Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2)

by March McCarron

  “What’s the point? You can’t get to him,” the boy said.

  Yarrow sat forward, fully alert. He maintained a neutral expression, but internally he grinned.

  “Like I said, I already know how to get to him. I want to know how many men I’ll need to conduct the operation.”

  “Yeah, and how’re you gonna get on the train? They ain’t gonna sell you a ticket,” he said, laughing at her stupidity.

  Yarrow experienced a warm swell of pride, to see her using her wits rather than her strength. It was, to him, an incredibly attractive quality.

  Bray shot one quick, triumphant glance at Yarrow, before returning attention to the boy. “Train heists are not unheard of.”

  “Yeah, but not when there’s a whole ton of Elevated on board at all times. Face it, lady, you ain’t got a chance. Quade knew you’d want your friend back—he’s got that train guarded tighter ’an a bank vault.”

  Bray stood and pulled the lad’s chair back onto its feet. “Well, perhaps you’ll be more willing to cooperate in the morning.”

  He laughed. “Not likely.”

  She gagged him, which earned her an indignant look, and tested the knots of his bindings. “Let’s join the others out back,” she said, turning to Yarrow.

  He pushed himself up, the sofa’s groan seeming to echo his own weariness, and followed Bray out into the yard.

  “That was cleverly done,” he said.

  She smiled up at him. “Thank you. Wasn’t certain it would work.”

  He expected it to be cold after spending the day in Accord, but the evening was actually perfect. Dusk illuminated the crag, the dim pricks of stars beginning to appear in the deep blue sky. Ko-Jin was in the midst of building a fire, to dispose of the branches and plants he’d cleared away from his purported training yard. He hopped down on hands and knees and blew at the embers, and the flame caught.

  He faced Yarrow and Bray. “We’ve got sausages for dinner.”

  Yarrow smiled. Sausage cooked over a fire was Ko-Jin’s favorite meal. The two of them, along with Arlow, used to set up campfires on the beach at the Cape and cook-out, sometimes even sleep-out when Ko-Jin had his way—a prospect that had never much pleased Arlow.

  Yarrow shook this thought from his head. It didn’t matter what Arlow liked or disliked any longer.

  Jo-Kwan beckoned for them to join him around the fire, where stumps had been arranged like stools. They were busy today, Yarrow thought, looking around at the altered yard. He laughed a bit at the targets painted on hay bales at the far end of the property. He’d never seen such a poorly drawn circle.

  “You mean to say we spear them on sticks?” Chae-Na asked Ko-Jin, the plate of sausages in her hands. “But, aren’t they…dirty?”

  “A bit, yeah. Nothing that’ll hurt you though.” He smiled at her, his head cocked to the side in challenge. “Not squeamish of a bit of dirt, are you, Princess?”

  She huffed and speared a sausage on a stick with a particularly violent motion. “By now, you should understand that I am not.”

  Yarrow slouched down on a seat, soothed by the heat and crackle of the fire. Bray sat down on the same stump with him, leaning against his side.

  “How was Accord? What’s happening there?” Jo-Kwan asked, his dark eyes gleaming with interest and firelight.

  Yarrow was glad Bray took up the story, giving his mind time to wander. He stared, mesmerized, at the flames, only listening intermittently to her account of the strange behavior of the Accordans, of their failure to find Peer, of the information Quade was gathering.

  “So what’s next?” Ko-Jin asked when she finished.

  “We get him out,” she said. “But it will have to be carefully planned. The train is a problem for me. I can’t use my gift, at least not for more than a moment, or it’ll leave me behind.”

  “Really?” Yarrow asked. This limitation had never occurred to him.

  “Mmm. That’s why we’ve always traveled by carriage—Peer, Adearre, and me. I hate trains, to be honest.”

  “Would a carriage not leave you behind as well?” Jo-Kwan asked.

  Bray turned a bland face in his direction. “Yes, but then whoever’s driving could just pull up. A train would be less accommodating.”

  Yarrow bumped his shoulder against her own. “We’ll figure something out.”

  “Yes we will,” she said, her tone decisive.

  With the last of the sun, the air grew cool. Yarrow slipped his hands in his pockets and felt a piece of paper within. He remembered suddenly the pamphlet he’d been given in Accord and pulled it out.

  “I forgot all about that. Read it aloud,” Bray prompted.

  “A Note on Governance, by Doctor Pellson R. Corringham.” Yarrow cleared his throat. “In times of confusion and tragedy, there is opportunity. With the termination of the Bellra line, we the people of Trinitas are presented with a peculiar circumstance: the ability to reconsider our government. Under the Bellra monarchy, we have had peace. Yet we have also witnessed growing discord betwixt the classes, an ever-rising crime rate, and resistance to advanced technologies which would offer jobs and conveniences for the citizens of Trinitas.

  “These are the inevitable consequences of a ruling class disconnected from modern times. Which is why myself and my colleagues at the University of Accord humbly propose an alternative. An ideal governing body should be comprised of exceptional individuals, ideally with diverse backgrounds and areas of expertise.

  “As it happens, such a remarkable body already exists. Yes, I refer to the Chisanta—a group of individuals from all nations and economic backgrounds, a collection of scholars and professionals. They are uniquely qualified. We have long asked ourselves: why are the ‘marked’ marked? I posit that the Chisanta are marked for a cause: they are selected by the Spirits themselves to lead. Too long have the best of us lived their separate, secluded lives in their temples. It is time for the Chisanta to come home to Accord, to live up to their purpose.”

  Yarrow brought the paper down to his knee, a sour taste in his mouth.

  Jo-Kwan had a faraway look upon his face. “He poses some interesting arguments.”

  “It’s a pretense,” Yarrow said. “A way for Quade to take power and make it seem like some kind of…elective government. There are those within the Chisanta who would make excellent leaders, and plenty of others who would not. The idea that we are marked to govern is absurd. My fear, though,” he licked his lip, “is that if enough people buy into his lies, there’s no guarantee that even killing him would undo that damage. What if his influence survives him?”

  They remained silent for a long moment. The night had grown dark, the fire burned down to mere coals. Yarrow’s last sentence seemed to linger, a fear that had no answer.

  9

  Peer chewed on his bottom lip as he blotted spilt ink from his parchment. His fingertips were already stained blue, especially around the nail bed. Writing on a train was a messy business.

  With a sigh, his eyes moved to the next line on the page:

  Alerria messa den congite soviuree ai Nerra.

  The first were born south of Nerra. Peer glanced towards the window as he sought inspiration. The pane was so fogged he couldn’t make out the stars, but the moon shone brightly even through the clouded glass.

  This was the eighth reference to ‘the first.’ He wondered what it meant—the first what? Perhaps Yarrow Lamhart would know.

  He grasped his pen and scratched, in sloppy Dalish:

  The mayor of Nerra has insomnia.

  Su-Hwan leaned forward to read his translation. Her face remained impassive, but there was a slight glimmer in her dark eyes. She glanced over at the Fifth and scribe, neither of whom appeared aware of Su-Hwan’s presence let alone inspection, then she lifted her pinky finger to the foggy window.

  There was a squeaking sound as she wrote upon the pane:

  He will know.

  She wiped the words away. Peer inclined his head—Quade was intelligent
, of course he would know that these translations were wrong. But it might gain him time, at least. He quaked at the thought of their last interview.

  Peer, with a darting glance towards the scribe, wrote on the window with his own finger. The glass was cool and wet beneath his touch.

  Need time.

  She nodded infinitesimally. Peer examined her, taking in her small, almost child-like face, her placidity. He wished, not for the first time, that the girl were capable of expressiveness. He knew that seeing Quade’s true face had alarmed her, had swayed her, but he was not certain to what extent. Would she allow him to escape? Would she help?

  He raised his finger to write again, his heart thumping harder at the risk.

  Must get away.

  The words bled upon the window, melting where they stood. Peer regarded Su-Hwan with his brows uplifted, hoping. She darted another quick look at the scribe, then bobbed her head once. She leaned forward to reach a yet untouched portion of the pane.

  When?

  Peer began chewing his lip again. It was more a question of where than when. If he were to escape now, in this stretch of nothingness between Accord and Dalyson, there would be nowhere to hide. He would be quickly apprehended once again. He needed crowds to lose himself in.

  Accord

  He rubbed the word away almost as soon as he’d written it. She nodded again, and he was not sure what that nod promised. Would she turn a blind eye, would she aid him…would she come? He had no notion yet just how he would escape, only that he must try. Without the drugs deadening his senses, he must make an attempt. Though, in truth, the effort sounded exhausting. Part of him wished they would just kill him; get it over with.

  Despite this, he’d been paying close attention to the goings and comings of the Elevated. They seemed most vigilant when the train was stopped. At full speed, they had a habit of becoming lax, chatting like the teenagers most of them were. Of course, at full speed he’d likely kill himself if he jumped.

  It would have to be sometime between the two—sometime when they were in motion but not at full tilt. He would wait for an opening, for a weakness.

  Adearre’d have spotted it already, no doubt.

  The thought was a blow, as ever, but he swallowed down the pain. He’d allowed himself to be consumed by grief for too long. Adearre would expect better from him.

  The compartment door slid open and Peer hurriedly reclaimed his pen and focused on his translations. It was not Quade who entered—thank the Spirits—but a train attendant with a dinner platter.

  Peer screwed the cap onto the ink container and set aside his work, making room for his meal.

  The attendant smiled politely and asked if he’d need anything more.

  “No, thanks,” Peer said, taking up his fork.

  As soon as the young woman left, Peer discreetly searched his tray for a note. He’d received two since arriving on the train—messages from someone on the inside who claimed to be a friend.

  His eyebrows leapt when he noticed it: two words written minutely on his cloth napkin.

  Luggage Compartment

  It was just like all of the messages, written in the same strange, geometric handwriting. Peer glanced up and found Su-Hwan scrutinizing him.

  “Here, take my napkin,” Peer said, tossing it to her.

  Her smooth brow creased, and then she began searching the fabric. Peer saw the moment she spotted the message.

  She stood and stretched, then slid open the door to the luggage compartment and peeped within. Her expression turned inscrutable as she sat again. She flashed looks from Peer to the door, as if measuring them.

  Understanding thumped him on the head. He wrote, with a trembling finger, on the glass:

  All connected?

  She gave a sharp jerk of the head and Peer slumped back in his seat. If the compartments were all connected, then the luggage rack was essentially a long tunnel running down the carriage. The question was, would he fit? He glanced up at the square doors and sucked in his lips. Two months ago, the answer would have been a definitive ‘no,’ but he had been greatly diminished since that time.

  They ate their dinners in silence, listening to the ceaseless rumbling of the train, the murmuring of the Fifth. Peer stared at the moon, his mind spinning.

  The next stop was Dalyson, then the train would turn back. In three days’ time they would be at the Accord station. Perhaps if he was terribly lucky, this ordeal could be at an end.

  And then what? A voice in his head asked, languidly.

  He had no answer.

  Ko-Jin listened to the soft snipping of scissors.

  “Are you certain you want it so short?” Chae-Na asked, her voice close to his ear. Her fingers skimmed through his hair, grazing his scalp.

  “Yes. Out of my eyes, please.”

  She came around before him, standing between his legs, and trimmed with her bottom lip snared between her teeth. Black hair fell away; he felt it dance across his bare chest. “I cannot imagine why you asked me to do this. I am almost certainly botching it.”

  “I trust you,” he said. And he did—he’d observed enough to know she had the kind of meticulous nature that lent itself well to such tasks.

  “Stop moving.” She brushed hair off his shoulder and he stiffened. “Do you not mind? Cosanta typically have long hair, I thought.”

  “When I cut off my braid? Yes, that I minded. But it’s done.” He shrugged. “Might as well be practical.”

  “No one could say you are not a practical man.”

  He didn’t know what to make of that—couldn’t tell if she intended to compliment or insult—so he remained mute.

  She snipped a few more times, then stepped back to admire her work.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “It’s even, I think.”

  “That good, huh?” He laughed and ran a hand through the prickly tufts. “Thank you.”

  She offered a short bow of acknowledgment and set the scissors on the living room table, atop a scattering of train blueprints. She then turned towards the window, where her brother was practicing forms. “Jo-Kwan has been very dedicated.”

  “Yes,” Ko-Jin agreed. “If he keeps it up, I should be able to make something of him. My offer still extends to you as well, you know.” He paused, and she didn’t respond. “You did tell me you’d wanted to learn swordsmanship—and something about wanting to be the knight instead of the damsel?”

  Her cheeks warmed and her shoulders drew up defensively. “Yes. I will consider it.”

  “I hope you aren’t worrying about what people would say—”

  “I have no care for appearances.”

  He knew this to be a lie. He heard her crying at nights, but she hid her grief like a dirty secret. She cared, or she would not bother with the pretense.

  She breathed out slowly, casting her breath across the window pane. “I am—” she rubbed her palms against her skirts. “It is only that, my parents did not wish it for me. Defiance would not have troubled me so when they were alive, but now…”

  “They would want you to survive,” Ko-Jin said, tone firm. “I will protect you as best I can, of course, but the better able you are to defend yourself, the greater your safety. A bow isn’t much good at close range.”

  She appeared to be chewing on her inner cheek. Some vulnerability penetrated her usual mask of composure. “Alright.”

  “Alright?”

  “I would like to learn. I—”

  She cut off at the sound of a sob, swiveling her head. Ko-Jin turned to the source as well, to the young Elevated they’d held captive the past days.

  The lad had ceased to struggle, but had maintained his defiance. The night before last, Yarrow had tried to offer the kid some meat, and had received a bitten finger for his trouble.

  But now, the boy was weeping. He sat, still bound, head bowed, his whole body racked with sobs muffled by the gag in his mouth. Ko-Jin and Chae-Na exchanged confused expressions.

  She crosse
d the room and untied the sash holding the gag in place, making soothing noises. He spat out the cloth in his mouth, and a louder keening filled the cottage.

  “Uh, what seems to be the problem?” Ko-Jin asked.

  The boy’s face was shining with tears, his eyes red and swollen. “He killed my family.”

  Ko-Jin’s brows tugged down. “Ah,” he said, at a loss. “Yes. That isn’t new information, though, is it? You were talking about it yesterday—said some weird gibberish about ‘history forgiving,’ remember?”

  The boy slumped in his chair, his expression pitiful. “My ma! He killed my ma. And my baby sister. She was only four years old.”

  Chae-Na began stroking the boy’s white hair. He leaned towards her, plainly desperate for comfort.

  “I did terrible things. We all did such terrible things.” The boy shuddered. “My spirit’s got to be heavier than rocks. When I die—” He hiccupped. “When I die, I’ll be blighted for sure. And then I’ll never see them again.”

  Chae-Na reclaimed the scissors and set to cutting the boy’s bindings, sawing with great purpose though the small blades seemed unequal to the task. All the while, she murmured calming words. When the rope, at last, frayed and split, the lad used his newfound freedom to collapse on the cottage floor in a great wailing heap.

  The princess knelt and put her arms around the lad. To Ko-Jin’s surprise, the boy accepted her embrace, laying his head to her chest. He looked incredibly young, suddenly.

  “What’s your name?” Ko-Jin asked.

  Through another hiccup, he answered, “Fernard. My ma called me Fernie.”