The King's Marked Page 3

  With her hand outstretched, her sleeve rode up her forearm revealing the mark. I pulled her arm toward me and inspected it close. Her eyes grew wide and she jerked her hand back, dragging her sleeve low. Like a frightened mouse, she turned to scurry away, but I stopped her by placing my hand gently on her back. “Wait, don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you, nor will I say anything.”

  She stopped, looking over her shoulder. Curious as she was, I could see I had yet to earn her trust.

  “I was surprised, that’s all.”

  Marked children were rare and usually hidden. Much of the superstition about how they came to be brought fear, and fear brought intolerance. Many believed it was the mark of the wraiths, that the mother had copulated with one of the dark lords on Hallow’s Eve and born his child. If she wasn’t burned along with her infant, the mother was slit across her face, where she couldn’t hide the scar, and cast out. The scar meant everyone she met would see her for what she was, a wraith’s whore.

  Few, like myself, saw the mark for what it was, a random gift. For marked children had abilities beyond which humans could comprehend, except if you were the king. He regularly sent soldiers to scour the land for marked children, which he used to build his armies and maintain his power.

  How was it the poor child had survived this long undetected, and where was her mother?

  “You shouldn’t be out here. You know it’s dangerous, right?”

  She slowly nodded her head. “This is my home.”

  What did she mean? This village was her home? This street?

  “Where is your mother?”

  She turned her head from me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, for her silent gesture had to mean her mother was dead.

  “She’s not well.”

  Good news. At least she still had a mother. “You know, I have some knowledge in healing. Perhaps if you take me to her, I can help.”

  Peeta eyed me again. Despite being out and running free with the other children, her expression was one of caution. Given I’d never seen her before, it was likely she rarely ventured out and had done so because her mother was too sick to keep her home.

  “Let me get my herb bag and then you could lead me to her.” My tone was bright and confident, a tone of gentle command.

  Peeta crawled out from under the cart and waited beside me while I scooped the rest of the small bottles and jars into my bag. Her big brown eyes took everything in like she was normally starved of sight, which I’m sure she was most days.

  “Now”—I held out my hand—“how about some bread first and then we will go and see your mother?”

  At least I got my grin and a nod to back up her agreement. There was little left to buy by this time in the afternoon, but I managed a small loaf, which she tore at with great hunger. There wasn’t a lot of money I could spare for spending on someone else, but the poor child looked in need of something. “Save some for your mother,” I admonished her gently.

  She slipped her dirty hand in mine and led me down a side street where the road narrowed and the thatch on the cottage roofs grew mossy. We wound farther away from the market and the dwellings shrunk and were less tendered. Finally we stopped in front of a dilapidated cottage with a barren garden. A few chickens scratched in the empty soil.

  “Is this your home?”

  Instead of replying, she pulled me around the back of the house to a smaller shack at the end of the shabby garden. This was her house. The door was ajar, allowing the cold air in, but also the only source of light. In the deep of winter, when the chill became too great to leave the door open, the two would be forced to sit in the dark. The door creaked as I pushed it wider and peered inside the one-bedroom shack. The stale, rancid smell of unwashed bodies and illness mingled with the crisp freshness of the air outside. A bed was pushed up in one corner, and alongside that, a chair covered with clothes, blankets? It was hard to tell. Those two items were the only furnishings in the room. No place to light a fire or boil water or cook food. Despite their terrible conditions, for the mother of a marked child, this was considered a castle. Whoever lived in the cottage at the front had done them both a favor by allowing them to call this home.

  The woman in the bed stirred with the sudden splay of light across her face.

  “Peeta,” came the weak voice.

  The little girl went to stand beside the bed. Her mother reached out a hand and touched her cheek. “Good girl, you’re still here.”

  “Mother, I bought someone to help you.”

  The blankets were tossed about as the woman tried to push herself to sitting. “No, Peeta, no, you mustn’t, child.” She sounded so frail.

  I rushed over and crouched beside the bed so the woman would not upset herself any more.

  “It’s all right. I will not harm you or your marked child. I have some knowledge of healing, so perhaps I can help.”

  My body cast a shadow on her face, but this close, I could smell the insipid creep of death.

  “Is it all right if I touch your forehead?” I asked, but my hand was already halfway across the space.

  She did not flinch when my cold hand touched her face. As I expected, her skin was on fire. I thought of Morick’s parents dying in their beds, their bodies on fire from the cruel poison that ate them from the inside. No amount of tinctures would ease the suffering.

  I turned to Peeta. “Is there water close by?”

  “The house, but the man doesn’t like me going in there.”

  “Perhaps I can go and ask for some myself.”

  “No, you mustn’t,” came the weak plea of the mother.

  “You need to be cooled and you need clean water to drink. I can give you some of my teas, but I will need boiling water to prepare the brew. You also need hot soup.”

  The woman laughed, a feeble, raspy sound that ended in a cough. “Soup, tea.” She gasped into coughing. It took a few moments before she sobered from her spasms. “You know what I am?”

  “I don’t listen to suspicious nonsense.”

  “Then you are the only one.”

  “Who is the person in the front cottage? I will demand their help.”

  The quiet settled. The woman would not answer me. I was about to ask Peeta the same question when the mother said, “Peeta’s father.”

  But this was good. He had hidden her away rather than bring her before the townspeople to face a fate far worse than this. This had to mean he held some compassion for his daughter.

  I rose to my feet. “I will go and speak with him.”

  “Do as you will. He will not help you.”

  “Maybe not, but I will help you, whether you welcome it or not, even if it means carting boiled water from my stream.”

  Morick would help me too, and Nellene.

  I reached the door when the mother’s weak voice came from behind the blankets. “Why?”

  At the door, I turned to her. “Everyone deserves a chance at life.”

  Peeta ran at my feet as I charged my way to the father’s cottage. I stopped and looked down at her. “It may be a good idea for you to stay with your mother.”

  “But I want to go with you.”

  “It’s best I speak to him alone.” I wasn’t sure how often he saw his daughter, if at all, and was worried his compassion extended as far as giving her a roof, but no further. I did not want to anger him by parading his marked child in front of him, not when I needed to appeal to his good nature.

  A commotion farther up the street stopped me from reaching the father’s door. I moved out into the narrow lane to see better. People were coming out of their homes and gathering up toward the market square. A prickle started in my stomach and ran throughout my body.

  I spun and crouched in front of Peeta, grabbing her by the upper arms. “Go, go back to your mother and do not come out until everything is quiet.”

  “Why? What do you see?” She tried to wrench free of me as she craned her neck around me and up the lane.

  I shook her gent
ly. “Peeta, listen to me. You must hide. Go back to your mother and shut the door.”

  At the sternness in my voice, she stopped her struggling and stared at me.

  “Peeta, it’s the king’s soldiers. You know what that means?”

  She nodded, her eyes taking on a solemnity and maturity above her years.

  “Now go,” I said, giving her a shove.

  4

  I retraced my steps, back along the narrow lane, and came out amongst the crowd of villagers who were drawn, much like me, to the commotion. The arrival of the king’s soldiers brought fear and hatred tinged with a mix of fascination. Few people in this village traveled beyond the last of Lord Crofton’s fields. Our contact with the outside world came from travelers passing through, filling our only inn with dance and song and tales of distant places. I listened hardest to the talk of Railyon and the palace, which was described as decked with splendor. The women were said to wear silk and wore their hair in fashionable designs. We were told they smelled of frangipani and cardamon, which was explained as a spice that came from across the sea. The men wore tailored breeches and fine hats and rode powerful horses whose coats glistened in the sun. Railyon was said to be a bejeweled city, colorful, vibrant and filled with festivals and wonder.

  With the rest of the villagers, I grumbled at the description of riches when we were so poor, agreed when some pointed out their wealth came on the backs of our pain, that without the soldiers taking our grain, our goats and pigs, the spectacular city of Railyon would be no better than a hog’s house. I hated the king for subjugating us like this, hated the soldiers for their cruelty, but when the travelers arrived with their tales, I was that little girl again, sitting at my father’s feet while he brushed my mother’s hair and told us stories.

  We were a small village, so the crowd was thinly dispersed. The soldiers gathered in the town square upon their black horses, wearing their rich, warm cloaks. Their horses blew fog from their noses and wore a fine line of sweat along their flanks.

  “You know why we’re here,” one of the soldiers yelled across at the gathered crowd. Unlike the other soldiers, he wore a black cloak that hung over the flank of his horse. “Let’s make this easy and orderly so you can get back to your fields and we may be on our way.”

  A purple scar pierced the corner of his bottom lip and another followed the curve of his left eye. He scanned the crowd, pressing his lips into a thin line. Two of his men had commandeered a cart and were setting it up as their table, where they would record the takings.

  “I’m sure I do not need to list the consequences of hiding your wealth from the king,” he drawled.

  “What wealth?” a man yelled from behind me.

  The captain who gave the speech ignored the interruption and motioned for the rest of his men to move amongst the village, checking inside homes and pens to ensure nothing was spared from the king’s taxes.

  I scanned the crowd for Nellene and Larissa. Thank god they had stayed away. A visitor would appear at their door soon enough, but it was best they weren’t here to witness the plundering of our stores. Most of all I feared seeing Morick.

  A hand slipped into mine and I looked up into Morick’s eyes. “What are you doing here?” I hissed in alarm.

  “You should not be here alone.”

  “You’re in more danger than I. Go, hide in the forest.”

  He shook his head. “Not without you. I’ve hidden Nellene and Jacom, and now I’ve come to be with you.”

  “Morick, this is stupid. If the king’s soldiers are here for young men…”

  “If they wanted me, they would’ve taken me already. Look at them. They are only interested in our food supplies. They wish to bleed us dry so we are too weak to start a rebellion.”

  I knew Morick well enough to know he would not listen to my pleas for his safety, not when he thought I was in danger.

  “Then let us leave,” I said. “We can go to the northern forest and wait for the soldiers to depart.”

  Leaving the rest of the villagers to face the soldiers while I hid was selfish of me, but there was little I could do by standing here. And Morick was my main concern, he and my family, but the soldiers would not care for an invalid like my mother, and Nellene and Jacom were safe.

  “Is that what you want?” Morick asked, leveling his eyes to mine.

  “I want whatever keeps you safe.”

  Male cries stopped us before we could move one step. My heart froze and a small cry escaped my throat when I spied Welhim being dragged by his shirt along the ground. I surged forward without thought, but Morick, having a hold of my hand, pulled me back. “You can’t do anything.” He pressed his lips to my hair.

  The soldier dragged Welhim into the open in front of the gathering. The captain, still sitting astride his horse, looked down at him. “What do we have here?”

  “A peasant trying to hide the king’s share,” the soldier said with a smirk.

  The captain threw his leg over the horse’s withers and slid to the ground, light and nimble. I guessed his age by the wrinkles around his eyes and top of his lip. He was likely double my age. “Did he now?” He strode toward Welhim, tapping the whip in his hand against his leg.

  “We can’t have that now, can we?” He walked past Welhim, held down by the soldier’s boot placed upon his stomach.

  The captain addressed us with his hands spread beside him. “You know I do not choose to do this. The king loves his subjects. He wishes you no ill and takes only that which is his due.”

  My eyes fell to his forearm, exposed now his sleeve rode up. He was marked. The sickness in my stomach threatened to loosen my breakfast. It seemed others had seen the mark, for mumbles broke out around us. I heard the word marked ripple through the crowd, but none dared to do more than make their anger known by spreading venom in their voices.

  He turned and paced back to Welhim. Staring down at him, he said, as much to the rest of us as Welhim, “You must understand that we can’t allow stealing from the king’s coffers to go unpunished.” With that, he sneered.

  Morick turned my head into his chest. “You do not need to watch.”

  I leaned into him, burying my face in as far as I could, and flinched at the sound of the first lash being dealt. Welhim cried out in pain, the sound of which would follow me into my sleep. I clutched tightly to Morick’s shirt as another lash was dealt. With his next cry, I could not hide any longer. Welhim would not want witnesses, but no man should suffer alone. I could not stop them, but I could allow my hatred to grow. That was the only gift I could give Welhim.

  The next noise was a woman’s cry. A murmur rippled through the crowd. I turned in the direction of the noise, but Morick pressed my cheeks between his palms. “No, Rya, close your eyes.”

  “What?” The panic was ripped from my throat as I tore my face from Morick’s hands. Larissa was dragged into view and thrown to the ground next to her husband. She crawled over to him, babbling tears, and swept him into her arms. Her dress was ripped down the front, exposing her underclothes, her hair unraveled from its bun, half-loose and wild.

  “Larissa,” I breathed.

  “This one was a little feisty,” the soldier said, sharing a smirk with the captain. “She knows her place now.” He snorted a laugh as he glared down at the couple huddled together on the ground. “Perhaps she will not welcome her husband back into her bed now she knows what she is missing.”

  The tears blurred my vision, and I wiped them away and swallowed hard to clear the thickening in my throat. I willed my rage into a weapon. I could not, of course, but if it were possible, I would stab him through the heart and hold his face close so I could watch that smirk slide from his lips as his life ebbed away.

  “Maybe this one would like a ride back to Railyon,” the soldier who’d dragged her here said. “It would keep us all amused for the journey.”

  His companions laughed.

  I stared at Larissa. My dear, sweet Larissa, reduced to a whore by their
words. Something inside of me snapped. I pushed forth. Morick made a grab for my arm, but I flung him off and pressed to the front.

  “Don’t you dare,” I yelled at the backs of the soldiers as they moved over to the cart.

  They spun around to stare at me. I moved to stand over Larissa and Welhim. “You ask us to abide by your laws, you punish those who break them, and yet you do not abide by them yourself.”

  The captain stepped forward, tapping his whip on the palm of his hand in a threatening gesture. “Please, enlighten us.” He looked to his soldiers, gathering them into the joke.

  “The king declared no married woman would be taken.”

  “Did he now? I must admit I have forgotten that part.”

  He closed the distance between us, bringing his clean smell with him. His whip shot out, catching me under the chin. With applied pressure, he forced my head up. “Tell me, are you married?”

  “I claim her. She is my wife.”

  I closed my eyes as my heart fell. Please don’t do this, Morick.

  The captain shifted his gaze from Morick to myself. With his whip still held beneath my chin, I could not turn to look at Morick, could not use my expression to tell him he had to stay out of this or he’d end up the king’s slave.

  The captain glared at me. I felt a strange sensation ripple through my connection with the whip. It ran like heat across my cheek and down my neck into my heart.

  “It is true she loves you, but is that enough to say the two of you are bound?” He scanned the crowd. “Who can vouch for these two?”

  There was a moment’s silence when a woman’s voice spoke out, “I can.”

  No, Gwelin. If the captain discovered her lie, she would be punished too.

  “Come.” The captain summoned her forth with a wave of his fingers.

  Gwelin gave me a short smile as she came alongside. I tried to feed my apology into my stare. Morick and Gwelin faced punishment because I’d spoken out. But I could not stand silent while my best friend was taken.

  The captain gripped her forearm. His fingers dug into her sleeve. Her face grimaced with his tight hold. He stared into her eyes and a smile inched across his lips. “It seems the woman is lying. As is the lover. To be married this week does not mean married now.”