Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2)

by March McCarron

  “I’m quite alright,” she said, though he knew she would hardly admit it if she weren’t. “It is good to see you, my son.”

  “I’m sorry it took so long. I’m sorry you’ve had to suffer on my account.”

  She stroked the back of his head, just the way she always had when he was a boy. “Well, better late than later, as my husband would have said.”

  He laughed, and the knot in his abdomen finally eased.

  26

  The man discerned a female voice shouting, “Yarrow! Yarrow!” It was not until he heard the call several times before he recalled that ‘Yarrow’ was his name.

  He opened his mouth to respond, then clicked it shut again. He bit his lip, overcome with indecision. He did not know this person—whether she was friend or foe. It was not the woman Trinna, he felt confident. This voice was deeper and a good deal more emotive—she, whoever she was, sounded desperate, but from what that desperation derived he could not say.

  She moved closer to his cell, the smacking of her rapid footfall amplified.

  “Yarrow,” she bellowed again, and then in a softer voice, “Blight it, where are you?”

  He opened his mouth anew, poised to speak, but once again thought better. He had too little information to make an intelligent choice, so he’d do better to keep his promise and remain where he was. If this woman was indeed a friend of his, he would no doubt learn of it and find her again.

  Besides, he thought with a sour twist of the mouth. I’m still not wearing a stitch.

  The woman moved on, her calls growing distant once again. He did not relax, however, unsure whether his silence had been prudent or witless.

  He waited in thoughtful silence for some time, hoping that Quade’s promise of clothing and food would arrive. He pulled his knees up and tucked his arms between his thighs and chest, but he still trembled with cold.

  The countless lacerations across his flesh stung, but nowhere so much as his hand, the pain of which seemed to be the center of his being. He tried not to linger on it, unsuccessfully. It was difficult to think of anything other than his agony and his ignorance. Where could one’s mind flee when there were no memories to provide escape? He tried to imagine other places, nice places, but he knew only dark and dankness—flat, cold stone and metal bars.

  People moved in the hallway; he could hear their footfalls. It sounded as though doors were being unlocked, many of them.

  “He has to be here, doesn’t he?” a male voice said, not far from Yarrow’s own chamber. “We should search the rooms. He could be gagged.”

  “Right,” the same woman from before said, hope blossoming in her voice. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right. Let’s unlock all of the doors.”

  Metal jangled and the cell door next to Yarrow’s opened. “Yarrow?” the man said, his footsteps circling the adjacent room.

  Yarrow’s heartbeat accelerated. He froze, muscles tensing.

  “I swear,” the woman said in a strangled voice. “When we find him, I’ll…I’ll…” She swallowed. “I’ll just kill him for putting me through this.”

  The other gave a snorting laugh that sounded forced. “Fine, you can kill him. But let’s find him first.”

  The man called Yarrow frowned at the floor beneath him. Were there people in this world who weren’t contemplating his murder? Quade, at least, had promised friendship. And clothing.

  His resolve hardening, he decided he had best hide. The chamber was largely empty, but he thought if he angled the chair he’d been bound to and crouched behind it he might escape detection, as long as the space was not properly lit.

  He padded barefoot to the chair and, careful to make no noise, to not allow its feet to drag, he positioned the seat so that it was cocked diagonally from the wall. Once it was in place, he knelt and did his best to stabilize his breathing.

  A key clinked in the lock and the door opened. Someone raised a torch that threw a dim pool of light in the room.

  “Yarrow?” the woman asked, stepping into the cell. “Are you here?”

  He held his breath, knowing that his feet were likely visible. She, whoever she was, stood not much more than an arm’s length away.

  If she looked, she would surely see him. He saw her.

  Her pale face was cast in sharp shadows, her mouth pressed in a grim line. The torchlight illuminated the halo of copper hair that wreathed her face. Gazing at her, something within him stirred.

  She heaved a sigh, then her shoulders squared. She turned to her partner. “No sense in unlocking all these cells if they’re empty. I’ll just do a quick pass.”

  There was movement—the man handing the woman his torch. The light grew brighter, and Yarrow strove to shrink into himself, to cease breathing.

  Then, much to his amazement, the woman walked, not back out into the hallway, but straight through the wall of the chamber. His eyes went wide and he slumped back down to the ground. He’d seen, in his short existence, one woman who could look inside minds and another who could pass through walls. He thought again of the enigmatic parting the blond lad had given—‘He doesn’t know who or what he is.’

  What, exactly, was he?

  “Yarrow?” Bray cried, passing through yet another wall. She could hear the pleading note in her own voice, but didn’t care. Finding him was all that mattered—everything would be alright once they were together. Her chest ached and her eyes burned, and she cursed herself. Stop, she thought. He’s not dead. He’s not.

  She was so totally consumed by her need to locate him that she forgot who else she might find in this prison. Forgot, until she walked through a cell and found herself face to face with the object of her nightmares.

  At first glance, he was exactly as he had once been. He had the same thinning brown hair, the same bulbous eyes, the same jowls, the same towering height.

  Her torch hit the floor and rolled in a half circle.

  “Bray?” Rance Marron asked, his gravelly voice disbelieving.

  She was, in an instant, a child again. Her heart palpitated in her chest, rapid but weak. Her guts formed a tight coil, even as her fists balled. He just stood there, staring at her, making no move.

  Yet, she felt him on top of her, crushing all the air from her small body—as he had done. She felt him inside her, a violation painful and sickening and tainting, like oil spilled into fresh water. Knowing he’d made her a filthy thing—knowing it to the horrible sound of wheezing grunts and slapping flesh. Hot breath in her face, the floor molding digging into her back. A torn funeral dress, bloody petticoats.

  He gagged, his sallow face turning a hideous shade of purple. She realized, all at once, that they were on the ground, her atop him, her hands about his throat, squeezing the life from him the slow way. He twitched beneath her, like dying things do.

  She could not recall choosing to strangle him, nor enacting the plan—did not remember taking him to the ground. Horror at her own lack of control caused her to loosen her grip.

  He gasped, drawing a raking breath. “Don’t,” he croaked.

  She narrowed her eyes, and when she spoke her voice was a hiss. “Don’t what?”

  “Ki-kill me,” he pleaded.

  With a growing sense of revulsion, she understood the truth: he was pathetic, blubbering up at her. He was not the figure of her nightmares any longer—she perceived that he had grown flabby and gray, with great paunches under his eyes, a body that was simultaneously shriveled and bloated.

  As this fact flashed through her mind, her hatred redoubled. How dare he be pathetic, when she wanted him to be evil incarnate. To have been ruined by such a sad, sorry man was infinitely worse.

  Her knees dug into the cold ground, her chest heaved.

  “Why shouldn’t I kill you?” she asked, the question escaping in barely a whisper. She kept her hands round his throat, but had loosened enough that his coloring shifted from puce to pink.

  His eyes bulged. “Because…because…” He seemed at a loss. She tightened her g
rasp. “I’m…your…family,” he managed at last, each word uttered with difficulty.

  Her mouth twisted in disgust. This creature was most certainly not her family. Family did not do the things he had done. No—her father had been her family, and later Peer and Adearre. Never him.

  Adearre’s name echoed in her mind. She tried to shoo him away, swatted at him like a pesky fly, but his face and voice were suddenly first in her thoughts.

  He would not kill. He would not want her to.

  ‘What good would it do, love?’ he seemed to whisper.

  She released her uncle and scrambled away, not wanting him close. He raised a hand to massage his throat, gagging.

  Bray ran quivering fingers over her face. Her muscles were taut, her pulse still ticking rapidly, but she forced herself to breathe. To think.

  Quade had wanted this, she remembered bitterly. He had arranged this very dilemma for her, knowing her history. She felt, abruptly, ill—ill and weary.

  Ko-Jin’s shouts sounded nearby, his voice seeming to wake her from a spell. “Bray? Did you find—” he cut off, spying her uncle. Keys jangled and the door sprung open. “You’re free to go, sir.”

  Uncle Rance darted a look in her direction, bloodshot eyes wild.

  “Go,” she whispered.

  She stared at the floor, the space between her hands, pressed flat against the cold. She heard him scramble away, listened to his shuffling retreat until it faded out of hearing. She took steadying breaths.

  Ko-Jin’s hand appeared before her face, palm up. She slipped her fingers in his and he hauled her to her feet.

  “No giving up,” he said, knocking his shoulder into hers in a friendly way. “If he isn’t down here, we’ll go talk to Roldon’s new Chiona friend. She’s got a gift for finding people.”

  Bray nodded dumbly, eyes still downcast.

  “By the way,” he said with a smirk. “You know you smell like shit, right?” She snorted and steadied herself. “We’ll find him,” he added, tone serious. “Quade wouldn’t kill a person he could use, and Spirits know Yarrow’s got a head full of useful facts.”

  This penetrated the fog in her mind and she straightened, heart seeming to lift in her chest. “Yes,” she said, her voice finally sounding normal in her own ears. “That’s a good point, actually. Let’s keep looking.”

  Arlow groaned and prodded at his swollen eye. He felt positively battered. He imagined his back would bear boot-shaped bruises.

  He forced himself to his feet and observed the square. The crowd had half dispersed—Quade was nowhere to be seen.

  “Excuse me,” he said to an elderly man who was trying to pass him. “What happened? Where did Quade Asher go?”

  The man knit two snowy brows. “What, you didn’t see it?”

  “No,” Arlow responded, tone dry.

  “Well,” the man said, milky brown eyes alight with wonder. “It’s the blightingest thing I ever did see. I was here, hoping to see some poor folks get hanged, and then I looked up at the man who’s been called the hero of Accord, and I just know, you know the way a man sometimes does, that this Quade fellow ain’t no hero. In fact, he’s a real bad element—got nasty, cold eyes, that seem to bore right into you.”

  “Yes, yes,” Arlow said. “I caught all of that.”

  The man went on, unperturbed. “And he looks like he’s going to kill this little Chaskuan girl, for some Spirits-known reason, and we’re all feeling anxious. And then an arrow comes down, as if right from the Spirits Home itself, and he falls down.”

  “He died?”

  “No, that’s the real wonder of it. Because he weren’t dead, and this yeller-haired fellow—a Chisanta, you know—he swings this great old sword, and I’m thinking I’ll be seeing this Quade fellow’s head come clean off—which I’m not sure he ain’t deserving—but then bam.” The elder motioned with his hand in imitation of an explosion, his milky eyes alight.

  “Bam?”

  “That’s right—bam—”

  “No, no,” an elderly woman, who Arlow presumed to be the man’s wife, cut in. “It weren’t a bam, more of a pop.”

  The older gentleman pondered this for a second. “Right you are, dear. It was a pop.”

  Arlow sucked in a beleaguered breath. “A pop, and then what?”

  “And then he was just gone. Vanished right into the air in a blink.”

  Arlow’s expression bleakened. “I see.”

  “It was all confusion for a bit, but then none other than the king takes the stage.”

  “The king?” Arlow asked, brow creased. “You mean the Pauper’s King?”

  “No, no, young feller. I mean the true king, who was the prince. Seems he and his sister ain’t dead. He tells us all—and says it real handsome—”

  “He is handsome,” the woman adds, unhelpfully.

  “Says he and his sister survived, but it was Quade what had the late king and queen assassinated. Says Quade has some magic mojo that makes people confused, and that’s why we might be having a hard time believing it. Said a lot of nice things.”

  Arlow wondered how long he had been unconscious, that he should have missed this entire speech. Jo-Kwan Bellra was nowhere in sight, he assured himself with a quick scan.

  For the best, that. He suspected that his part in deterring Quade would not atone for his having organized the deaths of the late king and queen.

  He opened his mouth to thank the man for his time, but the sound of his own name stole his attention.

  “Arlow, there you are,” Mae called.

  The plaza had half cleared, but she still had to weave her way through bystanders to reach him. She appeared unharmed, he ascertained with relief.

  The elderly couple waved and strolled stiffly past. Mae bounded up to Arlow with apparent high spirits, her cheeks rosy and breath labored.

  She peered up at him with big eyes. “Who gave you the shiner, then?”

  He shrugged. “Old friend.”

  She snorted. “Your old friends never seem terrible friendly.” She waved a dismissive hand, brushing this aside. “But, listen to what’s happened. The king—you know, the old prince—he’s heard how my brother helped and he’s asked for a meeting—a consultation, in fact.”

  Arlow suppressed an approving smile. Smartly done, Jo-Kwan. “I think your brother will find this king far more amenable than the last.”

  The light had dimmed, what had been a chilly day growing steadily colder. Some few snowflakes swirled in the cyclone of wind that seemed ever to haunt the plaza. Arlow clutched his coat tighter and scanned his surroundings. Must get out of the public eye, he thought. By succeeding in ousting Quade from Accord, he had surely made himself a wanted man. Who, save for Mae, would trust him?

  Mae, either reading his face or having similar thoughts, said, “Your people, they won’t be accepting you now, huh?”

  Arlow heaved a sigh. “Whether I will be persecuted is hard to say, but accepted? No, I should think not.”

  “That ain’t fair,” Mae said. “You were under his influence, you couldn’t help what you did.”

  Arlow’s lips thinned and he averted his eyes. It was true that he had, to some degree, been under Quade’s spell. But he knew that his actions were still in part his own. He had wavered, had weighed and measured, and had, in the end, chosen. The degree to which he was culpable could possibly be debated, but he was certainly not innocent.

  “I’ll have to lay low for a time, I think,” he said at length. “But first I need to look for someone.”

  He marched through what remained of the crowd, towards the capital building. He bowed his head and drew his lapels up against the wind, hoping to pass unnoticed.

  Mae caught up with him. “Who do you need to find?”

  “A friend of mine,” Arlow answered. “Likely, his other friends have already seen to him, but I won’t be at ease until I know for certain.”

  If Mae found this vague, she said nothing, and simply kept pace. There were a great number
of reunions underway in the lawn and lobby—Chisanta reuniting with their families. There was a general aura of relief, of danger being passed.

  With all of the emotion and chaos, he and Mae were able to walk by undetected. He guided her to the stairway that led to the cells below ground.

  As they descended, she asked, “So, where do you think we should hide out?”

  He paused as his feet hit the landing. His mood abruptly bounced. “You mean to come with me?” he asked in surprise.

  “Course.”

  A peculiar, tight feeling rose in the back of his throat. “Why? Surely your brother would prefer to have your aid here. Besides, what about your shop? Your curtains?”

  “You’re real hung up on that curtains comment,” she said, laughingly.

  Hope and happiness threatened to take hold of him, but he tamped it down. “And Foy?”

  She frowned, her brown eyes slitting. “What about Foy?”

  “He proposed, did he not? You indicated that you were undecided whether you should accept.”

  “Ah, that,” she said, sounding uncomfortable. “I already told him no, so not a problem.”

  “You did, indeed?” Arlow took a step towards her. “Why turn a good man like Foy down? He’d no doubt fill the position admirably.” He couldn’t see her clearly in the dimness, but he thought he detected a blush. “Well-educated, close to your brother, tall enough to hang your curtains without a stoo—”

  “Would you shut it with the bleeding curtains, already?”

  He leaned in, so close that their noses were nearly touching. His heart throbbed against his rib cage. “So, the question remains, why run off with me when you could marry a man like him?” His head cocked to the side in question. In that dark, quiet place, it seemed they alone existed. It seemed his hopes and fears were not at all foolish.

  “Do you not want me to stay, then? Is that what you’re saying?”

  He wished she hadn’t asked that, not so directly. It gave him no choice but to answer honestly, and he realized all at once how vulnerable such a confession would make him. She had the power to wound him—he had, sometime in the past weeks, given her that power.