The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  A clock chimed and Chae-Na started. “We should be going.”

  “Right,” Ko-Jin agreed. He held out the crook of his elbow and she accepted it.

  They walked along the hallway, through the royal living quarters. The horrid shoes he’s been given clicked loudly with every step.

  “Have you heard from Bray or Yarrow?” she asked.

  He sighed. “No, not yet.”

  It grated on him, that he wasn’t out looking for Yarrow himself. But, somehow or other, he had entangled himself in responsibilities that prevented his leaving. If the city was not carefully secured, they could lose what little they had gained on the day of the execution. No one else had stepped forward to take the job.

  “It is odd,” she said, “but I keep waking and expecting to be back in our cottage. I look up at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom and I think, ‘This isn’t right. Where am I?’”

  “I’ve had similar thoughts, myself,” Ko-Jin said darkly.

  She tugged on his arm so he would slow; likely her gown necessitated a more leisurely stride. “It was like a vacation from life, that time in Cagsglow. I think I shall always look back on it fondly.”

  He smiled. “Even the leaky roof and the filthy sofa?”

  “I was thinking more of the freedom—the campfires in the back yard, walks on the beach, shooting archery as much as I pleased…”

  They reached the entryway to the throne room. A crowd of distinguished individuals had gathered, waiting for the doors to be thrown back. Jo-Kwan, looking terribly serious in his finery, was bent in close conversation with a steward. Lieutenant General Petterton, along with several other higher-ups in the military, were easily spotted for their red jackets. The Chancellor of Daland was brushing nonexistent lint from his lapels.

  As a unit, the audience’s gaze swiveled to Ko-Jin as he led the princess into their midst. He tried not to think about how foolish he must look, or how ludicrous his presence was—he, the crippled son of a Chaskuan seamstress, who’d spent more nights sleeping in alleyways than on beds as a boy.

  Stewards assisted them in lining up in their proper order and, after what felt a long wait, the doors were thrown wide and they processed into the throne room. Ko-Jin frowned to be back in that room once again. He eyed the steps where the late king had died.

  The space was positively packed. It seemed half of Accord was present, dressed in their best clothing and standing toe to toe. Ko-Jin swept the crowd with his eyes, vigilant. The general atmosphere seemed somehow off to him—rather than excitement, the gathering exuded a certain shifty nervousness. He noticed a great deal of darting eyes and licking of dry lips. Perhaps they feared the penalty of having supported Quade.

  His mother had been given a seat of honor. She wore a dress, he suspected, of her own design. He caught her eye and smiled, and she looked to be on the verge of tears. He cleared his throat and glanced away.

  Jo-Kwan and Chae-Na sat upon the two center thrones, so lately belonging to their parents. The massive diamond atop Jo-Kwan’s seat refracted countless minute rainbows across the walls.

  The ceremony began, an orchestra striking up a slow, solemn tune as the crown was brought forth, propped on a silken cushion.

  Ko-Jin had anticipated the coronation would be a long, drawn-out ceremony, but it seemed actually to be rather to the point.

  Jo-Kwan kneeled and the crown was placed gingerly atop his head.

  “Long live King Jo-Kwan Bellra the first of Daland, King Jo-Kwan Bellra the first of Chasku, King Jo-Kwan Bellra the first of Adourra!”

  The king rose and stepped forward into a shaft of sunlight streaming through a circular window in the ceiling. He looked spiritly in that moment, royal. The assembly, as a unit, knelt and pressed foreheads to fists, then stood again. A cheer went up and Ko-Jin joined in, clapping and hooting.

  Jo-Kwan smiled with closed lips and inclined his head to the assembly. He then raised his hand and waited for silence. It came with unexpected quickness. “I thank you all for coming here today, and I doubly thank you for your cooperation in these trying times.” His voice sounded stronger and firmer than Ko-Jin had ever heard it before. There was none of the timidity that sometimes marked him in the past. “It is, perhaps, not customary for a king to make decrees at his coronation. But you can all, no doubt, appreciate that the threat we face necessitates immediate and decisive action.” He paused. “Many people in this room aided and abetted Mr. Quade Asher in my absence. There are even individuals here today who took part in the assassination of my father, the late king of Trinitas.”

  The shiftiness increased, a quiet buzz of whispering in the crowd. But it was not just the commoners who exhibited discomfort; many of the distinguished individuals granted seats of prominence looked equally discomposed.

  “Which is why my first act as King must be to extend a complete and universal royal pardon, to all individuals saving Mr. Quade Asher himself.”

  The relief was palpable. Ko-Jin couldn’t help smiling in appreciation of Jo-Kwan’s newfound flair for the dramatic.

  “To spend any time at all in the distribution of blame would be wasteful and, given the nature of our enemy, ultimately impossible to determine. We have all been victims, and even those who erred in action are, in my eyes, and now legally, innocent. So, I beg you, think not of pointing fingers, but rather of forging the unity we will need if we mean to stand firm against our opposition—and I mean that we shall. Which brings me to my second decree.”

  He paused, waiting for the whispers to subside. “The military is once again to be active, helmed by the estimable General Sung Ko-Jin.” Here, Jo-Kwan gestured to Ko-Jin who, not knowing what else to do and feeling profoundly stupid, bowed to the assemblage. “Previously, military positions required certain qualifications, but in light of our need, of the importance of defending Accord, we will be recruiting any and all able-bodied men,” he breathed, dark eyes glittering, “and women.”

  Shocked exclamations reverberated through the room, and this time they did not abate quickly. Ko-Jin could not help but lean forward to catch a glimpse of Chae-Na. She appeared to be working hard to keep a smile from her lips, but her cheeks were decidedly flushed.

  Jo-Kwan, apparently at the end of his certain-to-be-remembered speech, turned back to the throne, and the procession made their way back through the doorway, into the royal living quarters.

  Once the doors had been shut, only dimming the din of voices from the throne room, Jo-Kwan slung an arm around Chae-Na’s shoulder.

  He grinned, looking giddy. “There you have it, sister. Give us a few decades, and we might have fodder for some fairytales more to your liking.”

  She darted a quick kiss on his cheek and disengaged herself, turning to Ko-Jin with a brilliant smile. He answered with a grin of his own, and his hand strayed down to the hilt of Treeblade at his side.

  They were living in remarkable times, it would seem. He had the sense that history was shaping itself right before his eyes. Even more uncanny, he was having a hand in its shaping.

  He only hoped he was up to the challenge.

  Lamentation of the Marked

  Book Three of the Marked Series

  Prologue

  Vendra sensed light and motion beyond the veil of her eyelids. Her unconscious mind stirred. Signals zipped between synapses like messages along a telegraph line. It was a pull as inescapable as gravity, but still she resisted. She clung to the respite of sleep, filled with the vague yet certain sense that rousing would be painful; that wakefulness would be loud, confusing, fuzzy-tongued.

  Her cheek was pressed into the grain of a wooden board, and a nailhead poked at the flesh below her left eye. From nearby, there came a thunderous outcry. Despite her efforts to remain asleep, the din intensified in her ears, and the peace of slumber slipped through her mental fingers.

  Why is it so loud? she thought.

  Where am I? she thought.

  Quade? she thought.

  The roar shifted, indi
vidual voices resolving into a unified chant.

  “Dispatch her,” said a cold-voiced man.

  Vendra’s eyes flickered open. Her temples throbbed, and she tried to swallow, but her mouth was coated in viscous saliva—common side effects. She hefted her head up from the planking and gazed out over a massive crowd. Her brow puckered in confusion.

  “YOUR DEATH WILL BE AS TRIVIAL AS A BEETLE BENEATH A BOOT,” the assembly boomed.

  The central square of Accord teemed; its usual bare cobble-stoned expanse was instead packed with bodies. Why? She had only imperfect, half-memories. A hazy sense of purpose lost.

  Vendra’s head swiveled, sweeping leftwards. Beneath nine empty gallows, a cluster of Elevated and civilians brawled. She blinked at the knot of violence—the flying limbs and tumbling bodies—uncertain of its origin. Nine nooses swayed in the breeze.

  From amidst the tumult, the shape of Quade Asher emerged, crossing the stage with black strides. Vendra’s heart thudded in her breast at the sight of him. His form, so sure and straight, always made something deep within her ache. His dark beauty was her greatest addiction.

  Her mouth opened to call his name—look at me, see me. He turned, and when she saw him the sound died in her throat.

  His face…

  It was his, and yet it was not. The shapes and colors were true, but stripped of their allure. His aspect was, all at once, repulsive to her. Foul. His eyes were the blackest, coldest holes she had ever beheld. The sight of them sent a shiver through her spirit, like a web of minute cracks racing across a pane of glass.

  She wanted to avert her gaze, to deny the evidence before her, but she couldn’t manage so much as a blink. She had loved this man for all her adult life—had lived for him, killed for him—and yet, somehow, she had never seen him.

  A streak of motion came from above, and an arrow bloomed in Quade’s shoulder. He fell to his knees, a snarl escaping his thin lips. And then their former captive, Peer Gelson, charged into view. A sword flashed in his hand.

  Vendra’s stomach clenched, and she was uncertain if she more feared or desired Quade’s death. It mattered little. Before the killing stroke could land, her lover vanished with a hollow pop.

  She slumped onto her bottom and hugged her legs close to her chest. Lucid for the first time in nearly two decades, countless memories flitted through her mind’s eye. Wounds only now perceived, sins only now recognized. And it was too much, all too much.

  Her shoulder blades hit the planking, followed by the back of her skull. Her mind went blank. She stared up at the sky and watched the clouds drift from east to west. The day’s light dimmed, to the tune of her uneven breath. Flurries swirled like ash on a breeze—ash, fire.

  Her nose and cheeks grew icy. The clamor of the crowd dwindled until, at length, no sound remained but the gusting of the wind.

  “You can’t be staying here,” a male voice said, shattering her trance.

  The form of Peer Gelson loomed above her, his breath exploding like steam from his mouth. She had the strong impression she should feel remorse in his presence—whiff of gunpowder, a pained bellow.

  “Are you…?” he trailed off and cleared his throat. “It’s cold and gettin’ colder. People’ve been gathering up at the palace.”

  He extended a hand to help her up, then seemed to think better of it. He jammed his fist into his coat pocket and rocked on his boots. “Come or not. I won’t be carryin’ you.”

  She lacked both the will and the desire to rise. If she stood, she would still have to be herself. She would still have to live within her own mind. This numbness could not last, and it was the only thing keeping her intact. If she moved, she would surely disintegrate.

  I’m in shock, she thought.

  My pulse is rapid, she thought.

  I want to die, she thought.

  “After I murdered your friend,” Vendra said, locking eyes with Peer, “you swore you would kill me. You swore.”

  He transferred his weight from one foot to the other. “And?”

  Something large and empty was opening inside her—a crater in the fabric of her being. “Do it,” she whispered. “Kill me.”

  He squatted beside her, resting his forearms on his thighs. “No.”

  “He was a good man, was he not? Your friend?”

  “He was.”

  “And I shot him.”

  “You did,” he said. She watched the lump in his throat bob. Snowflakes peppered his sandy hair. “Live with it. I’ll not be doing you any favors.”

  He stood and strode away, leaving her colder than she had ever felt in all her life. She scrambled to her knees, dizziness causing her vision to swim. “Wait!”

  He paused and half-turned, but didn’t meet her pleading gaze. “You can’t be stayin’ out here. It’s freezin’.” And with that he departed, his shadow merging into the night.

  Vendra trembled against the wind. She glanced around the square, surprised to discover that she wasn’t alone. There were young people—Quade’s Elevated—standing, sitting, and kneeling in various states of shock. They looked like frosted sculptures, misery whittled into form.

  She experienced a brief surge of guilt upon seeing them. But that feeling was soon snuffed out, like every other sensation. She stared down at a nail that stuck unevenly from the stage, stared until it was no longer visible beneath a layer of fresh snow.

  She wondered how long it would take to die if she just sat there, exposed. Perversely, she thought of Quade. She longed to feel him beside her, to be wrapped in the warmth and comfort of his presence—flick of a blade, blood.

  A hand came to rest on her shoulder, and she jolted. She whirled, expecting to see him, Quade—his visage appearing as it did in her memory. Beautiful. But these were not Quade’s eyes studying her with such concern.

  “Vendra, can you hear me?”

  She blinked, taking in a wrinkled brow, a bristling white mustache.

  “Grandfather?”

  Dedrre dropped to the snow and pulled her close. She pressed her face into the wool of his overcoat and breathed in the familiar smell of him.

  “You’re frozen to the core; thank the Spirits he told me…” he said, rubbing hands up and down her arms.

  Before she knew it, she was weeping. Her chest heaved and her throat ached and she shuddered under the power of her shame and grief. Hot tears burned against her numb cheeks.

  “Shh,” her grandfather soothed. “It’s over now. I’m here now. Shh.”

  She burrowed into his warmth. “It’s not over,” she said, voice muffled. “Not yet.”

  Not ever. Not for me.

  Bray scanned every passing face as she hastened through the grand entrance of the palace. A crystal chandelier overhead cast distracting spirals of light on the wide marble space and the gathered crowd. Several times her heart gave a lurch at the sight of some slim, dark-haired man. Each time they proved not to be Yarrow, her disappointment stabbed more keenly.

  Yarrow, Yarrow.

  “This way,” Ko-Jin said. He redirected her with a gentle hand at her elbow. Bray was too engrossed in her search to object to this bodily contact, and allowed his touch to remain.

  The gilded walls of the palace seemed to contract around her. There was too much commotion, too much noise and movement. The crowd buffeted and battered her senses.

  “Quade’s gone, really. You can—”

  “My son, there you—”

  “So hungry, swear I could—”

  “Father? Mother? Where—”

  Ko-Jin’s grip tightened as they wended their way through the hive of Chisanta and prisoners. When they reached the entryway, the gathering at last thinned. They marched out onto the lawn, their feet directed towards the central plaza. Bray sensed Ko-Jin’s hand slip away.

  “Do you know her? Trevva?” he asked. “She’s Chiona.”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Snowflakes swirled on the wind. The long lane that led from palace to gate was scattered with
chatting clusters of Chisanta. Bray surveyed the irregular groupings, scrutinizing every male form.

  She opened her mouth to ask what this Trevva looked like, when she came to a sudden, swaying halt. She saw him. Him. He was there, just in front of her. Her blood surged.

  “Yarrow?” she cried out, her relief euphoric.

  She sprinted in his direction, a grin dawning on her lips. The man turned, dark brows raised, and stepped towards her with a lopsided smile of greeting.

  And he was not Yarrow.

  In appearance he was uncannily similar, but in expression, in posture, he was totally other. “It’s Bray, right?”

  She came to an abrupt standstill, her breath caught in her lungs.

  “Isn’t my brother with you?” the man who wasn’t Yarrow asked. “We haven’t seen him since the day we were taken. Ma’s near hysterics, worrying about him.”

  Ko-Jin extended a hand and introduced himself.

  “Allon Lamhart,” the man said.

  “We’re looking for Yarrow now,” Ko-Jin answered. “We’ll have him contact you when we’ve tracked him down. Tell your ma not to worry. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “Can I help at all?” Allon asked, addressing the question to Bray. With his brows drawn low and his expression serious, he looked even more like his brother.

  Bray shook her head. “Thanks, but no. We’ve got to keep moving.”

  She pushed onward, momentarily leaving Ko-Jin behind as he bid Yarrow’s brother farewell. Her eyes swept each face as she progressed down the lawn and through the gate.

  Ko-Jin jogged to her side. “We really need to work on your people skills.”

  She rolled her eyes in answer. Once she found Yarrow, she would observe societal niceties again. She would recite the proper lines, smile, curtsy. She might even do so with sincerity, out of sheer goodwill.