Marked

Chapter One

Darien

Darien was sure that he hadn't forgotten how to count. He was also sure that he hadn't accidentally missed one. Irritated and confused, he stared down at the cluster of apples the merchant had given him. He slowly lifted his eyes to those of the merchant's.

"You gave me six apples." Darien's blunt words were the only thing to be heard; night was drawing near, and it would soon be too cold to stay outside.

"Aye, what of it?"

Darien rolled his eyes and gestured to the coins he was to pay with. There were four, stacked neatly on the countertop.

"Four pence for ten apples. Is that not the agreed exchange?"

The merchant sighed and swept Darien's coins into a coinpurse. "Taxes have risen. Seven pence if you want ten."

"Seven? What is it, are you looking to be the next Douglas Wornlow? No one with sense would pay a fee so high!"

The merchant quickly hushed him. "You know well enough we are not to speak of that man!"

He took a moment to regain his composure and sighed again. "I truly am sorry, Darien. I have a family to feed as well. Seven pence for ten; it isn't negotiable."

"I'll take the six." Darien huffed and snatched away the sack of apples, knowing well that his mother wouldn't have it. Having done all that he could, he pivoted and walked out of the market, setting off to his home.

Darien's village was on the very edge of Erantille's borders. The thick forests that surrounded it attracted a more dense population of game than anywhere else in the kingdom—or so the butcher boasted— and though he was only fourteen years of age, Darien was one of the few archers most suited to take advantage of the prey to be hunted there.

He stumbled out of the way of a wagon that was barrelling down the street, barely staying upright at turns. They shouted about the wicked crimes of the accused witches and warlocks they had captured. Darien bowed his head, hiding his face, but he was sorry for all of the helpless people trapped inside.

The Redeemers considered themselves a religious movement aimed to purge the kingdom of all wickedness. At its core, though, no sane person would say anything other than the truth: they were deranged cultists, turned rotten by greed.

Their captured— and murdered— witches and warlocks were rich property owners whose wealth and land could be claimed by the Redeemers if they were killed. Just to establish authority and engrave fear into the people, it wasn't uncommon for them to kidnap and execute penniless beggars who could rarely even afford to eat, as well. Darien did his best not to think of them.

The cult began their rounds around the kingdom three months after their last had ended. Darien's village was near the end of their route and, as a result, one of the many execution sites. He could never bring himself to watch.

Darien stepped through the door into his home and called out to his mother, setting down the sack of apples in a bowl. Hearing his mother's voice, Darien walked out to his family's small garden. She was singing again.

His mother's lilting tongue usually left Darien in a daze. Most people in the village claimed it was a sign of her mental state declining. Darien couldn't help but believe it was a sign of her strange psychic knowledge. The language she sang in was an ancient tongue many could name but none could decipher: the Tongues of the First, in reference to the first humans on their planet.