Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2)

by March McCarron

  He caught the second lash on his forearm, and even through the thick fabric of his shirt and coat, the blow stung. He’d undoubtedly have a nasty welt. His boots planted in the earth.

  The woman—who had a pinched expression, her black hair pulled so tight it seemed to tug at the flesh of her face—stumbled in surprise. “What do you think you’re doing, you—” she cut off as her eyes landed on the Chisanta mark on Arlow’s neck.

  Arlow wrenched the whip from her grasp and tossed it aside. “What am I doing?” His chest heaved and he pierced her with a glare of pure revilement.

  She opened her mouth and shut it several times. “Are you the new site director Mr. Asher promised?”

  Arlow swallowed, kept his face even. “I am.”

  She curtsied and smiled uncertainly. “You’ve made excellent time, sir. I have been managing things in the interim. I am Ms. Topher.” Arlow bowed his head in acknowledgement but did not offer his own name, uncertain whether they were expecting someone in particular. “I apologize for this,” she gestured to the weeping child. “We have followed Mr. Asher’s recommended motivational techniques, but some of these little thieves are incurably lazy.”

  Arlow licked his lip and glanced down at the ten chained youths. They eyed him with uniform expressions: one part animosity, two parts fear.

  “My sister ain’t lazy, lady,” the teenager said, his face hard with defiance. “She’s just tired.”

  Arlow hated himself for it, but he put on the necessary mask to maintain his ruse. “Watch your mouth when you speak to your betters, boy.”

  Ms. Topher nodded approvingly. “Have you learned your lesson, girl, or will the new director have to finish your lashes? He looks to have a strong arm.”

  The girl shook her head, darting one terrified glance in Arlow’s direction. “No, ma’am. I’ll dig, I swear.”

  “Excellent,” Ms. Topher said cheerily, and turned her full attention on Arlow. “I’m sure you would like to see the rest of the site. I will happily show you around. The children are just clearing the dirt. Some of the more capable ones are allowed to handle the sifting screens, but the professionals manage the more delicate matters. We’ve made excellent progress. I think Mr. Asher will be most pleased—these sorts of excavations usually take decades.”

  She held out a hand, signaling which direction Arlow should move. He shot one look towards the trees where, presumably, Mae and Foy still hid.

  Then he took a gulp of air and proceeded further into the dig, prepared to keep a cool exterior in the face of so much human suffering, though it grieved him to do so.

  Yarrow’s lips parted in silent shock. He closed his eyes and opened them again, certain his vision had turned faulty. “But…you’re dead. You died.”

  Adearre stepped closer, and Yarrow noticed that he appeared somehow less solid than himself. He glanced down at the grass and saw that he alone cast a shadow. “Yes, I did. An unpleasant business, dying. I do not recommend it.” His eyes glittered.

  “Then…how?”

  Adearre smiled and gestured around him. “The rules are different in this place. You are the first living man to come here physically in a long time, but it is customary for a spirit host to greet visitors. I volunteered.”

  “It’s the Aeght a Seve?” Yarrow asked, looking around him once again.

  “Yes and no. This place was never named such when men came here in the body. Then, it was the Confluence.”

  Yarrow frowned. Confluence? There’s no river here.

  “Not of waterways, of realms. This is the confluence of the Spirit Home and the world of men—where the veil that divides the two is thinnest.”

  Yarrow licked his lips. “You know my thoughts?”

  Adearre laughed. “You were always an easy man to read.”

  Yarrow stepped towards the tree to examine it more closely—despite a friend returning from the dead, he could not seem to wrest his attention from the unsettling sight. He could smell the char of burnt wood, and again his stomach clenched with an emotion he could not understand.

  “This is the Confluence,” Yarrow murmured to himself. “Not the grass or the rocks, but this tree.”

  “Yes,” Adearre said.

  Yarrow fixed his gaze on a single leaf that had blossomed from the sapling. It was minute, perfect, a vibrant green—like Bray’s eyes. Its stem was light and strong, the blade of the leaf itself formed with heart-wrenching symmetry, its tip a point that curled slightly underneath itself.

  It’s only a leaf, some part of Yarrow’s rational mind whispered, yet it seemed so much more. It was the embodiment of perfection. Yarrow pulled the glove from his hand and, with tremulous fingers, reached out, longing to stroke the stunning bit of greenery.

  “Wait,” Adearre said.

  Yarrow saw Adearre’s hand grab his own to halt his motion, but he could not feel the weight of flesh. It was like being clasped by the wind. “Why?”

  “If you touch the Confluence, something will happen to you. It holds the knowledge of the Spirits and the potential of man. From it, long ago, some received gifts, others were given knowledge. I do not know what will happen.”

  Yarrow took a step back, though the Confluence tugged at him, beckoned him. “You think I shouldn’t?”

  Adearre smirked. “I think you will do it regardless of what I say, but I thought a warning, at least, was in order.”

  Yarrow quirked a brow. “What makes you say that?”

  “You are a trollop for truth, Yarrow Lamhart. It is one of your defining qualities.”

  He laughed. “Cannot say I’ve ever been called a trollop before.” He turned back to the Confluence, to that lovely leaf. “Will you remain with me until it’s over…whatever it is?”

  Adearre placed his hand on Yarrow’s shoulder, and he shivered at the strange sense of contact without contact. “I will stay with you, love, for as long as you require me.”

  Yarrow swallowed against the hard lump that lodged in his throat. “Adearre, I’m so sorry. I should have done something differently. I should have—”

  “It was my sacrifice to make,” Adearre said, his golden eyes intent. “I believe it to have been a worthy one. Do not pain yourself on my account, Yarrow. I have no regrets and you bear no blame.”

  Yarrow brushed at the tear that ran down his cheek. He then took a bracing lungful of air and raised his fingers, once again, towards the Confluence. “Wish me luck.”

  The pad of his index finger grazed the firm, velvety flora and he felt himself fall forward, absorbed bodily into the Confluence.

  He was no longer himself. He was someone else, a Spirit from long ago—a person called Charlem Bowtar.

  15

  Charlem Bowtar scampered between the spindly legs of an accommodating camel, his bare feet skating on the hot, sandy tile. The streets of Nerra were densely packed with shoppers, but Charlem was adept at navigating the currents of a crowd.

  He heard, distantly, the cry, “Halt, thief!” but was unconcerned. Adults never could move quickly through a busy street.

  Still, better wise than hanged.

  He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled between several stalls selling spices, the aroma of hot red pepper thick in his nose. He crept until he came to the back of a familiar wine-red tent, then he ducked under the fabric and into the cool shade of a tea vendor’s stall.

  Mrs. Velerre started upon seeing him, hand flying to her chest. “Spirits, you gave me a fright, Charlem.” She crossed her arms beneath her bosom and assumed a stern expression. “And what have you stolen today?”

  Charlem stood. He realized that he must have grown—he was now only a head shorter than Mrs. Velerre, when there had been a far greater difference in their heights not long ago. No wonder his trousers were short.

  “I am terribly offended, Madame,” Charlem said, placing his own hand to his chest with affront. “A man lost his purse and I happened upon it. A small tragedy for him, an excellent birthday gift for me.”

&
nbsp; He withdrew the sack from his pocket, delighting in the weight of it. This would feed him for months if he spent it wisely. No hungry nights for Charlem, no sir!

  He extracted a coin and offered it to Mrs. Velerre. “For your trouble.”

  She smiled and tucked the mark in her apron pocket. “That’s good of you, Charlie. I’ll get you a cup of tea.” She bustled over to her hearth and Charlem sank down onto a cushion. “Is it truly your birthday?”

  “Yes,” Charlem said, a wide grin splitting his dark face. “I’m fourteen years old today. Well, give or take a few weeks.”

  Sunlight poured into the tent as two large forms entered from the street. Charlie froze, fearing the authorities, but relaxed when the flap of the tent closed and he could see the men properly. He smiled and sat up straighter. Chi’santae!

  He had never seen Chi’santae up close before, yet he knew these two immediately. They wore the tabards of their kind, a single red tree upon white fabric, as well as the tattoo on their necks—the five circles halved by a vertical line. Besides, there were two of them. Chi’santae always came in twos.

  One was a tall white man with a hawk-like nose and blond hair tied into a braid hanging down his back, the other was squatter but broader-shouldered, an Adourran man with a shorn head.

  The men ordered the most costly tea Mrs. Velerre carried and took seats, cross-legged, on cushions.

  Charlem rose to approach them, admiration stamped across his features. Real, live Tree Guards!

  Before he could address the men, however, the tent flap stirred again. He dove under the nearest table and prayed he had not been seen.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Madame,” a deep, recognizable voice said. “I am looking for a thief. About this tall, gangly lad, smart mouth.”

  Charlem frowned at the underside of the table. Gangly?

  “That Charlie boy giving you trouble again?” Mrs. Velerre laughed. “Sorry, sir, I’ve not seen him this day.”

  “Thank you for your time.” The constable sighed mightily. “Boy’ll be the death of me,” he mumbled to himself as he retreated.

  Charlem let out his held breath.

  “You can come out, lad,” one of the Chi’santae said, a laugh in his voice.

  With as much dignity as he could muster, he crawled from beneath his table and stood, conscious that his clothing was laughably worn and ill-fitted. He strode up to the Tree Guard and held out his hand—to the Adourran, as he was not sure if the white man would speak his tongue. “Thank you for not alerting the constable to my presence.”

  The man smiled in surprise. Adults were always taken aback by the way he spoke.

  “That was a deft move,” he said, gesturing to Charlie’s hiding place. “Have you ever been tested at the temple?”

  Charlem’s eyes went wide and he shook his head. “No, never, but I’ve seen it done.”

  “You’ve seen what done?” the Dalishman asked fluently.

  “The test,” Charlem said. “The Chi’santae fight the kids and sometimes the kids can suddenly fight back.”

  “How have you seen this? It is done in secret, behind unclimbable walls.”

  Charlem grinned. “Not so unclimbable, sir.”

  The two men exchanged significant glances. “Well, you seem an enterprising, agile lad. You should have been tested. Why did your parents not send you?”

  Mrs. Velerre placed a tray of fresh fruit on the table for her customers. “Charlie boy hasn’t any parents. Everyone around these parts knows him, though. He’s a bright, funny thing.”

  Charlem’s cheeks flushed at this description, but he schooled his face, determined to appear as stoic as these illustrious gentlemen.

  The Adourran surveyed him up and down, not with pity—an expression he was used to, and which he used to his advantage, but that he nonetheless despised. Rather, the Chi’santae’s gaze seemed to appraise, to weigh and measure. “Where are your parents, boy?”

  Charlem shrugged. “If there ever were such people, they haven’t introduced themselves to me.”

  “How did you come by a Dalishman’s name, then?” the other asked, his eyes eerily light blue in his pale face.

  Again, Charlem responded with a shrug. “Don’t know how I got my name, I just know what it is.” His name was something of a puzzle. If he had any Dalish in him, it certainly didn’t show; his complexion was dark as rich soil. It didn’t keep him up nights. He was himself, no matter his parentage.

  “If you accompany us, we will see you tested. Though, understanding what the test entails, I would understand if you should choose not to join us.”

  Charlem grinned so wide the slice of teeth and gums consumed his face. “Oh, I’ll come alright. I’ve seen you all training. I’ve always wanted to be one of you.” He punched the air a few times, grunting as he had heard trainees do. “Learn how to fight.”

  The Adourran laughed to his companion. “If this is not a Chi’ona, I will part with my monthly stipend.”

  The braided man considered Charlem over steepled fingers. “He does have a certain brutishness to him, doesn’t he?”

  The shorn-haired Adourran stroked his chin, his black eyes glittering with mirth. “I don’t know, though. He does seem to favor flight over fight. Perhaps he is Co’santa after all.”

  Charlem had the impression they were poking fun at each other and not him, but still he resented the implication. When his countryman proffered a slice of kiwi, however, he forgot his indignation. He tore into the sweet flesh with abandon and sank down at the table with the two gentlemen.

  “So, why do you all protect that tree?” he asked, as he licked his teeth to remove the seeds.

  The Adourran leaned in, as if confidentially, with raised brows and a tight smile. “It is a very special tree.”

  Charlem squinted to better examine the image of the tree on his tabard. After a short appraisal he said, “Doesn’t look too special to me.”

  “As I am sure you know,” the Dalishman said, “many things which appear ordinary conceal greatness.”

  Charlem was not entirely sure he did know this, but he nodded his head sagely. “May I ask another question?”

  “Curiosity is no crime,” the white man answered.

  “How come there are so many trainees at the temple but so few Chi’santae?”

  The Tree Guards smiled at each other, a private, intimate moment. The Adourran spoke first, “You see, Charlem, there are two steps to becoming Chi’santae. The first, as you have seen, is skill. One must have an innate spark—and then they must train. This takes many years of dedication and difficult, often painful, work. When a man or woman has been deemed an expert, then they are tattooed,” he motioned to the mark upon his own neck.

  “But aren’t there two different kinds?” Charlem asked, his eyes gleaming with enthusiastic interest.

  “Yes. There are the Chi’ona, like myself, and the Co’santa, like Godderd. They are oppositional, or more accurately, complementary.” He gestured to his companion for help.

  The blond chose a cherry from the fruit plate and held it up, pinched between long index finger and thumb. “All things have two kinds of power: the power of possibility and the power of action. What will happen if I release this cherry?”

  “It will fall,” Charlem responded with certainty.

  “Yes. In this moment, as I hold it, it is full of the power of possibility. It holds in it the potential of the fall, the force the earth gives all things.”

  “But if you don’t drop it then it’s just a cherry,” Charlem said with a laugh.

  “It is just a cherry either way. But, even should I never drop the cherry, that does not take away its power of possibility.”

  “Alright,” Charlem said, not really understanding but growing bored. “What’s its other power then?”

  “The power of action.” The Dalishman, with such swiftness his arm seemed to blur before Charlem’s eyes, hurled the small fruit. It smacked his companion squarely in the forehead.

>   “Gah!” the Adourran complained, massaging the point of impact. “You brute.”

  “Yes,” Godderd said solemnly. “The power of the Chi’ona is rather brutish, but necessary nonetheless.”

  The Adourran glowered at his friend. “Last time I let a Co’santa explain what it means to be Chi’ona,” he muttered.

  Charlem propped his head on his hand, elbow on the table. “You haven’t answered my question, you know.”

  His countryman laughed. “Patience, young one. As I said, there are two steps to becoming Chi’santae. When the first—skill—is mastered, then one becomes a full Chi’ona or Co’santa, as the case may be. The next part is destiny. It is finding one’s other half, bevolder, as it is called in the old tongue. Spirit mate.” He gestured to Godderd. “He is my bevolder, my spirit’s complement. Separately, we are first-rate fighters. Together, we are magnificent. Not all men have a bevolder, or are perhaps unable to find them. Some men stay at the temple, seeking their other half for a lifetime. But most, after a few years, move on. They take their hard-won skills and find employment as guards, assassins, or soldiers.”

  Charlem contemplated this for a time. He’d never been able to rely on another person—he had learned ages ago to accept the help of others but not depend upon it. A man—or boy, in his case—must forge his own way. “Seems unfair. It’s not someone’s fault if their other half gets lost.”

  The Adourran frowned, serious. “That is true, but there is no single individual who can be Chi’santae. Chi’santae is not one man; it is two.” He tossed back the contents of his tea cup and left a generous sum of coins on the table. “We must return. If you would still like to be tested, you may come with us.”

  Charlem launched to his feet without second thought.

  Charlem itched at his fledgling beard and ran his fingertips idly along the rim of his whisky glass.

  He half listened to his best mate as he espoused his usual pre-testing spiel. “I swear, if I don’t find my bevolder this time, I’m going to take one of those guard jobs in Daland. At a certain point, enough is enough. Can’t stay in a town like Nerra forever. No offense.” He cleared his throat. “What do you say, Charlie? Will you come with me?”