The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  Arlow kept his hands raised to defend his face, but didn’t swing. He hadn’t endeavored to land a single blow. It chafed—they both knew Arlow to be the stronger fighter, even when Yarrow wasn’t dead on his feet.

  Arlow was toying with him, and the knowledge set his innards burning with anger. “Don’t call me friend.”

  Yarrow screwed his eyes shut and envisioned himself standing behind Arlow. The world went dark for an instant and then reappeared, having slid several spans to the west. He immediately shifted into the most aggressive move of the Ada Chae, Fist Through Sand. Arlow anticipated him and danced out of reach.

  “It’s a pity about the popping sound, Yar. It gives you away.”

  Unbidden, a memory leapt to the fore of Yarrow’s thoughts: Arlow and Ko-Jin, at the ages of sixteen, deciding it was the height of hilarity to call him ‘Yar’ and pronounce it like a pirate. “Pass the rum, Yarrr.”

  Yarrow’s knees gave way and he landed on the cool marble. Arlow squatted at his side, feeling, of all things, concerned. Blight the man.

  “You look like death, brother.”

  A hand came to rest on Yarrow’s shoulder. He looked up and met Arlow’s eye for the first time. “Why?” he asked, in a small, weary voice.

  Arlow’s brows drew down; his misery resounded in Yarrow’s head. “If we could just sit down and talk, I’m sure I could explain.”

  Yarrow shook his head and let it bow forward. “Adearre is dead. And I…” he trailed off, not knowing how to articulate his own loss. “There is no explanation that could suffice.”

  Yarrow lifted his head in time to see the flash of a blade appear at Arlow’s neck. His old friend’s eyes widened but he remained otherwise still. “Bray, dear, how nice to see you again,” he drawled.

  Blood splattered Bray’s face like extra freckles.

  “I have a few questions,” she said, and twisted the knife so it pinched closer to Arlow’s jugular. “Answer them and maybe I won’t kill you.”

  Arlow paled. Yarrow couldn’t blame him.

  “Is Peer alive?” she asked, betraying no emotion.

  In the moment that followed, dread rushed through Yarrow’s chest. If Arlow answered in the negative, Bray would undoubtedly kill him without hesitation. Despite his anger, the idea of a world without Arlow grieved him.

  “Yes, he lives,” Arlow said. “And he will continue to do so. Quade has a use for him.”

  Relief eased some of the tension in Yarrow’s gut. Thank the Spirits for that, at least.

  “Where is he?” Bray asked. “At Easterly Point still?”

  A bead of sweat ran down Arlow’s temple. “I’m not sure. He was, but I know Quade intended to move him.”

  “Where?” Bray asked, the word sounding like a hiss.

  “Here,” Arlow said. “To Accord. He could be en route as we speak, but I do not know.”

  Yarrow glanced over Bray’s shoulder, to where Ko-Jin and the prince were trying to pry the queen from her husband’s corpse. He cleared his throat. “Bray, we need to get them to safety before more guards arrive.”

  Bray turned the knife and blood blossomed on Arlow’s neck. “Are more coming?”

  Arlow grimaced. “Undoubtedly. The whole guard is Quade’s.”

  Bray turned to Yarrow and her eyes softened. “Are you alright?”

  “I’ll manage.” He pushed himself back to his feet, but swayed on the spot.

  “We should kill him, you know,” Bray said, almost off-handedly, jerking her head towards her captive.

  Arlow’s dark eyes shot up to Yarrow’s in appeal.

  “I know we should,” Yarrow said with a sigh, “but I just…can’t.”

  Bray shrugged. “I thought you’d say that.” She withdrew the knife and wrapped her arm around Arlow’s neck, pulled on her hand to constrict the blood flow to his head. Arlow lifted hands to tug pointlessly at her forearm, but in seconds he collapsed.

  Yarrow’s eyes flitted to where Vendra’s form sprawled on the stair. Bray followed his gaze.

  “Is she…?”

  “No,” Bray said, her tone laced with venom. “I want to question her. Besides, we might be able to trade.”

  Yarrow tried to feel relieved that she lived, for Dedrre’s sake at least, but could not.

  They left Arlow where he lay and jogged, in Yarrow’s case with huffing breath and stiff legs, to the throne.

  Ko-Jin crouched beside the queen, inspecting the bolt stuck through her right calf. The queen herself seemed unaware of his attention; she stared at a smear of blood with vacant eyes.

  “This is easily treatable,” Ko-Jin said at last. “But we need to get out of here.”

  “No,” the prince said, assuming a posture of authority. “We must find my sister first. If they haven’t already…”

  “Where?” Bray asked.

  The young man knelt by his mother and put a hand on her shoulder. “Mother? Mother, do you know where Chae-Na is?”

  She didn’t respond, still gazing absently. The prince shook her. “Mother, please! Where is Chae-Na?”

  The queen looked around at that, as if only just realizing her son was there. “Chae-Na?”

  “Yes, do you know where she is?”

  Tears began to build in the older woman’s eyes. “She went to the restaurant.”

  Ko-Jin stood. “Yarrow, you should get these two out of here before we do anything else.”

  The queen seemed to find herself at that. “Absolutely not. I am going nowhere without my daughter.”

  The prince crossed his arms before his chest. “Nor I.”

  “Highness, no offense meant, but that is a terrible idea. It will be much easier—”

  The young man stood and his black eyes flashed a quelling look in Ko-Jin’s direction. “I will not abandon Chae-Na,” he said, in the commanding tone of a man used to having his way.

  Ko-Jin, not looking particularly quelled, made a frustrated gesture with his bloody hand. “Very well. Let’s get moving, then. Keep close, and keep quiet.”

  Without another word, he hauled the queen up into his arms like a small child. She let out an undignified squawk, then bit her lip, her royal cheeks turning rosy.

  Yarrow made to lift Vendra, not entirely confident he could accomplish the task, but the prince jogged forward.

  “I’ve got it.” He heaved her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “What of—?” he asked, looking at Arlow’s crumpled form.

  “Leave him,” Bray said, not sparing a backwards glance. “He’s not worth the trouble.”

  The prince gave a one-shouldered shrug, then strode towards the door ahead of the others, Vendra’s braid trailing along the gore-strewn floor behind him.

  “Lead the way,” Ko-Jin said dryly, then took off after the king at a run.

  Yarrow hastened to follow, though the room had begun to spin before his eyes. His exhaustion had reached such a degree that it grew difficult to block the feelings of others from his mind. The grief of mother and son before him kept slipping into his consciousness, making his eyes burn with unshed tears and his chest ache with a still-disbelieving sorrow. Their concern for Princess Chae-Na, however, fierce as wildfire, helped drive his legs onward.

  They burst through the doors, out onto the grounds, lit with the golden hues of sunset. Yarrow followed his companions—trusting they knew the way—up the pillared walkway that spiraled through the palace gardens. Their slamming feet, labored breath, and rustling clothes intruded upon the stillness of the grounds. As he took up the rear of the party, he darted intermittent looks over his shoulder. The path remained mercifully clear.

  Ahead, the walk ended and a cluster of quaint gray-stone shops formed a sort of miniature town, lit by regularly spaced lampposts and labeled in matching script: ‘Royal Tailor,’ ‘Royal Jeweler,” etc.

  The identically labeled restaurant stood at the top of the plaza, many long, shallow steps separating them from the entry.

  Ko-Jin paused at the end of the walkway to s
can the surroundings, but the prince did not. He proceeded out into the open and, almost instantly, the twang of loosed bolts announced his error.

  “Wait,” Ko-Jin shouted, too late.

  The prince jerked and called out in pain. He dropped Vendra and fell to his knees.

  “Jo-Kwan!” the queen shouted, as she tugged free of Ko-Jin’s grasp. In a moment, despite the bolt through her leg, she had darted out from the cover of the walkway, towards her son.

  “Blight it all,” Ko-Jin said through gritted teeth. He sprinted after her.

  Yarrow teetered where he stood. His mind had grown too foggy for cogent thought, aside from a dim sense that everything was going rather poorly.

  He felt Bray’s hand slip into his own and the strange shiver of his solidity winking out. “Come on,” she said, tugging him by the arm. His feet must have heard her, as they began to shuffle forward.

  In a number of strides, Bray reached the prince and grabbed him by the back of the neck. Yarrow saw that the arrow had entered high in his shoulder—a non-fatal wound.

  “Can you rise, Your Majesty?” Bray asked, out of breath.

  He clenched his teeth and looked at her somewhat wildly. “It’s Jo-Kwan, please.”

  She laughed. “Very well, Jo-Kwan. Let’s get moving.”

  “What of her?” he asked, gesturing to Vendra’s inert form.

  “Leave her,” Bray said, though a muscle in her jaw danced.

  She helped the prince rise and, with Yarrow still in hand, they began to mount the steps to the restaurant. Yarrow experienced a flash of déjà vu and felt inclined to laugh, until Jo-Kwan slipped his hand around Bray’s waist for support.

  Ko-Jin, the queen once again cradled in his arms, appeared at their side. An arrow whizzed through the air and skidded across the ground a few feet away. “You haven’t got an extra hand, have you?” Ko-Jin called to Bray.

  Yarrow’s bleary brain focused enough to wonder why they were running in the first place. “Perhaps we should tela—”

  An arrow bloomed near the queen’s shoulder and she let out a cry. Ko-Jin’s lips pressed together in pain, but he pushed onward.

  “Mother!”

  “Keep moving. We can’t help her here,” Bray said.

  They mounted the last stair as a bolt cracked the ground just a breath from Yarrow’s foot. Ko-Jin kicked the doors open and they poured into the restaurant.

  The scene within was surreal in its ordinariness. The finery of the clothes, the decorous demeanor of the patrons, the blinding white of the table cloths and curtains, all seemed at glaring odds with the blood, fear, and turmoil of the last half hour. Their entrance was met with alarmed shouts that passed half-heard through Yarrow’s consciousness.

  “Mother?” a female voice wailed from a far table. A young woman shot up from her seat and pushed her way through customers and tables.

  “Bray, can you watch the door?” Ko-Jin asked in a tight voice. He lowered himself to the ground, blood dripping onto the golden rug below.

  Jo-Kwan attempted to take his mother from Ko-Jin’s grasp, but the latter hissed in pain. “I’m afraid we’re skewered.”

  Yarrow examined the quarrel. It had passed through the queen’s underarm, the tip embedded between Ko-Jin’s ribs. Yarrow paled at the sheer volume of her blood, gushing violent and red, already pooling on the floor beneath them. The queen’s head lolled.

  “Axillary artery,” Ko-Jin murmured. He met Yarrow’s gaze, his own brown eyes weary, and shook his head infinitesimally.

  The princess threw herself to the rug next to Yarrow, tears racing down both cheeks. “Mama?”

  “We need to get out of here,” Bray said, turning away from the window. “They’re regrouping outside.”

  The queen’s breaths grew shallow, her face losing the last of its color. Redness soaked Ko-Jin’s robes and continued to spread across the floor, their blood marrying in the fibers of the carpet.

  “Where to?” Yarrow asked. His voice sounded distant in his own ears, drowned out by a mysterious ringing.

  “Somewhere far. Somewhere safe,” Bray said.

  “A place with a doctor,” the prince added.

  Yarrow racked his mind—his rapidly deteriorating mind—for a place that would suit. “Chiona Isle?”

  Bray shook her head. “I’m afraid our brothers and sisters can’t be trusted.”

  “But the healer,” Yarrow protested.

  “It’s too late for a healer,” Ko-Jin said softly.

  The queen’s breathing had stopped. Her eyes stood open, unseeing.

  “No!” the princess cried, as she choked on sobs.

  Her protest seemed to be echoed by the sound of something hard ramming into the restaurant doors.

  “Just pick a place, Yarrow,” Ko-Jin said. “Fast.”

  Yarrow could remember only one destination. He took hold of the royal children first—they looked puzzled by his touch, but didn’t pull away. He closed his eyes and summoned the image of a doctor’s office along a small-town street.

  The restaurant disappeared and Yarrow found himself in the place of his memory, the avenue lit by several street lamps and the last light of twilight, the air fragrant with baking bread and heather.

  “How in the name of the—” the prince began.

  “Hold that thought. Be right back.”

  Yarrow once again willed himself to Accord. As he materialized in the restaurant, the window panes shattered.

  Yarrow held onto Bray and Ko-Jin, who still cradled the limp form of his countrywoman, and repeated the miracle.

  As soon as this final task was complete, he collapsed, his knees giving way. Curious townsfolk had begun to pour from stores and homes. “Did you see them just appear?”

  “Unbelievable!”

  “Where are we, Yarrow?” Bray asked, looking around her without recognition.

  He looked up and down Broad Street, at the storefronts that had barely changed, a peculiar tightness in his lungs. “Glans Heath.”

  Home.

  Chapter Three

  Arlow groaned. He raised a hand to his aching head and blinked at the ceiling, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness, wondering how long he’d been unconscious. The sun had nearly set, leaving the throne room in that eerie state of dusky half-light just before nightfall.

  He let his face fall to the side and jerked in shock. A corpse lay a mere arm’s span away—a pair of vacant green eyes glared at him, accusatory.

  Arlow pushed himself to his knees, an ill feeling in his gullet. The dead and dying surrounded him; they sprawled like broken things, legs and arms cocked at strange angles. He heard the whimpers and moans of the injured, sounds that he felt confident would revisit him later.

  He knew enough of his friends to see the mercy—if Ko-Jin had meant to kill, they would all be dead. He was not sure, however, that dying slowly of a festered wound would feel much like mercy.

  Some had perished already, their eternal silence louder than any moan—deafening. Arlow gazed down at his hands. They were white, clean. Odd, for bloody hands to be so clean.

  Arlow forced himself to his feet, though his legs felt unsteady. He walked like a man dazed towards the throne, to stare down at his handiwork. The late king lay upon the stair, black eyes half-closed, mouth open in a grimace. The red satin waistcoat, which had so complemented his warm complexion in life, now looked horribly ill-matched to his ashen skin.

  Arlow knelt and closed the man’s eyes. “You were not a good king,” he whispered to the body. “Still, I am sorry this is how it had to happen.”

  “Is someone the-there?”

  Arlow glanced up, unsure which of the fallen men had spoken. “Yes?”

  A young guard at the base of the steps coughed wetly. “Doctor?”

  Arlow hurried to the lad. He looked to be in his mid-teens, not having outgrown the gangling years yet. He had overly large ears and his upper lip sported a pale fuzz, the precursor of a mustache. His fair head was crowned in a ri
ng of blood, looking black against the marble. Arlow suspected he’d fallen from the second story—fallen or been thrown.

  “The doctors are coming,” Arlow said, and hoped it was true.

  The lad shivered, his teeth clattering. Arlow clasped his hand and shuddered at the icy touch.

  “My fe-feet,” the boy said. “Are they mo-moving?”

  Arlow glanced at a set of motionless, well-worn boots. “Yes, they’re positively jigging. You’ll be alright.”

  “The king? I—we…” The boy’s eyes bulged and roamed, confusion puckering a rapidly paling brow. He coughed and blood misted the air. “My ma—I need—I’m brea-breadwinner.”

  Arlow squeezed those cold fingers. “Everything will be just fine.”

  “Co-cold.”

  “Yes, it is a bit drafty in here. Doctor’s coming though, just hold on a little while.”

  Arlow clenched his eyes shut and begged the Spirits not to take this lad. The fingers grew still and stiff beneath his grip. The coughing ceased.

  Another roaring silence.

  Arlow kept his eyes screwed closed for a long while, no longer prayerful, merely wanting to delay the moment of knowing. When at last he did look, he found what he had expected—empty eyes.

  For several minutes, Arlow merely kneeled there, clinging to the unfortunate boy’s hand, his mind numb. And then that numbness cracked, like a riding crop snapped against a knee.

  He wept, then. Wept as he never had in all his life; wept the bitter tears of a man not in the habit of feeling regret. He sobbed for this poor lad, for the lad’s mother, wherever she was, and for himself, him and his bloodlessly bloody hands.

  The great doors crashed open and a flurry of people entered, torches banishing the shadows. Doctors with medical bags came first, moving with purpose towards the injured. They were followed by a number of Elevated, and—finally—Vendra and Quade.

  Arlow rubbed his cheeks on his sleeve and sniffed. His breakdown was likely evident on his face, but there was nothing to be done. He squared his shoulders.

  Quade’s arrival warmed the room better than a hearthfire. Arlow instinctively leaned towards him, despite the look on the man’s face suggesting he was less than pleased. He strode, arms clasped behind his back, in the direction of the throne.