The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  “Arlow,” Ko-Jin said, standing framed in the doorway, a ring of keys dangling from his finger.

  “General,” Arlow answered with a slight bow of the head. He could not keep the amusement from his lips at the word.

  Ko-Jin was much altered. He had lost the wan, shrunken look he had taken on after his captivity. He appeared, once again, powerfully built and self-assured. But there was something more serious about his eyes now; he had the aura of an older man, worn down by responsibility.

  They stared at each other for a motionless moment, Arlow uncertain how to proceed. And then Ko-Jin crossed the space and slammed into him in a hearty embrace, slapping his back. Arlow returned the welcome, numb with gratitude and relief and loss of breath.

  Ko-Jin pulled back, a hand remaining on Arlow’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve come, brother.”

  Arlow smiled. “As am I. I wasn’t so certain I’d be welcomed, but—”

  “We understand Quade’s effect better now. Sorry, mate, for blaming you before. I just didn’t get it. Not until I saw it fade with my own eyes.”

  Arlow shrugged this aside, once again uncomfortable at being offered unjust clemency. “There’s a tea that helps clear the mind. You might start serving it here, perhaps shorten the interval of the quarantine.” He rubbed his neck. “Five days locked up felt like an eternity.”

  Ko-Jin offered him a level look. “Spirits, it must have been a real trial for you.”

  Arlow recalled that Ko-Jin had spent a much longer time held prisoner, in significantly worse conditions. And that he, Arlow, had failed to help. “Ah, that is, I…”

  Ko-Jin threw an arm around his shoulder and steered him out of the cell, into the prison hallway. “Really, Ar, we must rush you right to a doctor. Are you malnourished? Any muscle atrophy?” They walked on, Arlow leaning awkwardly to the side, as his neck was pinned by his brother’s bicep.

  “Yes, very witty. I—”

  “No, I’m serious. Perhaps you should write a memoir: ‘Five Dark Days: One-Hundred and Twenty-Five Hours Trapped With My Own Company.’ Could be a bestseller.”

  “Ha, ha,” Arlow intoned dryly, and wrenched himself free. “Perhaps I should. If it were to sell, it might replenish my vacant accounts. You see, the funniest thing happened: someone stole all of my savings. Don’t know anything about that, do you?”

  Ko-Jin turned and looked at him with solemn eyes. “Not a bit.” He grinned. “Roldon’s being released now too. And the Pauper’s people are waiting for you in the lobby, by the way. Some company you’ve been keeping.”

  They climbed up a stairway and sunlight spilled through windows, lifting Arlow’s spirits.

  “Yes, he’s quite the man, the Pauper’s King. I’ll introduce you.”

  “I must say, I’m curious.”

  Arlow thought of adding that he could introduce his wife as well, a statement that would no doubt prompt an amusing reaction from his friend. But he could not speak flippantly of the matter yet.

  They came through the dungeon door and out into a wide stone lobby, where most of Arlow’s companions already waited. He swept the small crowd with his eyes, searching for Mae.

  He found her in close conversation with Foy Rodgeman. Her face was pale, and she looked as if she’d lost weight, though only five days had passed. The belt cinching her oversized trousers appeared to be encircling a diminished waistline.

  Arlow realized that Ko-Jin was speaking to him, but he hadn’t heard a word. “Hm?” he asked.

  “I was wondering about Yarrow. He really made the third sacrifice?”

  Mae had noticed Arlow’s arrival. Her brown eyes found his across the room, and she held his gaze for several seconds, but then she turned back to Rodgeman. It was a clear dismissal. “…needed coercing to take up the post.”

  “Are you okay, Ar?” Ko-Jin asked, his concerned voice dispersing Arlow’s mental fog.

  “Yes. Never better. Let’s have dinner, shall we, so we can catch up. I’m positively famished.”

  “As long as you don’t mind eating up at the palace. I can’t stay away long.”

  “An excellent plan. Lead on.”

  Arlow fancied he felt Mae’s gaze on his back as he strolled from the room. He walked as slowly as possible, dawdling even, hoping that she might call him back.

  But he reached the exit disappointed.

  Vendra kept to the obscurity of the tree line, thin though it was. She could hear the Clay Sea beating against the coast to the west; warm, briny air filled her nose. After the cold of Dalish winter, the warmth of western Adourra felt downright sultry, like sinking into a hot spring.

  She eased into a crouch. Setting her leather valise onto the forest floor, she popped open the lid. She withdrew a slender wooden blowgun, and then, ever so carefully, dipped a dart into her poison, rolling it between her fingers to evenly coat the tip. The salty sea air was so strong that she couldn’t smell the drug.

  A primitive weapon, she thought as she scrutinized the slim bit of wood in her hand. Perhaps, in the brief instant before death, he would appreciate her use of such a tool. He adored old things, Quade.

  She checked her watch, wondering at Kelarre’s prolonged absence. The fool boy was ever late to their prearranged meetings. But having eyes in two places was better than one, and teleporting was infinitely preferable to the alternative. In twelve days, they had found Quade twice, though without opportunity to do more than observe.

  Today, however, she felt certain. He would be here. He had been at this place one week before, and Quade Asher was nothing if not a lover of consistency, of careful plans.

  Vendra gazed out at the archeological dig, the network of trenches that branched across an unremarkable field. She wondered what he sought, buried in this nowhere near Porramore. Given the extensive resources he had put to use here, it was no doubt something of great importance to him.

  The dig site sat in shadowed near-quiescence. Only a few scientists worked into the evening with chisel and brush, over on the far eastern side of the excavation. She kept her eyes open and focused, her ears peeled for the distinctive sound of teleportation.

  The sun made its steady descent as she waited, a warm evening transitioning into a cool night. Above, stars bloomed in the deep blue sky. Around the dig site, lanterns illuminated the canvas tents from within. She could discern the dark shapes of the people inside.

  One such shape stalked out into the night, and she tensed with renewed focus. She knew the man’s face, even from a distance. That thick black beard, those brawny shoulders, were unmistakable. Jorren, a Chiona in his forties, had long been a trusted member of Quade’s initiative. Jorren had a liking for torture, and so had made himself useful.

  Vendra followed him with her eyes. He appeared to be urinating into one of the deep trenches in the earth. He fastened his pants and returned to his tent. She swallowed. If Jorren were here, then Quade would come for him eventually. It would only be a matter of time.

  She glanced at her watch again and frowned. That Kelarre had not yet returned for her seemed a poor omen. She hoped he hadn’t come to harm, not least because she would be stuck here without him.

  This thought was still in her mind when she heard the shrill pop of his arrival.

  “Where have you been?” she hissed into the shadows.

  He crept to her side, his cocky expression only just discernible in the weak light. “My mistake,” he whispered, not sounding at all apologetic. Rude little… “Thought he was at Easterly Point, so I waited longer to be certain.”

  “And?”

  “He wasn’t.”

  Vendra exhaled her annoyance. “He hasn’t been here either, yet. But it’s still a strong possibility, so keep your eyes open.”

  “As opposed to closed?”

  She did not rise to this provocation, reminding herself that she had more serious concerns than an insufferable teenage companion. Far more serious. Besides, he was likely suffering from excess testosterone. He might yet grow out of
his current unpleasant disposition.

  “I think—” he began, but cut himself short at the sound of a second pop, farther away.

  Vendra stiffened, but her heart slammed into motion. He’s here. She drew a long, slow breath and consciously eased the muscles in her abdomen, which had clenched at the sound.

  She withdrew four wads of cotton from her robes pocket and handed two to Kelarre. “Whatever you do, don’t listen to him, don’t look into his eyes, and definitely don’t let him touch you.” She was glad to see that the lad’s expression had sobered. He nodded once. “If he sees us, teleport us away. If you can’t get to me for some reason, then go yourself. Understand?”

  Again, he only nodded. He jammed the cotton into his ears and she followed suit, poking the coarse fluff into her ear canal. The sound of the sea and the night around her dulled, muffled, then disappeared.

  Pocketing the dart gun, she slipped from the concealment of the trees, keeping low to the ground. Kelarre tailed her.

  The desire to set eyes on Quade was agonizing. To see, and to kill. She wanted him dead, but there was also this twisted, weak part of herself that just…wanted him.

  They crept around a tent, and Vendra wished she had the use of her hearing. This new deafness made her feel vulnerable. She peered around a corner and caught the outline of a man’s back—straight, strong. Him.

  He spoke with a bespectacled man who was smiling and nodding. An animated conversation, though she could not hear it. She could only see Quade’s posture and the barest curve of his jaw, but she thought he seemed intent, excited. She had come terrifyingly near to him, so close that she wondered at his inability to sense her presence.

  Now.

  She turned to Kelarre and gave a sharp nod. He looked a bit unfocused—she hoped he would keep his wits. Then she stood, leaning into the shadow. Her fingers clasped the long bit of wood in her robes pocket.

  As she withdrew the weapon, inhaled, and took aim, it seemed as if she were underwater. Swimming. Drunk. She didn’t allow herself a moment to doubt. She brought the wooden pipe to her lips and puffed out a killing breath.

  The dart glinted with lantern light as it shot through the short space. It pierced the back of Quade’s neck. He jerked in surprise.

  And then he turned. Vendra stood, her knees unsteady. She watched his face with hungry eyes. She wanted to drink him in for these last few moments, before he succumbed to her poison. His dark gaze found her through the gloom, and she thought he spoke her name, though the sound was lost. He appeared pleased to see her, and as he stepped forward—Spirits, is he handsome—he smiled. He plucked the dart free from his neck.

  And then Vendra began to fear, because he should have been on his knees by that time. He should have been gasping. Instead, he sauntered her way. Casual. Unafraid.

  At her back, hands grabbed her and tilted her off balance, tugging her arms behind her. She wrenched her head around, to verify what she already knew. It was Kelarre, the cotton in his ears already removed.

  Quade got to him. She screwed her eyes shut. Idiot!

  Quade plucked the cotton from her ears tenderly, and a shiver ran down her body.

  “Vendra,” he said, in his enchanting voice—deep, resonant, just slightly rough. No, No, No! “I’m so happy you’ve returned to me.” His hands cupped her face, and she tried to cringe away and lean in at the same time. She kept her eyes closed and felt his thumbs trace the sides of her face. “I love you so much. You’ve no idea how I’ve missed you.”

  No! No!

  And then he was kissing her, softly. Unraveling her from within. He breathed into her ear. “You missed me, did you not?”

  No.

  “Vendra.” His tongue slipped into her mouth and her head fell back and she was happy—euphoric, rapturous. “Say it.”

  “I love you,” she whispered, her eyes at last flickering open to take in his wonderful face. “I missed you.”

  He smiled. Then he looked over her shoulder. “That will be all, Kelarre. Thank you. I’ll have further tasks for you tomorrow.”

  Quade guided her to a tent and held open the canvas flap. Vendra ducked into the small space and, at Quade’s invitation, sat down on the side of the single bed.

  She studied him as he strode to a trunk at the far corner. He withdrew something, and let the lid to the case fall. His movements were buoyant; he seemed to be in exceptionally good spirits.

  “Have a look,” he said, turning back to her with a sword balanced on the palms of his hands. It was ancient, clearly. An Adourran scimitar—the blade broad and curved, rubies glinting from the hilt. “You know what it is?” He was nearly bouncing, his expression downright boyish.

  “The Scimitar of Amarra, I’m guessing.”

  He grinned. “As ever, you guess correctly, my dear.” He rubbed the ruby with his thumb. “A blade of incomparable sharpness, which never dulls.” He knelt down before her, holding it out for her inspection. The metal seemed to ripple. It was bright, appearing new despite its obvious age. “Legend holds that its bearer is gifted with exceptional abilities—precision and speed, the story usually goes. I am not so certain I believe such tales. Likely the men who carried the blade were uncommonly gifted swordsmen. But, either way, it will be a symbol, something to rally behind. And it could not have come at a more fortuitous time; I had so hoped to use it to—” He stopped and stood.

  Vendra watched him, leaning back, palms braced against the cot. She saw the change in his gait, the bounce yielding to something more predatory, more seductive.

  “Would you like to see me test it?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  The blade whirred, a blur of silver, and a sharp pain exploded in her earlobe. She gasped, gulped. Hot blood ran down the side of her neck.

  He came to her, again kneeling. “A perfect slice.” Then he leaned in and licked the blood from her collar. “It felt good, did it not, dear?”

  She was mute—aching for him, but pained. He pinched her parted earlobe. “Did it not?”

  “Ye…yes.”

  He smiled, closed-lipped, and stepped back. He leaned against the field desk, still cradling the scimitar. “Stand.”

  She was on her feet without thinking.

  He tipped his head to the side, looking her up and down with black, black eyes. “Take off your robes, Vendra.”

  There was only the smallest protest in the back of her mind, the slightest whisper of resistance. Ineffectual, as her fingers moved to her buttons. “As you like, Quade.”

  Chae-Na exhaled. She whipped her waster from above her left shoulder down towards her right hip, slicing diagonally through the air. A gust of bitter wind chilled the perspiration clinging to her skin, and she tried not to shiver.

  Zarra, the new head instructor of the sword, shouted, “Four!”

  Chae-Na pivoted into the fourth stance along with several of the more advanced recruits. She spread her feet evenly and bent into her knees, practice blade raised over her head. That long bit of wood, which always seemed so light at the start of a lesson, had taken on weight. Her arms and wrists ached.

  “Five!”

  Chae-Na struck downward with more force than usual. She was feeling tightly wound that afternoon, less careful. From a short distance she could hear a larger group of recruits practicing; a deep voice called out numbers which were each punctuated by the clacking sound of wood hitting wood.

  “Good,” Zarra said, stalking in front of them, the palace at her back. Her milky, unseeing eyes matched the snow beneath their feet, a curious feature that Chae-Na had not yet grown accustomed to. The monstrous seeing-eye dog paced at its master’s side, seeming to believe itself a secondary instructor.

  “Princess,” Zarra called out, in a tone that promised nothing pleasant would follow. Chae-Na took a half-step forward, and wondered if the woman did not know that ‘Your Highness’ was the correct address, or if she merely did not care. “It’s not enough that you exhale upon striking, you need to heetoh,
to make a sound. Like so—”

  Zarra raised her own waster and glided effortlessly through the five forms, a vision of control and grace. Each time Zarra swung her blade she uttered a harsh, deep sound, a different one for each stroke: “hee-yah, hee-yoh, hah-yoo, yoo-wah, hee-toh!” Chae-Na knew these cries well; Ko-Jin sounded just the same when he practiced.

  Zarra came to rest, her mouth quirking with good humor. “My former student must be a poor teacher, if he has not yet taught you to heetoh. I’ll need to have a word with him.”

  Chae-Na’s face warmed, and she sensed the attention of her fellow students acutely. How could she explain? To make such sounds, to grunt in that way—she simply could not. To swing a blade was one thing, but to do so while uttering such unladylike, such immodest noises… The mere prospect was mortifying.

  “Step forward. Let’s practice.”

  Chae-Na stepped further out of line, her heart tripping in her chest. She opened her mouth to protest, but could not think how to phrase her plight. How could she explain this clawing, sweat-inducing sensation to Zarra; a person who found neither her gender, her blindness, nor her apparent pregnancy reasonable inducements to be any less the warrior?

  “At the ready.”

  Chae-Na settled into the now-familiar pose, her simple gown tugging in the wind. That she was being made to do this alone while the others watched seemed a cruelty. She experienced a sudden strong longing for Ko-Jin, who was more attuned to her emotions and limits.

  “One!”

  She whipped her blade up from hip to shoulder and made a pathetic, barely audible noise, more wheeze than grunt.

  “Pitiful. Do better. Two!”

  Chae-Na swung down in the opposite direction, and this time the noise that escaped her throat sounded embarrassingly like a whimper. She half-expected the students behind her to laugh, but they did not.

  “Not from the throat, from the diaphragm.” Zarra placed a hand on her own swollen abdomen. “Hee-toh! It should feel satisfying. An expression of your fierceness, your determination—and today, I suspect, your frustration. You’re swinging your blade like you’ve got evil spirits on your back. Channel that feeling.”