Elevation of the Marked - March McCarron Page 0,1

of whispering pulled Arlow’s attention to the doorway. He cursed under his breath when he identified the new arrival, feeling his affected nonchalance buckle in an instant. To show his respect, he stood with the others, his chair legs scraping the hardwood floors.

Princess Chae-Na Bellra smiled prettily and motioned that the assembly should sit. She wore a silver dress that perfectly complemented her medium complexion, her black hair heaped in a pyramid of curls atop her head.

“Please, I have no wish to interrupt your meals. Do sit.”

When no one moved to comply, all fearful of being the first to sit in her presence, she stepped forward and placed her hands on the back of Harrion Alboss’s chair, gesturing for him to be seated. “Truly, enjoy your food.”

Arlow studied her unassuming demeanor not for the first time, his mouth downturned. He could never quite decide if the princess indeed lacked pretense, or if she were merely the most accomplished actress of the lot.

Harrion obliged and others soon followed suit, returning to their meals. That task complete, Chae-Na scanned the gathering and, much to Arlow’s disconcertment, her eyes locked upon his and brightened.

She wended her way towards him, leaving her entourage to ensconce themselves at the finest table.

“Arlow!” she said, beaming. “It’s been an age! I have hardly seen you since you saved me that awful night. I hope you have recovered.”

He bent over her hand and darted a quick kiss across her knuckles. The touch of his lips sent gooseflesh up her arms. Her dark eyes held open admiration.

“I am quite well, I thank you.”

Normally, he would have paid her a compliment, suggest that she outshone every other woman present—which she did—but not even he could manage such falseness when guilt weighed heavily upon him.

She seemed momentarily disappointed by his shortness, but assumed a polite expression. She curtsied to Vendra and said, “I have surely interrupted. I shall leave you to your meals, then.” She glided back to her friends, who were laughing behind hands and gawking.

He plunked into his chair and proceeded to throw back the remainder of his whisky.

“Today is the day,” Vendra said.

Arlow was so surprised, he sputtered. His lungs ceased to operate, refused to draw breath. “Today?” he wheezed.

Vendra smirked. “Yes. Quade telegraphed yesterday.” She reached into her pocket and produced a small slip of paper. Arlow seized it, his hand feeling oddly heavy. He read the short message and glanced at the clock on the wall. “We have only thirty minutes.”

She quirked a brow at him. “Does it take you longer than half an hour to walk to the throne room?”

Arlow hid his shaking hands in his lap. “No, of course not. As I said, everything is in place. It can be done.”

“Very good.” She stood, tossing her linen napkin on her unused plate. “Then you’d better pay for your drink.”

Arlow assented numbly. He carefully averted his eyes from a particular corner of the room, where the ringing of feminine laughter pulled at his senses. He left an uncharacteristically generous tip, straightened his robes with a forceful jerk, and strode from the restaurant in Vendra’s wake.

The palace grounds, an expanse of manicured lawns broken by walkways and gardens, sloped gently towards the front gates.

Vendra set a dauntless pace up the avenue—the common name for the roofed, pillared walkway that connected the palace commerce sector with the throne room. Arlow’s self-assurance withered steadily as they marched. He shot sidelong glances at his companion. Her face was set in determined lines. She showed no outward sign of doubt or hesitance; in fact, in all of their dealings together, he had never witnessed in her a single flicker of compassion.

Arlow was no fool. He saw the effect Quade had on people, he felt it himself and fought the sway of that honeyed voice. Vendra was Quade’s, body and spirit. She was his oldest supporter, his lover, his right arm. When Arlow looked into her eyes, he detected something unnaturally flat, a certain deadness within.

These thoughts not bolstering his weakening resolve, he turned his face towards the grounds, admired the orderly beauty. His eyes were trained upon an empty hill near the lake when, quite suddenly, the hill was no longer empty. Two figures appeared in an instant.

Arlow froze mid-step, his mouth parted. Not just two figures—two Cosanta. Yarrow and Ko-Jin.

Vendra, whose gaze had followed his own, snorted. “They’d have been wiser to keep their distance.”

“Perhaps we should not move forward today.”

Arlow watched his two friends embrace, and a soft