The Complete Marked Series Box Set
Page 78
The white-haired boy stepped forward. “Yes, General.”
“What,” he asked, stalking before the initiates, “is the first rule of combat?”
A smug smile played at the lad’s lips. “Which first rule, Ko—er, General?”
Fat flakes of snow appeared on the wind. Ko-Jin frowned, both at the weather and at Fernie.
“You’ve told me a few first rules, sir: the first rule of combat is don’t die,” he said, in a stern voice meant to sound like Ko-Jin’s. “The first rule of combat is don’t think, know; the first rule of combat is shut it, Fernie, and pay atten—”
Enton Yardly—the fellow Cosanta who had been Ko-Jin’s trainer long ago—roared with laughter, his deep voice echoing across the chilly grounds.
“Thank you,” Ko-Jin cut in, tone dry. “Your ability to recall conversations is, as ever, amazing and irritating.” He turned back to his recruits, who were beginning to look more at their ease—a bad thing. “The first rule of combat,” he said, stopping before a young woman with blue eyes and a thick chestnut braid. She met his gaze levelly. “Is patience.”
He paused, allowing this to sink in, and his breath ghosted before him. “To know when to strike, and to wait for that moment. To not be hasty or reckless, to not exert more energy than is needed. To be watchful.”
He gestured for Fernie to approach, and the lad did so with a bounding gait. Ko-Jin put a hand to the boy’s chest. “If I should desire to push Fernie backwards, the surest way to succeed, at the least cost of energy to myself, is to be patient.” He made a show of pushing his hand against Fernie’s chest. The boy took one step back, bracing himself to keep his balance. Ko-Jin then grabbed the fabric of the lad’s coat, bunching it into his fist, and pulled. Fernie, as expected, pressed his heels into the ground and leaned his weight away to resist falling forward. Ko-Jin released his grip, and the young man thumped to the ground on his bottom.
“You see,” Ko-Jin said. “This is a truth which holds in all combat: in hand-to-hand and in sword fighting, just as in large-scale battles. If you are hasty, you reveal your intentions, and doing so too early could be a fatal mistake. Rather, read your enemy’s body language; wait until his instinct is congruent with your intention. Don’t expend energy pushing your opponent, when you can persuade him to succumb to gravity all on his own.”
Ko-Jin extended a hand to Fernie and hauled him to his feet. “This is a concept you will not truly understand now. You will come to grasp it slowly, over time, as you build fundamental martial skills. Nevertheless, I want you to keep it in mind as we move forward.”
Ko-Jin pulled Treeblade from its scabbard, relishing the feel of that flawless blade in his hand. He whipped it a few times to loosen his shoulder. A murmur passed through the trainees.
“Take hold of your wasters,” he said. “Like this.”
He demonstrated the two-handed grip, angling his hilt upwards so they might see his hands. He allowed them a moment to mimic him. Enton strode down the line, correcting those who held their blades upside down.
“Now, even more important than learning how to swing the blade is learning how to pull up short. There has been many a strong, foolish man who has whipped his sword straight into the ground, and died for it.”
Ko-Jin demonstrated. He raised his sword over his head and struck down with force, but stopped the blade at chest level. “The key to accomplishing this is in your hands,” he said. “You must twist your palms inward, as if the hilt of your blade is a wet rag and you are trying to wring out the water.” He walked down the front line, illustrating the correct motion. “Now I want you to try. Strike straight downwards, as I did, and stop here.” He chopped his hand level from his chest.
Ko-Jin crossed his arms and watched. It was a sloppy display, but he had expected no less. Even the more basic motions took practice and repetition to master.
Chae-Na was the lone proficient in the group, having spent countless hours practicing with him in Cagsglow. She whipped her waster with enough force that it sliced through the air, while still stopping the blade with precision. His eyes glittered his approval, but he said nothing.
“Hold,” he commanded, lifting a hand to stop them. He waited for the last blade to come to a clumsy stop. “Good. Now, this time, we’ll—”
“General,” a voice shouted from behind him.
Ko-Jin turned, and even as he spun he wondered when he’d begun responding to that title. One of the king’s valets—a man whose face was familiar but whose name Ko-Jin did not know—jogged down the palace steps. He huffed, his thin cheeks ruddy from exertion. “Begging your pardon, General, but the king requests your immediate presence in his office.”
Ko-Jin sighed. He had been very much enjoying himself.
Enton clapped Ko-Jin on the shoulder, his black gaze reassuring and familiar. “I’ll take it from here, brother. Go.”
Ko-Jin swallowed his disappointment. He set off at a trot, confident he was leaving his trainees in more-than-capable hands. The valet did his best to keep pace.
“Any idea what’s going on?” he asked the man.
The valet barely had breath to answer. “Saw bodies brought in from the city.”
Ko-Jin transitioned from jog to sprint, his Cosanta robes streaking out behind him. The guard outside Jo-Kwan’s study let him pass. Ko-Jin tore open the door and came to a sharp standstill within the room.
“Hey, Ko-Jin,” Peer Gelson said in a dismal voice. He sat, hunched, with his hands dangling between his thighs. His shirt bore smears of blood. The Elevated girl, Su-Hwan, sat beside him, her face pale but steady.
There were three bodies laid out on the meeting table. Jo-Kwan stood near the window, his face turned from the corpses as if he could not bear to look upon them.
Ko-Jin’s heartbeat sounded loud in his own ears. He stepped forward for a proper view, and the metallic scent of blood intensified.
He gazed down at them for a long moment, his hands balling into knuckle-popping fists.
They had been chosen for their disparateness, no doubt. The first was an old man with milky eyes and a face dappled with age spots. Beside him lay a small, round-faced girl, her hair tied into two tails. The third, a young woman of perhaps twenty years, bore the mark of the Chisanta on her neck. She had brown hair and a pretty, olive-complected face. Ko-Jin didn’t know her.
In addition to the deep, red slashes that parted their throats, all three bore cuts and lacerations on their cheeks and arms—weeping crimson stripes, grisly ornamentation. Each was also adorned with a square of paper pinned to their chests, a good-quality vellum typically used for formal invitations. The man’s sheet was printed with an ornate numeral ‘one,’ the young girl’s with a ‘two,’ and the Chisanta’s with a ‘four.’
“I take it a third hasn’t been found?”
Jo-Kwan shook his head, but he didn’t turn his face from the window.
“He might’ve meant Su-Hwan to be three,” Peer said, speaking to the floor. “Two Chisanta in black came for her. We fought ’em off, made chase. Quade showed up out of the bleeding blue and took the two of them away.” Peer shook his head. “He was just there, up a few steps. So close…”
“It is possible,” Su-Hwan said in a bizarrely detached tone. “Of course, it is equally possible I was meant to be five. Or eight. We cannot know for certain.”
Ko-Jin reminded himself to breathe and approached the victims. He bent the number ‘one’ card up from the old man’s chest, to see if anything was written on the opposite side. When he glimpsed black ink, he delicately unpinned each of the three cards and flipped them over on the table. He left a space where the third card would go, though it took no code-breaker to guess what that one would’ve said. Ko-Jin stared, feeling cold and ill.
Peer hauled himself from his seat. “Honey,” he read. “Spelling. Bee.” Ko-Jin heard his sharp intake of breath. “Blighter, that’s sick.”
Jo-Kwan turned just enough to make eye contact. “You understand it?”
Jo-Kwan was apparently unfamiliar with the chant, but by the grave look on his face, he understood its meaning. “So these victims were chosen at random. Totally senseless.”
“Those two, most likely,” Su-Hwan said. “But they sought me, and probably Trinna as well.” The girl’s black gaze locked on the young woman, a crease marring her smooth brow. “She could read minds. She had been helping us determine who was still under Quade’s influence and who was not…”
Peer nodded. “We’d just spoken last night.” He swallowed. “Quade—he’s lookin’ to scare us, and I’m thinking he’s got himself a list of who he wants gone first.”
Ko-Jin did not doubt that, if such a list existed, Su-Hwan would be at the very top. They all had her to thank for what little advantage they had gained after the would-be execution. For someone like Quade, the girl’s ability must make her a monster in his closet. Spirits, Ko-Jin wasn’t overly comfortable with her gift either. Not that she’d used it on him…
“What do we do?” Jo-Kwan asked, looking to Ko-Jin. “We can quarantine, control the gates, but if he can merely pop in and out of the city, how can we possibly keep it safe?”
The king sounded forlorn. Ko-Jin wished he had a ready answer. “I’m training the new recruits not just as an army, but in hand-to-hand fighting and swordsmanship as well. Once they’re ready, I thought regular patrols in the streets would be wise. In the meantime…”
“The Elevated,” Peer said. “They’re used to following orders, and in truth it would be good for ’em to have something to do, ’stead of sitting about feeling guilty. The other Chisanta in the city too, though they’ll be less inclined to take orders.”
“The people might not like the sight of Elevated in positions of power, not after everything. It would look just as it did under Quade,” Jo-Kwan said.
Ko-Jin gazed around the room at all the ornate furnishings. A painting in a gilded frame hung on the wall across from him, depicting some dashing ancestor of Jo-Kwan’s astride a pure white stallion. A paragon of heroism; at least on the surface.
“News spreads of this,” he said, gesturing to Quade’s victims, “and I’m guessing people would feel better with some protection, no matter its form.” He stood straight. “We should also institute a curfew, recommend strongly that people travel in groups if they must travel at all. Perhaps some of the Chisanta could offer self-defense and marksmanship training to the masses. The more people who can hold their own on the streets, the safer the city will be.”
“That sounds an awful lot like a military state,” Jo-Kwan said. “History never looks fondly on those, or the tyrants who enforce them.”
“History can look on me however it likes. I mean to save lives.”
“They always say that…” The king sighed. “Very well, I can see no better alternative. The Chisanta will defend the city as a temporary measure. Once we have a sufficient civilian force, however, there will need to be a change.”
“The Elevated would take orders from Peer,” Su-Hwan said, in a small voice that nevertheless made everyone pause.
Peer glowered at her. “Don’t know why you keep saying that.”
“I say it because it is true,” she answered.
Ko-Jin might not have considered Peer for such a role, but the idea had merit. He could hardly take on more responsibilities himself, and Peer and Bray were the nearest to experienced law-enforcers the Chisanta had. With any luck, Bray would soon find Yarrow and return to Accord.
Jo-Kwan eyed Peer up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. “You will make regular reports to me. Remember, the Chisanta cannot act as an autonomous body while serving in such a capacity.”
Peer opened his mouth, as if to argue. He had not yet agreed to take up the position. “I’m—I…”
“The Elevated,” Su-Hwan said softly, as if for Peer’s ear alone, “are not the only ones who would benefit from having something to do.”
Peer’s face grew a touch pink, and he grimaced at his small friend, but at length gave a sharp nod of acquiescence. “Regular reports. You got it, Your Highness. Ko-Jin, I’m thinking I’ll need your advice as well. I’ve not been in such a position afore.”
Ko-Jin tried to smile. “There’s a lot of that going around. But, certainly, my brain is yours to pick.”
With all of this settled, Ko-Jin was anxious to leave—to be away from these three bodies on display, these three spirits he had failed to save. May they find joy.
It seemed the others felt much the same. They agreed that they would meet again on the morrow, and then dispersed.
Ko-Jin meandered back up the hallway. He leaned against a window and gazed out at his trainees. They were now swinging their blades upwards from the hip. From this vantage, they looked a much smaller group. Too small.
He sighed and let his forehead rest against the pane. His gaze settled on the princess, as it always seemed to do. He thought, with a pang, of how he had waxed lyrical on the virtues of patience. But there were some things that would not come to you, no matter how long you waited.
He pushed this thought aside, knowing he had no right to it, and turned his mind back to the matter at hand. Quade had come within their reach today, and he would again. Eventually, they would be ready for him.
Chapter Three
Yarrow inserted a roll of gauze into the far finger of his right glove, then tugged it on. He flexed the fingers of that hand, the four that remained to him. The little finger didn’t move, of course, but at least it didn’t wilt and flap about so stupidly. An improvement.
He bent to lace his boots, his movements measured. The lacerations that covered his torso, legs, and arms—forty-three of them, by his tally—had scabbed. His skin pinched and tugged beneath his clothing, like poorly sewn seams threatening to split wide.
Next, he donned his top hat, wool coat, and woven, blood-red scarf. All purchased second-hand—or fifth-hand, in Arlow’s disapproving assessment.
Yarrow stepped before the standing mirror. The morning light highlighted sharp cheekbones, casting his eyes in shadow. It seemed that each time he saw his reflection, his visage changed in some small way. He caught himself in assorted moments of expression, in varying lights and at a diversity of angles, as if he were slowly discovering the collection of appearances that belonged to him. He pasted a smile on his face, to see how it would look. Strange.
He appeared flat and colorless—dull. Not much like a ‘best man,’ certainly. He shrugged, and his reflection duplicated the motion, though not as carelessly as he had intended.
He moved to the pile of books by his armchair, and lingered over the texts with loving eyes. He had learned some fascinating history from these volumes; it almost seemed a pity to part with them.
Yarrow had grown addicted to reading over the past two weeks. He wished he could immerse himself in the texts, breathe in the very words, until he knew everything there was to know. Until his empty head was so full that he couldn’t sense the gaps, the void that was his memory.
He tucked the stack under his arm and departed the chamber, then headed down the stairway and into the inn’s common room.
“Hey,” Arlow called, pulling Yarrow up short. “Where’re you off to?”
Yarrow studied his friend. If his own appearance had been pale, Arlow’s was downright ghostly. This pallor made his eyes look even blacker in his face—eyes that bulged and roamed. He wore a formal black suit, the jacket with two tails that hung to his calves.
“The circulating library,” Yarrow said, lofting the books in his hand. “Before it closes for the weekend.”
“Great Spirits, man! I’m to be married this afternoon and you’re worried about overdue book fees?”
Actually, the books were far from overdu
e, but Yarrow wanted to borrow a fresh batch. “The ceremony’s not for five hours. I won’t be long.”
Arlow reached out to stop him. “Have you seen her this morning? Mae?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Arlow looked positively miserable. “Hey, why don’t you have a drink with me instead? You can do that later.”
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Yarrow said, inching towards the door. “We’ll have a drink then.”
“Very well,” Arlow answered, his shoulders sagging.
Yarrow turned away guiltily and hustled out the door. The truth was, if he didn’t stop by the library soon, he would have nothing new to read for the entire weekend. He couldn’t bear so many hours with only his own thoughts to occupy him. The very idea set his insides squirming.
The morning was gray and cold. He tucked his nose within the folds of his scarf and walked into the wind. Beneath his feet, old snow crunched and cracked, as dismal in color as the sky.
The town—Midington—was small enough that he could see clear from one end to the other. Arlow had said it was indistinguishable from every other uncultured flyspeck Dalish village. But Yarrow liked it—or, at least, he liked that he was able to know it in its entirety almost at once. He liked that people said hello on the street and he was able to introduce himself. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Yarrow Lamhart, he would say, with increasing ease. It had begun to sound true.
The surrounding homes and shops piped out steady columns of smoke, filling the air with the pleasant smell of wood-fire. Yarrow reached the edge of town. The road continued north, straight on to Accord, but nothing lay beyond the library save for a vacant hill, topped by a single snow-burdened tree.
Yarrow pushed open the door, and a bell jangled overhead. He inhaled as he entered, relishing the aromatic, dusty scent of so many shelves of books.
“Good morning, Master Chisanta,” Mr. Bellmont, the owner, said, laughing at the sight of him. “Spirits, but you’re a quick reader. Ready for the next lot already, are you?”