MARKS - Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I don't undress for bed. Just lie on the covers in my gown with my shoes still on. I doubt I’ll sleep. My body thrums with energy and fear. Had those guards been trailing me? Had someone else suspected something and turned me in?

But no one knows my power except Mera and people who knew me as a little girl.

Not that loyalty or friendships matter. The King has been burning businesses and threatening citizens. Other Lyrans may turn me in to spare themselves.

Would I have turned someone in to save Mama?

The paper with Meggie’s prophecy on it still rests in my pocket. Hidden and yet so easily found. I wad it up and turn the paper over between my fingers. Mama always said my powers were a gift. I should use them wisely, for the good of others. Mama did good with hers up until she was killed.

Until he killed her.

I don’t even remember what the man looked like. Just the black tunic he wore and the King’s crest embroidered in silver on the front. Not just a guard, one of the Blackfeet. Men who specialize in brutality. Who not only do the King's bidding, but create their own mayhem to go along with it. Who dream up evil and take delight in doing it.

I don’t know who he was, or remember his face.

And it doesn’t matter anyway.

The King killed Mama. Killed as many Lyrans as he could after they waged war on him, crippling the Kingdom and nearly destroying him. Now he makes it his goal to kill every Lyran there is. Just not before using us to get what he wants.

The war was never supposed to happen. It was then we discovered the limits of our power. What we write only comes true if we want it. It’s amazing what you find yourself wanting when it’s the only thing that can stop the horror around you.

That’s why he started manipulating us.

Torturing us.

First the King tortured Lyrans because he wanted to get something from us. He wanted to use our powers to give himself wealth and victory and whatever else he wanted. But they started working against him, kindling his anger against us. By the time he got to Mama, he just wanted every Lyran to suffer.

And she did. Oh, she did.

I roll onto my side and let the tears spill out. It’s been weeks since I cried, and sometimes crying is the only thing that keeps me grounded. It frees up the space in me where all the regret and memories are, weighing me down. Each sob pushes some of the grief and loneliness out.

Moonlight trickles through my window and bathes my room in light. Stories and words dance in my head. Bits and pieces of things. Songs of our people. Old legends. Prayers I’ve heard and spoken. Snippets of stories Mama would tell my younger brothers, while I stayed awake and listened.

The words of the Lyran poem echoes in my head.

Oh writer of fate,

Take heed with thy pen;

What once written down,

Not unwritten again.

Weight of words, their power you know;

Twice then skip once -

Shall reap what you sow.

The deaths of seven,

The saved lives of three;

The marks of each,

Forever on you will be.

I study my arm, my marks black against my pale skin. Three kills. No saves.

The memories are too vivid tonight, chasing rest from my body as they fling their colors across the pages of my mind. I don’t toss and turn looking for sleep. Instead I lie still, watching the shadows as they move slowly across the wooden floor. I wish I could write the King’s death and be done with it. So would every other Lyran in the Kingdom. But we can’t. The King already has his protection, written and secured by a Lyran whose family he tortured. The King of Dracon can’t be assassinated.

I can’t kill the King. Or hurt him. And I’ll not do a thing that puts me anywhere close to him. But I won’t let him stop me from using my words against him. Even if it’s just giving Meggie a baby she can keep for herself and not one day give up to him.

Just before dawn I stand and smooth my dress with my hand. I comb through my hair and tie it back again. Mera’s door is still closed. Good. I grab my basket and wrap my cloak around me, then step out of the house and ease the door shut. The air is crisp and invigorating and my blood zips through my veins as I walk toward the docks. Not many are out and about on the main streets, but the closer I get to the docks, the thicker the crowd gets. The boats are just pulling in from their night runs. Men throw fish onto the docks where other men load them in carts and wheel them to the vendor stalls lining the street. 

Other women browse the stalls, buying their fish this early because it’s freshest. And maybe because, like me, they have to be at work before the hour is up. I take my time going up the street, scanning the stalls for what will be the best place. The heavy smell of fish clogs the air, and my stomach clenches tighter with each breath I take. My clothes will reek from this outing. Bless the poor women who are married to fishermen and must embrace the stench permanently covering those they love most.

The vendors shout from behind their tables of fish. How they think yelling at mild housewives will convince these women to buy from them is beyond me. But they’re anxious just like anyone. The King’s wars cost money, and his taxes never stop rising. These men are eager to sell.

I avoid eye contact as much as I can. The table closest to me is piled high with fish of every kind. Not very organized. I cast a look at the vendor, wondering if he’s as ill put-together as his table. His dark eyes stare back at me. I flinch, hating he’s looking. He grins and lowers his gaze to his fish. His fish smell the worst, which means they’re also the oldest. Not that his prices reflect that. I keep walking and linger around a stall some little ways up. Not because his prices are any better. But because the vendor is busy, and behind one of his tables is a barrel of fish guts.

Perfect.

Another woman approaches him, and I ease up to the side. If he’ll just stay busy with her, then this will be easy.

“Best fish on the street,” a booming voice says.

I snap my head up and meet the eyes of the vendor. Blast. I need him to forget I’m here.

“Hmm,” I say, not wanting to commit to a word. Just a sound to let him know I’ve heard but am still considering. I look over the fish and scoot toward the outer edge of the table, closer to the barrel.

“See something you like?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes and scrutinize the fish, all the while inching closer toward my target.

“Well lass, ain’t got all day.” His voice cuts across the morning air. “If you’re buying, then do it, else move along.”

Darn him and his impatience. Can nothing be easy? I cock my head and stare at him. “How do I know you don’t put yesterday’s catch on top of the stack hoping to sell it?”

His dark eyes turn to slits. Gosh, he’s huge. He could reach one grimy hand across his pile of fish and wring my scrawny little neck. Or tell me to bugger off, then I’ll have to start this all over. I’m at risk of being late to work already.

The vendor claps his hand on the table, and I jump back. “I’m not dishonest with what I sell, lass,” he growls.

I don’t know whether to smack him for messing up my plans or kiss his cheek for his honesty. The muscles in my lips quiver, but I bury my grin and tilt my head. “Prove it.”

The vendor stares at me all of two seconds before bending to pluck two trout from the bottom of his pile. While he’s not looking, I take the paper from my pocket and push my hand down into the barrel of fish guts.

Saints, it’s so slimy. Nausea churns in my stomach, but I shove the paper further into the slippery, gooey parts of fish.

Perfect.

No one would want to look for it there. I wipe my hand on my skirt and wait for the fish monger. He plunks the two fish on top of the pile. I meet his eyes again. “Give me three.”

He grunts and turns to wrap the fish in old newspaper. I pay the man and hope Mera is in the mood for fish. No matter. The paper is as gone as I can get it, and I can rest easy today.

I tuck the fish into my basket and turn. The faces of those I pass are casual, and no one looks my way. When I’m at the end of the street I glance over my shoulder at the fish vendor. He’s talking to another customer, giving no heed to the girl who was just there. I hope my face is blending in his mind with that of every other woman he’ll see today.

The paper is safe, and I am forgotten. Another thing done, and no one knows about it. I lift my skirt and turn down the street. And smack right into a Royal Guard.