Lamentation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 3)

by March McCarron

  Arlow nodded and made to step past his new brother-in-law. His path was blocked.

  “I—” the King began with uncharacteristic hesitance. “I put out the banns.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s likely how Asher knew.” He shook his head. “I underestimated the man, was too busy…”

  “Too busy trying to do right by your family.” Arlow crossed his arms before his chest. “Quade’s got eyes and ears across the kingdoms. He likely would have discovered our location regardless.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.”

  “No, it’s merely honest.” Again, Arlow tried to pass the taller man. He was stopped with a hand to his shoulder.

  “Once we’ve rested, we must return to Accord. I have a meeting with the king. I would have you come with us, Arlow. Your input would be valuable.”

  A woman wept somewhere to Arlow’s left. The sound was clawing under his skin, making him feel a bit wild. He wanted desperately to be away. “I can’t. My part in the assassination—”

  “Has been pardoned.”

  Arlow’s lips thinned. He had read, of course, of Jo-Kwan’s brilliant move to offer sweeping clemency. But he was not convinced that this decree would extend to him. He had orchestrated the assassination of a king; such a thing was unlikely to be forgiven.

  “We need you, Arlow.” The man, for all his fierceness, was looking upon Arlow with softer eyes.

  He couldn’t understand this sudden change. “I had not thought you so eager to align yourself with a nobleson.” He lent the invective the same scorn his brother-in-law had used in the past.

  Linton closed his eyes for a moment. “You saved Mae; I saw it. When you noticed the explosives, you covered her with your own body. I am not too proud to admit when I am wrong.”

  Arlow grimaced at his feet. It was true—he had knocked Mae to the ground and shielded her as best he could. But it hadn’t been an act of conscious chivalry, it had been mere thoughtless instinct. When allowed time to contemplate his options, he was never so selfless.

  “Please say that you will accompany us back to the capital.”

  Arlow did not want to commit himself; he searched his mind for a reasonable excuse to delay. His attention pulled, again, to the cold ring on his finger, and inspiration struck. “I must speak to Mae first,” he said. “I could not make such a decision without consulting my wife.”

  Linton narrowed his eyes in a moment of skepticism, then shrugged. “Very well. Rest, brother.”

  Arlow was finally permitted to walk past. He drifted up the stair as if in a dream. He paused to look at the room which had been Yarrow’s, and felt a pang of loss. He and Bray had left town some hours earlier. The absence of his oldest and favorite friend—the person who liked him best despite his less-than-agreeable qualities—always made him feel very much alone.

  As he reached for the door to his own room, he experienced a lurching sensation in his abdomen. Mae would be within, and he wasn’t certain where they stood, or how they were to move forward. He gulped a rallying breath and swung the door inwards.

  Within, Foy Rodgeman sat on the end of the bed beside Mae, a supportive arm around her shoulder. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she held herself stiffly, neither accepting nor rejecting the older man’s embrace. They both looked up at Arlow. He wondered how he must appear, standing there in the doorframe, watching them. Would this new bitterness clogging his throat be visible upon his face?

  Foy disengaged himself and stood. “Goodnight,” he murmured to Mae.

  Arlow turned sideways to allow the man to pass. He listened to Rodgeman’s funereal pace as it receded down the hall. Then he shut the door.

  Mae had not moved. She still wore her wedding dress—the creamy cotton now gray with soot and black with blood. Her ringlets had long since wilted; her face was pale.

  “Well,” he said, hoping more words would follow once the silence had been breached.

  When she said nothing, he thought to try for levity. “Not the finest start to a honeymoon.”

  She sighed in reply, then glanced up at him with older eyes. “I’m wrung out, Arlow. I got no energy left for anything but honesty, and I won’t sleep ’til we’ve gotten this sorted. So, what’s it to be?”

  Arlow’s brow furrowed and he shook his head, uncomprehending.

  She sighed again, but this time with annoyance. “We said we’d marry legally, but not live that way.” He was tempted to point out that she had said this, not him. But he held his tongue. “So, are we to go separate ways in the morn?”

  This outcome had never occurred to him, and his pulse raced at the prospect. “No,” he said, too loudly and without thought.

  She didn’t meet his gaze. “So, then, are we husband and wife for true? Is that what you want?”

  Arlow opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. He wished he could sit, as he was growing unsteady on his feet, but they could not discuss such a matter side-by-side.

  “Could we not,” he began in a careful tone, “simply go back to the way we were before?” This question pained her. He could easily discern the hurt that crossed her features. And so he hastened to add, “For a time, at least. So that we might decide for ourselves, without outside interference, if this marriage is something we want.”

  She nodded her head, but it was an unhappy acquiescence. “Very well. For a time.”

  Then she stood and reached behind her, attempting to unfasten the buttons of her dress. They were plainly out of reach, so Arlow swept forward to help. He slipped the first four cloth-covered buttons free with deft fingers, and then she waved him away. “I can manage the rest.”

  But she did not continue, and Arlow was unsure what she was waiting for. Until she pierced him with a look that plainly demanded he turn his back. The room felt, suddenly, much colder. He turned around.

  As he stared at the blank plaster wall, he listened to the sound of her disrobing, and then the splash of water in the basin as she cleaned herself. He could not help but imagine how this scene might have unfolded, had he given her a different answer moments before. He could just see himself washing away all of that grime and blood from her smooth skin. This imagined moment filled him with a keen longing, and to his surprise, the sensation had more to do with intimacy than eroticism.

  “So,” he asked, as she sloshed a rag into the basin. “Where would you like to go tomorrow?”

  “Linton wants us to come to Accord with him.”

  “He expressed as much to me as well,” Arlow answered. “I’m not certain it’s a good idea. I doubt the king will look kindly on my presence in his city.”

  He could hear her toweling herself dry. “You’ve gone on and on about how you think there’re better ways to run a nation,” she said. “Now you’ve got the chance to make some changes, do some real good. You ain’t willing to risk it?”

  “You think we should go?” he asked.

  “I do,” she said. Simple—direct. He liked that about her.

  Arlow exhaled. “Very well. I did appoint you my judgment, after all.”

  She made a huffing sound that he couldn’t interpret. Then he heard the squeal of bedsprings.

  “You can clean up now,” she said. “I’m done.”

  He turned around to find her already beneath the blankets, trying to pound a pillow into a more comfortable shape. She didn’t meet his gaze, so he turned his attention to the wash water.

  He unbuttoned his borrowed robes and stripped off his undershirt and trousers. The water was cool, raising gooseflesh up his arms. He caught sight of his reflection in the glassy surface, and splashed his disappointing visage away.

  “Mae, I—” he turned to the bed, but found that her eyes were closed, her breathing even.

  He swallowed the words he had meant to say, and they burned all the way down his throat. Then he bent back to the basin and set to scrubbing away the blood, ash, and guilt.

  Chapter Seven

  Bray pushed through the door of the silk shop and
stepped back out into the streets of Andle, tucking the small bag of purchases under her arm. She raised her hand to shield her eyes against the glare of the sun and searched up and down the boulevard.

  “Where did you go…” she murmured, scanning the line of storefronts, the bustling shoppers.

  She turned right and peeked through the window of a salon, and then a haberdashery. She counseled herself not to panic. He had no doubt merely wandered off, not left her… Surely he had not abandoned her without a word. He wouldn’t do that.

  “Bray,” Yarrow’s voice called from the next stall, a bakery.

  She hid her sigh of relief with a smile. “Hungry?”

  “I hadn’t thought so,” he said, brow quirked seriously. “Until the smell drifted down to me as I waited.”

  The collection of baked goods did smell positively spiritly. They were lined within a clear glass case, and each looked twice the size of a common pastry. A man in a blue-and-white striped apron gazed at Yarrow expectantly, a look of amused confusion on his round face.

  She laughed. “Then order something.”

  “You see, I found myself rather drawn to that one.” He pointed to a sugar-encrusted scone. “But the gentleman warned me that it contains pecans, in case I had an intolerance.” He looked down at her with an expression that she could not name, but which rather made her want to laugh. “So,” he began archly, “do I suffer from any allergies?”

  “I don’t think so…” she began slowly, then she snapped her fingers. “They served almond-crusted salmon at the ball in Accord, and you ate it.”

  “Presumably without consequence?”

  “We’ll take two of those,” Bray said to the baker, smiling.

  “For here?”

  Bray bobbed her head. Their ship wouldn’t depart for another few hours, anyway. “Sure. And coffee.”

  They took seats beneath a striped awning, though the day was a touch too cool for eating outdoors. Bray tried to stop grinning, tried to act as if this moment were utterly ordinary; as if she and Yarrow popped into bakeries for breakfast all the time.

  She knew she ought to feel guilty for her uplifted spirits, given the atrocity they had witnessed several days before. But that event had been so horrific that it seemed more nightmare than true memory. And as it had involved no one whom she knew personally, she had found it easy to put out of her mind.

  Yarrow sat next to her rather than across, their knees grazing beneath the white tablecloth. They faced the street, where streams of foot traffic flitted by.

  “You accomplished your errands?” he asked, settling into his seat cushion.

  “I did,” she said. “I sent a telegram to your family, too.” In addition to Peer and Ko-Jin. She wished they were on their way back to Accord; however, not even Arlow’s supplication could sway Yarrow’s resolve to sail for Adourra.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. They were worried about you, so I just thought to set your mother’s mind at ease.”

  He nodded slowly, chewing on his lower lip. He pulled a notebook from the inner pocket of his overcoat and flipped through a few pages.

  The baker delivered their coffees and scones. Bray busied herself with the cream and sugar, her spoon clinking against the rosebud-painted porcelain. She watched her coffee turn from black to tan; the cream spread like ink bleeding across wet parchment.

  “I’ve written it all out—what you and Arlow have told me. I hope to fill in this most recent gap. The beginning, however…” He ran a gloved hand over his face. “I cannot decide if I should…” he trailed off, and slid the notebook over to her.

  It was a timeline of his own life. He had begun with his marking, but left blank space for the fourteen proceeding years. He had jotted a question mark next to his date of birth, and a note to himself to ask Arlow.

  Her throat clenched painfully and she blinked.

  “Is something wrong?” Yarrow asked.

  She swallowed and shook her head. “No.” Yes.

  It was his handwriting. Before, it had been a slanted, spidery script. Elegant, but not easy to read. Now, his printing looked more like the typeset of a book. Exact and neat, still, but with an entirely different style. She could not quite say why this made her want to cry, why it seemed so perfectly tragic.

  “You’re worried about seeing your family, then?” she asked, passing the notebook back and taking a sip of her coffee.

  “I just cannot imagine what I would say.” His mouth drew down. “Hello, mother. Nice to meet you?” He shook his head. “It might be kinder not to.”

  She almost put her hand atop his, but refrained. They had not touched in such a way yet; she feared being the first to reach out. “You introduced me to your family not long ago. Your mother was so happy to see you. I think, if you never returned, that would not be kind either.”

  He appeared to consider this, then tucked the diary back into his coat. When he met her gaze again, it was with smiling eyes. She could not look away.

  “Take a dash of coffee with your cream?” he asked.

  She pursed her lips at him. “I don’t actually like the taste of coffee.”

  “Then why order it?”

  “I like it once it’s full of cream and sugar.”

  He shook his head at her, then bit into his scone. He made a sound like a groan as he chewed, his eyes fluttering closed.

  “What?” she asked, liking his expression.

  “I was not aware food could taste so…” he rubbed his fingertips together, shedding crumbs. “Sublime.” He turned back to her. “Do you visit your family often?”

  “No. I haven’t any family.” And then, because this was Yarrow and he deserved honesty, she added, “Save for an uncle I have no wish to see.”

  An image of the man choking beneath her own hands flashed through her thoughts. That moment of mercy when she had released him sat uneasily in her mind. She gritted her teeth and shoved the memory aside.

  “Ah, I apologize for asking,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Don’t. My friends have become family to me.”

  “Your Peer?” he asked.

  “And Adearre, but he…” She swallowed. “He died recently.”

  “Quade?”

  “Yes.”

  He murmured commiseratively, glancing away.

  They sat in silence for a time. It was all so bizarre—that she should be telling Yarrow of Adearre’s death, when it had been he who first informed her of it.

  Bray finally took a bite of her own scone. She nearly groaned herself, it was so rich.

  “Have you been to Adourra before?” Yarrow asked, and she was grateful for the change of topic.

  “Yes,” she said, “but only once.”

  “You think we should go to Accord instead, I take it.”

  Bray went rigid in her seat. They hadn’t had this conversation, though it seemed they certainly should. He wanted to go to Adourra because it was the last place he had been before his memories were erased. He was hoping—she thought, rather optimistically—that going to Nerra might help him to understand how all of this had come to pass.

  But he could go there in an instant without her. He had not actually suggested as much, however. He’d assumed they would travel the long way, and that she would accompany him. She had very much liked this assumption.

  “Yes,” she said, finally. “I think you and I could help the king and Ko-Jin.”

  He stared into his black coffee, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

  “But if this is something you feel you need to do, then let’s do it,” she said.

  It struck her, all at once, what was unusual about his wishes. They were selfish—he was putting his own needs before the nation’s. The Yarrow she knew would never make such a choice. But this man before her, this Yarrow, had too little attachment to the world he lived in. What he had, above all else, was a burning curiosity.

  “I just—I think something must be out there. I think I found something.”

  “Why?�
��

  “I sacrificed my memories to protect something.” He shrugged. “Call it a hunch. From what I have gleaned of myself, it seems logical.”

  “Well,” she said, cramming the rest of her breakfast into her mouth and swallowing. “Let’s get going, then.” She drained her coffee. “We’d best head to the docks.”

  Bray felt distinctly light of spirit as they wended their way along the coastal road. She breathed in the salty air with gladness. Andle was her favorite port town. It had far more charm than most cities, a certain quaintness despite its size. Better yet, she had the impression that Quade’s influence was not so strong here. These people did not share that blank, dead-eyed expression that betrayed Quade’s effect.

  Yarrow watched a couple walk by arm in arm, his head turning to follow them briefly. Then he held out the crook of his elbow to her.

  Look at us, she thought sardonically, as she tucked her hand around his arm, like an ordinary couple.

  The port sat a little ways below them, sunlight glinting off the line of ships. The ocean stretched to a clear blue sky, as far as the eye could see. Her hand patted her coat pocket, to verify their tickets and luggage stubs. They were still a bit early, so she slowed her pace, drinking in the morning.

  “Bray,” Yarrow said, his tone a warning. He gestured to a group of people ahead of them, on the far side of the street. “Are those—”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Chiona.”

  A group of six, each with shorn heads and leather jerkins, stood in a huddle. They appeared to be a few decades her senior.

  Bray moved to Yarrow’s other side, hoping he would block her from view. With her dress and longer hair, she thought it unlikely they would notice her anyway. She and Yarrow had painted concealer over their marks before riding into Andle, but a close inspection would reveal the raised circles beneath their makeup.

  Her chest tightened. It made her hate Quade Asher all the more, that she should have to conceal herself from her own brothers and sisters.

  She and Yarrow kept their pace even, casual, as they approached. If there had been a way to avoid the group she would’ve taken it. But the only option would be to turn entirely around.