The mark was too swirly and intricate to be a birthmark. He must have dyed the design into his own flesh. I had never seen anything like it. He stood beside me so the gathered ruffians could see both of our arms at the same time. “Do you see it? It was a ring.” He laughed. “How perfectly brilliant and subtle.”
“What are you talking about?”
Izayik rolled his eyes. “Look.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me closer, under the light. “See that? You can even see the crest! Oh, why did I not think of this?”
“What crest? Think of what?”
Izayik pinched my chin and tugged my head closer to my arm.
“Look at that.” He prodded the birthmark with his index finger. “When the Delaren children were born, they were marked. I assumed the Steward’s Mark was made with some sort of mythical ink. But this — this is a brand.”
I snorted. “It’s a birthmark. I have not been branded.”
“Your birthmark has a perfectly shaped letter inside it.”
I regretted not paying closer attention when Mel was teaching me my letters because I had no idea what he meant. He saw the blank look on my face and scowled.
“You can’t read, can you?” he asked.
“No, I don’t read.” I flushed with embarrassment. “I don’t have to know my letters to know you’re out of your mind. This is just a birthmark. It doesn’t mean anything. You are Izayik, not me. What does it matter if I have a weird mark on my arm?” I tugged away from him and shrugged off the hands of his cronies.
“Yes,” Izayik mused. “And yet…” He tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “Why did Canron believe you were Izayik? He must have given some reason.”
Zarra answered his question. “The king’s seer told him he was the one. Made a big fuss about it, asking for volunteers and all.”
“Really?” Izayik scrutinized me. “Fascinating.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “But you’re so ugly.”
“I will snap you in half,” I said.
Izayik grinned. “I like your fire, kid.” He playfully punched my shoulder. “It really is a shame that you have to die now.”
“What?”
“On the off chance that the seer is right and you are Izayik Delaren, well, you understand how embarrassing that would be for me, don’t you?”
“But you just said you were Izayik.” I backed away from him and bumped into one of his thugs.
“I am,” he said with a wink. He certainly winked a lot. Maybe the wink was an uncontrollable tic. “Let me give you a quick history lesson, farmboy. Izayik Delaren died a long time ago, along with his miserably inept parents.”
“Then who are you?”
“I’m merely a storyteller, farmboy — an actor playing a part. I intend to keep Izayik’s story alive, no matter the cost. That means no big public executions and no loose ends. The people must believe he lives.”
Izayik had backed me into a corner.
“Why?” I asked.
“The legend goes,” Izayik explained, “that the king’s steward escaped with the boy.”
A voice from the memories of dreams whispered in my mind: “Here is my wish: Protect my son. Roth-Scheen, please. Protect him.”
“The boy grew to be a mighty warrior, a defender of the poor, a disease afflicting the new king and his most loyal followers.”
“Like the general,” I said.
“If you leave gifts for the lost prince on the eve of his birth every year,” Izayik tugged at the fancy clothing he wore, “then he will consider you loyal to his birthright, and he will defend you. If not, then you are on your own when the deadmen come.”
My leg hit the edge of a stool shoved in the corner. I buckled onto it.
“Please understand that this is nothing personal. We just have to keep the story alive. No matter the cost.” Izayik nodded at the man who had cut my sleeve earlier. “Kill him,” he said.
The big man grabbed his knife.
I gripped the edge of the stool, ignoring the pain in my burnt hand. Desperately, I blurted the one thing I had not allowed myself to consider until now. “But what if I am the real Izayik?”
The ruffians hesitated.
Izayik threw his head back and laughed. “Impossible. None of the royal family survived the revolt.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
Izayik scowled. “Kill him,” he said again.
I threw my hands up to protect myself as the big man barreled toward me. Before he could lay a hand on me, I heard metal collide with metal and gasps of surprise.
“That is quite enough,” Roth-Scheen said.
I opened my eyes. And sure enough, there he stood. Or rather, floated. He hovered a hand’s span off the ground, his crutch held out in front of him like a warrior’s staff. It was unmistakably him, in all his bizarre, wondrous, angry glory.
“Please learn to defend yourself, Izayik,” Roth-Scheen said to me over his shoulder. “I tire of rescuing you.”
“Yes, sem,” I said.
The stunned silence was broken by the big ruffian. He dove forward with a shout. Roth-Scheen held up his hand, palm out, and the big man froze. He jutted his palm forward, and his attacker flipped off his feet, crashing into a bookshelf behind him.
Chaos broke out with a series of angry shouts as the gathered thugs attempted to reach Roth-Scheen. They grabbed various weapons and charged, but each one was blown off their feet like they were made of parchment or else clubbed over the head by Roth-Scheen’s crutch.
All except the soldier-woman named Zarra. Every time Roth-Scheen tried to shove her away, she disappeared from sight and reappeared a couple feet away, often on top of an overturned desk or the bruised body of a groaning comrade. She wasn’t the most graceful fighter, but she was certainly skilled enough to keep Roth-Scheen from knocking her over.
“You’re quite the talented Stepper,” he grunted, blocking her next attack with his crutch. She had appeared much closer than before, and had it not been for his quick reaction time, she would have cut him open. “Who did you murder to get that fancy boot of yours?”
When she saw his hand flex, Zarra Stepped out of his way. Her sudden disappearance caught Roth-Scheen off balance, and he fell forward. Zarra reappeared beside him, her sword already slicing through the air. She struck him at the hip. Metal scraped against metal and he spun through the air, dropping his crutch. He braced himself against a table and scowled at Zarra. His coat had been cut by her sword, revealing plated armor beneath. Despite having the element of surprise, she hadn’t managed to cut his skin.
“That’s—!” Zarra stammered in surprise.
Roth-Scheen smirked. “Did you think that you were the only one with Insurgent’s Armor?” he asked.
Zarra Stepped again. At the same time, three other ruffians jumped forward. Roth-Scheen was ready for them all. He pulled a glass bottle from his coat. When Zarra appeared in front of him, he threw it to the floor. It exploded on contact, throwing Zarra and the other attackers off their feet. A greenish gas billowed upward from the remnants of the bottle he had destroyed. Roth-Scheen pulled his bulky collar up over his mouth and nose and floated out of the way of the fumes.
Zarra knelt on the floor, holding her stomach as she dry heaved. Tears streamed down her face. Another man leaned over a broken desk and vomited, gagging on the greenish gas. I flattened myself against the wall, hoping to avoid the same fate.
“You’re good, girl,” Roth-Scheen said to Zarra, thrusting his hand forward. She was thrown against the wall. He held her pinned simply by showing her his palm. “But I’m much better.”
He bent to retrieve his crutch.
No one moved to attack him this time. They were all too busy trying to blink tears out of their eyes.
“You,” Roth-Scheen pointed his crutch at Izayik. Or, rather, Not-Izayik. He had not taken part in the fight. He stood out of the way of the gas, holding his tunic up over his mouth and nose. “Listen well,” Roth-Scheen said. “The prince
will be leaving now.”
That was me … right?
“If any of you try to stop him, I will prove to you that the phrase ‘a fate worse than death’ describes me.”
Izayik and Roth-Scheen glared each other down. At last, Izayik looked away and grudgingly raised his hands in defeat.
“Izayik, can you stand?” Roth-Scheen asked.
“Me?” I asked, to clarify.
“Yes, you!”
“Yes. I can stand.”
“Then get up. Stop cowering like a caitiff. Your father would be ashamed.” I didn’t know what a caitiff was, but I certainly didn’t want to be compared to one in such a tone. I stood, wobbling a little. I was light headed with sheer relief.
The Man saw the clutter between us and the door and gave a disgusted huff. With a wave of his hand, the furniture, papers, and books scattered, leaving a clear path for us to walk. I heard one of the ruffians murmur something about a “faye-creature” through his choked coughs. Roth-Scheen gestured for me to walk past him out the door, to freedom. At the doorway, I turned around to face the gang of ruffians.
The other Izayik’s surprise had become outrage. He stood glowering at me. No one had ever looked at me with such raging hatred. For the moment, I reveled in it. The sheer impossibility of it all had not yet entered my mind.
I gave them my most charming smile, pointed at the man in the purple tunic, and dubbed him with a new name.
“Imposter,” I said. Then I swaggered out the door before they could see the panic in my eyes.
Roth-Scheen and I stepped out into the cool night air of the city. It was surprisingly bright outside despite the dark sky overhead. Torches burned at every door, and the streets were bustling with people. The city was like the inside of Mum’s chicken coop: everything stacked on top of each other and squashed together. Every building in this strange place was perched up on stilts like they were simply too good to touch the filthy ground. The marketplace stalls were built on platforms. Many of the mainlanders we passed wore boots that were humorously tall, encompassing more of their legs than their britches did. Even the women wore pants, high boots, and long coats.
The streets were wooden, lifted up above the ground as if the whole city had been built on the water. But there was no water below the streets. There was only thin, white mist gathered in the dark where the light of the lanterns didn’t reach. I squinted down at the mist, feeling shivers along my spine.
I kept glancing over my shoulder to see if the Imposter’s thugs were following us. But I recognized no one among the sea of faces. Roth-Scheen seemed unconcerned that we might be followed.
He was no longer floating now that we were out in the streets. I wondered why he would struggle with the crutch when I knew he could float, but I didn’t ask. There were too many other questions swirling in my mind.
I felt distinctly uncomfortable surrounded by so many people. There was no chance to speak to Roth-Scheen over the din without hollering my questions at him. I was terrified he would disappear on me at any moment. Then I would never know why he had saved me or why he called me “prince.” And if he left me here, how would I ever get home?
Roth-Scheen got ahead of me. He was surprisingly quick on his crutch. He vaulted ahead with the confidence of a man who had walked these streets many times. I had to jog to keep up, squeezing through the masses of people. I was lost before we’d even begun. Every street we turned down was just like the last — like one never-ending festival. At last, Roth-Scheen ducked down a side road, and the bustling city life came to an abrupt end. These dark streets were lit only by the occasional lantern. There wasn’t a living being in sight. The wooden path we had been walking on ended with a couple half-hearted, crooked steps that descended into the mist.
Roth-Scheen pulled a long candle from his coat and held it up to a burning lantern. The wick caught, and a cheery flame appeared at the tip. He used the candle to light the lantern he wore at his hip. I had considered it an odd fashion choice to walk around with a lantern on one’s belt, but I soon understood the wisdom of it. As he floated down off of the platform streets, the mist fled from the light of his fire.
“Never travel the mainlands without fire,” he warned me.
He handed the burning candle to me. It was made of a stick wrapped with a coiled wick covered in beeswax. The light wasn’t incredibly bright, but it would last a while.
I hesitated at the edge of the platform. A little ways down the road stood a dark building with mist pouring from its windows, cloaking the street around it. The hairs on my neck stood on end.
Roth-Scheen was already moving. Terrified that I would be left behind, I said a quick prayer for protection and hopped down to the ground. I held my breath as the mist swirled around me. My little candle was barely enough to keep the mist away. I squared my shoulders and followed.
We walked in silence. I was tortured with the burn of unanswered questions.
Occasionally, I saw a flurry of movement in a window before the curtains were hastily closed. In the darkness of an arched doorway, I saw a woman staring at me with wide, fascinated eyes. I wondered if her body was still inside the dark building, or if it had been burned in time. Had this poor soul watched herself become a deadman?
The silence was beginning to spook me.
“People live out here,” I said. “Why are there no soldiers?”
“The king has most of his soldiers busy looking for you.”
“Oh.”
I cleared my throat to fill the silence. Roth-Scheen didn’t speak again.
“Roth-Scheen—” I began.
He whirled on me so quickly he almost knocked the candle out of my hand.
“Where did you hear that name?” he demanded.
“I—” How did I know his name? I swallowed. “The seer showed me,” I explained. Roth-Scheen’s eyes darkened.
“I’ll kill that seer if I get the chance,” he growled. “She ruined everything.” His attention focused back on me. “You are never to use that name. Do you understand? That was a nickname your father gave me. I won’t have you spoiling it.”
“Oh,” I said. “What would you like me to call you?”
“My name is—” He proceeded to make the strangest sound I had ever heard.
“Um,” I said. “May I call you Rath?” That was sort of what the first syllable sounded like.
He considered it for a moment, then nodded. “You may call me Rath.”
“Rath,” I said, “where are we going?”
“Out of the capital,” he said. “You have many enemies here.”
“Why?”
“The king would kill you if he found you.”
“Why?”
“To punish you for the crimes committed by that imposter. To ensure you don’t insight a rebellion. To make certain that the seer’s prophecies don’t come true.”
“What did that seer say about me?”
Rath shrugged. “I only know rumors. But she knew enough to identify you, which is trouble enough. On top of that, she told Safford that you are dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Me?”
“Unfortunately, Safford believes her.”
“But why? How? I mean — how is this possible? How did I get here?” I tugged my hair and flinched from the pain in my burned hand. “Why did that boot burn me? How did you know where I was? Why do you keep saving me? Why does the seer believe all these lies about me?”
Rath held up his hand to stop me. “We don’t have time for all of these questions, Izayik.”
I scowled. “I am not moving until I get answers.”
“You need answers now?” Rath glanced to each side. “Here?” He gestured to the dark, empty lane and the mist that crept dangerously close legs.
I crossed my arms, careful to hold the lighted candle away from my torn sleeve. “I’m not moving until you answer my questions.”
Rath scoffed. “You are so much like your father,” he said.
“You don’t know my pa.
”
“I said your father, not your pa.”
I didn’t like that distinction.
“My pa and my father are the same man,” I said.
We glared at each other. Finally, Rath groaned.
“Alright, I’ll make a deal with you,” he said. “I will answer three of your questions right now. Just three, and then we must keep moving.”
I could live with that. “Three questions. First. Who are you?”
Rath’s lip twitched in the beginnings of a teasing smile. “I already told you. My name is—” He made the same guttural, half-coughing noise he had earlier.
“Ha ha. Very funny. I know your name. Who are you?”
“I was your father’s steward,” he said. “When you were born, I marked you with my ring.” He showed me his left hand. Sure enough, he wore a ring with a raised swirly design on it. It was probably a letter, but it wasn’t one of the few letters I knew. It matched the one on my arm. “The same as I did for your sister before you.”
I had a sister? Of course I had a sister. I had four sisters. They were back home in the cottage in Hazeldown, probably worried sick for my safety. If Prince Izayik had a sister, it was no business of mine. I knew Rath was baiting me, trying to make me ask more questions so he wouldn’t have to give me a complete answer. I bit my tongue and waited. Sure enough, he continued.
“I am of the Jinee people,” he said.
“I’ve never heard of the Jinee.”
“Good. We like it that way. We are wish granters, like the seraphim. I owed your father a wish. On the night of the revolt, he thrust you into my arms and wished for me to protect you. And I have. Your whole life, I have watched you grow in the care of the family with which I placed you, and I have intervened on your behalf when otherwise death would have claimed you.”
I rubbed my arm, tracing the Steward’s Mark with my thumb. His story lined up with the vision I had seen when the seer touched me. This mark on my arm matched his ring. Could it be possible that he was telling the truth?
“Who am I?” I asked.
Rath met my gaze with his gray-brown eyes. “You are Izayik Jeffrey Delaren, the youngest child and only son of Willian Kevack and Aerona Delaren. Your mother was once the crowned queen of Aldrin before her untimely death. Your father was her consort. He also died on the night of the revolt.” He was no longer focusing on me. I wondered if he was remembering the night Willian and Aerona had died. “You had a sister, Aunyssa, who would have been the heir. But she was a sickly child and passed away before you were born. Your mother, your father, and your elder sister are all dead. May the seraphim preserve their souls. You, Izayik, are the only surviving member of the Delaren royal family. You are the rightful heir to the Aldrin throne. If your family were still in power, you would be the king.”
Fatal Heir Page 5