The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  “I’m sorry,” he said, so softly she might not have heard. He’d never before realized just how insufficient, how weak, ‘I’m sorry’ could sound.

  They trudged around the side of the palace, Yarrow trembling and tired beyond words. His body felt like an impediment hanging upon him, heavy and slow and useless. He leaned more and more into Bray, and she bore his weight without complaint, but with growing difficulty.

  When they passed from the palace grounds into the city proper, they both sighed in relief. Presumably, they had left the worst of the danger behind.

  “We should take a gig,” Bray said. “It’ll be easier on you than horseback.”

  Yarrow could only nod.

  “I know where to get one. And we’ll have to buy provisions and gear for travel before we leave,” Bray said, pausing to readjust Yarrow’s weight. She hissed in pain.

  “Alright?” he asked.

  “Alright,” she said, her voice quavering. “My ribs are a little sore, is all. But we’re almost there.”

  The streets were dark and quiet, but something about the night had Yarrow’s teeth set on edge. He swept his gaze to and fro as they shuffled up the street.

  Through the window of a home, he caught the eye of a plump woman washing dishes in a kitchen. The moment her gaze locked on him, her face transformed—it drained of emotion, but flashed with new intent. With violence. Yarrow’s stomach sank. “I think we might have a problem.”

  The woman exploded from the back door of the house, wearing an apron and brandishing a kitchen knife. “Chisanta,” she said in a dead voice.

  Bray stopped, her arm tightening around Yarrow’s waist. “Pardon us, ma’am.”

  The woman bared her teeth; she waddled forward with her small blade, swinging it back and forth.

  Bray’s sigh was more irritated than anything else. She released Yarrow, and he stumbled to lean against the side of the building.

  Bray was no longer Chiona, but her form did not betray this fact. She conveyed the same intensity and confidence. The woman’s approach was slow and predictable. Bray waited for the first sloppy thrust, dodged to the side, and then knocked the blade to the street. She flipped the matron over her back, her movements sure despite that she had the use of only one arm. The sound of this unfortunate woman hitting the road-top was not loud, but it made Yarrow cringe.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Bray said with a guilty grimace.

  She returned to Yarrow, draping his arm around her shoulder again. “He’s set the civilians on us, too,” she said. “Getting out of the city might not be easy…”

  “We don’t have marks,” he said. “We just need to change our clothes.”

  Bray grunted. “Good thing I still haven’t shorn my hair.”

  He glanced sideways at her. Her copper tresses were nearly as long as when they’d first met, as children. “Why haven’t you?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been waiting until it no longer mattered if I could blend in with a crowd. I guess I’ll have to wait a while longer.”

  Around the next corner, they found a second-hand clothing store. The building was dark, plainly closed. They paused before it. “Any chance you know how to pick a lock?” he asked.

  “I could pass through solid objects,” she said dryly. “So, no, never picked up that skill.”

  “Guess we’ll have to smash the windows,” he said, frowning.

  He did not like any of this: theft, destruction of property, trespassing. His family ran a store; he understood how easily livelihoods could be ruined.

  “We’ll leave money,” she said. They had little choice, so he agreed.

  Bray lowered him onto the stoop outside the shop. He didn’t watch, but heard the crunch of broken glass. She hopped into the unlit shop, and then the door opened behind him. He tried to stand on his own, but fell back to his bottom, his limbs shaking.

  Bray hauled him up and into the store. It was a small space, crowded with racks of musty clothing. Bray sifted through the wares, tossing items aside for them. She disappeared behind a curtain and returned a few minutes later in a forest green gown of simple linen. She began re-wrapping her wrist, grimacing in pain.

  “Is it bad?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, as she tied off the sling. “Just need to keep it immobilized for a few weeks. I’ve had worse.” She smoothed the skirts of her gown. “What do you think?”

  Bray always looked wrong in a dress, like she was play-acting. But with her long hair and unmarked neck, to anyone else she would pass for an ordinary woman. “I think you’re beautiful.”

  She rolled her eyes, but a smile stole over her mouth. “Do you need help?” she asked.

  The idea of her dressing him was properly mortifying. He shook his head. “Just help me up.”

  She aided him into the changing area, and he leaned heavily against the wall. He worked the buttons loose and peeled himself out of his robes. The trouble came in removing his trousers. He lost balance and collapsed, his head striking the baseboard.

  “Yarrow!” Bray cried, wrenching open the curtain and rushing to his side.

  He could not think of a more humiliating scenario than this: himself, emaciated and weak, halfway out of his pants, sprawled on the floor. She finished pulling off his trousers, and he squeezed his eyes closed, his face flushing.

  “Yarrow?” she asked.

  He made himself open his eyes. Her hand was on his chest—his pitiful, bony chest. He was embarrassed by his weakened state, but still that hand against his bare skin set him burning.

  He swallowed. “Try not to let this diminish my sex appeal.”

  She burst out laughing, then hauled him into a sitting position. “That is not something you need to worry about.”

  This warmed him, as did the way her eyes lingered on his face, shining brightly in the darkness.

  Bray helped him dress, and he tried to pretend this was intimate and not infantilizing. She drew close to fasten the buttons of his shirt, an impressive feat given she worked one-handed, and he inhaled the scent of her with greedy breaths.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  He looked down at his ordinary clothes. Apart from his braid he would pass for a civilian. His gaze lingered on that last symbol of his Cosanta nature, and he clutched it in a fist. “I’ll have to cut this,” he said.

  He’d done it once before, but it was still difficult. More so now, because it was not just a matter of disguise. He wasn’t Cosanta anymore. No one was. And he alone was to blame for that fact.

  Bray whipped a dagger from somewhere beneath her skirt. “You’re sure?”

  He pressed his lips tight and nodded.

  He gripped his hair taut, and she began hacking. “I can’t lie, I won’t miss braiding it. You’ve got unruly hair.”

  Yarrow’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You braided my hair?”

  Her pause was charged with sorrow, as was her voice when she said, “Yes. Often.”

  He was mute for a moment, overcome by a swell of emotions. “Thank you,” he managed, eventually.

  When she was finished, he looked in the mirror and found an ordinary couple staring back at him. No marks, no strange clothing, no odd hair. As long as no one remembered their faces, they could pass unmolested.

  “Let’s go,” Bray said, snaring his hand.

  They left coin on the counter and exited through the door. As they wandered up the street, the wind picked up. In the distance, there was a body sprawled in the gutter. A body wearing Cosanta robes.

  They approached cautiously, darting looks up and down the alley. Yarrow gazed down at the face of a sister Cosanta.

  “Do you know her?” Bray asked.

  “Her face is familiar,” Yarrow said. It seemed an insult to this woman that he didn’t remember her name.

  May her spirit fly fast and find joy.

  They had no choice but to leave her. Yarrow wondered how many had died this night.

  This is Quade’s retaliation. All of this, it wa
s for Yarrow. He shivered, his flesh crawling. He couldn’t help recalling the way Quade had treated him as a Fifth—stroking his hair, undressing him, whispering into his ear.

  In Quade’s mind, was this revenge or some manner of twisted love letter?

  Bray found the nearest mews and had to wake the owner in order to pay for a two-man gig and horse.

  Yarrow exhaled deeply as he settled into the seat, happy to be off his feet. She went without him to buy their travel supplies, and accomplished the task quickly.

  “I think that’s everything,” she said, hopping into the gig and snagging the reins.

  The night darkened as they rode through Accord, through streets peppered with the corpses of Chisanta. These must have been patrols, set upon by the civilians they were working to protect.

  “You’d think it would be over…” Bray said.

  “It will be,” Yarrow promised.

  They crossed through the gates, spilling into the marshes south of Accord. Yarrow’s eyelids turned heavy, but he resisted sleep. It seemed as if he’d been sleeping for the better part of a year, and now he wished to be awake. To be alive.

  He wanted to keep his senses focused on the woman beside him, to drink her in endlessly, because he would never be full.

  Bray eased his head onto her shoulder. “Rest a while. We’ll take it in turns.”

  “What’s the point of sleeping,” he murmured, “if I’m already living in a dream?”

  “We’re not dreaming, Yarrow.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  She pressed a kiss to his brow. “Because my wrist blighting hurts.”

  He huffed a laugh and, despite his intentions, fell asleep.

  Whythe allowed one of Quade’s soldiers to slip into the gallery, then closed the gap. The man charged at Ko-Jin, his crude blade raised high, a pair of lifeless eyes locked on easy prey.

  Ko-Jin side-stepped the blow, leaning into his stronger leg. He divested the soldier of his sword and knocked him onto his bottom. The man’s blade skittered out of reach, and he had no other weapon. It was fortunate that so few of these soldiers were well-armed, and particularly that they had little by way of firearms.

  “Fernie!” Ko-Jin bellowed.

  “Got him,” the young man said, his voice weak with exhaustion. Fernie shuffled to the man’s side, grasped his arm, and glared into a pair of dull black eyes.

  The soldier blinked, as if coming suddenly awake, and his face filled with new emotion—specifically, horror. “You can wait over there,” Fernie said with a careless gesture, indicating where the other soldiers with recently purified minds all stood, huddled in confusion. Many of them were visibly shaking, or else sobbing into the crooks of their arms.

  It would be nice if they’d lend a hand, but Ko-Jin supposed that was a bit much to ask.

  “Fernie!” Malc hollered.

  “Coming…” the lad panted, and he loped away.

  Ko-Jin surveyed the room, taking a quick assessment of their progress and condition. Clea and Dedrre were still ushering the rest of the Chisanta into the secret passageway, and the crowd had thinned considerably. Shouldn’t take much longer…

  The bevolder pairs held back the horde at each of the four windows. Their synchronized fighting style made them adept at this task; they fought with such uncanny coordination and skill as to appear worthy of legend. Ko-Jin could admit himself envious.

  The only soldiers who entered the gallery were deliberately herded, to be dealt with physically by Ko-Jin, Arlow, or Kelarre, and then saved by Fernie.

  Yes, at a glance, everything was going well—or, as well as could be expected. But Ko-Jin could see the cracks spreading along the wall of their defense.

  Arlow had taken quite a beating. Peer’s face was ashen, his arm wound clearly agonizing. Roldon and Trevva appeared close to faltering, and Malc was bleeding from a cut above his brow, the stream of crimson blinding him in one eye. And, most concerning of all, poor Fernie was running himself into the ground.

  Ko-Jin’s own body felt like some hastily thrown together shack that might come apart at the next gust of wind. His twisted spine ached, his left hip joint was tightening painfully, and his arms trembled with fatigue.

  They were holding on, but only barely. Enton and Avearra were the only two who appeared uninjured and unflagging. Enton’s sword-work remained impeccable, and Avearra moved like a shadow. If only they could all be so lethal.

  “Blight!” Peer cried. He dropped to a knee, clutching his injured arm. A soldier shoved past him.

  The man—a lithe Dalishman—raised his sword, his sights locked on Whythe. The younger man was occupied with another foe. Ko-Jin tried to shuffle forward to block the attack, but he knew he couldn’t get there in time. Peer scrambled, also too slow.

  But Quade’s soldier halted his strike mid-swing, squinting at Whythe with uncertainty. His gaze darted over the man’s shoulder, locking on Ko-Jin, and he redirected himself.

  “Fernie!” Ko-Jin cried, raising his blade.

  The soldier thrust forward with excellent form. Ko-Jin parried, a shock running up his arm at the collision. He gritted his teeth. He need only hold the man off long enough for Fernie to loop back around.

  The soldier executed a series of deft attacks, and Ko-Jin countered, but his reaction time was slowing. Sweat ran into his eyes.

  The man made a mistake, leaving himself open to a killing blow. Ko-Jin let the blunder pass. Thus far that day, he hadn’t taken a life. He thought perhaps this could be a new trend for him: no killing.

  Fernie’s harried footsteps sounded. He skidded to a halt just behind Ko-Jin.

  “Got him,” he wheezed.

  The soldier blinked several times, his sword arm lowering. “You can stand over there with the others,” Ko-Jin said, his gaze returning to the window.

  The sound of the enemy outside was enormous, and it was only growing. They were like feeble dams endeavoring to hold back a tempestuous sea, destined to fail. And at their backs, men had once again begun pounding at the door.

  “That’s the last of them,” Clea cried from near the passageway.

  Thank the Spirits.

  “Fabulous,” Arlow shouted over the din, his sarcasm biting. “And how exactly are we going to get out of here?”

  He had a point. The moment they backed away from the windows, the room would be overrun. They’d be opening the floodgates. He made a quick survey of the gallery, his thoughts bleak.

  They would not all survive this day. No matter how he ran it through his head, there would be losses. But they must act immediately, before the door was demolished and they were surrounded.

  “We’ll form a phalanx,” he announced, “and back our way to the other side of the room. Then we’ll climb into the passage one at a time.”

  “They’ll know where we went,” Arlow pointed out, his breathing labored.

  “Unavoidable. The last one in will need to be prepared.” Ko-Jin didn’t think it possible they would all make it into the tunnel. At the very least, one man would be left behind to contend with a mob by himself. The hatch couldn’t be entered backwards, not without some impossible bodily contortion. He would have to stay and fight, or run. But most likely he would die.

  Ko-Jin looked into the eye of his own mortality in that moment and did not flinch. He would save as many of his friends as he could, and that would be enough.

  “Couldn’t we use these soldier’s as shields?” Kelarre asked, pointing to the men and women already saved from Quade’s influence.

  “No,” Ko-Jin said. He had too much blood on his hands. He would not have his final fight involve the use of human shields. “Ready? We move now!”

  All at once, they fell back. They formed a hasty line, shoulder to shoulder, with swords raised. Ko-Jin nodded to Whythe on his right, then Arlow on his left. They inched backwards as a unit.

  Quade’s soldiers spilled through the destroyed windows. It was a disturbing sight—the way they gripped the jagged window
frames, slicing open their palms as they hoisted themselves into the room, and then prowled forward, undaunted by blood loss.

  The door finally gave way with an exhausted groan, and more soldiers poured into the gallery. Blight it all…

  “Form an arc!” Ko-Jin shouted. They shifted swiftly into this new formation, a semicircle of bodies guarding the entrance to the passageway. “Be ready!”

  The enemy crashed against their line, and everything turned to chaos. The gallery filled with the chime of blades, the grunts and curses and cries of men. Ko-Jin’s shoulder burned as he met blow after blow.

  In number they were outmatched, but not in skill. Quade’s men did not coordinate. They attacked at random, without strategy or finesse.

  “Clea,” Peer shouted. “You go first.”

  The young woman slipped back, and they closed the line.

  “Roldon,” Peer barked. And, a moment later, “Trevva.”

  As their phalanx shrank and the number of enemies in the room increased, the situation grew increasingly dire. Kelarre cried out as a spear took him high in the chest.

  Peer pushed in front of the young man, “Go on, Kelarre.”

  The Adourran stumbled to the tunnel, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He pulled himself into the opening with difficulty.

  “Fernie, help him,” Ko-Jin said. They needed to prioritize Fernie’s survival. The city would need his connection with Quade in the coming days.

  The young man did not look happy—his eyes cut to Kelarre with scorn—but he went.

  “Wynn!” Peer’s voice had grown strained. “Malc!”

  A broad-shouldered soldier careened towards Ko-Jin, lunging with a spear. He couldn’t knock the weapon wide without endangering Arlow, so he risked stepping out of formation.

  He launched forward, snatching the spear out of the soldier’s hands. He’d left a gap, however, and a second assailant slipped around his side.

  Whythe was locked blade to blade already, his arms straining and jaw clamped. There was no chance he could meet the foe now charging in his direction.

  Ko-Jin, heart in throat, tried to save the man. But he forgot his twisted foot, and stumbled.