Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2)

by March McCarron

  “No,” he answered, voice choked. “Please. Please stay.”

  Her hands darted out, thumbs hooked round the curve of his jaw. Her lips branded hotly against his before he’d even registered her intent. No coy maiden’s peck—Mae’s kiss was hungry, deep, as if she’d been wanting him for ages. He took hold of her hips and answered her passion with his own, a thousand warring sensations rushing through his body while his mind remained blissfully mute. When they pulled apart, panting, he could not help but grin.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but paused when he heard voices and footsteps approaching from the prison.

  “Trevva will know,” Ko-Jin’s voice sounded. “He must be in Accord.”

  “Where is she?” Bray Marron answered.

  Arlow, thinking a meeting with Ko-Jin at that moment highly ill-advised, guided Mae beneath the stairway and crouched. He put a finger to his lips, so Mae would swallow her question.

  “Likely still in the plaza,” Ko-Jin said.

  Arlow listened to their feet hammer up the stairway and out of earshot. He released a sigh of relief and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank the Spirits for that.”

  Mae quirked a sandy brow at him.

  “Bray—she’s alive.” When Mae appeared no more enlightened, he added, “The girl you shot on the train.”

  Her forehead puckered, and then she too exhaled mightily. She blinked and licked her lips. “Good.”

  Arlow squeezed her shoulder, then glanced up at the underside of the stair with a furrowed brow. They didn’t have Yarrow with them. Odd.

  “Let’s go. This shouldn’t take long.”

  Arlow guided Mae into the dimly lit hallway. The cells had been unlocked—most stood ajar. The place resounded with silence. It seemed they were alone.

  Still, Arlow strode to the cell that had held Yarrow. The door stood open, but Arlow stepped inside anyway, just to be free of doubt.

  “Yarrow?” he asked the empty space.

  Mae crossed her arms. “Not here?”

  Arlow shook his head. “It would seem not. But he certainly was. Do me a favor and bring one of those torches in here. I’ll sweep for clues.”

  Really, he intended to search for blood on the floor, but he couldn’t bring himself to say so aloud. That his friend might have been killed was too horrible to contemplate.

  Mae left for only a moment and returned with a light. Arlow accepted the torch and bent low.

  “Yar?” he asked, his head tilted to the side. There was definitely someone, crouched, hiding behind the chair that had held his friend. “Is that you?”

  The man didn’t respond, so Arlow crept closer. He dragged the chair aside and held the torch aloft. The man held up a hand to shield his eyes from the light. He was nude, covered in filth, bruises, and blood. His hair was shoulder-length, greasy and tangled. But the light gray eyes were certainly his friend’s. “Blight it, Yar, why are you hiding? It’s me. I might have made some mistakes, but you can’t think I’d hurt you.”

  Though it clearly was Yarrow Lamhart, Arlow experienced a strange doubt. It looked like his friend, certainly, but his expression, something about his eyes, seemed somehow…other.

  “We are friends?” Yarrow asked. “You and I?”

  From behind him, Mae said. “I’ll go and look for some clothes, alright?”

  Arlow heard her retreat, but held his gaze on Yarrow. “Of course—since we were boys. What’s happened to you, man?”

  “Do you have proof?” Yarrow asked. “That I know you. You could be lying.”

  Arlow squinted at his friend. “Are you saying you don’t remember me?”

  “I don’t remember anything.”

  Arlow’s mouth parted then closed again. He bent close to peer into Yarrow’s eyes. “Pupils look fine. Does your head ache? Are you concussed?”

  “My head,” he said slowly, “is about the only part of me that does not ache.”

  Arlow quirked his head to the other side. “It can’t be the third sacrifice, can it? I know you made the first—but three?” He delved into his coat and extricated his pocket watch. Flicking it open, he extended it to Yarrow, who took it with a shaky hand. “Look at the picture. You and I and Ko-Jin, when we were sixteen.”

  Yarrow’s brows drew down. “This man was just here,” he said softly. “The man to the right is me, you’re saying?”

  Arlow grew increasingly alarmed. “Of course. Don’t you recognize yourself?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never seen my reflection.” He reached up with a hand bound in bloody bandages and traced fingers over his face, as if trying to see himself by touch.

  “Ah, well, I can usually catch my reflection in the glass.” Arlow tilted the watch in demonstration.

  Yarrow moved the pocket watch in a slow circle, his dark brows drawn down seriously. Whether he saw himself or merely gave up Arlow was not certain, but he snapped the timepiece closed and handed it back.

  Mae reappeared, a bundle in her hands. “Found some constable uniforms in a closet down the hallway. Should serve for now.”

  She passed the clothing to Arlow, then returned to the hallway to give them privacy.

  Yarrow tugged on the trousers, which hung loosely on his thin frame, and buttoned them. “I am meant to wait here, for Quade.”

  “Well, you’ll be waiting a long time. Quade had to flee the city. There was a bit of a coup this afternoon.”

  Yarrow froze with a shirt only half on.

  “You should smile, man.” Arlow said. “We won.”

  This seemed to puzzle Yarrow all the more, but he began again to button the shirt. “If you are indeed my friend, perhaps you could enlighten me.”

  “I’d be happy to, mate,” Arlow said with a grin. “You always said I was your most trustworthy friend. But not here, I think. I’ve made a few enemies of late and need to be away.”

  Yarrow buttoned up the blue constable jacket, but found that the shoes were too small for his feet. “Where are we?”

  “Accord,” Arlow answered. Yarrow stared at him blankly. “You know, the capitol?”

  Yarrow shook his head, unfamiliar. Arlow’s mind spun. Spirits, Yarrow, what have you done to yourself? “Are there gloves in the pockets of the cloak?” he asked.

  Yarrow extracted two plain white gloves and glanced up in confusion. “If you have made the third sacrifice, then it stands to reason you’ve also made the second. You should put those on.”

  Bray’s alive, Arlow remembered. She could not have survived naturally. He must have given up touch to save her—poor fellow.

  Yarrow gazed at him as if he were speaking a different language.

  “I’ll explain later,” Arlow promised. “Just put the gloves on.”

  Yarrow, with difficulty, managed to force his bandaged hand into the glove. “Is the girl coming too?”

  Arlow turned to find Mae leaning in the doorway, her face cast in shadow. “Yes. She’s coming.”

  Arlow surveyed his friend up and down, unsure whether the uniform would function as a disguise or not. “We need to slip out of the city unseen, so keep your head down.”

  They mounted the stair, and Arlow hoped his luck would be enough to get them out of Accord. There were gallows in the square still, and he’d rather not be hanging from one of them.

  Yarrow’s breath caught in his throat.

  The sun hung low in the sky, an orange orb above a thousand pools of water—the marshes, Arlow had called them. The horizon boasted a multitude of brilliant colors: purples, oranges, yellows, all bleeding together. The air smelt of heather and the fresh breeze tugged at his clothes—cold, but refreshing. A seagull cawed and swooped over his head. There was so much life around him: frogs croaking, tall grass swaying in the wind, gnats buzzing around his face.

  His chest swelled as he gazed around, absorbing every detail. Life was not all darkness and pain, it would seem. There was beauty, too.

  The steady clopping of mule hooves against the road added a steady
beat to the evening, like the pulsing of a heart. The gig trundled beneath him, jostling his aching body, but he was too engrossed in his first sunset to be bothered.

  “Atta girl, Poppy Seed,” the blonde-haired woman murmured, clicking her tongue.

  Arlow steadily relaxed the further from the city they traveled. Now, with the capitol far behind them, he cast an arm along the back of the gig and lounged in his seat, plainly in high spirits. “There’s an inn not too far south of here we can stop at for the night. Excellent ale, half-decent food.” He turned to Yarrow. “Innkeep has this collection of ancient Dalish brewery texts, centuries old, or so he says.”

  Arlow paused, waiting for a reaction. Yarrow didn’t know what exactly his friend expected. Did the Yarrow of old have some kind of opinions on the craft of brewing? It was an uncomfortable enterprise, trying to guess at his own opinions.

  “Oh?” he said, shooting for nonchalance. “So I like ale, then?”

  Arlow laughed. “Well, I was thinking more of the books, but, yes, I suppose you have a fondness for ale as well.” There was something decidedly wicked in the glint of his eyes and the slant of his grin. “In fact, you’re known as the old hollow-leg around the Cape, can drink me and Ko-Jin clean under the table.” He turned to Mae confidentially. “He’s a bit of a wild card, Yarrow.” Then he straightened again. “This one time, years ago, we were out in Cosanta City celebrating…oh, what was it?” He snapped. “Right, Ko-Jin’s birthday. Anyway, we had all rather over-imbibed already. Poor Roldon was passed out—of course, Roldon always passes out before the fun begins, it’s his signature move—but you go and order another bottle. A terrible idea that, I tried to stop it, but you would not be reasoned with. Halfway through, Ko-Jin decides we simply must go down to the shore and swim. An awful notion, I warn him, but…”

  Yarrow smiled and shook his head as he listened. He didn’t trust a word this Arlow said—there was something too mischievous in his eye—but Yarrow was grateful for the ease of his company. He truly felt like an old friend, and the idea that this person knew him, had known him for many years, made him feel somehow more anchored to this world, as if he already belonged in it.

  “—And when we returned, soaking wet and dripping all over the hallway, the innkeeper insisted that we strip before we ruined her rugs. And so—”

  Yarrow glanced up at the sliver of the moon. He breathed deeply and felt some of the tightness leave his shoulders. Perhaps when the blond man had referred to ‘his people,’ Arlow had been the one he meant. He felt content, fortunate even. There would be time enough to piece it all together, to solve the mystery of himself.

  Despite this, he glanced over his shoulder, back towards the rapidly receding city. It was as if something tugged at his spirit, some tenuous strand that connected him to that place. He felt like a kite being towed away by the wind, still attached to something far below. If they continued riding south, he wondered if that cord would snap, freeing him.

  He shook these fancies off and settled back into the gig. “So, I like ale, books, and swimming. What else?”

  Arlow grinned. “Oh, fear not, my empty-headed friend, I can teach you all there is to know about Yarrow Lamhart.”

  “Careful,” Mae said to Yarrow, with a fond look in Arlow’s direction. “He’s all cock and bull.”

  Arlow made a great show of appearing affronted and Yarrow laughed. “I’d gathered that much already, but thank you.”

  “If you have no faith in me, then I won’t even tell you about the time that you—”

  The mule kept up its slow and steady pace, taking them well and away from Accord. They passed the time pleasantly enough, eager for the comforts of a night at an inn.

  Yarrow darted another glance behind them. All the while, that tugging sensation, whatever it might be, still did not slacken; did not sever.

  EPILOGUE

  Ko-Jin, perched on a dressing stool, hissed at yet another needle prick. The palace valets seemed to have confused his corpus for a pincushion.

  “Apologies, General Sung,” the man said once again. He was short and lithe; every hair, including those of his minute mustache, perfectly in place.

  Ko-Jin ground his teeth, a new habit that was causing him some aggravating jaw pain—one of many new chronic irritants in his life.

  “And now for the jacket.” The valet helped him into the garment as if he were incapable of dressing himself, and began fussing with the seams, muttering about the ‘hang.’

  “No,” Ko-Jin said, gaping at his reflection. “No, I can’t wear this.”

  Bright red with gold buttons, a cream sash covered in embroidery; he looked absurd. He imagined even Arlow Bowlerham would find such an outfit offensively dandyish—Arlow Bowlerham, for Spirits’ sake!

  “It is customary,” the valet answered, sounding fatigued. Likely he was, after having already argued over the short pants and stockings, the heels on the formal footwear.

  Ko-Jin made a sound deep in his throat like he was choking. “At least get rid of the tassel things.” He flicked the gold strands adorning his shoulders and watched them sway like the fringe of a lady’s parasol.

  “Epaulets,” the man corrected in a nasal drawl. “And no, I certainly cannot remove them.”

  “What?” Ko-Jin grumbled. “They’re load-bearing tassels?”

  He watched the dressing room door open in the mirror.

  “Lieutenant General Petterton,” a servant announced, as the man himself entered.

  Ko-Jin refrained from sighing and turned, disengaging from his unhappy valet. “Lieutenant General?”

  The man saluted and posed like a toy soldier, rigid and proper. His barrel chest sported a similar but less garish coat and sash. With his dignified mien and silvering hair, the regalia looked marginally less ridiculous on him. “Message from the gates. The Alverra party has just arrived.”

  “And?”

  Petterton’s exquisitely arched brows soared. “They asked that their request for entrance be expedited so they might attend the ceremony. The Alverras are, as I’m sure you know, one of the foremost families in Adourra.”

  Ko-Jin hadn’t known, but the information did little to impress him. “No exceptions. No one enters the city without passing through quarantine, as has been clearly communicated. If they hoped to attend the ceremony, then they should have arrived earlier.”

  “But, General,” Petterton said. “They are close relatives of the royal family, second cousins to the King. Surely—”

  “I don’t care if Jo-Kwan’s conjoined twin is at the gate. No quarantine, no entrance.”

  The man stared at him as if he were being unreasonable. They, none of them, understood just how critical it was to keep Quade’s influence out of the city. Accord was their base, the only safe place in the kingdoms—an advantage that could be easily compromised if they were not strictly cautious.

  Ko-Jin assumed a countenance he’d been practicing in the mirror that morning—an ‘are-you-really-questioning-my-almighty-authority’ expression. He’d used Chae-Na as a model; the girl could assume an air of royal command as completely and instantaneously as donning a hat.

  It must have been to some effect. The gentleman bowed with an, “As you say, General,” and retreated.

  Ko-Jin’s shoulders slumped. He caught another glimpse of himself in the mirror, which did nothing to improve his mood. He didn’t know the person looking back at him.

  How have I come to this? he wondered yet again. Mere months ago he had been cooling his heels at the Cape, had decided to join Yarrow on a brief trip to Greystone out of sheer boredom. And now, somehow, he was General Sung. General…

  The door creaked open, and he was surprised to hear the swishing of skirts. Not his valet, then.

  “You look…” a familiar female voice began.

  “Stupid,” he said, watching her in the mirror.

  “Not the word I would have chosen.”

  He made a show of saluting. “General Sung Ko-Jin, reporting f
or duty.”

  Chae-Na did not smile—he had not expected her to—her sense of propriety usually superseded her sense of humor. Instead, she stood surveying him in a way that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Like he was being measured and found wanting.

  “You will not earn respect if you continue to mock the institution.”

  He deflated and offered her a rueful smile. “I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It just feels as though they’re all play-acting, like soldiers in a story. They’ve maintained the clothes and the ranks and all of the pomp and ceremony, but nothing of actual value—no martial skills, no useful training. This military, it’s a great big joke, except no one’s laughing.”

  “Give it time.” She set down the long, slim box she’d been holding in her arms. She wore the most ornate gown he had ever seen, the skirts impossibly wide, panels of embroidery and pearls running down the bodice. He thought it must have doubled her weight, wondered how she managed to clear the doorway.

  “Hiding a family of five under those skirts?” She pursed her lips in response and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah…so, what’s in the box?”

  Chae-Na unhooked the clasps and opened the lid, revealing a magnificent sword cradled in a velvet cushion. “Jo-Kwan wanted to give it to you himself, but he could not get away. He thought it was important you have it for the ceremony.”

  Ko-Jin extended a hand reverently, tracing a finger over the design on the hilt—the silhouette of a tree. “This isn’t…”

  “Treeblade. Yes, it is.”

  Ko-Jin’s breath caught in his throat. He had never been more awestruck in his life. He felt like a little boy, suddenly—and yet, simultaneously, he felt older, serious, wishing to be even a fraction as wise as the blade’s previous owners.

  He lifted the sword from its cushion. It was perfection, like a song in his hand. Amazing how untarnished it was, given its unfathomable age, forged in a time before modern history, passed down from great man to great man. A legend.

  “They say, long ago, it came from the Chisanta,” Chae-Na said. “Fitting that it should be returned to one.”