His lips trembled, wanting to part, to allow his lungs to breathe, but by sheer strength of will he refused them. Eighty, ninety, one-hundred…
Water, only water. And then…
Pain scraped across his knuckles as they scraped across rock.
He’d reached the bottom of the pond.
Twelve
The Southern Empire, Phanea
Lisbeth Lorne
Lisbeth Lorne hadn’t slept in a long time. It wasn’t that she wasn’t capable, only that sleep wasn’t required. Not for her.
Instead, she liked to watch Sir Dietrich sleep, his veridian soul rising and falling with each breath. It seemed a wonder she hadn’t known him his entire life, because it felt like she had. The space before carried no meaning for her, though she knew it was the opposite for him. It was that space that frayed and dented his soul’s edges.
So it was that she’d been sitting watching her beau sleep when she’d felt the pulse of alarm in her chest. No, not in her chest, in her soul. She’d learned to listen to her soul above all else.
Rather than rousting the knight, she’d risen quickly and raced from the room, ignoring everything but the primal call of someone in need. Someone she’d been connected to from the moment their powers had united in a common cause.
The Peacemaker was in grave danger.
Her instincts had led her across the terraced palace exterior, and then into a soulless place without color. Finally, however, she’d emerged from the dark throat into a place bursting with color. Two souls stood before the tapestry of light, two who she knew and recognized. They were fatemarked, like her, each bearing the halfmark, giving them the power to fortify other fatemarked if they chose. They were holding hands, their souls becoming one, an unbroken thread of pale gray.
The power of their markings shot forth, descending into the depths of color, which Lisbeth now realized was a pond. A pond in which the Peacemaker was drowning, his pure, white soul dimming with each passing second.
She strode to meet them, though her feet didn’t touch the ground, hovering above the earth. “What can I do?” she asked.
They didn’t answer with their voices, but with their souls, which hummed with certainty. We shall strengthen you, she understood.
Her third eye began to glow, blue and warm on her forehead. She wasn’t certain what to do, for heretofore she’d used her soulmark to hurt and to reveal, nothing more. And yet instinct drove her, casting her power down, down, down, into the depths, until she sensed Roan’s faltering soul, his mouth and throat and lungs filling with water. His soul fluttered, trying to detach itself from its dying body.
No! she shouted, and she felt his soul respond, jerking as if shocked by a lightning strike. The surge was short-lived, however, and once more his soul tried to wrench itself free. She understood the freedom it yearned for, to be one with the stars, to commune with the moons, to escape into the fathomless galaxies in which this world became meaningless. There, was harmony. There, was peace.
But that didn’t mean this broken, flawed world wasn’t worth fighting for.
If nothing else, Lisbeth had learned that it was. From people like Sir Dietrich and the halfmarked standing beside her and Annise Gäric and Roan Loren himself.
Yes, she thought. Fight, Peacemaker. Fight with me. The moment these thoughts slipped from her mind, she knew how she could save him. At that very same instant she felt the support provided by Shae Arris and Erric Clawborn. They were with her. And she was with the Peacemaker.
Come to me.
And he did. He came.
Roan Loren
Roan had been unable to contain the urge to open his mouth and breathe and now his lungs were filled with water and he knew he was drowning.
At the same time, he felt his chest burning with heat as his lifemark fruitlessly tried to save him. But though his power could heal him, it could not help him breathe water.
And then, suddenly, something changed.
He felt his body slap onto solid ground and the feeling of weightlessness vanished. His eyes flashed open and he saw a dark night sky and three forms hovering over him. Two held hands that glowed brightly, while the third bore a blue eye, pulsing with energy.
The fatemarked had come for him.
He opened his mouth to breathe, but he had no strength left. And anyway, he was still filled with water. Darkness consumed him once more.
Slap!
The strength of the impact jarred him from the sleep that threatened to pull him under, his eyes flashing open. He gagged, feeling water and bile rush up the back of his throat before he spat it out as he turned to the side, coughing. Gasping. Breathing. Ragged and burning, but at least it was air and not water.
A normal person would lie there panting, gathering their strength, inwardly focused.
But Roan was no normal man.
He shoved to his feet, staggering and almost falling, but, with help from Lisbeth Lorne, he maintained his balance. “Hurry,” he said. “The emperor is in danger.”
“You must rest,” she said, and he could feel the sincerity of her words in his soul.
He gripped her arm tightly, willing her to understand. “Please. Without Bane, all is lost.”
This time he could sense that she felt his words more than heard them. “Fine,” she said, “but heal yourself as we go.”
Thirteen
The Southern Empire, Phanea
Falcon Hoza
Falcon had felt uneasy from the moment he left Roan at the Well of Truth. He’d felt uneasy as he’d walked back to his room, as he’d prepared for bed, and even as he tried to clear his mind by reading one of his favorite books—the one Shanti had given him.
He’d finally given up, blowing out his candle and tucking the book under his pillow. Sleep, however, continued to elude him.
Stop being a fool, he thought. The Peacemaker can take care of himself.
The thought helped, and finally the exhaustion of another long day took hold, his mind swimming with the dark kaleidoscope of abstract images that only come just before sleep.
He didn’t see his door crack open, a cloaked form slipping inside.
Nor did he see the flash of a knife’s edge as the killer stalked closer, his bald scalp already beginning to burn.
Bane
The emperor was asleep in the bed of his father, silent and still. Oblivious to the danger lurking within his own palace. Bane felt a sense of déjà vu. It was the same bed in which he’d killed Vin Hoza, the Slave Master, soiling the bedsheets with his dark blood. The man had been evil, a murderer and tormentor, and his blood now ran through his son’s veins.
Bane stepped closer, his hands sweating as he gripped his dark blade. A knife that had been used to kill so many. Powerful men and women. Warmongering rulers.
I should be called the Peacemaker, he thought. Not the Kings’ Bane. I am the one forging peace. Me.
Falcon Hoza, however, had been the one that got away. Bane had been in a position to kill him once, had almost done so, but then the leader of the Black Tears, Sonika Vaid, had intervened. Together they had fought Bane off.
I was weak then, Bane thought, shoving away the self-doubt. It was true—the plague had been working its way through his blood, his bones, and he was not himself. Now he felt forged of fire and shadow, as unbreakable as dragon scales. Ready to complete the task he’d been born to do, as fated by the Western Oracle’s spell.
Mother, he thought, wishing it were so. For he’d never known the love of a mother.
Shut up, he thought, just as quickly. For she was long dead and he was here and this was his choice.
The last word struck him like an off-key chord played by a drunk musician. Choice? What choice? This was who he was, who he had to be. There was no choice.
He skirted the edge of the bed and floated closer, as silent as an asp preparing to strike.
He raised the knife, his grip tightening as he prepared to land yet another killing stroke.
Roan
Though he still felt weak, Roan hurried on, supported by Lisbeth Lorne, who was far stronger than she looked. Her blue eye continued to glow, and he felt its probing, repairing the damage that had been done to his soul when he’d almost drowned.
But he didn’t care about his own near death, only the future he’d seen in the Well of Truth. Why didn’t I see before? he thought. He’d been studying the Western Oracle and her teachings for months, and then, in the Teran hole of Absence, he’d communed with her, spoken to her.
I was too close to it all, too angry about what she’d done. It was true. Knowing it was the Oracle herself who had given power to the very man who’d united the Horde and brought them to the Four Kingdoms…it had made Roan question everything.
But now…he understood. Maybe not the whys, but the hows. What he needed to do and who he needed by his side. Aye, the soulmarked and the halfmarked and the swordmarked. Aye, he needed Gwendolyn Storm, too, and her heromark. More than anyone else, however, he needed the deathmarked with him if they were going to defeat the evil that threatened to destroy the Four Kingdoms. But if Bane killed again…
All would be lost.
The Phanecians and Terans would refuse to go to war—might even execute the fatemarked. And Bane would’ve crossed the final line on his descent into darkness, swallowed by shadows too thick to penetrate with even the light of a thousand fatemarks.
Roan redoubled his speed, ignoring the ache in his chest, the rawness in the back of his throat. He broke away from Lisbeth’s strong grip, hurrying toward Falcon’s door, which was already ajar.
And stopped.
He heard his own breathing and nothing else. Saw the orange glow emanating from within the room.
Felt that he was too late. Bane was inside.
Slowly, slowly, he eased forward, tapping the door open with his foot, watching as shadows traded places with that orange glow, like the alternating stripes of a tiger. His eyes found Falcon first, lying in bed as if he was only sleeping. Unmoving.
The horror of the scene washed over Roan and he bit his lip.
Bane was in the opposite corner, squatting, his elbows on knees. It was strange seeing him like that, because once Roan had seen how the boy killed with zest, as if he relished the spill of blood the way a baker might enjoy the smell of yeast rising in the morning. Now, however, every inch of him spoke of the dolor he found himself in. His scalp glowed orange, and Roan forced himself to count the number of sections now filled with blood. One. Two. Three.
Bane was muttering something under his breath, but Roan ignored him, focused on his counting, each number like the toll of a great bell.
Four. Five. Six.
Wait. Wait.
Six.
Roan stepped closer, listening to the rush of words crashing into each other as they left Bane’s lips. “Couldn’t end…but why not?...not evil…but an emperor and eight, no ten, must die…must die for there to be peace…ordained by her, by mother…foretold….how can you refuse?...are you so weak?...yes…yes you are…”
“Bane,” Roan whispered.
The boy looked up, and the expression that mired his face was that of conflict, as if an internal battle was being waged across his very features, threatening to tear him apart. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Another step closer. “Yes. I should. I think I finally understand you.”
“You do?” Such hope in his tone. Such innocence. It was a contradiction to all that he’d done. Roan felt the others behind him, but he waved them back with his hand.
“Yes. I was so wrong. About everything.”
Bane licked his lips, and Roan finally noticed the knife resting on the ground before him.
Its blade was clean.
Thank the gods, he thought silently.
“What were you wrong about?”
“About us.”
“Us?”
“The fatemarked. Our purpose. I didn’t want to believe that you and I were two sides of the same coin, but we are.”
Bane’s eyes were wide now, and he started nodding. “Dark to light,” he whispered.
Roan nodded back. “Yes. We all must play a role in what is to come, else the world will end.”
“The Fall of All Things,” Bane said. A frown creased his forehead. “But I haven’t fulfilled my part of the prophecy.” His eyes flicked to where Falcon lay sleeping. Now Roan could see the subtle swell and fall of the bedcovers as the Phanecian emperor breathed, very much alive.
“The Oracle couldn’t see the future,” Roan explained, as much for his own benefit as Bane’s. He wasn’t making it up, exactly, just reasoning his way through the truth he’d been piecing together for months. “What she saw were only bits and pieces, and she understood the nature of men—our need to conquer, to control. War was inevitable. All she ever wanted to do was bring about the return of peace.”
“Yes,” Bane said, finally pushing to his feet. Stepping toward Roan. The glow of his marking had faded, and now shadows seemed to waft off him like thick smoke.
“You were born to”—Roan swallowed, trying to fight his own disgust—“end the lives of certain rulers.”
Bane gestured to Falcon. “I couldn’t do it. He wasn’t deserving.”
“I know,” Roan said, and it was the truth. Though he hated to admit it, the other rulers Bane had killed would’ve destroyed everything they were trying to achieve. Even Gareth’s father, Roan thought, though it pained him greatly. King Ironclad hadn’t been a bad man, but he had been a threat to peace, the fires of vengeance burning through him like a forest fire. But there were no more rulers to kill, and Bane must’ve sensed it when he stood over Falcon’s bed.
“Will you go to that place with me?” Bane asked. He extended a hand, and Roan saw the way his fingers trembled. The Kings’ Bane had been rejected so many times in his short lifetime that he seemed to almost expect it. Roan now knew he’d been wrong to do so.
“Yes,” he said. “I will.”
And then he grasped Bane’s hand and the world disappeared.
Fourteen
The Northern Kingdom, Walburg
Annise Gäric
Annise stood on the castle parapets, gazing westward. The sun had not yet risen, and so the world was gray and drab, much like her mood. They’d reached Walburg one day earlier, and she knew they could not linger here. It was not safe. Nowhere in the north was safe.
But she also couldn’t bring herself to give the command to leave.
Not without Tarin. And so she delayed, giving the refugees a chance to rest and recover from the long march before the next one. The castle city was deserted when they arrived, which meant Sir Metz and his soldiers had been successful in evacuating the city. Plenty of food and water had been left behind in their haste, which allowed the refugees from Gearhärt the opportunity to refill their provisions.
Soft footsteps drew Annise’s attention. “Iron Fay,” she said when she saw who strode toward her. The blacksmith wore a soot-stained tunic and thick breeches. Her eyes were shadowed by her long lashes and brown brows. And something else, the same shadow Annise felt falling over her own eyes.
“Any sign?” Fay said, the question empty of hope.
Annise shook her head and returned her gaze to the west. There were several forests dotting the landscape, and if anything moved within them they were well hidden. The rest of the plains were empty.
“He’ll come,” Fay said, and Annise couldn’t help but look at her when she heard the gritty determination in her tone. Their eyes met. “He’s the Armored Knight. He doesn’t know how to fail.”
Annise gave a short laugh and Fay smiled. It was true. Tarin had survived hundreds of battles and not been defeated. But Darrin had been a close call.
She hadn’t felt anything from Tarin’s monster. Her connection to him through the monster was tenuous at best, but she still expected to hear a whisper or a hiss. Something.
Still, the blacksmith’s words gave Annise hope. “As s
oon as we get settled in the east, you’ll need to forge him a new set of armor. The piecemeal suit makes him look like a deranged ogre.”
Fay laughed. “From the Hinterlands?”
“Yes. Exactly.” Annise wished Tarin were here to hear the joke. She longed to see him pretend to be offended. She would kiss away his pretense. She would take advantage of every moment with him, queen or not.
Annise noticed that Fay was no longer laughing, her smile fading to a pursed lip expression as her brows narrowed in concentration. “Is that…”
Annise followed her gaze to where the horizon was just beginning to bleed yellow light. Her heart stuttered as she saw something move. Or so she thought, though it might just be her eyes playing tricks on her, giving her false hope…
But there! There was no mistaking the form that had appeared on the edge of the horizon, its path trained directly on the castle city they now inhabited.
“You see it too?” Fay asked.
“Yes,” Annise breathed even as she thought Thank the frozen gods of the nor—
The thought vanished in an instant as another form appeared, then another. The sunlight that crested the horizon turned them to shadows, revealing the truth of the way they moved, that loping, animalistic way of running that revealed their identity.
The Horde was upon them.
Oh Tarin, Annise thought. Oh please.
She turned to Fay, blinking back tears, swallowing the bile in her throat. “Evacuate the city,” she said.
Fifteen
The Northern Kingdom, not far from Walburg
Tarin Sheary
“Urggggh,” Tarin groaned as the light hit his eyes. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to make sense of where he was.
A pinkish sky gazed down at him, creased by a thin line of clouds that seemed to separate the world into two equal halves.
Tarin tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry, tasting of copper, his tongue as rough as sandpaper. His entire body ached, as if he’d been crushed by a boulder only to have the boulder stop, turn around, and roll over him again for good measure.