Division of the Marked (The Marked Series)

by March McCarron

  “A volunteer!” Lendra said.

  Bray stepped forward. At this time, usually, the fear set in. But not today. There was no room in her head for fear. There was only this fire that threatened to burn her out, leave her a charred husk.

  “Are you ready, girl?” Lendra asked.

  “I am,” Bray said.

  The flame within her shifted into something tamer. Still searingly hot, but contained, harnessed. It leaked from the furnace of her chest, down her arms and into her fingertips, down her legs and into her toes. Every inch of her burned with readiness.

  Lendra lunged toward her, but Bray was too fast. She spun and crouched, allowing Lendra’s swinging fist to whoosh ineffectively over her head. Lendra came to rest with her back to Bray. A mistake. Bray’s body seemed to move of its own accord. She delivered three sharp, hard blows to the woman’s kidney. Lendra sank to her knees, a quiet moan of pain escaping her lips.

  Riotous applause greeted Bray’s ears, sinking into her numb mind.

  The Chiona whooped and clapped thunderously. Peer beamed down at her and she returned his smile. The inferno inside her transformed from a flame of rage to a fierce, flickering happiness. She had passed.

  Her eyes continued to sweep past her friends on the left side of the stands over to the right. The Cosanta clapped politely, all save Yarrow. His hands hung limp at his sides. She had seen that expression upon his face once before—in the carriage, when he had tried to bite back tears after saying goodbye to his family.

  The meaning of it all, the exuberance of the Chiona and Yarrow’s sadness, hit Bray like a punch in the gut. She had passed the test…as a Chiona.

  It was all wrong. She was meant to be Cosanta. She had known that as an absolute, undeniable fact from the moment that Yarrow had been named such. She and he were like two halves of a whole; could it be possible that they were not, deep down, the same?

  Several Chiona strode towards her. To welcome her and name her sister, she knew. But she felt, suddenly, no pleasure in her accomplishment. When all of this was over, she and the rest of her kind would go to the Isle of the Chiona, and Yarrow and his would go north to the Cosanta Cape. They would be separated—forever separated. It was so wholly and utterly wrong.

  “What is your name?” an older Chaskuan man asked. His face was deeply lined and grave, but his voice kind.

  “Bray Marron,” she managed to reply.

  “Welcome, my sister, Bray Marron,” he said and grasped her forearm. “You are Chiona and one of us.”

  She hoped they interpreted the tear that slid silently down her cheek as one of happiness.

  Yarrow regarded Bray as she forced a smile for her new brothers and sisters. He knew that she felt wretched—knew it because he had a ball of her raw emotion tattooing at the back of his own mind. Her dejection seemed to sing in harmony with his own. He hadn’t ever thought she might be Chiona—which was foolish, in retrospect. The chance had always been fifty-fifty. He wished that he had considered the possibility more, so that he would now feel merely disappointed, and not as though something vital had been ripped from him unexpectedly.

  Bray looked up at him and jerked her head significantly towards the sea.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to the necessary,” she said in a loud clear voice. Her brothers and sisters nodded and let her pass. There were still nine more plebes to be tested. The Chiona returned to their seats.

  “Are you quite alright, Yarrow?” Ander asked.

  Yarrow pulled himself into the present and looked at the older man and his obvious concern.

  “I’m not feeling well, to be honest. I think I need to get away from the crowd,” Yarrow replied.

  “By all means, boy, do what you must,” Ander said.

  Yarrow slipped away and trained his steps towards the cliffs, where he and Bray had spoken earlier that morning. He scanned the landscape and found her sitting on the rocky cliff, her back to him. The sky had turned a swirling, steel gray, the air static.

  She did not turn when he came to her side, nor when he lowered himself onto the cool stone beside her.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” Yarrow said.

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “We aren’t supposed to talk to plebes because they can’t know the truth,” Yarrow said, speaking to the waves. “Only when you feel a very strong negative emotion like fear, anger, or despair, does the Chisanta in your mind awaken. It’s all designed to make you feel wretched—the testing.”

  “How kind of them,” Bray said, naked bitterness in her voice.

  “It is, actually. Britt told me that we are destined to be Chisanta, and if the change wasn’t triggered deliberately it would happen anyway. Historically, horrible things used to happen to the families and friends of marked children, to make them feel the necessary pain.”

  Bray nodded. “It looks like a storm is coming.”

  Silence extended between them for a time. Yarrow didn’t know what to say. Should he apologize for being what he was? No, she wouldn’t expect or want that. Nor could he criticize her for being Chiona. They were what they were—there was nothing to say, really.

  “I’m going to be leaving soon,” he said finally. “For the Cape.” She turned and looked at him, alarmed. “They are going to send a first boat with those of us who’ve already mastered the…” he was going to say Ada Chae, but she would not have known what this meant, “warrior dance.”

  More accurately, they were sending those who had already received their first gift, but Yarrow did not want to mention this. He feared she would ask about his gift, and his stomach squirmed uncomfortably at the thought of explaining it. He didn’t want to confess that he now knew her feelings, or why.

  “When?” she asked.

  “A few days, I think…” Yarrow said. “It depends on the weather.”

  As if the Spirits above had heard this statement, a flicker of lightning blinked in the distance.

  “I don’t know if I’ll have a chance to say goodbye or not,” he continued. “We don’t interact much, us and the Chiona.”

  A tear slid down Bray’s cheek. The sight made Yarrow’s own eyes burn.

  “It isn’t fair!” Bray said, her voice breaking.

  “We will see each other again…someday,” Yarrow said. “It’s bound to happen at some point.”

  Bray let out a single sob, her pale face marred by red splotches.

  Yarrow wanted to make her stop crying. He searched his mind for something humorous to say, but nothing at all seemed funny at that moment. A piece of Bray’s long, copper hair blew into his face and he grabbed it; he ran his fingers down to the tip, where it curled slightly.

  “Have you braced yourself for your shearing?” he asked.

  She emitted a noise that was half groan, half laugh. “I hadn’t even thought of that yet.” She grabbed a fistful of hair and stared down at it. “I’m going to look like a boy.”

  “Would you mind if…I mean, do you think I could…” Yarrow trailed off. He wanted to ask for a lock. His father had received a lock of hair from his mother when they were young, and it always happened in stories.

  She seemed to understand. “Yes, but I don’t have scissors…”

  Yarrow pulled out his father’s pocket knife and, with a nod of permission from Bray, cut off a small russet tendril. He then produced his mother’s handkerchief and carefully wrapped the lock in its snowy folds.

  “Yarrow—do you truly think we’ll see each other again?”

  “Of course,” he said confidently. “What would be the point of all this if we didn’t?”

  “Why should all things have a point?” Bray asked.

  “Why shouldn’t they have a point?” he countered.

  She chuckled. “That’s a weak argument, Yarrow Lamhart.”

  “I suppose so, but it feels true to me.”

  She leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, pulling in the earthy scent of her. They watched the white
flashes in the dark sky, still far across the sea, flickering like lightning bugs. They sat until the rain began to fall in large, heavy drops.

  “We’d better go back,” Bray said at last. Yarrow nodded.

  They walked together until their paths were forced to part—his towards the Cosanta sector and hers towards the Chiona.

  At the junction, Yarrow pulled Bray close for a tight embrace.

  “I’ll miss you, Bray Marron,” he whispered into her ear.

  “And I, you,” she mumbled into his robe.

  She pulled away and looked up at him. He stared down into those wide green eyes and knew that he should kiss her—that she wanted him to. His insides burned with trepidation. The raindrops ran down Bray’s cheeks like teardrops, turning her hair a deep red and plastering it wetly to her face and neck and shoulders. He leaned forward. She tilted her head. He could feel the heat of her breath—just a bit further and their lips would touch.

  A loud crack of thunder made Yarrow jump back, his hands falling away from her. He cursed himself for letting the moment pass, and for not having the courage to try again.

  “Goodbye,” he said. It was an inadequate parting.

  “Goodbye,” she agreed, the set of her mouth betraying disappointment.

  He exhaled deeply and turned away from her, the rain landing thick and cold on his face. From the corner of his eye he watched her depart. She looked over her shoulder at him once more, then the turn in the path stole her from view. And then she was gone. Spirits, how she would haunt him.

  “The bloke was downright nutted.” Peer thumbed through a few loose, yellowing pages.

  “Everyone loved him though…” Bray said.

  She was glad for the emptiness of the Temple library. Peer seemed incapable of keeping his voice down.

  It was late; the warm, dancing illumination of lanterns were all they had to see by.

  “Still don’t understand why you’re wanting to read this…” Peer said.

  Bray ran a hand over her head, feeling the short, prickly fuzz of her hair. “We found him. I found him…I don’t know, I guess I just want to know more about the man. I want to understand who he was. Maybe then I can figure out why someone wanted to kill him…”

  Ambrone Chassel had spent his entire adult life searching for ancient artifacts from legend, most generally believed to have never existed. Bray had spent the past three evenings in the library, poring over the man’s tight script. She bent closer to the page before her and read:

  The Scimitar of Amarra, forged during the reign of Leanna in west Adourra. Legend holds that the scimitar imbued its bearer with incredible precision. Not seen since the year 417CL.

  Bray’s eyes skimmed to the small drawing that accompanied the text, of the curve-bladed sword itself. Ambrone had been a gifted artist. For some reason, that thought pained her. She flipped to the next page:

  The Seve Tapestry. The tapestry is said to depict the way in which the Spirits select the marked. The noted early Cosanta Alber Darning II was said to have acquired this item from the famed Mute Fifth, who spun truths with her hands. However, some reports mention that Darning II was a drunk and a liar. The legend of the Mute Fifth, herself, is yet unproven. Item may or may not exist.

  Peer yawned dramatically beside her.

  “You don’t have to help,” Bray said. “I only thought you might like to put your new gift to use.”

  Peer rubbed his eyes. “I’m thinking I underrated illiteracy.”

  “Don’t be daft—you can read any text in any language. It must be amazing.” Bray turned the page and read on:

  The Sphere of the Chisanta—

  “It’s amazing, alright—amazingly dull,” Peer said.

  “Like I said, you’re free to leave.”

  —Origin unknown. The sphere is mentioned in several legends and appears in the historical writings of three separate Chisanta (See appendix D16). It is said to aid any Chisanta in the understanding and appreciation of the four sacrifices. Legend holds that the loss of the sphere caused what has come to be known as ‘the regression of the Chisanta.’

  Peer’s voice, once again, pulled her attention from the passage, though she missed his words. “Hm?”

  “I asked,” he said, his tone cautious, “if you knew they’d gone?”

  “Yes, I know,” Bray said. Of course she knew they had gone; many of the Cosanta, but most importantly Yarrow. They were many hours gone. How could she not know?

  “The Chiona are getting ready to do likewise,” Peer continued.

  “I’d heard,” she said, flipping another page.

  “Well…” Peer looked as though he was steeling himself for something unpleasant. “Shouldn’t we be working on your Tearre?”

  “Or I’ll be left behind?” Bray said.

  Peer sighed. “I know you’re having a hard time with…you know…but you’d be better off working toward your first gift than obsessing over the scratchings of some dead man.”

  Bray exhaled a great gust of air. He was right, of course.

  “Very well, let’s have a workout before bed,” she said, steeling herself.

  The two of them restored Chassel’s research to its designated place and stepped out of the cramped library into the cool night air. No moon hung overhead, but the two of them knew the grounds well enough to be surefooted even in complete darkness.

  Peer selected a remote corner of grass in the Chiona sector. Bray was grateful to him for choosing a private spot, as her complete ineptitude at the Tearre embarrassed her immensely.

  “Let me watch you again,” she said and sat down on the lawn.

  He quirked a fair brow, to let her know he understood she sought a delay, but acquiesced.

  Peer stood, broad-shouldered and serious, his knees bent. His eyes grew unfocused, and Bray knew he was conducting the mental exercise of splitting his consciousness in half. The idea of the Tearre was to spar oneself; one half of the mind pitted against the other. In this state, one was meant to achieve a level of vigor and enlightenment. Only then could a Chiona enter the Aeght a Seve.

  Peer punched at the empty air before him, then leaned back as if dodging a blow. He continued to strike and dodge for several minutes, bobbing and weaving against a figment version of himself, his Mearra. He kicked at nothing, then rolled on the ground, grappling with a person that did not exist. Eventually, he looked back up at Bray and smiled.

  “Which of you won?” she asked with a smirk.

  “No cheeking me, now,” he said. “Your turn.”

  Bray traded places with him, dragging her feet in the process. She had not successfully split her mind yet. She had, on one occasion, feigned success; she’d punched and kicked the air like a madwoman. It hadn’t fooled anyone.

  “Close those eyes,” Peer said.

  She gave him a tart look before squeezing her eyelids shut.

  “Imagine your Mearra facing you, ’bout an arm’s length away.”

  Bray tried to visualize this, but she knew exactly where she stood. To pretend otherwise seemed pointless.

  “Try giving her plenty of detail. Think on the shape of your face, the color of your clothes, your posture.”

  Bray’s image of herself flickered, indistinct. It kept swapping to long hair and a dress, even though she distinctly felt the cool breeze against her scalp and neck.

  “You see her?” Peer asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Now, imagine what she’s thinking about. She is half of you, mind. She’ll be having the same thoughts, same hopes and fears.”

  “Which half?” Bray asked.

  “If you won’t be serious, I’ll go to bed, Bray,” Peer said.

  “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.”

  Bray focused more intently on her imaginary self, and she came into sharper focus. What would her Mearra be thinking about? The man whose murder was so utterly inexplicable—found stabbed by his own sword in a room without doors? Or perhaps she was thinking of Yarrow—no, she would
avoid thinking of that. Maybe she thought this was all rather stupid, too. Yes, Bray realized, that is what she’s thinking. And there she was, the mirror Bray, looking bored and tired and frustrated.

  “It’s working!”

  “Atta girl,” Peer said. “Go on and hit her.”

  Bray clenched her hand into a fist and swung, but as the punch swooshed through empty air, her Mearra popped like a soap bubble.

  Bray’s shoulders sagged.

  “Lost it?” Peer asked.

  “I think I scared her off,” Bray said.

  “Hey, it’s progress. In two shakes, you’ll be a master, I’m betting.”

  A rustling of bushes announced the approach of another Chiona. Bray jumped and her stomach clenched as Lendra walked into their clearing, then chastised herself. The persona Lendra had assumed in the arena was an act. It was designed to make the plebes angry or afraid. Not real.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Lendra said and smiled benignly. “Working on your Tearre?”

  “Yes,” Bray said. “Well, trying to, at least.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get it,” Lendra said and moved off with a wave.

  Peer gave a short, edgy laugh once she left. “Not sure I’ll ever stop thinking she’ll hit me.”

  Bray laughed in agreement. Lendra, and all of the Chiona, had been nothing but kind and supportive since her passing. The Chiona teased and mocked each other, they sparred and were generally rough with one another. She had seen this as a plebe and mistook it for hostility. Now she saw that it was all done in good humor. It was familial, comradely, inclusive. Bray found that, despite her expectations, she not only liked her brothers and sisters, but felt a keen sense of belonging with them.

  Given the hour, they decided to end their training for the night. Bray and Peer walked back towards their bunks, taking several shortcuts.

  “What do you think Adearre’s up to?” Peer asked.

  Bray shrugged. “Sleeping, I’d imagine.”

  “Bet he’ll look strange without hair.”

  “We all look strange without hair.”

  Peer laughed and rubbed her head roughly in answer. She elbowed him in the side and smiled back.