Maturation of the Marked

by March McCarron

  The instructor, Nevrre, was quite possibly the largest person Ko-Jin had ever beheld—tall, broad-shouldered, and thick-necked. He had a dark complexion and hair shorn tight like a Chiona. Ko-Jin lingered a few paces back, giving them space to speak.

  “Still no trace of him?” the elder man asked.

  Nevrre shook his head and responded in an undertone. Ko-Jin wasn’t paying attention; his eyes skimmed the trainers and trainees, searching for one who might be Master Elver’s granddaughter. There weren’t many girls, and none seemed likely candidates.

  The master ended his conversation and motioned for Ko-Jin to follow him once again. They strode beyond the yard, leaving the din behind, and proceeded towards the quiet section on the east side, where the master himself lived.

  His home was simple and compact. Up close, Ko-Jin could see that it was not merely painted blue and yellow, but that the walls were covered in color-coordinated murals—sunflowers and ocean waves.

  Hervenne led the way around the house and through the vegetable gardens, up to a sizable pavilion at the crest of a hill.

  As they approached, Ko-Jin heard the chiming of a bell, followed closely by the whiz and thunk of a loosed arrow. He jogged up the steps behind Master Elver, then came to an abrupt halt.

  He found himself staring at the back of a young woman, wearing a simple brown dress and poised on bare feet. She had wide hips that tapered into a narrow waist, and an abundance of black curls that exploded unbound from her head. Ko-Jin wondered if her front would equal her back, but kept his face neutral, conscious of the girl’s grandfather at his side.

  She did not turn upon their approach, though the great beast of a dog at her feet did perk his chocolate ears and offer a lazy woof of greeting.

  A servant at the far end of the hall yanked on a rope, sending another bell jangling, just above a target. The woman turned to the sound, raised her Adourran short bow, drew with expert swiftness, and released. The arrow struck the dead center of the target, and the bell clanked half-heartedly at the impact.

  She spun round to face them then, and Ko-Jin’s lips parted in shock.

  She had a smooth, dark-complected face—comely enough, if unremarkable. What were remarkable were her eyes. They shone milky against her face; clouded, as if a gauzy white veil covered what should have been large, black irises.

  Blind.

  “Have you come to watch me shoot, Grandfather?” she asked, and her voice enchanted him. It hummed, rich and musical.

  “I’ve brought you a pupil.”

  Ko-Jin looked up at the old man, thinking that the word ‘pupil’ was in rather poor taste. He bowed to the woman, then realized she would not see the gesture. His feet shuffled beneath him.

  “A shifty one, it would seem,” she said.

  “One of his many faults,” Master Elver said, his eyes wrinkling at the corners.

  “Oh, Grandfather.” She laughed. “Don’t torment the poor boy.”

  He didn’t much like being called ‘boy,’ so he decided to offer his name: “Ko-Jin.”

  Her brow furrowed, and her head turned to the sound of his voice. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Chaskuan.”

  “It’s my name,” he said. “Sung Ko-Jin.”

  She grinned, either at his name or her misinterpretation of it, and the smile seemed somehow too big for her face. “Ah, sorry. I’m Zarra Elver.” The dog raised himself onto long, slim legs, standing so tall his head was even with his mistress’s elbow. Ko-Jin was not entirely convinced the dog was not, in fact, a miniature horse. Or half-horse, anyway. “And this is Artello,” she added, scratching the beast between the ears. His eyes drooped under her ministrations.

  “Artello?” Ko-Jin asked, impressed. “Like the Dalish general?”

  “Precisely.”

  The sword master clasped Ko-Jin on the shoulder. “I leave you in capable hands.” Then, to Zarra: “Don’t go easy on the lad. I promised Enton I’d return him better than he came.”

  Ko-Jin frowned at this, but the sword master was already retreating down the stairs.

  Zarra unstrung her bow, and Ko-Jin watched, rocking nervously on his feet. The servant relieved her of her archery supplies and then departed, leaving them alone. Ko-Jin wanted to say something, but his mind had gone mute, so instead he stood in awkward silence.

  Zarra glided to a crate at the corner of the pavilion. He watched her feel along the wood until her hand met the clasp. She extracted two wasters and extended them to Ko-Jin. He hurried forward, half tripping.

  “You’re awfully polite,” she said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  She retrieved a walking stick—a long, thin reed. He marveled at her ability to locate her belongings, to locate anything at all, without sight. “You’re obviously wondering how a blind girl is going to teach you, but you haven’t asked the question. Polite.”

  She used her switch to feel her way down the stairs, and he followed. “I assumed the answer would present itself.”

  She snorted. “You sound old for a new pupil. Are you Chisanta?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” he said. “How old are you?”

  She arched a brow in his direction. “Why, do I appear of insufficient age to you, Sung Ko-Jin?”

  “No, no,” he said. “I was just curious.”

  The corners of her lips pulled up, but she remained silent. The only sounds were the twittering of a nearby bird, the brush of her walking stick against the road, and Artello’s huffing breath.

  “Very well, I’ll guess,” he said with glinting eyes. “Fifty-three?”

  She pursed her lips.

  “No?” he asked, a laugh in his voice. “Higher or lower?”

  “I’m eighteen,” she finally said.

  “Ah.”

  They reached a wooden gate. Zarra’s reed tapped against the barrier, then her hand extended with confidence to the latch.

  Ko-Jin couldn’t imagine where she was leading him; they had, by then, roamed far from the compound. Before him stretched nothing but rolling hills.

  He glimpsed an antelope, its long neck and pronged horns agleam with sunlight. It darted away upon hearing their approach, retreating in graceful bounds. Artello’s eyes followed it, and he whined.

  “Almost there,” Zarra said to the dog.

  “Almost where?” Ko-Jin asked.

  “You’ll see,” she said. “So, tell me, Sung, what’s wrong with you?”

  “Sung is my family name. Call me Ko-Jin.”

  “Then why did you say it first?”

  “That’s how names work in Chask—”

  “I mean other than being Chaskuan, what’s wrong with you? You must have some kind of deformity or handicap. Not blind, obviously. Missing limb?”

  “I have all of my limbs, thank you very much.”

  She laughed. “Well, Grandfather would not have given you to me if you didn’t have some kind of malfunction. I am the mother goose of a sad, clipped-wing flock, after all.”

  Ko-Jin’s brows rose. “He takes in a lot of handicapped students?”

  “Oh, sure.” She turned down a narrow pass, and he followed. “Grandfather adores broken people.”

  Abruptly, the grass ended. In the valley between three great hills, there stretched a sea of rocks—small pebbles giving way to medium-sized stones yielding in turn to climbable boulders. At the center of the rocky expanse there stood a cluster of great stone slabs, which shone glossy black in the sunlight.

  Zarra strode confidently, despite her bare feet, into the mass of pebbles. She whipped her reed against her thigh and whistled, but Artello paced along the edge of the grass and whimpered.

  “Come on out, you great coward.”

  The horse-dog bayed indignantly, but remained without.

  Ko-Jin, rather braver than the doe-eyed canine, stepped out into the rocky reservoir. Instantly, he felt off-balance. He thrust his arms out, trying not to fall, as the deep pool
of pebbles shifted beneath his weight.

  “Where did it all come from?” he asked.

  Zarra, whose unshod feet somehow found effortless passage, turned back to him. “Don’t know. It’s always been here. Grandfather says the whole island is volcanic.”

  “Must be why the stones are so black.”

  She shrugged, apparently having no opinion on the color of the rocks.

  Zarra came to a halt, waiting for him to catch up. He was thankful she could not see how gracelessly he moved across the precarious mounds.

  She held out her hand. “My waster.”

  “You don’t mean to spar?” he asked, audibly startled. He had assumed her tutelage would be of a more…hands-off nature. How could he, in good conscience, fight an opponent who was not only unmarked and female, but blind as well?

  “My weapon, Sung,” she said, wiggling her fingers.

  He handed her the wooden blade, his feet sinking as he shifted his weight. She tossed her stick aside, then swung the waster in several deft circles.

  “It’s Ko-Jin,” he said.

  “You don’t like Sung?”

  “No.”

  She smiled with half her mouth. “You may strike first, Sung.”

  Ko-Jin ground his teeth. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  The other half of her mouth raised as well, into a sly, tight-lipped smile. Then, without warning, she whipped her blade with incredible speed, striking him hard in the side of the head. He collapsed—one moment he was on his feet and, seemingly the next, he was flat on his back, staring up at the white orb of the sun, with spots in his eyes and ringing in his ears.

  He felt gingerly at the wound and sucked in a pained breath. “Are you insane?”

  “No.” She came to his side, though her milky eyes did not lock onto him. “I am an excellent swordsman. Tomorrow we will try again. I suggest you manage your vanity, Sung, or this may continue to go poorly for you.”

  She reclaimed her reed and sauntered away, the pebbles crunching beneath her feet.

  Ko-Jin attempted to rise, but lay back down when his vision swam. He heard, distantly, Artello’s bark of salutation and Zarra answer, “Let’s go home, boy.”

  And then he was alone.

  Ko-Jin woke to a rough tongue lapping his face and the hot stench of dog breath.

  “Artello?” he asked groggily. “What are you—”

  “The morn is waning, Sung.”

  Ko-Jin jumped and jerked his bedsheet up. “Zarra, you can’t just come in here! I’m not even dressed!”

  She sniggered. “I’ll try not to ogle you then, shall I?”

  He sat forward, and his head wound protested. He groaned and probed gingerly at the bruise.

  “Aren’t you a sharp one in the morning.”

  Ko-Jin pulled trousers on and grumbled, “Yes, one might think I’d suffered a blow to the head.”

  She laughed outright at that. “What, that little tap? I thought you Chisanta were meant to be tough.”

  He glowered as he yanked on his robes and shoes. He glanced to the top bunks, where both Colson and Tev were still asleep, apparently undisturbed by their unwelcome visitor. Lucky.

  Zarra steered them to a vacant training yard, the great brown dog trailing at her heels with a lolling tongue. Despite the earliness of the hour, the day was already warm.

  “We’re not fighting on rocks today?”

  “You’re clearly not ready for that. You were like Artello trying to stay upright in a moving carriage.”

  Artello woofed and Ko-Jin offered him a commiserative expression.

  The grounds were wholly still and quiet, with the sun only just cresting the distant hills.

  Morn is waning, my ass!

  Ko-Jin ambled sleepily to the communal supply crate, extracted two rather worn-looking wasters, then placed one in his teacher’s outstretched hand.

  Zarra cast aside her walking stick and whipped the wooden sword a few times. “I trust you’re feeling less concerned about my welfare today?”

  Ko-Jin grunted agreement. Between the throbbing around his left temple and the nature and time of his wake-up visit, he was downright eager to give the girl a few bruises, blind or no.

  “We—and by we, of course, I mean you—will be training in a rotation. First, twenty minutes of drilling forms; then, twenty minutes of strength and cardiovascular training; and finally, a bout of sparring. You will have a five-minute rest and then begin again. Until lunch. After lunch we’ll focus more on details and precision.” She smiled wickedly. “Understand?”

  Clearly she expected some sort of negative reaction—grumbling, or perhaps an outright challenge. She grinned, cat-like. He resolved to be the perfect, compliant pupil, if only to spoil her fun.

  “Sounds invigorating.”

  She smirked, her pearly eyes gleaming. “Glad to hear it, Sung.” She dipped her hand into the pocket of her gray skirt and produced a strange, small clock. Her fingertips flitted across the outer edge, and then she turned a dial. The little machine produced a ticking sound, quiet yet somehow insistent.

  “Guard flow drill for ten. You know it, yes?”

  Ko-Jin sighed—it was the same drill Master Elver had inflicted on him the previous morning. “I know it.”

  “Then begin. Start slow; this is your warm-up.”

  Ko-Jin had not quite completed the first movement, the bamboo blade thrust forward, his hips turning to the right, before she began clicking her tongue. She had her head tilted to one side, her unseeing gaze pointed upward.

  “Your footwork’s a mess,” she said. “You’re completely off-balance.” She said this not as a cutting remark, but as a genuine criticism. He felt the heat of blood rushing to his face.

  “Leave off the blade for now. Match my steps.” She hoisted her skirt to mid-shin, baring a pair of high-arched, unshod feet.

  Zarra advanced, one foot pointing forward, the other angled away, her weight sinking into her knees while her back remained straight. She made it look simple.

  He moved with her—forward and back, forward and back.

  “You’re leaning your weight to one side. Center yourself.”

  He wondered how she could tell. Could she hear so much in the mere sound of his footfall?

  He tried to stand perfectly upright, though it felt awkward. They continued in that way for what seemed a long time—moving in harmony, surrounded by the silence of morning save for the ceaseless ticking of the timer.

  Eventually their feet began landing in tandem, without delay or misstep. Ko-Jin grew uncommonly relaxed, as his body settled into an unconscious rhythm, like a tide pulling in and out along a smooth shore. He seemed taller suddenly, as if his back had extended and straightened, just as it had on an unforgettable day years ago.

  Zarra smiled slightly, nodding her head in approval. “Better.”

  It was almost as if they were dancing. He wondered if she felt it too; this steady, pulse-like tranquility.

  And then the small clock gave a loud, metallic ding, and its gears silenced. Ko-Jin shook himself out of his daze.

  Zarra turned the dial on the clock once again. “Push-ups, lunges, then squats. I’ll tell you when to switch. Begin.”

  And that was the end of tranquility.

  Several excruciating hours later, Ko-Jin found himself half-way through a push-up he was not certain he could complete. His entire body quavered, the pain in his muscles like streaks of lightning.

  He was pushing up, but his arms merely trembled and his torso refused to rise.

  “Did I say stop? Keep going, Sung!”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, ill to the core and positively streaming sweat. Then he opened them and stared hard at the ground, at the dry patch of grass being watered by thick drips of his own perspiration. He gritted his teeth, and with every ounce of will and strength he had remaining, he forced himself upward, his body a line from shoulder to heels.

  The instant the ding sounded, his cheek pounded to the sod.

>   “You’re getting sloppy,” Zarra said.

  He rolled his face to her—an act that necessitated a surprising amount of energy. He meant to say something pithy, but all that escaped his mouth was a kind of strangled, indignant grunt.

  She smiled—that same deceptively pleasant, too-big smile.

  Plainly, she was an incarnation of the Spiritblighter. Or a vengeful spirit of ill-will. Some kind of evil. He was a man in possession of unnatural might and stamina, and yet she had reduced him to a puddle. Do puddles feel pain?

  “Alright, rest is over. Sparring.”

  He closed his eyes and willed the words away. Surely, surely, she could not expect more of him that day.

  She nudged him with her foot. “Up.”

  He tried to push up with his hands, but found there was no power left in his arms. He shifted his weight back, rising up to his knees, and stood slowly, one leg at a time.

  Zarra offered his waster to him, and he reached for it instinctively. However, he could barely raise the thing, despite its being made of mere wood. The tip kept dipping to the ground. He thought perhaps his vision was shaking, until he realized it was only his hand trembling.

  “Begin,” Zarra said. They bowed to each other.

  She prowled before him on light feet, her weapon a natural extension of her lithe form. Ko-Jin’s feet were too heavy to lift—he was having enough trouble keeping the blade up.

  She struck, and though he saw the blow coming he could not move away. The dull whack was painless compared to the excruciating ache in his muscles.

  “Your attack,” she said.

  He just wanted it to be over—he wanted to be home. He stumbled and tried to swing, but the point of his waster hit the grass, followed promptly by his knees.

  “Rise,” she said, dispassionately.

  He goggled up at her. He was overcome with the childish desire to cry, to fall apart like a toddler.

  “What,” he demanded, his voice acid, “exactly are you trying to teach me?”

  “You can’t go on?” she asked.

  “I…” his voice was high, hysterical. “I can’t even lift my hands!”

  She pointed the blunt tip of her practice blade to his throat. “What I have taught you,” she said, almost kindly, “is your limit. This is it—this is your utmost, the extent your body can handle. You have to know where it is if you wish to push it. You should know how much you can take.”