The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  As though by some spell, that instant seemed to hang suspended. As if the world had ceased to turn, and time stood still, just to give Yarrow the opportunity to preserve that moment with perfect clarity in his memory. A strange fancy popped into his mind—perhaps if he remained completely motionless, so would everything else. Then they could all stay just as they were, forever. But the thought rang of cowardice; he shoved it aside. He needed to keep his chin up and his feet flat, after all. So, with the greatest effort he had ever exerted in all his young life, Yarrow tore his eyes away from the scene. Facing forward, he took three great steps and ascended into the carriage.

  Without any regard for the interior of the barouche, he darted straight for the window. Yarrow waved, and Glans Heath waved back. The horses sprang into motion with a piercing whinny and pulled away from the platform. A few of his siblings ran forward as if to follow him on foot, but in moments the carriage had ridden well beyond the station, leaving their small forms trailing behind.

  He continued to wave several long moments after his family had receded from sight.

  Yarrow sat, paralyzed. He didn’t register the luxurious red velvet interior of the carriage or the sweeping grasslands outside the window. He barely noticed the girl sitting cross-legged on the bench opposite him.

  But after some time—whether twenty minutes or two hours, he could not have said—the numbness faded. It was rapidly replaced with, first, a sense of being utterly dislodged in the world, and shortly after that, a deep wretchedness that started at the tip of his head and ran down his spine, pooling in his boots.

  And then he became more aware of his companion—aware she would be an unwanted audience to the tears struggling to free themselves from the confines of his eyelashes. He would not cry, especially not in front of this girl. Not she who, despite being carried away from her home, just as he had been, sat with such composure. He schooled his face, aware of her eyes on him. But the flame of his misery tickled at the back of his throat, burned in his eyes, compressed his lungs. He forced his hands into his pockets. A mistake; for there his knuckles brushed his mother’s handkerchief and his father’s pocket knife. In a moment, renegade tears spilled forth. A sob began to rip from his chest, and only half-stifling it, he produced a pathetic whine, like a kicked dog.

  “You can cry if you want,” the girl said. “It won’t bother me.”

  She spoke softly, as if addressing a skittish animal. It rankled. Why didn’t she have the good grace to ignore him and let him suffer in peace?

  “I’m fine,” Yarrow said, managing a modicum of bravado.

  “As you like,” she replied. Her voice had a slight accent to his ears, melodic and rough. She returned to her previous engagement—gazing out the window—and ignored him again.

  Yarrow produced a handkerchief, his own rough one, and scrubbed away the evidence of his breakdown, leaving him red-faced but tranquil. The power of mortification, for the moment, kept his distress at bay.

  He had not been aware of the quiet that hung between his companion and himself prior to her speaking, but now that the silence had been shattered, it felt awkward. He realized how remiss he had been in not making an introduction. She must have thought him abominably rude.

  Yarrow fidgeted and stared. What a strange specimen she was. Most of the villagers in Glans Heath had brown hair; a few were fair-headed, but none looked like her. This girl had hair like copper. She had the front portion tied in a navy blue bow at the back of her head, and the rest hung loosely around her shoulders. She wore a faded blue dress.

  She turned to meet his stare, fixing him with green, almond-shaped eyes. In doing so, her hair shifted, revealing a sliver of the mark on her neck—the same as the one that branded him.

  “What’s your name?” he finally asked.

  She smiled and his palms began to sweat.

  “Bray Marron,” she said and, crossing the divide between them, came forward with her hand outstretched—an odd thing for a girl to do. He took it in his own and shook.

  “Yarrow Lamhart.”

  “Very nice to make your acquaintance, Yarrow Lamhart,” she said, both the turn of her mouth and her tone chiding. “Do you mind?” she asked, pointing at the mark on his neck. “I haven’t gotten a good look at mine.”

  Yarrow leaned his head away obligingly to offer his mark for her inspection. She knelt on the seat beside him and leaned in close. He felt one cool fingertip touch his neck, her breath warm upon his cheek. He hoped she didn’t notice the way the hairs on his arms stood upright at her touch.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” she asked, and parted her own hair for his inspection. He murmured agreement and turned to face her.

  Stark against the pale white of her neck, the symbol looked red as brick—the symbol of the Chisanta, five concentric circles halved by a single vertical line. Yarrow wanted to reach out and touch it, as she had done. He hesitated too long, however, and she let her hair fall back into place.

  “I mean, how does it work?” she continued, remaining close to him. So close that, should he have felt so inclined, he could have counted the freckles on her nose.

  “How does what work?”

  “The marking…the selection…all of it. Where does it come from? Why were we chosen,” she pointed between the two of them, “and not some other boy and girl, somewhere else?”

  “Well…it’s magic, isn’t it?” Yarrow said.

  She waved a hand dismissively. “That’s a weak answer.”

  Something about this girl, whose curiosity seemed to outweigh her fear, made Yarrow feel at ease for the first time in three long days, since his life had been turned upside down.

  He smiled. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  The carriage slowed and they both turned to the window. The sun shone high and bright in the afternoon sky. There didn’t seem to be any reason to stop; they saw no village, and the landscape was the same ceaseless flatland. The door opened and their driver called them out with a single tempting word: “Lunch.”

  Mr. Paggle laid out a spread of bread, cheese, and fruit. “There’s a clump of bushes out that way,” he pointed over his shoulder, “should you have any business to take care of. It’s the best we’re like to find in these parts. We’ll set out again in thirty minutes.”

  “How far away is it?” Yarrow asked.

  “The Chisanta Temple? A good three days. We’ve got two more charges to collect, though that won’t be until tomorrow. We’ll be staying in Gallan tonight, and I’d like to be there before full dark, mind. So be ready to go in thirty minutes.”

  And with that, Mr. Paggle left to care for the horses.

  “I’m going to stretch my legs,” Bray said, taking some bread and cheese, wrapping it carefully in a linen napkin, and tucking the bundle into her pocket. “I’ve been sitting all day.”

  Yarrow wasn’t sure if she said this as an invitation or not. He stood, feeling awkward, and watched her as she began to walk off into the field. She looked over her shoulder, giving him a ‘well, aren’t you coming?’ look. He hastened to follow.

  The two of them set out into the sea of knee-length grass. Gnats buzzed in Yarrow’s face and the wind cooled his cheeks.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Mountsend.” She pointed towards the east. “About seven hours from your town. What was it called again?”

  “Glans Heath.”

  “Right, Glans Heath. It looked nice. Much nicer than where I’m from. We’re just north of the Verdant Peaks, so it’s a mining town. Were all of those little boys and girls your family?”

  Yarrow nodded. “Yes. My brothers and sisters.”

  “What, all of them?” Bray asked, and laughed. “I thought maybe some were cousins. There must be a dozen of you.”

  “Just shy of a dozen, actually.”

  Bray’s eyebrows shot up. She looked at him as if waiting for an explanation as to why anyone would have so many children.

  “My mother says that a baby is t
he best gift a woman can receive, and my father is very generous.” His face flushed in embarrassment at having said this private joke aloud.

  A strong gust cast ripples in the grass. Yarrow wondered if this was what a sea looked like. Probably wetter, he decided.

  “I envy you,” Bray said.

  Yarrow looked down at her. Her rust-colored hair swirled around her face in the wind. Her eyes were distant.

  “Don’t you have siblings?” he asked.

  “No, nor parents either.”

  Yarrow didn’t know how to respond. A moment of silence rested uneasily between them.

  But when she turned to face him again, her eyes were gleaming with mirth. “Race you to the tree,” she challenged.

  There could be no question which tree she meant. In the wide ocean of grass there stood just one off in the distance, its thin, gnarled trunk bowed with age. She didn’t wait for his response, but hiked up her skirts and darted away. He had no choice, of course, but to follow.

  Yarrow ran full out, driving his legs as fast as they would carry him, and passed her. The greenery whipped about his hips and knees and the wind whistled in his ears. He heard her laughter and felt himself beaming. He hadn’t raced in years. With the breeze hitting his face, blowing back his hair, and his heart pumping rhythmically in his chest, he felt free and wild and young.

  After several minutes he neared the tree, his arms pumping at his sides. He turned to look over his shoulder to judge his lead and was surprised to find Bray not far behind him, her face pink and her dress hitched indelicately above the knee. Then, abruptly, foot hit rock, and Yarrow tumbled into a graceless somersault. He landed in a tangled heap and heard rather than saw Bray run past him and call out triumphantly.

  Yarrow, with skinned knees and a rueful smile, joined her under the shade of the tree. The two of them collapsed onto a thick root, flushed, sweaty, and panting.

  Bray reached up and plucked a small fruit from a branch—a crabapple. She bit into it and sucked the bitter juices.

  “What are you doing?” Yarrow batted the fruit from her hand. “Don’t you know those are poisonous?”

  “Are they?” She shrugged. “They’ve never killed me before. Anyway, aren’t you going to congratulate me on my victory?”

  “You cheated,” Yarrow said.

  “How so?” she asked, taking mock offense.

  “Magic, I strongly suspect. Some Chisanta trick.” He arranged his features into an accusation, though of course he suspected no such thing.

  “Then you should have done a Chisanta trick right back.” She shoved his shoulder playfully. “We are the same, after all.”

  And though they had been speaking in jest, Yarrow felt suddenly serious. She was Chisanta, as was he. Which meant leaving behind everything: his family, his home, his work at the shop. But, he reflected, with no small amount of pleasure, this new life could not be a bad one.

  Not if it included Bray Marron.

  Chapter Two

  As dusk gave way to night, Bray and Yarrow stepped out of the carriage before the Gallan Inn. The air smelt strongly of campfire and Yarrow shivered in the breeze. He strode into the inn, grateful for the warmth.

  The somber tone of the common room doused Yarrow’s spirits like a cold bath. The patrons perched stiff-faced upon their stools, wearing black; they clutched their drinks like lifelines.

  “What’s happened here?” Mr. Paggle asked the owner.

  The man had drooping eyes, which seemed to droop still further as he answered, “A fire three days back. Whole family perished inside, or so it seems. Very strange, sad business.”

  Yarrow thought of the smell which he had taken for a bonfire, and nearly retched.

  “How terrible,” Bray said, her voice soft and eyes wide.

  The innkeeper nodded agreement.

  Five portraits rested on stands, wreathed in flowers, one for each family member. Yarrow’s gaze lingered on the image of a girl his own age. Her face was so white against her black hair that she seemed a ghost, even before death. Her eyes followed him.

  “Are there still rooms available?” Mr. Paggle asked.

  “Oh, aye. Plenty of rooms,” the man said.

  As Mr. Paggle and the owner of the Gallan Inn spoke of prices and accommodations, Yarrow was distracted by the sound of a young woman weeping at a nearby table.

  “He said he loved me,” the woman gasped, her red eyes wild.

  An older matron patted her on the shoulder and made soothing noises.

  “He did, Mama, just last week.” A loud sob broke from her throat. “He said Breide En Alama. And I asked what that meant—you know, because the Ollas family all spoke Deltish—” her voice rose higher with each word, and it clearly pained her to speak, but she plunged on, “and he said it means ‘our hearts are belonging.’ Isn’t that nice, Mama? Breide En Alama…our hearts are belonging…” The woman collapsed onto the table with a grief-sound so animalistic, so painful, Yarrow could not have assigned a word to it.

  The entire inn had grown silent. Bray exchanged an alarmed look with Yarrow.

  “It is a pity,” a man whispered too loudly, “almost no one speaks that tongue any longer.”

  A murmur of agreement met this statement and more drinks were called forth.

  Mr. Paggle’s mustache drooped solemnly and he clapped Yarrow on the shoulder. “Let’s wash before supper.”

  Yarrow nodded. Anything to get away from this morbid scene.

  Their host led them up the stairs to their rooms, one for Mr. Paggle and Yarrow and an adjoining one for Bray. They were comfortable enough, though oddly bare. The innkeeper lit the lamps and left them to their business.

  Yarrow splashed his face at the washstand and watched the driver from the corner of his eye. He should surely say something about the scene they had just witnessed, but he could think of nothing and Mr. Paggle appeared unperturbed. He was moving slowly through some methodical evening routine, whistling to himself—a slow, soulful tune—his mustaches sticking out comically from his face.

  Yarrow sunk onto his bed with a squeak of springs. Without Bray for company, his mood began to plunge, his thoughts returning to his family. Had they eaten dinner yet?

  “Ready, Master Lamhart?” Mr. Paggle asked at last. Yarrow jerked, abruptly pulled from his thoughts. He nodded and stood.

  Bray was waiting in the hall, and the three of them made their way downstairs to a table in the common room, apart from the morose hum of the other patrons. Waitstaff in spotless aprons distributed platters heaped with steaming victuals—beef, potatoes, vegetables, and a loaf of fine, crusty bread. Yarrow attacked his portion with fervor, and they chewed in silence for several minutes.

  “Spirits above, did you truly eat all of that already?” Bray asked, marveling at Yarrow’s empty dish. The vast majority of her own meal remained upon her plate.

  Yarrow shrugged. “In a big family, if you don’t eat fast, you don’t eat.”

  She laughed and returned her attention to her own meal. Yarrow watched her with covert glances. The way she ate fascinated him. She chewed each mouthful with the utmost care and pleasure, then seemed to swallow with regret. She appeared to take more delight in each solitary bite of that meal than Yarrow had ever experienced from any meal in his life. Strange, as the beef had been dry.

  Once the last of the gravy had been mopped from his plate, Mr. Paggle ordered them each a modest glass of dessert wine, a delicacy.

  “To the King,” the driver toasted.

  Bray and Yarrow raised their glasses. “To the King,” they agreed, taking a long draught.

  Full, sleepy, and content, Yarrow leaned back in his chair. Their chaperone’s face had grown decidedly pink, the tips of his sandy mustaches perked like the ears of a frisky pup. In good humor enough to answer a few questions?

  “Mr. Paggle,” Yarrow began slowly. “Can you tell us about the Chisanta?”

  Bray sat up straighter, her eyes sharpened.

  Mr. Paggle prod
uced a clay pipe, packed it, and with a whisper of match head to table grain, lit it, the small flame casting the deep pores of his cheeks and nose in sharp relief. He did not reply until he had taken a long draw, filling the air with the sweet, sharp smell of tobacco.

  “Well, what do you know of them?” he asked and reclined in his seat, very much in his element.

  “Not much…that they are unbeatable fighters and magic users—”

  “And they know everything—” Bray said.

  “And even the King has to do what they say—” Yarrow said.

  “And the women wear trousers,” Bray concluded, looking as though this peculiarity were as significant as the rest.

  Mr. Paggle took another long, slow draw from his pipe, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I thought as much,” he said. “Smaller towns, like the ones you two hail from, tend to have some strange notions.”

  Bray leaned forward. “What are they really like, then?”

  “You’ll be knowing everything there is to know soon enough. But I’ll tell you a bit.” He sipped his wine while Bray and Yarrow exchanged matching expressions, raised eyebrows and half-stifled smiles.

  “To say they do magic is a misnomer, you see. Magic implies spells and potions and old witch stories.” He cast his voice conspiratorially. “Now, the Chisanta, they don’t do magic. They have abilities.” He paused dramatically.

  “What kind of abilities?” Bray asked in a whisper.

  “Oh, all sorts of things. They don’t each have the same ones, you know. Some can become invisible,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that. And some are able to read your thoughts. And others can move a thing only with their minds.” He wavered his voice and shook his wine glass, as if it were moving of its own volition and not firmly gripped in his hand. “The Chisanta are split into two groups, the Chiona and the Cosanta, and they couldn’t be more different.”