The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  Peer and Whythe had streaked past her, carried on longer legs. She forced herself all the harder, endeavoring to take two strides for every one of theirs. Fortunately, she felt herself in possession of greater than usual stamina. It seemed she could run indefinitely.

  The blasts had stopped, but dread still pounded in her veins. If Quade had destroyed their outer perimeter, his people could even now be pouring into the city. And all would be lost—there would be no place safe from Quade’s influence in all the kingdoms. Spirits, let it not be so.

  Peer, ahead, stopped to have a short, shouted conversation with the guards at the gate. He was waved in, and Bray sprinted after him.

  The drive up to the palace appeared to have lengthened. She focused on the rhythmic sound of her boots slapping against the puddles, and increased her speed. They would need as much time as possible to form a plan before Quade was upon them. And she could not flee until she had found Yarrow. But then where could they go?

  Chasku? Surely he had little hold there…

  At last they arrived at the entry. Peer exchanged a brief greeting with a familiar sentry, and then they were racing up the polished hallways. Without the rain actively pelting down upon her, she felt colder. Her boots squelched with each step.

  “Where do you think they’ll be?” Peer asked, and skidded to a standstill.

  Whythe collided with him and they grasped each other for support, only just managing to keep their feet.

  “King’s study, maybe?”

  Peer nodded, and gestured for Whythe to follow him. He had spent the most time in the palace, and generally had a good sense of direction. Which was fortunate; Bray would no doubt have taken several wrong turnings before finding the correct room. And they might already be out of time.

  Peer knocked twice on an oaken door and then swung it wide. Bray breathed a sigh of relief when she entered the room and found both Ko-Jin and Chae-Na within.

  “Was it the walls?” Peer asked, then paused to cough. “How bad is it?”

  Everything in Ko-Jin’s posture spoke of black news. “No, the walls weren’t targeted. All of the explosions were within the city—at least one food storage, and the royal stables. Yarrow’s gone to see what all was lost.”

  Bray sighed. She moved towards the hearth, grateful for the warmth. She mopped sopping hair from her face. “Why, though? Why not take down our defenses if he has the means?”

  Chae-Na extended the slip of a telegram to Bray. “He does not wish to compromise our perimeter, for all of his building of catapults. He would rather be invited in.”

  Bray, with pruned fingers, unfurled the paper and read:

  Another every 12 hours until the gates are opened for me.

  Bray scowled and handed the message to Peer. He and his partner read together.

  “That fits,” Whythe said.

  “How so?” Ko-Jin asked.

  “Well,” Whythe said, licking a lip and glancing up at the ceiling. “It’s his MO, isn’t it? He doesn’t just want you under his control, he wants you to ask for it. Beg, even.”

  “This message was not sent to us alone,” Chae-Na said. “We received reports that it was transmitted to every telegraphy office in the capital.”

  Bray winced. If the people knew that their leaders had been forewarned of an additional attack and failed to prevent it, there may well be fighting within the walls. Quade’s skill for sowing discord was truly a marvel.

  “What can we be doing?” Peer asked. “We’ve gotta stop it.”

  Ko-Jin folded his arms over his chest. “I’ve sent word to the university asking that every Chisanta head out now, scour the city.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “We’ve nearly eleven hours. But with no notion as to where he will strike…” he shook his head. “Though…” he said in a newly hopeful voice, as he snapped his fingers.

  The door slammed open and a streaming figure in Cosanta robes stumbled in. It took Bray a moment to recognize Roldon, as his face was contorted, his hair darkened and slicked down from the rain.

  “He took Trevva,” the Cosanta announced, throat thick with heartache. Ko-Jin crossed the space and pulled his friend into an embrace. “I’m sorry,” the general said.

  “Why her?” Roldon choked out.

  He seemed to expect no response, but Bray knew the answer at once. “She would have been able to track his movements. With her, we could’ve easily stopped this plan of his.”

  Ko-Jin had clearly come to the same realization. “That had been my great idea. Unfortunately.”

  “If he kills her…” Roldon whispered at his feet.

  “He won’t,” Whythe said. “If he wants to take one of us, she can help him pinpoint our exact location first. Then he can teleport to the spot and snatch us away.” Peer reached out and touched Whythe’s arm, fear in his eyes.

  This new threat sat solidly upon them. Bray wondered who he would take next; which person would that man deem most valuable?

  “We have to get her back,” Roldon said. “She risked her life to rescue the two of you.” He glared first at Whythe, then at Chae-Na.

  Ko-Jin grasped his friend’s shoulder. “We will. I promise. But right now Quade’s threatening to kill civilians, and we have to…we have to at least try to stop him. It’s our duty.”

  “But this next attack,” Chae-Na said, “It could come anywhere.”

  Bray shifted her gaze to the hearth, and she watched the flames dance. When she turned again, the red spots remained in her vision. “Not anywhere.”

  It felt as if the cogs in her mind had begun turning again, after a short respite. Her fingers fluttered. “His plan is transparent enough. He wants the capital in hysterics. This second strike, it will be an assault on the spirit of the city. Something significant.”

  Ko-Jin met her gaze in brief, silent praise. “True. He wants to bring us to our knees. So, what target would be the greatest blow?”

  “More to the point,” Chae-Na said, as she moved to the desk and extracted a large roll of parchment. “Which target would Quade Asher believe to be the greatest blow.”

  Ko-Jin helped her weigh down the corners of the map—a detailed blueprint of Accord. They all huddled around and frowned down at the city. For a long moment, all that Bray could process was the sheer size of it.

  A distinct pop drew Bray’s attention, and she was warmed by the sight of Yarrow. He positively poured rainwater, and his clothes smelt smoky. He met her gaze and a slight smile of greeting crossed his lips.

  “Well?” Ko-Jin demanded. “How bad is it?”

  Yarrow’s gloved hand delved within the breast of his coat and he withdrew a sodden notebook. “Death count, at the current estimate, is about three score.” A pregnant pause followed this, in which Bray could not decide if sixty deaths were a mind-reeling tragedy, or if she was relieved that it had not been more.

  Yarrow peeled apart a page and scanned his notes. “Three food storage units, one hotel, one doctor’s office, the constable’s station in the southern borough, and the royal stables.”

  “What percentage of our food does that represent?” Chae-Na asked in a soft voice.

  “Arlow or Mae will know better than I, but…” Yarrow tucked the notebook away. “No small portion, certainly.”

  “Yar, could you?” Ko-Jin asked, gesturing to the map. He held out a cup of pins. Yarrow stepped up to the table, the deep crease of concentration blooming between his brows. He plucked and placed the pins, one at a time. When he had worked in the final marker, on the palace grounds itself, they all gazed down at the placement.

  Bray cocked her head to the side. The six points formed an exact triangle. She could just imagine Quade gazing down on a similar map, selecting the places where people would die, feeling pleased with the orderliness of it all.

  “So…do we expect this coming attack to follow the same pattern?” Whythe asked.

  Bray grimaced, trying to think like Quade. It was an unpleasant thought experiment.

  “The bes
t I can figure,” she said at length, “the next will come at a place that would be the most tragic to lose—either strategically, emotionally, or symbolically.”

  “Or all three,” Peer said. He looked up and around at the study. “Uh, aren’t we more or less standin’ in that place?”

  They went quiet for a moment, as if expecting to hear the sudden hiss of a lit fuse. Bray thought him correct, in theory. What could be a greater blow than losing the palace itself?

  “You’re right,” Bray said. “But…it seems a bit obvious, doesn’t it?”

  Ko-Jin pursed his lips. “Quade has been dreaming of planting his ass upon the throne here, so I doubt he would destroy it. And I don’t think he means to kill Chae-Na…”

  “Why are you speaking with such certainty of a second attack?” Yarrow asked, frowning.

  Peer picked up the telegram from where he’d tossed it aside and handed it to Yarrow. “This’s been sent all ’cross the city.”

  Bray watched Yarrow’s expression. A shadow passed over his face, a darkness that went far beyond the promise of more death. No, it was as if all hope had suddenly been expunged.

  He turned his head towards the fire, and a muscle in his jaw danced. She thought she detected a wetness in his eyes. The others were speaking, but Bray barely heard.

  “Yarrow?” she asked.

  His head swiveled slowly towards her, and when he met her eye he forced a small smile to his lips. But something in those soft gray eyes had changed.

  She shivered, frightened for a reason she could not put to words.

  Vendra could see his face. He was crossing that stage. He was hideous, frightening.

  “YOUR DEATH WILL BE AS…”

  He turned and looked directly at her, and she was pierced by his gaze.

  “Come, Vendra,” he said in a voice as cold as his eyes.

  “No,” she said.

  “No?”

  The look that crossed his expression was terrifying enough to rip her right from her nightmare. She woke with a gasp, as if rising from the depths of the ocean for air. Her heart slammed against her sternum.

  Above her, the sound of the pattering rain had stopped. She could not guess how many hours she had slept, but it was not yet dawn.

  Slowly, and with dread, she turned towards the warm form of the man sleeping beside her. She half-expected to find him looking as he had in her nightmare. But he was as beatific as ever, perhaps even more so in sleep. She listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing for a minute, frowning.

  Her thoughts were confused, and yet she had the sense that this very confusion betrayed a sharpness of mind that usually eluded her. The dream was still clear in her memory, but it was not merely a dream. That had happened. Her hands, where they clutched at the blankets, trembled.

  She closed her eyes and tried to focus. She began, mentally, to practice the Ada Chae. As she watched herself move fluidly through the forms—Warm Hands Over Fire to Brush the Dragonfly—some of the shakiness left her true hands. She concentrated on the rise and fall of her chest.

  He is bewitching me. The thought shivered, parts of her consciousness endeavored to tear it down. He is foul, an evil. This thought was even harder to hold on to. She spent several long seconds moving through the forms, repeating it to herself. Until she could form the next, logical conclusion.

  He needs to die.

  Some of the trembling returned at this, and she had the sudden powerful urge to vomit. She pulled breath through her nose. She made herself think of the dream. And then, when it felt as if she could not recall who she was at all, she steered her thoughts backwards, far enough into her past so that Quade could not touch her.

  She thought of her father. Of the happiness that had never touched his eyes. Of the sound of his weeping at night, when he thought she would not hear.

  It was not a happy reflection, but it was grounding. Her father’s misery was like the anchor of her life—it had informed everything, from start to present.

  Her tremors eased. Her eyelids fluttered open.

  Carefully and silently and smoothly as she could, she began to twist and reach towards the floor. She groped in the darkness for her boot. When her hand found the stitching in the leather, she traced the seam upwards, until the pads of her fingers hit the hard hilt of a dagger.

  Breathlessly, she worked the blade free from its holster, one-handed. She brought the knife up, steeled herself, and rolled towards the center of the bed.

  His face was so darkly mesmerizing she did not dare allow her gaze to linger upon it. She focused, instead, upon his throat—on the lump of his larynx. Black stubble peeped from each pore. Even his neck was hypnotizing.

  She gripped tighter to the blade. Her heart rate elevated, sweat blossomed on the back of her neck, despite the coolness of the evening. Elevated adrenaline, she thought coolly. Reasonable chemical reaction.

  Her hand had begun to shake again. She feared her resolve might be slipping. She summoned to mind the face she had seen in her dream, but it was indistinct.

  Stop hesitating, she commanded herself, with a strength of resolution that seemed not to come from her active consciousness. Act now!

  She screwed her eyes shut. The dagger, clutched in her sweaty hand, plunged. She felt his hand catch hers, and her eyes flew open in shock.

  His grip around her wrist was viselike. His lovely eyes were narrowed. He wrenched her by the arm, ripping her onto her back. He mounted her, his knees pinching against her rib cage. The air shot from her lungs with a gust.

  His expression was troubled, saddened. A spasm of regret coursed through her.

  “Quade, I’m—”

  “I have forgiven so many lapses, my darling. Again and again I have shown mercy, understanding.” A lump lodged in her throat. “Because I care for you. I’ve always cared for you, Vendra. Even, now, I love you.” His voice hitched with raw emotion. His stunning features were aligned in genuine hurt. She wanted to soothe his suffering. “You have no notion, dear, how this wounds me. How I will miss you.” His hands moved to her throat, his intention plain though he had not yet applied pressure. “But you have become too great a liability.”

  Quade leaned forward, so that all of his weight came to press against her trachea. She reached to his hands and attempted to push him away. The pain was immediate, and maddening. She was trying to gasp, but there was no air to be had. The bruising press of his thumbs on her throat was the core of her being, or so it seemed—that hurt was everything, whole unto itself.

  And, even as he was extinguishing her life, he looked so like a spirit come down from above. She squeezed her eyes closed, unwilling to witness a man she loved cause her such suffering.

  As soon as she could not see him, some of the clarity returned to her thoughts, even as her consciousness began to slip. Her hand moved from his wrist—a battle of strength she could not win—and slipped to his little finger. She pried underneath and twisted his pinky backwards.

  He yelped and released her. Air rushed, excruciatingly, through her bruised throat. “Stop,” she wheezed.

  “You think I want this?” he demanded, and once more there was true remorse in his voice. But it did not touch her heart this time. “Whatever will I do without you? My oldest supporter, my poisoness. Even now, the city of Accord will be feeling the extent of your brilliance.”

  She remembered, all at once, another occurrence like this one. A nightmare clearing her mind. A drug swapped out at the last moment.

  She laughed, but it came out like a bark. Sparks of pain exploded from her voice box.

  He draped himself down on top of her, seemingly sucking the air from the room with his weight alone. “What could possibly be funny?” he hissed.

  She opened her eyes, and though his black gaze was not full of that coldness she had once seen, his intent to kill her remained clear.

  “The city’s water,” she croaked. It seemed terribly funny to her, but she was trying not to laugh to save herself discomfort. Her b
ody shook with dark mirth.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re going to be disappointed.”

  He spat out a foul word, then struck her face with a closed fist. Lights danced before her eyes, and her head jerked to the side.

  “How dare—”

  Vendra bucked. If she was going to live, she needed to find space between them. Quade threw out his hand and caught himself from falling. She struggled to turn, hoping she might squirm out from beneath him. In an instant, he hopped up so that his knee was pressed to the back of her head, his foot secure at her hip. She was pinned on her side, trapped within his grasp.

  His breath skimmed her ear. “May the Blighter take your spirit, Vendra.”

  And then the blunt blades of his arms were tightening against the sides of her neck. She bucked and twisted, but almost instantly the tent around her began to contract, yielding to blackness.

  A blood choke, she thought fleetingly. At least it will be quick.

  It should have been fast, she knew. It took less than ten seconds for a person to black out without blood to the brain, half a minute at most until death. But it did not feel fast. The seconds stretched and lengthened. Though, admittedly, the pain was minimal.

  I know what this is, she realized.

  A chemical the brain released as one died. It was the same that caused the slumbering mind to dream, but in sleep it was released in minute drips. At the moment of death, it flooded the mind, like a river through a crumbled dam.

  Quade’s arms twisted, and the lightless interior of the tent grew steadily darker. She could feel her body slowing, cooling.

  “Vendra?”

  She turned on her patent shoes. “Father?”

  He was there, which did not seem odd. “Come, dear one.”

  He was on a knee, reaching out to her. He smiled, and his brown eyes crinkled. And it was there—at last, at long, long last. The smile had touched his eyes. There was true happiness in his face, as she had never seen it in life. She wanted to weep for joy.