The Named

by Marianne Curley

  ‘Oh. Nothing to get into a fight about, is it?’ asks Dillon.

  The question is directed at Matt. His only response is the narrowing of his eyes. Then he steps right up to my face. ‘If you hurt Isabel—’

  This time I shove him back before he gets another chance to connect his fist with my face. ‘Back off, Matt!’

  Dillon grabs Matt’s arm, keeping him from coming at me again.

  ‘I swear –’ Matt says, trying to break free of Dillon’s hold.

  I don’t wait for him to elaborate. After all, his concern is for his sister, and this I can respect. ‘I’d never hurt Isabel. You have my word.’

  He stares at me with hard, dark eyes. ‘Just how good is that, Ethan?’

  He’s remembering the many times I tried to tell him I wasn’t after his girl. There was just some weird connection between Rochelle and me, an attraction that was hard to sever with a clean swipe no matter how I tried. But he wouldn’t listen then, and there’s too much time past now to try explaining all over again. So I say nothing. I just turn my back, jump the fence, and hurry into the woods.

  Isabel will be waiting.

  Chapter Eleven

  Isabel

  He’s late, but at last I see him walking towards me, his hands dug deeply into his school trouser pockets, his head hanging low. Straight away I sense something is wrong. I start walking towards him, my heart doing a funny slow thump. Then I see his face. ‘What happened?’

  But I know already this is Matt’s work. He’s been giving me a hard time the whole past week, drilling me with questions about what I’m doing spending so much time with Ethan. The problem is Matt knows me so well, brushing his questions off is sure to make him only more suspicious. But what else can I do? Telling him the truth is of course out of the question. It would break the code, a vital rule. Anonymity is what ensures the Guard’s protection. So I can’t tell him why Ethan and I train up here every day, and I’m not going to give it up just ’cause Matt can’t handle the thought that I’m spending time alone with Ethan. I just have to let Matt jump to his own conclusions. So far, Ethan hasn’t done anything to make me believe one negative word Matt’s said against him.

  Ethan’s finger runs over the egg-size swelling under his left eye. ‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Here.’ I take his hand and lead him to a fallen tree by the lake edge. ‘Let me look at this.’ It’s a nasty bump, but the cut in the centre could only have been made by something sharp, probably Matt’s silver ring, the one Rochelle gave him for his birthday last year. ‘I’ll get some water. It’s so cold it should help reduce the swelling. My brother sure has one sharp fist.’

  As I go to leave him, he grabs my elbow, stopping me. ‘I didn’t mean to upset him. Really. It wasn’t a huge fight or anything. It just happened so fast.’

  ‘So what does Matt look like now?’

  He looks affronted, and I get it straight away – Ethan didn’t hit Matt back. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to assume you’d pay back with your own fists. I’m not going to make excuses for my brother. I just wish he wasn’t so obsessed with protecting me.’

  He makes a scoffing sound, but softens his sarcasm with a small smile.

  I go to the water’s edge and dip the corner of my shirt into the icy water. Coming back I get on my knees in front of him and dab at the swollen cut with the wet shirt, washing away the few drops of surface blood. Being this close to Ethan starts having a strange effect on me. Suddenly my senses are heightened. My breathing comes short and fast, and my mouth goes dry, while my heart starts thumping so loud that I can hear its pounding rhythm between my ears.

  ‘How does it look?’ he asks.

  Gently I run my finger over the swelling, wishing with all my heart to ease the pain, as part of me feels very responsible. If only Matt wasn’t so protective. If only I could find a way to heal the rift between him and Ethan!

  ‘That feels good.’

  ‘Hmm?’ I ask, unaware until now of the soothing effect my touch must be having.

  Slowly I become conscious of Ethan’s eyes focused on my face. Our eyes meet and my breathing stops altogether. My lips feel so dry I have to moisten them with my tongue and for a crazy, wild second I think Ethan’s going to kiss me. But it’s only his hand coming up to touch the side of his own face. Suddenly he jumps off the log and I nearly fall over with the force of his sudden move. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. The lump is gone, that’s what.’

  He comes right up to my face, pointing to the spot below his left eye. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s nothing there now, is there?’

  I shake my head, unable to believe this.

  ‘Even the pain has disappeared.’

  Unconsciously I touch the area that was, only seconds ago, massive swollen tissue, rapidly bruising. Now there’s nothing but smooth clear skin, not a scratch or mark anywhere. ‘Did I really …?’

  He throws his hands in the air. ‘Yes! You healed me. You … healed … me!’

  ‘What does this mean, Ethan?’

  ‘I think it could only mean one thing. It’s time you met Arkarian.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Isabel

  But I don’t get to meet this famous wizard straight away. Apparently he’s on some very important mission to ancient Athens, and will be away three days. Which is fine by me, as I’m not sure I want to meet Arkarian. It will be the final confirmation that this ‘other world’ stuff is real.

  ‘He’s not a wizard,’ Ethan whispers.

  We’re three-quarters through our history lesson, sitting right in the back row in the far corner together. I catch Mr Carter casting a hostile look down our way, his eyes fixed on Ethan. He pauses, then goes on with his lesson, leaving us undisturbed. I write, ‘What, then?’ on a slip of paper and quietly slide it to the edge of my desk. Ethan glances over, leans across and scrawls beneath my two words, ‘TruthMaster’.

  ‘What?’ Stupidly I hiss this word out loud. I had just never seen the term ‘TruthMaster’ before, and it takes me by surprise.

  In a flash Mr Carter is standing in front of us. Seeing the danger, both Ethan and I grab for the slip of paper with the unusual title scrawled on it. But Mr Carter is faster and snatches the paper up first, holding it at an angle high enough to read. As he does this his eyes widen, then narrow, then focus fiercely on Ethan. He doesn’t need to say a word for either of us to know how angry he’s suddenly become. His face has gone a dark shade, almost purple, his pupils dilating until his eyes look black, the paper in his hand scrunched to the size of a pea.

  With the whole class watching, obviously dying to know what horrendous words could possibly be scrawled on the now crumpled up paper, Mr Carter calms himself, slots the paper into his trouser pocket and carefully takes his expression down a notch or two. ‘Detention,’ he says to Ethan in a deathly quiet tone. ‘This afternoon. I’m supervising. It should prove an interesting hour.’ He turns his attention to me. ‘But I want to see you, Isabel, immediately after class.’

  Ethan jumps straight out of his seat, flinging it backwards to hit the wall with a metallic scraping sound. ‘What do you want with Isabel?’ And in a belated attempt to soften his aggressive tone, he adds, ‘I mean … sir?’

  Ethan’s exaggerated defensive reaction has everybody sniggering and asking questions. I tug on his shirt sleeve. ‘Sit down, you idiot!’

  He glances around at all the attention he’s gathering, his eyes in embarrassment shifting left and right. Finally he sits. Mr Carter shakes his head. ‘You have so much to learn.’ His words feel as if they have a double meaning. His hostility towards Ethan unnerves me, but so does his strange manner.

  The buzzer indicating the end of the lesson sounds and everyone starts gathering their stuff and leaving the room.

  Ethan lags behind with me, but when the class is almost empty, Mr Carter orders him out. Reluctantly, and with a concerned lingering look, Ethan leav
es.

  When we’re alone, Mr Carter asks me to sit down. I perch on top of one of the desks up front so that I’m closer to his eye level. ‘Did I do something wrong, sir?’

  ‘Other than your recent choice of seating arrangement, not at all.’

  I ignore his sarcasm and remain silent. He says, ‘I just want to give you a piece of friendly advice.’

  It may be friendly but the tone of his voice makes me uncomfortable and nervous. My fingers clench tightly in my lap. He notices. ‘I don’t mean to frighten you, Isabel. I’m here to offer my hand in friendship.’

  ‘What makes you think I need your friendship?’

  ‘Hopefully you never will.’

  I don’t get it. This conversation is really weird. Teachers don’t usually take such personal interest in their students. And here he is offering his friendship, yet to Ethan … Suddenly I just have to ask. ‘You’re very hostile to Ethan. What do you have against him? He’s one of your best students. Probably the best.’

  ‘I’m not about to discuss my other students with you, Isabel. But it would be a good idea if you didn’t hang around with him so much. He could have an adverse influence on you.’

  ‘What makes you say that? He’s a straight-A student, I’m a C. How can his influence be bad?’

  ‘I’ve heard you’ve been hanging around a lot together after school.’

  Finally I see what’s going on, the whole point of this conversation. ‘Has my brother been talking to you?’

  He nods slowly. ‘Matt did approach me, asking about the content of the history project I set the class. He seemed to think there was too much in it. Told me how you and Ethan spend hours every afternoon and most of the weekend working together.’

  Heat invades my body, niggling little electric pulses generating in my toes and working upwards, energising every cell. I try hard to stifle the insistent urge to skin my brother alive the second I see him. I take a slow, deep breath to try and calm down. ‘What did you tell him?’

  Mr Carter looks me straight in the eyes. ‘I told him that if he had a complaint about my teaching techniques, perhaps he should take it up with the principal.’

  My mouth drops open in a soft gasp. Mr Carter didn’t tell Matt the truth, blowing our cover.

  ‘As a teacher, Isabel, and as a friend,’ he goes on, ‘I can only advise. Ethan Roberts is a distracting influence. A C student can’t afford distractions.’

  I can’t help my head shaking ’cause now I’m confused. One minute Mr Carter is coming down hard on Ethan, the next he’s covering up for Ethan spending time with me.

  He looks at me piercingly, and my spine prickles all the way down to my tailbone. ‘Do you think I’m too hard on Ethan?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Isabel, I’m not hard enough.’

  ‘I’m a little confused,’ I say.

  ‘That’s understandable. But one thing you must remember: trust no one, no one but yourself.’

  Who is he warning me against? It sounds like Ethan, but Mr Carter’s natural dislike for Ethan could cloud his judgement there. Just what is he trying to say? This conversation is too weird. I get down off the desk, eager to leave.

  ‘Do you hear me, Isabel?’

  I nod, backing towards the door.

  ‘If you ever need someone to talk to, remember, you can count on me.’

  At last I’m outside and take a deep cleansing breath. What was Mr Carter on about? Was he warning me against Ethan? And why would he tell me I can count on him, when he just finished telling me to trust no one, no one but myself?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ethan

  Arkarian meets us outside the entry to his chambers, welcoming Isabel with open arms and a warm embrace. ‘It’s so lovely to meet you at last, Isabel,’ he says. ‘Ah, all is unfolding exactly as it should.’

  Isabel’s face turns beetroot red. She swallows hard and licks her lips, eyes fixed on Arkarian’s bright-blue hair. Today it hangs loose around his shoulders, enhancing its vivid colour. I laugh at her reaction. ‘You’ll get used to Arkarian’s cryptic chattering, and his blue hair – eventually.’

  ‘How you flatter me, Ethan,’ he says drily while waving his hand towards the rock wall as if annoyed it hasn’t read his mind and disappeared already. Obediently it opens to allow us entry into his domain. When I first walked into this dark hallway, softly lit with torches hanging from brackets on the polished rock walls, I was too young to take it all in. I can recall no feelings other than awe at the rock wall disappearing before my eyes. Isabel’s eyes take in every detail of wall and ceiling as if memorising the position of each hair-line crack.

  We get to the main chamber, which resembles a workstation you’d find at NASA headquarters a hundred years from now. The room, octagonal in shape, is lined from floor to ceiling with technical equipment that makes no sound except the occasional soft beep with a corresponding flash of light. The centrepiece is what naturally seizes Isabel’s attention. She walks over and lifts a hand as if she can touch the palace that lies within the 3-D holographic sphere with the image of London at its centre.

  Arkarian motions with his hand, and the whole 3-D sphere rotates so that now Isabel has a magnified image of the inside of the Palace of Westminster, specifically the Great Hall, where at least a hundred or more are gathered as dinner is bustled away by hardworking servants. A man dressed in bright clothing gathers the crowd’s attention; sitting before them on a stool, he starts reciting a musical poem which soon has the audience in stitches.

  ‘Geoffrey Chaucer,’ Arkarian explains. ‘On cue and on time. Good, good!’ He rolls his hand again and this time the magnification is reversed considerably. Now we can neither see nor hear the goings-on inside the palace.

  ‘Th–this history is happening now?’ Isabel asks with a stammer.

  Arkarian produces three hand-carved stools, and their sudden materialisation has Isabel softly gasping. I point to the stool in front of her with an open hand and she quietly sits, the three of us forming a triangle.

  ‘This is the time period I’m monitoring at the moment. There’s trouble brewing.’

  ‘That’s where we come into it,’ I explain.

  ‘Yes,’ Arkarian says. ‘And very soon too, Ethan. So how goes your training of Isabel?’

  ‘Wonderful.’ I explain how adept and skilled Isabel is in the physical arts, and how we’ve recently made progress in developing her healing skills.

  ‘But I still can’t heal anything on call.’

  ‘Only when your passions are aroused,’ Arkarian correctly observes. ‘When you feel with your heart.’ He forms a fist over the centre of his chest. ‘That’s how it is at first.’

  Arkarian has Isabel completely enchanted. Her eyes gaze at him with a mixture of wonder and awe. I clear my throat to get her attention and to stop her staring so hard. Finally she flicks an embarrassed look towards me. ‘Hmm? What were you saying?’

  Her reaction amuses me, though I don’t really get it. ‘I wasn’t saying anything. Arkarian was.’

  She nods and swings her gaze back to Arkarian, her skin fast turning the colour of blood. That’s twice she’s blushed in the last ten minutes. What’s going on with her? Now she’s touching the hair around her face, tugging some behind her ears. ‘Oh, yeah, that’s right,’ she says. ‘Well the only times I’ve healed successfully was when I cut myself and unconsciously willed the wound to heal –’

  ‘And when your brother hit me and you felt responsible,’ I finish for her, glad to see her brain’s functioning normally again.

  ‘And what of your other skill?’ Arkarian asks softly. Isabel glances at me and I at her. What is Arkarian talking about? At our blank look he sighs.

  ‘Don’t pressure yourselves. It will evolve, with hard work and persistence.’

  He doesn’t say any more, but goes on to explain a little to Isabel about our positions as Guardians of Time. ‘It has always been thus,’ he begins. ‘For longer than I can remem
ber, and I’ve been alive for six hundred years.’

  Isabel’s eyes nearly fall out of her head when he reveals this about himself. ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘It’s a skill. Like healing is yours. Mine is the ability to remain young, a kind of resistance to the aging process.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Each of us that is Named has at least two skills, and sometimes, if we’re fortunate enough, we have three. At your initiation ceremony the Lords of the various Houses will endow you with a special gift. Sometimes these take time to develop – you have to work on them. But your skills are different: you were born with them.’

  He then goes on to explain about the purpose of those that are Named to be members of the Guard. And how the Order of Chaos devotes itself to changing certain aspects of history, attempting to create an altered present that will evolve into a future environment that suits their own requirements. ‘Chaos, as we call this opposing Order, feeds and grows on evil – death, destruction, war, plague, malice. The more they create, the larger their armies grow, and the smaller ours become.’ He leans forward in his seat. ‘So you see, Isabel, we have our work cut out. And now you are to be one of us. But before you agree, you must understand there is always the possibility something can go wrong in any mission.’

  Isabel’s eyes drop to the ground, giving herself a private moment to absorb Arkarian’s words. Finally she lifts her head. ‘I understand what you’re saying, but I think I’m missing something.’

  Arkarian shoots me a stare which shows just how impressed he is. Of course he knows Isabel’s thoughts, but he is not going to reveal this to her at this early stage in her career. Most people become instantly uncomfortable with that knowledge. It’s Arkarian’s other skill, the one he didn’t bring up earlier. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, why do we need these armies? Why do these people – this Order called Chaos – go to the trouble of stuffing up the past? What’s the point?’