She glared, plainly considering whether to hit him a second time, but eventually she stepped aside. He descended and massaged his aching jaw. Had he not been so intoxicated, he likely could’ve dodged. He cursed himself for over-imbibing—he felt fuzzy and out-of-control. He wanted his wits back.
Yarrow approached him when he re-entered the common room. “I believe they want us in our places.”
Arlow took notice of his surroundings for the first time. Chairs striped the floor in rows before a makeshift dais, which bore a crude wooden bower. A strand of daisies and ribbon wove in and out of the latticework.
It was all so blatantly shoddy. The absurdity of the setting hit him all at once—a Bowlerham being wed in a third-rate tavern in some fly-speck nowhere. He laughed heartily, though his bruising jaw protested his mirth.
Yarrow placed a hand at his back and steered him to the dais. “It will be over soon enough.”
“Ha!” Arlow said. “Perhaps marriage is one of the things you’ve forgotten, but it tends not to end so quickly.”
Yarrow stiffened beside him. “We aren’t married, are we? She didn’t say…”
Arlow guffawed. “No, no. You’ve not tied yourself to the shrew, as far as I know.” He craned his neck, searching the room. “Have you seen Mae?”
“No,” Yarrow said, mouth downturned. “And don’t—”
“Fine, my apologies.” He continued to scan the crowd; all Pauper’s people, dressed to suit their name. “Can’t believe she won’t speak to me. We’re about to be man and wife, for Spirits’ sake.” If he could only set eyes on her…
With so few minutes remaining, his anxiety mounted. Roldon and Yarrow stood beside him. The guests found their seats. A flutist took up a cheerful tune from near the bar. Arlow’s palms began to sweat. Why’s it so bleeding hot in the midst of winter?
He wished he could step away and practice the Ada Chae. He should have done so earlier, rather than drinking his fears into submission like a coward. He watched the clock at the far end of the room tick—the minute hand quivering on the cusp of his fate. He felt a bead of perspiration run down his neck.
The crowd regarded him with expressions of pure revulsion. Mae’s people, all of them. The only two friendly faces in the building were standing at his back. Bray sat at the rear, beside another Chiona woman. She alone smiled, but her gaze was not on him at all.
The time arrived, and he thought he might be hyperventilating. His breath turned shallow and fast.
“I cannot possibly do this,” he whispered to Yarrow. “I’ve got to get out of here. I have to go.”
“You’ve already done it,” Yarrow answered in his ear, with a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You signed. This is just formality.”
Hearing that helped, surprisingly enough. He nodded. “You’re right. Yes, true.”
The appointed time arrived and passed. And then many more minutes followed. Mae, however, did not appear.
He wondered if she was even in the building. Had anyone seen her? What if she had gone—left him standing under their bower like a fool? The thought was more painful than he would’ve expected.
A set of feet pounded down the stairway, but it was Linton alone who appeared. He entered the room like a thunderstorm, drawing all eyes. “My apologies for the delay. The bride is a little behind schedule. Arlow, might I have a word?”
Arlow found himself drifting down the aisle, his legs curiously unstable. When he reached the Pauper’s King, the man leaned forward. “Mae wants to speak with you,” he whispered, an angry flush on his cheeks. “She’s in her room. Go.”
Arlow tromped up the stairway once more, weary. It seemed as though time were passing at an uncommonly slow rate—could it only be the late afternoon?
The seconds stretched even longer as he strode, yet again, towards Mae’s door. The idea of actually knocking made his insides turn to knots, so he wavered with a raised fist. Again.
He was still standing there, summoning courage, when the door opened from within.
“Arlow,” Mae said, breathing his name. “You’re here.”
She wore a cream-colored cotton dress that nearly fit. Her short hair was curled into ringlets, and her head was crowned with a circlet of daisies. A common flower for a common girl, and a rather pleasing combination, he had to admit. She had clearly made an effort to look nice. He thought of his earlier sarcasm regarding her appearance and experienced a rush of guilt. In truth, he had half-expected her to show up greasy-haired and in trousers.
“You asked for me,” he said—somewhere between question and statement, hope and accusation.
She beckoned him into the room, and he followed. She paced across the floor a few times, clenching and unclenching her fists. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“I can’t do it,” she said, shaking her head. “Can’t—can’t do it.”
“Understandable,” Arlow answered, in a tone that strove for indifference. “I would make any woman a perfectly terrible husband.”
She turned wild eyes to him. “That ain’t what I mean. Don’t do that thing.”
“Which thing would that be, darling?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “The thing,” she began, in irritated tones, “where you misunderstand on purpose. And don’t call me darling.”
“My apologies.” He bowed. “Please advise me as to what I should say, and I shall happily comply.”
She growled and threw her head back in frustration. “For Spirits’ sake, Arlow, I’m tryin’ to have a talk with you. Can you turn off the horse-shittery for two minutes, please?” She huffed. “I’m sayin’, I think we shouldn’t do it. It ain’t right, forcing you like this.” She bit her lip. “And I don’t want to live my whole life knowin’ the man at my side needed coercing to take up the post.”
“Has Linton reconsidered his threat?”
Her curls bobbed as she shook her head. “Nah, he’ll do it. But I’ve been thinking: so what? If you ain’t gettin’ married ever, it shouldn’t hurt you none. Not really. With all that’s goin’ on in the world, Quade and everything, I’m thinkin’ you’ll barely make the papers. And you can afford the fine.”
“It’s a black stain on my entire family.”
“You said you hate your family.”
Arlow let go of a held breath. She was right. Why had it not occurred to him before? Why had he been so quick to feel himself cornered?
He leaned back against the door jamb and sighed. He glanced around the room, to avoid Mae’s gaze.
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a prettily wrapped parcel on her bed.
She looked at him for a long moment, perhaps confused by the change of topic. “Nothing, really. Just a gift.” She jerked her shoulders self-consciously.
“Intended for…me?”
She picked up the package and flipped it over in her hands, keeping her face bowed. “Mm. A weddin’ present. But you can have it anyway.”
She held out the gift and he took it, grateful for a distraction. And curious. He unraveled ribbon and peeled away blue wrapping paper, revealing a small, worn wooden box. He flicked open the top, and his eyes flew wide.
“It looks just like…” He ran a finger along the face of a beautiful watch, until he felt the slight chip near the twelve—he had knocked it against a gatepost when he was eleven years old. He blinked, embarrassed by the sudden wetness in his eyes. He pulled the watch from its cushion and flipped it over; he smiled as he traced his grandfather’s initials, still etched in the gold. Blighter, even after so many years, he missed that man. An old, dull ache took up near his sternum. “How?”
He peeked up at Mae to find her pink-cheeked. “You mentioned it first day we met, that my people nicked your granddad’s timepiece. Felt a bit bad ’bout that, so I looked into it. We keep good records of our acquisitions, so it weren’t difficult to track down. You never said it was Foy who—”
She cut off as he wrapped his arms around her, the side of his face pressed to t
he top of her head. “Thank you. Truly, thank you.”
She patted his back. “It weren’t no great thing.” She sighed. “We best go tell Linton there won’t be a wedding. He ain’t gonna be pleased, but don’t worry. I’ll—”
“Too late for that, I’m afraid.” She wrenched away to look up at him in question. “We’ve both already signed the documents. It’s done.”
She wilted. “You signed too?”
He nodded grimly, then fastened the watch to his wrist. “Nothing for it. You might as well come downstairs and make an honest man of me. Your guests will be thinking we’re up here conceiving a first child, at this rate.”
She bowed her head. “Sorry, Arlow.”
He made a gallant effort to shrug. “It’s I who should apologize, for speaking to you as I did before. In the end, I fear it is you who will be the unhappier for this union. I apologize for that as well.”
He held out the crook of his arm, and with one final sigh she took hold and allowed him to usher her from the room.
He didn’t know how to feel as he trod down the stairs with his bride in tow—his thoughts and emotions were in such shambles. They had no further opportunity for conversation, as he was motioned urgently back to the dais for the ceremony.
The audience had grown restless, for which he could hardly blame them. When he took up his place again, the room quieted.
Yarrow leaned in and whispered, “Everything alright?”
Arlow only nodded.
Time, which had been moving at half-pace, all at once seemed to accelerate. In one instant, she was at the back of the inn, arm in arm with a smug-looking Pauper’s King. The light was weak, but he had no trouble discerning the misery in her eyes.
And then she was standing across from him, her hands in his. The officiant droned, and his heart thundered, and the watch on his wrist ticked. His fingers tightened steadily through the proceedings, and Mae’s responded in kind, until at length they were clutching each other with almost painful desperation.
A moment later, he was prompted to say his line: “Until I find joy in the Company of the Spirits, I bind myself to you, Mae Bearnall;” and she was replying, “Until I find joy in the Company of the Spirits, I bind myself to you, Arlow Bowlerham.”
Their mouths met in a sealing kiss, to the sound of polite clapping.
“Man and wife.”
Spirits help us.
Yarrow sat with his back to the wall and watched the wedding reception progress with the interest of an anthropologist. The music boomed—five string instruments and a single drum. The dance seemed designed so that the pounding of feet on the floor added additional percussion.
The guests were quite drunk and more than a little merry. Arlow and Mae alone appeared immune to the jollity. They were both pale and glassy-eyed, clinging to each other’s hands.
Yarrow’s gaze roamed back to Bray. She stood across the room, conversing with her fellow Chiona. Her cheeks were flushed, her copper hair haloed by lantern light. Every time Yarrow set eyes on her, it sent a jolt through him, as if the mere sight of her were electric. She glanced in his direction and caught him staring. He jerked his head away.
He couldn’t decide what to make of her. She made him feel foolish, uncertain—but also somehow more animated. It was as though he had been existing in a stupor until this morning, and was now for the first time fully awake.
The song came to an end, and the dancers applauded, red-faced and panting. The Pauper’s King pushed his way to the front of the assembly and motioned for quiet.
Linton smiled, and his eyes no longer pierced holes in their every target. Yarrow supposed that, having accomplished his goal, the man must be in better spirits.
“A toast,” he said in a voice almost cheerful enough to suit the occasion. He lifted his glass. “To my baby sister, the person I love and trust most in this whole world. I wish for you every happiness.” He shifted his gaze from Mae to Arlow. “And to my new brother. May you surprise us all, and prove yourself worthy of her.”
Everyone laughed, save for the bride and groom. Arlow, looking downright solemn, merely bowed his head in acknowledgement. He took a careful sip from his glass.
Bray sank into the chair beside Yarrow. “I think you’re meant to give a toast as well,” she said, though her tone suggested she didn’t much care.
“What?” Yarrow asked, alarmed. “No one mentioned…”
“I doubt it matters. No one’s here for Arlow anyway, including Arlow. Look at him,” she bobbed her head in the groom’s direction. His face was the picture of misery. “I could almost pity the—” she cut herself short, and took a swig from her drink.
Yarrow sighed. If her intention had been to dissuade him, she had accomplished just the opposite. Though he had no desire to make a speech and no inkling what he might say, he rose and crossed the room. There seemed, suddenly, a great deal more people in attendance.
He stood where the Pauper’s King had moments before, and cleared his throat. The crowd took notice. With so many eyes looking his way, he felt distinctly hot around the collar. Just the same, he raised his glass.
“To Arlow…” he began, hoping the rest of the words would come to him as he spoke them. Bray moved from her seat and mingled into the crowd before him. There was a glimmer of amusement in her green eyes. “An old and loyal friend,” this, for some reason, made Arlow look all the more unhappy, “and a man of character, wit, and kindness.” Yarrow shifted his glass in the air. “And to Mae—”
The door to the inn flew open, admitting a gust of bitter wind. The person who entered did not close the door again.
“May she…” Yarrow trailed off as the newly arrived woman stepped into the lantern light.
She had a blonde braid running down her back. The symbol of the Chisanta, red as brick, marked the side of her pale neck. Peeking from beneath a thick woolen coat swished the robes of a Cosanta. She moved like one sleepwalking, shuffling and unfocused. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face bruised and wan, and her mouth was parted, revealing a noticeable gap between her front teeth.
“Rinny?” Arlow called out in surprise and alarm. He was not the only one—her name passed over the gathering, apparently known to the Pauper’s Men as well.
“Rinny, what’s amiss?” Roldon asked.
The woman did not respond to her name. She pushed her way onto the dance floor and came to a wavering halt at the center of the crowd, just beside Bray.
“Arlow Bowlerham,” she said in a dead, detached voice. She did not look at Arlow as she spoke. She did not look anywhere. “Quade Asher sends you his felicitations.”
Her coat slid from her wiry frame, revealing rows of cylindrical brown objects strapped across her torso. Her hand moved, and there came the unmistakable hiss of a match being lit. Explosives, Yarrow realized in a horrible, motionless moment.
The fuse was set alight—so short that those nearby had only a second to comprehend. The only person possessing fast enough reflexes was Arlow, who bowled into Mae.
Yarrow could not see if they made it to the ground. He could see nothing at all—the room went bright and loud.
He screwed his eyes shut and turned away from the abrupt heat, the pelting of debris. He was flung from his feet, his back smacking into the wall. His ears echoed the blast long after it had ceased, a high-pitched whine punctuated by the thud of his pounding heart. The side of his face felt abraded, hot.
Bray, he realized with an unreal sense of panic. She had been standing just beside the woman. She could not possibly have survived at such close range. No, he thought, not her. Not when I just found her.
Yarrow forced himself to stand and cringed against an array of pains. The scene was a hazy nightmare, full of smolder and screams and bodies. Yarrow blinked, trying to see through it all. Wind gusted through the shattered windows and shifted the smoke, revealing a single standing figure at the center of the room: Bray. She appeared totally unscathed—even her dress was pristine—but around her there
was no life, only blood and scorch marks. Broken wood rained from above. Nothing remained of the woman Rinny, his sister Cosanta. Little remained of those who had stood near at hand.
There was so much blood, the room seemed to be painted in it, ceiling to floor. Even worse were the sundered limbs, the jumbled and grotesque parts and pieces of human life, rendered unidentifiable. Yarrow’s stomach heaved, and he pulled his attention back up to Bray.
She looked directly at him with sorrowful eyes. The eerie ringing in his ears changed pitch, accompanied by a cacophony of cries, coughs, and shouted names. Yarrow felt numb, as if nothing before him were real. He still had a cracked glass of ale in his hand, gripped in a half-finished toast. He did not know what to do with it.
With a shake, he told himself to focus, to account for those others he knew in the room. He had to blink against the smoke that burned his eyes, but he caught sight of Arlow and Mae. They stirred where they lay, alive. Arlow’s left shirt sleeve was in tatters and his arm was bright red, either cut or burnt.
“Mae?” the Pauper’s King cried out. He appeared unharmed as he charged through the wreckage towards his sister. “Mae, are you hurt?”
Yarrow scanned the room, in search of Roldon. The Chiona woman who had arrived with Bray bellowed, her pain discernible even over the ringing in Yarrow’s head.
“Roldon?” the woman shouted, and her wide eyes looked incredibly white. “Spirits, Roldon, no.”
Yarrow hastened in that direction, pushing through the chaotic crowd. He nearly tripped as someone grabbed hold of his pant leg, but stumbled onward. He found Roldon lying in a buckled, almost fetal position, curled around a massive wooden splinter that projected from his abdomen. It was the size of a fence post. Roldon’s face contorted in agony.
The Chiona woman’s expression mirrored his anguish. “Roldon. No, no, Roldon. You fool, you cannot die now.”
Others arrived: Bray, followed quickly by Arlow.
“Oh, Rol…” Arlow said, his soot-blackened face crumpling. He went to his knees. Yarrow strained to hear through the cotton that seemed to be stuffed into his ears.
The Complete Marked Series Box Set Page 83
