Lamentation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 3) Read online

  Lamentation of the Marked

  Book Three of the Marked Series

  March McCarron

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  LAMENTATION OF THE MARKED

  Copyright © 2017 by March McCarron

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art by March McCarron

  Edited by Alexis Arendt

  email

  website

  For Fran, my all-knowing father, who gave me Frodo and Rand and Princess Leia

  Contents

  Foreword

  Free Novella

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Glossary

  Previously in The Marked Series…

  Foreword

  Lamentation of the Marked is the third installment in a four book series. (It is not the conclusion of a trilogy! You’ve been warned.)

  Lamentation is not a stand alone novel. This story begins where the last book left off, with little reintroduction to the world, characters, and preceding events. For those readers who need a refresher on the first two books, I have included a “previously on” at the back, along with a glossary of terms and characters.

  Get a Marked Series novella completely free! Find out more here.

  Prologue

  Vendra sensed light and motion beyond the veil of her eyelids. Her unconscious mind stirred. Signals zipped between synapses like messages along a telegraph line. It was a pull as inescapable as gravity, but still she resisted. She clung to the respite of sleep, filled with the vague yet certain sense that rousing would be painful; that wakefulness would be loud, confusing, fuzzy-tongued.

  Her cheek was pressed into the grain of a wooden board, and a nailhead poked at the flesh below her left eye. From nearby, there came a thunderous outcry. Despite her efforts to remain asleep, the din intensified in her ears, and the peace of slumber slipped through her mental fingers.

  Why is it so loud? she thought.

  Where am I? she thought.

  Quade? she thought.

  The roar shifted, individual voices resolving into a unified chant.

  “Dispatch her,” said a cold-voiced man.

  Vendra’s eyes flickered open. Her temples throbbed, and she tried to swallow, but her mouth was coated in viscous saliva—common side effects. She hefted her head up from the planking and gazed out over a massive crowd. Her brow puckered in confusion.

  “YOUR DEATH WILL BE AS TRIVIAL AS A BEETLE BENEATH A BOOT,” the assembly boomed.

  The central square of Accord teemed; its usual bare cobble-stoned expanse was instead packed with bodies. Why? She had only imperfect, half-memories. A hazy sense of purpose lost.

  Vendra’s head swiveled, sweeping leftwards. Beneath nine empty gallows, a cluster of Elevated and civilians brawled. She blinked at the knot of violence—the flying limbs and tumbling bodies—uncertain of its origin. Nine nooses swayed in the breeze.

  From amidst the tumult, the shape of Quade Asher emerged, crossing the stage with black strides. Vendra’s heart thudded in her breast at the sight of him. His form, so sure and straight, always made something deep within her ache. His dark beauty was her greatest addiction.

  Her mouth opened to call his name—look at me, see me. He turned, and when she saw him the sound died in her throat.

  His face…

  It was his, and yet it was not. The shapes and colors were true, but stripped of their allure. His aspect was, all at once, repulsive to her. Foul. His eyes were the blackest, coldest holes she had ever beheld. The sight of them sent a shiver through her spirit, like a web of minute cracks racing across a pane of glass.

  She wanted to avert her gaze, to deny the evidence before her, but she couldn’t manage so much as a blink. She had loved this man for all her adult life—had lived for him, killed for him—and yet, somehow, she had never seen him.

  A streak of motion came from above, and an arrow bloomed in Quade’s shoulder. He fell to his knees, a snarl escaping his thin lips. And then their former captive, Peer Gelson, charged into view. A sword flashed in his hand.

  Vendra’s stomach clenched, and she was uncertain if she more feared or desired Quade’s death. It mattered little. Before the killing stroke could land, her lover vanished with a hollow pop.

  She slumped onto her bottom and hugged her legs close to her chest. Lucid for the first time in nearly two decades, countless memories flitted through her mind’s eye. Wounds only now perceived, sins only now recognized. And it was too much, all too much.

  Her shoulder blades hit the planking, followed by the back of her skull. Her mind went blank. She stared up at the sky and watched the clouds drift from east to west. The day’s light dimmed, to the tune of her uneven breath. Flurries swirled like ash on a breeze—ash, fire.

  Her nose and cheeks grew icy. The clamor of the crowd dwindled until, at length, no sound remained but the gusting of the wind.

  “You can’t be staying here,” a male voice said, shattering her trance.

  The form of Peer Gelson loomed above her, his breath exploding like steam from his mouth. She had the strong impression she should feel remorse in his presence—whiff of gunpowder, a pained bellow.

  “Are you…?” he trailed off and cleared his throat. “It’s cold and gettin’ colder. People’ve been gathering up at the palace.”

  He extended a hand to help her up, then seemed to think better of it. He jammed his fist into his coat pocket and rocked on his boots. “Come or not. I won’t be carryin’ you.”

  She lacked both the will and the desire to rise. If she stood, she would still have to be herself. She would still have to live within her own mind. This numbness could not last, and it was the only thing keeping her intact. If she moved, she would surely disintegrate.

  I’m in shock, she thought.

  My pulse is rapid, she thought.

  I want to die, she thought.

  “After I murdered your friend,” Vendra said, locking eyes with Peer, “you swore you would kill me. You swore.”

  He transferred his weight from one foot to the other. “And?”

  Something large and empty was opening inside her—a crater in the fabric of her being. “Do it,” she whispered. “Kill me.”

  He squatted beside her, resting his forearms on his thighs. “No.”

  “He was a good man, was he not? Your friend?”

  “He was.”

  “And I shot him.”

  “You did,�
�� he said. She watched the lump in his throat bob. Snowflakes peppered his sandy hair. “Live with it. I’ll not be doing you any favors.”

  He stood and strode away, leaving her colder than she had ever felt in all her life. She scrambled to her knees, dizziness causing her vision to swim. “Wait!”

  He paused and half-turned, but didn’t meet her pleading gaze. “You can’t be stayin’ out here. It’s freezin’.” And with that he departed, his shadow merging into the night.

  Vendra trembled against the wind. She glanced around the square, surprised to discover that she wasn’t alone. There were young people—Quade’s Elevated—standing, sitting, and kneeling in various states of shock. They looked like frosted sculptures, misery whittled into form.

  She experienced a brief surge of guilt upon seeing them. But that feeling was soon snuffed out, like every other sensation. She stared down at a nail that stuck unevenly from the stage, stared until it was no longer visible beneath a layer of fresh snow.

  She wondered how long it would take to die if she just sat there, exposed. Perversely, she thought of Quade. She longed to feel him beside her, to be wrapped in the warmth and comfort of his presence—flick of a blade, blood.

  A hand came to rest on her shoulder, and she jolted. She whirled, expecting to see him, Quade—his visage appearing as it did in her memory. Beautiful. But these were not Quade’s eyes studying her with such concern.

  “Vendra, can you hear me?”

  She blinked, taking in a wrinkled brow, a bristling white mustache.

  “Grandfather?”

  Dedrre dropped to the snow and pulled her close. She pressed her face into the wool of his overcoat and breathed in the familiar smell of him.

  “You’re frozen to the core; thank the Spirits he told me…” he said, rubbing hands up and down her arms.

  Before she knew it, she was weeping. Her chest heaved and her throat ached and she shuddered under the power of her shame and grief. Hot tears burned against her numb cheeks.

  “Shh,” her grandfather soothed. “It’s over now. I’m here now. Shh.”

  She burrowed into his warmth. “It’s not over,” she said, voice muffled. “Not yet.”

  Not ever. Not for me.

  Bray scanned every passing face as she hastened through the grand entrance of the palace. A crystal chandelier overhead cast distracting spirals of light on the wide marble space and the gathered crowd. Several times her heart gave a lurch at the sight of some slim, dark-haired man. Each time they proved not to be Yarrow, her disappointment stabbed more keenly.

  Yarrow, Yarrow.

  “This way,” Ko-Jin said. He redirected her with a gentle hand at her elbow. Bray was too engrossed in her search to object to this bodily contact, and allowed his touch to remain.

  The gilded walls of the palace seemed to contract around her. There was too much commotion, too much noise and movement. The crowd buffeted and battered her senses.

  “Quade’s gone, really. You can—”

  “My son, there you—”

  “So hungry, swear I could—”

  “Father? Mother? Where—”

  Ko-Jin’s grip tightened as they wended their way through the hive of Chisanta and prisoners. When they reached the entryway, the gathering at last thinned. They marched out onto the lawn, their feet directed towards the central plaza. Bray sensed Ko-Jin’s hand slip away.

  “Do you know her? Trevva?” he asked. “She’s Chiona.”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Snowflakes swirled on the wind. The long lane that led from palace to gate was scattered with chatting clusters of Chisanta. Bray surveyed the irregular groupings, scrutinizing every male form.

  She opened her mouth to ask what this Trevva looked like, when she came to a sudden, swaying halt. She saw him. Him. He was there, just in front of her. Her blood surged.

  “Yarrow?” she cried out, her relief euphoric.

  She sprinted in his direction, a grin dawning on her lips. The man turned, dark brows raised, and stepped towards her with a lopsided smile of greeting.

  And he was not Yarrow.

  In appearance he was uncannily similar, but in expression, in posture, he was totally other. “It’s Bray, right?”

  She came to an abrupt standstill, her breath caught in her lungs.

  “Isn’t my brother with you?” the man who wasn’t Yarrow asked. “We haven’t seen him since the day we were taken. Ma’s near hysterics, worrying about him.”

  Ko-Jin extended a hand and introduced himself.

  “Allon Lamhart,” the man said.

  “We’re looking for Yarrow now,” Ko-Jin answered. “We’ll have him contact you when we’ve tracked him down. Tell your ma not to worry. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “Can I help at all?” Allon asked, addressing the question to Bray. With his brows drawn low and his expression serious, he looked even more like his brother.

  Bray shook her head. “Thanks, but no. We’ve got to keep moving.”

  She pushed onward, momentarily leaving Ko-Jin behind as he bid Yarrow’s brother farewell. Her eyes swept each face as she progressed down the lawn and through the gate.

  Ko-Jin jogged to her side. “We really need to work on your people skills.”

  She rolled her eyes in answer. Once she found Yarrow, she would observe societal niceties again. She would recite the proper lines, smile, curtsy. She might even do so with sincerity, out of sheer goodwill.

  In the meantime, however, people would be wise to clear her path.

  “So, what does this Trevva look like?”

  “Tall, Adourran, high cheekbones.” He shrugged. “Short hair, a bit mean-looking.”

  “So, like a Chiona,” Bray said dryly.

  “Exactly.”

  They loped back into the square, and Bray’s gaze was pulled to the stage and its vacant line of gallows. The sweep of cobblestones stood in echoing near-emptiness. The crowd that so recently filled the space had dispersed, save for a fair number of Quade’s Elevated. These young men and women had frozen throughout the square, unmoving shadows in the growing darkness.

  Bray lingered on them, their figures bowed against the mounting snowfall. At first she thought them troublingly still, but a closer study revealed that they trembled, and not with cold alone. She did not envy their inner turmoil.

  “Bray,” a voice called. She pivoted and spotted Peer jogging in her direction, Su-Hwan close on his heels. “What, didn’t find him?”

  “No,” Bray said, tone weary. “Not yet.”

  He fell into step beside her. “Any notions?”

  Before she could answer, Ko-Jin pointed across the plaza, where a couple emerged from a pub. “Roldon!” he shouted. “Trevva!”

  The six of them converged not far from the enormous stone fountain at the center of the square. Bray studied these two new arrivals. Trevva more or less matched Ko-Jin’s description: she had full lips and shrewd eyes. Unfamiliar, yet still a sister Chiona. Roldon she recalled from long ago. He looked the same, with his curling light-brown hair and boyish smile. His cheeks were rosy.

  “Hey, Ko-Jin,” Roldon said, and bobbed his head to Bray, Peer, and Su-Hwan. “Hey, settle a bet. I was telling Trevva about how good ol’ Rinny taught us to pick pockets. She doesn’t believe I—”

  “We’re looking for Yarrow,” Bray said. “You know him, right?”

  Ko-Jin smirked, offering her a silent reproach for rudeness again. She didn’t care. Yarrow, Yarrow.

  “Sure,” Roldon said. “Of course.” And then, to Trevva, “He’s the friend we’ve tracked before; you said he hops around the kingdoms like a blighted lightning storm.”

  “He can teleport,” Ko-Jin said, off-handed.

  “Really? How’d—”

  “You can find him?” Bray asked, speaking to the Chiona.

  Trevva’s almond eyes appeared glazed—bored, tired, possibly intoxicated. She shrugged and, with irritating slowness, tugged the glove from her hand one finger at a t
ime. She raised her palm. “Picture him well,” she said to Roldon in a richly accented voice.

  “I know,” he answered, cheerful for some Spirits-forsaken reason. He placed his hand in Trevva’s and screwed his eyes shut with what seemed a parody of focus.

  Trevva’s own eyelids fluttered. She ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip. “He is south,” she said at length. “Not far, but moving away from the city.”

  Bray’s breath rushed from her chest. Alive. He’s alive. “Thank the Spirits,” she whispered.

  “Would you be willing to help us find him?” Ko-Jin asked.

  Bray bit down on her cheek. She had not considered that this plan required a favor from a total stranger. She was glad Ko-Jin had posed the question; it likely would have sounded more demand than request if she had spoken.

  Trevva flicked a questioning glance to Roldon. Bray wondered at this unlikely pair, a Chiona and a Cosanta. Then she shoved the thought aside. Unimportant.

  “He’s a good mate,” Roldon said. “I’d be really grateful.”

  They stood in a long, horrible silence. The woman bobbed one shoulder, indifferent. “Very well. I have no more pressing obligation at the moment.”

  Roldon grinned and clapped his hands. “Excellent. Thanks, Trev.”

  Bray rocked on her heels. This was all taking far too long. They should be on the road before Yarrow traveled even farther away. “There’re carriages for rent just down the block. If we leave now—”