Yarrow clutched the rope tighter as he experienced a jolt of alarm from Adearre and Peer. They were afraid.
A female voice above him called, “Stop!”
Yarrow allowed himself to slide carelessly down the rest of the way, removing what skin was left to the palms of his hands, and landed hard on the sand. Had it been rocky ground rather than sandy, he likely would have broken his legs.
He scrambled back towards the tide to gain a better vantage of the cliff’s top. Silhouetted against the stormy sky, Yarrow discerned a horrible scene. There were seven people—Peer was on his knees, held down by three figures. He struggled helplessly. Adearre crouched by the rope, a knife in his hand as he sawed at the fibers. An inert form lay beside him—the fool who must have provided Adearre with the knife in the first place. And lastly, Vendra stood, slim, straight, and confident, with a pistol extended in her hand, its barrel trained on Adearre.
Yarrow watched, powerless. He felt all of their emotions: Adearre’s focused resolve, Peer’s animal panic, Vendra’s cool determination. She would do it, Yarrow realized as he focused in on her feelings. She was honestly prepared to shoot.
“Stop, or I fire,” Vendra said calmly. The rain fell harder, in heavier drops. Yarrow brushed them from his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Adearre!” Peer bellowed, voice cracking. He felt utterly desperate, wild to a degree Yarrow had never experienced.
Adearre paused, as if contemplating his options. Yarrow could imagine what ran through his mind. There was no fast way by foot from the cliff to the beach. They would need to find their own rope. It would give Yarrow time to flee, to get the sphere away from these monsters who used it to create an army. Yarrow couldn’t know Adearre’s thoughts, but he sensed the calculation in them, the weighing and measuring. And then the resolve forming again.
Adearre looked down at Yarrow, his face cast in shadow. “Run, my friend.”
Then he sawed at the rope with determination; the last strands separated and the rope fell.
A gunshot sounded.
Yarrow saw it through disbelieving eyes. The flash of light, a puff of smoke. Adearre jerked as the bullet pierced his body. The impact thrust him backwards. He fell over the edge of the cliff and, for a moment, hung arched, as if in a graceful backwards dive. Then he landed in a crumple on the sand. Yarrow didn’t need to see the blood, or the twisted broken limbs, or even those vacant golden eyes, to know that his friend was dead. He knew it because of the part of his mind that was Adearre—the part that had felt determined, then pained, and then—for the briefest instant—peaceful, had disappeared entirely. Yarrow sensed the absence, the void in his mind where Adearre had once been, and his throat clenched painfully.
For a moment there was silence, save for the drumming of the rain.
Then Peer shouted, “No! Adearre!” He struggled, his features twisted into inhuman rage.
And then Yarrow felt him; felt the grief and loss like a blow to the stomach, like a knife between the ribs. It was as if the most precious thing in the world had been blotted out, as if everything had gone dark and life could hold no meaning, as if…as if Yarrow had just watch Bray die, but in some ways worse, more complicated. How he would feel if Bray died, had Bray been his constant companion for the past decade, had his love for her gone unnoticed and unreturned.
Yarrow felt hot trails run down his cheeks and could not say if they were his own, or if Peer’s tears were pouring from his eyes.
“Ahn-Tae! After the sphere.” Vendra’s indifferent voice broke though the pattering. “Parnela, look for rope.”
“Where?” a girl asked.
“Spirits above, do you think I know? Just find some! And quickly!”
Yarrow shook himself. He needed to focus, he needed to move.
He darted down the beach, towards the blue glow, and as he approached it was grateful, for once, that it robbed him of his extra sense. His own grief was but a shadow of Peer’s. He scooped up the sphere once again. It was wet and slippery in his fingers. Behind him he heard a thump, one just like Adearre’s body had made as it hit the beach. Yarrow turned, hoping to the Spirits above that he would not see Peer’s body.
It was not Peer, but a Chaskuan boy of perhaps eighteen. He lay broken and sprawled on the beach. Yarrow looked at him horrified—had he fallen? Why would he jump? No one could survive such a fall. Then, to his horror, the body stirred. Its limbs mended themselves, his back became straight and whole again. A healing gift, Yarrow realized.
The boy stood up, seemingly unscathed, and unsheathed his sword. He charged.
Yarrow watched, almost absently, as his attacker plowed towards him, kicking sand up with his feet as he ran. Yarrow, despite being unarmed and, for a Chisanta, a mediocre fighter, could not summon any fear. Perhaps this reaction was due to his sleepless, drug-addled, grief-logged mind. But he did not think so.
To lose, to die here and allow the sphere to be recaptured, would render Adearre’s death meaningless. He simply could not allow that to happen—he owed his friend that much. And so he would win. Plain and simple.
He thought of Adearre’s advice about facing an enemy, given to him on this very beach. He needed confidence, and now, by all the Spirits, he had that.
He’s Chiona, Yarrow realized, studying his opponent’s movements, his lack of grounding. Good. His mind flitted to a time long past, when he had been at the Temple as a boy, when Britt had shown him the names of the Ada Chae positions and how they could be used in a fight. “Gracious Offering,” she’d said, “is ideal for facing an armed opponent when you lack a weapon. If they’re any good, you’ll surely be cut, but you will disarm them.”
The boy swung the sword and Yarrow dodged. He felt the blade slice the air beside him, heard the ineffective swoosh. He rolled on the sand and came to his feet nearby. The Chaskuan lad responded quickly, but not expertly. Yarrow had fought Ko-Jin enough to recognize a swordsman. This was a boy in training. Dangerous still, but unlikely to know anything beyond the basics.
He swung again, with less force but more care. Yarrow heard the blade rip the fabric of his shirt and felt it slice the skin of his forearm. A shallow graze, he told himself. Behind the boy, Yarrow noticed a great black horse nosing by the nearby cave, sniffing at a patch of dune grass hopefully. It was one of their steeds. Yarrow was surprised to see it there—surprised the enemy had not taken the mounts for themselves. And glad; it would speed his escape.
Yarrow circled around and struck the boy in the sword arm, hoping the lad would lose his grip and drop the weapon. But the Chiona was merely unbalanced for a moment. At that precise second, the horse, which the Chaskuan boy had not yet noticed, whinnied loudly. The boy’s brow creased, his concentration momentarily interrupted.
It was Yarrow’s opening—possibly his only opening. He crouched into Gracious Offering, pushed his arms forward to disarm his opponent, just as the boy raised the weapon.
It caught Yarrow in the gut. He felt the blade slide into him like a knife through warm butter. But he completed the stance, forced the sword from the boys hand and, mercifully, caught hold of it before it hit the sand. Without pause or consideration Yarrow thrust forward, sticking the sword straight through the boy’s chest.
Yarrow breathed heavily, feeling the warm wet blood leaking down from his stomach and soaking his shirt and pants. He saw the boy’s distinctive Chaskuan eyes widen in pain and fear, his mouth part in a silent moan. The rain drops pelted his face like sky-borne tears. And then he thunked down to his knees, his face fell into the sand, the bloody point of the weapon protruding from his back.
Yarrow, holding onto his gut wound to try to stem the bleeding, crouched down to pick up the sphere once again. He took it in his hands, hating the thing, and looked up. Vendra stood on the cliff, staring down at him. She didn’t look concerned by what he had done to her compatriot. He could not feel her emotions, but she looked cool, unnervingly cool. Yarrow hoped that she could read his own feelings—read them on his
face in the waning light. He hoped that she would see the promise in his gaze. This was not over. He would repay her for what she had done. Hate coursed through Yarrow’s veins, the feeling foreign to him. He tasted it in his mouth, felt the drum of it in his pulse.
He tore his eyes away and hobbled to the mouth of the cave, where the horse grazed. The animal was unsaddled and Yarrow was not much of a horsemen, but, even injured and one-handed, he managed to mount the steed with only a small amount of difficulty. He dug his heels into the beast, who, with obvious reluctance, left his meal.
Yarrow spared a parting glance for the dark, twisted shape that was Adearre’s body. “Goodbye, my friend,” he whispered.
Then he steered his mount away, down the coast and towards the carriage, where, Spirits willing, Bray and Ko-Jin would be waiting. The sun had nearly sunk from view, leaving the sky to the west black and the sky to the east an ominous blood red. Thunder clapped overhead.
The events of the last ten minutes swirled in his mind. He had just killed a boy—had done so without even a hesitation, he realized with disgust. Yarrow turned, feeling a redoubling in the pain in his stomach, to look at the corpse. He was confused when he saw it standing, watching him.
Right, Yarrow remembered. The gift of healing. Still, this day had answered the question Bray had asked him back in Accord: could he kill if the situation necessitated it? I have my answer, he thought, as the rhythmic muffled pounding of hooves carried him farther and farther away—and he was not sure he liked it.
Bray and Ko-Jin hid. It had been raining for some time. The drops pelted the leaves and branches with varying notes, creating a kind of discordant music, before dripping onto their heads. Bray shivered.
They heard footsteps and voices now and again as the night waned, but they did not stir. The carriage had been searched more than once. Bray was bone weary and in a state of mental terror. The words of that girl cycled through her mind—one of them is dead. The longer the others did not return, the more she feared they were all dead. The mere thought made her want to vomit. She couldn’t fathom it. Peer or Adearre, her dearest friends, dead? Yarrow? She could not even define what Yarrow was to her, but the idea of a world without him was alien and wrong.
Bray imagined Ko-Jin’s mind was equally in turmoil, but they did not speak of it. To say it aloud would seem to make the possibility truth. Besides, it was safer to remain quiet.
Hoof beats thumped in the near distance, growing closer. Bray remained still as the riders approached. They were close enough that she could hear the snort of a horse. Feet hit the ground as several people dismounted.
“They’re here,” a female voice said.
“Where?”
“In the bushes.”
Bray gaped at Ko-Jin. How did they know?
“You phase through the bushes and flank them—I’ll distract,” he whispered so softly she barely heard him. He offered her the knives he had requisitioned from their previous foes. She took them and nodded.
Ko-Jin charged through the foliage and Bray phased, moved soundlessly in the opposite direction. She heard the sound of steel meeting steel and a shout.
She exited through the far side of the copse. Ko-Jin fought furiously against two swordsmen. Her breath caught momentarily. He was magnificent. He moved with such speed and grace, like an inhuman thing. These two were skilled, for sure, and a good deal older than their previous combatants, perhaps in their early twenties, but they looked inept and childish by comparison.
She counted. There were three horses, and Ko-Jin only countered two men. She searched the darkness for the third opponent and found her—a woman, just beside the closest horse.
The woman crouched, loading a pistol. She jammed the ramrod down the barrel and chucked it aside, then raised the weapon, taking aim at Ko-Jin. Bray wondered that she should risk hitting her companions—pistols, even in the most skilled hands, were highly inaccurate.
Bray raised one of the knives, took aim, and threw. She could just barely see the silver of the short blade flipping end over end through the air before it dug itself into the woman’s side. She called out in pain and turned to Bray. To the woman’s credit, despite a knife stuck deeply in her torso she stood, her arm steady, with the pistol pointed at Bray.
“Drop your weapons or I shoot,” she threatened. She was a plain, shrewd-looking Dalish woman with a mop of dark curly hair. Bray wondered where in Daland she was from—her accent sounded unusual. Andle perhaps?
Bray shrugged and stepped towards the woman. “Do your worst.”
She looked, momentarily, shocked. Then she pulled the trigger. The blast rung through the clearing and the bullet passed harmlessly through Bray’s chest and found its home in a nearby tree.
The woman’s eyes widened marginally. “A useful gift.” She then sunk to her knees, succumbing to the wound in her side.
Bray drew closer and heard her labored, whistling breath—a punctured lung. Without medical attention she would die. Bray’s mouth turned down. She hadn’t wanted to kill if she could help it; these were kidnapped children after all. Adearre would be displeased.
Ko-Jin continued to parry with the two men, the clashing of blades and grunts rendering them easy to locate despite the darkness. Bray noticed a sword strapped to the horse by which the woman had crouched.
She took it and ran to the fray. Adrenaline pumped in her veins, thrusting her weariness aside. She diverted one of the swordsmen. He was Adourran, with high cheekbones and skin a shade or two darker than Adearre’s.
He moved with the smooth grace that comes from extensive study. He was the better swordsman for sure. He swung, a blow that would have ended Bray, had she not phased. Rather than look surprised, the man smiled as if pleased, a bright white flash in the darkness of the night.
“I have never fought a vapor before,” he said, his accent thick and charming.
Bray passed through him, in her typical style, but he anticipated her, spinning with unbelievable speed. She only realized just in time, and phased again, frowning. He couldn’t hurt her if she remained intangible, but nor could she hurt him. Most people were thrown more off balance by her ability, even Ko-Jin.
He swung his sword straight through her chest. She rolled away, but before she could come to her feet his sword was there again, squarely in her torso.
He smiled wider. “Ghosts cannot bite, my love.”
Bray’s anger spiked. No matter how fast she moved, he was faster. That must be his gift, she thought. How in the name of the Spirits had Ko-Jin fended this man off while sparing time for another?
Bray ran several paces, hoping that if she stopped short he would overtake her and she could re-solidify. She forgot her plan entirely when she reached the crest of the hill. In the distance she could see a wide cluster of torches born by horsemen—a hundred or more. Still a ways off, but approaching steadily.
“You cannot win,” the Adourran man purred in her ear. She jumped and turned. He stood terribly near—if she were tangible his face would touch hers. She could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes.
The pounding of hooves reclaimed her attention. Not the massive band in the distance, but a single rider much closer at hand. Bray thought, for a moment, to run, but then she studied the approaching figure. The horse was unsaddled and the rider hunched low. She saw the barest blue glow in the darkness.
“If you submit, I promise not to harm you,” the man said.
She waited, acting as though she were considering his offer, until the horseman was just below. The Adourran must have assumed it one of his kind—he did not look. Bray waited until that horrible feeling washed over her, stealing her ability. Then she struck quickly and sharply. She hit the man over the head with the hilt of her sword. She saw in his eyes an instant of confusion, and then he collapsed.
The horse crested the hill and Bray saw it was Yarrow—Yarrow alone. He sat slumped in a way that worried her, his face, even in the limited light, looked gray and slack. He dismounted and
collapsed on the ground beside her—and then she saw the blood, thick and dark on his shirt.
“Yarrow!” she called, running to him.
“Bray,” he said with a weak smile.
Ko-Jin appeared at their side, looking again as he had in their prison, shrunken and twisted. He seemed to hardly notice in his concern for Yarrow.
“Peer and Adearre?” Ko-Jin asked, as if afraid of the answer. Bray tensed, waiting for the blow that seemed sure to come.
“Peer was alive last I saw him, but captured,” Yarrow whispered. He looked pained, pained beyond his wounds.
Bray understood. Peer was alive…and Adearre was not.
Adearre was dead.
She felt hollow, stunned. It seemed an impossible thing; Adearre was so full of life. She had just seen him earlier that very day. How could he be gone?
No tears came to her eyes, but she fell back, landing on her bottom. A dry sob broke from her chest. It was too much, far too much, to take in. Adearre…
“We have to get rid of it,” Yarrow said.
Ko-Jin gazed out over the hill, towards the approaching enemy. “We can’t outrun them—not all the way across Daland.”
“No,” Yarrow agreed, and he struggled to get to his feet. Bray helped him. Oh Spirits, how colorless his face was.
“There was a fishing village not far off, remember?” he said.
Bray and Ko-Jin nodded.
“A ship,” Ko-Jin said in agreement. “Most of the fishermen will be departing around now anyway. They won’t know which vessel we’re on.”
Bray helped Yarrow mount one of the saddled horses, and climbed up behind him. She worried that he would pass out and fall from the saddle without her.
She watched Ko-Jin hobble on his twisted foot until he passed beyond range of the sphere. It was an amazing thing, to see a person transform that way. To be, in one moment, small and deformed, and in the next tall and strong.
The Complete Marked Series Box Set Page 34
