The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  “Ah, I apologize for asking,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Don’t. My friends have become family to me.”

  “Your Peer?” he asked.

  “And Adearre, but he…” She swallowed. “He died recently.”

  “Quade?”

  “Yes.”

  He murmured commiseratively, glancing away.

  They sat in silence for a time. It was all so bizarre—that she should be telling Yarrow of Adearre’s death, when it had been he who first informed her of it.

  Bray finally took a bite of her own scone. She nearly groaned herself, it was so rich.

  “Have you been to Adourra before?” Yarrow asked, and she was grateful for the change of topic.

  “Yes,” she said, “but only once.”

  “You think we should go to Accord instead, I take it.”

  Bray went rigid in her seat. They hadn’t had this conversation, though it seemed they certainly should. He wanted to go to Adourra because it was the last place he had been before his memories were erased. He was hoping—she thought, rather optimistically—that going to Nerra might help him to understand how all of this had come to pass.

  But he could go there in an instant without her. He had not actually suggested as much, however. He’d assumed they would travel the long way, and that she would accompany him. She had very much liked this assumption.

  “Yes,” she said, finally. “I think you and I could help the king and Ko-Jin.”

  He stared into his black coffee, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

  “But if this is something you feel you need to do, then let’s do it,” she said.

  It struck her, all at once, what was unusual about his wishes. They were selfish—he was putting his own needs before the nation’s. The Yarrow she knew would never make such a choice. But this man before her, this Yarrow, had too little attachment to the world he lived in. What he had, above all else, was a burning curiosity.

  “I just—I think something must be out there. I think I found something.”

  “Why?”

  “I sacrificed my memories to protect something.” He shrugged. “Call it a hunch. From what I have gleaned of myself, it seems logical.”

  “Well,” she said, cramming the rest of her breakfast into her mouth and swallowing. “Let’s get going, then.” She drained her coffee. “We’d best head to the docks.”

  Bray felt distinctly light of spirit as they wended their way along the coastal road. She breathed in the salty air with gladness. Andle was her favorite port town. It had far more charm than most cities, a certain quaintness despite its size. Better yet, she had the impression that Quade’s influence was not so strong here. These people did not share that blank, dead-eyed expression that betrayed Quade’s effect.

  Yarrow watched a couple walk by arm in arm, his head turning to follow them briefly. Then he held out the crook of his elbow to her.

  Look at us, she thought sardonically, as she tucked her hand around his arm, like an ordinary couple.

  The port sat a little ways below them, sunlight glinting off the line of ships. The ocean stretched to a clear blue sky, as far as the eye could see. Her hand patted her coat pocket, to verify their tickets and luggage stubs. They were still a bit early, so she slowed her pace, drinking in the morning.

  “Bray,” Yarrow said, his tone a warning. He gestured to a group of people ahead of them, on the far side of the street. “Are those—”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Chiona.”

  A group of six, each with shorn heads and leather jerkins, stood in a huddle. They appeared to be a few decades her senior.

  Bray moved to Yarrow’s other side, hoping he would block her from view. With her dress and longer hair, she thought it unlikely they would notice her anyway. She and Yarrow had painted concealer over their marks before riding into Andle, but a close inspection would reveal the raised circles beneath their makeup.

  Her chest tightened. It made her hate Quade Asher all the more, that she should have to conceal herself from her own brothers and sisters.

  She and Yarrow kept their pace even, casual, as they approached. If there had been a way to avoid the group she would’ve taken it. But the only option would be to turn entirely around.

  She held her breath, hoping.

  “Oy, you,” a man called, speaking to Yarrow. “Tall fellow. Hold on a minute, will you?”

  Bray cursed under her breath.

  The Chiona jogged across the street. She knew him: Po Dellar, a half-Chaskuan inventor in his middle years. They’d only had one conversation that she could recall, years ago. With any luck he would not remember her face.

  “What can I do for you, Master Chisanta?” Yarrow asked.

  Bray was surprised at how readily this came from his lips, how unconcerned his face appeared. That he had called the man Chisanta rather than Chiona was a stroke of brilliance. Her Yarrow had not been such a smooth liar.

  Po glanced over at Bray to bow his head to her, and a slight crease marred his brow. She inclined her head to him, but kept her eyes on the road.

  “My apologies for inconveniencing you, sir, lady. But if you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about our leader Quade Asher.”

  Bray’s gaze shot up, and Po tilted his head, as if trying to connect her face with a memory. She glanced over his shoulder, to where other Chiona were stopping passerby at random.

  “We have an appointment, I’m afraid,” Yarrow said. “We really must be on our way.”

  They tried to walk past, but the Chiona blocked them. “It won’t take a moment. Please, listen.”

  But he was not looking at Yarrow. He was staring at Bray, and she had the feeling that he knew her. Po coughed twice, paused, then coughed three more times. The other Chiona turned sharply to the sound, then crossed the street in Bray’s direction.

  “Quade Asher is the savior Trinitas has been waiting for,” the man intoned, deadpan. “His leadership carried Accord through the trying time after the assassination. He has been ousted from the capital by rebels intent on destroying all; it is our duty to help him restore peace.” Unexpectedly, Po’s hand shot out and grabbed Bray’s wrist. He looked directly into her eyes, but his own gaze lacked life. “Quade will forgive you, Bray Marron. Quade loves you. Go to him.”

  Bray phased, and the man’s hand fisted around empty air. Then she rematerialized and punched him hard and true in the nose.

  “Quade loves you,” he said thickly, through a bleeding nose. Bray hummed loudly, but she could already feel the contamination in her mind, the treacherous doubt which told her not to run, not to fight.

  He struck and she dodged. Behind him, the other five Chiona charged forward. She shot a quick, blazing look at Yarrow, and hoped he remembered how to put up a fight. His expression was steely.

  Po shot for Bray’s legs. She found herself slammed onto her back. He pressed his fingers against her cheek. “You need Quade; you want Quade.”

  She phased again, and Po landed on the pavement on all fours. Bray flicked a quick glance to where Yarrow was fending off four Chiona. He was dodging, not striking—dancing out of reach in that beautiful, infuriating Cosanta way.

  She left Po, though he would scramble to his feet soon enough, and hustled to Yarrow’s side.

  He caused an Adourran woman to lose her balance, sending her stumbling. Bray rematerialized and struck up with her knee, catching her sister in the face.

  A second assailant aimed a kick; Yarrow shifted his weight and pushed at the uplifted leg, sending the man reeling. Bray was there, her elbow flying viciously to meet him.

  Yarrow shot a curious glance down at her, and she grinned in reply. She felt it again, as he plainly did—that same uncommon connectedness. They were two arms on the same body, inexplicably linked. She could feel him on her skin, though they did not touch.

  Po grabbed Bray from behind, hooking his arm around her neck for a choke. She phased, stepped back through him, unphased, and kneed him sharply
in the kidney. He grunted and fell forward.

  None of their assailants were staying down, however. And Bray didn’t want to do them any real damage, if she could help it. She grabbed Yarrow’s sleeve and tugged. “Let’s run.”

  She leapt over Po’s kneeling form and began to sprint. Yarrow ran at her side, his coat billowing out behind him. Startled civilians called out at the sight of them and jumped out of the way. The winding coastal road was slick and sloping, and Bray nearly slipped. A great wave crashed into the outcropping below, cool ocean spray peppering her face.

  Behind, she heard two sets of feet pursuing them, boots slapping resoundingly against the pavement. She glanced over her shoulder and swore. One of the Chiona, at least, was closing the distance: a lean Adourran man with absurdly long legs.

  She pushed herself to sprint faster, yanking her skirts up above the knees. She could hear him gaining. They were almost upon the docks, and Bray knew they would need to deal with their pursuers eventually. Better not to have a fight in front of their ship’s crew.

  “Yarrow,” she called, to alert him. She stopped dead in her tracks. The Adourran passed right through her. She rematerialized and leapt onto his back, anchoring herself with her heels hooked against his hips. He swung his body forward, trying to dislodge her, but her grip was sound.

  She heard a second Chiona engage Yarrow behind her, and hoped he would remain safe until she could lend a hand.

  Bray tried to snake her arm around the Adourran’s neck, but he tugged on her forearm and bicep, preventing her from squeezing tight around his jugular. His fingers pressed bruisingly into her arm, and then he changed his grip so that his nails dug into her flesh.

  She gritted her teeth, hissing. Finally, she gave up her effort to not strike her brother Chiona. She fisted her free hand and struck him soundly in the back of the skull. He staggered at the impact, and his hands slipped back to defend his head. Her arm stole under his chin, and she reached around to hold her own neck, flexing. She held tight and counted, listening to the shouts of the people around them. Beyond, she could hear the wind whipping at the sails of the ships anchored nearby.

  She looked over her assailant’s head to where Yarrow was having difficulty with his own opponent.

  “Quade Asher will forgive you your sins,” Po said, shooting his knee forward. Yarrow dodged, but as he moved Po grabbed hold of his coat sleeve.

  Bray felt the Chiona in her arms go limp, and she released him.

  Yarrow tried to spin farther away, but Po yanked him back by his sleeve.

  The Chiona reached out and pressed his bare hand to Yarrow’s cheek. “Quade—”

  Po’s words turned to a gurgle of pain, and he collapsed to the pavement. Bray watched helplessly as Yarrow’s eyes rolled back in his head, his face contorting in agony. He sank to his knees, then rolled over onto his back.

  “Yarrow!” Bray gasped, and she scrambled over to him. She knelt by his side as he thrashed and moaned. Po, sprawled on the road beside them, was screaming.

  It was horrible to watch—Bray moved Yarrow’s head onto her lap, so that it wouldn’t knock into the pavement. His limbs twitched and spasmed, and his face had turned white, even his lips. He whimpered.

  “Shh, Yarrow,” she murmured. “It will pass. It will be alright. Shh.”

  A crowd had gathered around them: ordinary people, sailors, and dockhands. Bray had not been aware of them until that moment. “These men need medical attention,” she said, her voice strangled. “Is there a doctor?”

  There was some small activity, a murmur carrying across the crowd.

  “Bray,” Yarrow whispered.

  A gust of relieved air shot from her lungs. His eyes were open, though squinting against the sunlight. His breath was ragged.

  “Yes. I’m here. Are you okay?”

  “Ow,” he answered with a grimace. “My face?” he reached up towards his cheek, where Po had touched him.

  “It looks the same,” she said. It looks perfect.

  Yarrow hauled himself up into a seated position. Beside them, Po was beginning to come around. He hissed, pulling his knees into his body.

  “We should probably—” Bray began.

  “Get moving,” Yarrow agreed, taking in the curious onlookers.

  Bray slung one of his arms around her shoulder and helped him rise. He leaned into her a bit, but seemed able to keep his feet. They shuffled away, leaving the two Chiona behind. Neither should suffer any lasting injury, and hopefully a doctor was on his way.

  “I had no idea,” Bray said aloud, though more to herself than to him.

  “Hm?” he asked.

  They shambled along the dock, towards the vessel that would bear them to Adourra.

  “I’d always assumed the pain would be like a burn, like touching something hot. That it would be local. But you looked as if you were having a seizure.”

  “I’m not certain that I wasn’t,” he answered in a raspy voice.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “For?”

  She was thinking of the night they had camped by the Painted Mere; the last night she had spent with him before they had parted ways. She had wanted to kiss him, had been convinced she could bear a little pain in return. He had refused. “Just…thank you.”

  He gave a short, wheezing laugh. “You’re welcome.”

  The tension in Peer’s shoulders eased all at once, as if a heavy burden had been whisked away. He pivoted slowly on his left foot, his hands cradling a ball of air. He eased his weight from left to right, in Gracious Offering.

  All sound seemed to mute in his ears—the instructional Cosanta murmurs and the sharper Chiona grumblings scattered across the university green, along with the howl of the wind and the chatter of his own mind. His boot slid forward, drawing a line in the snow. His arm swept upward in Slow Lash, and then he faltered. He could not recall the next step.

  Having no wish to relinquish this newfound quiet, Peer decided to begin at the start of the Ada Chae again. He let his hands rise gradually up from his hips in Warm Hands Over Fire, then shifted into Brush the Dragonfly. A calm settled upon him, a foreign and wonderful peace. With Taking Flight, he seemed to be sinking, slipping into nothingness as if he might drift into a dreamless sleep while still on his feet.

  And then, quite unexpectedly, his mind plummeted into that darkness and emerged once again. He blinked at his surroundings. A foreign sun shone overhead. The Aeght a Seve, he realized, stunned.

  Peer shielded his eyes against the glare, and regarded the single tree at the center of the clearing. He grinned at his success, a wide smile that stretched unfamiliarly across his face. His cheeks and mouth seemed to protest the expression, as if out of practice.

  Peer ran his fingers over his lips. Adearre had once told him he had an appealing smile—a compliment that had been given offhandedly, and that Peer had kept close and prized like stolen treasure, pulling it out now and again to remember the feel of it.

  You should smile more often, love, he had said.

  Peer exhaled heavily. He frowned at himself, shaking his head. Though it was tempting to linger awhile in this mental retreat, he knew his obligations could not wait. He refocused on his body back at the university, and let the Place of Five go. Let go…

  Peer returned to himself and let his arms swing back to his sides. The tranquility he had attained dissolved in an instant as he took in the scene before him. He sighed.

  The Cosanta demonstrated the opening movement, Warm Hands Over Fire, for their Chiona partners. The pairs were working together with as much amicability as could be hoped for; they swapped glowers rather than blows. Peer recognized the attitude of his brothers and sisters, having felt the same way when Yarrow had begun teaching him the Ada Chae a lifetime ago—he recalled that curious blend of academic tenacity and derision. This is still foolish, but I will excel, blight it! The Cosanta had reacted similarly to the Tearre.

  “What d’you mean I’m not balanced?” a male voi
ce shouted. “I’m standing, aren’t I?”

  Peer turned to the sound, and was unsurprised to find Malc’s scarred face contorted in frustration. The man had a temper to match his ego. Peer marched in the Chiona’s direction, in case his ranting should turn to violence.

  “Your center is not aligned, and so you are not rooted,” his older Chaskuan partner answered, baritone voice betraying his own, cooler irritation. He pushed Malc in the chest, and though he used little force, the larger man stumbled back. “You see?”

  Malc’s face turned an alarming shade of red, and he roared in frustration. His voice echoed across the green, and the other pairs stopped to watch. “I’ll show you roots,” he said between clenched teeth.

  Peer reached Malc as he reared back to take a swing, and he stepped between the two men to divert the blow. Malc stumbled, his arm thrown wide. A second strike did not follow; Malc stood, huffing and savage-eyed. His anger swiveled onto Peer.

  “This is bleeding stupid,” he said, still shouting and gesticulating wildly. “Why are we wasting our time with this, Peer? What’s the master plan, brother, we’re going to dance Quade Asher into his grave?” He kicked his feet and bounded a few times, in a sort of sarcastic jig. Then he pointed at Peer, brows drawn low. “Just because you’d like to be wearing robes, doesn’t mean we’re all so eager to change sides.”

  Peer inhaled through his nose, determined to respond calmly. “Learnin’ the Ada Chae improved my fighting skills. We need every advantage we can get over the Chisanta on Quade’s side.” They would already be hopelessly outnumbered, after all. But even more so, he hoped that this shared learning might help to build bridges of understanding between the two halves.

  “Improved, huh?” Malc said, and he stepped forward to shove Peer in the chest.

  Peer unthinkingly stepped into Brush the Dragonfly, and Malc stumbled forward, carried by the force of his own gravity. Peer heard whisperings from the Cosanta behind him. “Take a walk,” he said to Malc. “Cool off.”

  The clocktower tolled the hour, signaling that this brief training session was at an end. Before any of them had the opportunity to wander off, Peer turned to face the assembly. They were all staring at him already, so there was no need to claim their attention.