“Hold,” he commanded, lifting a hand to stop them. He waited for the last blade to come to a clumsy stop. “Good. Now, this time, we’ll—”
“General,” a voice shouted from behind him.
Ko-Jin turned, and even as he spun he wondered when he’d begun responding to that title. One of the king’s valets—a man whose face was familiar but whose name Ko-Jin did not know—jogged down the palace steps. He huffed, his thin cheeks ruddy from exertion. “Begging your pardon, General, but the king requests your immediate presence in his office.”
Ko-Jin sighed. He had been very much enjoying himself.
Enton clapped Ko-Jin on the shoulder, his black gaze reassuring and familiar. “I’ll take it from here, brother. Go.”
Ko-Jin swallowed his disappointment. He set off at a trot, confident he was leaving his trainees in more-than-capable hands. The valet did his best to keep pace.
“Any idea what’s going on?” he asked the man.
The valet barely had breath to answer. “Saw bodies brought in from the city.”
Ko-Jin transitioned from jog to sprint, his Cosanta robes streaking out behind him. The guard outside Jo-Kwan’s study let him pass. Ko-Jin tore open the door and came to a sharp standstill within the room.
“Hey, Ko-Jin,” Peer Gelson said in a dismal voice. He sat, hunched, with his hands dangling between his thighs. His shirt bore smears of blood. The Elevated girl, Su-Hwan, sat beside him, her face pale but steady.
There were three bodies laid out on the meeting table. Jo-Kwan stood near the window, his face turned from the corpses as if he could not bear to look upon them.
Ko-Jin’s heartbeat sounded loud in his own ears. He stepped forward for a proper view, and the metallic scent of blood intensified.
He gazed down at them for a long moment, his hands balling into knuckle-popping fists.
They had been chosen for their disparateness, no doubt. The first was an old man with milky eyes and a face dappled with age spots. Beside him lay a small, round-faced girl, her hair tied into two tails. The third, a young woman of perhaps twenty years, bore the mark of the Chisanta on her neck. She had brown hair and a pretty, olive-complected face. Ko-Jin didn’t know her.
In addition to the deep, red slashes that parted their throats, all three bore cuts and lacerations on their cheeks and arms—weeping crimson stripes, grisly ornamentation. Each was also adorned with a square of paper pinned to their chests, a good-quality vellum typically used for formal invitations. The man’s sheet was printed with an ornate numeral ‘one,’ the young girl’s with a ‘two,’ and the Chisanta’s with a ‘four.’
“I take it a third hasn’t been found?”
Jo-Kwan shook his head, but he didn’t turn his face from the window.
“He might’ve meant Su-Hwan to be three,” Peer said, speaking to the floor. “Two Chisanta in black came for her. We fought ’em off, made chase. Quade showed up out of the bleeding blue and took the two of them away.” Peer shook his head. “He was just there, up a few steps. So close…”
“It is possible,” Su-Hwan said in a bizarrely detached tone. “Of course, it is equally possible I was meant to be five. Or eight. We cannot know for certain.”
Ko-Jin reminded himself to breathe and approached the victims. He bent the number ‘one’ card up from the old man’s chest, to see if anything was written on the opposite side. When he glimpsed black ink, he delicately unpinned each of the three cards and flipped them over on the table. He left a space where the third card would go, though it took no code-breaker to guess what that one would’ve said. Ko-Jin stared, feeling cold and ill.
Peer hauled himself from his seat. “Honey,” he read. “Spelling. Bee.” Ko-Jin heard his sharp intake of breath. “Blighter, that’s sick.”
Jo-Kwan turned just enough to make eye contact. “You understand it?”
“Course,” Peer said. “It’s a nonsense rhyme kids do when they’re pickin’ someone to be ‘it’ for a game. You know? ‘Honey, spelling, bumble, bee; family, maple, hanging, tree; sing it in your nursery; honey, spelling, bumble, bee.’”
Jo-Kwan was apparently unfamiliar with the chant, but by the grave look on his face, he understood its meaning. “So these victims were chosen at random. Totally senseless.”
“Those two, most likely,” Su-Hwan said. “But they sought me, and probably Trinna as well.” The girl’s black gaze locked on the young woman, a crease marring her smooth brow. “She could read minds. She had been helping us determine who was still under Quade’s influence and who was not…”
Peer nodded. “We’d just spoken last night.” He swallowed. “Quade—he’s lookin’ to scare us, and I’m thinking he’s got himself a list of who he wants gone first.”
Ko-Jin did not doubt that, if such a list existed, Su-Hwan would be at the very top. They all had her to thank for what little advantage they had gained after the would-be execution. For someone like Quade, the girl’s ability must make her a monster in his closet. Spirits, Ko-Jin wasn’t overly comfortable with her gift either. Not that she’d used it on him…
“What do we do?” Jo-Kwan asked, looking to Ko-Jin. “We can quarantine, control the gates, but if he can merely pop in and out of the city, how can we possibly keep it safe?”
The king sounded forlorn. Ko-Jin wished he had a ready answer. “I’m training the new recruits not just as an army, but in hand-to-hand fighting and swordsmanship as well. Once they’re ready, I thought regular patrols in the streets would be wise. In the meantime…”
“The Elevated,” Peer said. “They’re used to following orders, and in truth it would be good for ’em to have something to do, ’stead of sitting about feeling guilty. The other Chisanta in the city too, though they’ll be less inclined to take orders.”
“The people might not like the sight of Elevated in positions of power, not after everything. It would look just as it did under Quade,” Jo-Kwan said.
Ko-Jin gazed around the room at all the ornate furnishings. A painting in a gilded frame hung on the wall across from him, depicting some dashing ancestor of Jo-Kwan’s astride a pure white stallion. A paragon of heroism; at least on the surface.
“News spreads of this,” he said, gesturing to Quade’s victims, “and I’m guessing people would feel better with some protection, no matter its form.” He stood straight. “We should also institute a curfew, recommend strongly that people travel in groups if they must travel at all. Perhaps some of the Chisanta could offer self-defense and marksmanship training to the masses. The more people who can hold their own on the streets, the safer the city will be.”
“That sounds an awful lot like a military state,” Jo-Kwan said. “History never looks fondly on those, or the tyrants who enforce them.”
“History can look on me however it likes. I mean to save lives.”
“They always say that…” The king sighed. “Very well, I can see no better alternative. The Chisanta will defend the city as a temporary measure. Once we have a sufficient civilian force, however, there will need to be a change.”
“The Elevated would take orders from Peer,” Su-Hwan said, in a small voice that nevertheless made everyone pause.
Peer glowered at her. “Don’t know why you keep saying that.”
“I say it because it is true,” she answered.
Ko-Jin might not have considered Peer for such a role, but the idea had merit. He could hardly take on more responsibilities himself, and Peer and Bray were the nearest to experienced law-enforcers the Chisanta had. With any luck, Bray would soon find Yarrow and return to Accord.
Jo-Kwan eyed Peer up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. “You will make regular reports to me. Remember, the Chisanta cannot act as an autonomous body while serving in such a capacity.”
Peer opened his mouth, as if to argue. He had not yet agreed to take up the position. “I’m—I…”
“The Elevated,” Su-Hwan said softly, as if for Peer’s ear alone, “are not the only ones who would
benefit from having something to do.”
Peer’s face grew a touch pink, and he grimaced at his small friend, but at length gave a sharp nod of acquiescence. “Regular reports. You got it, Your Highness. Ko-Jin, I’m thinking I’ll need your advice as well. I’ve not been in such a position afore.”
Ko-Jin tried to smile. “There’s a lot of that going around. But, certainly, my brain is yours to pick.”
With all of this settled, Ko-Jin was anxious to leave—to be away from these three bodies on display, these three spirits he had failed to save. May they find joy.
It seemed the others felt much the same. They agreed that they would meet again on the morrow, and then dispersed.
Ko-Jin meandered back up the hallway. He leaned against a window and gazed out at his trainees. They were now swinging their blades upwards from the hip. From this vantage, they looked a much smaller group. Too small.
He sighed and let his forehead rest against the pane. His gaze settled on the princess, as it always seemed to do. He thought, with a pang, of how he had waxed lyrical on the virtues of patience. But there were some things that would not come to you, no matter how long you waited.
He pushed this thought aside, knowing he had no right to it, and turned his mind back to the matter at hand. Quade had come within their reach today, and he would again. Eventually, they would be ready for him.
Chapter Three
Yarrow inserted a roll of gauze into the far finger of his right glove, then tugged it on. He flexed the fingers of that hand, the four that remained to him. The little finger didn’t move, of course, but at least it didn’t wilt and flap about so stupidly. An improvement.
He bent to lace his boots, his movements measured. The lacerations that covered his torso, legs, and arms—forty-three of them, by his tally—had scabbed. His skin pinched and tugged beneath his clothing, like poorly sewn seams threatening to split wide.
Next, he donned his top hat, wool coat, and woven, blood-red scarf. All purchased second-hand—or fifth-hand, in Arlow’s disapproving assessment.
Yarrow stepped before the standing mirror. The morning light highlighted sharp cheekbones, casting his eyes in shadow. It seemed that each time he saw his reflection, his visage changed in some small way. He caught himself in assorted moments of expression, in varying lights and at a diversity of angles, as if he were slowly discovering the collection of appearances that belonged to him. He pasted a smile on his face, to see how it would look. Strange.
He appeared flat and colorless—dull. Not much like a ‘best man,’ certainly. He shrugged, and his reflection duplicated the motion, though not as carelessly as he had intended.
He moved to the pile of books by his armchair, and lingered over the texts with loving eyes. He had learned some fascinating history from these volumes; it almost seemed a pity to part with them.
Yarrow had grown addicted to reading over the past two weeks. He wished he could immerse himself in the texts, breathe in the very words, until he knew everything there was to know. Until his empty head was so full that he couldn’t sense the gaps, the void that was his memory.
He tucked the stack under his arm and departed the chamber, then headed down the stairway and into the inn’s common room.
“Hey,” Arlow called, pulling Yarrow up short. “Where’re you off to?”
Yarrow studied his friend. If his own appearance had been pale, Arlow’s was downright ghostly. This pallor made his eyes look even blacker in his face—eyes that bulged and roamed. He wore a formal black suit, the jacket with two tails that hung to his calves.
“The circulating library,” Yarrow said, lofting the books in his hand. “Before it closes for the weekend.”
“Great Spirits, man! I’m to be married this afternoon and you’re worried about overdue book fees?”
Actually, the books were far from overdue, but Yarrow wanted to borrow a fresh batch. “The ceremony’s not for five hours. I won’t be long.”
Arlow reached out to stop him. “Have you seen her this morning? Mae?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Arlow looked positively miserable. “Hey, why don’t you have a drink with me instead? You can do that later.”
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Yarrow said, inching towards the door. “We’ll have a drink then.”
“Very well,” Arlow answered, his shoulders sagging.
Yarrow turned away guiltily and hustled out the door. The truth was, if he didn’t stop by the library soon, he would have nothing new to read for the entire weekend. He couldn’t bear so many hours with only his own thoughts to occupy him. The very idea set his insides squirming.
The morning was gray and cold. He tucked his nose within the folds of his scarf and walked into the wind. Beneath his feet, old snow crunched and cracked, as dismal in color as the sky.
The town—Midington—was small enough that he could see clear from one end to the other. Arlow had said it was indistinguishable from every other uncultured flyspeck Dalish village. But Yarrow liked it—or, at least, he liked that he was able to know it in its entirety almost at once. He liked that people said hello on the street and he was able to introduce himself. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Yarrow Lamhart, he would say, with increasing ease. It had begun to sound true.
The surrounding homes and shops piped out steady columns of smoke, filling the air with the pleasant smell of wood-fire. Yarrow reached the edge of town. The road continued north, straight on to Accord, but nothing lay beyond the library save for a vacant hill, topped by a single snow-burdened tree.
Yarrow pushed open the door, and a bell jangled overhead. He inhaled as he entered, relishing the aromatic, dusty scent of so many shelves of books.
“Good morning, Master Chisanta,” Mr. Bellmont, the owner, said, laughing at the sight of him. “Spirits, but you’re a quick reader. Ready for the next lot already, are you?”
Yarrow smiled and removed his hat. He set the stack on the counter. Mr. Bellmont placed five new volumes before him. The text on top looked to be of particular interest. The silver lettering read: ‘A History of the Chisanta: Friend or Foe of the Common Man?’
“My thanks,” Yarrow said with good cheer. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”
The man gave a wheezing laugh. “I don’t doubt it.”
Yarrow backed out into the street once again, books clutched to his chest. The bell proclaimed his exit. He focused on his feet, stepping around a patch of ice. He noticed peripherally that the hill, which had been vacant moments before, was no longer deserted. Three people on horseback stood out like shadows against the overcast sky.
Yarrow thought nothing of them, until he heard his name called out in a female voice. He paused. A woman jumped from her mount and sprinted in his direction. Her copper-colored hair streamed behind her. It was the only bit of color and brightness in an otherwise uniformly bleak backdrop.
“Yarrow,” she cried again. It was strange to hear so much feeling applied to his name; she gasped it, those two syllables which were only beginning to feel like his own. Gasped it, as if his name—or perhaps he, himself—were air drawn into choking lungs.
As she drew closer, he realized that he knew her face, and her voice as well. This was the woman who had been searching for him in the prison. She had said she would kill him. Perhaps she had been speaking in hyperbole, he thought, because she was grinning now, and there was no threat in her body language.
The woman looked as if she meant to barrel right into him, but at the last moment she pulled short, huffing, and swayed on the spot. Her eyes—an incredibly bright green, he noted—scanned him up and down.
“Yarrow?” she said once again, but this time softly. This time a question. A cloud passed over her features, and her smile slipped.
Yarrow felt foolish. He was uncertain how to respond to such emotion, but clearly he must say something. At length, he tipped his hat. “Good morning.”
Her lips parted and a sharp crease bloomed between her russet brows.
She took a half-step back, as if he had struck her. As if ‘good morning’ were a terrible insult. Odd, as it had seemed to him an innocuous enough greeting.
“You…” She licked her lip, and—much to his horror—blinked to hold back tears. “You don’t know me?”
“Forgive me,” he said, and meant it. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
Her face crumpled, and Yarrow could do nothing but stand there, clutching his books, and watch. It wasn’t mysterious—plainly this woman had loved him, had loved the Yarrow he had been before. Had he reciprocated the feeling? Why hasn’t Arlow mentioned her?
She glanced away. “You promised you wouldn’t make another. You promised…” She said this to the ground, the words not for him.
The wind gusted, bitterly cold. Her red hair blew into her face and she swatted it away.
“I apologize,” he said again, though clearly it was an inadequate response. It was genuine, though. He was quite sorry to have caused this woman pain; she did not seem to have been made for tears. Not with such intense eyes, with a mouth that looked somehow clever, even in distress.
She squeezed her eyes shut, then brushed away a tear with the back of a pale hand.
And then, visibly gathering herself, she held that hand out to him. “I’m Bray,” she said, pausing to collect herself. “Bray Marron.”
He transferred the books to his left arm and took her proffered palm. Even through the leather of his glove, he experienced an odd jolt at the contact. He felt, all at once, like a fish caught on a line—helplessly hooked.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he heard himself reply. “Bray Marron.”
“So, he’s made the third sacrifice?” Roldon asked in an undertone.
His words drifted, half-heard, through Bray’s ears. She perceived a great deal of noise and motion around her—tattooed men erecting a wedding bower at the fore of the inn’s common room, the hammering of nails and coarse language—but all this, too, failed to penetrate. The world had taken on a hushed dimness, save for a single man illuminated by his own tragic light: Yarrow.
Lamentation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 3) Page 5