The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  Fernie didn’t bother to ask any follow-up questions. Instead, he took off at a pace just shy of a sprint. He climbed down from the ramparts and hastened into the city streets.

  He’d been right about the celebrations turning raucous. The roads were full of drunks, but also squealing children and street musicians and gaily dancing couples. It looked like a festival.

  Fernie pushed through, his pulse never slowing. Fear for Chae-Na drummed in his chest.

  He was an idiot boy. He knew that. Chae-Na was as out of his league as a woman could be: older, better-looking. Queen. Married.

  But it wasn’t just a crush. Fernie cared about her. After Bray and Yarrow had snatched him away from Quade, and his mind had finally cleared, he’d been so broken-hearted that he’d wanted to die. He kept remembering every terrible thing he’d ever done under Quade’s influence. He recalled it all so precisely, so vividly.

  But his mother and his little sister, both killed upon Quade’s command—try as Fernie might, he was forgetting them. His memory had been atrocious as a boy, and his gift didn’t work retroactively.

  His sins he would never forget, but he couldn’t summon the sound of his mother’s laugh or the way his baby sister’s hair had smelt.

  And so, in those early days in Cagsglow, Fernie had wanted to die. Chae-Na saved him. (Ko-Jin, too, he supposed, but mostly Chae-Na.) She had asked for his help cooking dinner, and chatted with him about normal things. She would try to make him laugh, and he would end up laughing—at her expense. The girl, stunning as she was, couldn’t tell a joke.

  “Oy, Chisanta,” a man flung an arm around Fernie’s shoulders. “Have a drink with me.”

  Fernie wrinkled his nose. Potato liquor. He was no connoisseur of…well, anything really, but he would have wine or nothing at all. “No thanks,” he said, and hurried away before the man could force the matter.

  People were watching him, beckoning to him, and they were only slowing him down. He slipped into a back alley, a darker and quieter path, and kicked his pace to a run. When he arrived at the palace gates half an hour later, he was soaked in sweat.

  “I’m looking for the queen,” he said to the guard. As the general’s assistant, his face was well known. He hoped that would be enough to gain him information. “I heard she was injured?”

  The guard raised her brows. “Injured how?”

  Plainly, this young woman knew nothing of a stabbing. Which meant either that it hadn’t happened, or that it was being kept quiet.

  “I’ll just go and speak with her, then.”

  He walked by boldly, as if he had every right to be there. To his surprise, no one stopped him. He marched up the stair and made his way to Chae-Na’s office. It seemed the most likely place to find her.

  After all the good cheer and celebration in the streets, the palace hallways were subdued. He passed only guards and servants, all quietly going about their business.

  Fernie knocked on the gilded door and waited. When no one answered, he let himself in. The room was dark and vacant as he stepped inside. “Hello?” he called into the space without hope.

  Where was she? It was too early for her to have retired. The shooting range? He hoped so—she couldn’t be badly injured if she was able to draw a bow.

  He opened the door, but stopped short upon hearing a distinct tread. Ko-Jin. He could pick out the general’s stride anywhere.

  And while Fernie loved Ko-Jin like a brother, he also didn’t want to encounter him just then. He’d have to explain his battered face. It was bad enough feeling like he had a bruised melon for a head without having to talk about it. So he retreated back into the room, prepared to wait him out.

  But Ko-Jin might come into the office too, so Fernie slipped into a closet just to be safe. He left the door slightly ajar and crouched in the darkness, waiting.

  The outer door opened, and Ko-Jin entered. Upon finding the room vacant, the general loosed a weary and heartsick sigh.

  Fernie peered through the crack in the door. Ko-Jin leaned against the desk, his arms hanging at his sides, his head bowed. He appeared…forlorn, and Fernie experienced a pang of guilt for spying. Ko-Jin would never betray his emotions like this knowingly.

  Fernie should reveal himself, he knew that he should. But if explaining his smashed pumpkin of a face was an unsavory prospect, explaining why he’d hidden in a closet was even worse. Better to just hold tight.

  Ko-Jin slumped in a chair and fiddled with the ring he always wore on his middle finger, his gaze abstracted.

  They both jumped when the office door swung open. Fernie caught the sound of Veldon Gorberry’s gravelly voice, followed by Chae-Na’s laugh, which cut off abruptly—likely at the sight of Ko-Jin.

  The general stood and cleared his throat. “Just wanted to make sure you survived your first battle.” So awkward, Fernie thought. His friend was usually the height of cool, but right now he had Fernie cringing in second-hand embarrassment.

  “As you can see,” Chae-Na answered. “Unscathed.”

  “I was surprised you didn’t find me after. To discuss—”

  “I had something of importance to attend to, but don’t worry, I was well guarded. Thank you for lending me Bray.”

  “Right,” he said, tone terse.

  “I’m rather exhausted,” the queen said. “Perhaps we can meet in the morning and you can debrief me then?”

  “As you like,” the general said. Fernie, in his hiding place, winced. Poor Ko-Jin. “Good night, Your Majesties.”

  “Good night, General,” Veldon Gorberry said.

  Fernie heard the door click shut behind the general. The office hung in silence for a long moment, until Chae-Na crossed the room and turned the lock.

  “Don’t be angry with me for asking,” Veldon said. “But that is over, right? Between you and him?” For such a loaded question, he managed to sound only curious, not accusatory. Fernie was curious, too. He’d never gotten a clear read on their relationship, or how far it had gone.

  Chae-Na sighed. “It is. Now it’s just…uncomfortable.”

  “You lied about being unscathed.”

  She snorted. “Of course. He would have been furious.”

  “Let me see,” Veldon said huskily.

  Fernie wondered if his own voice would ever deepen like that. With such a gravelly bass, Gorberry could probably sound manly no matter what he said. Fernie amused himself by imagining the man saying ridiculous things: “Butternut squash. Polka-dot petticoats. Welcome to the tea party.”

  Laces slipped through eyelets, and fabric swished. Fernie’s mind stumbled. He peeked into the room, unprepared for the sight of Chae-Na mostly undressed. He caught a quick flash of her body—of far more skin than he had any right to see—along with a stitched wound across her ribs.

  Fernie squeezed his eyes shut and scurried deeper into the closet. He had too much respect for Chae-Na to spy. Though, admittedly, the damage was already done. He’d have to work hard not to recall that mental image. Even as he tried to shove it into the recesses of his memory, the picture flashed in his mind again.

  “It isn’t bad,” she said.

  “I was scared to death for you.”

  “I know.” There came a wet sound—a kiss. “I appreciate what that feels like. And I’m grateful.”

  “You seem grateful,” he rasped.

  Her laugh was throaty. “It would seem that near-death experiences have a certain…effect on me.”

  Fernie was a gentleman, so he wouldn’t look. But based on the sounds coming from the office, he was pretty sure they were necking. Enthusiastically.

  He very much didn’t want to be where he was. But he also knew that, at this point, he definitely couldn’t reveal himself.

  The things on Chae-Na’s desk tumbled to the ground, and she uttered a quivery moan that made Fernie’s eyes fly open.

  “Should we retire to our chambers?” Veldon asked.

  “I’d rather stay right here.”

  No! This felt
like a cruel, cosmic joke at Fernie’s expense. Torture.

  He scooted until his back pressed against the rear wall of the closet. Oddly, the stone beneath his left hand compressed under his palm, issuing a just-audible click.

  A sudden draft stirred the fabric of his shirt. He turned, and discovered a small door had opened in a seemingly solid wall. A secret passage.

  Fernie didn’t care a whit what might lie beyond this threshold—he only thanked the Spirits for an unexpected means of escape. He crawled through.

  Cobwebs draped the walls, and the stone floors were blanketed in a perfect sheet of dust. Fernie proceeded into the darkness, with his head ducked so as not to brush the filthy ceiling.

  The passage forked. He looked to his left and right, realizing these tunnels were expansive. At every intersection, there were poles—one might climb up or slide down them to access different floors within the palace. Fernie would need to explore more thoroughly, but he suspected these dark passageways connected the entire palace. And based on their dusty condition, no one knew about them.

  He would need to tell Ko-Jin of this discovery. But in the meantime, Fernie was simply happy they could carry him away. He blundered forward as if something were chasing him.

  Quade Asher was a magnanimous man. An hour after his most humiliating defeat, he spent his time walking among his men, pouring into them comfort and courage and hope, all dearly needed.

  He hoped the historians would remember. But then, he could arrange for that himself. He had devoted many hours lately to the crafting and curing of his own legend. He had the power to include this, too.

  There was a common saying that had always irked Quade: “History is written by the victors.” Absolute foolishness.

  Seven hundred years ago, the Dalish had attempted to conquer a region of southern Adourra that was mineral-rich and sparsely populated. They hadn’t counted on the bush tribes of that land being such tenacious warriors. They’d had to sail back home, beaten, tails tucked, but still it was they who told the story—they who would paint those victorious tribes as savages.

  Because history wasn’t written by the victors. History was written by those who wrote. And while some might find such considerations trivial, to Quade Asher this was everything. His story, the mythos he was cultivating around himself, that was his purpose.

  One day, long years from now, students of history would learn his name first. He would be greater even than Alfenze Guenez, his own boyhood hero. Yes—in a thousand years, when he was dust and all other spirits were long forgotten, he, Quade Asher, would be remembered. They would mark the date of his birth as the dawning of a new age: there would be the time before him, and the time after.

  This was his dream. And so, it mattered how the tale was told. It mattered that his men loved him, and told his story the right way. That they should paint him as pragmatic, not cruel. Determined, not obsessed.

  He walked through the dimming evening, and his men rose and bowed before him. He clapped shoulders and spoke brief, comforting words. This was necessary. Thousands had died today. And while he had plenty of soldiers to spare, common people lacked the ability to look beyond their own small pains towards the bigger picture.

  So Quade mingled, he conversed, but his mind was occupied with its own concerns. He thought, as he often did, of his sister. Ellora. For how many decades had he longed to find her? It was she, all those years ago, who’d first made him aware of his greatest flaw. People did not like him. They never had. And she was right, he knew that now. It was a simple matter to collect a following when one was adored.

  He intended to thank his sister for that kindness. She would not enjoy his method of showing thanks, but all the same…

  That would come. Soon.

  Quade looked to the wall, far off in the distance. His eyes snagged upon the jagged hole where his artillery had crashed through their defenses. He smiled.

  “Master Asher,” came a voice at his side. General Paeva, a man who’d thus far done little to validate his importance. “I have a final count of fatalities.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Quade said.

  His heart kicked in his chest. He was happy. No, exultant. Because after seven months of futility and humiliation, he now had the answers he needed. This game was about to change.

  “It…doesn’t?” Paeva sounded disturbed.

  Quade’s annoyance flashed hot, but rather than act on it, he leaned into his gift, making himself irresistible. Paeva flushed, his gaze running over Quade’s face. “Come to my tent with your senior officers in two hours. I will have specific instructions for you.”

  “Ye-yes, Quade. I mean, sir.”

  Quade whistled as he picked his way across the camp. The smell of death and gunpowder was still thick in the air and, distantly, he heard the whimpers and cries of wounded men. He contemplated putting himself out of their misery—silencing them.

  But no. They would not trouble him for long. Soon he would be sleeping upon silk sheets in a queen’s bed, far from the moaning of injured men.

  He slipped into his tent and lit a lantern.

  Quade continued to whistle as he set to work: cutting full sheaves of paper into smaller slips. He placed three empty teacups on his table. Then he dipped his pen in ink, tapped off the excess, and began to write.

  It was a pleasant undertaking. He’d always been imaginative, even as a young child. His mind could produce countless ways to make a fellow spirit suffer. In addition to inventing new ploys, he decided to reuse all his previous, unsuccessful tactics. They’d been excellent ideas, after all, and deserved a second chance.

  His tongue peeped between his lips as he wrote:

  Poison canisters propelled over the walls.

  He folded the slip and placed it in the first teacup. Then he penned the next:

  Northeastern section of the wall, nearest the green district.

  He blew on the ink and tossed this instruction into the second cup. And, for the third teacup, he dashed off in a neat hand:

  Yes

  Not only would the manner of attack and location be arbitrary, but this third variable—yes or no—would make for a truly random outcome. He’d like to see Lamhart predict this. He grinned as he began again, scribbling out another potential attack:

  Cannon fire focused on a narrow portion of the wall.

  He filled the containers, little by little, his mood only growing brighter as the sun set and his tent darkened. Until, at length, he felt there were sufficient prompts.

  Quade stretched, feeling a delicious pop in his neck. Then he reclined back in his seat and crossed his legs at the ankle.

  Yes, this will work.

  All he need do was listen. He would keep himself in the dark about the time, location, and nature of this next attack. But when it began, he would act.

  And his dear Yarrow, that marvelous Fifth, would not know his actions in advance. He would be overwhelmed with new information. Lamhart would fail his precious friends.

  And then he would be Quade’s, along with everything else.

  Chapter Nine

  Bray slipped from her chamber, out into the weak dawn-light. The grounds were hushed and foggy, deserted. She wondered if an entire city could suffer a hangover, because on that morn Accord betrayed a certain crapulence. A post-battle stupor.

  Bray, herself, was more awake than usual. In fact, there was something akin to a spring in her step, and her thoughts were not so bleak. ‘Change the paradigm,’ Ko-Jin had said. And today she knew how that might be accomplished.

  She marched into the dormitory nearest the library, where Peer’s bevolder pairs slept.

  Usually, Bray avoided the whole lot of them. They reminded her of what she’d lost—of Yarrow, and the way he had centered her. These other spirit-mates made her feel like a boat with a missing oar, drifting in pointless circles.

  She shoved her hand into her jerkin pocket and gripped the fabric of Yarrow’s handkerchief. It was sadly soft against her fingers.
I miss you, she thought, as if he could hear.

  Stop.

  She swallowed hard and blinked back tears, setting her grief aside. By the time she reached the end of the hallway, she had regained her composure.

  Bray knocked on a chamber door. On the other side, someone groaned sleepily, but the door swung open a second later.

  “Trevva,” Bray said by way of greeting.

  Her sister Chiona stood framed in the doorway, dressed and alert. From within the room, Bray could hear Roldon grumbling about the hour.

  “Bray,” Trevva said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need your help with something, if you wouldn’t mind. Do you have your journal?”

  The woman patted a square-shaped lump in her pocket, indicating that she did. “I’m off,” Trevva announced to Roldon, then joined Bray in the hallway. “You seem chipper.”

  “I’m a regular ray of sunshine,” Bray said dryly.

  As they made for the exit, a familiar voice called Bray’s name. A moment later, Peer loped up to her side, still fastening the buttons on his shirt. “Where’re we going?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes at his presumption, but in truth she was pleased. Having Peer along would make this morning feel like old times. “You’re off a button,” she said, pointing at his lopsided shirttails.

  He swore, unbuttoned the lot, and began again, all while keeping pace at her side. “So you gonna explain or keep us in the dark?”

  “I’ll explain,” she said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “But first—Trevva, I need you to tell me where Britt Penrose is at the moment.”

  If Trevva thought this an odd request, she didn’t betray her surprise. She halted on the sidewalk, her eyelashes fluttering briefly. “The palace armory.”

  “Good,” Bray said, and they all set off towards the gates. “I have a theory: someone’s been spying on private conversations, passing intel to Quade. Her gift makes her a likely suspect.”