His best friend was dead.
Bray’s knuckles stung. If she could feel anything at all, she might feel badly that she had hit her friend. The clock on the wall of the library ticked, louder even than the rain pounding on the windowpanes.
“Sorry about your face,” she heard herself say.
Peer shrugged. He tried to smile, but grimaced in pain. “You’ve given me worse.”
Bray screwed her eyes closed. She could hear his voice at her back, her Yarrow’s voice. Except it was not his—his, but without his intelligence. His, but without his wit, his heart. She glanced back at him.
He sat slouched, his head resting on his own shoulder. His beautiful gray eyes were open but unseeing. His face was too smooth. That crease that always formed between his brows when he was concentrating, it would never be there again. The pattern of creases in his cheeks when he smiled. That way he had, of grinning at her with only his eyes—
Never again. All of it, everything, never again. Even the awareness she experienced when he was nearby—as if he were a magnet, drawing her to him—she could not sense it any longer. She couldn’t breathe. Her throat had tightened to a painful closure.
She turned away, not wanting to look on him. It made her feel as if she were fracturing from within.
“Do…do you think he’s still in there?” she asked Peer. “Do you think he can hear?”
Peer swallowed, and Bray held her breath, hoping. Then, sadly, he shook his head. “Can’t know for certain of course, but I saw him when…” His head bowed. “It seemed like he’d gone. I think he’s gone.”
Bray knew this to be true, but hearing Peer say it aloud was too much. If he was gone, then what was she? They were linked, tied, bound. They had been from the first, since he climbed into that carriage all those years ago. If he was gone… “I feel like I’ve gone too,” she murmured.
“I know,” Peer said. “It’ll feel like that for a while. But it’ll get—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. She could not bear to hear that this pain would lessen, that she would mend. It was not true. She would never be whole again.
“Alright. But I’m here for you, when you need me.”
Bray hauled herself to her feet. It was an exhausting effort. She turned her back on Peer. She loved him, and she would need him sooner or later. But right now a part of her hated him. He had let Yarrow do this. And then he had stood there, with his healed heart, and had the audacity to tell her that this suffering would ease. Clearly—she thought, with a bitter twist of the mouth—he had not loved as strongly as she.
Bray walked, feeling as if she were half-asleep. She meandered straight through the wall of the library, out into the storm.
She tilted her face up to the rain. It washed over her, a cold, cruel reminder that she was still alive.
Yarrow—he would not feel the rain. He would not feel anything. Bray’s whole body ached with one silent, tearless sob. Her knees hit the mud, and she closed her eyes.
She thought of the last thing he had said to her—a plea that she should stay safe. A flash of anger raced through her mind at the recollection. His parting words. He had sent her off, had lied to her in their last moment together. He had not even said goodbye, or that he loved her. And she knew why.
Because I would’ve beaten him senseless before allowing this… Oh, Yarrow. Yarrow…
She knelt there for an immeasurable time, chanting his name in her mind, as if it might summon him back. She wanted him with such intensity, with such force, that it seemed as if her desire itself should hold a power strong enough to save him.
When her shivers transformed into body-racking tremors, she finally pushed herself to her feet. She wandered towards their dormitory—to the building they had saved. Had she really, only a short while ago, felt so victorious? There was no triumph left, not now that she understood what it had cost.
She trailed puddles up the hallway, until she came to the room she and Yarrow had been sharing. Her pruned fingers reached for the knob.
Within, Yarrow’s books were strewn across the bed. Numbly, she walked forward. She picked up an open volume and found that it was, from top to bottom, covered with the same sentence written over and over:
Brother in truth stops the bleeding. Brother in truth stops the fire.
She shut the book. Then, carefully, lovingly, she began to stack them. She looked at his tight script on a loose sheaf of paper, her eyes adoring the hand behind the pen. She tucked it into a journal.
Bray placed the books on the bedside table. She wondered what she would do with them. They were simultaneously precious and useless. Dear and hateful.
Yarrow’s red scarf was pooled on the floor. It must have been too warm for scarves today, in his mind.
She bent down and scooped it up. She buried her face in the fabric, closed her eyes, and drew in a long breath through her nose.
Then, with lethargic hands, she wrapped the red wool around her own neck. She took up her whetstone and her collection of knives from the dresser, and sat down at the desk.
She had been sitting just like this, doing just this, not two nights ago. And Yarrow had sat across from her on the bed. Had he discovered the prophecy then? Was that the moment…?
Miserably, Bray pressed the knife to the stone and scraped. She repeated this motion again and again, not looking at her hands. Not looking anywhere particularly. Eventually, she put the pad of her finger to the blade, and felt it slice.
She watched the blood bead on her fingertip, and then run to the side. It dripped resoundingly on the floor.
That shattered feeling within her only increased, as the clock on the wall chimed the minutes—each one taking her further from the time when Yarrow had been in this world.
She felt herself reduced to shards. Splintered bits. Beyond remedy.
But, she thought, as she gazed down at the knife in her hand and her mind turned to Quade Asher, broken in this way, I am sharper. I can cut.
She did not care if she lived through the fight to come, only that he should suffer and perish.
This fractured spirit—Quade would die on it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Arlow stared at the pattern in the tablecloth. A low buzzing noise echoed in his ears, though perhaps the sound was only in his head.
Mae’s fingers interlaced with his own. “Sorry ’bout your friend.”
Arlow hunched forward at her words. It was what you said when someone died—and, really, was this any different than death? His oldest friend was gone; he would never be able to speak with him again.
Arlow looked up and shared an anguished glance with Ko-Jin. The two of them had always been friends, but only because Yarrow had been the glue between them.
Rain beat against the window. Arlow felt unfocused, outside of himself. “You’ve got a scribe writing down his prophecies, I hope,” Arlow said in a miserable voice. “Yarrow would just kill us if we missed anything.” Though, with him gone, who will read them?
Ko-Jin nodded. “Yes. I’ve seen to it.”
Arlow watched his friend stand, take a few paces towards the window, then turn back and drop into his oversized chair again.
“Quade, when he learns of this, will no doubt try to take him.”
Ko-Jin nodded. “I know. I’ve set a guard.” He pinched the corners of his eyes and leaned deeply into his chair. Beside him, Chae-Na eyed her general with concern etched into the planes of her face. When Ko-Jin’s hand moved from his eyes, an expression of black humor was stamped there. “You remember when we were sixteen, that time we went into town and—”
Arlow barked a laugh. “Remember?” He withdrew his pocket watch and slid it across the table to his friend.
Ko-Jin reached for the timepiece with a trembling hand. He popped open the golden lid and gazed at the photo inside for a moment, his eyes glassy. Arlow would not look at the image himself—the three of them, young and laughing and together, as they never would be again.
Ko-Jin c
losed the pocket watch in his fist and he blinked rapidly.
“Someone is with Bray?” Chae-Na asked softly.
Ko-Jin bobbed his head once. “Peer.”
Spirits… Poor Bray…
Arlow glanced to the ornamental clock standing in the corner. Twenty-five minutes remained before the next explosion was meant to take place. He hoped that, when no blast came, Quade would burn with rage. Let him feel the fool.
Just as a flash of lightning lit up the meeting room, the door flew open. Ko-Jin leapt from his seat and pushed himself before the queen.
“Why aren’t they in quarantine?” he shouted.
Arlow turned a puzzled expression to the three Chisanta who had just entered. One, a white-haired boy, was familiar. He had been tagging along with Ko-Jin a great deal, though Arlow could not recall his name. The other two were also Chisanta—a slim Adourran and a short, ugly man with badly singed hair.
The white-haired lad raised a hand to halt Ko-Jin. “It’s fine, Sung. They’re clean. I did it; it worked again.” The boy beamed, apparently pleased with himself.
Ko-Jin grimaced. “Stop calling me that.” Then he regarded the other two with lofted brows, expectant.
“I’m Bensell,” said the shorter one in a voice that was simultaneously high-pitched and croaky. He gave the impression of an addle-pate. “Arson and explosives.”
Arlow laughed at the absurdity of such an introduction.
“And this,” Bensell said, gesturing to the second man, “is Kelarre. Teleportation.”
Ko-Jin glanced sideways at Arlow with an arched brow. Likely, he too found the way Quade’s people referred to themselves puzzling.
“Fernie,” Chae-Na said, her head tilted to the side. “Do you mean to say you can remove Quade’s influence all at once? Without five days in quarantine?”
The lad’s face flushed as his gaze trained on the queen. “Yeah, I can. I mean, it’s not easy. But I’m getting a handle on it.”
Chae-Na sighed, as if this was just the good news she had been waiting for. “That is wonderful. Could we not begin extracting his supporters, Ko-Jin? Take them away one at a time?”
Ko-Jin’s gaze flicked to the ceiling. “In theory yes, though we would have to work out a strategy to ensure that Quade couldn’t take our people while they’re exposed. I’d hate to return any of his teleporters to him.”
The Adourran, Kelarre, closed his eyes miserably for a long moment. He looked to be truly suffering, Arlow thought.
Ko-Jin began to pace. “We should work out a list of people who can do the most damage. Take his best weapons away from him…”
“Like Vendra,” Arlow said, nodding. He would feel a lot better when she and her bag of poisons were back on his side.
“Too late,” said Kelarre, with a hitched breath. “Quade’s already killed her.”
Ko-Jin blinked. “Spirits…” He rubbed his eyes again. “I’ll have to tell Dedrre. And about Yarrow too. Blighter, that’s going to be a difficult conversation.”
“When will Quade have expected you two back?” Chae-Na asked. “Does he know already that we’ve thwarted him?”
Bensell shook his head. “Nah, Highness. He won’t be looking for us till after. So,” he glanced at the clock, “he’ll know in fifteen minutes.” The man laughed hoarsely. “Wish I could see the bastard’s face when nothin’ happens. Him, using innocent ol’ me to blow up kids in their sleep.” His bug-eyes bulged. “A love of pyrotechnics should be used for good—or, ah, moral-neutral mayhem, maybe—but never evil.”
Arlow ran a finger along his lower lip and smiled. “You know what would be even more satisfying?” They all stared at him. “If the blast came just on time—on his side of the wall.”
Ko-Jin’s mouth hooked upwards. Mae, at his side, snorted in appreciation.
“If I weren’t worried Quade might take back these two,” Ko-Jin said, motioning to the Elevated, “I’d wholly support that plan. We could destroy those siege weapons he’s been building.”
“My people can do it,” Mae said. Arlow turned to her in surprise. She shrugged at him. “Climbin’ walls, sneakin’ in the dark? For a bunch of professional pick-pockets, it’d be cake.”
Arlow saw a flash of pain in Ko-Jin’s eyes, and knew he was thinking of their pick-pocket friend, Rinny.
“I could go, too,” Arlow said. “A bit of luck should help get the job done.” And besides, he would feel much better to be up and doing something. He would have plenty of time to grapple with the Yarrow-shaped hole in his life later.
Bensell rubbed his chin, the friction against his facial hair just audible over the rain. “Wouldn’t be a bother to set up for you. Just need to shorten the fuses.”
Chae-Na cleared her throat, her mien dreadfully serious. “If we do this, it will be the first fire. The start of the war.”
There came a resounding silence while they all chewed this over. Quade had struck first, but it had been an assault on the heart of the city, not its defenses. If they took aim at his weapons, however, he would certainly alter his strategy.
Chae-Na’s cool gaze moved from Arlow to Mae. “Do it. It’s time.”
A mere five minutes later, Arlow found himself transported to the outer ramparts of the city. Rain drummed against his hood as he gazed out at the army encamped just beyond. He surveyed the other Pauper’s Men who would be accompanying him. Foy inclined his head, and Arlow returned the gesture.
“We’ll pull up the ropes once you’re down. So give it a tug when you hit the ground,” a soldier said.
Arlow peered over the edge of the wall. The rope disappeared into a swirl of mist and darkness. It seemed like a long descent.
“Here ya go,” said Bensell, as he jammed Arlow’s arms through a rucksack full of explosives. “You’ll have three minutes to clear out. Fuse’s water-resistant, so shouldn’t be a problem. And, uh, don’t fall, aye?”
“What happens if I fall?” Arlow asked.
“Boom.”
“Fabulous,” Arlow said, as he peeked over the ledge once again.
Had this truly been his idea? He really should learn to keep his idiot plans to himself.
Mae grabbed his wrist and wheeled him around to face her. She ducked her head into the cowl of his hood and kissed him hotly on the lips. “Don’t die,” she whispered.
“I’ll do my best.” He pressed his hand to her abdomen. “You two get out of this rain,” he said. “You look like a drowned rat.”
She smirked and spun away from him. “Pauper’s Men!”
The six people who had been hastily chosen for this mission responded, “Yes, Queen!”
She threw back her hood so that they could see her face. “This is for Linton.”
It was clearly all that needed to be said. The six men bowed, their expressions flashing with grief and the desire for revenge.
“See you at the bottom,” Foy said to Arlow. He hopped up over the ledge, gripping the line, and then descended into the fog.
Arlow shared one last look with Mae. He smiled unconcernedly at her. “Be back in a few.”
Then he leaned his weight against the rope and leapt over the side of the rampart, praying his boots would find traction on the wall.
He lowered himself, the bag of explosives strapped to his back tugging him downward.
Come on, Luck, he thought. Don’t desert me now.
Chae-Na glided through the doorway to the roof gardens. She turned to the east, towards Quade’s encampment. Between the rain and the dark, she could discern little. She reached to the hood of her cloak and held it open wider, so her vantage might be less obscured. Cold rain pattered on the back of her hands.
Beside her, Ko-Jin bent forward, resting his forearms on the parapet. He had not bothered with a hood, and seemed not to notice the rain.
“Any second now…” he murmured.
Chae-Na did not want to blink. She did not want to miss it. The seconds passed slowly, coldly. And then—her lips quavered to an almost-smile�
�it happened.
The blast was too far off to hear over the drumming deluge, but the flash of fire beyond the wall was clear enough. In close succession, four more explosions dotted the distance.
Ko-Jin let out a held breath. As no one was with them, Chae-Na reached out and slipped her hand in his. He squeezed her fingers.
Down in the city, cheers went up. They began at the perimeter itself, but spread rapidly. People—soldiers, citizens, and Chisanta—hooted, howled, and clapped. Bells rang out.
Ko-Jin looked to her with glittering eyes. It was a small victory, maybe. But any triumph over that man—breathe, breathe—was worthy of celebration. She hoped he had been taken totally unawares. She hoped he, standing out there at this moment, felt his failure keenly. It had been meant as a slap in the face. And oh, how she hoped it would sting.
Her smile shifted into something darker, more determined.
Across the city, the cheers went on. She was glad of it—they would need to rally soon enough, the people of Accord.
This was only the start. Only the first volley.
“How do you think he will respond?” she asked.
Ko-Jin’s face was in shadow; she could not read his mood. He clasped her hand tighter. “Cruelly, no doubt. He’ll want to answer this humiliation in kind.”
“And will we be ready, do you think?”
“We should be, now. We have Yarrow to warn us of future threats.”
The heartache in Ko-Jin’s voice was unmistakable. Chae-Na pressed close to his side, and he wrapped his arm around her waist. She leaned her head into his chest. And they stood there, in the rain, watching the siege weapons beyond the perimeter smolder.
Chae-Na swallowed and drew a deep breath.
This is just the beginning…
The people of Accord continued to ring their bells, and somewhere out in that darkness, Quade was hearing them.
Epilogue
Yarrow wept bitter tears as he took his final leap—as he unmade himself.
His fingers found purchase on the sheer stony step, and he dangled there, one-handed. He looked over his shoulder, down at the precipitous cliffs beneath him. Far below, a single tree danced in the breeze.
Lamentation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 3) Page 40