The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  No more gifts, a voice whispered in her mind. Might that not also mean…no more sacrifices, too?

  Her very spirit soared at the possibility. Her spine straightened, all bodily pain forgotten.

  Yarrow.

  She shot to her feet and darted to the door. She would have dashed away without another word, but she pulled up short—the delay excruciating—and returned to Ko-Jin. For friendship’s sake.

  “Go,” he said. “I’ll catch up.”

  She required no further urging. Bray was slower and weaker now than she’d been mere minutes ago, and yet she was sure she’d never flown so fast in all her life. Her feet barely touched the ground as she raced up the hallway and slid around a corner, her left arm pumping, her right still strapped to her chest. She mounted the winding stair to Yarrow’s tower at a mad sprint.

  Her heart—oh, her poor heart—it did not remember how to function. Within her chest, it wrenched and roared and bucked; thundered and stalled and thundered again.

  She had spent nearly eight months without Yarrow. He had been gone—irrevocably, horribly gone. She had grieved him. She had told herself again and again that she must move on. And yet, hopeless longing for him had continued to gnaw on her, body and spirit. Never once had she considered that he might actually return.

  If she crossed into this room and found her spirit-mate still a mindless husk, if she had to relive the agony of losing him—it might kill her. Truly, she could only survive so much.

  And so she slowed as she opened the door, taking a moment to breathe. Dread and hope battled in her chest.

  Yarrow.

  He was so clear in her mind: his intelligent gaze, his rich voice, his clever hands and that wonderful crease between his dark brows. Yarrow. The prospect of him persuaded her to keep moving. She stepped into the room.

  There were a number of people within, but her eyes glided past them, drawn instantly to him.

  Yarrow.

  Yarrow, sitting upright. Yarrow, staring back at her with those bright gray eyes of his, eyes she’d dreamed of for months. No, for years.

  Yarrow.

  “Bray,” he croaked.

  He tried to stand, but she was upon him before he’d gotten halfway. She scrambled into his lap and grabbed ahold of his robes at the chest, feeling the rapid rhythm of his pulse beneath her fist. She had a thousand things to say, but no words would come. Tears did, however.

  Ever so slowly, his hands rose to cup her face. The moment his skin touched hers, she sucked in a startled breath. His touch was right—it still held all the same warmth and magic as before. They were no longer Chisanta, but plainly they remained bevolders. His thumbs brushed at the wetness on her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, so sincere. The sound of his voice sent a shiver up her spine. “Bray, I’m so—”

  She kissed him, swallowing his apology. His lips unraveled all the knots inside of her, and then set the spools of her spirit on fire. She inhaled deeply through her nose, pulling in the scent of him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. The skin there was smooth, unmarked.

  Yarrow drew her closer, his hands and lips worshipful. He felt so thin against her, all bones and shivering muscles. It made her want to hold on more tightly—to never let him go.

  She remembered this feeling. She could live and die in his kiss and be content.

  Unfortunately, she’d begun to cry again, her emotions clogging up her nose, and if they did not break apart soon, she might pass out. And she refused to miss a single moment of his presence.

  Just a little longer.

  His tongue darted into her mouth and she groaned. I remember this, she thought weakly. But she pulled away to breathe, only because she must. She kept her brow tipped against his, so that the tips of their noses touched.

  It wasn’t close enough.

  “Are these happy tears?” he asked, once again trying to stem her weeping with his thumbs.

  She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I grieved for you, Yarrow,” she said, breath hitching. “You were…dead. Gone. For so long.”

  And though he was now back, she knew she would never forget. Mourning him had changed her. She was certain that, even if they lived long lives together, she would still awaken some nights, convinced he was gone.

  “I know,” he said, and based on the gravity in his gaze, she thought perhaps he did. There was something different about his eyes—there were galaxies within them that hadn’t been there before. She’d been changed, but so had he. “It was longer for you than for me. I wish I could have made it the other way around. I am truly, eternally sorry.”

  She wondered what had happened to him. Where had he been? She meant to ask, but instead she stroked his hair and traced the planes of his face with her eyes. He was gaunt, his sharp cheekbones nearly skeletal.

  But he was beautiful still. More so, for missing him.

  She pressed her cheek to his so that she could speak into his ear. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life making it up to me.”

  “Agreed,” he said, his voice warming with humor.

  His voice.

  They had so much to discuss. Quade was still at large, and she wanted to understand how all of this had come to pass. She needed to ascertain the well-being of her friends, and perhaps acknowledge the other people in this room, whom she’d entirely forgotten about.

  But he kissed her again, and she decided that everything else could wait. Yarrow Lamhart’s mouth had always held a power over her.

  She remembered how badly she’d wanted to kiss him when they were just children. Neither of them had had the courage, then.

  Long years later, when they’d met again, she could never stop staring at his mouth, despite the fact that she hadn’t trusted him.

  And when they had finally kissed, at the Painted Mere, she recalled thinking that the wait had been so very worth it.

  This—this was worth it, too.

  “I love you,” she breathed into his mouth.

  He grazed his lips lightly over hers, his clever eyes glazing over. “Loving you,” he said, “has been the most profound truth in all my life.”

  The ever-irritating tones of Arlow Bowlerham intruded from behind, “Are you two about finished?”

  Yarrow’s attention never left her face. “No,” he said.

  And so she kissed him again. And again.

  Yarrow, she thought once more, his name like a prayer.

  Yarrow.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ko-Jin waited for Bray to leave, and once he was alone, he closed his eyes. Absently, he continued to rub at his neck, as if his mark might return as inexplicably as it had disappeared.

  But he knew better. This did not feel like the times his gift had been snatched by the Sphere or by Whythe. This was permanent.

  He opened his eyes and gazed down at his foot—his twisted, angled foot. And, slowly, he smiled.

  Standing was awkward. He was no longer accustomed to the curve in his spine, or the way his right leg must hold more weight than his left. But he managed—he always had, after all.

  Ko-Jin headed to the rear of the library, where an old floor-length mirror hung on the door of a storage closet. He approached with a shuffling stride, until he could see himself properly.

  It was a different man who looked back at him. This was not General Sung, the heartless Cosanta who’d killed thousands. No, this was the crippled son of a Chaskuan seamstress. A scarred fellow with a funny posture.

  Ko-Jin unbuttoned the top of his robes and tugged his arms from their sleeves, yanking the cloth down until he was bare-chested. Though it was not cold, he shivered, his exposed skin prickling.

  The sight was not so bad as he’d imagined. Ko-Jin had long thought that, without his gift, he would revert to the boy he’d once been. But he was not fourteen. This was the body he would have developed naturally by this age: not bulging with muscles or towering in height, but not weak either.

  It was the body of a man who
lived an active life, which he always had, and always would. His shoulders were not so broad, his abdominal muscles not so pronounced. But it was not a body to be embarrassed of, either.

  More to the point, it was his body. Flawed, yes, but his.

  It was not a thing he ever talked about, not even with his closest friends, but Ko-Jin had never felt comfortable in his own skin. When he was a child, he’d been ashamed of his deformity. He’d despised the pitying eyes that followed him. Mostly, he’d hated that his father had left, abandoning his wife to poverty, all because Ko-Jin was crippled.

  That shame was the reason the Spirits had ‘fixed’ him. And though he’d loved what his new and perfect body could do, it had never felt like his. When women admired him, he would know that his true self could never have drawn their attention. When he excelled physically, he would wonder if he might have achieved similar success, even without his gift.

  He grew ashamed that he’d ever been ashamed. This imperfect body had served him well for fourteen years, after all. If he hadn’t been so vain, perhaps he might have received a truly spectacular gift. Like flight. He definitely would have preferred to fly.

  Ko-Jin laughed to himself, pulling his robes on and securing the buttons. He winked at his reflection, then turned to the door.

  With each step it got easier, more familiar. He picked up his pace. His best friend might be at the top of this tower, and Ko-Jin was bursting with joy at the prospect. If it took the loss of his gift to buy him more time with Yarrow, he would happily pay that price.

  As he neared the tower stair, a commotion sounded from below. A moment later, the door across from him banged open.

  Two soldiers emerged, stepping into his path when they noticed him. A big Adourran man looked him up and down. “Cosanta,” he said, and he whipped his sword from its sheath.

  Ko-Jin stumbled back, drawing his own weapon with a stammering heart. The blade had turned heavy, and the hilt felt strange clutched in his smaller hand.

  But as his feet shifted into position, and he sensed the memory built into his very bones, he relaxed. Ko-Jin had not dedicated twelve years to the study of martial arts for nothing.

  The first soldier attacked with a lazy sweep of the blade, plainly underestimating him based on his appearance. A new experience in combat, for Ko-Jin.

  He parried with ease and struck at his opponent’s weapon hand. The man’s sword fell to the marble floor with a dull clank. Ko-Jin grabbed the soldier by the front of his ripped and dirty uniform. He pulled, grounding himself with his steadier leg.

  As soon as he felt the man resist, he released his grip. The soldier tumbled backwards—straight down the stairs.

  He turned his attention to the second soldier, but before he could raise his weapon, the man’s eyes flew wide. The bloodied tip of a sword slid through his chest.

  The soldier fell, revealing the perfect stance of Zarra Elver, Ko-Jin’s old teacher. She flicked her blade, sending blood droplets raining across the floor.

  “You’re welcome, Sung.”

  “I could have taken him,” Ko-Jin said, but he was smiling.

  If he’d been pitying himself before—which he was fairly certain he hadn’t been—the sight of this blind sword master would have cured him.

  She’d never had patience for self-pity, nor allowed for excuses.

  She shrugged. “You sounded injured.”

  “Not injured,” he said. “Not exactly.”

  She cocked her head, her wild curls bouncing. “You also sound shorter.”

  He laughed. “How does one sound shorter?”

  “Your voice usually comes from higher up. What happened, Sung?”

  He was embarrassed to put it into words, so instead he took her hand and placed it upon his neck, so she could feel the smooth skin where his mark had been. Her dark brows soared. “Is it just you, or…?”

  “No, not just me. I’m guessing it’s all of us.”

  “Huh,” she said, sounding rather unimpressed by this monumental shift in human history. “That’s too bad. You’re not pouting about it, are you?” He burst out laughing, and that seemed answer enough. “Good. You were always far more than able-bodied. I should know.”

  “Listen, Zarra,” he said, as he slipped the ring from his middle finger. “I don’t know what happens next. It seems like everything’s about to change. You should take your family to safety.” He pressed the ring he’d worn for nearly ten years—her father’s ring—into her palm. He closed her fist around it. “Your debt to me is more than paid.”

  She swallowed, and then slowly brought the ring to her lips and kissed it. He clapped her shoulder. “Goodbye, Zarra.”

  He shuffled by, trying to sound as if he were walking normally, though it was still difficult. Perhaps he should get himself a cane. It might double as a decent weapon.

  “We’ll see each other again, General Sung,” Zarra called after him.

  “I don’t doubt it,” he answered, pressing on.

  He met no other soldiers as he mounted the winding stairway to Yarrow’s room. It was a long climb, particularly as he had to plant both feet on each stair, one at a time. But at least he didn’t grow winded. All that running hadn’t been in vain.

  Ko-Jin paused outside the door to listen, and he caught the distinctive tenor of Yarrow Lamhart’s voice. Not the dead tones of a Fifth—no, this voice was charged with emotion.

  Ko-Jin grinned as he entered the room. He’d gotten back a lot of things he’d thought long lost today.

  He felt lighter. Well, he was lighter.

  Quade had gotten away, yet again. But it was a relief to know that, wherever he was, the man’s power had been nullified.

  Ko-Jin would not be the one to hunt him down, and that was perfectly fine with him.

  He was finished.

  Quade stormed through the palace, clutching his satchel to his hip. He sifted through a closet until he found a cloak, and though it was a warm evening, he threw it over his shoulders and drew the hood.

  Better not to do his enemies the favor of revealing his naked face. It would only mitigate whatever compulsion lingered in the city.

  As he stalked through the lower levels and out into the night, he heard the sounds of Chisanta dying. Boots squealed and thumped, blades clanged, and men and women gasped in pain.

  His lip curled.

  The moon slipped behind a cloud, rendering the evening unusually dark. It suited him. Quade Asher had always been a creature of darkness.

  He killed the stable hand and hastily saddled two horses. His provisions and research, he loaded with care, mindful that his books were wrapped and secured.

  Then he mounted and set off into the black.

  Quade had ordered all civilians to remain inside after dark, and it would seem his command held, because the streets were vacant. The clatter of his horses’ hooves across the cobblestones was by far the loudest sound in the night.

  As he rode, some of his fury dissipated.

  Yes, he had hoped to gather his resources and teleport to Adourra before he lost his gifts. But there were advantages to traveling the slow way.

  Now, he could leave a trail of breadcrumbs for his enemies, cutting a bloody swath across Daland, so no one might wonder at his course.

  He wanted to be followed, which was why he’d let Bray Marron live. Dogged bitch that she was, she’d be on his tail soon enough.

  Quade had only ever had one dream: to be remembered. To become a figure of legend. And a legend did not slip away in defeat, forgotten. No, his story was not finished yet. He would confront his enemies again, and win or lose, it would be a fight to remember. A story worth telling.

  He glanced over his shoulder, back to the palace. He wondered how many had died—how many were still dying—by his decree. What would be left of the once-Chisanta, after Quade’s soldiers were through?

  And for how long would his influence linger in the city, without him here to perpetuate it?

  He had no answers, a
nd could not risk lingering to observe the outcome.

  Quade clicked his tongue and rode hard, out through the gates of Accord and into the marshes south of the capital. The wind whipped in his hair, and the ride set his pulse thrumming. He scanned the road for passerby, a hand on the hilt of Treeblade.

  There was no purpose in hiding his nature, in curbing his more vicious urges. Not now.

  He had been unmasked today. The monster inside him was exposed. It prowled, free of its cage at long last. And, oh, how the people of Daland would regret it.

  Peer’s thoughts should have been fixated on his missing mark. On the fact that he was, apparently, no longer Chiona; that all the slumbering Chisanta in the gallery had undergone the same transformation, at the exact same moment. But in truth, his arm was so blighting painful that it held the entirety of his attention.

  He could feel all the jagged shards of his bones spearing through the raw and open flesh. Every time he moved, sparks radiated up into his shoulder and down through his fingers.

  When Quade’s soldiers had been beating down the door, his raging adrenaline had numbed the pain. But those men had fled, either in search of a battering ram, or in hunt of easier prey. Now, agony was his only company.

  The soldiers would be back, though. If Quade had ordered a wholesale massacre of Chisanta, they would have to return—the vast majority of his kind were here in this room.

  The walls were lined with portraits in enormous gilded frames, and Peer had the sense that all those eyes were following him. Gingerly, he lowered himself to the floor. He was surrounded by slumped figures, and it was difficult to judge which were sleeping and which were dead.

  No matter the numbers, the Chisanta were already annihilated.

  Perhaps his injury had left him a little addlepated, because Peer couldn’t help seeing a black sort of comedy in the situation. The Chisanta had believed for years that their kind were dwindling, that they were heading towards extinction.

  Of course, it had been Quade stealing children which had given the appearance of this trend. Peer and his friends had discovered this truth. Had fought back. Peer, himself, had spent long months trying to make the Chisanta whole again—to bring together Chiona, Cosanta, and Elevated.