The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  He strode from the room, the bearded man at his heels, leaving Yarrow alone with the lad called Whythe. As the warmth that accompanied Quade’s presence drained from the room, Yarrow’s inner turmoil mounted. The idea of Quade fishing about in his head was too horrifying; he knew so much that could cause harm. Not only the whereabouts of his friends and the king of Trinitas, but the prophecies of the Fifth, the history of the Chisanta. Charlem and the Confluence—memories that needed protecting.

  He could imagine himself in the none-too-distant future, reduced to Quade’s lackey, lapping up compliments and false tenderness like some pathetic pup at his feet, telling the man anything and everything.

  Yarrow’s head drooped. He wanted to believe he was strong enough to resist such a fate—but was he? Was anyone?

  Whythe stood and moved his chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor, murmuring to himself about better lighting. Yarrow narrowed his eyes. If that kid weren’t here, he could be gone in a blink. Even should he gain a new gift, something to help save his mind from an invasion, Whythe would simply take it away.

  But what I really need, Yarrow thought, as realization slowly seeped into his mind, is not a gift…but a sacrifice.

  The third sacrifice: identity, memory.

  “I am curious,” Yarrow said, his voice carefully neutral. Whythe’s face shot up. It was the first time Yarrow had spoken to him. “You can turn off gifts, but can you turn off sacrifices? Could you, say, give me the ability to touch others again?”

  Whythe’s brown eyes held sympathy. “I’m afraid not. I don’t think that would be possible.”

  “I see.” As I thought.

  Yarrow hung his head, shielding his face behind his hair. The idea of parting with his memories was nearly unbearable. He reflected on all that he would lose. Not only the knowledge he’d spent his entire adult life collecting, but the experiences that had shaped him, the people he loved. Would he even be himself if he could recall nothing of his life? Which pieces of his character were inherently his and which were the result of experience? There was a reason they called the sacrifice ‘identity,’ not merely memory.

  He would not know his own mother. He would not remember Bray—not how they had met, nor how wholly he loved her.

  His mind wandered to that first meeting, to the first thing she had ever said to him: ‘You can cry if you want to.’ He did want to, then.

  His throat constricted painfully as the worst of the sacrifice occurred to him. He would lose his daughter. Bray, at least, he could feasibly meet again, love again. Not Arella. His daughter’s existence was limited only to his memory. If she were to be eradicated from his mind, then she would be truly gone.

  Yarrow wanted to weep. It was a terrible decision, especially given that he would receive no gift in return—yet he knew what he must do. If he did not, Quade would know of the cottage in Cagsglow, would kill his friends and the last hope for the nation. Grimly, he acknowledged that the decision was already made.

  There was one ray of satisfaction, at least; he thought of Quade’s reaction when he discovered his own oversight, when he realized that, no matter what he did, he could coax no information from Yarrow’s lips. There would be none to have.

  Yarrow’s mind had barely formed Warm Hands over Fire, before it flitted back to the Aeght a Seve. He appeared upon the second rocky ledge, now high above the circle of grass where the Confluence grew. Yarrow shielded his eyes with his hand and examined the next tier, the second to last.

  With resolve and regret already so infused in his thoughts, there was little mental exercise required. He breathed in, lingered briefly on those memories he hated most to lose. Forgive me, Bray.

  His knees bent, his feet kicked. Two hands, one maimed, the other whole, caught hold of the stony ridge. He hauled his body up, with teeth gritted, and rolled onto the third step.

  In an instant, it was all gone.

  The man did not shed a tear for the loss, as he knew not what he had given.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ko-Jin grumbled as he slowed his steed from a trot to a walk. He glanced over his shoulder to find the Verdant Peaks had faded to a mere shadow against the horizon. Around him, the rolling plains of central Daland spread out like a vast, grassy sea.

  Ko-Jin clenched the reins in his hands, felt the leather dig into his palms. He shut his eyes. The sway of the horse beneath him felt gallingly unhurried. It chafed, the slowness of their progress. Every time he thought of his mother, he wanted to break into a gallop, race across the continent like a flash of light. But the mare he’d purchased in Cagsglow could certainly not withstand such a pace. Besides, he needed to remain with his group.

  They made quite the caravan, all ten of them carving a path through the sod. The grass alone could tell the tale of their passage, as they’d not encountered so much as a farm in two days. The world had begun to seem a big, empty place.

  Ko-Jin opened his eyes once more. Above, a bird of prey circled, black against the cloudy sky, as if hoping one of them might expire of sheer boredom. Not an unreasonable prospect, he thought.

  Roldon increased their pace once again to a trot. Ko-Jin and the others matched him. It was the same pattern over and over—walk, trot, walk, trot. Even just a canter would feel a marvelous change of routine.

  “I know you do, but we still have hours to go,” Roldon said, speaking to his horse. “No, you only just ate.”

  Ko-Jin smiled. He’d known Roldon for many years, but it never ceased to amaze him, the way his friend had with animals. Arlow used to joke that if Roldon had half as much skill with women as he had with beasts, he could start a harem.

  The king guided his steed beside Ko-Jin.

  “Are you certain we are still riding west?” Jo-Kwan turned a face up to the overcast sky.

  “Yes,” Ko-Jin said. He had no better answer to give—he’d always had a natural sense of direction. He knew north intrinsically, the same way he knew up from down. “Three more days, at the most.”

  The king swiveled his head, taking in their surroundings. “I knew the Dalish prairie to be expansive, theoretically. It is truly something else, seeing it firsthand.” He frowned. “That isn’t right, is it? A king should know his own country. When all of this is at an end, I think I should arrange a tour.”

  “Sounds thrilling,” Ko-Jin said with a laugh. Seeing one grassy plain was, in his opinion, as good as seeing them all.

  “I hope you think so.” Jo-Kwan stared at him, his features solemn. “I have been meaning to speak to you, about what will happen…after.” The Quade problem was so monumental, the idea of an ‘after’ hadn’t crossed Ko-Jin’s mind of late. It had a wonderful sound to it, this after. “I hope that I may continue to depend upon you. Our royal guard, as you know, proved unreliable.”

  Ko-Jin jerked his head in surprise. “What, you mean for me to be your bodyguard indefinitely?”

  “Not bodyguard.” Jo-Kwan’s dark eyes bored into his own. “General.”

  Ko-Jin made a sound that was half cough, half laugh. “General?” he repeated, not sure if he should be amused or alarmed. The horse beneath him huffed at his exclamation. “General of what, exactly? Is there a standing army I’m unaware of?”

  “Not a true army, no,” Jo-Kwan said. “But it is clear that there must be. If we do manage to retake Accord, we will need men to defend it.”

  Ko-Jin chewed on his inner cheek, unsure how to answer. He was tempted to laugh—the idea of himself, Sung Ko-Jin, leader of armies, was ridiculous. But he didn’t laugh.

  “Think about it, won’t you? I do not require an answer this instant.” Ko-Jin agreed that he would, and Jo-Kwan directed his steed away again, towards his sister.

  As they rode hour after excruciating hour, Ko-Jin found he could think of little else. Thoughts of his mother inspired panic, thoughts of Quade made his insides boil. So, instead, he contemplated training tactics, the best way to defend a large city, weapons and combat styles. It was an enjoyable menta
l exercise, at the very least. An excellent distraction from the rawness at his inner thighs, where the saddle jostled beneath him.

  The day grew colder as evening approached. The wind mounted, casting wave after wave through the long grass. Ko-Jin’s breath misted before him and his toes ached within his boots, threatening to go numb but never actually doing so.

  They came upon a narrow creek and Ko-Jin’s horse stopped to drink, Ko-Jin still perched upon its back. “By all means, take a break,” he said dryly to the beast beneath him.

  “The horses are tired,” Roldon called out, hopping down from his mount. “I think we should stop here tonight.”

  Ko-Jin saw no better shelter anywhere in the vicinity, not even a lone tree for protection, so he jumped down as well to set about slaking his own thirst. They passed around some dry provisions and began making camp. Ko-Jin hammered tent poles into the rough grass and strung a guy rope through the loops. He was draping the tent cloth across the line when Dedrre cleared his throat. “Ah, Ko-Jin, lad. Can I have a word?”

  Ko-Jin brushed off his hands and turned to the older man. “More than one, if you’d like.”

  Dedrre had a notepad in hand, diagrams and neat annotations filling the open page. “I have been thinking about your idea, that we might find a way to incapacitate as many of the Elevated as we can and quarantine them separately.”

  Ko-Jin nodded. It was a decent thought, except that eight Chisanta could hardly hope to overpower hundreds. Even if Yarrow, Bray, and Peer made it to Accord in time, they would only be eleven strong. “Yes?”

  “Well, as you know, Vendra developed this sedative years and years ago—effective, harmless in reasonable doses.” Ko-Jin snorted. Yes, he was well aware of Vendra’s bag of magic potions. “Well, a while back she and I had sent letters back and forth, discussing how the drug might be vaporized.”

  Ko-Jin’s brows shot up. “Breathable sedatives? Now there’s a thought. How would it be released?”

  “Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it?” Dedrre said. “These canisters I’ve designed, they would need to be triggered in some way.”

  Roldon pursed his lips and cast a gaze upward. “I doubt we could get close unseen.”

  “Like I said,” Fernie chimed in. “If we’re seen, we’re done. He’ll have all the most elite Elevated front and center—people that can take your gifts, make it so you can’t move, all kinds of things”

  Dedrre smoothed his mustache. “A small puncture would release the gas. If we could camouflage it somehow, place it near the gallows, then a well-placed arrow might do the job.”

  Ko-Jin’s gaze flicked up to Chae-Na; her eyes met his and her jaw set. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I can do it.”

  He compressed his lips, tried to picture the breadth of the main plaza in Accord. How far from the nearest roofline to the center of the square?

  “You doubt my aim?”

  He shook his head. “No. You’re as good a shot as I’ve seen. It’s just a matter of distance. When we arrive, we’ll scope it out. Dedrre, you will be able to make this without the help of your granddaughter? I can’t imagine she’d be willing to lend a hand.”

  The old man’s shoulders slumped. “With access to supplies in Accord and some time, yes. I can make it.”

  Ko-Jin sighed. It was preferable to the complete lack of plan they’d had moments before, but he’d feel a lot better if it didn’t come to such a measure. There was still the hope that they might locate and free the prisoners before the execution day ever arrived.

  “For now, we should sleep,” Ko-Jin said, returning to his tent. “We’ve got leagues and leagues yet to go.”

  Arlow gave his tea bag a jerk and watched the water within the chipped clay mug darken. He breathed the fumes through his nose and imagined them eradicating the ache in his head.

  The meeting place the Pauper’s King had selected, an abandoned warehouse on the west side of Accord, was poorly insulated. Wind whistled through gaps in the planks. The room itself was dimly lit, narrow windows allowing in weak shafts of light.

  “You alright?” Mae whispered.

  She sat beside him on an overturned crate, her feet tucked up beneath her, her short hair lank and clumpy from lack of washing. Thus far, only the two of them had arrived.

  He smiled, knowing his peaked face likely exposed the truth. “I seem to be suffering from a Quade hangover, but it will pass.” His tone sounded oddly flat. He gazed down at his cup, thinking of Yarrow.

  “Is it so bad?”

  Physically, Arlow felt weak, overheated, achy, but the real trouble was the conflict within his own mind—the slow circle of confusion, the knowledge that he could not trust his own thoughts.

  When a man cannot trust himself, how is he to proceed?

  “He’s got a friend of mine tied up in a cell. Tortured.” Arlow shifted intense, dark eyes on Mae, his expression almost pleading. “I don’t know what to do. Quade wants me to convince your brother not to get involved, not to interfere with the execution. He says he will free him if I’m successful.”

  “You think he’ll really kill all them people?”

  Arlow sipped his tea. “He did not explicitly say one way or the other.”

  “Yeah, but do you think he will?”

  “I think he is not guided by compassion, nor is he a man to make idle threats.” Arlow shifted his weight back on the crate. “Yes, I think he will kill them.” He licked his lips and swiveled to face her. “Mae, if I am to have interactions with Quade and his people, I won’t be able to trust my own judgment. Do you think, perhaps, you could,” he hesitated, “be my judgment for me?”

  She snorted, eyes twinkling between arched, sandy brows. “Not many would be asking me that. I done a lot of stupid things over the years. Besides, I’m an outlaw.”

  Arlow shrugged. “We’re riding the same train, at this point. There is no going back for me.” He drummed the back of his shoes on the boards. “And you cannot have worse judgment than I. Look who I’ve thrown my lot in with.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a lucky bastard,” she said with a smirk. “You’ll come out on top in the end, even if everyone round you sinks.”

  He smiled and nudged her with his elbow. “Best remain close to me then, hadn’t you?”

  “Pah, why do you think I’ve stuck around this long? Sure ain’t them fancy manners of yours.”

  He opened his mouth to ask why she had actually remained with him. The Pauper’s King had named him an official member upon completion of his most recent task. He’d expected her to be finished with him, was braced for her departure. Yet, she’d said nothing of her plans.

  He closed his mouth, leaving the query unasked. Best to simply enjoy her company while he still had it.

  The door to the warehouse creaked open and Arlow unconsciously leaned away from Mae. A steady stream of men and women entered, only a few known to Arlow—Foy and the Pauper’s King at the lead. Arlow was surprised by how normal many of these Pauper’s Men looked. Some were certainly dressed like thugs, but many others had the appearance of merchants or gentlemen.

  The last figure to enter was a woman in long Cosanta robes, her blonde hair braided down her back, the red mark plainly visible on her pale neck. For a brief instant, Arlow tensed, fearing an Elevated had trailed them. Then he recognized the face—not pretty, but welcoming and clever.

  She smiled, revealing a notable gap between her front teeth. “Spirits be blighted, Arlow Bowlerham?”

  “Rinny?”

  Arlow hopped from his perch and crossed the sparse, open space to greet his sister with, first, a formal handshake, then a hearty slap on the back.

  “Haven’t seen you in an age, man.” She turned, smiling, to the king. “This the Cosanta you said’s been spying for you?”

  Linton’s eyes darted between the two of them. “It is. I take it you know each other.”

  “Sure,” Rinny said. “We was in the same year.”

  Linton offered
Arlow a cautious smile. “So you deem him trustworthy?”

  “Arlow? Trustworthy?” She laughed. “Not a lick.”

  Arlow tsked and shook his head. “I? Which of us just stole the other’s wallet? It’s empty, I’m afraid.”

  General laughter greeted this statement. Arlow refrained from giving the lot of them a dirty look. Weren’t thieves meant to have a code?

  “Just keeping you on your toes, brother.” She pressed his wallet back in his hand. “Hey, you seen Ko-Jin lately? A bunch of us had gathered for a while, but everyone split when they heard news about their families. He weren’t there though.”

  Speaking of thieves. “Not terribly recently,” Arlow hedged, hoping the guilt was discernible only to his own ears. He moved back to his crate, though Mae had gone to stand beside her brother. The rest of the Paupers’ Men found seats, or at least comfortable places to lean.

  Arlow scanned the ring of faces, thirty or so in total. They were a varied bunch, aging from early twenties all the way up to a man at least eighty years old. Plenty of them had the crowned fist tattooed on their necks, but not nearly so many as Arlow would have thought. He was surprised, too—though perhaps he should not have been—by the number of women. It would seem Mae was not an exception, but one of many.

  The Pauper’s King, seated on a crate like Arlow, did not elevate himself in any way. Yet when he cleared his throat the warehouse went silent, every man and woman wholly attentive. A shaft of light highlighted his sharp cheekbones.

  “You know why we are here,” he said, soft voice ringing in the large, bare space. “Quade Asher has declared war on those who have not blindly followed him. He has threatened innocents.”

  “Only Chisanta. What concern are they of ours?”

  Arlow stared at the enormous bald man who’d spoken, studying his lumpy, oft-broken nose and bulbous eyes. His lips compressed in recognition.

  “This,” Linton continued, his tone cutting at being interrupted, “after he abducted our own youngest members and forced them into slave labor.” The sound of shifting feet and murmurs met this announcement. “That we must oppose this man is, to me, clear. But in what way and at what time, I should like to hear your opinions.”