Division of the Marked (The Marked Series)

by March McCarron

  “I don’t think they know which boat we’re on, and we were lucky to have departed simultaneously with all the rest,” Ko-Jin said.

  “They will demand to search the vessels, most likely,” Bray agreed.

  “Who?” asked the fisherman. “What is this?”

  “I’m very sorry to have brought this upon you,” Ko-Jin said. “We will surrender so you and your wife are not harmed. But not yet—we must reach the deeper sea first.”

  Yarrow’s pulse quickened. Surrender? They, after all of this, would go back to that cell, with the Chisanta, the true Chisanta, still utterly in the dark as to what had happened? It could not be. Yarrow would not allow it. He would give anything, anything at all, to deliver them safely from this place.

  The soft blue glow of the sphere caught Yarrow’s eye. Bray had left it on a seat across the cabin. His mind, though fuzzy and sapped, resolved.

  With a pained effort, Yarrow sat up. The stitches pulled at the seam in his belly and he drew in a sharp breath. His feet found the plank floor, and he stood—or attempted to stand. Rather, he fell and caught himself on the side of the cabin, then pulled himself over to the sphere. His fingers clasped the thing, felt its cool smooth surface, as he collapsed into the seat.

  Yarrow took a deep breath. The first sacrifice of the Chisanta is procreation, a sing-song voice in his head chanted. It was rote. He had learned the sacrifices as a boy, like he had learned the names of Kings. Old information, not truly relevant to himself. Yet here he was.

  Yarrow focused his eyes on the swirling blue mist within the sphere. For a moment, nothing happened, and he wondered what he was doing wrong. Was there a trick to working the thing? Then he felt his consciousness pull toward the sphere, as if his spirit were leaving its container, drawn into those blue depths.

  Yarrow left his body behind, and, mercifully, his pain as well. He floated through blue fog, until the mists coalesced, forming landscape and people. They solidified, and the blue leaked away, returning everything to its proper color—flesh tones, the greens of trees through a window, the browns of wood paneling.

  Yarrow, alone, remained a formless thing, a pair of floating eyes. And then, most strangely, he watched as he himself stood and crossed a room.

  It was not a room Yarrow knew, and yet it seemed familiar. Like a home—though no home he had ever known. A fire crackled in a hearth, shelves of books lined the far wall, and a broken-in, comfortable couch sat atop a Chaskuan rug. Upon that couch, lounging carelessly, was Bray. She looked much as she did now, or rather, as she had before their captivity. Her hair was shorn tight about her skull, her face healthy and full. She was more beautiful than Yarrow had ever seen her, positively glowing.

  “Yarrow, she’s kicking!” Bray said, sitting up.

  Yarrow watched himself cross the room and sink down beside her. He placed—and suddenly he was not floating eyes, he was the Yarrow of this place—his hand upon Bray’s large round stomach. He felt the movement deep within, the stirring of his child. Yarrow smiled, then leaned down and pressed his ear against the swell of Bray’s belly. He hummed a few notes of a lullaby his mother had sung to him as a child. Bray’s fingers brushed his neck, beneath his braid, and he lay there, listening to his babe.

  “How are you so certain it’s a girl?” he asked.

  Bray shifted beneath him. “Call it a mother’s intuition. She feels like a girl.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  The mists swirled and the scene dissolved, washed out into blue again—and then reformed, solidified and popped into color.

  He was in the same room. Bray slept through a far door. He lay on the couch, and though it was late and he was tired, he did not sleep. He could not.

  Curled against his chest, snoring quietly, lay his baby daughter. She looked so very small. It was hard to believe that such a tiny thing could ever become a full grown person.

  Yarrow studied her continually. She was such a wonder. The little copper colored hairs on her head were soft and fine, they stuck up from her skull like the down of a gosling. Her small fingers clutched at the fabric of Yarrow’s robes. Her form pressed warmly against his chest, and she smelt so familiar and comforting. Her eyelids flickered—fine eyelashes, small blue veins against translucent white skin—but they shut again, and she slept on.

  Yarrow felt a love for this small creature that was unlike anything he had experienced before. She was utterly precious; her very existence imbuing his life with a meaning he had not any right to. Arella Lamhart, they had called her. The name stirred in his chest.

  The room swirled blue and he was thrust outside. It was dark, he was returning from an errand, bags with produce clutched in his hands, and he entered his home.

  Arella’s face was bright red, tears flowing down her cheeks, as she bawled.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong. She won’t eat and her diaper is dry,” Bray said, a note of pleading in her voice. Dark shadows marred the fair skin beneath her eyes.

  Yarrow kissed Bray’s forehead. He felt his daughter’s emotions—they were simple and sweet, usually. Now they were distressed, pained.

  “It’s the rash bothering her,” Yarrow said.

  Bray hurried to the cabinet to find the rash cream as Yarrow unpinned the cloth diaper and shushed Arella. He rubbed in the salve and eventually her wails subsided into hiccups and, a short time later, the small snores of slumber.

  Bray smiled and sighed in relief. “How many parents would kill to know what their babies are feeling?”

  Yarrow pulled her close and kissed her.

  Blue mist swirled, and time passed.

  Arella tottered on chubby legs. Having just learned to walk, she had decided to prove her deftness by utterly rejecting crawling as a means of crossing a room.

  Her hair was still fine, but longer now. It had been tied into two tails on either side of her head, which stood out at right angles. She had wide gray eyes—his eyes. But in all else, she was her mother. She grinned toothlessly at Bray, who sat on the rug at the other side of the room, her hands outstretched. “Here, Arella,” Bray called.

  She toddled across the room, her small feet hitting the rug with muffled thumps, until she fell into Bray’s arms.

  “Very good!” Bray said. “Now go to Daddy.”

  Arella turned, thumped back across the room into Yarrow’s outstretched arms. She fell warm into his lap and said, “Da da da da da.”

  He felt her affection for him—it was so strong and all-encompassing, like her love for him and Bray were the only things worth feeling. Yarrow tried to pull her to his chest, but she was not to be confined. She stood up and tottered back to Bray.

  Blue fog obscured the room.

  Arella was six. She was beautiful—Yarrow’s heart swelled with affection and pride. She sat cross-legged on the rug, knobby knees poking out beneath a green dress. Her hair hung long around her shoulders. In her lap rested a large book. It had paintings and small sections of simple words.

  “Dad, what’s this say?” she asked.

  Yarrow sat beside her and looked close.

  “Sound it out,” Yarrow said gently. Arella tossed him a petulant look. She would rather he just told her. But then, as he constantly reminded her, she would never learn.

  “Ruh…ah…buh…eh…tuh.” She sounded out slowly, squinting down at the page. “Raah…buht.” She looked up proudly. “Rabbit!”

  “Very good,” Yarrow said. He couldn’t believe his little girl could already read—hadn’t she been a baby just moments before?

  Blue mist.

  “I know you’re disappointed,” Bray said soothingly, rubbing Arella’s back. She was so old now, so big. Her fair face was splotchy and her nose ran as she cried.

  “It’s not fair.” Arella sobbed.

  Yarrow sat down on the bed beside his daughter.

  “I thought I’d be like you.” Arella’s hand rubbed at the patch of clear white skin on her neck, the place where, had she been Chisanta, the
mark would have appeared an hour ago. Yarrow could hear the sound of distant firecrackers. Da Un Marcu celebrations.

  Yarrow rubbed his daughter’s back consolingly. She had been hoping, since she was young, to be Chisanta like her parents. Yarrow would not say so, but he was glad she was not. They had the ability to give her the finest education regardless, and he did not like the idea of her going through the testing.

  “You can still be whatever you want to be,” Yarrow said.

  “I…want…to…be…like you!” she said, between sobs.

  “You are like us,” Bray said. “You don’t need any mark to make you a smart, strong woman.”

  The scene swirled and changed.

  “Don’t be so old-fashioned, Dad,” Arella said.

  She was a young woman now, tall and lean. She had a clever face, her mouth quirked in a chastising smile. She wore her red hair in a long braid down her back and, though it was still not the style amongst civilians, she sported trousers rather than skirts. She sounded irritated, but Yarrow knew she was not. Her feelings gave her away—she hummed with affectionate amusement. As if he were a puppy who’d just watered on the carpet.

  He frowned. “Arella, I am your father.”

  “And I love you,” Arella said. “But I’m nineteen years old and I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

  “You’re too young to be married,” he said, “and that boy isn’t nearly good enough for you.”

  “Who would be good enough for me, Dad?” Arella challenged.

  “No one.” Yarrow crossed his arms. “So you shouldn’t get married.”

  Arella let out a frustrated gust of air. “I’m in love, Dad! And I’m more than old enough to marry—you know that well enough. Davis is a good man, and he understands me. I love him. Can’t you understand that? What if someone had told you not to marry Mom?”

  Yarrow’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “Besides,” Arella said with a smirk. “Davis knows well enough who wears the pants in our relationship.”

  Yarrow laughed. “That’s my girl.”

  She hugged him—and he couldn’t help but think of how small she had once been. But there was no use holding onto the image of her as a child any longer. She was a woman now. An intelligent, vibrant woman who stole the spotlight in any room she entered.

  Blue.

  “Are you ready to meet your granddaddy, little man?” Arella asked the baby in her arms. He drooled in response and looked around with wide curious eyes. Yarrow took hold of his grandson gingerly—he hadn’t held a baby in over two decades. He had forgotten how small they were, how breakable they seemed.

  His grandson babbled nonsense words then spit up all over the front of Yarrow’s robes. The babe laughed, pleased with himself.

  Arella snickered. “I swear, he does this every time I let someone else hold him. Like he’s saving it up or something.” She pulled a cloth from her bag and wiped at the spit-up on Yarrow’s clothes.

  The room blurred and, this time, Yarrow knew it was the last of these visions he would see.

  He lay on a bed, and he could see by the spots on his hands, by the dry wrinkled skin of his arms, that he was quite old. He felt old—old and tired and sick.

  He was dying.

  The thought did not inspire any fear. He was prepared to die, eager for it. He longed to be with his wife again. The past four years without her had been lonely and flat. As if, by her departing, he had lost one of his senses, and could no longer experience the world properly. Had it not been for his daughter and grandsons, he was sure to have been in a desperate state.

  The door opened and Arella came in, trailed by her husband and four sons. What a handful they had been a few years back, when they were young and boisterous. Normally they were boisterous still, despite being in their teens. Only, they were reserved now in the face of their grandfather’s imminent passing. A pity—Yarrow would have liked to die to the sound of laughter.

  “Daddy,” Arella said, taking his hand in her own. Tears ran down her face, and Yarrow felt her pain, her fear of losing him. He wished he could ease it. He was always surprised to see how old she had become. Her face was lined around the eyes and cheeks, the marks of a woman who laughed often. She looked so like her mother had at that age.

  “No tears,” Yarrow said. He smiled.

  “You can’t go…I’ll miss you too much.” Arella squeezed his hand.

  “I’ll miss you too, baby girl. But I’m ready to go—to be with your mother again.”

  She nodded, trying to look brave. A tear dripped from her chin and hit his bed.

  “Arella, you brought us so much joy. I…”

  Yarrow trailed off, the darkness closing in. The last thing he knew of the world, before he departed from it, was the pressure of his daughter’s hand in his own.

  Yarrow—the Yarrow of the present—jerked alert, pulling sharply at the wound in his gut. The sphere rolled out of his hands and hit the floor with a thump.

  Where was Arella? It seemed as though she had just passed from the room, as if he should be able to hear her laughter through the wall.

  All he heard was the worried voices above them and the rocking of the sea. As his mind found purchase, he felt a peculiar dejection settle upon him. A tear fell from each eye simultaneously, as if synchronized, hot and wet on his cheeks. Arella had not just left the room. She did not exist. She had never existed.

  The sphere rolled along the floor with the rocking of the ship. Yarrow watched its lazy progress and wondered at its nature. All he knew was that it helped a person understand the sacrifice at hand, because only with full understanding, and with a great deal of regret, could a sacrifice be given. But did that mean it could show the future? Was Arella Lamhart the child he and Bray would have, or was she merely a possibility?

  It seemed impossible that a person so real and solid, a person he could remember holding in his arms, could be hypothetical. Either way, he knew he could not give her up. She was vital, to both him and Bray. How could he have possibly considered making such a sacrifice? No. He would not.

  Footfall sounded on the stair and Bray returned, her face pale and eyes wild.

  “Yarrow!” Her hands gestured frantically. “Why did you move?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Her eyes trained on the wetness upon his cheeks. “Does it hurt so bad?”

  It did, rather. He made a noncommittal nod.

  “Ko-Jin reckons we’re out far enough now to throw the thing overboard,” Bray said, catching the sphere as it made to roll by her.

  “Can you help me up?” Yarrow asked.

  Bray’s lips pursed, but she did not protest. Rather, she pulled Yarrow up, allowing him to rest his weight against her. Together, they made their way up the stairs.

  It was full morning, but the sun had hidden behind a veil of clouds. Yarrow crossed the deck, though every step pained him. He located the cruiser immediately. By comparison, every other vessel looked small as toy boats. It was still a short ways off, but at the speed it progressed it would be upon them soon enough. Would they know that this was the correct ship? How long would it take for them to discover the truth?

  Bray eased Yarrow down onto an overturned barrel.

  “So, we just drop it overboard?” Bray asked.

  “Yes,” Ko-Jin said. He leaned against the rail for support, as his deformed foot taken with the swaying of the boat clearly made it difficult for him to stand. “Do you mind if I do the honors?”

  Bray handed the sphere over. Ko-Jin looked down at the thing for a moment, it illuminated the sharp planes of his face in blue light. He then held it out over the railing.

  “Good riddance.” He turned the palm of his hand and let the sphere roll from his grasp and fall. Yarrow heard the plunk it made as it hit the water. In his mind’s eye, he watched it sink beneath the depths, puzzling fish with its light, until it finally found its home in the seabed, far far below. Its effect winked out and Yarrow’s mind filled wi
th the feelings of others. Ko-Jin transformed before their eyes, his back and leg straightening, his muscles expanding.

  The fisherman whistled. “Well there’s a thing I never thought I’d see.”

  Ko-Jin exhaled in relief.

  “Do you think they’ll be able to find it again?” Bray asked.

  “No,” Yarrow said with utter confidence. It would rest there for five hundred years—the modern-day Fifth had predicted it.

  “Now what?” Bray asked.

  “We’ll have to surrender,” Ko-Jin said. “What else is there to do? We couldn’t outrun them and we owe it to these people not to try. Besides, they won’t be able to contain you, Bray. Not without the sphere. You can go back, tell our brothers and sisters what is happening here.”

  The cruiser had halved its distance. It passed a fishing ship without halting and continued toward their own vessel.

  They know.

  “Do you have a spy-glass?” Bray asked the fisherman.

  “Aye,” the bearded man said, handing over a brass object. Bray took it and peered through the long, gleaming object.

  “Vendra,” she said, handing the spy-glass to Ko-Jin.

  Yarrow’s stomach clenched. Vendra—Adearre’s murderer. She would kill without remorse.

  “You should head back to shore after this. You’ll make fast time on the train,” Ko-Jin said to Bray.

  She glared at him. “If you think I’m leaving you, you do not know me. I will stay and I will fight.”

  Yarrow knew she meant what she said, and dread filled his gut. After watching Vendra shoot Adearre, and feeling her utter lack of concern, he could not imagine this confrontation ending without further death. As little as he wanted to think it, the rational voice within him whispered: Is it really worth risking their lives to save a spirit that does not, may not ever, exist? His gaze lingered on Ko-Jin, his dearest friend. He appeared barely able to stand.

  “Bray?” Yarrow asked. “Could you help me below again?”

  “That would probably be for the best,” Ko-Jin said. “If things go badly, you won’t be much use in a fight. Henril and Molla, you’d better go below as well.”