The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  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’s…

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

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

  …origin is 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 towards 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.

  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.

  “I see it!” Arlow pointed through the swirling mist at an indistinct shape in the distance.

  Yarrow licked the sea salt from his lips and peered into the billowing haze before him. Yes, there was definitely something out there. The deck of the ship rocked below his feet, but he had long since developed the equilibrium required to remain firmly upright.

  Footsteps behind them announced Ko-Jin, who settled against the railing beside Yarrow, leaning his face into the sea spray.

  “Almost home,” he said, smiling.

  Yarrow didn’t feel he was going home. He was voyaging to a foreign nation, far from Glans Heath, far even from the Chisanta Temple, which had come to be a home of kinds. To a place where he did not speak the language, where the customs were strange and confusing.

  “I can hardly wait to get my feet on land again—and away from these stinking deckhands,” Arlow said.

  Yarrow and Ko-Jin exchanged exasperated expressions.

  “Shall we have another Chaskuan lesson before we arrive?” Ko-Jin asked, turning away from the se
a.

  Yarrow bobbed his head. He’d been trying to learn as much as he could before arriving, but it was a complicated language, with many levels of formality. So far he’d only managed to remember ‘hello,’ ‘thank you,’ ‘yes,’ and ‘no’— and these he said with such an atrocious accent that Ko-Jin warned he might not be understood by a native.

  “No. I’ll never wrap my head around that chicken scratch,” Arlow said.

  “And how will you communicate?” Ko-Jin challenged.

  Arlow shrugged and flashed a wicked smile. “I’ll manage.”

  “Have you gotten some sort of mental communication gift, then?” Yarrow asked.

  Arlow grinned still wider. “Don’t you worry about my gift, Yarrow. All in good time.”

  Yarrow rolled his eyes and he and Ko-Jin departed, heading towards their cabin.

  “I bet he’s gotten some terribly dull gift and is just trying to hide it,” Ko-Jin said

  “He just likes keeping us in suspense. We should really stop asking him about it.”

  Ko-Jin bumped headlong into Rinny as she exited her own small room, shared with several of the other girls.

  “Alright, give it back,” Ko-Jin said, holding out his hand.

  Rinny smiled innocently. “Give what back, mate?”

  “My watch.”

  Rinny laughed and handed it over. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

  She began to walk away and Ko-Jin called out to her, “Hey, Rinny.”

  He flourished an object Yarrow didn’t recognize and lobbed it to her. She caught it and laughed.

  “Out-thieving the thief! You rascal, Sung Ko-Jin.”

  Yarrow shook his head in bemusement. Ko-Jin beamed and led the way into their bunk, where they drilled the pronunciation of Chaskuan vowels until they heard the boat dock.

  “Ready?” Ko-Jin asked.

  Yarrow took a fortifying gulp of air and mounted the stair, off to see the country that would now be his home.

  Chapter Nine

  “I’m leaving come morning, Bray,” Peer said.

  “We are leaving come morning,” Bray corrected.

  He quirked his eyebrow skeptically—an expression she was growing used to.

  The cicadas droned soporifically in the moonlit gardens. Somewhere, an owl hooted.

  Bray clenched her fists. “I’ve nearly gotten it, I swear.”

  “I’m knowing you have, but it’s three in the morning.” He rubbed a bleary eye. “The next ship’ll be leaving in a few weeks.”

  “I am not staying in this place for weeks, alone, Peer. Go to sleep if you want. I’ll continue on alone.”

  Peer rolled his shoulders. “It’s not that—I’m not even tired. I’ll stay with you till it’s boarding time. Just don’t want you being hard on yourself.”

  Bray set her jaw and crossed her arms.

  “Alright, let’s go again. Close your eyes.”

  Bray shut her eyes and pictured the mirror version of herself, her Mearra. It came to life with alacrity. This, Bray had mastered days ago.

  “Now, reach on out and—”

  Bray reached, endeavoring confidence. This was her stumbling block—upon physical touch, her Mearra would usually poof into nothingness. Even though her phantom was not truly there, Bray needed to feel her. You cannot fight a thing you cannot touch.

  Bray’s fingers extended and grazed her Mearra’s shoulder, felt the smooth glossy leather.

  “Got her?” Peer asked.

  “Yes,” Bray said, her eyes still closed.

  “Good. Now, push on into the mind of your Mearra and look at yourself.”

  This, Bray had only managed for an instant on one occasion. She must be able to think for both halves of herself, which meant she needed to be in both heads. This was no easy feat.

  Bray focused so intently she suspected she’d give herself a nosebleed. A bird twittered in the tree above her. When she opened her eyes, she could see that bird, perched on a branch above her own, original head. She was actually looking at herself—her real self—through the eyes of her own projection. It was such a strange experience that she nearly lost it, but she grabbed hold and did not let go. Through her own real eyes, she could still see her Mearra, could see Peer sitting on the ground looking at her encouragingly. It was exactly like being in two places at once.

  “Now, attack,” Peer said.

  Bray—the original Bray—swung. But her Mearra saw this coming and dodged easily. Bray made her Mearra take advantage of her own lack of balance and struck out with a kick. Her original body, only just in time, rolled onto the ground, out of danger. She got up onto her feet and parried two more blows. Her Mearra left a gap in her defenses, and Bray struck out and delivered a sharp blow to the stomach.

  Bray felt the pulse in her neck quicken, her mind sharp and vigorous, honed to slice. She sensed a kind of parting in reality, like a crack in the world. Mentally, she thrust herself into the opening.

  Abruptly, Bray no longer fought in that dark garden. She was in an entirely different place, bright and dry. She stood at the center of a round clearing, natural rock rising all around her, forming many monstrous steps. The circle of grass was interrupted only by a single, familiar-looking tree.

  Bray laughed—she had done it! She was in the Aeght a Seve and yet she was still completely aware, not only of her own body back in reality, but the body of her Mearra as well, still fighting fiercely.

  Bray tilted her face up towards the sun, its warmth kissing her cheeks. That heat ran straight through her, from the tip of her head down to her toes. And she knew, knew without any real evidence, that she had been gifted. Gifted with the thing that she had always desired. Exploring the Aeght a Seve would have to wait—she was too desperate to show Peer her gift.

  Bray focused on the part of her mind that still fought, and slowly the warmth receded and she found herself back in the darkness of the garden. She allowed her Mearra to pop into nonexistence and turned to Peer, beaming.

  “You’ve done it?” Peer asked, rising to his feet.

  “I have,” Bray said, smiling so wide her cheeks ached.

  “Bray!” Peer exclaimed and came to embrace her. She patted his broad back, grinning into the leather of his jerkin.

  “Well?” he asked, as she pulled away. “What did you get?”

  She smiled mischievously. “I’ll show you. Hit me.”

  Peer looked nonplussed. “What?”

  “Hit me.” She readied her stance and pointed at her chin. “Right here.”

  “Come on Bray, I’m not going to hit you. Just tell me what it is.”

  She shoved him in the chest. “Hit me!”

  “Bray…”

  “Peer, for the love of Benteen, you won’t do any damage. Just take a swing.”

  Peer sighed, defeated, and punched at Bray’s face with an obvious lack of force. Only his fist did not make contact with her cheek. Rather, it floated straight through her.

  His sandy eyebrows contracted. “You’re a ghost?”

  Bray snorted. “Don’t be daft. Ghosts are dead. I’m just…untouchable.”

  Peer frowned and crossed his arms. “And all I got was some lousy literacy.”

  “Don’t worry, friend. I’ll share.”

  She took Peer’s hand and phased them both into nothingness. Her flesh thrummed and rippled, the sensation strange but not unpleasant. Peer’s hand clamped harder onto her own. Bray pulled him along, towards the wall to the Chiona meeting hall. She charged at it, and Peer matched her stride. He flinched slightly—she did as well—as the stony surface should have struck them. But it did not. They passed through the wall unscathed and appeared on the other side.

  Peer released her hand. “That…” he said, running fingers along the solidness of the stones, “was the strangest thing I’ve ever felt.”

  Bray yawned dramatically. “Well—it looks like you won’t be leaving without me after all. Want to get some sleep?”

  “Nah,” Peer said. “Not much
point. We can sleep on the boat.”

  “So, what do you want to—”

  “We can pass through walls.” Peer beamed down at her. “I’m thinking we can find some mischief.”

  The Cosanta welcoming feast had been raging for hours. Though the evening air outside was chill, the hall sweltered. There were hundreds of people, ranging in age from those of a year with Yarrow to those shriveled with age. The accents and skin tones varied as widely as the topics of conversation. The din grew steadily louder as the Cosanta worked their way through cask after cask of fine Adourran wine. Yarrow’s head pounded. He needed to escape.

  He searched for his friends. He spotted Ko-Jin in conversation with a pretty Chaskuan girl in their own tongue. She laughed loudly at regular intervals and found every possible excuse to touch him—straightening his collar, patting his hand. She wasn’t the only young woman looking at Ko-Jin with desirous eyes.

  Arlow, too, was deep in conversation. He spoke with a middle-aged Dalishman who had a tight, chestnut mustache and a drawling accent much like Arlow’s. They seemed to be discussing politics; something about which Yarrow knew little and cared for none.

  Yarrow shouldered his way through the crowd, cursing the lack of space. When he’d entered the hall that morning he’d thought it absolutely cavernous. Arlow had assured him that it rivaled the Great Hall of the King in Accord. The detail and artwork of the room had awed him. Every single inch of wall, ceiling, and pillar space was covered in tight, colorful designs.

  After many long minutes of apologizing and elbowing in equal measure, Yarrow found his way through the great doors. He meandered onto the grounds, where the air brushed deliciously cold against his flushed cheeks.

  The Cosanta Temple comprised a vast collection of breathtaking buildings and gardens, all highly influenced by Chaskuan design. The corners of the roofs overhung dramatically and curved, pointing up towards the sky. The underside of each and every such structure was as intricately designed as the walls in the great hall.

  Yarrow wandered between building after stunning building, puffing clouds of vapor with each exhale. He walked past a thin-branched tree still bearing several plump orange fruits—he would have to ask Ko-Jin what they were called—and up to a large open pavilion.