Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) (7 page)

Ko-Jin nodded. “Can’t imagine small towns like these see a lot of royalty.”
 

“They appear more interested in you than us.”
 

Ko-Jin was about to protest this when he noticed an older gentleman on the sidewalk holding a newspaper. He peeked up at Ko-Jin, back down at the paper, and up again. His face paled, eyes widened, and he took a step back.

As Ko-Jin glanced around, he saw more evidence of unease.
Why would they fear a Cosanta?
 

“I believe we should get our information and be gone,” Chae-Na said, her brow puckered and arms crossed before her. “This place is unnerving me.”

“Agreed and seconded,” Ko-Jin said. He pointed up the road. “There it is.”

The Glans Heath Constable’s Office, an old brick-faced building, held a kind of stark menace in contrast to the white-washed shops surrounding it.
 

They mounted a worn, wooden stairway and entered with caution, but the hinges squealed loudly, announcing their arrival. Within, several men bent over a desk, deep in conversation. Ko-Jin decided to hold back and let the prince—
king, king now
—take the lead.
 

Jo-Kwan cleared his throat. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

As a unit, they looked up. Shocked recognition flashed across their faces, each as dumbfounded as a ’toon in the funnies. Ko-Jin bit back a laugh and leaned against the entryway, desirous that this interview be brief.
Maybe Mama Lamhart is making a big breakfast…

“Your Highness,” a man with a prodigious mustache and a ruddy nose squawked. He glanced down at something on the desk and back up at Jo-Kwan. “How in the name of the Spirits have you come to be here?”

Chae-Na joined Ko-Jin. She darted a look up at him that spoke of her own apprehension. He wondered if she sensed it, too—the vague yet nagging impression that something was…
off.

“Necessity. You have received word, I presume, that the king and queen were assassinated yesterday evening?”

Their expressions suggested they had. “That all of the Bellras were killed, that’s what the papers reported,” the same man said.

“Your information is only partially incorrect. The king and queen,” his voice stuttered, “
have
been assassinated. My sister and I escaped. I’ve come in the hope that you’ve been in communication with your fellows in Accord. Have the culprits been apprehended?”
 

A thin man with a beak of a nose, the constable himself by his dress, shot Ko-Jin a glower.
 

Chae-Na went up on tiptoes and whispered, “They seem to think you were involved.”

He bent down to speak into her ear—a rather perfect, pretty ear, some part of his mind registered—“Perhaps because of Arlow, they suspect all Cosanta.”

Her lips thinned, eyes narrowed. “Perhaps.” She packed the word with such venom it took Ko-Jin aback. The girl had spine.
 

He returned his attention to Jo-Kwan’s conversation. “—telegraph shortly. Perhaps you’d like to wait here until we have word. You could be in danger still. We can’t know how widespread this threat is.”

The three men exchanged covert glances, as if silently communicating something more. The mustached man opened a drawer in the desk.

Warning bells rang out in Ko-Jin’s mind. “Your Highness, perhaps we should be leaving.”

Jo-Kwan took two steps back.

“I think not.” The gentleman’s hand drew up from the drawer, a pistol arresting the king’s retreat. “This way, if you please.” He jerked the weapon towards a hallway.

Jo-Kwan’s hands came up, a calming gesture. “You would shoot your king, Mr. Mayor?”

“That is treason, impostor. You and your Chisanta assassin can come this way,” he pointed again, “and no funny business, or you’ll meet the same end as the man you claim to be.”
 

The two other gentlemen produced their own pistols.

Ko-Jin groaned and ran a hand over his face. Quade had clearly thought this through—if the entire nation believed the assassination had been successful, then it might as well have been. He felt a fool for not anticipating such a move.

They were guided at gunpoint down the narrow hall. Much to Ko-Jin’s disgruntlement, the men afforded no opportunity to be divested of their weapons.
Spirits blight the man who invented the pistol. Bloody brutish things.

Ko-Jin trailed his companions into a cell—three sides of uninterrupted brick and a barred door that clicked shut with cold, metallic finality. The slapping of shoes on floorboards faded as they were left to solitude.

Jo-Kwan ran a hand through his hair, his countenance suddenly weary. “This was, perhaps, not my best plan.”

Ko-Jin forced a laugh, but was too anxious for true mirth. His palms had begun to sweat, his heart rate accelerated—his recent spell of captivity still too sharp in his mind to feel at ease in a cell.
 

He inhaled through his nose and reminded himself that the Sphere was gone; they could not steal his strength again. Besides, Yarrow and Bray would come soon. A grin crossed his lips at the thought. He could barely wait to see what Bray made of these buffoons and their firearms.
 

Jo-Kwan set to pacing the cramped square. Chae-Na sank to the bare floor and wrapped her arms around her knees. She watched her brother’s progress, but her thoughts seemed far away.
 

The king stopped in his tracks. “You were right; I see that now.” Ko-Jin wasn’t sure to whom he spoke, so merely waited. “You wanted to send my mother and myself away and seek Chae-Na on your own, but I refused. I was of no help, and my stubbornness is the reason she died.”

“Highness, that’s hardly—”

“Then Bray Marron suggests, quite rightly, that the constables cannot be trusted, and again I do not heed counsel.” He gestured at the cell around them. “And here we are.” The king hung his head and then, visibly, straightened his bearing. “I had always believed myself more open-minded than my father, but perhaps I am just as unreceptive…”

Chae-Na shook her head, her large black eyes intent. “No, Jo-Kwan. That’s not true at all. I loved father, you know I did, but he had no self-awareness. He would never admit to an error. Even mother always said so.” Her voice trembled, but she swallowed and maintained her outward calm. “I wish they were still with us, I wish it more than anything, but you will be the better king.”

They were mute for a short time, no doubt thinking of their so recently departed parents. Ko-Jin slid down to the cold floor. The image of their mother as the life left her—his own countrywoman and queen—was lodged in his mind. He could almost feel, again, the heat of her blood running down his chest as she died, pinned to him.
 

He closed his eyes. “I failed to protect your family. I am truly sorry.”
 

Jo-Kwan halted mid-step. “Do not be absurd. I would have died in the throne room if it were not for you. And this,” he gestured to their accommodations, “is the result of my own foolish faith in our lawmen.” He sighed. “It would seem I have much to learn.”
 

Ko-Jin let his head fall back against the wall. “Hindsight’s like a hangover—all you can do is have a good puke and try to be less stupid in the future.” He cringed, realizing that he’d just implied the king of Trinitas had been stupid, but to his relief the statement was met with a dry laugh.

“Cosanta proverb?”

Ko-Jin smirked. “More the findings of my own personal scholarship.”

The ticking of the clock on the wall sounded uncommonly loud. Ko-Jin frowned at the time. He pressed his face to the bars and peered up and down the hall; they appeared to be alone. He could hear the barest timbre of voices from the main office, but could make out no words.

“Yarrow will come soon,” Ko-Jin told them. “He’ll know something is wrong. Any moment now…”
 

Where are you, Yarrow?

Yarrow feared his chest might burst. Not even the pain and grief of the past weeks, of the past hours, could mar the delirious happiness that threatened to drown him.

He smiled at Dellia as she introduced him to her doll, Rosie—a rather pathetic thing, with one button-eye hanging on a loose string. She’d drawn the Chisanta symbol on the baby’s neck in a childish hand. “See, she’s Cosanta, just like you.”

The sound of his mother humming as she fried bacon, the sizzle of the meat in the pan, the chaos of his siblings running to and fro, all lulled him into a state of comfortable familiarity.
 

“So she is,” Yarrow said. He took the soft little hand in his own and shook it. “I suppose that makes her my sister as well.”
 

He wondered how he could have been nervous about this visit. Family was family—no matter the distance, no matter the length of separation.
 

Dellia turned to Bray and made Rosie’s second introduction. “You can hold her if you want.”

Bray settled the doll on her lap. “Thank you. I’ll take good care of her.”

Yarrow hopped up as yet another sibling walked through the door.
 

“Yarrow,” his elder sister called, delighted. She cradled the bundle of an infant in the crook of her arm.

“Pedra.” Yarrow kissed her on the cheek.

“Anteen ran over to tell us you’d come.” She smiled down at the babe in her arms. “Roldon, meet your Uncle Yarrow.”
 

She passed the bundle and Yarrow accepted his nephew gingerly. “Roldon? I’ve a good friend by that name.”
 

Little Roldon peered up at him with sleepy eyes of an as yet indeterminate color. He yawned, little wrinkles creasing either side of his nose. The warmth of him, the weight, that rich, universal baby-smell, made Yarrow’s throat ache, suddenly overcome with longing for his own baby girl, though she had never existed. Would never exist. He regarded Bray with that absurd doll, and was nearly undone.
 

“I wrote to tell you about him,” Ree said, “and you never wrote back.”
 

Yarrow drew several deep breaths before responding. “I apologize. I’ve been traveling. I had no idea…”

“Here you go, dear,” his mother said, setting down a plate of eggs, bacon, and potatoes heaped high enough for three men. “You’re far too thin.”

Pedra reclaimed her child so that Yarrow could eat, and the emptiness in his arms seemed to echo a deeper emptiness.
 

“That’s quite the get up you’ve got there,” Allon said to Bray, eyeing her up and down. He sat on the stool beside her, his legs spread so wide his knee nearly touched hers. Yarrow scowled.
 

Bray offered him a bemused expression. “It’s what all Chiona wear.”
 

His lips spread into a devilish smile. “Pity more women don’t wear trousers. It’s quite fetching.”

Bray seemed unsure whether to be offended or laugh, and Yarrow was overcome with a strong desire to hit his little brother.

“Allon, dear,” his mother said as she handed him his breakfast. “Do stop flirting with your brother’s girlfriend.”

Yarrow felt his face heat.
 

“Oh, don’t be so put out, Yar,” Allon said with a laugh. “I meant nothing by it.” He leaned towards Bray, speaking in a voice that was confidential yet still carrying, “You know, he was the dourest little boy you ever met. Once,” he took a bite of bacon and proceeded to speak while he chewed, “I borrowed one of his books and made a small annotation and he—”

“Annotation?” Yarrow said, rather louder than he intended. “You drew mustaches on all of the historical figures!”

Allon assumed a look of affronted innocence and placed a hand to his chest. “I would
never
.”

His siblings dissolved into laughter, and their mother, who appeared to have missed the sarcasm, said, “Now, now, leave old quibbles quiet, as they say.”

Yarrow swallowed down his brotherly frustration. “Where’s Da?”

“Down at the shop,” Ree said. “Rendal too. You remember he married? He’s got a baby on the way.”
 

Yarrow jabbed at an egg and watched the yolk leak through the holes. “That’s wonderful. I’m happy for him.”

The front door slammed open and a broad-shouldered figure hustled into the kitchen.
 

Yarrow jumped from his seat. “Da?”

His father halted mid-step, his eyes flying fully open. “Great Spirits—you’re here!” He had a newspaper clenched in his fist and waved it. “Are you mad? Have you not seen this?”

Yarrow reached for the paper, a bit stung by this greeting. He unfurled the headline and his stomach plummeted.
 

Royal Family Brutally Slain; Assassins at Large

Tragedy comes to Trinitas. It has been confirmed that yesterday evening, during a routine public audience, the royal family was slain by assassins, ending the Bellra line of succession.
 

This morning, the identities of the assassins have been verified. Head Constable Abbort had this to say: “Troubling though it is, we have hard confirmation that a group of renegade Chisanta are responsible for the deaths of our beloved king and his family. It is speculated that they intended to place impostors of the prince and princess upon the throne. Likenesses of the leaders shall be widely distributed, as well as a full list of other defectors [Section A4].