The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  Mrs. Chassel sighed, her shoulders slumped.

  Quade knelt and unleashed the full power of his gaze on Mrs. Chassel, gripping her hand with his own. “I will go speak to Dolla Adder. I promise you, Vindella, I will not let this rest until your husband, my friend, is avenged.”

  He rose and strode away, back to the noise of the gathering within the hall. Mrs. Chassel watched him go.

  “He and my husband shared a love of old things and dirt. They’ve spent the last fifteen years together, searching for treasure and finding only bits of garbage. Of course, as Quade will always remind me, even garbage has value if it’s old enough.”

  “He wanted to find all of those magical things of legend too?” Bray asked. “Like the Scimitar of Amarra and the Seve Tapestry?”

  Mrs. Chassel laughed. “Who, Quade?” She returned her handkerchief to her handbag. “No, he is too much a realist to believe in such things. He just loves history, discovering the way people lived before us. My husband was the dreamer.” A fond expression crossed her face.

  “So you don’t think any of it is real?” Bray asked. How could she follow her husband around the world for so many years, if she did not think the things he sought existed?

  “Ambrone looked his whole life and found nothing extraordinary. No, they are not real. But it made him happy to think that they were.”

  “Who is Dolla Adder?” Bray asked.

  “She’s a Chiona, an expert in criminology. She’s here for the funeral, but most of the time she travels around to crime scenes all over Trinitas. Quade is hoping she’ll look into my husband’s murder.”

  “I’d like to help if I can,” Bray said, giving Mrs. Chassel an earnest look.

  “That is sweet, dear. But what more can you do?”

  Bray didn’t have an answer for this, but she would not be deterred.

  “Do many people study criminology?” she asked.

  “Only Dolla, as far as I know,” Mrs. Chassel said. She gave Bray a piercing look. “You aren’t considering it yourself, are you? You are a young, beautiful girl. Do something nice with your life. You don’t want to spend the rest of your days with dead bodies, do you?”

  “If it meant I could help people?” Bray asked herself aloud. “Yes, I think I could do that. Bad people should be stopped.”

  “And if one of those bad people puts a stop to you?”

  “They couldn’t touch me,” Bray answered, a fire in her eyes, her voice ringing with confidence.

  Hours later, Bray walked with her feet in the water, her yellow dress hiked to the knee, and stared out at the setting sun. The sky was afire with pinks, reds, and oranges, and they cast their hues upon the sea beneath. The water rushed out, burying her feet in white sand and rising above her ankles. Moments later, the tide pulled back, tugging the sand with it and causing her feet to sink still deeper.

  Bray’s mind sparked with newly formed resolution. The Chisanta could study and do as they liked, and she would work to become a defender of the innocent and a bane to the wicked. The determination coursed through her like a drug. Little felt better in life than a sense of purpose.

  Chasku sits across these waters, Bray thought. Perhaps the seawater she touched would turn round and head north, to the Cape of Cosanta and to Yarrow. Then again, perhaps it would not.

  Part II

  10 Years Later

  Chapter Ten

  Yarrow ran his ink-stained finger along the script-covered parchment and mumbled aloud to himself. He dipped his pen in the inkwell, tapped it several times, and began to scribble a note on a second, fresh sheaf of paper.

  “Do you ever leave the library?” a drawling voice asked from behind him.

  Without looking up, still scratching at the parchment, Yarrow said, “I’m surprised you know what a library is, let alone where to find one.”

  Arlow laughed, sat down, and crossed his legs at the ankle. “We can’t all be as bookish as you. Or as obsessive.”

  “The answer may be in here, Arlow,” Yarrow said, a crease forming between his dark, thick brows.

  “Yes, but it may not as well.” Arlow reached for a book from Yarrow’s collection, flipped it open, and read: “‘Man will reach for the heavens only when his thrust exceeds his drag…All that exists has ever existed…1,729; 4,104; 13,832.’” Arlow flipped a page. “And then it’s just names! ‘Jacus Maynar of the Morse Forest, Chiona; Kenrra Melva of Porramore, Cosanta; Seo-Song of Bykju…’” Arlow threw the book down carelessly. “Utter nonsense. I will never understand how you can read this stuff without going as mental as the Fifths themselves.”

  Yarrow set his pen down and rolled his shoulders, a vain attempt to alleviate the ever-present knot in his back. He brushed at the long strands of hair that had worked their way free of his braid.

  “No Chisanta has studied the original transcripts of the Fifth since Aldron Chapleton.” Yarrow gestured to the sheaf of parchment before him. “And that was two hundred years ago. We can’t continue to rely on second- and third-hand reports that are incomplete and outdated. Not with so much amiss, so much at stake.”

  Yarrow had spent the better part of ten years studying the transcripts of the Fifth and had still barely scratched the surface, so dense were the records.

  “Well, you’ll need to give it a rest tonight. We’re going to the city to celebrate,” Arlow said.

  “Da Un Marcu isn’t until tomorrow, and it hasn’t been much of a cause for celebration of late,” Yarrow said as he began to jot another note. Arlow reached across the table and grabbed the pen from his hand, smiling devilishly.

  “Not Da Un Marcu,” Arlow said. “We’re celebrating something else.”

  “What then?” Yarrow asked.

  “Guess,” Arlow said, plainly in high spirits.

  Yarrow offered his friend an exasperated expression. “You’ve finally received your first gift?”

  Arlow clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “Now, Yarrow. Just because you haven’t guessed my gift yet, doesn’t mean I haven’t got one.”

  Yarrow smiled. “I do have to hand it to you, I’ve never met a man who could take a game of ‘guess’ to such extremes. That one has been going on for over a decade.”

  “This should be easier, especially given your giant brain,” Arlow said. Yarrow hadn’t felt Arlow this pleased with himself in years. The small ball that was Arlow’s emotions in Yarrow’s mind whistled with joy. Just focusing on his friend’s feelings made his own heart lighter. He must have just gotten the thing he most wanted.

  “You’re going to Accord?”

  Arlow beamed. “To advise the King himself!”

  Yarrow’s tired face broke into a genuine smile. “Well done, my friend,” he said and shook Arlow’s hand heartily.

  “I’m meant to leave tomorrow,” Arlow said.

  “So soon?”

  Arlow was his oldest friend—how strange it would be to lose him.

  “Yes, which is why we are going to celebrate. Go get changed, you look a mess.”

  Yarrow nodded and packed away his books and notes carefully while Arlow waited, fists in pockets, with obvious impatience. “I’ll meet you at the entrance in twenty minutes,” he said at last.

  He sprung to his feet and began to whistle a jaunty tune as he strolled to the exit.

  “And Yarrow?” he called over his shoulder from the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “Wash the ink from your hands for once, will you?”

  Yarrow changed into a freshly pressed set of blue robes, scrubbed his hands white in the basin, and even took the measure of shaving the stubble from his face. He put on his best coat, exchanged his slippers for walking boots, and donned his top hat.

  He had halfway made it to the door before he patted his pockets and realized he had forgotten something. He crossed back to his bedside table, opened the drawer, and sifted through the items until his hand clasped the plain-hued handle of his father’s pocket knife, the thing he never left home without. Just
beneath it was his mother’s handkerchief wrapped around a lock of copper hair. Three treasures from a previous life—or so it felt.

  His fingers lingered on the stack of envelopes within; a decade’s worth of correspondence with his family. Most of the letters were from his sister Ree, though even her messages had come less and less frequently as the years passed. Which was just fine. He did not need a note to know that they were well and safe.

  Yarrow pocketed the knife and strode from his room, boots slapping the marble floor so much louder than his usual footwear. He popped his head into the courtyard where Ko-Jin typically could be found.

  His Chaskuan friend sparred shirtless despite the cold. Yarrow often wondered if he did this to show off the impressive musculature of his chest to any passing female. Perhaps not, though. Despite being the object of much eye-lash batting, he generally acted aloof with the opposite sex.

  “What—not rooted to the library, Yarrow?” he asked, as he punched at Roldon, stopping his fist before it actually made contact. Ko-Jin looked half bored, while Roldon’s light brown braid flew left and right, his still-boyish face pouring sweat, in his ineffective attempts to dodge the other man’s attacks.

  “We’re going into town to celebrate. Arlow’s been asked to advise the King,” Yarrow said.

  “Really?” Ko-Jin said as he swept his leg under Roldon, knocking him to the ground. In a heartbeat, Ko-Jin had pinned Roldon to the grass, holding his arm in such a way that the slightest amount of force would break it at the elbow.

  “I yield,” Roldon said as he tapped the ground with his other hand.

  Ko-Jin hopped up and dusted himself off. “Great. I’ll go change.”

  “Will you come as well?” Yarrow asked Roldon, who still lay on the ground, winded.

  “Not me, Yarrow. I’ve got a date.”

  “Really, with who?”

  “A local,” Roldon said, finally getting to his feet. “See you later—I’ve got to get cleaned up too.”

  “Best of luck,” Yarrow called after Roldon’s departing back.

  Yarrow strode through the familiar grounds, took a shortcut through the dining hall, and came out to the drive. Arlow stalked impatiently back and forth before a two-horse black gig, plain save for the Chisanta symbol emblazoned on its side.

  “There you are,” he called upon seeing Yarrow. “You took an age. Come now, let’s be off.”

  “We’ve got to wait for Ko-Jin,” Yarrow said.

  Arlow exhaled dramatically. “Must you always invite him? I thought it could be just the two of us, like old times. It’s my celebration after all.”

  Yarrow smiled mildly. Arlow loved to talk about when it had been ‘just the two of them,’ but Yarrow could not imagine when this was. In reality, Arlow preferred being the best-looking man at the bar. Ko-Jin thwarted this ambition.

  Yarrow shrugged. “Seemed rude not to.”

  “Well, he’d better be quick about it, or we’re leaving him.”

  “What time do you leave tomorrow?” Yarrow changed the subject smoothly.

  “Early—after breakfast. By the way, we should really stop by that Dalish hatter in town.”

  “You can’t possibly need a new hat,” Yarrow said, laughing. Arlow had more hats, canes, coats, and robes than could fit comfortably in his closet.

  “No, my friend, but you do.” He swiped Yarrow’s hat off his head. “This thing is atrocious.”

  “It’s perfectly serviceable,” Yarrow said, trying to snatch it back. Arlow moved his hand out of reach.

  “It’s embarrassing,” Arlow said, twirling the hat around his finger, “you never spend your stipend on anything. You must have a small fortune by now. No reason that you can’t buy a decent hat.”

  “I might have a fortune,” he agreed, “if I didn’t keep lending you money.”

  Ko-Jin appeared through the entrance.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” he said, extending Arlow a hand.

  Arlow greeted Ko-Jin as if sincerely glad to have him along. “Let’s be off then,” he said, and the three of them climbed into the gig.

  It was still a bit cold for an open carriage, but Yarrow didn’t mind. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the cool air whipping in his face.

  Four hours later, Yarrow, Arlow, and Ko-Jin were comfortably sipping soju, a rice liquor, in a traditional Chaskuan bar—Yarrow in possession of a new top hat. They sat cross-legged on a raised platform before a low table, covered with dozens of small plates, each containing a different dish: vegetables in a spicy red sauce, pickled quail eggs, leek pancakes, and steaming soybean soup, to name a few. The three of them picked happily with chopsticks, drinking their way through several bottles.

  “I’ve brought some cards,” Arlow said, extracting a pack from his pocket. “If you’d care for a round of poker?”

  Ko-Jin and Yarrow shook their heads simultaneously.

  “I’ve donated enough money to your pocketbook in the name of poker,” Yarrow said.

  Arlow shrugged and replaced the deck. “Pity, I was eyeing a new pair of gloves.”

  They ordered another round. Yarrow felt the eyes of the other patrons darting towards their table. He always had the distinct impression that he and his friends disappointed the locals by behaving like normal young men. The Cosanta generally presented themselves to the world as a stoic, distant, intellectual set. The truth was, they were just people like anyone else.

  “You’ll visit, won’t you?” Arlow asked, his cheeks growing rosy. “I can show you around Accord.”

  “Of course we will,” Ko-Jin said, pouring more drinks sloppily.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Yarrow slurred. He always got drunk faster than his friends. He theorized it had something to do with their fuzzy happiness in his mind amplifying his own.

  “You wouldn’t dream of visiting me?”

  “No, I wouldn’t dream of not visiting you,” Yarrow said, trying to articulate his words soberly and failing.

  “Yarrow, look who it is,” Ko-Jin said, elbowing his friend in the ribs. Yarrow followed his gaze and saw, to his horror, Su-Hyun—a very pretty Chaskuan woman who lived in town, whom Yarrow rather liked.

  “Blight it, why did you let me get so drunk?” Yarrow said, sinking into his cushion and trying to disappear from view—a ridiculous endeavor considering his distinctive Cosanta garb and height.

  “Don’t worry, mate,” Arlow said. “She’ll never be able to tell.”

  This might have been a vote of confidence if both Arlow and Ko-Jin hadn’t broken into intense bouts of laughter. Arlow had tears streaking down his glowing face.

  It was their laughs that caught Su-Hyun’s attention. She spotted Yarrow, smiled, and made her way across the bar to him. The dark gleaming curtain of her hair hung loosely around her Chaskuan-style dress; a brightly colored silken garment tied in the front called a hanbok.

  “Hello,” she greeted them in Chaskuan. She didn’t know much Dalish, and Yarrow’s Chaskuan was still decidedly subpar, which was why their conversations had not been the most illuminating.

  “Hello,” they all mumbled back in Chaskuan.

  “What’s the occasion?” Su-Hyun asked, gesturing to the collection of empty liquor bottles.

  It would have been simplest for Ko-Jin to answer, but he elbowed Yarrow in the ribs a second time.

  “We drinking for Arlow’s job rise,” Yarrow said, in nearly incomprehensible Chaskuan.

  Su-Hyun’s smooth brow creased and she looked at Ko-Jin for clarification. He elaborated, explaining Arlow’s new position in Accord. Yarrow felt his face grow warmer and warmer. Why was he so dreadfully inept with women? Why wasn’t it ever just easy? This was why he preferred the idea of bachelorhood. Besides, he could never give a woman the amount of time and attention she required; he was too focused on his research. Though, he had to admit, he liked the idea of having a wife and a slew of children, in theory. He missed being a part of a chaotic, loving family.

  “I’ll be singi
ng tonight,” Su-Hyun said, her eyes moving back to Yarrow. “Will you stay and listen?”

  Yarrow and his friends assured her that they would and she looked pleased, then excused herself to get ready for the performance.

  “She does have a bonny face,” Arlow said. “And she keeps talking to you, even though you make an ass of yourself every time. I don’t know why you don’t do something about it.”

  Yarrow shrugged uncomfortably. Among the Chisanta both men and women were utterly independent. It completely changed the nature of love—there were no parents to consult, no dowries, no rank. A man and a woman could spend time together, romantically, without technically ‘courting.’ They could marry or not as they pleased. But the rest of the world did not operate this way. To pursue a woman, and especially a Chaskuan woman, would be courting. It would mean that he intended to marry her. And if he did not intend such a thing, he would be viewed as a scoundrel. It didn’t matter how lovely Su-Hyun’s face was, or how sweetly she sang, he was not in any position to be a good husband to her. Besides, her family would likely not appreciate their daughter marrying a Dalishman. No matter how amicably the three nations coexisted, there was still plenty of social discouragement of marriage to foreigners.

  “Might be for the best. I hear her father is as mean as a Chiona,” Ko-Jin said.

  “Oh come now,” Arlow said. “He can’t be that bad.”

  Yarrow took another deep swill of soju. He leaned backwards, used to his chairs having a back, but as he was sitting on a cushion he fell flat on the floor. Ko-Jin and Arlow burst into laughter, as Yarrow, now an alarming shade of red, hoisted himself back into a sitting position.

  When the server came around, Yarrow asked for water.

  It was nearly midnight when the three of them, clinging to each other for balance, exited the bar and made their way clumsily to their gig. The stable hand harnessed the horses and Arlow lifted himself awkwardly into the front seat.

  “Are you sure you can drive?” Yarrow asked, attempting to climb into the gig but falling back onto the pavement.