Lamentation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 3)

by March McCarron

“Elda.”

  “And the other teleporters—”

  “Mearra and Tae-Young.” Peer folded his arms before his chest. As he did so, Ko-Jin noticed the beginnings of a nasty-looking bruise on his knuckles. “We just need a good plan, and a hefty dose of luck.”

  Arlow.

  Ko-Jin swiped at his eyes. He felt ashamed of himself, for yielding to despair when there was still such hope left to them. He would save her. He had to; she would expect it of him.

  Ko-Jin surprised Peer by crossing the space and pulling him into a quick embrace, thumping his back. “Thanks, brother. I needed that.”

  Peer patted his shoulder awkwardly. “No thanks. I’d selfish motives.”

  Ko-Jin pulled away. His lethargy had been replaced by a new fire. “Let’s get your man, then.” And my woman, he thought, though it was not true. She wasn’t his.

  Ko-Jin had lightning in his step as he charged out of that bedroom, Peer on his heels. If they were smart and careful, they might not only reclaim their people, but end Quade once and for all.

  Hold on, Chae-Na. Just hold on.

  Her borrowed horse crested a dry slope, and Bray leaned deep into her saddle and uttered a soft, “Whoa.” Her steed pulled up short. Hot wind ripped at her hair and the fabric of her worn dress. She gazed down at the Adourran beach town of Che Mire.

  “Spirits…” she heard Yarrow murmur.

  An army had encamped along the shore. The tents spanned as far as she could discern from that vantage, until the rise of dunes concealed the remaining stretch of beach from view. Even from above and at such a distance, the camp positively teemed with activity. Bray’s mind boggled at the sight.

  She had heard rumors that Quade was marshaling troops for months. But it was something else altogether to see them, all these thousands of men poised to launch an attack on their own capital. And these were only the Adourran recruits—how many men did he have in Daland, in Chasku? How many more might still arrive here?

  The horse beneath her danced, and she held the reins tight and clucked her tongue. She scratched beneath her mare’s ear.

  “I read that naval ships had been decommissioned after the Great Peace,” Yarrow said.

  Bray lifted her gaze to the fleet of warships in port. There were perhaps fifteen of them, all like the one she had boarded near Easterly Point.

  “You read correctly,” Bray said. “He must have been planning for years to have all this ready…”

  “The crossing takes only a week,” Yarrow said.

  Bray nodded. “There isn’t much time. I’m going to check it out, see if I can dig up any useful intel. Then I need you to go ahead to Accord, to warn Ko-Jin.”

  “And leave you here?” he asked with an arched brow.

  “No need to worry about me. I’ll catch up with you soon enough.”

  She hopped down from her mount and handed him the reins, but he dismounted too. “I’ll join you.”

  “No,” she said, and reached out to squeeze his gloved hand to soften the word. “I can pass silently through walls. You would make too much noise. I won’t be gone long.” She released him. “Wait for me.”

  His dark brows drew low, but he bobbed his head. “I’ll monitor your emotions, then. If you need me I’ll come.”

  She smiled. “It won’t come to that.”

  She waved in parting and jogged down the slope. A fair amount of foot traffic moved towards the city—farming families with carts of produce, and a number of ragged young men who, Bray suspected, were hoping to join up. She melded into the crowd with ease. Having spent the past weeks traveling through the desert, she was as filthy as any of them.

  Che Mire buzzed with an abnormal energy. Usually a vacation destination and port town, it now boasted a distinctly militant atmosphere. Many of the stores she passed were closed and boarded, and there were no children in the streets. The posters of herself, Ko-Jin, and Yarrow still papered the sides of buildings, but they were faded and curling with age. With her sun-scorched face and long hair, she little resembled that woman anyway.

  Bray hummed to herself and wound her scarf around her head, allowing the fabric to cover her ears. Quade’s name seemed to be on every tongue; she saw the deadness in these people’s eyes.

  A band of Cosanta stood in the main square, directing new recruits. It seemed half the crowd streaming into the plaza had come to join Quade’s army. Had they been fellow Chiona, she would not have risked drawing near, but she thought it unlikely these people would know her face. So she approached.

  “Excuse me,” she said, in a deliberately dead-pan tone. She assumed an appearance of mindlessness.

  A middle-aged woman regarded her with stern blue eyes. Her braid transitioned from white to gray to black, like the line of a pen running short on ink. “Yes?”

  Bray lowered her shawl so that her red hair would be visible, but was careful to keep her neck covered. The concealer there was likely streaked from sweat. “Are there any passenger ships departing for Accord? My family is there.”

  The Cosanta’s expression softened. “I regret to inform you, but no. Not until the city has been retaken. But rest easy, it will not take long.”

  Bray bowed her head. She wondered how she would get to Accord. “Thank you. Do you know, is the army in need of any women? I’ve experience as a scullery maid, and I’m handy with a needle.”

  The woman frowned.

  “I haven’t an income, you see, and as I’m stuck here…”

  “Captain Tellow sees to civilian hiring. But, between us, he generally hires the women with expectations of…other duties. Find work elsewhere, dear.”

  Bray curtsied her thanks and slipped back into the crowd. She scanned the establishments along the main roadway, but found them all of a more legitimate nature than she was seeking. So she slipped down an alleyway. She stopped before a swaying wooden sign. It had no words upon it, only a pair of painted lips, like the remnant of a kiss.

  She glared up at it, then sighed in acceptance. If the civilian women in the camp doubled as whores, she would need a different dress to play the part. She turned a corner around the side of the white-washed building. She glanced into a window and wished that she had not. She moved on.

  The next room she peeked into stood vacant. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she passed through the wall and into the bedroom.

  It was quiet within and smelt faintly of incense. The bed was clean and neatly made. Bray grimaced at it anyway. She moved around to the armoire. It creaked open and she found a bevy of gowns and sheer nightdresses. She had never seen such a multitude of bold and bright colors jammed together in such a small space, like a regurgitated rainbow. She grabbed one at random—a burnt-orange gown with a plunging neckline—and scowled at it.

  Behind her the door creaked open, and she did her best not to jump. Bray turned a bland face to the glamorous woman who was staring at her from the entryway.

  “Apologies,” the woman said in a thick accent. “I was not aware anyone was within. You’re new, yes?” She cocked her head, and her glossy black curls bobbed. “Very new, yes? You look a fright, darling.”

  Bray tried to appear lost and lamb-like. “I’m meant to ready myself, but I—I don’t know where to start.”

  The woman smiled. She had nice teeth. “Oh, sweet thing. Very new, I take it, yes? Your first time? I shall help. Now this dress won’t do at all, not with that hair. No.”

  The woman took charge. She sniffed as she took the orange gown from Bray’s grasp. “Where to start is to bathe, I think. Yes? I’ll have a basin brought.”

  Bray submitted to the woman’s ministrations, hoping that the concealer on her neck was sufficiently waterproof.

  She used this unexpected opportunity to quiz a local under the guise of fearful curiosity. She asked her questions intermittently, between snatches of small talk, so the woman would not feel interrogated.

  Do the soldiers come here?

  “No, they send for women. Tellow calls them his sc
arlet roses. ‘Send the camp another rose,’ he says.” She snorted derisively. “The man has no savoir faire.”

  Is it a desirable job?

  “Sweet thing, no. The men there can be rough. There have been incidents. Do not go, should the madame ask.”

  Is Quade here often?

  “Here, never. In the town—it is hard to say. He comes and goes. Now raise your other leg.”

  How long has the army been gathering?

  “Three months, at least. I hope they sail soon. The tourists have stopped coming—bad for the town.”

  The woman uncovered Bray’s mark and traced its circles with her fingertip. “Oh, you’ve been keeping secrets, darling.”

  “I—”

  “Keep your secrets. I have plenty of my own. You want it covered, yes?”

  Bray nodded dumbly. The woman, with great efficiency, powdered and rouged and tugged and pulled. It all took an absurd amount of time. Bray could no longer summon any anxiety at the thought of discovery; she had long since succumbed to prickly boredom.

  At last, the Adourran brought Bray before the standing mirror. She bit back a laugh at her reflection. She was strapped into an absurd emerald dress that left little to the imagination. Her lips had been painted a deep wine-red, and her hair was pulled into a smooth coil at the base of her neck.

  “Remember to keep your posture straight,” the woman coached, as she pulled Bray’s shoulders back. “A man cannot concentrate when there are bosoms before his eyes.”

  Bray snorted and shook her head.

  “I will go to the madame and tell her you are now ready.” She turned to the door.

  “Thank you,” Bray called after the woman.

  As soon as she was alone, Bray launched into motion. She bundled her own dusty clothing, snagged a cloak from the wardrobe, and dropped a generous number of marks onto the bed. Then she phased back out into the dimming afternoon. She wrapped herself tightly in the thick velvet cloak and threw the hood over her head.

  Bray’s insides churned as she made her way towards the camp. She could not shake the hot sensation of being watched, and had to counsel herself to remain calm. It was a sound plan, but being dressed so revealingly—the idea of presenting herself in this way, even as a subterfuge—made her feel faintly ill.

  She slipped towards the beach, the crowds thinning as she progressed. The sky hung gray and overcast above her, and a chill wind tugged at her cloak. After so many days of the scorching sun, however, it was a welcome change.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a voice came from behind her. She turned to face a young Adourran soldier. He was dressed in a navy uniform rather like a constable’s, but with a sword at his hip. “This area is off-limits to civilians.”

  “I was sent for,” Bray said. “To do the mending.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Sent for by whom?”

  Bray let her cloak open a sliver. “Captain Tellow.”

  The young man looked more embarrassed than enticed. She forced a smile to her lips. “He is expecting me. He asked for a scarlet rose. So perhaps you could lead the way?”

  At the word ‘rose,’ the soldier believed her—she saw the change in his eyes. He acquiesced with a slight inclination of the head, and they marched together into the camp. Bray felt the scrutiny of countless eyes upon her, and heat crept up her neck. No one seemed particularly surprised or concerned by her presence, however.

  “Is Quade here now?” she asked her guide. “I’d love to see him with my own eyes.”

  “I do not know. He travels often. But I would guess that he is here, since the—” The lad silenced himself.

  “The…?” Bray prompted.

  He shrugged. “There’s an important guest here, is all. And don’t ask so many questions.”

  “My apologies.”

  The young soldier did not speak again. He stopped before a tent and opened the flap. Written in white paint above the entry were the numerals 032. “You can wait in here.”

  Bray glanced to the tent on her right and found that it was labeled 031. She smiled at the soldier and ducked within.

  She hurried immediately to the desk and began sifting through the papers. There were ledgers of food, seemingly acquired without payment, and timetables for the civilian workforce. Today, in fifteen minutes, a woman named Esta Saverre was meant to report to Quade’s bunk, 001.

  Bray phased through the side of the tent and strode confidently into the throng. She soon passed another woman, who was on the arm of an officer, her lipstick smeared.

  Bray held her head high, as if assured of her right to be within the camp. She hoped there were no Chiona here to recognize her face. Though, with her freckles hidden beneath a layer of white powder, she wondered if even Peer would know her at first glance.

  The tents that she passed continued to decrease in number—020, 019, 018—and Bray tried not to listen to the chatter around her. Any intelligence she might gather would prove useless if her mind were to become contaminated.

  As she passed tent 009, a pair of Chiona came into view. Bray stumbled, her silken skirt swaying around her legs like a bell. Her mouth opened, and she forced it shut with a click of teeth.

  It was Dolla, her former mentor—whose sharp, deeply-lined face was the one that came to mind when Bray thought mother. Almost everything she knew she had learned from this woman, who now strolled directly in her direction. There was nowhere to hide. Bray remained conspicuously frozen. But Dolla strode right by, passing near enough to cause Bray’s cloak to stir.

  Bray could hardly believe that she had not been recognized—surely Dolla should’ve heard her hammering heart as she walked past. Though, Dolla’s vision had long been fading, and given the way Bray was dressed…

  Despite this miraculous escape, she could not help but glance regretfully over her shoulder at the back of her departing sisters. It seemed a personal insult, that her Dolla, who was always so fearsome and commanding, should be a slave to Quade Asher’s will. But there was nothing she could do, not now. Stay safe, she pleaded with the older woman. Then she continued her trek, willing herself to focus on the task at hand. As she knew Dolla would.

  She found, puzzlingly, that there were two tents labeled 001. Each of them were guarded. Bray approached the first. A friendly-looking Cosanta man inclined his head to her.

  She curtsied. “Captain Tellow sent me to tend to Quade’s mending, but I am not certain which tent he meant, given the numbering.” She tried to smile confusedly.

  “Quade will be busy today.” The man glanced sideways at the other first tent, and Bray’s insides tightened. That Asher might actually be here had not seemed likely. She should’ve brought a weapon. Perhaps she could divest this fellow of his sword…

  She strove to appear demure as she said, “I was told he has a shirt with a tear.”

  Something flashed in the man’s eyes, and his demeanor changed. “Right. Of course. Follow me.”

  Bray let the tent flap fall back into place before she leapt. The man gurgled in surprise as she jumped onto his back, the crook of her arm nestling under his chin. He gave one sharp jerk, trying to dislodge her, before falling to his knees. The moment he turned limp, she released him. She hastened to Quade’s desk and pulled all his papers and correspondences from the drawers, collecting every telegram and memo. She jammed the lot into what was doubtless Quade’s own briefcase and slung the bag over her shoulder.

  She was closing the last drawer when it happened—that horrifying shiver ran through her, the sensation that something vital had been removed. She froze, her heart stalling in her chest. Had Quade somehow retrieved the Sphere from the ocean floor? Or was this a gift, such as Su-Hwan’s?

  From nearby—the adjacent bunk, she suspected—came the sound of a feminine bellow. It was like the cry of a cornered animal, and it made Bray’s skin prickle. Then she heard, distinctly, the alluring hum of Quade Asher’s voice.

  Bray knew that this panic she felt would worry Yarrow, and she could not summon him
here now. So she breathed slowly, calmingly, trying to soothe her frazzled nerves.

  Bray took a step backwards, and then another. By the third step, that terrible, cold feeling vanished. She let go of a held breath. It would seem that, whatever the source, she had moved beyond its influence. The Cosanta man began to stir.

  Bray was not willing to tempt fate—she wasted no time in phasing through the tent wall, Quade’s bag slung over her shoulder. She trod back through the camp with a hasty step, feeling as if the Spiritblighter himself were on her tail. As before, the eyes upon her seemed innumerable and invasive.

  “Hello, sweetness,” a man called. He had a golden tooth and heavily-lidded eyes. “Where you off to?”

  “I have an urgent errand.”

  He moved forward and made to unclasp her cloak. She caught his wrist and cranked it upward. He hissed in pain, and she smiled with clenched teeth. “I recommend you let me pass.”

  She released him and he gingerly rotated his hand in a circle, wincing. “Spirits, whore, I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  Bray shouldered past the man. Fortunately, she met with no more trouble on her way back to the entrance. She kept a protective hand pressed to the briefcase at her hip. The same young man was stationed at the entrance, and she bowed her head to him. “Thank you. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Bray began to breathe more easily as she moved beyond the camp, back into the city. By the time she had reached the city limits and was jogging up the slope to meet Yarrow, she was feeling downright punch-drunk at her good luck.

  He was sitting with his head bowed over a book as their horses grazed. He hopped to his feet when she crested the hill. “Thank the Spirits,” he said. “I almost came when you felt that spike of fear—what—” He caught sight of her dress, and his brows soared. “—happened?”

  Bray handed him the satchel as she explained. Yarrow’s expression darkened when he learned that Quade had been so near. He fiddled with the empty pinky finger of his glove.

  “What’s this?” he asked, hoisting the briefcase.

  “Every paper that was in Quade’s desk. I didn’t have time to look through it, but hopefully there’s something of use in there. Take it to Ko-Jin at the palace in Accord. You haven’t met him again yet, but he will know you.”