The King's Marked Read online

  He stepped aside, a silent usher out the door. The sky was now a faded blue, the sun sinking fast toward the horizon. From in the courtyard, I would not see the sunset; instead, my view was the high stone wall.

  Cerac walked off, expecting me to follow, beside him or behind him? I did what I thought was expected and kept a few paces behind, but he soon stopped and turned, frowning at me. “Are you afraid to walk beside me?”

  “I’m from the country, where we don’t have royalty. You will have to excuse my lack of etiquette.”

  “You’ve asked about me?”

  I glanced away from his cheeky smile. “The soldiers who brought me mentioned you were the king’s son.”

  “Pity.” He kept walking. “But interesting that you should’ve know that truth all along and not addressed me by my proper title.”

  This time I came along side him. “Does it anger you?”

  “You continue to intrigue me. But come I have something to show you.”

  We crossed the courtyard into another entrance that expanded out into a large room filled with a long table surrounded by enough chairs to seat at least twenty men. The ceiling stretched high, with giant wooden beams spanning from one side of the room to the other.

  “The fighters eat here,” Cerac said.

  “Where do these men come from?”

  “Here and afar. Some come from neighboring kingdoms, some from the country, most from this city.”

  “And they do this for sport?”

  He strode backward toward the table, arms spread wide. “To prove their strength and worth. Winners receive great rewards, wealth, a high-ranking position in the army, women.” That latter he said with a wink. “But I can see you are not impressed.”

  “Not when fighting is made into a sport.”

  I followed him over to the table. The wood was gouged in many places, scratched marks from the many fighters eating here over a great span of years.

  “How do you choose a winner?”

  “Easy. The last man standing.”

  “And the men volunteer to enter the arena?”

  “You sound so surprised.” Nothing could dampen his enthusiasm.

  “At home, we don’t have time to play frivolous games. Our lives are spent trying to stay alive.”

  Cerac’s smile fell. He turned and rested his hands on the back of a chair. “You’re right. I can see how this must look to you. But this is not the country anymore. Life is different here.”

  “When we entered the walls of the city, we passed many poor, scratching a living out of nothing. Their lives appeared crueler than anything I experienced back home.”

  “Anyone can try their luck in the arena. Even the poor. They are housed and fed within these walls until such time as they have proved themselves. If they lose, they are sent home with adequate wages to support them for a season.”

  “You’re right, this is not the country.”

  Cerac looked lost for words. It didn’t last long. “Come, I want to show you the armory.”

  He bounded out another door, reminding me of a small child full of eagerness for the next adventure. Cerac led me down a passage lit only by large torches hung from metal brackets on either side. At the other end, we came out into a dim room with little natural light. The room was no smaller than the dining hall, and the armory centerpiece was a rack of swords and not a table. A wooden bench ran around the wall, and above that, weapons of various shapes were shouldered in metal hooks. Gouged marks ran in vertical lines on every space of the wall, lining up side by side. Above segregated groups of marks were names. I moved closer to read them.

  “The warriors like to keep their tally.”

  I turned around the room. “Every warrior has done this.”

  He came over to stand beside me. “See, it covers the benches as well.”

  I’d not noticed at first, for the lines were small, but the bench was a mutilated carcass of deep gouges.

  “This room will be part of your job. The weapons are cleaned every day.”

  Cleaning a weapon covered in someone’s blood was not something I would look forward to.

  Cerac pulled a sword from the rack and swiped it through the air in a smooth arc. “Fednick, that’s Pralovic’s apprentice, will teach you the proper way to make them shine,” he said, raising the blade erect and running a hand down the flat metal surface.

  With one hand, he undid the clasp of his cloak and tossed it aside. He fought the air with strong, confident movements, involving the whole of his body in his jabs and slices, which were completed with efficiency and skill. Turning on his heel, he imaginary fought a foe from behind before spinning back and slicing the air in front. In the dim light, he became a dark and dangerous predator. And I was mesmerized by the beauty of his expertise and the power in his body as he dealt each blow.

  He suddenly dropped his stance and the blade. “I get carried away. As you have no doubt guessed.”

  As he raised the sword to replace it on the rack, I saw a faint illumination through the sleeve on his forearm. His mark.

  “Do you fight in the arena?”

  “The master of the arena is expected to fight.”

  “Do you have a tally somewhere on these walls?”

  “Not on these walls, no.”

  “Does the mark help you win?”

  He looked down at his forearm, the glow fading now he wasn’t jabbing the sword around. “It makes me undefeatable.”

  “Where I come from, the marked are hunted.”

  With the sword replaced, he retrieved his cloak and clasped it around his neck. “There are many in the city who remain superstitious.”

  “I bet they hold their tongue given you are the king’s son.”

  “I would like to think that gives me immunity, but it does not stop the whisperings. The king understands the importance of keeping the marked alive. Our gift is the only defense against what comes out of the dead forest.”

  “So you believe the legend that says a marked bound the wraiths to the dead forest?”

  He shrugged. “A legend’s a legend. It makes no difference to me. All I know is what I see with my own eyes. I know the power I wield. I know what I am capable of.” It was echoed with pride.

  “Have you fought a wraith before?”

  “They come rarely to the city on Hallow’s Eve. Nonetheless, we ward ourselves within our homes and build our bonfires of sage.”

  Cerac came around the rack of swords and stood before me. “The answer to your question is no. I have never seen a wraith. Though I have fought their vicious pets and a demon or two. And now we have something in common.”

  I frowned up at him.

  “We have both fought a wraith’s pet.”

  “I cowered.”

  “Intent is the most important thing. Had you not been tied, you would’ve fought.” His dark eyes were concealed in the dim light. “But that’s enough of that topic. You have to see the arena.” His tone was now light.

  Cerac diverted from the passage we followed into a narrow arched door and to a flight of stairs that wound in a spiral as we ascended. The stairwell would be dark if not for the occasional window, which gave me a look out onto the orange-tinged horizon. We wound forever upward, and I had to run my hand along the cold bricks to keep from losing my balance. I’d never been this high.

  We came out onto a platform of stone seats, over looking a dirt filled center. The seats ran in tiers around the Arena. Half way from where we stood, toward the setting sun, a row of cushioned stone seats were segregated from the rest of the viewing crowd by a stone wall and high pillars.

  Following my eyes, Cerac said, “The king sits at that end. Along with his latest consort and my eldest brother.”

  Latest consort was pronounced with a sting in his voice.

  “Where do you sit?”

  “I join them, sometimes, or I will be found in the anterior chamber, which is where the men go before they enter the arena.”

  “You hav
e a brother?”

  “Hunrus is commander of the army.”

  I detected a hint of derision in his voice. It seemed Cerac and his elder brother were not on good terms, which was true of many families, especially families where the brothers had so much to prove to their father. My head was full of questions regarding his family, about his life as a child and growing up a marked, since I’d rarely ever met one before. A life of privilege was vastly different from my own. What would it be like to learn of life through his eyes?

  “Perhaps I should go,” I blurted out.

  “You’re not happy with the sunset?”

  Given how high we were, the horizon became an expanse filled with the soft dusting of orange before the gray descended. And here I was, standing alone with the king’s son, looking over a horizon painted in gorgeous colors, which was enough to fill any heart with romantic thoughts. I’d learned things about Cerac a servant girl should not learn, like his deserved pride in his fighting skill, the fact that the king’s consort was not his mother, and his intimate feelings toward her and his brother. These were secrets only a good friend or lover had a right to know, secrets that created intimacy.

  “Helna will need me, I’m sure.”

  “She knows who you are with. She will bite her tongue on your absence.”

  “And have everyone else do my chores. That is a good way to make enemies of the people you work beside.”

  He huffed a soft laugh. “You’re right. We can’t have that on your first day. For the second time today, I find myself saying sorry to you. It’s a word I rarely use.”

  What expression did I read on his face as he stared at me?

  “I will escort you back to the kitchen.”

  I held my tongue before I told him I would find my own way. I reiterated what I’d thought earlier, maybe all Cerac wanted was a friend. But if so, why choose me?

  10

  Rapid knocks woke me. I rolled over beneath my blanket just as the door burst open. A faint light from the window down the passage shone through.

  “Come on,” Sophren said, “the warriors are preparing themselves already.”

  She yanked the covers down and a sudden chill jolted me wide awake.

  “What warriors?” I mumbled as I sat up.

  Light was shining through, which meant it had to be way past the early hour.

  “You let me sleep in.”

  “And keep that a secret. You looked so lost yesterday, I thought it would do you good.”

  I would not tell her how long I lay awake last night, crying for Morick and everything I’d lost.

  “There’s a fight in the arena today, which means there is a lot for us to do.”

  She threw me the clothes I’d been given yesterday. They landed on my head, which made her giggle.

  “If you hurry, you may get some breakfast.”

  She departed as she’d entered, a storm of enthusiasm.

  I pulled the nightshirt given to me last night over my head and tossed it to the end of the bed. The coarse material had itched under my arms, but it was thick enough to act like another blanket at night.

  My small, sparse room was down the passage from the bathroom. There were four other rooms besides mine this far from the kitchen, each hidden away down the dark passage with only a whisper of natural light. The floor and bed linen were clean, but the blanket smelt moldy. With little natural ventilation, the room smelt dusty and old. I’d been given a small candle and told it was to last me the month. I’d extinguished it soon after entering my room and undressed in the dark.

  As I dressed in the dim shaft of light entering my room, my memories broke free. This was my third day of opening my eyes and not seeing my family. This was my third day without Morick’s smile. My hands dropped from my buttons. My head hung to my chest. I allowed myself these few moments and then I would finish dressing and get on with the day. If I allowed a few moments every day for my memories, then I would slowly empty my heart. The pain would go, and I would be strong enough to face my future.

  Sophren had already disappeared back to the kitchen, but I was sure I could make my way there on my own. In the end, the smells and the sound of Helna yelling orders drew me in the right direction.

  The kitchen buzzed with activity. The atmosphere rippled with tension and excitement. Servants I’d not seen yesterday flew around the kitchen, attempting to keep out of Helna’s way while fulfilling her demands. I caught the tail end of two servant girls’ gossip as they rushed past me and out the door, balancing plates in either hand.

  “The one on the far left. He has a scar running down his right shoulder.”

  “He probably has a twitch.”

  “I tell you he winked at me.”

  It seemed Cerac was not the only one to enjoy fight days in the arena.

  I headed for Helna, who was taking bread out of the oven. She turned and whipped her next order at me. “Take that in there.” She waved an arm in the direction of the open door. In there could only mean the dining hall within the arena.

  I grabbed a thick cloth and turned the bread upside down on the table. The loaf bounced out, steaming and smelling better than anything I’d made back home. The fine white flour turned the loaf into a fluffy tower unlike the coarse grain we used in the village. And I had to stop comparing my life now to my life an eternity ago or I would never be healed.

  I slid the steaming loaf on an earthenware plate I’d taken from the stack under the wooden table. Seeing a small pot of butter close at hand, I grabbed that as well, unsure what had already been taken through. With my hand underneath the plate, I felt the warmth of the loaf. My stomach grumbled from the smell as the steam rose up my nose.

  I scrunched my eyes against the bright day once I reached the courtyard. Already the day was warming up. With this season, back home the day took longer to warm, if the sun was shining at all. This far from home and the sun’s strength heated the cobbles and stone walls.

  Masculine noises came from the dining hall. All the seats were occupied with big, muscular men, bare chested, laughing and shouting at each other while they ate. The table was already full with food, meat, bread, cheese, fruits and drink, a feast by my standards.

  The two girls whose gossip I’d overheard were scurrying from the room, having deposited their load of dishes, both casting glances to the far end of the table. I looked in the direction they found so interesting. The first thing I noticed was his scar. A large purple welt, which ran from his shoulder down to his elbow. Judging by the size and shape, I would say it was made from a blade strike slicing in one clean swipe.

  I diverted my gaze when his blue eyes met mine. His thick beard hid his mouth, so I could not determine if he smiled, believing he’d gained another admirer, but on first impression, there was little attractiveness about him. The scar proved him a worthy warrior. If not, he would’ve been sent home jiggling coin in his purse, and I suppose, in the city, that made a man attractive.

  I moved to the opposite end of the table and found a place left for the plate of bread I carried. The man closest to me dived forward and ripped a piece from the loaf without acknowledging my presence. That was the life of a servant. We were meant to move around unnoticed. In this instance, I was glad to be invisible. Bread and butter delivered, I turned to leave when the man who’d ripped the end off the bread grabbed my wrist.

  “I’ll have more of this before you go.” He held up his mug.

  I took this to mean the jugs were empty, so I reached for the closest to me on the table, expecting that to be so, but found it was near full. We were expected to fill their mugs as well? The jug had rested close to his plate and yet he could not reach for it himself.

  I inhaled a quiet breath and poured the amber fluid into his held mug. All the while, his eyes roamed my face.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

  Serving I would do, but I doubted we were expected to entertain them as well. I kept my mouth shut and filled his mug. Once done, I rep
laced the jug on the table and again turned to leave, but the man persisted by grabbing my wrist again.

  “I’m needed in the kitchen.”

  “I’m sure they can spare you a few moments. There are plenty more to bring our food.”

  His bald head glistened in the light from the high windows. I tried not to focus on his mouth with the meat swirling around inside as he chewed. Instead I looked in his small brown eyes.

  “I’m needed in the kitchen.” I kept my tone neutral to stay any antagonism caused by my rejection.

  He yanked me closer and my thighs butted against the side of his chair. The fighter across the table from him thought his actions amusing and watched with a growing smile on his face. “You go focusing your energy elsewhere, Merick, and you’ll likely wear more than that scar.” With a raised eyebrow, he nodded to Merick’s scar, an ugly mark that split his left breast muscle in half. The wound had been tended, but poorly so. I judged it was days old, and left uncovered, as it was, it would become infected.

  “Who tended your wound?” I said. Aside from being rude to me, the fighter had done nothing to deserve death from an untreated wound. “Your wound needs proper treatment.”

  At first he looked surprised, then he glanced down at the wound. He smirked at me. “My opponent was not so lucky.”

  “You’ll not be so lucky either if you allow it to fester. See the skin reddening there?” I pointed to a patch spreading out from the bottom of the wound. “If you allow that to spread across your skin around the wound, a fever will take hold, one you may not wake from.”

  “And what about these?” He pointed to the other scars on his torso. “I’ve born my share of injuries and yet I’m still standing.”

  “I don’t care about your other scars since they have healed, but I say to you now, this wound could be your death. But I suppose even in death you will still be seen as a hero.”

  The man let my wrist go.

  “What is going on here?”

  I looked up into Cerac’s face, his brow drawn down heavily above his eyes. He’d entered like a panther, silent and deadly.