Mark of the Mage: Scribes of Medeisia Book I

Prologue

Scratch, scratch, scratch . . .

For a moment there was nothing except the sound of a quill pen running across rough parchment. A calloused, wrinkled hand gripped the edge of a crude, stone surface turned into a table. It was rudimentary at best, but it suited its purpose.

The cavern was dark with the exception of a few lit candles sitting haphazardly around the cave, causing flickering shadows that looked like ghosts.

Suddenly there was a loud crash, followed by a small shower of rocks and dust, but the scribe did not look up. He did not flinch. His hand kept moving, tirelessly, persistently. The dragons above him were fighting for dominance. The old dragon king had died. In his place, there were three strong enough to rule, but only one of the three would survive. It was the custom. It did not affect the scribe. He had only one objective; The Kiarian Freesonalay: The Book of Truth. He scribbled.

In the year of the Dragon, a kingdom will be divided. Twins will be born to the sovereign. These male heirs will be greedy. They will seek power. They will war amongst themselves, and their kingdom will be split in two.

For one son, the years will not be kind. His kingdom within the forests will suffer. Trade will be sparse. Crops will falter. There will be famine and civil war. A dictator will rise from his heirs, all semblance of a monarchy erased. There will be persecution. The old magick will be condemned. All learning will be outlawed. Those born with power will be murdered.

For the other son, the years will be prosperous. His kingdom amidst the sea will bring him wealth and bring his people peace. Trade will flourish. The old magick will be esteemed.

A desert will form between the two nations. The kingdoms will be divided by barren, harsh land. But it will not stop the big war from coming. It will not stop a dictator from attempting to usurp power.

The Dragons will take to hiding in their mountains. The creatures of the forest will bide their time. For out of the ashes of devastation will arise a phoenix, an omen, a child born under the Harvest Moon. This child will be born of forbidden magick, born to bring two nations together.

To the prosperous kingdom, there will be born a son to the ruler. His magick will be borne of steel, strong. His life will be cursed with hardships. His power will make others greedy, murderous. He will be plagued with death.

The girl, the phoenix of peace, will bring . . .

The cave shook. The pen could no longer be held steady. Bigger rocks fell from the cavern's ceiling. There was no more time. A new dragon ruler would be crowned. The mountains quivered. The fight was mighty. The cavern did not hold. The scribe was not afraid. He had always known this would be his fate. He was a scribe. He was a prophet. In the end, he would die with his book. And when the fateful boulder fell, he did not cry out. His lifeless hand fell limp, his lax fingers tickled by bound parchment. The book would not die. Books never die.

The small cavern was no more. The scribe was dead. The only thing left among the stone was the book. The Kiarian Freesonalay: The Book of Truth.

Part I

The Mark

Chapter 1

The smell. Wet ink, old parchment, and leather.

The smell consumed me, weaving its way through my nostrils and down to my eternally ink-stained fingertips. It was an old, comforting smell. The smell of new beginnings, of adventure, and of disappointment.

I'm sorry, Stone. The mistress has forbidden it.

Master Aedan avoided my gaze as he moved through the Archives, stacking scrolls that were already perfectly aligned. His long, grey beard skirted the floor as he paced to the shelves before running a wrinkled finger along the books within. His brown, heavy cloak hung around his bony wrist. He seemed older each time I saw him. I focused on the shelves.

The shelves were nothing more than deep grooves built throughout a circular stone room, and they held centuries of records, stories, and legends. Ladders leaned sporadically against the ledges, and candles burned inside protective glass casings. Fire would not be risked within the Archives.

Did she give a reason why?

I was whispering, but speaking louder was out of the question. The space felt too sacred. I mumbled promises to Escreet, the Goddess of Scribes. They were promises to serve if only Aedan were wrong. Tears felt imminent. The mistress, my stepmother, was stealing my essence. The Archives, the histories housed within the cavern, were my life. I had been raised on the smell, on the rough feel of parchment, on the historic words scrawled within.

Master Aedan's gaze finally met mine, his kind, bushy brows lowered over shadowed eyes.

Tis no place for a lady.

It was all he said. The words were not his.

I'm no lady, I muttered.

Ladies wore dresses that weren't covered in dust. Ladies didn't have stained, calloused hands with nails bitten to the quick. Ladies didn't write, ladies didn't study, and they certainly didn't think for themselves.

Master Aedan sighed, his hands gripping a roll of parchment before moving toward me.

She has forbidden it, Stone, he repeated, his gaze moving from the parchment to my hands. But she never said parchment outside the Archives was off limits. Take this. She is a witch, my dear, there is no doubt, but what she does now protects you.

I looked at Aedan. Protects me? By closing me off from the Archives?

Go now, child. Go, Aedan murmured as he shooed me from the room.

I held the empty paper to my chest protectively, the scent tickling my nose as I ducked out into the manor's hall. A tear worked its way down my cheek, digging a channel through dust-covered flesh. The Archives rarely needed regular cleaning. No one, with the exception of the scribes, ever saw the interior.

She can't do this.

My words were confident, my demeanor wasn't. Even as the heavy, wooden door closed in my face, I knew I was wrong. She could do this, and she had.

I turned on my heels, the back of my hand swiping my cheeks as I ran for the stairs at the end of the corridor. The hallway was a small one, the stone stairs jagged and uneven as they led up from the caverns beneath to the main manor above. Forticry.

Forticry, Medeisian for strength, was aptly named. The manor was an intimidating, dull buttress that sat on the edge of Medeisia, a mountainous country covered mostly in forests. It was made entirely of stone. Although small, as far as manors go, it was an important gateway into our country and was situated against deep woodland and mountains.

Beyond the forest's edge, a desert stretched; a barren wasteland between Medeisia and its twin country, Sadeemia. The manor was in a strategic location. The stone stronghold had a view of the forest and mountains in one direction, and the desert border in the other. Because of this, Forticry was the home of the Medeisian Ambassador, Garod Consta-Mayria, a man who played an important role in the politics between Medeisia and Sadeemia. He was also my father.

The stairs were a blur beneath my feet. The tapestries lining the grey stone walls were a blended, bright mess as I ran through the main entry, a hall made up of one massive hearth and a line of family portraits. I didn't spare them a glance as I slipped the parchment Aedan had given me down into my dress. My gaze was on an arched entryway leading into a room covered in tapestries of flowers and greenery. There were two stuffed settees, the fabric made out of dark green velvet with gold tasseled pillows. Between them sat a large potted plant, a fern with wide, hanging leaves.

Lying across one of the expensive divans, her dark curls spread across a pillow, her small, beaded slippers teasing the foliage at her feet, was my stepmother, Lady Taran.

I stopped just inside the door, my eyes trailing Taran's low cut, sapphire blue gown. The silk shone in the late afternoon light from a nearby arrow slit window, her tanned skin glistening where the too tight dress pushed up her bosom. One move, and she'd be half-naked.

Why?

The question was loud in the still room, my voice wavering as Taran removed the arm she had slung over her eyes. She was a beautiful woman, my stepmother, and she knew it.

The Archives is no place for a lady, Drastona.

Her voice was firm, stern. I took a hesitant step forward.

You never cared before.

Taran sighed as she pushed herself up, her green eyes darkening as her gaze found mine.

You were not sixteen before.

I placed my hands against the tapestry at my back, the stone wall behind it lending a comforting support.

I do not understand.

Taran laughed. Of course you wouldn't, dear. Your father has never forced you to learn the etiquette required by most ladies. He has spoiled you. While you've been hiding amongst dusty shelves and flea bitten scribes, our world has changed.

Changed, I repeated.

I was only mimicking her now. I knew the politics. I was an ambassador's daughter, and I was fond of the Archives. Medeisia's king, Raemon Berhest, had become a dictatorial recluse over the past five years. His laws were harsh, his edicts verging on murder. Even his inner circle wasn't immune to his iron hand. This included the ambassador and his family.

We've been summoned to court, Taran announced, her green eyes sparkling as she fanned herself. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. I wasn't enthused.

It's a dangerous place, I said, my eyes wide.

Taran ignored me. The king is yet unmarried, and the court will be overflowing with eligible titles. There will be opportunity in this.

It didn't take long for her words to sink in.

No, I gasped.

Taran grinned.

Mareth will undoubtedly ensnare the better match, but your marriage could be advantageous to us as well.

Her words sounded distant. They were echoes between a rapid beating heart.

But I'm to be a scribe.

Mareth I could well understand. My half sister was born to be a Lady. She reveled in her station. I had never wanted a title. I was, after all, the proclaimed illegitimate daughter of Garod. His name offered me protection, nothing more. My father had encouraged my interest in the Archives. I had always believed he would let me stay there, away from the prying eyes of the public. But now . . .

"You may have been born on the wrong side of the cloth, dear, but your duties to your father remains. You will marry."

I couldn't breathe. My chest felt too tight, my knees felt weak. The tapestry behind me was now bunched in my fist. I clung to it.

Your fondness for knowledge is all well and good, Drastona, but it can only harm us now.

Taran pulled a cord hanging from the vaulted ceiling near her head. I didn't even hear the sound the bells made as they traveled throughout the manor. I was deaf to it all.

It wasn't until Aigneis' strong hand settled on my shoulder that I moved. Her dark eyes met mine, the depths full of sympathy and something more. Fear maybe.

You knew? I whispered.

Aigneis was a middle-aged woman with dark auburn hair braided and wrapped around the top of her head. It was peppered with grey. She had been my nurse for as long as I could remember, and she knew as well as I why going to court would be dangerous for me. I didn't wear the mark of the mage, but the power ran through my veins. Taran was not aware of it, but my father was.

King Raemon had outlawed magic four years ago. Anyone with tainted blood was to be marked, a tattoo of a star on fire branded onto their wrist. It was a death sentence.

We can work around it, Aigneis answered, her breath against my ear as she guided me out of the parlor to a twisted stone staircase beyond. Her burning star flashed from her wrist as she took my hand in hers. I let her grip comfort me as she pulled me up the stairs and into my room, shutting the door against the chaos below.

The Archives. Court. Marriage. Something was wrong. It was all too quick.

Aigneis was agitated. It was obvious in the way she moved spastically around my room, her reddened hands patting her hair every time she walked from the hand-me-down tall, Henderonian armoire to the scarred open trunk at the end of my bed. My gaze followed her until the constant movement caused a dull ache behind my eyes.

You're worried, I finally stated.

Aigneis paused in mid-stride, a rose-colored garment folded over her arm. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine, and the room's low light threw shadows across her face.

A little, she admitted.

I stood up and moved to the armoire, my eyes tracing the complex, circular designs in the oak the Henderonians were so famous for. The wardrobe was an imported piece that had once belonged to Mareth. When one of my half sister's famous fits rendered a long crack down the middle of the door on the right side, the piece had been retired to my room and another wardrobe was commissioned.

I was glad of Mareth's temper. I loved the piece, crack and all. Its thick wooden legs had the wardrobe sitting a few inches off of the floor. For years, I had practiced writing on its underside, the upper half of my body hidden under the massive armoire. By the time I was thirteen, baby fat made it impossible for me to slide underneath, but I knew the markings were there and that was enough for me.

You cannot go, I said.

Aigneis sighed and closed the trunk before patting the top. I accepted her invitation and moved to take a seat. She lowered herself next to me, kissing the top of my head as her right hand stroked my loose hair. I never wore it up. The dark, sun streaked strands were too unruly to tame.

Ah, my heart, it is not our decision to make.

She was wrong. Court may be dangerous for me, but it was a death sentence for her. My eyes met hers, and she noted the concern there. Her free hand came down to cover my clenched fists, folded demurely but angrily in my lap.

I am marked, yes. But I work for a noble family. My position protects me.

I shook my head, and her hand fell away from my hair.

"Here. It protects you here. Not at court. Not where your mark will taunt the king himself."

My words were sharp, but Aigneis was like a mother to me. She had served my birth mother before myself, although I was pretty certain my mother had been of low birth.

Aigneis never spoke of my mother, never described her, never revealed much outside of her love for me. Even Taran's curious questioning had been ignored despite several lashings my stepmother had inflicted on Aigneis. My father was ignorant of Taran's curiosity, but I had seen Aigneis' scars. I had helped apply the ointment when Taran's whippings went too far. I had threatened to go to my father once, but Aigneis had forbidden it. Her mark made her vulnerable to accusations.

Your fear should be for yourself, Aigneis whispered.

I was sixteen, the year most mages acquire their power. My mother had been a mage. It was the only knowledge Aigneis had been willing to part with, and it had simply been to prepare me. A wise choice, considering I had started showing signs earlier than most. Nature, Aigneis said, was my forte. Animals, for example, were attracted to me.

As if on cue, a low kek, kek filtered through the room, and I looked over my shoulder at a narrow casement with a makeshift windowseat fabricated from an old, broken trunk and large, well used brown pillows. A falcon perched on the stone sill, her sharp eyes glancing briefly at me before preening her bluish-black wings. She was a beautiful creature, almost three pounds with a nice forty-seven inch wingspan. She had black wingtips and a rusty, dark barred underbelly. I called her Ari. I had rescued her as an eyas from a falconer who insisted she was not suited for training. And, although I had released her to the wild years ago, she still returned to me often. Watching. Always watching.

I do not fear for myself, I said quietly, standing so that Aigneis could continue to pack my trunk.

Nothing in my room matched. The furniture was nothing more than old, worn settees covered in red or black velvet. Heavy tapestries with forest frescoes hung along the walls, and candelabras rested on bare wooden tables. In one corner stood a plain wooden chair against a low desk covered in parchment and ink. The other corner held my bed, a semi-large four-poster with an uncomfortable mattress stuffed with straw. The midnight blue comforter that covered it was thick, worn, and soft; I loved it as much as I loved my Henderonian armoire.

You have come at a bad time, dear Ari, I crooned as I moved to the window seat, my hand coming to rest carefully against the falcon's head.

Ari ignored me, her eyes