, but it sounded forced. “Lose me?” she said. “Orians live well into the hundreds of years, while you, poor human, will be lucky to make it to seventy.”

  “You know what I mean,” Alastair said. “Your father.”

  Gwen frowned, hating the return to a subject she constantly tried to avoid. “I might not be an adult Orian by the standards of my people, but our ancient traditions aren’t adhered to nearly as strictly as they once were. There are girls my age who have already bonded to humans from Ferria.”

  She hadn’t intended to mention the word bonded—it had just kind of slipped out, naturally, like liquid ore from a spilled forger’s kettledrum. And yet, the word seemed to draw them even closer.

  “I want to bond to you, Gwendolyn,” Alastair said. “More than anything.”

  Though the very idea took her breath away, she heard the unspoken words at the end of his sentence. “But…you can’t.”

  “Your father will never accept me as his son.” The pain in his expression was pure torture for Gwen.

  “He will. He just needs time. We have to get him used to the proposition.”

  Alastair shook his head. “I don’t want to cause trouble between you and your father. Plus, your father doesn’t like my father, and I’m certain the feeling is mutual.”

  Levi Freestep was a captain in the eastern legion. According to Alastair, his father’s platoon was responsible for patrolling the eastern seaboard. In the twelve years since he’d been made captain, he’d seen little action. Every attack lately had been from the west, along the shores of the Spear, the long silver river that separated the eastern kingdom from the west. Twice now Gwen had heard her own father complain about Captain Freestep’s tactics, and she was forced to bite her tongue.

  “None of that matters,” Gwendolyn said. “All that matters is I—” She stopped suddenly, the three words tingling on the tip of her tongue. I love you. Though they’d implied much to each other in their conversations of late, none had so overtly declared their feelings.

  “I know,” Alastair said. “I love you, too.”

  Gwen’s heart skipped a beat, her entire body trembling. He’d said it. It didn’t matter that she already knew how he felt, the words still sounded beautiful to her ears. “I love you,” she said, unafraid to hold back anymore. Unafraid to risk everything for this man. This human.

  “That’s why I’m so scared of what your father might do if he knows the truth,” Alastair said.

  “I don’t care,” she said.

  “I do.”

  Gwendolyn waited for her father at the edge of Ironwood. One of the beautiful ore cats, a tenacious but playful female named Sasha, had informed her of his impending arrival, having spotted his company riding across the great eastern plains. Gwen had stroked the cat’s sleek, metallic skin and offered her a few slices of the roasted waterfowl she’d been eating. Though the ore cat was more than capable of hunting for herself, she had accepted the meat, purring loudly.

  Now, standing on the outskirts of the iron forest, Gwendolyn’s heart was lodged in her throat. It was not that she feared her father—she was no weakling—it was that she feared not having his approval. Especially because she planned to move forward with a life with Alastair regardless of whether her father gave his blessing. Why couldn’t she have the man she wanted without risking her father’s love?

  Boronis Storm rode at the head of the column, his hair as long and silvery as hers, his eyes as purple as the deepest sunset. He saw her and a smile spread across his face. Spurring his horse onwards, he closed the remaining distance quickly, nimbly springing off his mount before it had fully halted. Moments later he picked her up and spun her around, as if she weighed no more than a short blade.

  “My princess,” he said, placing her back on her feet. “How kind of you to come and greet me after a long journey.”

  “What tidings do you bring from the south, Father?” Gwendolyn asked, delaying the other words she needed to say to him. The king had sent him to the Barren Marshes on a scouting mission. There were concerns that the Southron emperor, Jin Hoza, was planning an invasion, but thus far not a single southerner had been discovered on eastern land.

  “Why should a child care about such things?” her father said, his eyes narrowing. His silver braid hung down the center of his broad chest, and he threw it back behind him with an annoyed flourish. He was garbed in the full body armor of the
ir people, the iron perfectly molded to his muscular body. The ore even covered his neck, protecting all the vital areas, curving along his jawline and curling above his eyes to the center of his brow.

  Gwen sighed loudly. Her father was a traditionalist, believing that Orians were nothing more than children until they reached the ripe age of thirty. But Gwen didn’t feel like a child, and whenever she was with Alastair she certainly felt like a woman grown. She had aspirations to follow in her father’s footsteps, becoming a scout for the Ironclad monarchy one day. It was a dangerous occupation, but one she was well suited to for many reasons, not the least of which was the heromark that she bore on her cheek.

  On the other hand, most humans considered their children to be grown at sixteen. Though Alastair was a poet at heart, he’d been conscripted into the eastern legion the day after he turned sixteen. However, he’d yet to see battle because most legionnaires were trained for half a decade before marching to the front lines in the west. Gwen hoped to be there with him when the day finally came. “Will there be war with the south, too?” she asked.

  Her father relented, if only because he likely knew she wouldn’t stop asking questions until he did. “There has been no firm evidence that the south is planning an attack,” he said. “Yet, we will remain vigilant.”

  To Gwen’s ears, it sounded like a planned answer, with no real meat behind it. He might not be willing to be honest with her, but she was done hiding from him. If she wanted him to treat her like more than a child, she needed to stop sneaking around with her paramour. It was time to stab him with the truth, and see whether it was a flesh wound or a mortal blow.

  “I have something to—” she started to say, but just then the rest of the company arrived. There were several other Orians, both men and women, their vibrant orange, gold, purple, and pink eyes giving away their heritage. There were also several humans, and Gwen was surprised to see Alastair’s father, Levi, amongst the scouting party. It was strange because he was no scout.