Division of the Marked (The Marked Series)

by March McCarron

  Ko-Jin watched him closely. “That’s it?”

  “That’s the first stance, yes. Now you try.”

  Yarrow bit his lip as Ko-Jin began, hoping. Then his jaw dropped, like a cartoon in the funnies section of the Dalish Times.

  Ko-Jin moved, not only as if he were straight-backed and sure-footed, but with an uncommon amount of grace. He, in truth, made it look a dance.

  He shifted fluidly from Warm Hands Over Fire to Brush the Dragonfly, then Taking Flight and Graze Leg. He opened his eyes, startled, and his form retreated back into its normal posture.

  “Did you feel it?” Yarrow asked.

  A bird in a nearby tree let out a startling squawk and the boy jumped.

  “Yes,” Ko-Jin said. He ran a trembling hand through his dark, silky hair. “What the Spiritblighter was that?”

  “The Aeght a Seve,” Yarrow said, taking a seat on the grass and gesturing for Ko-Jin to do the same. “It means ‘the place of five.’ It’s this other place your mind goes—only Chisanta can enter it.”

  “Even Chiona?”

  “Yes. But they don’t do the Ada Chae. I’m not sure how they get there. But it’s like your mind leaves your body and you end up in this sort of ethereal place. That’s where the gifts come from.”

  “What does it look like?” Ko-Jin asked. He curled his feet beneath him.

  Yarrow’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to do it. Britt say’s I’ve got some kind of block, that most people have no problem.”

  Yarrow had gotten to the cusp of entering the Aeght a Seve uncountable times. As he moved through the forms he could feel his mind beginning to slip, the world shifting before him. Britt said that all he needed to do was allow this—to fall, slide out of this world and into the Aeght a Seve. It was a simple thing, she said. Only, Yarrow found he could not do it. The sensation of his mind leaving his body was, to him, utterly alarming. No matter how often she chastised him, or how often he chastised himself, every time he felt reality begin to slip away he mentally grabbed for it, reached for it as a drowning man kicks for the surface. It was like telling a person not to throw out their arms as they fell to the ground, when every ounce of instinct and self-preservation screamed otherwise.

  “What do you mean that’s where the gifts come from?” Ko-Jin asked.

  “Well—the first gift is free, you know. All you have to do is go to the Aeght a Seve and you’ll receive it. That’s why I’m dying to get there.”

  “I think I’m going to try again,” Ko-Jin said, pushing himself up into a standing position.

  “Just let yourself slip into it,” Yarrow said, borrowing the words Britt had said to him time and again.

  Yarrow watched as Ko-Jin began the Ada Chae once more. He was prepared for the transformation in his new friend this time, but it was still a wonderful thing to behold. As he stepped gracefully through the motions, his back straightened and his twisted foot bore weight properly.

  Yarrow watched his eyes for a sign that he had succeeded; for that was where the difference could be seen. People in the Aeght a Seve looked as though they were somewhere else. Ko-Jin’s eyes vacillated between concentration and blankness. He must be teetering on the edge, as Yarrow had done many times that week. Then, quite clearly, Ko-Jin’s eyes went entirely blank. His body continued to move, with increased skill and poise. And then, before Yarrow’s very eyes, he saw the boy’s back grow and curve upright, his bowed leg straighten—and though his lower extremities were shod, Yarrow felt confident that beneath the slippers there were now two perfectly functioning feet. The boy expanded like a deflated balloon puffed with new air. All the while, his newly strengthened body continued to perform the Ada Chae, now with a beauty unmatched by any Cosanta Yarrow had yet seen. He wished, suddenly, that Bray could be there to see this, because he knew he would never be able to find words to describe to her this moment.

  Ko-Jin’s eyes regained their focus as he swept into Lover’s Quarrel, then Foreigner’s Negation, and finally closed with Warm Hands over Fire.

  “Spirits above, Ko-Jin, look at you,” Yarrow said, bounding to his feet and circling around the boy.

  He stood now slightly taller than Yarrow and considerably better muscled.

  Ko-Jin looked down at himself with an expression of utter shock. He kicked off his shoes and stared down at two perfect feet. He wriggled his toes.

  “Well, how does it feel?” Yarrow prompted.

  Ko-Jin looked up at him with an expression of sublime joy—his mouth was stretched into a wide smile, his dark eyes glittering.

  He didn’t answer with words, but let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a cheer. He jumped up and down, testing his newly-altered appendages. He flexed his bicep and poked at the lump of muscle that appeared there.

  Then he threw himself at Yarrow, wrapped him in an earnest embrace and slapped his back with such force it knocked the air from Yarrow’s lungs.

  Yarrow laughed. He might have felt jealous that Ko-Jin had succeeded so quickly where he had failed all week, but who could possibly feel such a selfish emotion in the face of such well-earned exuberance?

  “I want to run,” Ko-Jin declared. “Let’s go down to the beach.”

  “Alright,” Yarrow said.

  They set off, Yarrow forcing his legs to keep up with Ko-Jin’s pace.

  Later that night, Yarrow woke, floundering in his sheets. His heart raced in his chest and his hair clung to his forehead with sweat.

  He threw himself from the bed and knelt by his nightstand. He ripped open the drawer and extracted his only things of value—his father’s knife and his mother’s handkerchief—and clutched them tightly in his fists. He slid down onto the floor, leaning against the side of his bed.

  Just a dream, he told himself. It was just a dream. But that knowledge did not chase the images from his mind. He could not remember having such a vivid dream in all his life. He could still feel the heat of the fire, taste the smoke, see the faces of his parents, of his siblings—Ree and Allon and Rendal—as they burned alive, turning to ash before his eyes.

  Just a dream…

  He wiped angrily at the tears that ran down his flaming cheeks. It must have been that fire in Gallan that had put the notion in his head, but now he could not shake it. What if his family were in trouble? How could he ever help, if he was all the way in Chasku and completely ignorant of how they fared?

  Yarrow took several deep breaths. He pulled himself back up onto the bed, though he still held the tokens his parents had given him. He wished he had a better connection with them than mere inanimate objects.

  He closed his eyes and willed his heart to slow, waiting for the sleep that he knew would never come.

  “How is he?” Bray asked.

  “He’ll be alright—he’s just a mite sore,” Peer said. “He’s got three cracked ribs.”

  Bray hadn’t managed to see Arlow since the day before, when he’d been injured. A medic had shooed her off. Apparently, there was no acceptable reason for a girl to visit a boy.

  Bray frowned. “It isn’t right, Peer.”

  He nodded and ran his fingers through his light hair, leaving it sticking up in the front.

  “How can they treat us like this?” Bray continued. “We should just leave—all of us. Leave them to test themselves.” She kicked at an offending flower in the garden.

  “I doubt they’d let us,” Peer said. The last rays of the sunset gleamed off of his puffy, blackened eye. “Besides, where would we go? Back home?”

  “I’m never going home,” Bray said.

  “Nor I,” Peer said.

  “Your parents did sound awful.” Bray looked up at Peer thoughtfully. “Were they so bad?”

  He studied his striding feet for a long moment. Bray sat down on a bench beneath a fragrant tree and he followed her example.

  “Guess I haven’t mentioned I was adopted?” he said at last.

  “No, you haven’t.” Bray crossed her arms and waited f
or him to proceed.

  “Don’t remember my parents, if I ever had any. Growing up, I was in and out of foster homes all across Daland. Problem is, people don’t take in kids out of kindness most times. They want the free labor. The couple that adopted me was barren. Since they couldn’t make little field hands of their own, they took me on. I was more a slave than a son. Even so, that woman always said I should be grateful. Like the hoe she handed me was as good as a ma’s love.”

  A bird on a nearby limb let out a low, sweet note.

  “Besides, I hate farming,” he concluded.

  Bray patted his hand and leaned back deeper into the bench. She was tempted to ask more questions; if it weren’t for her uncle, she would have been thrust into the same system. The look on Peer’s face arrested her tongue, however. “Where should we go then? I hear Adourra is nice.”

  “I don’t think I’d like the heat. What about the Painted Mere?” Peer suggested.

  Bray yawned and let her head fall onto Peer’s shoulder. “Mm, that would be lovely. Wake me when we get there.” She closed her eyes, her mouth curved into a small smile.

  “Still aren’t sleeping?”

  She stifled another yawn. “No, not much.”

  “You can rest here as long as you like. I don’t mind,” he said.

  Bray knew she should rouse herself and be off to bed, but she enjoyed the twittering of the birds, the sweet smell of flowers, and the last warmth of the setting sun on her face. She was not sure how long she slept—or even if she had—but when she awoke to the sound of hurried feet, the sun had gone, leaving only the barest smudge of orange on the horizon.

  “Peer, Bray!” Roldon said, coming to a halt in front of them, panting.

  Bray sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What is it?”

  “We think we found something,” Roldon said, his voice teeming with excitement. “Right, Adearre?”

  The Adourran at his side nodded.

  “What is it?” Peer asked.

  “Just come. We’ll show you,” Roldon said. He grabbed them each by the hands and yanked them up off of the bench. Bray saw no reason to protest. Her sleepiness had passed. They strode after Roldon, who kept speeding into a run, then slowing again when he saw them fall behind.

  Adearre fell into step beside Bray. “How is Arlow?”

  “He’ll be alright,” Peer said. Adearre nodded and they continued on in silence.

  Roldon took them into a part of the Temple grounds Bray had not visited—a small cemetery with several tall, weathered statues. Deadly silence greeted them. Bray found the entire place foreboding. Though they had never been warned away from any area in the Temple, she felt distinctly as though they were trespassing.

  Roldon must have felt this way as well, because he whispered, rather than spoke aloud, “It’s just up here.”

  He led them through a gap in the bushes, along the side of a structure Bray suspected was a mausoleum.

  “There.” Roldon gestured at an intricately designed grate in the wall. “I was looking for places to hide for the game tomorrow—but look there.” He pointed to the far left, within the darkness of the hole. “Doesn’t that look like a sword?”

  It did, Bray thought. Whatever it was, it glinted dully in the moonlight. She thought she could discern the shape of a hilt. She pressed her cheek up against the cold metal of the grate, seeking a better view.

  “What’s that?” Peer asked, pointing at a large black shape.

  Peer leaned in close to examine the fastenings on the door, then produced a rough pocket knife from his trousers. Bray watched, holding her breath, as Peer twisted off the four screws holding the grate in place. They came away easily.

  “You’d think they’d be rusted,” Bray said.

  “They must’ve been fastened recently,” Peer said, as he twisted out the last screw with his fingers and removed the grate. Within, a dark space descended into the ground, too deep to jump without risking injury.

  “Lower me down,” Bray said.

  Adearre and Peer each held onto one of her arms and eased her over the edge. They held onto her as far as their hands could extend.

  “Let me go, it’s not far,” Bray said. Peer’s grip was beginning to dig into her arm.

  “I don’t know about this, Bray. It could still be a long drop,” Peer said.

  “It isn’t. I can see the bottom. Just let go.”

  Bray hit the stone floor and landed on her feet, sending a slight shock up her body. There was a strange, sweet smell in the air that tickled at her nose. The space was exceptionally dark—the only light came from the moon, stars, and the deep blue of the sky through the narrow gap overhead.

  “It’s strange. There are no doors or windows down here. What could this place be for?” she shouted to the boys above her.

  “Do you see the sword?” Roldon called.

  “Yes,” she said.

  She took hold of the weapon. It was lighter than she expected; it felt oddly comfortable in her hand. The hilt was engraved. She could not see properly in the darkness, but she thought it bore the five circles of the Chisanta.

  “It’s amazing,” Bray said, as she whipped the sword around, slicing the air. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and she could make out her surroundings better. Across the room, there were stacks of old crates piled all the way to the ceiling, broken glass strewn across the ground.

  “How’re we going to get you back up?” Peer asked. “Is there anything to stand on?”

  Bray did not answer. Her eyes had moved back to the sword. Now she could see that its tip was covered in dark, dried blood. She let the weapon fall from her hand. It hit the stone floor with a clatter.

  “Bray, what’s wrong?” Peer asked.

  She could not find her voice to respond—the dark shape they had seen from above was now discernible to her adjusted eyes.

  It had four limbs, splayed at odd angles. The leather jerkin and white shirt beneath were both stained black with blood. Its gray face and lifeless eyes pointed in Bray’s direction, as if seeing her.

  She felt her mouth go dry and her legs turn leaden.

  “Bray? Bray, what’s happened?” Peer pleaded.

  She wondered if she should scream or faint—that was what women always did in sensation stories after all. Instead, she just felt weary and sick.

  Finally she found her voice. “Peer?”

  “Yes?”

  “You need to go for help,” Bray said, her voice sounding calm in her own ears.

  “Why, are you hurt?”

  “No,” she answered, “but there’s a dead man down here.”

  Yarrow sat at a large round table with several of his brothers and sisters of the Cosanta. Ko-Jin, on his right, tapped his foot rhythmically against the floor.

  “You think she’s alright?” Ko-Jin whispered.

  “Yes,” Yarrow replied. He recalled how Bray had wielded a pistol and threatened a highwayman without even a tremor in her voice. Yes, she would be alright.

  Yarrow watched Ander Penton as he dipped his pen in ink and scrawled several short sentences on a sheaf of paper. The other faces around the table watched as well, having nothing more interesting to stare at. They were all familiar to Yarrow now, though he wouldn’t label any as ‘friend.’ It was no wonder; Britt, at the age of twenty, was the youngest of their party. Twenty-year-olds and fourteen-year-olds didn’t have a lot in common.

  Yarrow heard the door open and shut behind him.

  “What news?” Ander asked.

  Britt swatted at a few fair hairs fallen loose from her braid as she strode into the room. “They estimate he’s been dead for twelve to fourteen days.”

  “Who?” Ander asked. There was a collective holding of breath.

  Britt collapsed into a chair and rubbed at her eyes. “He was Chiona—Ambrone Chassel.”

  Ander’s eyes closed and he exhaled slowly. “You are certain?”

  “Yes. His wife just identified him.”

  Yarrow hadn
’t known that a Chisanta could marry, but shelved that question for a later time.

  “This is grave news, indeed,” Ander said. He continued softly, as if to himself, “Ambrone and I came here in the same carriage, all those years ago...”

  Yarrow pitied the older man. If Arlow, Peer, or—he could not even think the last name—were found dead, he would be distraught. The Chiona and the Cosanta did not much like each other, but some bonds go deeper even than prejudice.

  “He died by his own sword,” Britt plunged on. “Enton, you may want to lay low.”

  Enton, a Chaskuan man in his early thirties, crossed his arms. “What does it have to do with me?”

  “You know the Chiona—they think it was us. I wasn’t sure they were going to let me leave at one point. And everyone knows you’re a sword master.”

  “Why would I kill some quack archeologist?” Enton asked. “Surely not even the Chiona can think—”

  “They’re upset,” Ander cut in, “and suspicious of us perforce. We will have to step very carefully until this mystery is solved.”

  “It had to be one of our kind,” Chessa, an Adourran woman to Ander’s left, said. “Who of the unmarked could possess the ability?”

  “There are many unmarked who are gifted fighters, and Ambrone was not a young man,” Ander said.

  “What possible motive could an unmarked have to kill him?” Chessa challenged.

  “What possible motive could a marked have?” Britt asked, voice sharp. “And in our own Temple.” The Adourran seemed to have no answer for this.

  “Ambrone Chassel was best known as a madman who chased after shadows and fairy tales,” Britt said. “I can’t imagine anyone having motive.”

  “Wasn’t the body found in a room without doors?” Ko-Jin asked—then looked startled to hear himself speak.

  “Yes.” Britt nodded. “Likely, without the snooping of those plebes, he’d not have been found at all.”

  “Why is there a doorless room in the Temple?” Chessa asked.

  Ander stroked his beard. “There are many such places in all three of the Temples. I imagine it was walled off during the restoration last century.”