by R.K. Ryals
Chapter 34
Two full days later we were back in the rebel camp, scrubbed clean from a quick stop at Feras' cave. The hot water from the pool within the cavern had felt good against the bruises marring my skin, and I'd scrubbed hard, tears pouring down my cheeks. No amount of scouring could erase the scars. Kye spoke not a word.
Another week passed inside the forests, and new marked folk entered the camp, their faces ashen. Some of them had been prisoners in the same courtyard Kye and I had escaped. Jule was among them, and she ran to her son, letting Brennus lift her into an embrace that melted my already wounded heart. News spread fast after that, and Kye's heritage was soon revealed, his royal blood a bone of contention among the rebels. Many trusted him, others didn't. Still, Kye didn't speak, his face hard. He had occasional conversations with small groups of rebels, but often he disappeared among the trees. I didn't seek him out. I was licking my own battle wounds and suffering my own nightmares.
Still another week passed. I sat now within the small tent in the camp, my bed roll unused next to me, my abused face no longer swollen but still discolored. I wore a new green tunic, my short, curly hair a wild halo on my head. My tent flap was open, and I sat with my knees up, my eyes watching as the sun rose on yet another new day. Pink and yellow sunlight lit up the dew, and mist curled along the ground. The wind blew, carrying a crispness that lifted my curls and brushed the abrasions on my face.
“We are with you,” the trees whispered.
Kek, kek, a falcon called.
A shadow moved along the tent's fabric, and a wolf's snout was suddenly visible through the flap followed by the undeniable white mark on his silver pelt as Oran pushed his head through. He crawled forward, his fur brushing my tunic as he laid his nose across my knees. He was offering comfort, and I took it. I closed my eyes as I dug my fingers into his coat, lowering my face so that it rubbed against his fur.
There were footsteps beyond the tent.
When I opened my eyes, I saw Kye standing before the trees. He wore black leather breeches, and a white tunic that fell open, untied. He stood out in a forest full of green-clad rebels. Brennus walked past him, his gaze going to the prince, but Kye didn't look up. His head was down.
Another brisk wind crept through the clearing, and I watched as Kye's tunic lifted, the new criss cross scars on his back clearly visible before the shirt rested again. My magic could heal wounds, but scars would always remain. The prince and his map of scars.
Kye finally moved then, his gaze sweeping the men and women who'd begun walking through the camp. I could hear fires being stoked, the smell of food wafting through the area as Ena scolded Nikalia for stealing bread. An arrow hissed. Two swords met, the clang both comforting and terrifying.
I closed my eyes again, my fingers playing softly with Oran's ears.
“The forest is always with you. We share your pain,” the wolf promised.
I exhaled. The trees whispered.
When I opened my eyes next, it was to find Kye turned, his gaze on the tent flap, on me. I stared back. Neither of us moved. Kyenar Grenville Berhest, son of Raemon Berhest VII, tyrant king of Medeisia. His face was shaved, his black hair just brushing the collar of his white tunic. The scar on his temple was stark, his high cheekbones shadowed by weariness. Scars ran along his chest, the most prominent on his lower right abdomen.
“Kye!” a high voice yelled. Maeve.
The prince looked away, his gaze moving to the sweet-faced girl running toward him, a smile plastered on her face.
“The rebels are gathered just as you asked.”
Kye nodded, and he stepped away without another backward glance. I stirred then, my legs stiff, my muscles sore.
“Come,” I told Oran.
We moved beyond the tent. In the open, Kye stood before a group of weapon wielding rebels, a sword in the ground near his hand. He leaned on it.
“Our country suffers,” he said. “More people are marked daily. Children are being taken away from their parents, and the king is spreading lies that will start a war with a nation much larger than ours. It is our job to stop them now.”
I moved quietly through the camp, skirting the clearing, the wolf beside me.
“And what do we do?” Warwick asked.
Kye looked at him.
“We train, we gather more marked folk, and we fight. Thanks to a rebel among us, we know now what the king plans to do to start war with Sadeemia. We stop him.”
“How?” another man asked. I made a mental note to introduce myself to him, to find out if he had a family.
Kye began making marks in the dirt with the sword at his hand, his words echoes in my brain. His plan would take all of us on a journey we may not return from. It would take us out of the protection of the forest. It could kill us. It could redeem us.
“We go to war,” Kye said finally. “Win or lose, we will return from it free.”
His eyes moved over the people before him, searching each man and woman before pausing on a new face. It was the face of one of the prisoners who'd stood on a barrel next to us in Aireesi.
“Ludwick,” he said.
The man nodded, moving through the rebels, a pot of ink and a metal prong in his hand. My eyes widened as Kye knelt, his arms held out in front of him.
“On one wrist, I take the mark of the scribe. On the other, I will bear the mark of the mage,” Kye announced.
There was no sound. There was only astonishment, wide eyes, and a new acceptance. In Aireesi, a king sat on the throne, his people ruled by fear. But in the forest, a new king was being initiated. A king of the people, his crown a tattoo.
Ludwick knelt next to him, the metal prong dipped in ink. Kye stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched. He didn't make a sound when the point pierced his skin.
I moved closer, my eyes on the prince's wrist. An inkwell began to appear, lines drawn through it, cracks.
The marked folk in the camp who bore the mark of the scribe knelt, their heads low as Ludwick removed the prong. He moved to Kye's other side.
Again, ink met skin, a burning star beginning to materialize. Blood dripped onto the ground, mixing with the soil below Kye's hand.
I inched closer.
The marked folk in the camp who bore the mark of the mage knelt, their heads lowered. Silence reigned.
I stood behind the prince now, my eyes meeting Ludwick's. He was an older man with grey hair beginning to appear at his temples. He was short, his otherwise brown hair thin on the back of his head. He clung to the pot and prong, his expression unsure.
I lifted my wrist.
“I bear the mark of the scribe,” I said suddenly.
Heads lifted. Kye stood, his teeth clenched against the pain I knew he was feeling now in his arms. His gaze moved down to meet mine, and I raised my right hand.
I inhaled. “I'm now asking for the mark of the mage.”
I didn't look at anyone as I knelt, my hand held out. I think I was afraid I'd be refused, but Kye must have nodded because Ludwick knelt next to me.
A hand settled on my opposite shoulder. I knew it was Kye's without looking up. The metal prong dug into my skin. I stared hard at the ground, my jaw tight.
“A scribe,” Kye said softly, “with the powers of a mage.”
When the prong finally lifted, I exhaled, but I didn't stand.
“What makes you think we could win this war?” someone asked suddenly.
Kye's hand tightened on my shoulder.
“Because we have something the king doesn't have,” Kye answered.
“What's that?” the same person asked.
Kye didn't hesitate, his gaze heavy now on my back.
“We have the phoenix of peace.”
About the Author
R.K. Ryals makes her home in Southern Mississippi with her husband and three daughters. Admittedly addicted to old black and white movies, history, sweets, and coffee, she spends her time writing and reading whatever she
can get her hands on.
Other Works Available
The Redemption Series
Redemption
Ransom
Retribution
The Acropolis Series
The Acropolis
The Labyrinth
The Thorne Trilogy
Cursed
The Scribes of Medeisia Series
Tempest
The Singing River
Coming Soon
Possessed: Thorne Trilogy Book 2
Fist of the Furor: Scribes of Medeisia Book 3
Retaliation Bridge
Revelation: Redemption series book 4