Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2)
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Epilogue
End Notes
Acknowledgements
Summary of Division
Glossary
About the Author
ELEVATION
OF THE MARKED
MARCH MCCARRON
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ELEVATION OF THE MARKED
Copyright © 2014 by March McCarron
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art by March McCarron
Edited by Alexis Arendt
marchmccarron@gmail.com
www.marchmccarron.com
For my husband,
who has supported my dream in every way.
NOTE
Elevation of the Marked is the second installment in a series, and is not a stand alone novel. This story begins where the first left off, with little reintroduction to to the world, characters, and events of Division of the Marked. For those readers who need a refresher on the first book, I have included a summary and a glossary of terms at the back.
This story is darker than the first, and may not be suitable for younger readers.
1
A white-gloved hand placed a tumbler upon the table, setting ice cubes jangling against crystal.
Arlow eyed the amber liquid and deemed its color acceptable. He placed his fingertips about the rim, his wrist slack. “My thanks.”
Something about his countenance made the waiter pause. “If the beverage is unsatisfactory…”
“The drink looks excellent, chap; I’ve high expectations it will taste excellent, as well.”
Again, the waiter—a diminutive man with an unfortunate haircut—rocked on his well-polished shoes. “I could certainly ask the barman to make one with less ice, if you’d prefer.”
The tinkle of conversation in the Palace Restaurant chimed in harmony with the clinks of glasses, the scrapes of silverware against plates. The place was unusually full, given it was that odd time of day between lunch and dinner.
Across the room, the head of palace security, Harrion Alboss, caught his eye. Arlow offered a slight smile and raised his glass in a silent, cross-room toast.
He then turned attention back to his overanxious attendant. “My good man,” Arlow said, rather magnanimously, in his opinion. “You may inform your barman that he has struck upon spirituous perfection. Less ice and the drink would be insipid, more should render it overcrowded.” To prove he spoke truth, he raised his glass, took a careful sip, and smacked his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
The placated waiter finally retreated and Arlow took a second, more considering mouthful.
“Spirituous perfection?” his companion asked, her tone unmistakably wry.
In fact, it was first-rate—a good, full body with a fine finish. “It will do.”
Vendra pursed her lips. “Are you ever not ridiculous?”
“I should hope not,” Arlow said, flashing his most charming smile. “Seriousness suits me ill.”
Vendra scowled. “Which is why I have so little confidence in your word.”
Arlow leaned deeper into his chair and crossed his feet at the ankle. He glanced around the restaurant again. At a nearby table, the newly married Mrs. Jenner—an attractive little minx, he had to acknowledge—sent him covert smiles. He winked at the girl, as yawning in her direction wouldn’t be the thing.
For a minute, he wondered which of them were the falser—the women of court or himself. They, with their simpers and coquetry, hair extensions and masks of talcum powder, seemed about as genuine as the ‘authentic Chaskuan silk’ sold in the back alleys of Accord. But he and his increasingly insincere attentions could hardly be labeled honest, either. Like actors on a stage, they delivered their lines and wore their costumes; all polish and no purpose.
He continued to scan the room, finding it mostly occupied by ladies, several of whom he had been taking measures to avoid. His time amongst his sisters of the Cosanta, women of substance and passion, must have ruined him for such creatures as these.
Vendra cleared her throat, and Arlow’s gaze snapped to her. Not all are better company, he amended as he took in her irritated expression. “Regardless of your confidence,” Arlow answered at last, “I mean what I say. Everything is prepared. It must be done between four and four-thirty in the evening, but may be triggered on the day of Quade’s choosing. All I need do is give the signal.”
“And what, may I ask, is the signal?”
Arlow shook his head with a mocking tsk-tsk. “Some faith, dear sister.”
Vendra crossed her arms before her robes and leveled him a scornful look, though she refrained from responding. Being a fellow Cosanta, she could scarcely object to his calling her ‘sister.’ Arlow’s eye alighted upon her exposed wrist, where the tip of a scar peeked from beneath the fabric. He had noticed other such scars on her arms and back in the past. He couldn’t imagine what job Quade had assigned her, his druggess and right-hand-woman, that should have resulted in such injuries.
“Four o’clock,” she said, her black brows descending. “You mean to do it during the royal audience?”
“Quade desired it should be public.”
“And what if I said that today is the day?” she asked, a challenge in her voice.
He toasted her, a vision of insouciance. “Then today should be the day.”
A flurry of whispering pulled Arlow’s attention to the doorway. He cursed under his breath when he identified the new arrival, feeling his affected nonchalance buckle in an instant. To show his respect, he stood with the others, his chair legs scraping the hardwood floors.
Princess Chae-Na Bellra smiled prettily and motioned that the assembly should sit. She wore a silver dress that perfectly complemented her medium complexion, her black hair heaped in a pyramid of curls atop her head.
“Please, I have no wish to interrupt your meals. Do sit.”
When no one moved to comply, all fearful of being the first to sit in her presence, she stepped forward and placed her hands on the back of Harrion Alboss’s chair, gesturing for him to be seated. “Truly, enjoy your food.”
Arlow studied her unassuming demeanor not for the first time, his mouth downturned. He could never quite decide if the princess indeed lacked pretense, or if she were merely the most accomplished actress of the lot.
/> Harrion obliged and others soon followed suit, returning to their meals. That task complete, Chae-Na scanned the gathering and, much to Arlow’s disconcertment, her eyes locked upon his and brightened.
She wended her way towards him, leaving her entourage to ensconce themselves at the finest table.
“Arlow!” she said, beaming. “It’s been an age! I have hardly seen you since you saved me that awful night. I hope you have recovered.”
He bent over her hand and darted a quick kiss across her knuckles. The touch of his lips sent gooseflesh up her arms. Her dark eyes held open admiration.
“I am quite well, I thank you.”
Normally, he would have paid her a compliment, suggest that she outshone every other woman present—which she did—but not even he could manage such falseness when guilt weighed heavily upon him.
She seemed momentarily disappointed by his shortness, but assumed a polite expression. She curtsied to Vendra and said, “I have surely interrupted. I shall leave you to your meals, then.” She glided back to her friends, who were laughing behind hands and gawking.
He plunked into his chair and proceeded to throw back the remainder of his whisky.
“Today is the day,” Vendra said.
Arlow was so surprised, he sputtered. His lungs ceased to operate, refused to draw breath. “Today?” he wheezed.
Vendra smirked. “Yes. Quade telegraphed yesterday.” She reached into her pocket and produced a small slip of paper. Arlow seized it, his hand feeling oddly heavy. He read the short message and glanced at the clock on the wall. “We have only thirty minutes.”
She quirked a brow at him. “Does it take you longer than half an hour to walk to the throne room?”
Arlow hid his shaking hands in his lap. “No, of course not. As I said, everything is in place. It can be done.”
“Very good.” She stood, tossing her linen napkin on her unused plate. “Then you’d better pay for your drink.”
Arlow assented numbly. He carefully averted his eyes from a particular corner of the room, where the ringing of feminine laughter pulled at his senses. He left an uncharacteristically generous tip, straightened his robes with a forceful jerk, and strode from the restaurant in Vendra’s wake.
The palace grounds, an expanse of manicured lawns broken by walkways and gardens, sloped gently towards the front gates.
Vendra set a dauntless pace up the avenue—the common name for the roofed, pillared walkway that connected the palace commerce sector with the throne room. Arlow’s self-assurance withered steadily as they marched. He shot sidelong glances at his companion. Her face was set in determined lines. She showed no outward sign of doubt or hesitance; in fact, in all of their dealings together, he had never witnessed in her a single flicker of compassion.
Arlow was no fool. He saw the effect Quade had on people, he felt it himself and fought the sway of that honeyed voice. Vendra was Quade’s, body and spirit. She was his oldest supporter, his lover, his right arm. When Arlow looked into her eyes, he detected something unnaturally flat, a certain deadness within.
These thoughts not bolstering his weakening resolve, he turned his face towards the grounds, admired the orderly beauty. His eyes were trained upon an empty hill near the lake when, quite suddenly, the hill was no longer empty. Two figures appeared in an instant.
Arlow froze mid-step, his mouth parted. Not just two figures—two Cosanta. Yarrow and Ko-Jin.
Vendra, whose gaze had followed his own, snorted. “They’d have been wiser to keep their distance.”
“Perhaps we should not move forward today.”
Arlow watched his two friends embrace, and a soft ache took up in his chest. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, Yarrow was gone. Ko-Jin alone took off down the hill, his braid whipping in the wind, his gait slouched.
Vendra laughed, a chilling sound. “He’ll be suffering from the stoppage in his dosage. He’ll not pose much of a threat just now. We proceed as planned.”
Arlow trailed after her, but the gnawing in his gut redoubled.
The throne room extended before them: a long hall, all gleaming marble and gilded molding, lit by wide windows in the ceiling. The moderate-sized crowd parted for them, allowing Arlow to position himself at the head of the standing gallery.
The hall was manned by dozens of green-coated security guards, all standing with their famed rigid uprightness. Those on the ground had hands to sword hilts. Above, a second group with crossbows gazed down on the proceedings. Arlow scanned their impassive faces until he made eye contact with Pappon Jasser, second-in-command of the guard. Pappon’s features were as inscrutable as his men’s, but upon meeting Arlow’s eye he bowed his head ever so slightly.
Arlow hadn’t attended an audience since his first month at court. Spirits, how excited he’d been then; how naïve. Back before he had discovered that the audiences, as with most of what the king did publicly, were a mere pageant. He heard only three petitions a day, and those were patently spurious. It was all designed to give the king the appearance of caring for his people, without his having to actually care for them.
The thought made Arlow’s jaw tighten. He could never forgive this king for the disillusionment he had inspired. After idolizing the man as a child, after spending nigh on a decade in the study of governance and state management, to find the leader of the three nations indifferent and indolent was a blow.
It would seem the man was feeling especially indifferent and indolent on that day, as the minutes steadily ticked beyond the appointed time of the audience. After thirty minutes of standing, the crowd grew shifty.
At forty-five minutes past, Arlow began to hope that there would be no audience that day. Almost as soon as the thought entered his mind, the door beyond the golden thrones opened and the king himself appeared, his broad chest bound in a garish red satin waistcoat, his bald head gleaming brighter than the crown atop it.
“About bloody time,” Vendra murmured beside him.
Arlow, with the rest of the assembly, went down to a knee and pressed his forehead to his fist. He turned to Vendra and whispered, “Yes, rather unsporting of the chap, being late to his own assassination.”
“All rise,” a deep voice commanded.
Arlow stood, his knees popping as he did so, and found that the queen and prince had appeared as well. The king’s throne boasted a tall, intricately carved back that towered like a spire. It was topped with a great diamond, the size of an apple, which cast small rainbows on the far wall. The queen and prince flanked him in more modest, though still ornate, seats.
A stroke of good fortune: three of the four in one place. Yet it gave Arlow no pleasure. The prince was a good sort; it seemed a pity that he should have to die.
One cannot remove a monarchy without removing the monarchs, a part of his mind that sounded rather like Quade Asher said.
The first petitioner came forward, a small man in a clean but worn suit. “Your majesty,” he began, in suitably deferential tones.
Vendra nudged him. “Give the signal, Arlow,” she said between her teeth. “No reason to wait.”
She regarded him, her lips pressed in a smug smile. Clearly she didn’t believe he would do it.
He wasn’t so certain himself. As the small man droned on, Arlow’s thoughts were at war between the resolve he had formed with cold logic and the uncertainty born of human sympathy.
Perhaps there is another way…a third option. Perhaps, if I could speak to Yarrow, we could work together to find some alternate, peaceful solution…
This introspection, and the pleas of the petitioner, were cut short by the sound of the great main doors being thrown open and banging against the wall. In the entryway stood the impressive form of Arlow’s old friend, Sung Ko-Jin.
His time of imprisonment had altered him. Now, at this closer vantage, Arlow could discern a new hollowness in his cheeks, the bruise-like circles beneath his eyes. He looked wretched (though, blight the man, even wretchedness seemed to suit him).
Ko-Jin’s gaze swept over the crowd, and for a second Arlow thought he would go unnoticed, but then that dark-eyed scrutiny wheeled back and landed directly on him.
In the moment that their eyes met, Arlow perceived the change in his friend’s features—the anger and betrayal—and his windpipe constricted. If he was hated by Ko-Jin, always easy-going to a fault, then there was no going back. No chance to change course.
He, Arlow, had made his bed. Time to sleep in it.
He drew in a breath and belted, in a loud baritone that echoed through the otherwise still hall, the chorus of a well-known Dalish drinking song:
“Oh, take me where the drinks are strong,
The land of barley, malts, and foam,
Oh, take me where I do belong,
To the place they call the Spirits’ Home!”
The song was greeted with a moment of silence before several bystanders broke into nervous laughs. Arlow groaned internally, regretting his choice of signal. It had seemed funny to him at the time, but there could be nothing humorous at such an occasion.
The collective sigh of swords drawn from sheaths silenced the laughter.
The whiz of a loosed arrow sounded, and a bolt blossomed in the king’s chest. The ruler of Trinitas looked down at the shaft in one final moment of confusion before toppling face forward from his throne.
Bray shut her eyes and swallowed, willing her nausea to subside, willing her hands to cease their tremors. Sweat slithered down her temple. She wandered up an unfamiliar hall in the Chiona living quarters, her eyes darting from room number to room number.
Yarrow, beside her, walked with the air of a mouse amongst cats. His anxiousness seemed to have increased since dropping Ko-Jin off at the palace, leaving him the only Cosanta on the Isle.