“Is your memory giving you problems again?” he asked, and there was something beneath the words that spoke of anger, though there was no evidence of the emotion in his expression.
“Has this happened before?” Vendra asked, looking up at him with trusting eyes. “Was I hit in the head recently?” Loss of memory was a common symptom after a minor brain injury.
“Yes, my dear,” he said. “It has happened before.”
Gooseflesh rose on Vendra’s arms. She swallowed.
Quade’s scrutiny drifted up to the men manning the walls of Accord, his dark eyes intent. The ghost of a smile played at his thin lips.
“When do you mean to begin the assault?”
He stroked her hair with a light hand. “I have no intention of letting it come to that. Every death is one fewer subject for me to rule. No, only those who have proven themselves too unmanageable will meet the Blighter.” He studied her face, and a hardness flashed within his eyes.
Vendra shivered and averted her gaze; she looked to her right, to where a band of Chisanta were nearly finished assembling a fifth siege weapon. The wooden behemoth stood stark and tall against the dusky horizon.
Quade read the question in her mind. “For show, my dear. These fortifications are over a hundred years old. I would not willingly damage such a historical structure. No, we won’t need to breach the city’s defenses, not when those within will simply open the gates.”
“You build weapons you do not mean to use?”
“The weapon, dear one, is fear, and it is far more damaging than bullets. For the fighting men within those walls, watching us, a battle is an opportunity to take a stand; something they have had time to prepare for. In a battle, people die—but these deaths are accepted as unavoidable, and can be coped with. An army might accept its losses until the last man is standing. But civilian deaths that could have been avoided, and yet were allowed to happen anyway…” He smiled. “A people will tear themselves apart assigning blame. They will be driven wild by fear, waiting for the next blow to fall. Their unity will falter, and then their resolve.”
Vendra’s brow creased, trying to work out his meaning. She would not ask for him to explain; he would not have spoken vaguely if she had been meant to understand. But Vendra knew her lover’s mind. She felt a small surge of pity for the people of Accord.
Quade stared past Vendra’s shoulder. “Kelarre,” he called out. Vendra glanced behind her to where the young man had just appeared. “I need to see you and Bensell in my tent in twenty minutes. It is nearly time.”
Quade kissed Vendra’s shoulder, and a rush of warmth ran down her arm. He smiled at her in a way that made her pulse accelerate. “Come to my tent later this evening.”
She swayed on the spot as he left her. The wind bit at her flesh, and she wrapped her arms closer to her body as she watched him leave.
His intentions were not as mystifying as he might imagine. If he was meeting with Bensell, then clearly he intended to plant explosives. Not on the walls, apparently. Most likely within the city. She frowned up at the men atop their ramparts, who were waiting for a first strike—one that would come at their backs.
She hoped they would have the good sense to yield quickly.
Arlow nearly jumped out of his skin at the popping sound of teleportation behind him. He spun, but of course it was only Yarrow. Still just Yarrow. Get a grip.
Arlow watched his friend toss yet another sack of rice onto the pile. A moment later, with an additional sharp burst of noise, the Elevated girl Mearra appeared with her own crate of provisions.
Yarrow brushed snow from the shoulder of his coat.
“Snowing in Chasku?” Arlow asked.
Yarrow flexed his fingers beneath his gloves. “Bound to be a full-blown blizzard. It’s really coming down.”
Arlow glanced up at the roof of the food storage, where the ping-ping of rain on the roof had been steadily mounting in volume and crescendo. He frowned. He would likely be soaked on his way back to his bed—that is, if this painfully boring task were ever completed. It must be after nine o’clock. Though, admittedly, he did not feel tired. On the contrary, he was full of energy and his mind seemed sharper than usual.
“How many is that?”
Yarrow did a quick finger count. “Ten sacks, each a stone.”
Arlow jotted this down in his inventory, though he had no notion what a ‘stone’ of rice meant—how many people would that feed? And how exactly had he come by this job in the first place? He did not think he exuded an arithmetic-friendly aura.
Yarrow rolled his shoulders. “The warehouses are closing up north. We’ll have to call it quits after this next load.”
Arlow nodded absently. He had just about accounted for all the provisions this particular unit had in stock. He would need someone more culinarily minded than himself to make sense of the data, to determine just how long the city had before rations ran out, and they were all truly blighted. Yarrow and Mearra could hardly keep up with demand for a prolonged siege.
“One more load, then,” Yarrow said to his young partner. She looked to be dead on her feet, and could only nod dumbly. With an almost simultaneous pop, they disappeared again. Arlow glanced down at his books, making sure that all of his notes were legible.
The door flew open, and the sound of the rain beating against the street intensified. Foy entered, water pouring from the brim of his hat. He left the door wide, and Arlow was surprised at just how dark the evening had become. There were no illuminated windows nearby, no moon to brighten the sky.
Foy hustled to the lantern to warm his hands, and Arlow grimaced at the man for not bothering to close the door. The wind carried a cold mist inward.
“How soon until it can be distributed?” Foy asked, his gaze scanning the stock. It looked like an impressive amount of food, but without careful rationing it would surely not last long.
Arlow made his way to the door, the wet peppering his face.
From deeper in the warehouse, a startled voice called out. “Oy, what’s that there?”
A second voice shouted, “Blight!”
And then something hot, something deafeningly loud, launched Arlow clean off his feet. He was hurled into the air, straight through the doorway and out into the black night. His face collided with the cobbled road, and it felt as if his cheek had been scraped to the bone. His ears whistled so loudly he could hear nothing else. Rain drummed on his smoldering back.
When he found he could move once again, Arlow rolled over. He shielded his eyes from the deluge, and found the warehouse was engulfed in flames. He scrambled to his feet and loped to the door. As he approached, he turned his face away from the heat.
“Foy?” he bellowed into the furnace.
Only the snapping of the fire answered him. Blight it all.
Taking a bracing breath, he charged into the burning building. The rain on his flesh immediately began to sizzle. Within, all of the sacks of rice and grain were ablaze—so much food, wasted.
“Hello?” Arlow called out again. He was not certain how many men had been working at the back of the warehouse—at least four. There came no reply. His eyes watered against the ash, and he slapped embers on his sleeve. “Foy?”
As he inhaled, smoke clogged his throat and he succumbed to a coughing fit, eyes streaming. But he managed to spy Foy’s boots through his clouded vision.
“Blight, blight, blight,” Arlow yelped, as he crossed the space. Flaming debris came crashing from above, and he skittered back. “Foy? Get up, blight it.”
But the highwayman did not stir. Arlow resisted the urge to run back out into the rain, and made himself shuffle forward. His lungs burned. He reached Foy and heard him cough. Arlow swore—now that he knew the man was alive, he could not abandon him.
He groped for Foy’s wrist, threw the man’s arm around his neck, and hoisted. The highwayman made an effort to rise to his feet, but then collapsed into Arlow.
“Spirits’ above, man,” Arlow grunted
. “How can you be so heavy? You’re not even fat.”
The man barked out a laughing cough, and tried to stand. They ambled towards the exit. A portion of the blazing roof fell just behind them, but Arlow continued on undaunted. His luck would hold—it always had before.
Foy’s sleeve caught fire, and he bellowed. He tried to stop, but Arlow pressed forward. “Keep moving, blight you."
When they stumbled back out of the doorway, the rain washed down upon them like a gift from the Spirits. He tipped his face up to the sky. His entire body stung, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. He found that much of his coat had burned away. Bits of his shirt stuck to the black and red skin of his forearm.
Foy fell to his knees, hacking. Arlow became aware of people, civilians, coming from their homes, drawn no doubt by the sound of the blast. The rain had already begun to dampen the flames. “Run for water,” he shouted out.
The rain might well put out the blaze on its own in time, but they could not afford for the fire to spread. Whole neighborhoods were lost that way.
The pop of teleportation made him jump again. But once more, it was only Yarrow. His friend had ash in his hair. He coughed into the crook of his arm. Mearra appeared a second later, jumping as she shook cinder from her hair.
“What happened?” Yarrow asked, wiping at his eyes.
“An explosion,” Arlow said in a husky voice. “Quade’s doing, no doubt.”
Yarrow took in his appearance. He must’ve looked a true mess, because his friend’s eyes widened in shock. “Here,” Yarrow offered, raising his hands.
Arlow saw the light of healing spread like a dawning sun, and the pain that had been so acute rinsed away, just as the soot on his skin was cleansed by the rain.
“We’ve got to tell Ko-Jin,” Arlow said, whipping the hair from his eyes. Yarrow had bent to tend to Foy.
The roof collapsed fully, sending a plume of smoke and ash into the air. Arlow said a quick prayer for the spirits of the men who had died within.
Distantly, they heard a tremendous boom. Arlow jumped and turned towards the explosion; he saw smoke in the distance. Plainly this attack was not over.
“You go ahead,” he said to Yarrow. “I need to find my wife.”
Yarrow nodded once and disappeared. Mearra gaped around her, as if uncertain what to do next. Then she too vanished on the spot. Arlow took off at a sprint, his boots squelching wetly beneath him. He did not wait for Foy. The man could catch up in his own time. Finding Mae was paramount—after he had wrapped her in the protection of his gift, they could worry about all the rest. Like the provisions that had been destroyed.
Spirits, he thought. Let there be food left.
Because it would matter little how well-fortified they were, if the people within the walls starved.
Spirits…
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ko-Jin’s head jerked up from his paperwork. He wondered if the boom he had just heard could be thunder. It was raining, with winds beating against the window at his back. But he did not think it was the storm alone.
He pushed himself up from the desk and jogged from his office, his shoes sliding on the polished floors. He threw himself against the door to the roof gardens and pounded up the stairway, all the while listening, listening. He heard nothing more than the thrumming of rain on the roof.
He loped out into the night, and shuddered as his hair was immediately plastered to his skull. He swiped water from his eyes and stared out over the parapet.
“Blight.” He could see the flames even from afar. He estimated the building was in the next borough. Even as he watched, the intensity of the fire began to diminish. Thank the Spirits for the rain.
Another blast sounded, and Ko-Jin’s head swung to the right. A new blaze blossomed on the inky horizon, this one much closer to the palace—only a few blocks from the outer gates.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Ko-Jin watched, helpless, as three more explosions flared against the night. His abdomen tightened, and he wondered how many more there could be.
There came a loud burst of sound just to his right, and he jolted in fear. He slapped a hand to his thundering heart. “Spirits, Yarrow.”
His friend was soaked through and shivering. A smear of soot stood out on his pale cheek.
“There you are,” Yarrow said, eyes flicking to the skyline. “How many have there been?”
“Five.”
Yet another resounding blast pierced the night, this time from behind them. Ko-Jin spun around, to find the royal stables a column of smoke. He could hear the sound of shrieking horses—dying horses, even over the patter of the rain.
“Six,” Ko-Jin corrected, gravely.
“The first was the food storage Arlow and I were working.”
“Is he—?”
“He’s fine. But at least three men died, and we lost all of the rice and other grain that was stockpiled there.”
Ko-Jin bowed his head forward, rivulets of rain streaming from his cheeks. “We need to get to those other sites. Determine what all—who else—has been lost.”
“I can see to that,” Yarrow said. “You should remain here. Bray and the others are no doubt on their way already.”
Ko-Jin would have much rather charged out into the city, so he might feel he was doing, taking action. But Yarrow could take care of the task much more quickly.
“Very well,” Ko-Jin said, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. “Stay safe, brother.”
Yarrow inclined his head, and once Ko-Jin let his hand fall, another sharp pop announced his departure.
Ko-Jin waited there for a time, his hands braced on the marble parapet, his eyes scanning the city. The fires had already been reduced by the rain. He could make out nothing more than the shapes of the buildings against the night sky and, in the distance, the perimeter wall with its regular merlons and crenels.
He steeled himself for a seventh explosion, but the longer he lingered, the less likely it seemed.
Ko-Jin hunched his shoulders. The searing sense of his own failure burned inside him. Everything he had done to protect the city—it was not enough. It was never enough. How could he have believed himself capable of safeguarding these people? Whom had he successfully saved to date? Not the former king and queen, not good-hearted Jo-Kwan. Not Su-Hwan or Elda.
He tried to swallow down the ache in his throat. He had not even managed to defend Chae-Na.
He heard the door to the stairway creak open and turned his head. The queen appeared, as if thinking her name had called her forth. She unfurled an umbrella and marched to his side, her dress sopping up the puddles. Her face was stony, hard to read.
Just behind her came five Chisanta guards, including Britt herself. They spread out across the rooftop, in search of danger. Ko-Jin suspected that he, his own incompetence, was the only threat within proximity.
Chae-Na drew close, so that he too might be shielded by the umbrella. Without the rain drumming on his cranium, it seemed his sense of hearing improved. He shivered in his dripping robes.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
Ko-Jin swallowed. “Don’t know the full extent of it yet. There were six blasts. One was a food storage, and another the stables.” He sighed. “Yarrow’s gone out to learn more. He shouldn’t be too long.”
Chae-Na gave one cool nod, and her dark eyes scanned the cityscape, gaze lingering on the pillars of smoke that peppered the capital.
“I failed,” he said. “Between our patrols and the bells, I had hoped he would not be able to move within the city, not without being spotted.”
“The weather likely aided him in that,” she said.
“It wasn’t enough. I should have done more.”
Chae-Na’s eyes flashed, and she wheeled a disapproving look on him. The umbrella shifted so that cold water ran down the back of his neck. “Would you cease this ridiculous guilt complex? This is a war. The enemy can move within our walls in an instant. Casualties such as these were inevitable.”
K
o-Jin frowned. “I can’t just accept that.”
“You have to. People get hurt and people die, no matter what you do. That is just the way of things; this is a violent, imperfect world. But this disposition of yours, this habit of collecting failures and carrying them like millstones round your neck—you must stop. It is arrogant, and it weakens you as a leader. You need to rise above it, or what hope do we have?”
“Arrogant?” he repeated. He stepped away from her, fully into the rain. It was not nearly so cold as her words.
“Yes. You assume that you can control everything that happens, which is pure hubris, and then you spiral into self-doubt when events unfold against your wishes.”
He clenched his fists, and responded as calmly as he could. “You have been angry with me since I failed to save you from Quade; you blame me, Highness. How could I not blame myself?”
“No,” she said, drawing breath through her nose. “I have never blamed you, Ko-Jin—not for Jo-Kwan, nor for my own suffering. It is your behavior since that event which has piqued my anger. Stop looking at me as if I am walking proof of your failings. I cannot bear to see that…that blighted guilt in your eyes. Do you believe I need a constant reminder of what happened? I assure you, I do not.” She stood breathing heavily, staring at him in an open challenge.
But the outrage rushed from his chest in a gust, leaving him deflated and lost for words. He wiped rain from his eyes, blinking, trying to change his expression.
“Chae-Na, I…”
The rooftop door opened once again and a blue-clad post boy scurried forward.
“General, Your Highness. There’s an urgent telegram for you.”
“From whom?” Chae-Na asked.
The lad’s lip quivered. “Quade Asher.”
Ko-Jin straightened. He and Chae-Na exchanged one surprised glance before hurrying to the door.
Bray pushed her legs to move faster, pumping her arms as she dashed up the avenue of the university, towards the palace grounds. Rain obscured her vision, and she squinted against the deluge.
The Complete Marked Series Box Set Page 109