His gift gave him a slight nudge. “This way,” he said, and he guided them along the wall. Yarrow’s predictions provided the vicinity of the attack; Arlow’s gift helped to pinpoint the exact location. Arlow continued until he felt a distinct sense of rightness—an embrace in the air that called for him to stop.
“Here,” he said. “Let’s head up.”
Clea darted up the ladder first, and Foy Rodgeman followed. As he climbed, Arlow found the distorted look of his fingers on the rungs disorienting, but he kept his pace brisk. At the top, Foy took his arm and heaved him up onto the wall. The sun had begun to set, the sky deepening from blue to purple. Beyond the perimeter, Quade’s army sprawled in every direction. Campfires stippled the rolling hills like starlight.
Arlow’s mouth went dry. Every time he looked out over Quade’s encampment, he had the disconcerting sense that his eyes were playing tricks on him. There were so many people, it seemed it should not be possible.
“There they go,” Foy said, nodding his insect-head to the catapults assembled below. Arlow recalled how satisfying it had been to strap explosives to that first set of siege weapons all those months ago, to watch them burn and crumble. He had not realized just how readily a second set—and a third, and eighth—could be built.
An axe fell, splitting the rope that anchored the arm of the trebuchet. It shot forward with a groan, and a silver canister streaked into the air. It would have sailed straight over their heads and into the city, but Clea’s hands flicked and it halted above them. She glanced at Arlow, a brow raised.
“There,” Arlow said, pointing at random. She swatted her fingers, and the missile shot like a dart through the air. They heard a thump and a cry, but the men manning the catapult were already sprinting back to the camp.
“Is that it?” Foy asked.
Arlow surveyed the stretch of grass, but there were no other trebuchets loaded, no other soldiers in the vicinity. He pulled the mask up so he could see properly, his brow furrowed. “Looks like it.”
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Clea said.
Arlow agreed. He wished he’d snagged a sack of potatoes from Jeana, so Clea might test his tater-missile theory.
But even that absurd mental image couldn’t shake the nagging sense that he was missing something. This wasn’t a real attack. Quade should have guessed the outcome. And only a single canister? Why bother at all?
This gave the impression of a quick prod of the finger. A distraction. But a distraction from what?
Foy was already climbing back down the ladder, Clea following as she hummed Roldon’s clever-fish song. But Arlow waited a little while, scanning the camp far below.
What are you thinking, Quade?
No answer presented itself. And so, at length, Arlow could do nothing but shrug. He set off for home.
If he was very lucky, perhaps his wife was taking an inordinately long bath.
Chapter Three
The sun had disappeared behind the city wall, taking the heat of the day with it. Peer leaned against the rampart. He slipped a final round into his revolver, whirred the chamber shut, and loaded his second holster.
He liked the feel of two pistols, one to a hip. There was something satisfying about their balanced weight on his belt. Ko-Jin might find Dedrre’s invention inelegant, but Peer had fallen in love—adoring their heft, the sound of the chamber turning over, the burnt scent in the air.
“We waiting on Roldon again?” Malc grumbled.
Wynn’s hands were busy braiding her curly hair, so she settled for elbowing her bevolder. “He has to ride all the way from the docks. Cut him some slack.”
The whites of Trevva’s eyes flashed, her lashes fluttering. “He is nearly here.”
Trevva was the first Chisanta they had stolen from Quade—or, in her case, stolen back. Roldon had been hysterical after her abduction, insisting they act with or without a solid plan. They had all seen their own fear reflected in his eyes, should it be their bevolder snatched by Quade. And so, they had walked into the hornets’ nest together.
That first crossing hadn’t gone smoothly, but they later worked out the kinks in their system. It helped that, after rescuing Trevva, they could be nonspecific about who they saved, allowing opportunity to dictate their choice.
“We’re still waiting on mine as well,” Enton said. The middle-aged sword master sounded composed, and his handsome Chaskuan features were mild, but they all shifted uncomfortably nevertheless.
Enton and his bevolder had a complicated relationship. Avearra had been married for five years, and so the discovery of her spirit-mate had come as an awkward surprise for all three parties. Peer had considered excluding them from his elite eight-man team, but they were both too valuable. Enton was unparalleled with a blade, better even than Ko-Jin; Avearra moved soundlessly across any terrain, and that was not even her gift—no, she could also pull water from the air. On a humid day, she was lethal.
“Not quite dark enough anyway,” Wynn said.
Whythe bent over his hand-drawn map of Quade’s camp. His golden hair had grown to his collar and he’d taken to wearing it in a tail, but the too-short pieces at the front were always falling in his face.
Sensing Peer’s gaze, he looked up and his lips tugged to the right—a smile he seemed to save for Peer alone. Spirits, how he liked that mouth. His gaze lingered, and Whythe’s maple-brown eyes crinkled.
At the sound of an approaching rider, Peer shook himself from his love-haze and schooled his expression into something more suitable to a man crossing enemy lines.
Roldon appeared a moment later, chatting with Avearra, who walked alongside his mare. Her feet moved so silently that she seemed to float atop the street. Raised in southern Adourra, a member of a desert tribe, she was a fearsome woman.
Peer recalled the first time he’d seen Avearra, when he’d arrived at Chiona Isle as a boy. He had stared. Everything about her had struck him as alien, from her charcoal-dark complexion and sharp cheekbones, to her russet-colored eyes. Adearre had poked him in the ribs and chided in his then-broken Dalish, “Best hunters in world. Don’t stand like prey, love, or…” and he’d drawn a finger across his throat.
Enton stepped forward to greet his bevolder, faltered, crossed his arms, and settled back against the stone. For a Cosanta, the man possessed a surprising lack of cool.
“Sorry for the hold-up.” Roldon’s grin was apologetic. “Hauling fish without Clea is surprisingly time-consuming.”
“That why you stink?” Malc asked.
“Why, yes it is,” Roldon said with cutting brightness. “Thanks for asking.”
Enton gestured to the ladder. “Are we waiting for something?”
They all turned to Peer. He glanced up at the sky, which had darkened considerably in that short time. He patted his weapons first, and then his satchel. Within, darts clinked against a phial of Vendra’s sedative. “No. Same as usual: watch your man, keep quiet, don’t be taking needless risks.” Usually they got in and out, and Quade was none the wiser, but there had been a few close calls. And they all knew the risk. “Questions? No? Let’s do it then.”
Avearra shot up the ladder first, Enton close behind. Peer waited to climb last, running his thumbs over his pistol grips. When he was halfway up the ladder, he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze flying across the city and landing on the university.
He wished Bray were with him, that their friendship wasn’t so strained. He wished he’d had the courage to tell her about Dolla that afternoon.
But in truth, he was terrified of that conversation. Bray was the one living spirit who’d always loved him unconditionally; she was family. And if she knew that, in addition to allowing Yarrow’s sacrifice, he had gotten their mentor killed…
She’ll hate you.
Dolla was like a mother to them. And Quade had murdered her in retaliation, after Peer had rescued Trevva. It was his fault—so much was his fault.
And, as his worst betrayal, he had done all of
this to Bray and yet here he stood—happy. So happy it hurt. She was miserable, people were dead, and he couldn’t stop smiling.
She deserved better. But she also deserved the truth. Tomorrow, he promised himself. I’ll tell her tomorrow. And he scrambled the rest of the way up the ladder.
When he reached the top of the rampart, he found his companions securing the rope. One of Ko-Jin’s soldiers held out a hand, and Peer shook it.
“Good luck, Captain Gelson.” The title still sounded strange. Peer kept thinking perhaps there was another Gelson standing just behind him. “We’ll drop the line as soon as you signal.”
“Good man,” Peer said.
The sweep of land beyond Accord hung in darkness, save for the intermittent light of camp fires. The moon was shrouded in mist, and Peer hoped it would remain so.
“Quade?” Peer asked.
Trevva’s eyes closed, and after a moment her brow creased. “He is not here at all. He is at Cape Cosanta.”
“Well, he could be coming back any time. Keep tabs on him, will you?” He turned to Avearra. “Right. You’re up.”
The Adourran slipped over the edge of the wall like a shadow, and Peer soon lost sight of her. They waited for her signal, Enton fondling the hilt of his sword, the muscle at his jaw feathering. After an anxious few minutes, she tugged on the rope, indicating the coast was clear. They followed one at a time in their usual order: Enton, Roldon, Trevva, Wynn, Malc, Whythe, and finally Peer.
His boots shuffled down the side of the wall, the rope burning against his palms as he descended. He landed lightly and pulled his hood up over his head.
Avearra always led the way, though following her was difficult in the dark. She moved like a wraith in the night. Peer remained close to Whythe, comforted to have his bevolder nearby and accounted for.
Avearra raised her arm and gestured with her fingers—one of the hunting signals used by her people, this one meaning “keep close.”
The team prowled along the wall, hugging the shadows, and then stole into the forest. The night was unusually loud, all the critters and birds making an awful racket. It was tranquil, here, within the copse. But just beyond the tree line, Quade’s monstrous encampment churned with activity. Peer felt its nearness, its menace, like a physical sensation. The too-hot kiss of a blazing fire at his side.
Quiet was of the utmost importance. He placed his feet cautiously with every step.
They’d discovered it was easier to pick off individuals on their way to relieve themselves, here in the privacy of the woods. Attempting to infiltrate the camp itself had proven far more precarious.
It was not the most dignified of heroics—the snatching of unsuspecting pissers. They still debated whether it was preferable to snag their target pre- or post-urination. Wynn thought it depraved to linger in the bushes listening to someone piddle. Malc argued it was kinder and cleaner to let them empty their bladders prior to being drugged, thrown over a shoulder, and hoisted up a wall. Peer had learned to agree.
They drifted deeper into the wood, stepping high to avoid fallen debris. Peer’s neck prickled with the vague sense of being watched. The forest fell quiet around them.
He squeezed Whythe’s arm in silent warning. Up ahead, Avearra stopped. Her hand flicked in a signal, but he didn’t know what it meant. She hadn’t used this one before.
Peer’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. Whythe could use his ability to strip the gift of anyone lingering in the woods, but that would as good as announce his presence. Their cover would be blown, and Whythe would become a target.
The team remained motionless, crouching in the shadows, listening. Peer wondered if they should turn back. Cut their losses and try again another night.
He was still weighing his options when something nearby disturbed the peace. A body came crashing through the brush in their direction. Peer tensed, but it was only one man who stumbled into the clearing, and he was crooning a drinking song.
“Oooh, take me where the drinks are strong…”
The team exchanged silent looks, and Peer nodded his head. The man was an older Chiona with a thick black beard. He exploded from the bushes, his face limned in moonlight. He looked drunk.
While the man took care of business, Peer knelt and slipped the darts from his satchel. He carefully dipped the point into the clear liquid of Vendra’s drug. Then he loaded the dart gun, raised it to his mouth, and blew.
As the Chiona slumped, Malc shot forward to catch him, slinging the man over a meaty shoulder.
Leaves rustled behind Peer, and he whirled. There came a huff of breath, a slight whizz—like an arrow parting the air—and then Whythe jerked beside him. Peer’s insides kicked, a shout escaping his lips. Whythe’s lovely eyes were already blinking, turning sleepy. He reached up to brush fingertips to the feathered dart in his neck, then slumped heavily into Peer’s side.
It would seem their enemy had access to Vendra’s old tricks, too.
“Whythe!” he cried, his tone raw with fear.
“Don’t worry about him,” a disembodied voice called from the brush. “He’s the one Quade wants alive.”
Blight it. Peer gritted his teeth and eased Whythe down to the dirt. Enton unsheathed his blade, Avearra her throwing knives. Peer held his breath and scanned the thicket, but he couldn’t see their assailant.
“Trevva?” Peer asked.
“I cannot locate a person if I do not know who it is,” she whispered back to him.
A twig snapped, and he pivoted in the other direction. Either their attacker had circled them, or they were being surrounded.
A blur of motion swept from the underbrush—a shadow that ripped from one side of the clearing to the other—and Peer spun, trying to track their assailant. He caught the brief flash of a blade in the moonlight, too quick to see more than the hand that held it, and Enton cried out. The sword master went to a knee, a slash opened across his back.
“Enton,” Avearra gasped.
“Form up,” Peer said.
Malc tossed the bearded man to the ground, and they tightened into a circle. Peer prayed their attackers didn’t know enough about bevolders to realize he was the weak link, with his spirit-mate unconscious on the forest floor.
“There are at least two,” Avearra said.
“Show yourselves, cowards,” Malc ground out.
A snickering female laugh answered. “There are more than two of us. Set down your weapons, surrender yourselves, and you won’t be harmed.”
Enton, his face contorted in pain, frowned into the darkness. “Mercy? Is that you?”
“Nice to see you, Enton,” the spectral voice replied.
He grunted. “Invisibility gift.”
“Then it is unlikely there are more than three,” Avearra said. Peer nodded. He did not know this Mercy, but he assumed her gift worked like Bray’s. Likely their attackers were holding hands. This knowledge helped to calm some of his panic, as the picture it painted was decidedly nonthreatening.
“So, what’s it to be?” Mercy asked. “Surrender or death?”
All in one swift motion, Peer unholstered his pistol, aimed, and fired. He couldn’t see the woman, so he trained upon the sound of her voice. The bullet hit the trunk of a tree, but a second woman exclaimed in surprise. Peer aimed again and pulled the trigger. Someone hissed in pain.
He had only a second of satisfaction before several terrible things all happened at once. Two people appeared: one a white-haired young woman bleeding from her forearm, the second a tall Adourran man with a dripping sword.
The man’s movements were so fast they made Peer’s eyes slip out of focus. He heard the clash of blades as Enton engaged.
Peer’s gaze locked on the young woman, and the bloom of fire suspended above her palm. He remembered this girl—she was one of the Elevated who’d tracked them down in Jedoh. Then, Su-Hwan had stripped her of her gift. But Su-Hwan was gone, and Whythe was in no condition to help.
The pale girl glared at him, anger st
amped across her features. The orb of flames swelled, the fire cooling in color to a deadly blue.
Peer imagined being consumed by that ball of flame, his skin and hair burning away as he died in a scream of agony. It was not a pleasant mental exercise. He lofted his gun.
“I’ve got her,” Avearra said, charging forward.
The pale girl’s boots shifted as she prepared to throw. Peer dropped to the earth, and the sphere of flame shot in his direction.
Avearra clapped her hands. The air chilled, and a pressure built in his ears. A shield of water blossomed in the air, and the flame sizzled upon impact. Steam erupted between them, a shroud of angry vapor. Peer’s breath rushed from his chest, and he hopped to his feet.
Trevva hissed. “Quade. He’s come back. He’s…”
“Wynn,” Roldon shouted from somewhere out of sight. “Amplify me!”
Peer sensed a foe he could not see. Instinct sent his arms up to protect his face. He stepped back, and an invisible blade ripped open his shirt sleeve. He launched forward, barreling into his attacker before she could take another swing. The woman appeared as they hit the ground, air rushing from her lungs in a gust. Peer let his fist fly, and she slumped.
Above him, the trees began to quake. There came a mighty sound he couldn’t identify—the crash of leaves and a wild beating high in the air.
“Quade,” Trevva panted.
Peer scanned the clearing. Their assailants had all been subdued, but his companions were battered. Enton bled from several long slashes across his torso. Roldon had a bloody nose, Trevva a split lip, and they were still down a man. Malc alone was unscathed, and only because his gift meant he couldn’t be scathed.
“We need to get outta here,” Peer said. He dropped to his knees and probed Whythe’s neck for a pulse. It was there, steady and strong. Peer plucked the dart from his flesh.
“Let’s not be makin’ a habit of this,” he murmured, and he hoisted Whythe into his arms. Malc once again slung the bearded Chiona over his shoulder.
“Back to the city, then,” Peer said.
The Complete Marked Series Box Set Page 117
