Division of the Marked (The Marked Series)

by March McCarron

  “If I resolidify,” Bray said softly, “this blade will kill you. And, for me, it would be as easy as breathing. I suggest you tell me what you know.”

  The defiance melted from the girl’s face, and Bray realized for the first time just how young she looked. Perhaps no older than fifteen.

  “Please, I don’t know,” the girl said, a note of pleading in her voice.

  “You said that someone had died. I heard you,” Bray hissed.

  “I wasn’t there or nothing. I just heard it secondhand is all—that Vendra killed one of them grown-ups in the basement and we had to go looking for the rest. I don’t know which one.”

  Bray breathed. There was still a chance. She had to believe it was not true, that her companions were alive and on their way.

  “Why did he send you lot?” Ko-Jin asked. This was a good question—these three could not be the best. Far from it.

  “He sent everyone—all of us. We’re supposed to track down all the escapees and—” the girl cut off.

  “And?” Bray pressed.

  “The sphere,” she whispered.

  Bray looked up at Ko-Jin, and saw the same relief etched in his features. The others were out there, and they had the sphere.

  Though so were Quade’s children. They would not all be so easily dispatched as these three, nor as careless as to carry a light.

  Bray pulled the sword from the girl’s throat and hit her in the head with the hilt, knocking her unconscious.

  There was nothing for it but to wait and see. And pray to the Spirits above that this girl was wrong—that they were, all of them, still unharmed.

  Yarrow watched Ko-Jin and Bray disappear through the solid wall. They’ll be safe, he hoped.

  Adearre and Peer looked to him with tired eyes.

  “Come,” Yarrow said. He darted down the hallway towards the stairs, his stiff legs half in anguish, half in ecstasy.

  The sphere lay at the end of the hall, casting the cobwebbed corners in its watery light. As Yarrow jogged up to it, he felt that same sense of loss. Every feeling save his own winked out of his mind.

  He scooped the ball from the ground without halting and pounded his way up the stairs, praying that he would reach the top before encountering resistance.

  No such luck. Two large figures appeared in the doorway. Yarrow tucked the sphere protectively against his chest. Peer and Adearre shoved past him. Yarrow watched, in the limited light, as Adearre and Peer each met a foe. He held his breath, knowing how exhausted his companions must be, and smiled widely as the two shadows crumpled to the ground.

  Peer gestured for Yarrow to follow and they ascended to the top of the stairs. Mercifully, the long hallway remained vacant. As they had planned, Peer hopped through the window rather than running toward the exit. Adearre did likewise. Yarrow tossed the sphere to Adearre, who caught it like a ball in a game, and Yarrow hoisted himself through the opening and landed with a soft thump on the grass. Moments later he heard footsteps in the hall and they pressed themselves flat against the wall to avoid detection.

  The breeze stirred Yarrow’s hair; he smelt the fresh air, and felt wonderfully, joyously free. The sun sat poised over the Eastern Sea. The air stirred, charged and thick.

  Yarrow set his jaw as Adearre handed the sphere back to him. Even drugged and weary, they estimated Peer and Adearre the better fighters. Yarrow would protect the sphere, and, if need be, flee. He hoped it would not come to that. What would Bray think of him if he abandoned her closest friends? What would he think of himself?

  Yarrow breathed in deeply through his nose, summoning a sense of resolve. He tucked the sphere into his shirt in an effort to dull the light it produced. It gave his form a strange, glowing protuberance.

  The three of them crept through the largely deserted compound. Yarrow held his breath as they passed the dining hall. Through the holes in the exterior, they could hear the sounds of many dozens of people conversing and eating. He hoped their meal would last.

  He followed the example of the others and pressed himself against the walls of the buildings, keeping low and out of sight. They progressed as slowly as they dared.

  Abruptly, a voice broke the silence, sounding as though it had spoken directly into Yarrow’s ear. He froze, a jolt of shock running through his body. Adearre nodded his head toward the open window just above them and Yarrow understood—the person speaking was within.

  Peer motioned them to move past quietly and Yarrow trailed behind him.

  “After tonight, the sphere shall slumber in the Eastern depths for five hundred years,” the voice through the window said. Yarrow stopped, this time to listen. The voice was certainly female, but it sounded strange, wrong. It was flat and lacking emotion, like a child reading from a book he or she did not understand or care for.

  “If its heat is less than eighty-six, its pretty wings cannot fly. Bendrada en talemer anara san. The Scimitar of Amarra rests in an unmarked grave west of Porramore. Inirra sosa mesra empericam. The key to a circle’s diameter is irrational...”

  Yarrow felt his jaw go slack, his mouth open. This was Fifth prophecy. It had the sound of it, but was utterly unfamiliar.

  Against all reason and the urgent gesturing of his friends, Yarrow raised his head so that he could peek into the room. He spied two figures, one sitting on a wooden rocking chair facing him and the other hunched on a stool scratching notes in a book. The girl in the chair was perhaps Yarrow’s own age, though it was hard to tell. Her face was like those porcelain dolls sold by street vendors in Chasku—perfectly smooth and serene, as if never once smiling or frowning. She was Dalish, with milk-white skin and dark brown hair. Her eyes shone an alarming shade of green, but vacant and glassy. Her lips, a deep red against her pale face, moved and words came out, but no expression crossed her features, not even a flicker. It was eerie, unnerving.

  A chill raced down Yarrow’s spine. This woman was a living Fifth.

  There had not been a Fifth in hundreds of years. Yet here she sat—no doubt due to the ministrations of the sphere and the unnatural persuasion of Quade Asher. Yarrow could have smacked himself in the head for his own stupidity—of course! The Fifth of the past had always chanted the names and cities of the children who would be marked on the eve of Da Un Marcu. Hadn’t he been reading a passage of such names just before he left the Cape? Arlow had taken the book and read them, proclaiming, “and then it’s just names—utter nonsense!”

  “Yarrow,” Peer whispered urgently. “We’ve got to keep moving.”

  Yarrow remained fixed. This woman was a weapon.

  “We should take her with us,” Yarrow said. “He can use this information against us.”

  Adearre shook his head. “Yarrow, there is no way!”

  “You don’t understand. The Fifth are the reason gunpowder was invented. They predict the movements of those living—she can undo us.”

  Peer glanced up at the window. “Might be we should take care of—”

  Adearre shook his head again, this time with authority. “I will not kill an innocent.”

  “If we could sneak her away with us…” Yarrow said.

  “No,” Adearre said. “We keep to the plan. When we have reinforcements, we will try to get her out.”

  Yarrow’s shoulders slumped but he nodded. Peer moved off and, reluctantly, Yarrow followed, leaving the human trove of knowledge behind.

  A bell rang not far off. It clanged persistently, furiously. The sound of alarm.

  They began to run, though still hunched. Yarrow had hoped they’d be gone before the majority of their enemy could begin searching. Of course, the whole plan was a gamble—it rested entirely on a single uncertain hope.

  Lights began to spring up on the left side of the compound and the noises of people moving, scuffling feet, and voices, grew louder.

  They crept on, and Yarrow’s heart leapt when he saw the outer wall. Peer thrust Yarrow up over the stony barrier as if he weighed no more than a bale of hay. Yarrow scrambled
, one hand on the wall, the other clutching the sphere tucked into his shirt, over the side. His companions joined him in moments.

  His breath caught as he saw the orange orb of the sun casting ripples of light on the ever-stretching sea. After a month of darkness, it was the most beautiful thing Yarrow had ever seen. Well, almost the most beautiful. Above, however, the clouds had grown dark. The wind smelt of rain.

  “It is over here.” Adearre strode confidently along the jagged cliff. They stood on a perch above a high, sheer descent. Below lay the beach not far from their cave.

  Yarrow’s hands shook and sweat snaked down his neck. He chanted a kind of mental prayer: Please let it still be there, please let it still be there.

  “Here,” Adearre said.

  Yarrow breathed a sigh of relief. The rope that Adearre had secured as an escape for Bray so long ago remained, hidden behind a tall clump of dune grass.

  “Yarrow first,” Peer said.

  Yarrow nodded. He grabbed hold of the thick, rough rope with unsteady hands and eased himself over the edge, his feet finding purchase on the rocky ledge. As quickly as he could manage, Yarrow walked himself down toward the beach and endeavored not to think of the long fall should he lose his grip. The rope burned his palms, but he ignored the pain. When he was halfway down, light drops of rain began to pepper his face and arms.

  He felt the sphere start to sink lower, its cool smooth surface rolling against his chest. It’s going to fall. Sure enough, the sphere pulled his filthy civilian shirt free from his loose pants and it dropped, landing with a soft thump on the sand below. The feelings of others popped back into Yarrow’s mind as the sphere rolled down the sloping beach toward the sea, still glowing all the while. Yarrow imagined that if such a thing were breakable, it would have been shattered long ago. He continued his descent.

  Yarrow clutched the rope tighter as he experienced a jolt of alarm from Adearre and Peer. They were afraid.

  A female voice above him called, “Stop!”

  Yarrow allowed himself to slide carelessly down the rest of the way, removing what skin was left to the palms of his hands, and landed hard on the sand. Had it been rocky ground rather than sandy, he likely would have broken his legs.

  He scrambled back towards the tide to gain a better vantage of the cliff’s top. Silhouetted against the stormy sky, Yarrow discerned a horrible scene. There were seven people—Peer was on his knees, held down by three figures. He struggled helplessly. Adearre crouched by the rope, a knife in his hand as he sawed at the fibers. An inert form lay beside him—the fool who must have provided Adearre with the knife in the first place. And lastly, Vendra stood, slim, straight, and confident, with a pistol extended in her hand, its barrel trained on Adearre.

  Yarrow watched, powerless. He felt all of their emotions: Adearre’s focused resolve, Peer’s animal panic, Vendra’s cool determination. She would do it, Yarrow realized as he focused in on her feelings. She was honestly prepared to shoot.

  “Stop, or I fire,” Vendra said calmly. The rain fell harder, in heavier drops. Yarrow brushed them from his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Adearre!” Peer bellowed, voice cracking. He felt utterly desperate, wild to a degree Yarrow had never experienced.

  Adearre paused, as if contemplating his options. Yarrow could imagine what ran through his mind. There was no fast way by foot from the cliff to the beach. They would need to find their own rope. It would give Yarrow time to flee, to get the sphere away from these monsters who used it to create an army. Yarrow couldn’t know Adearre’s thoughts, but he sensed the calculation in them, the weighing and measuring. And then the resolve forming again.

  Adearre looked down at Yarrow, his face cast in shadow. “Run, my friend.”

  Then he sawed at the rope with determination; the last strands separated and the rope fell.

  A gunshot sounded.

  Yarrow saw it through disbelieving eyes. The flash of light, a puff of smoke. Adearre jerked as the bullet pierced his body. The impact thrust him backwards. He fell over the edge of the cliff and, for a moment, hung arched, as if in a graceful backwards dive. Then he landed in a crumple on the sand. Yarrow didn’t need to see the blood, or the twisted broken limbs, or even those vacant golden eyes, to know that his friend was dead. He knew it because of the part of his mind that was Adearre—the part that had felt determined, then pained, and then—for the briefest instant—peaceful, had disappeared entirely. Yarrow sensed the absence, the void in his mind where Adearre had once been, and his throat clenched painfully.

  For a moment there was silence, save for the drumming of the rain.

  Then Peer shouted, “No! Adearre!” He struggled, his features twisted into inhuman rage.

  And then Yarrow felt him; felt the grief and loss like a blow to the stomach, like a knife between the ribs. It was as if the most precious thing in the world had been blotted out, as if everything had gone dark and life could hold no meaning, as if…as if Yarrow had just watch Bray die, but in some ways worse, more complicated. How he would feel if Bray died, had Bray been his constant companion for the past decade, had his love for her gone unnoticed and unreturned.

  Yarrow felt hot trails run down his cheeks and could not say if they were his own, or if Peer’s tears were pouring from his eyes.

  “Ahn-Tae! After the sphere.” Vendra’s indifferent voice broke though the pattering. “Parnela, look for rope.”

  “Where?” a girl asked.

  “Spirits above, do you think I know? Just find some! And quickly!”

  Yarrow shook himself. He needed to focus, he needed to move.

  He darted down the beach, toward the blue glow, and as he approached it was grateful, for once, that it robbed him of his extra sense. His own grief was but a shadow of Peer’s. He scooped up the sphere once again. It was wet and slippery in his fingers. Behind him he heard a thump, one just like Adearre’s body had made as it hit the beach. Yarrow turned, hoping to the Spirits above that he would not see Peer’s body.

  It was not Peer, but a Chaskuan boy of perhaps eighteen. He lay broken and sprawled on the beach. Yarrow looked at him horrified—had he fallen? Why would he jump? No one could survive such a fall. Then, to his horror, the body stirred. Its limbs mended themselves, his back became straight and whole again. A healing gift, Yarrow realized.

  The boy stood up, seemingly unscathed, and unsheathed his sword. He charged.

  Yarrow watched, almost absently, as his attacker plowed toward him, kicking sand up with his feet as he ran. Yarrow, despite being unarmed and, for a Chisanta, a mediocre fighter, could not summon any fear. Perhaps this reaction was due to his sleepless, drug-addled, grief-logged mind. But he did not think so.

  To lose, to die here and allow the sphere to be recaptured, would render Adearre’s death meaningless. He simply could not allow that to happen—he owed his friend that much. And so he would win. Plain and simple.

  He thought of Adearre’s advice about facing an enemy, given to him on this very beach. He needed confidence, and now, Spirits be damned, he had that.

  He’s Chiona, Yarrow realized, studying his opponent’s movements, his lack of grounding. Good. His mind flitted to a time long past, when he had been at the Temple as a boy, when Britt had shown him the names of the Ada Chae positions and how they could be used in a fight. “Gracious Offering,” she’d said, “is ideal for facing an armed opponent when you lack a weapon. If they’re any good, you’ll surely be cut, but you will disarm them.”

  The boy swung the sword and Yarrow dodged. He felt the blade slice the air beside him, heard the ineffective swoosh. He rolled on the sand and came to his feet nearby. The Chaskuan lad responded quickly, but not expertly. Yarrow had fought Ko-Jin enough to recognize a swordsman. This was a boy in training. Dangerous still, but unlikely to know anything beyond the basics.

  He swung again, with less force but more care. Yarrow heard the blade rip the fabric of his shirt and felt it slice the skin of his forearm. A shallow graze, h
e told himself. Behind the boy, Yarrow noticed a great black horse nosing by the nearby cave, sniffing at a patch of dune grass hopefully. It was one of their steeds. Yarrow was surprised to see it there—surprised the enemy had not taken the mounts for themselves. And glad; it would speed his escape.

  Yarrow circled around and struck the boy in the sword arm, hoping the lad would lose his grip and drop the weapon. But the Chiona was merely unbalanced for a moment. At that precise second, the horse, which the Chaskuan boy had not yet noticed, whinnied loudly. The boy’s brow creased, his concentration momentarily interrupted.

  It was Yarrow’s opening—possibly his only opening. He crouched into Gracious Offering, pushed his arms forward to disarm his opponent, just as the boy raised the weapon.

  It caught Yarrow in the gut. He felt the blade slide into him like a knife through warm butter. But he completed the stance, forced the sword from the boys hand and, mercifully, caught hold of it before it hit the sand. Without pause or consideration Yarrow thrust forward, sticking the sword straight through the boy’s chest.

  Yarrow breathed heavily, feeling the warm wet blood leaking down from his stomach and soaking his shirt and pants. He saw the boy’s distinctive Chaskuan eyes widen in pain and fear, his mouth part in a silent moan. The rain drops pelted his face like sky-borne tears. And then he thunked down to his knees, his face fell into the sand, the bloody point of the weapon protruding from his back.

  Yarrow, holding onto his gut wound to try to stem the bleeding, crouched down to pick up the sphere once again. He took it in his hands, hating the thing, and looked up. Vendra stood on the cliff, staring down at him. She didn’t look concerned by what he had done to her compatriot. He could not feel her emotions, but she looked cool, unnervingly cool. Yarrow hoped that she could read his own feelings—read them on his face in the waning light. He hoped that she would see the promise in his gaze. This was not over. He would repay her for what she had done. Hate coursed through Yarrow’s veins, the feeling foreign to him. He tasted it in his mouth, felt the drum of it in his pulse.