Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) (44 page)

“How do we get near the stage?” she asked.

“This way,” Peer said, pointing down at a grate in the road.
 

“You’re kidding,” Bray said, understanding suddenly why the two of them had smelt so foully upon their return.

“It’s mostly just rain runoff,” Peer said, as he pried the grate free from its hole.
 

“And feces,” Bray said without enthusiasm.
 

“Well, I won’t say there’s
no
feces,” Peer said. He bowed with mock gallantry and held out a hand. “Ladies first.”
 

Bray snorted and shook her head. He lowered her into the opening and she landed with a splash, sewage halfway to her knees, her skirt clinging to her legs. The stench was immediate and oppressive. Bray gagged as she waded away to make room for Peer.
 

He dropped down beside her, sending a splash of waste water her way. She shuddered and tried not to think of just what she was touching. Su-Hwan joined them with a smaller splash and Peer hoisted her onto his shoulders so she could replace the grate—they did this with silent coordination, clearly not for the first time. As the disk of metal slid back into place, they were plunged into near-darkness.
 

Bray heard faint scratching and scurrying sounds.
Rats
, she thought, grimacing.
 

Peer’s hand found her shoulder. “Only a block and a half. There’s a grate right ’neath the stage, so we can get under without being seen.”
 

Bray had to acknowledge the brilliance in this, as there would no doubt be many lookouts on street level.
 

“Besides,” Peer slung his arm around her shoulder and they trudged with sloshing steps. “What’s more refreshing than an early morning shit-swim?”
 

She nudged him with her elbow. “You’re disgusting, you know. Resourceful, but disgusting.”

“Why, thank you,” he answered with a laugh. “A good thing Adearre isn’t here, really. He’d not have gotten in.”

She laughed, imagining the scenario. “Remember the time you fell into that manure pile and he insisted on burning your clothes?”
 

“How many times do I have to say,” he responded, his voice growing annoyed and ringing in the dark tunnel. “I didn’t
fall
. You
pushed
me.”
 

She snickered and turned to include Su-Hwan. “You be the judge. So we were staying at this farm outside Westport, and—”

A cool blade pinched against the man’s windpipe in the dimness of the cell.
 

“You will tell us where that bloody monarch is, or, I swear by all the Spirits, I will slit your throat.”

“There’s no point in that,” a young woman said, her head cocked to one side, as if listening to something no one else could hear. She eyed the man with an intrigued expression. “He knows nothing. His head is like a house without furniture. I’ve never seen a mind so empty.”

The man felt vaguely insulted by this, but could hardly contradict. He could not understand their questions, let alone provide answers. He did not even know where he was. He did not know
who
he was.
 

He did know a few things—that the knife against his throat was sharp and that he did not want to die. He knew his body was bloody and battered and the floor was cold and he was missing a finger. It was as if he’d only just been born, as if life had just begun for him, only he’d somehow started in the middle. He
hoped
it wasn’t about to end as inexplicably as it had begun. “I am terribly sorry, but I don’t really understand what you’re asking.”

The bearded man exhaled through his nose and lowered the blade. “Shit. Quade’s not going to like this.” He turned his head the other way, to a sandy-haired young man who appeared to be only half-awake. “Whythe. You were supposed to stop him from getting any more gifts.”

The lad’s eyes flicked open. “He hasn’t gotten a gift, I don’t think. Just a sacrifice. I can’t do anything about
that
.” He half laughed and rubbed a weary eye. “Clever, isn’t he? He even asked me if I could turn off sacrifices before he did it—gave up all his memories to protect his people. That’s like something out of an old epic, don’t you think?”

“He asked you about it and you answered
him? And didn’t do a bleeding thing to stop it?” the bearded man boomed.
 

The lad shrugged. “Thought he was just being conversational. What do I know?”

The man tied to the chair soaked in this new information and it gave him some satisfaction. To know that he—or whoever he had been—had chosen to expunge his own memories, somehow made his current state of ignorance more bearable. At least this was something he had
done,
and presumably for a worthy cause, rather than something that had been done
to
him. He speculated as to who ‘his people’ were. Friends? Family?

The lad called Whythe consulted a pocket watch and jumped from his seat, upsetting his chair in the process. “Late,” he said, hurrying to the door. “I was meant to be up there already—it can’t start without me.”

The older man’s brow furrowed, incredulous. “You can’t just leave him,” he said, gesturing to the prisoner. “He’ll—”

Whythe waved him silent. “He’ll do nothing. He has no idea who or what he is, remember?” With a wink, the lad yanked open the door and exited. They could hear the sound of him jogging up the hallway until the door clicked shut again.

The bound man reviewed this statement critically—who or
what
he was? An odd thing to say.
 

A stinging slap across the face halted this contemplation. “If you don’t know anything, then you’re no use. Didn’t think of that, did you, clever boy? Quade’ll have no reason to keep you alive now.”
 

The man wondered who Quade was, but kept his questions to himself. It was plain these people were his enemy and therefore unlikely to supply information.

The young woman knelt before him. She was pretty—warm brown eyes and an olive complexion. He wished he weren’t naked. “We don’t have to be your enemy.” She bit down on her bottom lip. “Do you even know your name?”

The man shook his head and her face tilted the other direction, eyes alight with interest. “Fascinating.” She turned to her companion. “I’ve never seen the third sacrifice in action before. It’s so strange—a fully-formed, adult mind with language and basic perception, but just…empty. A blank slate.” She stood, and added as a casual afterthought, “I hope Quade doesn’t kill him.”

The bound man hoped likewise, once he’d finished assessing his discomfort that this woman clearly could see into his mind.
She’s the reason I’m like this
, he realized.
I must have given up my memories to protect them from this woman’s scrutiny.

She smiled down at him. “It was your choice. Don’t blame me.”
 

He didn’t really—he had too little information to assign blame. He did wish that she would tell him his name, at the very least. It seemed an excessively stupid thing not to know.
 

The bearded man flipped open his pocket watch. “Hanging’s to start soon. Bet the fun’s already begun now Whythe’s there.” He peered up, as if seeing through the ceiling. “Pity to miss it.”
 

“Quade should be here shortly,” the woman said.
 

They waited in silence. The prisoner let his head fall forward. His stomach objected to its emptiness loudly, aching with hunger, he knew, though he could not recall what it felt like to
not
be hungry. Equally, he could not recall the opposite of pain—was there a word for such a state? He conjectured that people who were fed, warm, clean, and whole must be entirely happy creatures.
 

Of course, of people he only knew those three so recently in his company. It occurred to him that he did not know his own face—would there be recognition if he glimpsed his reflection?
 

Of places, he knew only this dank, dark cell. That there was more beyond seemed a certainty, and yet he had no evidence apart from the existence of a door.

These reflections were brought to an end when he detected footfalls once again. He forced himself to look up, to see this fourth face.
 

The man was tall, fair, handsome. He had a sharp nose and black eyes that were instantly friendly, an immediate charm that put the prisoner at ease.
 

“Tell me it isn’t true,” the man said, addressing the woman. His voice soothed, deep and velvety. “What Whythe has just told me, it isn’t true.”

The woman shrank back, her cheeks losing some of their rose. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Asher. He did it before I arrived.”

This Mr. Asher, glowering and yet still having a pleasing countenance, moved very close to the prisoner. He squatted and stared deeply into the eyes of his captive, as if hoping secrets still lay within their depths.
 

“And there is no way for you to see beyond the block, to delve past the sacrifice?” he asked the woman, though he did not break eye contact.
 

“There is nothing blocking his old memories,” she said, her voice apologetic. “They simply aren’t there. Totally eradicated.”
 

An emotion flickered across Mr. Asher’s face—his nostrils flared and black eyes flashed. The prisoner thought it might be fury, yet he did not fear. For some indefinable reason, he liked this Mr. Asher. He trusted him.
 

“So,” the man said after a long, breathless pause. “You do not know who I am, I take it.”

“I do not.”

“My name is Quade Asher.” This came as something of a shock to the bound man, who recalled that a ‘Quade’ might choose to kill him. “And you have been something of a thorn in my side. I thought you and I had reached an understanding. I confess, I am disappointed.”

“I’m sorry,” the prisoner said, and meant it.
 

Quade reached out and placed a gloved hand on the man’s bare shoulder, his black eyes seeming to tug. “Are you truly sorry?”

The prisoner nodded. Everything about this man pronounced him good—his bearing, his voice. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps
he
, he the nameless prisoner, was the enemy. He knew nothing of himself, after all, had no proof that he was a decent spirit. Perhaps he had done something deserving of this treatment. Was it the action of a trustworthy person to deliberately erase his own memory?

Quade flicked a questioning look at the woman, who answered with a dip of the head. He turned back to the prisoner. “If you are indeed remorseful, then I think you might yet make amends. I have said this before to you, though you won’t recall—I should like us to be friends.”

“I’d like that as well.”
 

“I have an important event to attend, or I’d stay to discuss it longer,” Quade said. He stood and pulled a pocketknife from his coat. “If I cut you loose, will you swear to remain here? I will have food and clothes brought in a while.”

“I swear it,” the prisoner said.
 

Rather than freeing the captive himself, Quade handed the knife to the woman and turned to the door. “Join us in the plaza when you’re done,” he said, and, with the bearded man in tow, he departed, taking with him the warm sense of safety his presence afforded.

The woman set to cutting the ropes that bound him by the wrist to the chair’s arm. “I’m Trinna, by the way,” she said, and darted a quick look up through her eyelashes. He caught a whiff of her hair—a pleasant, floral scent he could put no name to. He suspected his own odor at that moment was less appealing. Once again, embarrassment warmed his cheeks.

 
The ropes fell away, immediately inducing a novel, tingling sensation as blood returned to his fingers. “I’m glad you’ll be staying alive.”

He laughed—his very first laugh. “You and me both.”
 

Once his bindings were all cut away, she stood, folded the knife, and tucked it into the pocket of her dress. “Stay here, as Quade ordered.” She softened her command with a shy smile. “We’ll meet again soon, I think.”
 

As she turned to the door, he called out, “Wait.”

She spun, brown brows raised expectantly.

“My name,” he said. “Do you know it?”

For a second, she appeared to contemplate whether to share this information, but must have decided it a harmless fact to disclose. “Yarrow.”

“Yarrow?” he repeated.

She shrugged. “Bit of a weird name really, but that’s what Quade called you.” She pointed at him and said with mock seriousness, “Stay, now,” then withdrew with light steps.

When the door shut behind her, the prisoner stood and stretched. Every muscle protested, but it was a sweet, liberating kind of pain.
 

“Yarrow,” he said aloud again, to himself. He’d expected his own name to be more familiar, but it sat strangely on his tongue, like a meaningless sound.
 

“Yarrow,” he tried again, but the effect was the same.

24

“Shouldn’t be long now,” Ko-Jin said to no one in particular.