The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  You aren’t.

  “Do you remember that last time we went out drinking in Cosanta City, before you left for Accord?” Ko-Jin asked. Arlow grunted. “I was thinking about that today, for whatever reason. You bullying Yarrow into buying a new hat, and us tormenting him over that girl. What was her name? The singer?” Ko-Jin shook his head. “Spirits, I miss him…”

  Me too. The thought made his throat swell to a close.

  The very first time he’d ever spoken to Yarrow Lamhart, he had mocked him for working in a shop. For being poor. And yet, still, Yarrow had been his first and truest friend. And Arlow had never once apologized for that. Or for anything else, for that matter.

  He didn’t regret the hat, though. It was the duty of the stylish to help their more fashion-impaired friends.

  “It wasn’t even that long ago, all things considered,” Ko-Jin went on. “And look at us now. You’re a father. I’m…well, I’m this. And Yarrow is gone.” He sighed, his enormous lungs making a great show of the matter. “I wonder if that girl still sings in Cosanta City…”

  He smiled sadly at Arlow, then he stood and crossed to the other side of the camp. Everyone else chatted as they ate dinner, the fire crackling merrily. They painted quite the companionable scene. Arlow resented them all, particularly Malc and Kelarre. Traitors.

  He rolled onto his side, showing them his back, and closed his eyes. When sleep came, it brought dreams of his wife.

  Mae?

  He had the strange sense that he’d forgotten her, somehow. But in his dreams, she was so beautiful. His heart was full of love. He followed her through the soup shop, through town, up to the palace. Always just behind, never catching up, but she’d smile over her shoulder and call out his name.

  “Where are we going?” he asked again and again. “Wait for me!”

  Until they drew close to a room on the upper landing, and he heard the squealing laughter of a small child. His body went limp with relief. Linton.

  Arlow woke like a man half-drowned, breaking through the surface of the sea, gasping. It was not yet dawn, but the horizon was brightening. He wrenched to a sitting position, his heart thrashing in his chest.

  Linton was in Accord. With Quade. A sudden, sharp memory slapped into his mind—that monster of a man, holding his son. He’d refused to return the boy, even when Arlow had asked. The horror of it was choking.

  Arlow bellowed through his gag, his eyes watering. He needed to be free. He needed to be moving. His wife and his son were in danger. How many days had he been gone?

  Are they even alive?

  If they weren’t, Arlow would not survive the discovery of it. The mere thought had him sobbing.

  Ko-Jin hurried to his side, eyes wide with alarm. “Arlow? Are you…you?”

  He nodded vigorously. Ko-Jin murmured thanks and untied him. When he spit out the gag, he nearly vomited right along with it.

  “Wait a moment,” Ko-Jin said, hurrying away; he returned with a canteen. Arlow drank deep, because his mouth was too dry for speech.

  “Where are we?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  “A few hours outside Accord,” Ko-Jin said.

  Arlow nodded. “And what’s the plan? Tell me you’ve got a plan.” He caught his friend’s wrist in his hand—too tight, but he couldn’t seem to let up. “He has my son, Ko-Jin.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Ar. But we’ll get them back.”

  “How?”

  “We’re going to find Fernie,” Ko-Jin said. “Between him and Whythe we should be able to…”

  “This is starting to sound like an old song, friend,” Arlow said, harsher than he’d meant.

  “I know,” Ko-Jin said. He shrugged in a self-conscious way. “Even a bad shot hits the target eventually. This is that time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I suspect it’s the last shot we’ll get.” Ko-Jin made to rub his face, winced, and pulled back. “We’ll have your luck, my blade, Malc’s strength—”

  “Bray’s murderous wrath,” Arlow cut in.

  “I heard that,” a female voice drifted from nearby.

  Arlow smiled despite himself. “Sorry about your face,” he said in a more serious tone.

  “It’s fine.” Ko-Jin slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m still better-looking than you, and that’s all that matters.”

  Arlow choked on a laugh, but it died off quickly. “Tell me it’s going to be okay.”

  Bray joined them, her green eyes bright in the dimness. “It’s going to be okay,” she said.

  “How can you be certain?” he challenged lightly.

  “Otherwise, what would be the point of all of this?”

  Her answer sounded like complete nonsense to him, but she seemed to believe it herself, so he wouldn’t disabuse her.

  They’d know the outcome soon enough.

  Arlow twirled the wedding band on his left hand and turned to face the capital.

  I’m coming.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The shine had begun to wear off his victory.

  It had been such a sweet high. He wished he could hold on to the sensation a little longer. But with all of his ants marching, his prizes won, and no real foe to speak of, he feared that he’d hit his peak.

  Quade Asher did not cope well with restlessness. It brought out the beast in him.

  When he was a boy, and his elder sister Ellora had complained of boredom, their mother had always said the same thing: “Only boring people are ever bored.”

  But then, his mother was a simpleton. He suspected the opposite was true: a man must possess a degree of discernment to look about himself and be dissatisfied.

  Ellora. At least that prize was still before him. He could not remember a time when he hadn’t been fixated on his sister. She was the one person he could never sway—not with fear or logic or charm. Her eyes were always unimpressed.

  Quade perked up in his seat, his heart lifting. He had not hit his peak. He’d conquered the world, taken the throne, and vanquished his enemies, but he hadn’t yet achieved his lifelong dream. Ellora was not his. This was usually a source of frustration, but today it seemed a gift.

  He would wait a little while. If Bray Marron had found her, then so could he. There must be breadcrumbs to follow. But there was no reason to rush.

  Quade also still had the royal family to play with. He’d been saving Chae-Na, like a boy careful to set aside his dessert for later. Sweet things were always made sweeter with anticipation.

  “Wynn,” Quade said, turning to the curly-haired girl at his side. Her head was craned to the window. She’d been doing this since his arrival; she was constantly searching for someone. Her lack of satisfaction had begun to annoy him.

  “Yes, Quade?”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  Something shifted in her eyes—her pupils expanded and then contracted. She blinked. “No one,” she said.

  Lying. “Why are you telling me falsehoods, my love?”

  She swallowed hard. He saw the struggle flash across her face and was fascinated by it. She shouldn’t be capable of resisting him. What would induce such a reaction? “I…I did not mean…”

  He placed a hand on her cheek and unleashed the full force of his gift. “Tell me the truth.”

  “I am afraid you will harm him,” she whispered. She appeared startled by the revelation, and he was equally taken aback. She should not see him as he was—a threat—but rather as he presented himself. Something was at play here that he did not understand. “Who are you afraid I will harm?”

  “Malc,” she whispered. Again, her pupils dilated. A fear response.

  “And who is Malc?” Quade asked. He thought he recognized the name. A brother Chiona, if he was not mistaken.

  “He is…”

  He grasped her chin between his fingers in a bruising grip. “He is what?”

  “My bevolder,” she whispered.

  “Speak plain Dalish.”

  “My…my spiri
t-mate. My other half. When he’s far away, I feel like I’ve lost something every moment of the day.”

  He rolled his eyes. Young women and their romantic notions. “So he is your paramour.”

  “More than that,” she said, a fire alighting in her eyes. “It’s an old magic. It’s—”

  The door to the throne room crashed open, and Quade was glad for the interruption. He had no interest in the fancies of silly girls.

  Clea strode into the wide marble space, her silver hair swirling around her shoulders. She had an elfin beauty—petite and pale and big-eyed. Quade had thought of her often these past months.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  She knelt before him, brow to fist. “It is done.”

  “All of them?”

  “Every ship in the gulf, apart from your own.”

  He smiled. That trumped-up pirate and his fleet had been such an annoyance. It was perhaps wasteful to destroy so many ships, but then, he didn’t need a navy. He had no enemies. And it was satisfying to think of the blockade, which had stymied him for months, now sitting at the bottom of the gulf.

  “Very good.”

  “Anything else I might do for you, sir?”

  Quade’s smile curled. He had watched from the ground as this slip of a girl misdirected his artillery, stole his weapons, and toppled his ladders.

  In the days since his victory, he had not engaged in any of his less-savory appetites. But he was bored. He longed to break something beautiful.

  “Yes,” he said, unsheathing the knife at his hip. “You can take off your clothing.”

  She looked around the room, no doubt taking in the large windows and the line of guards. “Sir…?”

  “Now,” he said, rising from his seat in a fluid motion. “Trust me, child, you don’t want me to ask a second time.”

  Her hands shook as they moved to the top button of her shirt. Quade’s eyes fixed on those tremors, arousal coursing through him.

  He caught a slight noise from behind his throne, and he turned. His brow creased. The boy that slipped from the shadows had certainly not entered through either the main or rear door. How had he gotten in?

  “Fernard,” he said, his annoyance disguised by a honey-sweet tone. “I thought I told you to bathe.”

  The lad was covered in dirt and dust. His white blond-hair had been turned gray through sheer filthiness.

  Even setting aside his unkempt appearance and inexplicable entrance, Quade was not pleased to see the lad. This boy made him uncomfortable. He had the familiar feeling of a family member, like a son. No happy sensation for a man like Quade, who had killed his own father, and therefore did not trust in familial connections.

  Fernie squared up with him, his shoulders bunched near his ears. “Haven’t had a chance, I’m afraid.” He turned away from Quade—which should not have been possible—and focused on Clea. “Run,” he said to her.

  Quade sneered, until he heard the clatter of footsteps. The girl was actually running. In his presence, with a contradicting order, she was running. This, too, should not be possible. There was something odd transpiring in this room.

  “Stop!” he shouted.

  She tripped in her haste to comply. Quade rounded on Fernie. The boy’s expression was pure impertinence, his blue eyes blazing. How?

  “Thank you for coming, Fernard,” Quade said in his most alluring voice. “I have so missed you.”

  The boy swiped his hand, as if batting away a fly. His steely countenance did not waver. “I can’t say the same, asshole.”

  It registered as a physical shock, to have such a coarse and juvenile insult lobbed in his face. “Excuse me?” he hissed.

  “I don’t think I will,” Fernie said. “Your actions are inexcusable.”

  Quade threw all he had at the boy, summoning up every ounce of his charm. “Get on the floor.”

  The lad flicked his hand again. “No.”

  Fernard’s icy eyes narrowed, and Quade had the uncomfortable impression that this child was looking into him, seeing his very spirit.

  And then Quade’s gifts disappeared—both of them, all at once—and he could feel this young man inside him. Invading his mind.

  Quade snarled as he charged. He barreled into the boy, and they both slammed into the floor. Air shot from Fernie’s lungs. Quade still had his dagger in hand, but he needed answers before he could satisfy his desire to punish. So instead of slitting the young man’s throat, he fisted his hand around the hilt and struck his face.

  It was a sound blow. He felt Fernie’s cheekbone crack beneath his knuckles. Blood spattered the marble floor.

  He reared for a second punch, but something hard thwacked him in the back of the head. Pain split across his skull. He rolled over, dazed.

  Clea stood over him, her slim hands raised. A silver serving platter floated in the air, poised to do violence. She twitched her fingers, and the slab of metal careened towards Quade’s eyes. He curled into himself and covered his face, taking the blow in his shoulder. His hand snatched the disc from the air.

  “Stop, now,” he hissed, but without his gift the words were cold.

  Clea’s fair brows drew low. She swept her hand, and the sword at Quade’s hip flew free of its sheath. Treeblade.

  “Goodbye, Quade,” she said.

  The deadly blade shot at his chest, and he batted it aside with the platter still in his right hand. The resulting clang was earsplitting.

  He knew he had little time. He dived at Clea, knocking her to the floor. Her head hit the marble with an audible thunk. She did not stir again.

  He turned his attention back to Fernie. The boy had regained his feet. Blood streamed from his cheek, painting half his face red.

  “What are you?” Quade asked.

  “Your antidote,” Fernie said.

  They charged towards each other, but Fernie side-stepped. Quade found himself off-balance, and a well-timed push sent him toppling. Bloody Cosanta.

  Fernie landed atop him like a deranged beast. Quade winced, as fists—seemingly more than two—connected with his spine and ribs. He flew an elbow back and heard a satisfying grunt.

  All at once, Quade’s gifts returned. Whatever the young man had been doing to block them, he’d lost control.

  Quade launched to his feet. Fernie adjusted his stance, hands raised to protect his face. Plainly, someone had taught him to fight.

  “Wynn,” Quade said. “Use your gift, please.”

  Fernie’s eyes widened in a flash of fear. Smart boy. Quade grinned.

  He had to admit, he was no longer bored. Maybe he’d keep the lad alive for a spell, for entertainment’s sake.

  When the warmth of Wynn’s ability filled him, he spoke again. “Fall to your knees.”

  Fernie’s face contorted, teeth clamped tight and brow furrowed. He swung his arms, as if knocking aside some airborne assault.

  “I said,” Quade repeated, his voice booming, “fall to your—”

  He saw it a fraction of a second before he felt it—that blighted silver platter connecting with the side of his head. Pain radiated across his jaw and down his neck. He blinked, wavering on his feet.

  Clea hauled Fernie off the floor. “Come on, Fern.”

  Quade blinked again—a long, dark blink that took him to the ground—but a moment later his vision cleared.

  “Where are they?” he growled, because neither Clea nor Fernie were anywhere in sight.

  “They fled, sir,” one of the guards said, some nameless brute with a unibrow.

  “They fled where?” he seethed.

  “Through the door,” he said, pointing.

  “Well?” Quade hissed. “Are you an idiot? Chase them!”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said.

  The entire guard trooped out of the throne room. Quade watched them go with a foul taste in his mouth. The interruption to his gift must have lessened his hold on them, or else they would have made chase without a direct order.

  He rounded on his throne,
furious but also oddly elated. “How is this possible?” he bellowed to no one in particular. “How could the boy do that?”

  “I told you,” Wynn said, in her smug, nasal voice. “Bevolders. It’s an old magic.”

  Quade stormed towards the girl. She shrunk beneath his gaze.

  “Tell me everything you know about this,” he said, snaking his hand into her curls and tugging. “Now.”

  Ko-Jin stalked through the vacant remains of Quade’s encampment, picking his way between cold fire pits and abandoned tents. A hot wind gusted at his back, tugging on his shirt.

  The quiet was eerie, even when he did not fixate on the fact that all these men were now within the walls of the city he’d sworn to protect. With that in mind, the silence sounded a reprimand.

  He should not have left—Accord, his soldiers, his queen. He should not have abandoned them, not even for an afternoon. They had been overconfident, cocky, to think they could snare Quade in a trap.

  Ko-Jin had successfully held a horde at bay for over half a year, and yet one afternoon’s hubris had cost him everything.

  He could not stop picturing all the people he’d left behind, who were now in Quade’s grasp. Most particularly, he thought of his old mentor Zarra Elver. She’d come all the way from Adourra, with her young children in tow, just to help him train his soldiers. And all because she believed she owed him a debt, which she didn’t. She’d never owed him anything.

  Was she still alive? Were her children?

  The intensity of his guilt and his fear might well burn a hole through his gut.

  “That one’s Quade’s,” Bray whispered, pointing to the largest tent at the center of the camp.

  Though there was no reason to fear speaking at full volume, he responded in a matching whisper, “Can’t imagine he’s left anything of value behind.”

  “No,” she said. “He’ll have moved into the palace properly. Like the king he believes himself to be.”

  The dread inside him seemed to swell and recede like a tide—overtaking him one moment, releasing him the next. He thought perhaps the uncertainty might be more terrible than the reality of the situation, but knowing Quade this was probably untrue. It had been nearly six days. What horrors might he have inflicted in such a time?