Lamentation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 3)

by March McCarron

  “Now what?” Tae-Young whispered.

  Peer plunged a hand into his pocket and proffered a lump of wax to the lad. “Plug up your ears, and be keeping your eyes open. They’ll be needing wood for fire, so they’re bound to send people out this way eventually. Someone gets close, we grab ‘em and go.”

  Tae-Young took the wax with a shaking hand. Peer crammed the stuff into his own ears, deadening the sounds of all life around him.

  The sun moved higher overhead and the day warmed as they waited. Peer kept his eyes sharp, but his thoughts strayed—to Whythe, to his poor friend gone from this world, to his rapidly filling bladder.

  Thank the Spirits, he thought, when at last a party of Quade’s people made their way on horseback in the direction of their little thicket. Peer reached out to Tae-Young, to point the lad’s attention in the right direction, but his gaze was already locked upon the approaching group.

  Peer slipped deeper into the shelter of the brush and lowered into a crouch. The people moved near enough for him to ascertain, based on clothing and hair, that these were Chiona. He felt an unexpected ache in his chest at the sight of them—his people, now his enemy.

  He scanned their faces as they approached. He recognized many of them, though he knew none particularly well. His heart gave a slight lurch when the rider at the back maneuvered to the front of the party, the planes of her pretty face washed in mid-afternoon sunlight. Mi-Na, he thought. They were not good friends, but she had been of his year; they had gone through the testing together, and that created a certain bond. If he could save her, he would.

  Tae-Young was making intense eye contact with Peer, and trying to mouth something to him. Peer had never been very good at reading lips. He clasped the young man’s shoulder, and then pointed to Mi-Na. He lifted his hand to indicate that they should hold tight.

  Peer watched the group dismount. They had brought a sizable cart and a collection of saws. Peer’s mouth turned down. It would seem they were not merely gathering firewood, but meant to build something rather larger. A siege weapon? Peer swallowed, and made a mental note to inform Ko-Jin of this suspicion.

  Peer stooped, waiting with nervous energy. He watched their mouths moving in conversation. An older man with a full tawny beard appeared to be giving instructions. Peer considered if he should remove the plugs from his ears so he might learn their agenda, but rejected the notion as too risky. No doubt they would mention Quade sooner or later, and he didn’t want to spend any additional time in quarantine if he could help it.

  Finally, the group split into pairs and spread out into the wood. Peer’s eyes followed Mi-Na—she was not proceeding directly towards him, but at least she wasn’t heading the opposite way. He bit down on his lip.

  He suspected that she might not realize he wasn’t among Quade’s people. If he called out a greeting as an old friend, it seemed unlikely that she would attack.

  It might be foolhardy, but his jittery desire to take action compelled him.

  Peer stood up, but gestured for Tae-Young to remain concealed amidst the bushes.

  “Mi-Na,” he called out. His voice was muffled in his own ears. “Spirits, it’s been an age!”

  She spun to face him, her head cocked in question. She spoke, but her words were lost to him. He pasted a painful smile on his face and nodded, hoping this response might serve.

  The woman at her side—a civilian by the look of her—was paying more mind to the trees than to Peer. Mi-Na stepped forward alone.

  She said something again, and Peer was able to read his own name on her lips, but nothing more.

  “Pardon?” he said, as if he had not caught her words for reasons other than the wax in his ears.

  Come on, he thought, just a bit closer.

  She spoke again, and the smile on Peer’s face began to strain. Whatever she had said, his lack of reply caused distrust to cross her smooth features. She stopped, a crease blooming between her brows.

  “Blight it,” Peer murmured, and he sprang from the balls of his feet, striking her with the force of his chest and knocking her to the ground. She hit him in the head hard enough to stun, but he kept a grip on her jerkin so she could not break away.

  Peer felt a cold hand press to his nape, and then the weight of Tae-Young draping across his back so that he could reach Mi-Na too. There was an awkward, scrambling moment. Nails clawed into the side Peer’s neck. But then the earth disappeared beneath his knees, and he clutched at the leather of Mi-Na’s jerkin, as if it might anchor him.

  They landed with a thump in a dark space that smelt strongly of dust and old parchment. Then, disorientingly, he felt Tae-Young teleport them once again, and Peer had the queasy sensation of not knowing up from down. He hit his knees in the library and gasped for air.

  Tae-Young stumbled forward and latched the closet door. Peer saw the wood begin to quiver a moment later, as their captive threw herself against the door. He took a slow breath and plucked the wax from his ears.

  She was screaming from within in accented Dalish. “Peer! What the Blighter?”

  Peer beckoned for Tae-Young to follow and they left the lecture hall, closing the door behind them to deaden her shouts.

  “That,” Tae-Young said, as he removed the wad from his left ear, “was not the plan.”

  Peer shrugged. “Worked though. Can you pop over to the palace, tell Ko-Jin about the lumber they’re collecting? And send Fernie over.”

  Tae-Young glowered at him for a moment, then rolled his eyes. He disappeared, and Peer let out a shaky breath, leaning back against the door to the classroom. He did not enjoy teleportation.

  When his heart rate returned to normal, he strolled a few paces down the hallway to the window. He gazed through the glass into the lecture hall, his eyes on the closet.

  Mi-Na had been a friend of Adearre’s when they were in their teens. The two of them had studied Dalish together. He wondered if she knew…

  “Hey,” a warm voice called out, and Peer’s rattled nerves settled. He smiled, closed-lipped, at Whythe. “Found another matched-pair at practice this morning.”

  “Really? Anyone I know?”

  “Don’t think so. A Cosanta and an Elevated. Peer, you’re bleeding.”

  There was concern in the man’s voice. It made Peer feel as if his chest were inflating. He raised his fingers to his throat. “Just a scratch.” Though, now that he was thinking about it, the wound did rather sting.

  Whythe bent to examine his neck, and Peer let his eyes flutter closed, enjoying the gentle touch. “Doesn’t look too bad. I suspect you’ll live. So, who’d you bring back with you?”

  “A Chiona.”

  Peer’s eyelids opened slowly and Whythe’s proximity sent a jolt through him. His mouth felt suddenly dry.

  “You’re going to be busy today, I take it?”

  “I am,” Peer said, wistful.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.” He went up onto his toes and planted a fleeting but firm kiss on Peer’s bottom lip.

  By the time Whythe had turned, walked down the hall, and exited the building, Peer had still not drawn breath. And then a grin spread steadily across his face, dawning like a sunrise.

  The smile was so involuntary that he could not shake it off, even as Fernie appeared in the doorway.

  “You got one?” the lad asked, looking through the window into the inner room. He blew at the white-blond hair that had fallen in his face.

  “Yes. A Chiona woman.”

  Fernie glanced sideways at him, a fair brow raised. “What’s with you?”

  “Hm?”

  “Why are you smiling like that? It’s…unsettling.”

  Peer endeavored to school his face. “I’m not smiling. Are you ready to do this?”

  “No,” Fernie expounded, as if Peer were a halfwit. “Of course not. What makes you think I can do anything about Quade’s effect on people? This is the worst idea Ko-Jin ever had.”

  “You’re thinking you’re Asher’s spirit-mate,
aren’t you?”

  Fernie’s pale face flushed and he glanced down at his feet. Peer pitied the lad. Discovering his connection with Whythe had been such a joy; he could not imagine what it must feel like to have one’s counterpart be a person as foul as Quade.

  “Listen—I was able to stop Whythe’s gift when I had to. It’s hard to explain, but I could feel his ability. It was like a flame within him and I extinguished it.”

  “Yeah,” Fernie said, his tone pitched in a way that made him sound like the sixteen-year-old boy that he was. “But I’m guessing it’s not Quade in that closet, is it?”

  “Yes and no. There’s a bit of Quade in there, inside of her. You can’t sense him in other people?”

  Fernie did not answer. Ko-Jin had already told Peer that Fernie had said as much—that he could recognize pieces of Quade in others.

  “I know you can do this,” Peer said, entirely earnest. Bray had told him of the vision the Spirits had revealed to her in that mysterious, real-world Aeght a Seve. Why should she have been given such information if it weren’t essential to defeating Quade?”

  “And if I can’t? If I fail?”

  “Five days of solitude never killed anyone.”

  Fernie groaned. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

  He knocked his fist to his hip in an anxious motion, then paced to the door. Peer followed behind. “I’ll lock you in,” he said, then fished a key from his pocket and extended it to the young Elevated. “This is for the closet door.”

  Fernie took the offering with slumped shoulders. He strode into the classroom as if he were marching to the gallows. Peer twisted the key and jangled the knob to ensure it was locked. He moved back to the window and settled in to watch.

  Fernie paced to the closet. He puffed out his cheeks and let go of a breath. Then he opened the door.

  Mi-Na barreled from the dark closet, half-tackling Fernie. There was an animal frenzy in her eyes. Fernie skittered back, trying to keep his distance. He tripped over a desk, and Mi-Na reached out. She grasped him by the neck, her thumb fitting into the groove of his jaw. She was talking, though Peer could not hear the words. Fernie tried to stopper his ears with his fingers, but the woman caught his hand and forced it down, her mouth working all the while.

  Peer leaned in so close to the pane that his breath fogged the glass. Within, Fernie’s demeanor began to transform. He straightened, and his fear and youth dissolved. There was something almost fearsome in his expression. Peer felt a shiver race over his skin, as it occurred to him what it might mean for Fernie to be Quade’s other half.

  Now it was Mi-Na who was trying to pull away. Her hands had begun to tremble. Fernie was speaking in a rush, his blue eyes intent.

  Mi-Na abandoned her struggle. Her hands trembled and her knees gave way. Fernie caught hold of her and eased her softly to the ground. She fell into his chest, weeping.

  Fernie met Peer’s gaze through the glass. He gave one deliberate nod of the head. Peer felt as if his feet had grown too heavy within his boots. He had just witnessed a miracle, and yet the pleasure of success, of newfound hope, was streaked with an inexplicable fear.

  He heard the door at the far end of the hall open and close. Ko-Jin jogged up to his side, breathless. “I’m late, I see. How did it go?”

  He gazed through the window, to where Fernie endeavored to soothe Mi-Na’s sobs.

  “Spirits…” Ko-Jin said. “He did it? Already?”

  “He did,” Peer said, and wondered if the affirmation sounded sinister only in his own ears.

  The wind tugged at the loose hairs framing Vendra’s face. The day had been reasonably warm, but as the sun began its descent a chill crept into the air. Vendra glanced up at the rainclouds above her, thinking that it would be a wet evening. Her attention shifted to the perimeter of Accord, to the stone wall that had never before barred her entrance.

  It was strange, surreal. The walls of the city were now manned by crossbowmen, whose bolts were trained upon Vendra’s people. To be in this ominous quiet, this peace before inevitable fighting, was similar to observing a drug take slow effect.

  The camp all around her was alive with activity. She caught the scent of bonfire on the breeze, along with the sounds of hammers and the shouts of men. She marveled at the number of moving parts, so many individual tasks that interlocked, compelling them all towards a greater, singular goal—like the whirring gears of a clock.

  Quade’s approach created a hush in the conversation around him, a moving silence. Vendra’s gaze latched onto him hungrily. He had taken to wearing the Scimitar of Amarra across his back and Treeblade at his hip. He looked like a hero of old, so sure and calm. His presence always afforded her a clarity of purpose.

  “Vendra.” He reached forward and kissed her cheek, and she closed her eyes and inhaled. “I come bearing good news. Mercy was successful in contaminating their water supply.”

  “The guard did not sense her movements? That is good news.”

  “When should we expect the effect to be at its strongest?”

  Vendra thought about the chemical properties of the drug, but confusion touched at her memory. Her brow furrowed as she tried to parse through her disorientation. Why did she feel so uncertain which drug she had given to… Come to think of it, she could not recall giving the script to anyone. Yet surely she had?

  “Vendra, dear,” Quade said, his voice rich with concern. “Are you quite alright?”

  She shook her head, as if hoping to disperse the fog in her mind. She sensed a blank, a space in her recent past that was obscured in haze. And the sensation gave her a prickling of déjà vu. “I’m…yes.”

  “Is your memory giving you problems again?” he asked, and there was something beneath the words that spoke of anger, though there was no evidence of the emotion in his expression.

  “Has this happened before?” Vendra asked, looking up at him with trusting eyes. “Was I hit in the head recently?” Loss of memory was a common symptom after a minor brain injury.

  “Yes, my dear,” he said. “It has happened before.”

  Gooseflesh rose on Vendra’s arms. She swallowed.

  Quade’s scrutiny drifted up to the men manning the walls of Accord, his dark eyes intent. The ghost of a smile played at his thin lips.

  “When do you mean to begin the assault?”

  He stroked her hair with a light hand. “I have no intention of letting it come to that. Every death is one fewer subject for me to rule. No, only those who have proven themselves too unmanageable will meet the Blighter.” He studied her face, and a hardness flashed within his eyes.

  Vendra shivered and averted her gaze; she looked to her right, to where a band of Chisanta were nearly finished assembling a fifth siege weapon. The wooden behemoth stood stark and tall against the dusky horizon.

  Quade read the question in her mind. “For show, my dear. These fortifications are over a hundred years old. I would not willingly damage such a historical structure. No, we won’t need to breach the city’s defenses, not when those within will simply open the gates.”

  “You build weapons you do not mean to use?”

  “The weapon, dear one, is fear, and it is far more damaging than bullets. For the fighting men within those walls, watching us, a battle is an opportunity to take a stand; something they have had time to prepare for. In a battle, people die—but these deaths are accepted as unavoidable, and can be coped with. An army might accept its losses until the last man is standing. But civilian deaths that could have been avoided, and yet were allowed to happen anyway…” He smiled. “A people will tear themselves apart assigning blame. They will be driven wild by fear, waiting for the next blow to fall. Their unity will falter, and then their resolve.”

  Vendra’s brow creased, trying to work out his meaning. She would not ask for him to explain; he would not have spoken vaguely if she had been meant to understand. But Vendra knew her lover’s mind. She felt a small surge of pity for the people of Accord.

&n
bsp; Quade stared past Vendra’s shoulder. “Kelarre,” he called out. Vendra glanced behind her to where the young man had just appeared. “I need to see you and Bensell in my tent in twenty minutes. It is nearly time.”

  Quade kissed Vendra’s shoulder, and a rush of warmth ran down her arm. He smiled at her in a way that made her pulse accelerate. “Come to my tent later this evening.”

  She swayed on the spot as he left her. The wind bit at her flesh, and she wrapped her arms closer to her body as she watched him leave.

  His intentions were not as mystifying as he might imagine. If he was meeting with Bensell, then clearly he intended to plant explosives. Not on the walls, apparently. Most likely within the city. She frowned up at the men atop their ramparts, who were waiting for a first strike—one that would come at their backs.

  She hoped they would have the good sense to yield quickly.

  Arlow nearly jumped out of his skin at the popping sound of teleportation behind him. He spun, but of course it was only Yarrow. Still just Yarrow. Get a grip.

  Arlow watched his friend toss yet another sack of rice onto the pile. A moment later, with an additional sharp burst of noise, the Elevated girl Mearra appeared with her own crate of provisions.

  Yarrow brushed snow from the shoulder of his coat.

  “Snowing in Chasku?” Arlow asked.

  Yarrow flexed his fingers beneath his gloves. “Bound to be a full-blown blizzard. It’s really coming down.”

  Arlow glanced up at the roof of the food storage, where the ping-ping of rain on the roof had been steadily mounting in volume and crescendo. He frowned. He would likely be soaked on his way back to his bed—that is, if this painfully boring task were ever completed. It must be after nine o’clock. Though, admittedly, he did not feel tired. On the contrary, he was full of energy and his mind seemed sharper than usual.

  “How many is that?”

  Yarrow did a quick finger count. “Ten sacks, each a stone.”

  Arlow jotted this down in his inventory, though he had no notion what a ‘stone’ of rice meant—how many people would that feed? And how exactly had he come by this job in the first place? He did not think he exuded an arithmetic-friendly aura.