“Would you like me to carry a message back to the general, sir?”
“No. I have need of you. Accompany me.”
Quade turned his back upon that hateful wall and the enemies beyond it, storming towards his tent. He heard the young messenger trailing behind him, and experienced a shiver of anticipation. If his every plan was to be futile from conception, if he was to be laughed at and scorned and denied the objects of his desire—well then, by all the Spirits, he would take his pleasures where he could.
He would unleash the monster.
“After you,” he said, extending his hand. The boy walked into the shadows, blithe as could be.
Some time later, Quade finished re-buttoning his shirt and sat down at his desk. He leaned into his chair and cleaned the blood from beneath his fingernails. The messenger whimpered on the ground. It was an irritating sound.
Most people existed without function or purpose; it should gratify the young man that Quade had found a use for him, however undignified.
The lad sniveled as he righted his clothes. “Shou-should I go?”
Quade wished for solitude, but he made himself face the messenger. He summoned deliberate charm and let it ooze from his eyes. His gift served him well without effort, but the will to please doubled his efficacy. “You enjoyed yourself, did you not?”
The lad hiccupped. “Yes,” he said, but too slowly.
“It is nothing to be ashamed of, finding enjoyment in such things.”
“I’m not ashamed.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I thought we shared something special. It would wound me if you did not feel the same.”
“I do!”
Quade’s smile turned wicked, but the lad only flushed like a besotted youth. “Good night, then. I trust you won’t speak of this to others.”
“Of course I won’t.” He scrambled up from the floor and bowed. “Good night, sir.”
The lad slipped from the tent, and Quade set aside his now-clean dagger. He dipped his head to the side, stretching the taut muscles in his neck.
He sighed. Anyone in this camp would happily knead his sore neck, but it had been Vendra’s keen fingers that had always cured his pain. He wished she hadn’t made him kill her.
But Quade had more pressing matters than tight muscles to consider. His most recent effort to penetrate the city had failed. He seemed to be moving in circles, making the same blunders again and again.
With Lamhart anticipating his tactics, his careful plans were all destined to fail. He needed to change the paradigm. To reconsider his strategy.
Perhaps he might find a way to use their Fifth against them…
Bray slipped onto the balcony and leaned against the stone parapet, letting the breeze kiss her cheeks. The day was not so dreadfully hot—she hoped the extreme summer heat was now behind them—but Yarrow’s room was stifling. She inhaled the fresh air and willed the habitual tightness in her chest to ease.
The Fifth’s chamber occupied the top of the eastern tower, high above the world. Glancing over the balcony railing gave her the sense of a long, fatal plunge. But she looked anyway.
Below, the palace gardens sprawled, sun-bright and dotted with the wide-brimmed hats of workers as they collected produce. She hoped this meant dinner would involve some vegetable other than a potato.
Behind her, back within the chamber, water sloshed against the tub. She could just pick out the steady, monotonous drone of Yarrow’s predictions. She closed her eyes and listened; not to the words themselves—which were likely nonsense—nor to the flat, emotionless tone in which he spoke. Rather, she listened to the timbre of his speech, to the rich quality of voice that was distinctly his.
Her mind wandered into the pleasant escape of memory, summoning the most delicious things that voice had ever said to her.
She imagined him in the black tuxedo he’d worn to that ill-fated ball, descending a stair with confident strides, reacting to the sight of her in a gown: “Putting a beautiful thing in a fancy wrapper can’t improve it.” She saw him tired and weak, but with eyes glinting wickedly. “Prepare to be made love to…in this very creepy bed.”
There came a clang, and Bray jolted. “No, get him under the armpit,” one of the caretakers said, voice drifting through the open window.
A great splash sounded as Yarrow was pulled from his bath. Water spattered the stone floor. She screwed her eyes closed, clinging to the past for a moment longer. The Yarrow in her memory was so sharply drawn; she could recall things he’d said with uncanny precision. As if she’d been storing him up in anticipation of this fate.
In her mind, they were aboard a ship, crossing to Adourra, and he was smiling blissfully. “A very happy New Year. Could we try that again?” Her memory flitted backwards. They lay entwined near the Painted Mere, the sound of lapping water and the trill of cicadas in the air, and he whispered, “I loved you from the first. You and you alone.”
“Before you put his smallclothes on, we need to apply more ointment on that bedsore. Here, hold him up a second.”
Bray’s eyelids drifted open, and she released a shuddering sigh. She shook her head in self-reproach, knowing she must spend less time within her own mind. These memories—they would not bring him back.
Stop, now.
She turned away from the balcony and re-entered the chamber. As ever, a wide collection of people filled the room: five Chisanta on guard, ten soldiers, one scribe, and two caretakers. Ko-Jin was wise to keep him so protected, but Bray wished that once in a while she might have a moment alone with him.
He’s not really here, she reminded herself sternly. So it doesn’t matter.
The attendants hauled Yarrow from the bathing area, settling him into his chair by the window. His head slumped onto his chest, and the caretaker Klaeve—a bear of a man, who had a gentle touch—eased his head into a more comfortable position. The caretaker’s sharp eyes flicked to Bray in question.
“Yes, I’ll take care of it.”
He nodded. “After we feed him lunch, we’ll do muscle massage and flexing.”
“How’s his muscle retention?”
“Surprisingly good, given six months in this vegetative state.”
Seven months, Bray silently corrected. She was not likely to miscount—that day was like the dawning of a new epoch. She thought of her life in terms of before and after.
Bray tried to smile, but her lips wouldn’t cooperate. “I’m grateful for the quality of care you’ve given him.”
Klaeve waved her gratitude away with one of his giant hands. “The man saves the city on a daily basis. He deserves the best care.” He bowed to her and backed away. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Bray slipped on thin gloves and approached Yarrow. His light gray eyes gazed sightlessly at the ceiling. Though Klaeve might find Yarrow’s muscle retention surprisingly good, to Bray he appeared diminished. He had always been slim, but he had never looked weak.
Now, with all his bones sitting closer to the surface, his face had taken on a skeletal aspect. Shadows clung to the hollows of his cheeks and within his eye sockets. His angular jaw was hidden beneath a patchy beard.
He was beautiful, still. But it hurt to look at him.
Bray brought her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “Good morning, Yarrow.” He smelt of soap, and his skin was pebbled as if with cold.
“No sound beyond the atmosphere,” he answered.
The scribe’s pen scribbled against paper.
“Good morning, Raella,” Bray said to the woman. She was one of six scribes assigned to Yarrow, but Bray seemed to visit most often when she was on duty. A fact which the woman plainly resented.
“Morning, Mistress Chiona,” Raella murmured, eyes still on her work.
Bray glided to the back of Yarrow’s chair. She plucked a towel from the nearby cart and began to blot the wetness from his hair. Then she ran her fingers through his dark locks, detangling in orderly sections.
Ko-Jin had taught her how t
o braid hair in the Cosanta way, at her request. It had bothered her to see Yarrow’s hair left loose. He might no longer know the difference, but it mattered to her because it would have mattered to him.
Once his hair was free of snarls, she wove the damp tresses with well-practiced fingers. “Your brother Allon sent me a telegram last night,” Bray told him.
“Ever approaching zero, never arriving,” he said.
“It seems you have two new nephews. Your brother Rendal’s wife gave birth the day before yesterday. Twin boys. They named one of them Yarrow.”
“Sorrow,” Yarrow said. “Wistful sorrow, nostalgia, sorrow, love.”
Bray swallowed at the lump in her throat and tied off his braid. Raella raised her brows, her expression pinched with annoyance. “Yes, I know,” Bray said. “I’ll go now.”
She brought her lips to his ear, near but not quite touching, “Yes, Yarrow. Yes.”
She bowed goodbye to Klaeve, waved to her fellow Chisanta, and marched towards the door, hot-eyed and throat aching.
It was always hard to walk away from him. The passing months, the mounting distance, had done little to ease her heartache. Time had only normalized the pain.
It was a simple truth that Bray could not run from, could not blunt or blur: she loved Yarrow Lamhart. She loved him wholly, chronically, no matter her state or his.
She had loved him as an uncertain boy, when she was a wounded girl wearing a brave face. She had loved him when her heart was guarded and he seemed an enemy. She had loved him—not more so, only more openly—as her defenses came down, and her spirit learned to heal. Even when he had not known himself, when he was lost and she was terrified that he might no longer return her regard, she had loved him, she had loved him.
And still now—now that she was a storm of rage and grief, now that he was gone and yet still here—oh, how terribly she loved him.
Because she was always Bray. And he was always Yarrow. And there was just no helping the matter.
Bray bit down on her lip and tasted blood, focusing on this simpler pain. She was so distracted that she collided with Peer, who was entering the room as she exited it. He caught her by the shoulders to save her from a fall. “Whoa,” he said. “Where you heading? I brought us lunch.”
“Good, let’s have it on the grounds. I have to clear out of here.”
Peer glanced at Yarrow, his mouth drawing tight. “He chantin’ your feelings again?”
“Yes. And I’d hate for us to miss something important because he’s stuck on a loop about how sad I am.”
Peer squeezed her shoulder, and he eased the door shut behind them. They marched down the gleaming hallway. “Want to talk about it?”
“No,” she said, too sharply. “What’ve you brought us for lunch?”
“A hunk of the finest dried cod and a half-ration of baked potato.”
Bray groaned. After months of siege, she should be grateful there were still provisions. But what she would not give for something edible in a color other than beige…
Peer snickered. “You sound like Whythe. All of his sleep-talkin’ lately’s been about food.”
Bray pushed through the door, spilling out onto the warm grounds. She glanced up at Peer. He wore the same sunny, unconscious grin that always crossed his face when he mentioned Whythe. Bray had known Peer for his entire adult life, and she had never seen him so happy, so at ease. She was pleased for him, and thought Whythe a lucky man, but Peer’s joy was like a light shone onto the darkness of her own spirit. Its rays failed to penetrate her gloom.
Worse, he seemed to sense this. He tucked his smile away, and she frowned at her feet. What kind of friend am I?
Peer set their path up a grassy slope, and they settled down in the shade of an oak tree. Bray slumped beside him. She ran her hand over the lush green grass and thought of Yarrow. “I’ve never felt grass before…”
Further down the hill, a unit of Ko-Jin’s elite swordsmen trained. After a quick scan, Bray spotted Ko-Jin himself. He was watching the queen spar, his hands clasped behind his back. He cut an impressive figure in the bright sunlight; she wondered when he had learned to hold himself with such authority. Arlow Bowlerham stood at his side, gesturing emphatically as he spoke.
Peer unwrapped their meager lunch from a linen napkin, and Bray chomped into the shriveled half of a potato. It turned to glue in her mouth, and with her attention on the flying blades below, she forgot to swallow for a time.
A messenger sprinted from around the side of the building, charging towards the general. Bray followed the young man with her eyes.
“Looks like Yarrow’s predicted another move of Quade’s,” Peer said, nodding to the youth.
“Yes, it does.”
Bray wondered how many times Yarrow would have to save the city before she would think his sacrifice a reasonable trade. Likely, that point would never come. She was a selfish creature. She would have him back, were the world to burn for it.
“Wonder if he knew, afore he made the choice, how attuned he’d be to Quade.”
Bray had also wondered this. When Yarrow’s prophecies were about anything other than this war, they were vague and inscrutable. But when he delivered information about Quade’s agenda, he always did so clearly, with specific details of time and location. She supposed this must be due to the need that had compelled the sacrifice. He had given his mind to thwart Quade, and thwart Quade he would continue to do.
“If anyone could have known, it would’ve been him.” She said this lightly, but she didn’t fool Peer. She felt the air curdle between them, as it so often did of late. His role in Yarrow’s sacrifice was something she had not wholly forgiven, nor his actions in the days that followed.
Peer cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “We’re headin’ across the wall again tonight.”
Bray replied with a grunt.
“Wanna come?”
She glanced sideways at him, but his expression was unreadable. “I’m assuming I’d be the only bevolder-less member of the party?”
He shrugged in concession. “You aren’t bevolder-less, though.”
“Right, but my spirit-mate isn’t exactly in a condition to watch my back.”
“You don’t really need someone watching your back, though, aye? You’re the Amazing Intangible Woman.”
She snorted at this Adearre-ism, but she shook her head. “You aren’t going after Quade, I take it.”
“No.”
“Then I’m not interested.”
If she thought they might need her or her gift, she wouldn’t hesitate to join his mission. But his elite unit had successfully crossed the wall countless times without her, always snatching one of Quade’s Chisanta and bringing them back. Peer didn’t ask because she would be of any particular use, he asked because he wanted to give her a distraction. A sense of purpose.
It was the same reason that Ko-Jin kept requesting she help train new recruits in hand-to-hand, despite the fact that her skill in that area was not exceptional. Even blighting Arlow Bowlerham had asked for her aid in running city patrols, citing her experience with law enforcement.
Bray was warmed by the concern of her friends, and she felt great affection for them. (Though, in the case of Arlow, great affection might be overstating the matter.) But she did not need or want this kind of help. They all had more than enough to grapple with already. And she was not without purpose.
“We’re chipping away at his resources. It’s worth doing,” Peer said, sounding stung by her dismissal.
“I don’t want to chip away,” Bray said through her teeth. “I want to kill him.”
“I know. But that hasn’t exactly…”
He trailed off, but she knew what he’d meant to say. It hadn’t worked. Her plans to assassinate Quade had all been unsuccessful, and the most recent attempt had cost two lives.
“We can’t stop trying,” she said.
“Long as it’s a plan and a team, not just you and a blade.”
Bray swiveled a glower in his direction. “That was months ago. I have already conceded it was a poor plan.”
“You might ’pologize to Whythe, then. He only took your gift ’cause I asked him to. And if we hadn’t stopped you…”
Again, he let his thought hang unfinished. They both knew that had Bray charged through the wall, as she’d meant to do the day after Yarrow’s final sacrifice, she would have given herself to Quade. No doubt he would have sent her right back through that wall to kill her friends.
“I did apologize,” Bray grumbled.
“‘I’m sorry’ don’t count if you say it angrily,” Peer said, but his tone held little censure. “And I’d really like if the two of you could be friends.”
Bray blinked into her lap. “I don’t have a problem with him. I’m sorry if I’ve come across cold. I just…”
Now it was her turn to leave a thought hanging. She wondered if he could fill in her missing words as readily as she had his. In truth, she liked Whythe just fine, but her heart was still too bloodied to form new attachments. And Peer’s bevolder had a cheery disposition that grated against her current mental state.
Peer slipped a thick piece of parchment from the pocket of his jerkin. “He’s been wonderin’ if he should give this to you. I wasn’t so sure,” he shrugged, “but if it were me I’d want to have it.”
He held out the paper, and Bray’s hand trembled as she reached for it. Whythe was a talented artist, with a particular interest in portraits, so she suspected she knew what this would be. The young man had drawn a wonderful likeness of Su-Hwan and gifted it to Peer, who had wept mightily, with both grief and gratitude.
Bray worried her lip as she accepted the paper. Her breath caught when she unfolded it, revealing the drawing within. It was of Yarrow, as she’d expected, but it was not simply a portrait.
The Yarrow rendered vividly here was shirtless—perhaps entirely nude, but the image ended at his mid-torso—and his hands were bound behind him. His face was lined with pain.
“Whythe drew Yarrow being tortured?” Bray asked in a hoarse whisper. “Why?”
The Complete Marked Series Box Set Page 115
