The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  “What’s your name?” Bray asked.

  “Alvien,” the girl croaked.

  “I’m Bray and this is Yarrow. Do you have any other family, Alvien?”

  Tear spilled from her enormous eyes, but after a second she nodded. “My aunt and uncle. In Che Mire.”

  “We’ll take you there,” Bray promised. It was the nearest port, anyway. “But we should all rest first. Try to sleep.”

  It was bright here in the Confluence—it always was—but it seemed a safer place to encamp than the desert.

  Bray and Yarrow moved a little away from the girl. She kept Quade in her line of sight, but settled down out of earshot from him. She wasn’t too concerned. He couldn’t walk, let alone teleport. And where would he go?

  “I assumed you would kill him,” Yarrow said.

  She leaned into his shoulder, weariness settling over her. “So did I.”

  “What changed?” he asked gently. He kissed her neck, and her eyes drifted closed.

  “I think I’ve been angry for nearly all my life, and I let that anger pull my strings. But I’m done with that now.” His lips trailed up her neck. “And I have you,” she said softly. “So, I think I’ll just be happy from here on out, and let other people deal out the justice.”

  “I love you,” he said wonderingly.

  “And I you.”

  “It might not be easy to get him all the way to Accord. He won’t cooperate, and he is still dangerous.”

  She nodded, having already considered this. “A good thing there are cages on wheels parked not far away.”

  Quade would not enjoy the coming weeks. Rather than gloat over the fact, Bray mostly wished she could skip this part.

  She was far more interested in what came after.

  They stared at the Confluence, swaying in a phantom breeze. Quade had marked it with his sword and his rage, but it would continue to grow.

  Passingly, she wondered what would happen if she touched it again. Would she see visions like before? Would the Spirits return her gift, perhaps finding her worthier than the likes of Quade Asher?

  Bray didn’t plan to discover the answer to these questions. She had all she needed already.

  “Will you use the Confluence again?” she asked Yarrow.

  His laugh was warm and worn. “No, I think I’ve had enough of the Spirits for one lifetime.”

  She smiled and pressed herself closer to him. She could never be close enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A child watched him pass, and the man in the cage snapped his teeth. An alarmed mother bore the crying boy away. The man snarled in satisfaction.

  Perhaps the knowledge that these bars were meant for a lion had gone to his head, because he felt himself acting the beast. More likely, though, he behaved this way because he was a creature of rage and frustration and, worst of all, shame.

  Bray Marron had put him on display, rolling him through towns in this state of filth and injury. Here he comes, the vanquished man, behold!

  And every passerby who looked his way—seeing his true face even through the contusions and blood—was cured of his compulsion. It was not enough that they’d broken him, they must continue to dismantle all his work, too.

  He had thought the desert would be the worst part of the journey, but he was beginning to reconsider.

  At least, out in that scorching emptiness, there’d been no crowds to pass through. He’d had only three escorts.

  Firstly, the girl who’d bested him. She showed little interest in her captive, only rarely glancing his way. Which, of course, made him long to shred her.

  And then there was the former Fifth. He’d come to speak just once, his gray eyes dreamy and distant. They were lovely eyes. The man in the cage would like to pluck them from his face.

  “I remember so little of what I knew when I knew everything,” he’d said. “But I remember the sight of the Spiritblighter at your back. Like dark clouds with malevolent intent, waiting for you.” Yarrow had tipped his head to the side. “If you’re capable of remorse, now is the time to explore the sensation. It isn’t just your death you face, but your annihilation.”

  He spat—or tried to. Once again, he couldn’t summon the saliva. It was an embarrassing thing to attempt and fail. He burned with fury and humiliation.

  “As you like,” Yarrow said with a shrug, and that was the last they’d spoke.

  The little girl paid him by far the most attention. She did not speak—either to him or to the others, as far as he could hear—but she glared. Her wrath was hot and true, though she was only a small thing. He’d thought he might be able to use it.

  “I murdered your family,” he’d hissed at her. “Why don’t you return the favor?”

  But she’d only stared.

  “Did you hear the way your mother screamed? And after I accepted their hospitality, too.” He’d ripped his filthy shirt to bare his chest, had pressed against the bars and pointed to his heart. “Go ahead, dear. You’ll feel better, and I won’t fight.”

  The girl had just gazed on, unblinking. Her eyes were still overlarge, but no longer guileless.

  Quade hated them more with every breath.

  He’d accepted his death. In fact, he’d never imagined he would live a long life. Visionaries rarely did. But he wanted a worthy demise—to die on the blade of an enemy in battle, with steel in hand.

  He had cultivated his own mythos. That was all he ever truly wanted, to be a legend.

  But this? Would this be part of the story?

  Centuries from now, would grandmothers tell the tale of the broken man, caged, spat upon, humiliated? The thought kindled a wrath so hot, it seemed it should melt through his bars and free him.

  This is not how my story was supposed to end.

  They’d dumped off the little girl in Che Mire, and then he’d been loaded onto a boat, taken below decks. There, he was kept in darkness and isolation. The rocking of the ship made him ill.

  He’d sat in his own sick, listening to the faint sound of laughter drifting from above. And, alone, with no one to witness his shame, he’d wept bitter, angry tears.

  He’d thought of his sister. Of Ellora. Would he really die without seeing her again? What an unsatisfying prospect. Ellora, he pleaded with the shadows, please. But she was as unreachable as ever.

  They were now back in Daland, and every town brought him nearer to Accord. The city had humiliated him for half a year, and soon he would be paraded through its streets like a caged monster.

  The day was cool enough that his breath ghosted from his mouth. He pressed his face in the space between the bars, enjoying the bite of cold metal on his sorry flesh. Bray and Yarrow were a little ways off. They were kissing.

  Their obvious bliss was perhaps the worst element of this entire arrangement. What right had they to happiness? It was a foul tonic to swallow, watching these two spirit-mates. They practically glowed.

  He wanted to dismantle their joy. And he’d tried, with taunts and insults and painful reminders of the past. It seemed to have little effect.

  He wondered at their connection. He wondered about the boy Fernie. He suspected he would have no answers.

  The man in the cage buried his face in his hands and waited for his torment to continue.

  “I assume you know where we are?”

  It was Bray. She was speaking to him. His blood surged, and he bound to his feet. He reached through the bars, swiping at her, but she stood well out of reach. He licked his teeth and stared into her eyes, hoping to unsettle her.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “We are nearing Accord,” he said. He yearned for her to step just a little closer.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve sent word ahead. A party will meet us at the gates, to ensure you make it through the city.”

  Because she assumed the citizens would try to tear him apart—a healthy dose of mob justice. If they caught sight of his face, they might. And while he longed for an end to his mortification, a deat
h such as that did not appeal to him.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  “Because I intend to pass you off. This will be our goodbye. And I just want you to know one thing before we part.”

  He leaned into the bars. He couldn’t resist taking another swipe at her, though she hadn’t moved any closer. “Well?” he demanded, frustrated. Would it be asking too much for her to come a little nearer?

  “I hear you calling out for your sister at night,” she said. He stilled. He hadn’t realized he’d done that, though it did not surprise him. She was in his dreams most nights. “I want you to know that she’s happy.”

  “Is this your final taunt?” he asked, suddenly more tired than angry.

  “No,” she said. “I think somewhere in that twisted heart of yours, she was the one person you cared about. So you should know, Ellora’s happy. You didn’t break her. She has a family and a life.”

  “If I’d had just a little more time, I would have found her,” he said, surprised to hear the sorrow in his voice.

  “I think if you’d really wanted to, you would have found her long ago. The clues were there to follow. Maybe it’s the one good thing you ever did, letting her go.”

  “Better than your uncle, am I?” he hissed.

  She only shook her head wearily, and then she turned away. Desperation flared inside of him. He wanted her to stay, needed to hear more words from her lips.

  “Wait!” he shouted.

  She did not turn.

  “Come back!”

  She climbed into the front of the gig, disappearing from view.

  “Bray!” he hollered, cheekbone pressed hard against cold metal. “BRAY!”

  But she didn’t return. “Come back,” he said again, more softly. “Tell me about my sister…”

  The horses set off, and the man in the cage slumped to the ground.

  The walls of Accord stood tall before them, but the gates were open and traffic came and went. It was an odd sight, after so many months of siege.

  Everything looked so normal. Bray felt unaccountably nervous as the capital drew near, because normal still seemed a million leagues away.

  Accord had been both sanctuary and prison, and now it was neither. Now, it was just a city again. One that Bray had little desire to visit.

  Her heart skipped in her chest, as it did now and again, whenever she remembered that everything had changed. I don’t have to stay here. I’m free!

  There was something sitting in her mind. It was a sensation she’d felt only once before, when she was fourteen years old and she’d walked along the coast of Chiona Isle, and decided that she would devote her life to the capture of ‘bad men.’

  It was a sense of new purpose.

  She had the little girl Alvien to thank. As they’d traveled through the desert together, the child had asked how Bray learned to fight. “I didn’t know girls were allowed,” she’d whispered. And then, with a more devastating look: “I wish I knew how to fight, and Mama too. Maybe then…”

  When Bray had first become Chiona and learned how to defend herself, she’d had a similar lament. If only I’d mastered this sooner.

  If only she, at the age of twelve, had known how to protect herself.

  The idea was like a seed sprouting roots. This was what she wanted going forward. Not to chase down criminals, but to teach young people, and especially young girls, how to keep themselves safe.

  Over the past weeks, she and Yarrow had discussed the concept at length: a traveling school of self-defense. He thought Ko-Jin might be interested in the project, too.

  And now Bray’s spirit was ablaze. Not just because she had a new dream, but because she was free to pursue it.

  Or, she was nearly free. There was still the cloud hanging over her head in the form of Quade Asher. He was difficult to ignore, like an open wound that refused to scab over.

  But with the capital looming before them, she felt even that remaining burden lighten. He was very nearly not her problem.

  Yarrow clucked his tongue and urged the horses onward. When they came to the gates, Bray hopped down from the gig to speak with the guards on duty.

  A minute later, she climbed back into the driver’s seat. “We’ll wait for them over there,” she said, pointing to the east, towards a fat oak tree.

  Yarrow guided the carriage into the shade, and they clambered down to stretch their legs. It was a fine, warm day, but rain clouds sat on the far horizon. Bray watched the approaching storm, the wind hot in her face.

  “Is it wrong that I pity him, do you think?” Yarrow asked in an undertone. They could both hear Quade pacing, no doubt dreading his ignoble return to the city he’d so recently ruled. It was a long fall, from throne to cage.

  “No,” Bray said. “He’s rightly pitiful.”

  Though, in a way, he had won. This was likely not the victory he’d envisioned for himself, but he had left his mark on history. It was unlikely he’d be forgotten.

  For good or for ill, he had rocked the world. He had brought about the end of the Chisanta, inspired sweeping political changes, and carved a path bloody enough for any legend.

  Here, at the end, it seemed to bring him little comfort. The voyage from Nerra had unraveled him. Bray had to admit, she pitied the man too.

  The two carriages that soon joined them could only be royal. They were gilded monstrosities, led by towering pure-white steeds, emblazoned with the Bellra crest and flanked by palace guards.

  The first to descend was Fernie. He looked them each up and down before calling over his shoulder, “They’re clean.” The young man folded his arms and made a point of ignoring Quade.

  “Looks like you brought us a present,” Mae said, next to climb down from the carriage. She held her son in one arm, but her free hand fingered the dagger at her hip. “We all know how you like parades, Asher. We’re organizin’ one for you. Ain’t that nice of us?”

  Quade clutched the bars of his prison, pressed his face into a gap, and stared straight past Mae, his focus locked on the carriage. There was a hunger in his eyes, an excitement that Bray found sickening.

  Arlow Bowlerham hopped to the grass a moment later. He tugged Yarrow into a quick embrace, slapping his back.

  Veldon Gorberry descended next, followed by Queen Chae-Na. She swept elegantly to the ground, her head held high. She wore ceremonial armor over a crimson dress, a simple crown glinting in her dark hair.

  Not for the first time, Bray was impressed with the young woman. Few could appear so composed upon confronting their rapist. Bray knew that she had not been composed. The moment she’d seen her uncle, she’d flown into a blind rage. But Chae-Na merely surveyed Quade with cool eyes.

  “Chae-Na,” Quade croaked, his face twisting into a terrible smile. He ran his hands up and down the bars. “Have you missed me, darling?”

  Veldon sucked in a furious breath, but Chae-Na did not react.

  “I cannot say that I have,” she answered evenly. Her eyes flicked to Bray, grim but pleased. “Thank you for bringing him back. It will be much easier on Fernie if we can display his lie before an execution.”

  “Fernie,” Quade called, reaching his filthy hand through the bars. “Come here, boy.”

  “I find it best to ignore him,” Bray said. “He hates it. Really wounds his ego.”

  “I can think of other ways I’d rather wound him,” Mae said with vicious brightness. “Here, take the baby.”

  Without ceremony, Mae thrust her son into Bray’s arms. Her thoughts shouted a protest—she hadn’t anything against small children, she just didn’t know what to do with them. Was there something important about supporting the head?

  But when the boy grinned up at her, toothless and undeniably adorable, she swallowed her complaint.

  “Hello,” Bray said in a high voice that sounded little like her own. “Aren’t you handsome?”

  “Naturally,” Arlow said with a wink. But then his attention shifted to his wife. “Maybe don’t
get too close?”

  “Why?” Mae crooned. “He’s like a tiger with no teeth.”

  “Yes, but he’s positively filthy.”

  Yarrow came close to admire the wee Bowlerham, and Bray passed off the bundle before she could contrive to drop him on his head. He accepted the child with far more confidence.

  The sight of Yarrow cradling a baby did something funny to her heart. She decided not to think too much about the implications of that, just yet.

  She cleared her throat. “So, when will it be?”

  Chae-Na held her husband’s hand, but stood angled so that no one other than Bray could see. “Tomorrow morning. Can I persuade you to stay? Don’t you want to see this through?”

  Bray shook her head. “I don’t need to see him die. My part in this is over.”

  It was a wonderful thing to say, because it felt so nice that it was true. Not long ago she had lived on the dream of Quade’s death. But now she had far better dreams to guide her, and no desire to bloody her hands further.

  “We had your stuff packed, as you asked,” Chae-Na said. “And some provisions for your trip.”

  “They’re all at the Temple still?” Bray asked. She couldn’t wait to rejoin Peer and Ko-Jin, now that the horror was at an end. What good times they would have, all together.

  “Yes, I had a letter from Ko-Jin yesterday. They’re expecting you.”

  Bray retrieved Quade’s weapons, his two legendary blades: the Scimitar of Amarra, and Treeblade. She offered them to Chae-Na. “Here. These should be in the royal armory.”

  Chae-Na considered the pair of swords. “Perhaps you should keep them. You were the one to vanquish him, so it seems fitting.”

  “They were never his to begin with,” she said. “And, besides, I intend to do very little vanquishing in the future. You take them—a symbol of his defeat.”

  Chae-Na relented. She strapped Treeblade to her own hip and then handed the scimitar to Mae. The Pauper’s Queen looked positively delighted, though Bray suspected she had no idea how to wield such a blade.

  “Can’t believe you won’t even stay a night,” Arlow protested. He grasped Yarrow’s shoulder. “Come on, brother. One night. We’ll get deliciously drunk and throw tubers off the palace roof. What do you say?”