The tears had come at last, hot and fast. She sank down to the ground and clung to her knees, leaning her head back against the coffin.
“You were so blighted stupid, you know. I told you, I told you…”
The candles shifted in a sudden draft.
The next came as a bare whisper, “What am I supposed to do now?”
She sat for a long time, until her weeping slowed; the acute pain in her chest shifted to a blunt whole-body ache. She let her cheek fall to her knee and twisted for an upward look at the coffin, where she could just see the underside of his jaw. The candlelight highlighted the small scar that ran along his angular jawbone.
He had gotten that, in typical Jo-Kwan fashion, trying to do the right thing. He’d thought it unfair that the steward’s son—of an age with him, and a friend of sorts—had not been included in his swordsmanship lessons. And so he had decided he would teach the lad himself, and had been foolish enough to use real blades instead of wasters.
She could imagine him, as he had been then, with those black sutures running up his jaw like spider’s legs, defending his actions to the king— “It’s not fair, Father. Why shouldn’t he learn too?”
“Not fair,” Chae-Na murmured. “You were always so concerned with what was fair, as if life ever promised fairness.”
She noticed her use of the past tense, and was undone again. “Spirits—” she stammered, “Spirits, brother, how I will miss you…”
She heard someone enter, but didn’t pull her face from her knees. She heard him sit beside her and sigh. She didn’t look—she need not look.
“The public viewing’s to start shortly. Others will be coming to say goodbye in a few minutes,” he said. His tone was distant. “You’re meant to receive them, I take it? No getting out of that, I suppose…” He cleared his throat. “Unless you were to, ah, ‘take ill?’”
She dried her cheeks against the fabric of her dress and straightened. “No. I cannot do that.” She would have to walk from this room with a calm face and a strong will. She would, in due time, be crowned queen of all Trinitas. Strength was required, or at least the appearance of it.
Queen. A title that had never been intended for her, that she had never wanted. And which she would now need to live up to, or risk sending the nation into chaos.
Ko-Jin grasped her shoulder briefly and stood, turning to face Jo-Kwan.
“Forgive me,” she heard him whisper, “for failing you.”
Chae-Na pushed herself to her feet. She turned to the coffin one last time.
Goodbye, brother, she thought. There was no sense in speaking aloud. He could not hear. I love you.
Chae-Na turned away and took several calming breaths.
“Is my face red?”
“A bit, yes.”
She nodded, accepting this as an unavoidable reality—the least concerning in a long list of unavoidable realities.
“Is my fiancé outside?”
“He is.” Ko-Jin snaked his hand into hers, gave one firm squeeze, then stepped back. “I’ll stay by your side.”
“You needn’t—”
“You can argue all you like, but I’m remaining beside you. Quade can come and go in a moment. He’s got spies in the palace. I won’t—I can’t—let him get to you, too.”
“Very well.”
She strode forward through the doorway, trying to focus on her breathing and her posture. A queue of people had lined up just outside the door, all waiting to pay final respects to their fallen king. A few of them even appeared unhappy.
Chae-Na took up her place opposite the door, where she would greet each guest as they exited the viewing room. There was a great deal of whispering, at her appearance most likely, but she remained detached. She felt a world away.
“Chae-Na, dear. How are you? I was terribly grieved to hear of your loss.”
She made herself focus on the man before her—a silver beard and black eyes.
“Uncle Endrre,” she said with a slight curtsey. “It was good of you to come.”
“We were here already, of course. If it weren’t for the quarantine, I might have…” He ran a hand over his beard. “It is good, though, that we have come. Melerre will take good care of you, niece. You needn’t trouble yourself over a thing, just take time to heal.”
Melerre himself stepped forward, to take up his rightful place as her betrothed. She glanced up at his bloated features—his drooping eyelids and jowls always made him look rather like a hound dog. He clasped her hand in his own with a show of ownership. “It is fortunate that your brother saw to your future. It will make this time so much easier for the family.” He smiled, plainly delighted by his good fortune. He had struck a bargain that would make him brother-in-law to the king, and one fortuitous death later, he had found himself a few vows away from being ruler of all Trinitas.
She wanted to hit him. But instead she bared her teeth in an expression that only a great fool would mistake for a smile. “Yes, your military assistance will be invaluable to the city. My brother did well to secure your aid. We will need to discuss the strengthening of our defenses as soon as possible, as well as the transport of—”
“My dear cousin,” Melerre said, silencing her with a hand on the shoulder. “You needn’t worry yourself over such matters. Your general and I will arrange it all, and the city will be quite safe.” He glanced over his shoulder, to Ko-Jin. “In fact, you may go now and speak with Colonel Verrez.”
“That can wait,” Ko-Jin answered. To the untrained ear, he may have sounded friendly.
Melerre appeared baffled by such a dismissal. All of his jowls quivered as he tucked his chin in surprise. “Sir, I realize you are Chisanta and likely unused to taking orders—”
“I take my orders from the queen.” She doubted this to be entirely true, given his blatant refusal to leave her side, but was grateful for the show of support all the same. Without Ko-Jin, it occurred to her suddenly, the crown may well have been wrenched from her grasp. And her cousin would make a poorer king than even her father.
“As your future commander-in—”
“I find the future rarely unfolds the way we predict, don’t you?” He smiled, flashing all of his beautiful teeth. “On the day you become king—” by his tone, it was a day he did not think likely to come, “I will accept your orders.” His dimples flashed briefly. “Probably.”
Melerre’s nostrils flared and he drew himself up, as if hoping he might be able to look down upon Ko-Jin if he improved his posture. A rather optimistic hope, given his middling height. “Sir, I think you will find that, without the aid of the Adourran militia, your little quarantine will—”
“Cousin,” Chae-Na cut across, with a voice like a sheet of ice snapping beneath heavy feet. “Is this truly a conversation you believe appropriate at my brother—your king’s—viewing?” Real pain fissured through her chest. It seemed even she, for a short moment, had forgotten why they were standing there. And the recollection was nearly unendurable.
He huffed. “My apologies, darling.”
Chae-Na did her best not to scowl at this false endearment. “At a more suitable time, we shall sit down and discuss the best way to proceed. As I’m sure you can appreciate, a great many things have changed since you made your arrangements with my brother.”
He bowed his head with flinty eyes. Plainly he took her meaning—all of the creases in his face deepened, as he strained against a frown. But he did not relinquish his place by her side. She suspected that even a direct insult would not prompt him to abandon that place of visible power.
The first of the guests exited from the chamber. Chae-Na curtsied and accepted the handshake of a distant relative. “My condolences, Your Highness.”
She had barely the time to form a polite response before the man moved on. He was replaced by an older woman with an elaborate hair ornament. “Such a tragedy. He was such a handsome young man…”
Chae-Na’s polite smile was already beginning to strain, and she co
uld see the line of people wrapping around to the next room.
“My dear girl, how are you holding up?”
Ko-Jin’s suggestion that she ‘take ill’ was seeming more brilliant by the second.
Veldon Gorberry and his sister Peroline emerged next. Veldon was the first person who appeared truly grieved; he and Jo-Kwan had long been friends.
Within his hard face, Veldon’s blue eyes were wet. He placed a warm kiss on Chae-Na’s hand. “If I can be of service in any way, Your Highness, please do not hesitate to ask.” He sniffed, trying to clear his clogged voice. “I will miss your brother immensely.”
Her eyes burned and she clutched his hand, filled with a sudden strong affection for this man before her. “You may expect a summons soon enough. We will have to continue the discussions you began with Jo-Kwan.”
He nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the line that was forming behind him. “Chae-Na,” he began in an undertone, “I—”
“Do keep the procession moving,” Melerre said, his toad-like eyes resting on Veldon with recognition and dislike. The man could do nothing more than bow and move on. He was replaced by a bored-looking gentleman carrying an ostentatious walking cane.
“What a loss. May his spirit find joy.”
“Such a sad day for the nations.”
“You have my sympathies, Your Highness.”
As the mourners streamed by, Chae-Na grew increasingly glad of Ko-Jin’s presence at her back. She could not see him, but she sensed him there—her one true friend in all the room. She drew strength from him.
“First your parents, and now this. Oh my dear girl, such a trial for you.”
“They say everything happens for a reason. My heart goes out to you, Your Highness.”
But that strength was like borrowed armor that fit poorly and weighted her down. Eventually she would have to shed it and find her own courage. And the prospect of such a journey without her brother to cheer her on—it was enough to make her falter right at the start.
Oh, Jo-Kwan…
“—If there’s anything at all I can do for you—”
“May his spirit find—”
How could you have left me?
He found her, at last, grooming her mule within the public mews. Arlow stepped out of the cold morning mist and into the stables, which reeked of horse urine and soiled straw. He leaned against a wooden beam and studied her, as she seemed not to have heard his arrival.
Mae brushed Poppy Seed’s coat with absent motions, her gaze fixed on an unexceptional patch of floor. Her form was caught in a shaft of light, motes of dust dancing brightly around her.
Though she wasn’t weeping, Arlow thought she looked almost exquisitely sad—the very embodiment of the emotion. And he felt a faint echo of her pain within himself. He wondered if this was how Yarrow had felt for all these years. Poor Blighter…
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” she said, startling him.
He wondered when she had noticed his presence, and what his own expression had betrayed. “And how am I looking at you?”
“Like you’re pityin’ me.”
Arlow frowned. She had accepted his comfort in the hours after they’d discovered Linton’s death, but then she had pulled away again—withdrawn from him, and turned cool. “It’s not pity,” he said. “It’s sympathy.”
The brush in Mae’s hand moved with a new frenetic energy, which caused the mule to twitch her ears in irritation. “Pity. Sympathy. What-all. I don’t need it, not from you.”
Arlow inhaled through his nose, counseling himself not to speak in anger. He should certainly not shout at a grieving woman. “I only want to help, Mae. I care—”
She snorted, and he had never liked that sound less. “Care, huh? Right.”
“Why are you so angry?” he asked in desperation, because he genuinely could not understand. The day they married she had apologized to him, and they had held hands as if united. What had changed?
Her eyes slitted. “You can’t be serious? No way you’re really that stupid.” A horse in a nearby stall nickered, and Arlow glowered at it.
“Perhaps I am stupid,” he took a step towards her, intensity in his voice, “because I need you to explain it.”
She was working to keep the tears in her eyes from falling, and she turned away to hastily wipe her cheeks. When she swung around to face him she looked ready to go to battle. “I loved you, Arlow Bowlerham,” she said. “Because you got that pretty face and you made me laugh and I thought you were more than you seemed.” She was clearly only just beginning, and still he was tempted to silence her. She was already wounding him. “And you married me, and then sixteen of my friends died. And I’m sittin’ there, on our marriage bed, thinkin’ of all them people I’m never gonna see again, and wonderin’ if you’re one of ’em too. But you’re not gonna leave, you say.” She hiccuped. “No, you’ll stick around and try out bein’ a husband. Like I’m some fancy hat and you’re not sure I’m gonna match your shoes.”
She ran a hand through her hair in a violent motion. “Well that ain’t how this works—that ain’t how anything works, Arlow. And now Linton’s gone,” the tears finally spilled over, darting down her cheeks with all haste, “and he was right all along, about you and about me. Because I got puppy-eyed and girlish, and I spread legs for a man with one foot out the door.” She grasped at the fabric of her shirt front, and pressed her fist into her stomach. “And what’s the chance you’re gonna be a better father than husband?”
Perhaps he was stupid, because it took him several heavy seconds to realize that she wasn’t speaking abstractly. “You’re pregnant,” he said at last. “Spirits…” If someone had struck him in the gut he could not have been more winded, and soon there was an embarrassing wetness in his eyes. His lower lip quivered.
She nodded, her chest stuttering. Her efforts to keep herself from crying were at an end, but she seemed determined to finish what she had begun. “And I’m not gonna wait it out and see if you’re gonna stick around. So you’ve gotta choice to make. Stay, be a husband and father, or walk away. That’s it. Nothin’ in between.” She pointed at the door of the stable, as if he might disappear through it in that moment and never return.
Arlow pressed his hand to his eyes, unwilling to let her see him weep like a child. “Oh, Mae,” he said, his voice choked. “I could never leave you. I might be a right bastard, and a coward. But I’m selfish, and I love you, so I could never walk away.”
He heard her approach. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled his hand away from his eyes, so that he had no choice but to look into her face. It was splotchy still, but no longer angry. “Why you hidin’?” She dabbed at the wetness beneath his eye with a finger.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I try to never weep in front of livestock. They’re very impressionable beasts.”
Her laugh was half-sob. “It’s okay if you’re afeared, ’bout the baby I mean. I am too.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I’m terrified. But, you know, we’ll…” He gestured with his hand, suggesting they would figure it out in time.
He tilted his face towards her, to see if she might let him kiss her. She angled her chin upward.
Their lips met, and he had never experienced a kiss that seemed to say so much, most of it too complex for words—it tasted of tears, and asked forgiveness. It didn’t exactly mend all between them, but promised a new beginning.
A man behind them cleared his throat, and Arlow regretfully pulled away. He kept his eyes on her as she looked over his shoulder.
“Hey, Foy,” she said, her cheeks flushing. “Is everyone gathered?”
“Yes,” the man said in his crisp voice.
“Let’s be off, then,” she said, after scratching Poppy Seed under the ear one last time. “Come on, Arlow.”
The three of them left the dryness of the mews and marched out into the city street. They were staying in the Narrows, a particularly rough part of town. Arlow eye
d the rundown buildings around them uncertainly.
To his left, a four-story house leaned to one side, seeming to remain upright by habit alone. As they passed the unfortunate-looking property, he noticed the sign—The Central Accord Home for Orphans—and saw a grinning boy in a window offer him a rude gesture.
Arlow kept a gentle hand to Mae’s back as they trod their way up a deserted alley. She had the meandering stride of a sleepwalker, and he wondered when she had last slept.
He bent to speak near her ear. “Are you well enough for this?”
She nodded, her focus on the street. “I’m afraid, though. Without Lin—” Her voice hitched, but she made herself continue, “Linton, the whole thing might just crumble. The Pauper’s Men—we were always in it for him.”
Arlow watched a fat rat wander up the cobbled streets, picking its way in careful starts and stops. It was hair-raising, how deserted the streets of Accord had become. So many people should not be so quiet.
“We’re nearly there?” Arlow asked, pulling his coat tighter.
“Just ’round this next corner.”
They strode the length of the laneway, their boots slapping smartly on the road.
The meeting place, this time, took the form of an abandoned factory, a large industrial space that smelt strongly of rust and damp. Someone had lit a fire in a garbage bin, which moderately warmed and brightened the center of the room. The flickering light gave them all dancing shadows.
Some of the faces were familiar to Arlow, though still nameless. Men and women of means mixed with street ruffians and tattooed thugs. There seemed far more of them at this meeting than any prior one he had attended.
An old woman in a tartan shawl came forward to hug Mae. “It’s true?”
Mae could only nod, but she accepted the embrace. Others stepped forward, many with red eyes and noses, to take the first woman’s place. Arlow stood back, observing. It hadn’t occurred to him until just then, that these people were Mae’s family.
Foy, with eyes of the utmost tenderness, extracted Mae from the crowd and cleared his throat to move matters along. Arlow hung back near the entrance. He felt himself an onlooker. The others had formed a standing semicircle, with the barrel at the center and Mae and Foy across from them.
Lamentation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 3) Page 20