The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  Bray studied him with a head cocked to the side. “I very nearly believe you. So, let’s assume you are telling the truth. I need you to be cautious, because the moment we step within Whythe’s sphere of influence, your luck will be gone. And I can only assume that you are, by birth, rather unlucky, yes?”

  Arlow shrugged.

  “And Peer is not certain just how wide that range is. So you need to assume, with every step, that your luck might disappear. Got it?”

  Arlow was surprised to find himself feeling rightfully chastened. He had not entirely thought this through. She was right—without his gift, he was liable to trip into a stack of metal pots and waken the entire sleeping army, or something of that ilk.

  He inclined his head to her. “I will proceed with that in mind.”

  Bray squinted at him, trying to determine if he was mocking her. She shrugged. “So here’s what we’ll do. You two hold my hands and we’ll phase straight through the dune. It’s important that you hold on tight and do not let go, however, or you will find yourselves buried alive.” That she appeared frightened of this herself was no boon to Arlow’s spirits. “Let me guide you. It will take only seconds. Then keep low, hug the shadows. If we need to incapacitate the sentry, then we will. But if we can remain unseen, that will be much cleaner. Once we have eyes on Whythe…”

  “I’ll be handling that.”

  Bray clasped Peer’s forearm. “Right. If you’re having trouble we’ll lend a hand. Once he’s unconscious, we need to carry him away. At that point, Arlow’s luck should get us safely out of the camp.”

  Bray pulled the gloves from her hands and pocketed them. She held out her palms. “Ready?”

  Arlow eyed the solid side of the esker, and could feel his heart pulsating within his chest. He did not like the sound of Bray’s gift. And, more than that, he was walking towards Quade Asher, a ruthless man whom he had overtly betrayed. There was a reason Arlow wasn’t given to heroics—he did not enjoy this sweaty, stomach-churning sensation.

  Bray must have noticed his hesitation. “Hey,” she said, prodding his shoulder. “Don’t lose your cocksurety now. We’ll need it.”

  Arlow forced a short laugh and nodded his head. He took hold of Bray’s proffered hand. His own palm was clammy, and in an unexpected show of kinship, Bray gave it a light squeeze of reassurance. Arlow remembered, all at once, that there had been a time when these two people had been his own friends, too. It seemed not so long ago.

  “Here we go,” Bray said.

  She launched forward with long, fast strides, pulling Arlow and Peer behind her. As she increased her pace to a run, Arlow felt his very existence shiver away. He became wind, air, nothing. And he had only a half-second to process the full discomfort of this before being drawn within the wall of sand. He charged forward, into blackness. The feeling of suffocation was sudden and total.

  His pulse surged and he grasped Bray’s fingers with a crushing force, terrified that he might lose his grip. Her warning that he would otherwise be buried alive echoed through his mind, and he knew he had found himself a new personal nightmare.

  And then they came out on the other side, and the cool air exploded around him, salty and welcoming. Bray extracted her hand from his grip and flexed her fingers. She bent low, and after a moment Arlow copied her.

  Now that they were on ground level with the camp itself, it seemed impossibly large. He hadn’t appreciated from above just how many rows of tents there were, nor how much space lay between them. He inched forward, following behind Peer.

  As they slunk within the perimeter, Arlow experienced the strong sense of being surrounded, a keen perception of the uncountable men sleeping all around them. It would take no great error on his part to rouse them, and that would be an end to it, their brilliant plan. It might be the end of Chae-Na as well, which Arlow could not allow. He owed that girl a debt.

  Arlow spied the shape of a roaming sentry, and he paused. He could feel the man’s gaze sweeping right over his own head, before the guard tromped off in the other direction. He heard the quiet exhalation of Peer’s breath. They moved on, the cool, coarse sand clinging to his hands. They slipped by an open marquee that plainly served as the kitchens; the air smelt of charcoal and burnt meat. The space was vacant, however.

  Tent 001 was still a short way off when Arlow felt it: that terrible chill, the shiver of having his ability stripped away. Unlike many, his gift wasn’t something he actively used. It was a part of his reality, of the way he moved through the world. Having it so abruptly stolen from him was like falling sideways into a new world, one which operated under different rules. He thought he detected a similar rush of discomfort radiate from Bray, though he could see only the back of her head.

  They didn’t risk speech, not even whispers, as they crawled across the remaining stretch of beach. Heedful of Bray’s warning, Arlow moved with caution. Even when a crab scuttled up from a hole in the sand between his knees, he managed to remain silent, a feat which he felt deserved accolades—the way those blighted pests moved was most disconcerting.

  At length, they crept up to the tent in question. A young man—Peer’s Whythe, Arlow took it—slumped in a folding chair just beside the entry. A lantern glowed at his feet, and it cast him in a ring of light. He was tipping in his chair, his head swaying, and then visibly he roused himself. He shook his whole body, slapped his own face, and reached down to a thermos sitting at his feet.

  Peer leaned in close to Bray, and Arlow inclined towards them. The man whispered, “If we wait, looks like he might just nod off. Then our work’s done for us.”

  Bray’s brows slanted in pity. “We’d have no control of when he woke, though.”

  A muscle in Peer’s jaw danced. His gaze was locked on Whythe.

  “And,” Bray breathed. “If there’s a chance that Quade hasn’t laid hands on Chae-Na yet…”

  Peer pinched the bridge of his nose, but nodded. “We couldn’t be having that happen while we’re just outside. You’re right. I’ll take care of it.”

  Peer stared at the boy in the chair. The fierceness of his expression caught even Arlow. He didn’t know what relationship these two spirits shared, but the attachment was clearly a strong one.

  Arlow thought fleetingly of Mae, waiting for him back in Accord. He might be moments away from handing himself over to Quade’s vengeance.

  But if there was a chance, even a slight one, that they might rid the world of Quade this morning, it was worth the risk.

  Wish us luck, my sweet wife, he thought dryly. He knew that, just then, he had none.

  Peer gritted his teeth. He sensed the anticipation of Bray and Arlow behind him—their held breath and rigid postures.

  He crept forward through the sand, coming to the edge of the shadow that concealed him. He listened, taking in the rumbling of so many snoring men near at hand, and the soft rushing of waves on the shore. He watched Whythe’s head bob as he struggled against the pull of sleep, and Peer’s heart swelled in his chest.

  He wanted to run to him, heedless. There was such a magnetism between them, as if Whythe were a flame and he the moth. It was a bruising knowledge, that he couldn’t trust this person. Whythe might sound the alarm upon seeing him.

  Peer soundlessly slipped a handkerchief from his pocket, and then withdrew a phial that felt cold and solid in his hand. It was labeled with small script, but the letters appeared scrambled, and he couldn’t make out the words.

  He unstoppered the vessel, faintly catching the unpleasant, sweet smell of the drug. He pressed the cloth to the narrow mouth of the container and tipped, feeling wetness spread across the kerchief.

  With the fabric clutched in his hand, he prepared to step into the lantern light. Despite this precaution, some part of him hoped it would be unnecessary. Even if Quade had fully conquered Whythe’s mind, Peer might reach him. Surely, surely, no matter what Quade might do, this bond between them was stronger. Was that not what Bray’s vision had revealed?

 
Peer set his jaw. Nothing for it, he thought. He had to merely move forward and have faith that, upon seeing him, Whythe would not shout. Because if the camp around them were roused, the entire scheme would fail, and he, Bray, and Arlow would all be in Quade’s grasp again. Please, Whythe. See me.

  He slunk forward, creeping low and quiet, and feeling terribly exposed. Fortunately Whythe was so drowsy that he wasn’t looking up. Until, from behind him, someone sneezed—a quiet sound, clearly stifled behind a hand—but enough to make Whythe’s head jerk up. Blight it, Arlow.

  Whythe’s maple gaze landed squarely on Peer. There was a long moment in which Peer’s stammering heart alone moved. Whythe opened his mouth, then shut it again. He tilted his head to the side and his brow creased in confusion. “Peer?” he mouthed. “What are you—?”

  But there was a blankness in those lovely eyes that Peer did not, could not trust. So he sprang forward, closing the gap between them in two great strides. Whythe reached up to block Peer’s hand, keeping the chloroform-laced handkerchief at a distance. So Peer slapped his other, empty palm over Whythe’s mouth, to silence him. They tipped on the chair, and then they toppled backwards. Peer was so intent on smothering Whythe’s shout that he lost hold of the cloth and it blew just outside his reach.

  Whythe’s expression shifted from hurt confusion to anger. He bucked his hips, but Peer braced himself with his free arm.

  The younger man was trying to call out, but the sound was muffled and indistinct. There were tears of accusation in his eyes.

  I don’t wanna hurt you, Peer thought at him. His bevolder jerked, and pressed the sharp points of his elbows into Peer’s thighs. Peer lowered himself so that he lay flush on top of Whythe, then began reaching his hand towards the handkerchief, but his arm was simply not long enough. He tried to lean back and strike Whythe in the face, but his hips bucked and Peer’s fist connected only with sand.

  Peer craned his head towards the shadows where Bray and Arlow hid, wondering why they hadn’t moved forward to help. But they were no longer concealed, and he could see three shapes instead of two. Blight it all.

  The sentry that Arlow had earlier diverted had plainly come upon them from behind. His large hand clutched Bray’s neck, and he had pulled her back against him. Her feet kicked, toes just brushing the sand. He was a large, ugly man. Peer wondered why he hadn’t shouted out for help. But it seemed the soldier had not yet noticed him or Whythe, and Arlow had disappeared.

  The sentry whispered something harshly in Adourran, spittle flying from between his twisted lips. Within a face that was turning steadily more purple, Bray’s eyes bulged with fear. She thrashed within his grasp, but she had no leverage to land a wounding blow. The man’s hand fisted around her shirt to the sound of ripping fabric.

  Peer swallowed down his bellow of rage. A moment later Arlow, with speed and accuracy that looked downright feline, jumped onto the soldier’s back and smashed his own hand over the huge Adourran’s mouth. They were now engaged in a furious, silent fight, and Bray’s lips were turning blue. She could not phase, because of Whythe. The sentry was clearly biting Arlow’s hand, and though his face was contorted in pain, he continued to hold fast.

  Blight it, Peer thought at Whythe. Stop. Stop this.

  He gazed down into his bevolder’s eyes and saw into the core of him. He saw Quade too, the cloud that hugged Whythe’s mind like a sickly fog, shrouding him in confusion and misplaced affection. Peer pressed down hard with his hand and willed Whythe to snap out of it, to see him. Bray had only seconds. If Arlow released his hand and the sentry called out, they were all done for. Whythe, please.

  He felt the oneness they shared more intensely than ever before. As if their two bodies, their two spirits, were in fact one. And, in an unprecedented moment of clarity, he felt a gift that was not his own.

  It was there, a thing within their shared minds. Stop.

  And it did. That cold feeling of deprivation vanished, and his own gift flooded back. Whythe’s eyes snapped wide in confusion. Almost at once, Peer lost grasp of that tenuous power. The gift slipped out of his control, and once more his ability winked out.

  But, as he wheeled around to where his companions struggled, he found that it had been enough. Bray had phased through the arm of the bewildered soldier. She was now bent forward with streaming eyes, plainly trying not to cough. She turned round and hit the sentry squarely in the forehead. Arlow let him fall.

  “The Blighter bit me,” he lamented in a whisper. The palm of his hand bore bloody teeth marks.

  “Hurry up, Peer,” Bray rasped.

  “A little help.”

  Arlow jogged over to the handkerchief. Whythe began to struggle with renewed energy, and Peer was nearly thrown. Arlow slid into the sand at Whythe’s head and pressed the fabric over his nose. Peer shifted his hands so that the drug would cover his mouth as well.

  Those brown eyes that Peer liked so well turned sleepy, but fearfully so. He blinked several times before succumbing to unconsciousness. Peer, panting, slumped back into the sand. His limbs trembled, and he wiped his shirtsleeve against his eyes.

  Bray had her back to them. She was shaking violently, with her head bowed.

  “What’re we gonna do ’bout him?” Peer asked in an undertone, nodding to the sentry. They could hardly leave him. He might wake at any moment and expose their plan.

  Bray pulled a knife from her boot, and her hand was steady. “He’s a would-be killer, and we need him to stay quiet.”

  Arlow moved between Bray and the unconscious soldier. “You can’t kill him. He’s under Quade’s influence.”

  Her eyes slitted. “You think Quade ordered his men to assault any stray women they happened to meet?”

  Arlow shrugged. “Does that really sound impossible to you?”

  Bray hissed a curse at the sand as she sheathed her blade again. “Then what do you suggest?”

  Peer looked between the two of them with a sad smile on his lips. This argument seemed like a scene out of their old life, only Arlow was speaking on behalf of Adearre. Odd, that. He would not have thought those two men possessed any shared qualities.

  Peer pushed himself to his feet, grains of sand raining around him. “I can handle Whythe on my own,” he said. “Bind and gag that one, and share his weight. We’ll take him out of the camp so we can be keepin’ an eye on him.”

  He thought the old Bray would’ve argued her point, but now she merely looked distasteful as she ripped the sleeves from her shirt and gagged her attacker.

  Peer hauled Whythe over his shoulder, hand fisted around his belt. Arlow and Bray lifted the second man, him taking the head, and her the feet.

  As they made their way back through the camp towards the shelter of the dunes, Peer hoped that Arlow hadn’t been over-confident in his gift. Their path was far from circumspect, burdened as they were.

  But it seemed luck was on their side. As they left the camp, Peer glanced over his shoulder towards the tent where Quade was still sleeping.

  But that was not his fight, and he was glad of it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chae-Na stared up at the tent ceiling. The space was cast in shadow. Beside her, Quade’s steady breathing sounded pleasant and rhythmic in her ear. He slept on his stomach with his arm cast over her torso, a comforting weight against her abdomen.

  She couldn’t sleep, which was not surprising. She did not usually lie on her back, but she wouldn’t risk waking Quade by shifting into a more comfortable position. Besides, she was so full of sensation and new experience that her mind would likely reject unconsciousness anyway.

  Outside their tent she thought she heard a disturbance, like a solid object falling to the sand. But she assumed it must only be their guard, Whythe, stretching his legs.

  She let her head roll to the side so that she might take in Quade’s face once more. Even in sleep, he was a wonder to behold. She liked the sharp, dignified line of his nose and the way his black lashes criss-crossed when his e
yes were closed. She smiled and clutched her fist to her thumping heart.

  Chae-Na thought the Spirits must have blessed her, to give her such a man for a husband. Oh, the look on her cousin Melerre’s face when she brought her new groom back to the palace. She hoped he would choke on his disappointment. She rolled her head back only when her neck had begun to ache.

  Forgive me, Mother, she thought at the ceiling. The value of her virginity had been impressed upon her since childhood, and the necessity of its remaining intact until marriage. It was not merely propriety at stake; there could be wide-ranging political ramifications to her despoilment. But her mother must understand. Quade meant to marry her, and soon, so there could be no scandal.

  She bit down on her lip. She felt unusually aware of her own body, of the length of her limbs and all of the skin attached to them. Quade’s arm was so warm against her chest.

  Again, she peered in the direction of the tent flap. She was certain she caught the sound of whispered voices—people who seemed to be arguing in an undertone just on the other side of the canvas. She wondered if she should wake Quade. But, no. She would not risk his anger if those whispers were nothing of consequence. Not when their relationship was still so beautifully new.

  Chae-Na smiled to herself and examined the collection of feelings in her mind. Even the negative seemed to hold no sting—she was floating, high above it all.

  Her hand drifted to her womb. Perhaps, even now, a child was forming within her. A king.

  As this thought swirled warmly through her mind, something changed. The rise and fall of Quade’s chest ceased, and the arm that draped over her abdomen turned rigid, inflexible, like a brace. She twisted her head upon the pillow, and the air froze in her lungs, trapped.

  Quade Asher lay beside her, and, all at once, she could see him properly. He was awful to behold, ghastly. His face was so full of cold menace that even with his eyes closed he seemed to glare at her, hate etched in every line. His spell came crashing down, and her mind cleared. The horror of that clarity struck her full-force.