Jo-Kwan grimaced. “Yes, agreed, but do not go until I have everything arranged with the chancellor. I will not consent to his request until the terms are sweetened. Wait until all is officially settled.”
“Very well.” Chae-Na rose, her hand fisting around her new blade. “Do you need me any longer? I should like to go for some air.”
Jo-Kwan’s gaze held pity, so she looked away. “No, we’ve only some details of defense to discuss. You may go if you like.”
Chae-Na curtsied to him as was proper, though it still felt oddly formal. She walked faster than she ought down the hall and around the two corners, back into the privacy of her bedroom.
Once inside, she leaned against the door and pressed her hand to her eyes, feeling the wetness of tears against her palm. She swallowed at the sob lodged in her throat.
She wiped her cheeks dry. There was no sense in weeping over that which could not be changed. She glanced at the knife in her fist and a dark smile crossed her lips. Her husband would never allow her to train with weapons, so she would have to study well before he arrived.
She ambled to the window, which overlooked the sloping grounds at the back of the palace. There were lines of men and women practicing the sword. She recognized the drill; Ko-Jin had taught her the same forms in Cagsglow. She watched the wooden blades, agleam with morning light, and touched the callouses on her own hands in remembrance.
She made her decision in an instant. If she was to give her life for her country, she would take at least this much for herself.
Arlow woke with delicious slowness. Bright morning sunlight streamed between linen curtains, illuminating his discarded shirt from the previous evening. Its sleeves twisted and splayed across the floor as if with exultation.
He stretched languorously and rolled onto his side. Mae had an attractive back, he thought. He liked the way the sunshine glanced off her bare shoulder blades, admired the dip of her spine. He traced her backbone with his forefinger.
She grunted and spoke into the fabric of her pillow, her voice too muffled to be understood.
“What was that, darling?”
She snorted at this pet name and turned her head towards him. “I said it’s too blighted early to be wakin’ me.” She made a show of yawning. “Let a spirit get some sleep.”
Her cropped, dirty-blonde hair was a perfect disaster. She glowered at him with the one eye that was not pressed to her pillow. Her scrunched, disgruntled expression was distinctly badger-like. Then she closed her eyes again, shutting him out. He grinned at her.
“You mean to sleep away such a fine morning?”
“Cold morning,” she corrected in a grumble.
“A fine morning, in a fine inn, with the company of a fine gentleman?” He spoke with obnoxious cheer, amusement glinting in his eyes.
“A fine peacock.”
“Think of all the diverting activities we might occupy ourselves with.”
“You’ll have to carry me from this bed.” She jerked the blanket up to her chin. “I ain’t rising willingly.”
“Who ever said a word about rising?” he asked with a wicked smile. “I’ve always thought it a highly overrated practice, getting out of bed.” He placed a slow kiss at the point where her jaw met her neck. She sighed, which he took for approval, and he dipped his hand beneath the blankets. “Are you certain sleep is the thing you desire?”
“You’re a real arrogant ass, you know,” she said, but a moment later she had flipped around and pressed her lips to his with newfound animation. He smiled into the kiss. It seemed he could not rid himself of it, that smile. He had likely grinned in his sleep.
He was half-tempted to tell her how tremendously happy he felt, to confess that no woman had ever done this to him before. But he shoved the notion aside at once. Instead, he set his hands to work.
“Arlow,” she breathed, “I—”
She cut herself short as the door to their room slammed open, the knob rebounding against the wall.
Arlow swore and wrenched the sheet to his lap. “What is the meaning—”
The indignation died on his tongue as he registered the entrance of a tall, foreboding man. Icy blue eyes glared down at him.
“Master Bowlerham,” the Pauper’s King said, tone inscrutable. “Sister. Always a pleasure.”
Mae yanked the blanket to cover herself, her cheeks burning a brilliant scarlet. “Linton!” she half-shouted. “What the Blighter do you think—”
“I’ve come, quite naturally,” he said, a sly smile quivering at the corner of his mouth, “to congratulate you on your impending nuptials.” He gestured to them, to their compromising position. “An untraditional order of events, but no matter. All will be settled shortly.”
Arlow’s lips moved soundlessly. Impending…what?
“Linton,” Mae said. She rose to her knees on the mattress and lifted a hand to tame her wild hair. “It ain’t any of your business.”
“On the contrary, dear sister,” Linton said through a clenched jaw. “As our parents are deceased, it is not only my business but my duty. I took the liberty of arranging the banns already. The ceremony will take place here, at this inn.”
“And when, exactly, is this happy event to occur?” Arlow heard himself ask, his tone biting.
“The day after tomorrow should be soon enough, I think.”
Mae leaned over the side of the bed and tossed Arlow his trousers. The buckle of his belt hit him in the shoulder. “Can you give us the room for a minute?” she asked.
Still in a daze, he tugged on his trousers and shirt with as much dignity as he could muster. As Arlow approached the Pauper’s King, the temperature seemed to drop.
Arlow slipped past him and out into the hallway. The door latched behind him, but did little to muffle their voices. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe.
“What in the name of the bleedin’ Spirits are you doin’, Linton? Was this some kind of plan of yours?”
“Oh yes,” he answered, sarcastic. “Yes, I planned that my beloved baby sister should go to bed with some, some nobleson. No, as it is, I am fixing a problem.” Footsteps creaked across the floorboards. “What in the world were you thinking, Mae? I never imagined you would be so stupid, I trusted you to…”
“To what?” she asked in a softer, more dangerous voice.
“To not spread your legs for every—”
A sharp slap sounded. Arlow teetered, wondering if he should return. He decided against it; she could handle herself. However, half-dressed and shoeless, he could not descend to the common area. He had little choice but to stand in that drafty hallway, eavesdropping.
“I’m no child, Linton. I know what I’m about.”
“You know what you’re about?” he repeated. “A man who means to do right by a woman does not take her to bed before, at the least, a proposal. He can walk away, Mae, his wealth intact and none the worse. And what if you are with child?”
Arlow peered at his cold toes. He would never have deserted the girl if she were in a family way, not without financial support. That would be beneath him. He suspected this would sound insufficient to Linton, however.
“He’s not so bad as you think. And, besides, he ain’t got any wealth left.”
“His accounts may be near empty, but he stands to inherit one of the largest estates in central Daland. And, as I hear it, his father’s health has been rather poor of late. His doctors fear the worst.” At the last, Linton’s tone brightened.
Arlow scowled at the door. He shelved his own guilt and turned to a simpler anger. His father was a joyless bastard. Even so, it stung to hear a stranger cheerfully predict the man’s death. He swallowed, trying to lessen the foul taste on his tongue.
He left the siblings to their scheming, padding up the corridor and rapping his knuckles on another guest room. After a pause, the door groaned open and Yarrow’s face appeared.
“Good morning?” Yarrow asked, eyeing Arlow with a single arched brow.
> “Hardly,” Arlow gestured for his friend to move and pushed into the chamber. “You still have that whisky?”
A book dangled from Yarrow’s right hand. A pile of similar volumes was stacked by an armchair near the hearth. “It’s nine in the morning,” he answered with a laugh.
“My thanks. What an excellent timekeeper you are. The whisky?” He strode to the far side of the room. “Ah, here it is.”
He poured two tumblers and handed one to Yarrow, who took the offering with reluctance. “None for me. It’s—”
“Nine in the morning, yes, yes.” Arlow sank into the rocking chair opposite Yarrow and ran a hand over his face. “I’ve had a trying morning that is liable to turn into a trying week, so be a mate and don’t let me drink alone.”
Yarrow shrugged and took a small sip. Arlow hefted his glass in thanks and swilled. Warmth spread through his chest.
Arlow propped the tumbler against his abdomen and rocked the chair with his bare feet. “It’s good to see you with a book. Like old times.”
Yarrow looked much more himself. For the past two weeks, they’d traveled slowly, spending days together at inns along the way. They did so in part to allow Yarrow time to heal, and in part because the snow had been nigh impassable.
Seeing him clean and well-fed, it was easy to forget that this was not the same Yarrow, not quite.
“I enjoy reading.” He grazed the binding of the book with gentle fingertips. “But I wonder, sometimes, whether I like the things I do because you’ve told me I should, or if they’re truly a fundamental part of me.”
Arlow smiled sadly. “That is just the kind of over-analysis I’d expect to hear from a Yarrow Lamhart.” He cleared his throat. “Now, I believe we are drinking to my misfortunes. Do stop making it all about you, old friend.”
Yarrow coughed a laugh and took another swig of whisky. “My apologies. What’s befallen you since last night?”
“I’m to be a married man, it seems.”
“Congratulations?”
He raised his glass. “Quite.”
“To Mae, I assume?”
Arlow rested his teeth on the rim of his tumbler and inhaled through his nose, then nodded. “Her brother has arrived to insist upon it. More the fool I am, to have let myself forget just who she is. And what she wants. It’s not as if she didn’t tell me she was meaning to turn wife.” Arlow shook his head in self-reproach. She had told him that first night what she truly wanted: a husband and a set of curtains of her very own. His mind shifted to the Pauper’s King and the implied threat in his words. “He’s not a man to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“You seem to like her,” Yarrow said, as if offering comfort.
“That is the worst of it,” Arlow said. He pushed from his feet and set the chair rocking again. “I do like her, for some Spirits-forsaken reason. But that scarcely qualifies me to be anyone’s husband. I am not a man meant for marrying. I’m too selfish for such an office.”
Yarrow dipped his head to the side. “Then be less selfish.”
Arlow huffed. “Easily said, for the world’s most selfless man.”
A tentative knock made him start. “Arlow? You in there?” Mae’s voice called from the hall.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then hauled himself to his feet, drink in hand. “Thanks for the retreat,” he said to Yarrow as he crossed to the exit. “Short though it was.”
“Any time.”
Arlow opened the door to find Mae looking downright reticent, her hands clasped before her and toes curled against the carpet. He stepped into the passageway and leaned against the jamb.
A mask of coldness swept across his face. “And how fares my betrothed?”
“Arlow…”
That she did not protest his words confirmed them, he thought. She hadn’t refused her brother’s demand. He threw back the rest of his whisky. “Foy Rodgeman didn’t have an ancestral estate to offer you, is that it? I must congratulate you, you played your game well.”
Her expression hardened in an instant, and her hands compressed into fists. “What’s it you’re accusin’ me of, exactly?” she hissed. “You asked me to stay on with you—you begged, said ‘please.’ You…” She turned her head, as if she could not bear to look at him.
“If you are not complicit in this scheme,” he asked with forced calm. “Why agree to it? Are you lacking the word ‘no?’”
Her gaze snapped back to him, eyes narrowed in a way that made him feel as small as an insect. “He’s said if I don’t marry you he’ll put in for despoilment compensation.”
This took Arlow wholly aback. “De…despoilment compensation?” He could not help but picture the wide number of Bowlerhams—cousins and aunts and uncles—whose reputations would also be blackened by this mark of public disgrace. And, more wrenchingly, of how very ashamed his mother would’ve been, had she lived. His shoulders squared, as if his back had, in reality, been driven to a wall.
“Aye,” Mae said. “And he’s connections enough in the courts to make sure it goes through. So I’ll marry you legally as he wants, but that don’t mean we gotta live like we’re husband and wife.”
She offered him one last look of pure contempt, then stomped down the hall and disappeared into her room. The door slammed behind her.
Arlow meandered to his own chamber, feeling like the greatest ass in all the three kingdoms. The smile that had been plaguing him for the past few days was now quite gone.
Back within his room, he gazed at the rumpled blankets. The space appeared cramped, cold, and empty without her. He shut his eyes and waited for the oppressive feeling in his chest to ease, but relief did not come.
Chapter Two
Peer smiled in greeting, or at least he tried to. His cheeks had grown weary—unsurprising, after two hours of welcoming the Chisanta to their temporary home. He suspected the expression now looked more grimace than grin.
He stepped forward, his boots crunching in the snow. A middle-aged Cosanta couple glided up the path and through an ancient stone gate. He extended his arm and shook, seemingly, the thousandth hand yet that morning. And then the thousand-and-first.
The Cosanta introduced themselves. They regarded the campus grounds with interest. They appeared pleased by the grand lecture hall at Peer’s back, which bewildered him. He found the place more than a little forbidding, with its centuries-old architecture—all its towering dark stone and narrow, leaded-glass window panes.
Beside him, Su-Hwan recorded these two new names on her ever-expanding list. “Is that Arric with two ‘r’s?”
“It is,” the man said, his tone distracted. He gazed over his shoulder at a patinaed plaque set into the entryway, which bore the crest and motto of the University of Accord. “Aerrit Pertuit,” he read. “Meaning, of course…” he prompted, looking sideways at his female companion.
Peer noticed the woman frown in irritation, so he answered, “‘Knowledge prevails.’ Here’s to hopin’ that’s the case.” He extended a map of the grounds for them to examine, pointing. “Now, up on the north campus there’re still some graduate students and professors in residence, but the dormitories in the center green and on the west campus are all free.”
As the couple studied the map, more figures streamed through the gate. A large Chiona man almost slipped on a patch of ice, but regained his balance with an oath. His unwieldy bag fell; its contents clanged as it landed.
“Malc,” Peer called out in welcome. “Good seein’ you, brother.” He bobbed his head to the others, whose faces were also familiar.
The big, bald man smiled, the angry scar on his cheek puckering, and he picked up his bag and shook off the snow. “Heya, Peer. Nice digs you’ve found us.” He shifted a fleeting, hard look to the backs of the Cosanta couple as they walked off.
“A stroke of good luck, the dean going for it. Be easier to organize with us all livin’ together.”
“Is little Bray Marron here, too?” he asked, gazing around as if she might appear from b
ehind one of the time-old sycamore trees.
“No, not yet.” Peer extended the map. “You can grab a bunk in any of these,” he said, gesturing to the western quarter.
Malc slung his bag to his shoulder with a muffled clink, and Peer wondered how many weapons the man carried. “Which is for Chiona?”
“What do you mean?”
Malc shifted his gear. “Which dormitory’s for Chiona? Hurry man, this is heavy.”
Peer frowned. “Don’t see the need for that. Just find yourself a bed.”
The man shook his head. His expression betrayed doubt, either in Peer’s sanity or his competence. He snagged the map to solve the problem for himself. “We’ll take Benteen Hall. You tell the other Chiona, yeah?”
Peer folded his arms before his chest. “I’ve got better things to do, and what’s more, most of ’em are settled in already.” He looked the man up and down with unkind eyes. “You can be sharin’ a privy with a Cosanta. It won’t kill you.”
“Please spell your names for me, Masters Chiona,” Su-Hwan said in her bland tone. Peer bit back a laugh. He knew her ways well enough to hear the kernel of censure in her voice.
While his young companion scribbled their names, Peer’s gaze pulled to the gate. His eyes bulged and he stumbled half a step back. Through the entry, a sizable trunk floated at eye level, apparently moving of its own accord. It bobbed in the breeze, then shuddered to a halt mid-air. Peer’s mouth parted in bafflement.
Behind it, four young people ambled into view—Elevated, by their non-conforming dress and hairstyles. One, a teenage girl with long white-blonde hair and an elfin face, held a hand aloft, fingers pointed towards the trunk.
Lamentation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 3) Page 3