The stage, too, was in chaos. At first she couldn’t understand what was happening. It seemed as though ordinary citizens had taken it upon themselves to attack—rough clad men and women, many with weapons no more refined than crowbars and four-by-fours. Then she spotted a tattoo upon a neck—the crowned fist.
Pauper’s King men, she realized, and could have crowed. Quade must have been very foolish indeed, to have made an enemy of such a man.
“Do you see Quade?” Bray shouted.
Su-Hwan silently pointed and Bray followed her direction. Quade Asher gazed out into the sea of people, his mouth thin and face pale.
“There’s Whythe,” Peer said, taking off as if his boots were on springs. Bray followed, climbing up onto the platform in his wake.
Peer pounded through the squabble and Bray attempted to keep pace, despite his longer legs. She heard, to her left, Quade’s voice ringing out. At first she could make out only the silken tones of his speech, not the words themselves. Soon, however, the audience began to quiet to better catch his speech.
“People of Accord,” he boomed, “Hear me, please.”
The masses went eerily silent.
Peer did not slow his sprint as he approached the slim blond-haired man. The person who must be Whythe kneeled amidst a number of fallen brethren. He had his eyes closed, his brow creased with focus. He seemed to have escaped notice by merit of motionless alone.
“You are quite safe, I assure you. This rabble will be dealt with swiftly and decisively.”
Peer put all of his momentum and strength into a single blow. The lad was thrown backwards, a tooth skittering across the stage. He slumped back, his feet still tucked awkwardly beneath him.
Bray felt the oppressive coldness leave her in a rush, her gift returned to her.
“Su-Hwan,” she yelled. “Now!”
The girl calmly turned towards Quade just as his head swiveled in their direction. Bray saw, with satisfaction, the understanding flash across his face in the moment just before his gift was stripped from him.
Bray smirked. It could not have been timed better. The entire crowd was focused on him, waiting for his address to continue.
He transformed in an instant. It was still unnerving, she thought, the way his features remained the same, yet their effect was so abruptly and totally altered. His eyes were cold black holes against ghostly skin, the lines of his countenance hard, razor-sharp, chilling. A face that no one could like.
“Do not be fooled, my good citizens,” he said—but his voice was no longer honey, it no longer hummed pleasantly, intoxicatingly in the air. Instead, his tone snapped, harsh and icy.
Bray scanned the faces of the gathering and observed the many puzzled expressions, the shrinking away, the distrust. Some looked downright shaken, unsteady.
Now, Bray thought, heart hammering in her chest.
She plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled one of her scripts free with trembling fingers. She darted to the edge of the stage. For a brief second, fear at addressing such a large gathering burned her cheeks red, but there was no time for such a trivial emotion.
She unfurled the sheet and read in her loudest voice, “Since the day you were born, I have pitied you. From your first breath, you have been a pathetic creature, incapable even of earning the love of its own family. No person could hold a cold thing like you in esteem. Your death will be as trivial as a beetle beneath a boot.”
She glanced up, saw some citizens fishing in their pockets while others stared blankly. She read it again, her voice sounding strange and loud in her own ears. This time, other voices began to join hers.
The third time, many others joined in. By the time they reached the last line—“Your death will be as trivial as a beetle beneath a boot”—there were easily hundreds of voices, their condemnation ringing across the plaza.
“Stop,” Quade raged.
The fighting had stalled. All stood dumb. The Elevated on the stage stared at Quade in apparent horror, as if seeing him for the first time. The stillness after so much commotion seemed unnatural.
“Dispatch her,” Quade shouted at several of his people, standing not far from Bray, the command uttered like the strike of a whip.
When no one moved against her, Quade’s nostrils flared. He strode across the long stage, in her direction, his shoes slapping smartly against the planks. His face was contorted, disfigured by fury. She had never seen such an inhuman expression in all her life. His cheeks were livid red, lips parted in a snarl, eyes positively gleaming with frenzied malice. All of that hate was focused entirely on her. Rather than feeling cowed, she grinned. It’s working, she thought with elation. No one here today will follow him now.
The crowd took up the chant without her for the fourth reading, as she turned to meet him. He unsheathed the sword at his hip and slashed at her.
“SINCE THE DAY YOU WERE BORN, I HAVE PITIED YOU—”
There was a general intake of breath as the blade whipped harmlessly through her body. Quade growled, running straight through her intangible form. “Fight me!” he howled, spittle flying.
“NO PERSON COULD HOLD A COLD THING LIKE YOU IN ESTEEM—”
Bray shrugged without concern. “Not just now, I think.” She made a show of yawning, putting her hand to her mouth. “Your sister, by the way, sends her regards.”
Quade bellowed, hate etched deeply into the lines of his face. He had the sense to cease his pointless attack, however, and wheeled his gaze around the stage, searching.
Those black eyes landed, at last, on Su-Hwan. He took three long strides in the girl’s direction, sword uplifted with deadly intent. She watched his approach with admirable calm.
“YOUR DEATH WILL BE AS TRIVIAL AS A BEETLE BENEATH A BOOT.”
Bray sprinted after him, a step too slow.
She skittered to a halt, as an arrow, loosed from somewhere above them, pierced the air. Quade hissed and went down to one knee, the feathered shaft protruding from his shoulder blade.
Peer placed himself before Su-Hwan, his lips thin and eyes like ice. The sword in his hand shook slightly as he raised it above his head.
Bray heard Peer murmur something that sounded like “for Adearre.” The blade flashed as it swung sideways, aiming to take Quade’s head clean from his body.
In the heartbeat before his death, a resounding pop greeted Bray’s ears. Peer faltered, his blade swiping through empty air.
The chanting ceased—the silence that followed deafening. Only the breeze rustling coats and skirts had the audacity to breach the sudden, total quiet.
“No,” Peer whispered, staring at the empty space in disbelief. “No!”
Bray squeezed her eyes closed. That he should have a second gift had never crossed her mind. Stupid!
“Oh,” Su-Hwan said softly, her pixie face still and white. “I did not know. If I had known…”
Bray had the childish desire the cry. Her fists balled and she clenched her eyes closed. They had been so close, so very close to ending it all. But while Quade lived, there could be no end.
The sound of someone weeping brought her back to the scene. Her gaze swept until she found the source—a young woman, petite and pale-haired, kneeling on the platform. Her face was crumpled in pain, her narrow shoulders bowed, frame wracked with sobs. “Papa,” she whispered to herself. “We killed my Papa.”
Bray spun on the spot, seeking the other Elevated. There were a few on the stage, but more sprinkled throughout the assembly. Some others wept, as the poor girl near Bray did, but most appeared stunned, discomposed, like their minds had not quite processed what they had seen. There were many pale faces, mouths hanging agape.
She hoped that Quade, wherever he was, would appreciate the irony—that he had made himself an army, and in doing so had given that army more reason than all others to hate him. He had crafted his own opposition.
Ko-Jin flexed his legs, relishing in their return to strength.
“Do I aim to wound or kill,” Chae
-Na asked, as she notched another arrow, “should I finally have a clear shot?”
“That is your choice to—”
“Kill,” Jo-Kwan cut in. He said the word not hatefully, but with resolve. Like a king, Ko-Jin thought.
The princess wore an expression of total focus—her lips compressed, brows drawn down, eyes unwaveringly centered on the form of Quade Asher. She knelt on one knee, her shoulders squared, black hair tied in a tail that whipped in the wind.
She took aim, her arms all symmetric angles, and loosed. Ko-Jin followed the shaft with his eyes—it struck, but Quade stepped at just the wrong moment, and the arrow imbedded itself in his shoulder
“Blight it,” Chae-Na muttered.
“Wait,” Ko-Jin said, holding up a hand. He clenched his fists, held a breath, as Peer Gelson dealt a killing blow.
Pop!
Ko-Jin cursed in disbelief.
“Whe—where did he go?” the king asked.
“He must have had a second gift, like Yarrow,” Chae-Na answered, tone dark.
Dedrre’s mouth twisted with distaste. “This would explain how he could be affecting so many across Trinitas at once.”
Ko-Jin punched the roof beneath him, shattering a tile with a satisfying crunch. They all turned to him in surprise. He shrugged and endeavored to swallow his rage. “Sorry,” he said, flicking his gaze back down to the platform. “It’s just,” he ran a forceful hand through his hair, “we were so blighting close.”
“He could be anywhere now, I suppose,” Jo-Kwan said.
Ko-Jin heaved a single, mighty sigh. “We will have to kill him some other day.” He stood fully upright. “For now, we should get down there.”
“And do what?” Chae-Na asked, her tone still bitter.
“The people of Accord should be addressed by their King.” He leveled a serious look at Jo-Kwan, who seemed to stand straighter at the suggestion. “And I mean to find my mother.”
“Go,” Jo-Kwan said. “No need to wait for us.”
Ko-Jin paused for a moment, not wanting to abandon them. When Jo-Kwan gestured for him to be gone earnestly, however, he hesitated no longer.
Rather than crossing the many rooftops and climbing through a window, as they had come originally, he chose a faster route: he gripped the gutter and dangled, hanging by his fingertips off the edge of the roof. He swung his body a few times to gain momentum, then leapt, landing on a windowsill one floor down. He jumped down, windowsill to windowsill, until his boots met the cobbles below.
He jogged, keeping close to the buildings on the outer perimeter of the crowd. The audience seemed to all be talking at once, the sound of so many voices booming in the plaza. There was a general climate of confusion and fear, like the rumble of thunder before a storm. He paid them little mind, however. Jo-Kwan’s problem, not mine.
He skirted around the periphery of the mob and leapt up onto the stage.
“Ko-Jin?”
He pulled up, turning to the sound of his name. “Bray?”
She wrapped him in a quick embrace, a show of affection that took him aback. “Thank the Spirits you’re alright.” She then drew away and met his eye with an expression of trepidation, an emotion that looked odd upon her usually confident face. “Yarrow?”
Ko-Jin shook his head. “Haven’t seen him for an age, thought he was with you.”
Her countenance clouded. “I think Quade must have him.”
“Then he’ll likely be with all the other prisoners—”
“I don’t know where—”
Ko-Jin extracted a ring of old-fashioned iron keys from his pocket with a jangle. “I do. Let’s go.”
He set off at a trot, veering towards the palace.
Bray, despite a much shorter stride, managed to keep at his side. “How’d you come to have those?” she asked.
“Had this whole plan,” he answered, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Kind of went awry, though.”
They sprinted through the entryway of the palace, a wide marble room. Ko-Jin knew the prison to be beneath their feet, but not where the entrance was. Bray, however, ran with purpose across the atrium and into a side hallway. An oaken door stood ajar, tucked behind a gleaming suit of armor.
“Expect there’ll be guards,” Ko-Jin warned as he wrenched open the door to the staircase.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” she replied.
The two of them thundered down the steps. They left sunlight behind as they descended into shadow and dankness. Ko-Jin thought of his mother being kept in such conditions for so many weeks, and his mouth twisted with displeasure.
He slowed his step as they reached the bottom of the stair. Cautiously, he peeked around the entryway.
The prison was manned by four guards, four Elevated. Their bodies sprawled across the floor.
“We’re late,” Bray whispered. She strode ahead of him, knelt down to check for signs of life. “Dead,” she murmured and shook her head. “Wasn’t necessary to kill them.”
“Nothing to be done about it now,” he said, realizing how unhelpful he sounded as the words left his mouth.
The two of them moved on, entering the prison proper. Ko-Jin pushed open the door and felt it hit something in resistance. He shoved, and as he did the door opened slowly, a bloodstain spread across the stone floor. Another guard, he thought.
The body sprawled face down, but the blue uniform left little doubt it was another Elevated. Ko-Jin wondered what Chisanta would cut such a bloody path. Didn’t they know that these unfortunate kids were under Quade’s influence?
“Who goes there?” a male voice enquired, and the light of a torch shifted, whisked in the darkness. It illuminated an unfamiliar face—a large man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, a scar running through his right eyebrow and down his cheek. He had his hair trimmed close to his head, though longer than usual for a Chiona.
“Malc?” Bray asked.
He tipped the torch in their direction. “Is that little Bray Marron?” he asked, fondness stealing the edge from his tone. He paced forward and grasped Bray’s forearm in greeting.
Bray released an exasperated sigh—at being called ‘little,’ Ko-Jin imagined. “Yes, of course. You didn’t kill those poor kids, did you?”
He slung an arm around her shoulder in a brotherly way. “Can’t have all the fun, can you?” His eyes flicked up to Ko-Jin and an unnamed emotion passed over his face. “Running around with a dancer, I see. I’d heard something like that, but didn’t believe it. Not Little Bray, I said—”
She rolled her eyes. “Malc, we’re here to free these prisoners, not have inane conversations.”
He shrugged and led the way around a corner. There were at least fifteen others there already, endeavoring to spring padlocks with knife tips.
Up and down the hallway, Ko-Jin could hear people banging on doors and plaintive shouts:
“Help!”
“Over here!”
“Let us out, please. Please!”
“My ma’s in this one here,” Malc said, pointing to the cell door immediately to the right. “I’m having a time with this lock, though.”
“I’m sure you’ll get it, Malcy,” a woman answered through the bars. “A smart boy like you.”
Bray snorted and the giant man shot her a quelling look.
She turned to Ko-Jin. “Let’s look for Yarrow.” She pointed down the hallway. “I’ll take this side, you take the other.”
Bray darted away before he could even agree.
“Yarrow?” she shouted. “Yarrow, are you down here? It’s Bray. Yarrow?”
Ko-Jin pivoted in the other direction. The light of the torches offered limited illumination, casting the stony passage in sharp shadows. He loped up the hall. “Yar? You down here buddy? Ma?”
His shouts echoed. People—strangers—begged him for release. He felt guilty to run by. “You’ll all be freed soon,” he assured them in a hurried manner. “The danger is passed.” Then he took up his shouting again, “Yar? Ma?”
“Ko-Jin? Is that you?” a voice called in Chaskuan.
His heart swelled in his chest as he swiveled to the sound. “Ma?”
She had to push aside a few other people to be seen through the bars. To his embarrassment, he felt the burn of tears in the back of his eyes and blinked. “Thank the Spirits.”
She seemed smaller than he remembered, her hair streaked with silver where it had once been black. Her eyes, however, were as alert and intelligent as ever.
Ko-Jin fumbled with the keys, trying several in the keyhole before one slid into place. The hinges were rusty, and so the door required some prying on his part to swing open.
The other occupants fled down the corridor, shouting names and receiving no answers. Ko-Jin paid them little mind, however. He was busy trying to swallow the lump that had suddenly lodged in his throat.
“Ma,” he repeated in his native tongue, pulling her into a hug. “Are you alright? Were you mistreated?”
“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.
Chapter Twenty-Six
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.
The Complete Marked Series Box Set Page 71