Division of the Marked (The Marked Series)

by March McCarron

  She sat down and set to eating her lunch again. He did likewise. She looked over her shoulder to where Arlow sat, alone, by the carriage. He stared at Yarrow and herself, shoulders hunched beneath his fine coat.

  “I may have overreacted,” Bray confessed.

  “I think he feels badly about it,” Yarrow said. “I bet he’s not as bad as he seems.”

  Not feeling quite merciful enough to agree with this, she continued to eat quietly.

  “It must be a hardship for him. Going from wealth and superiority to being thrust into our sorry company.”

  “I prefer your sorry company,” Bray said without thinking, then colored.

  “And I yours,” he agreed, “but I think we ought to try and make him feel included.”

  Bray feigned vomiting in the grass.

  Yarrow laughed, but went on seriously, “It would be charitable, you know.”

  “Right,” her tone grew sulky. “Because the more-fortunate are so in need of charity.”

  But as she chewed, she decided he was probably right. She wouldn’t be friendly, but she would refrain from calling him a prat again. Unless he really really deserved it.

  When they returned, Arlow had already re-ascended the carriage. He sat, bent over the thick book he had brought with him, and did not acknowledge Bray or Yarrow as they joined him.

  Mr. Paggle gave the command, and the four great horses charged forward once again. A long silence extended between the three of them, during which Yarrow and Bray exchanged many significant glances to determine who would extend the hand of friendship. Bray gave her head a minute shake to say that she would undertake no such thing.

  “What is that you’re reading?” Yarrow finally asked, his tone carefully light.

  Arlow looked up, his black eyes assessing. “Maglone’s History of the Chisanta.”

  “Really?” Yarrow asked, now sounding genuinely curious. “Could you read it aloud? I confess, I know very little.”

  Arlow’s expression reverted back to its former confident charm. “I, of course, am rather well informed, as my uncle is at court. I’ve met several Chisanta. But I wanted to know the finer points, so I had my father track this down.” He hefted the tome.

  Bray was torn between keen interest and dislike. As ever, interest won out. “What were they like?”

  Arlow smiled gloatingly at her, as if she had somehow played into his hands. “Well, there are two different kinds, I’m sure you know. The Chiona keep their hair shorn close to their heads—even the women—and they wear leather jerkins, of all things. They seem…” he struggled to find the word, “dangerous? Well, that’s not quite it. But you’ll understand when you see them. The Cosanta all wear their hair in a long braid down their back, and they wear these long robes. They’re a rather solemn group.”

  “Which kind are we?” Yarrow asked for the second time.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out at the Temple,” Arlow said, his tone patient. “No one knows which they are until they go through the testing. There are always fifty new Chisanta marked each Da Un Marcu, all fourteen years old. Twenty-five will be Chiona and twenty-five will be Cosanta. Once the testing is complete, the Cosanta go west, to their sanctuary in Chasku, and the Chiona south to their Isle.”

  Bray and Yarrow exchanged awed looks. No matter which kind of Chisanta they were, their home would no longer be in Daland. How foreign and strange it would be, to leave their native kingdom.

  “How are we tested?” Bray asked. “What is the real difference between the two?”

  “That is what I was hoping to discover in this,” Arlow gestured to the tome in his lap, “but it’s rather dense. This is the best I’ve found…” He flipped through several pages until he located the sought-for passage, then began to read: “‘The earliest written accounts of the Chisanta make no reference to either faction, leading many historians to conclude that they were at one time a homogenous entity. There remains no record of this portentous division, nor of the motivations which spurred it. However, the pervading supposition amongst modern scholars is that the stimulus must have been philosophical in nature, as the core distinction between the two cultures can easily be traced to their divergent doctrine on the merits of opposing versus yielding, in combat as well as in mental meditation. These distinctions amplified in the first century through the Chiona’s relationship with the ancient Blacksmith warriors of the Isles and the Cosanta’s cohabitation with the Water Dancer tribe of south Chasku. These influences are still visible in the garb of the Chisanta, as well as in their respective cultural practices.’”

  “What does that mean?” Yarrow asked, looking glassy-eyed. Bray was glad he had spoken, as she was too proud to confess her own lack of comprehension.

  Arlow shrugged. “I can’t make much of it myself. The major difference is their opinion on ‘opposing versus yielding,’ whatever that means.”

  “What could be the advantage of yielding in a fight?” Bray wondered aloud.

  “I suppose you could make the other guy fall down,” Yarrow said. His gaze was distant, as if fights were playing out in his head.

  “What does it say about the abilities?” Bray asked.

  Arlow winked at her. “That was the first thing I wanted to know as well.” He thumbed through the book again, before finding the desired page and reading: “‘The symbol of the Chisanta is derived from the five circles of gift. The first, innermost circle, represents the gift which is given freely. The latter four circles offer gifts determined by need, but each of these are only acquired with a sacrifice. Both gain and loss are cumulative. The four sacrifices of the Chisanta are propagation, contact, identity, and mind. Only one who has attained a full and true understanding of the loss may seek to move to the next circle. As a result of this condition, and the greatness of the sacrifices required, very few Chisanta move beyond the inner circle.’”

  “Determined by need…” Yarrow said, his brow creased.

  “What does that mean?” Bray asked. “If I’m tossed off a cliff, do I sprout wings?”

  Arlow shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Could I see that?” Yarrow asked, looking at the book as if it were some kind of ancient treasure.

  “Of course, mate,” Arlow said, handing the tome over. Bray nearly snorted at his pandering use of the word ‘mate,’ but managed to keep her derision to herself.

  Yarrow took the book in gentle hands. He ran his fingertips along the leather binding, turned each page with the utmost care, his eyes flying left and right as he skimmed.

  Arlow watched him with amusement. “You know, the Chisanta have the greatest libraries in the world.”

  “Truly?” Yarrow asked. “I can’t wait to see that…”

  The three of them speculated happily about the amazing abilities they would develop, as the afternoon sky gave way to evening unnoticed.

  “Then what happened?” Yarrow asked.

  “He pulled it out of his mouth and held it up.” Arlow made a dramatic show of surprise and disgust, then boomed in a deep, accented voice, “‘By the Spirits above, what’s this then?’”

  Bray laughed so hard tears formed in the corners of her eyes and she held her stomach, her cheeks sore with smiling.

  Yarrow, when his own laughter had subsided, said, “I hope you didn’t get your cook fired.”

  “Nah,” Arlow said. “My father knew it was me. It was always me. But I didn’t even get to the best part. Then my mother says, with a completely straight face, ‘Didn’t you know that feathers are used for flavoring in Adourra?’”

  “Your mother sounds hilarious,” Bray said, laughing anew and wiping her cheeks.

  The horses without whinnied.

  “Are we slowing?” Arlow asked.

  Bray squinted out the window and discerned a rough-looking farmhouse in the limited light.

  Yarrow leaned across her to ascertain their location as well. “Must be our fourth.”

  “I hope this means w
e aren’t far from the inn. I’m starved,” Bray said.

  The carriage came to a jostling halt. They could hear the distant murmur of Mr. Paggle’s voice and the thunk of an additional trunk joining the others on the roof.

  “His parents sure are old,” Arlow said.

  Bray agreed—the couple had distinctly graying hair and heavily lined faces. She thought them rather severe in appearance. They parted from their son with cool disinterest and turned their backs before he had even stepped into the carriage.

  The door creaked open and the large shape of their final companion filled the frame. Arlow slid over, allowing the newcomer to sit beside him. This new boy was so large, Bray struggled to believe he was only fourteen years old. He had sandy hair, blue eyes, a wide angular jaw, and broad shoulders.

  He smiled tentatively at them and extended his hand to Arlow. “Peer Gelson.”

  They each gave their own names. Peer Gelson grinned with the air of a boy who felt uncomfortable, but was determined not to show it. He kept rubbing the mark on his neck, as if verifying its continued presence.

  “So, tell us about yourself,” Arlow said. Peer looked alarmed.

  “Oh, come off it, Arlow,” Bray said, and turned to Peer. “Don’t mind him. He’s just—”

  “An arrogant little prat?” Arlow supplied and winked at her.

  She smiled. “More or less.”

  “You’re a farmer?” Yarrow asked.

  The carriage picked up speed once again and Peer’s eyes flitted to the window. He nodded. “Aye, so they keep telling me.” He ran his index finger along a ridge of callus on his right palm.

  “Your parents didn’t look too happy,” Bray said.

  Peer let out a short, bitter laugh. “No, they were none too pleased with me. Thought I should stay on till after the harvesting.”

  “But you couldn’t,” Yarrow said.

  “That’s what I said. It would seem I suffer from a lack of gratitude, or so I’ve been hearing these past few days.” Peer shrugged and assumed a look of indifference.

  “There isn’t a town nearby, is there?” Arlow asked, looking out at the uninterrupted darkness.

  “Nah, there’s nothing round these parts, excepting a few other farms.”

  Bray’s stomach rumbled. “How far are we from Platstone?”

  “Oh, ’bout three quarters an hour,” Peer said.

  Bray attempted to stretch the pain out of her lower back and rotated her shoulders in slow circles. The time could not pass quickly enough for her.

  “Excellent,” Bray said, sometime later, when she heard voices through the window and felt the carriage come to a stop.

  Peer’s brow furrowed. “We can’t be there yet.”

  He was right. If they had entered a town there would be lights, but Bray could discern no break in the darkness beyond the window. She hushed Yarrow and Arlow, putting a finger to her lips and jerking her head toward the window. The tone of the voices served as warning enough—Mr. Paggle argued and several strange men spoke in clipped, commanding barks. She heard a soft thunk, and Mr. Paggle’s voice disappeared. Bray grabbed hold of Yarrow’s hand.

  He leaned in close and whispered, “Highwaymen?”

  Bray gave one sharp nod. What else could they be?

  The carriage door swung open and a strange man leaned in, his rough stubbled face illuminated by a lantern in his left hand. He held a cocked flintlock pistol in his right. It gleamed menacingly in the orange light. On the man’s neck, Bray spotted a familiar tattoo—a clenched fist encircled by a crown. Pauper’s King men.

  “It’s just some kids,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Well, bring ’em out.”

  Bray’s pulse tapped a steady beat at the base of her neck. The hand Yarrow clutched grew clammy. She could not have said if it was her own sweat or his.

  The man gestured with the pistol and she flinched. “Come on out now.”

  She began to slide toward the door, but Peer stopped her with a hand on her knee and descended first.

  The carriage was stopped on an empty stretch of road, no signs of habitation near at hand. The wind blew and Bray crossed her arms for warmth. She could discern the shapes of five men, two on horseback. She scanned the gathering, seeking Mr. Paggle. Surely he carried a pistol. Her heart plummeted when she spied the shadow of his crumpled form on the ground.

  “Get the trunks down.”

  The stubble-faced man tucked his pistol into a holster. He climbed up the side of the carriage, removed the straps, and began carelessly throwing luggage to the ground.

  “We’ll be lightening your load here, in the name of the Pauper’s King and the poor of Trinitas,” one of the men on horseback announced.

  Two more men materialized in the lantern light. They knelt, sifting through their trunks. One was slight with a long ponytail, the other bald and massive.

  “They’re taking our things,” Arlow whispered to Bray, his eyes wide with horror. Of the six trunks, four of them were his. Bray watched as Peer and Yarrow’s trunks were rooted through and rejected. They held nothing other than threadbare clothes and worthless knick-knacks. When they reached Arlow’s trunks, however, it was as if their collective birthdays had come early.

  A long, appreciative whistle sounded. “Would ya look at this, Cline?” the stubble-faced man said, holding up a box containing a wide collection of cufflinks. “These’ll sell for a fortune.”

  The bald man snorted and held up a dinner jacket. “We got ourselves a right dandy, here.” He tossed it into the dirt, where a pile of plunder was forming.

  “That’s velvet, you cretin—” Arlow cut off as Yarrow elbowed him in the ribs.

  The bald man, Cline, left the remaining trunks to his companions and approached Arlow. Bray held her breath, wondering what a highwayman would do to a person who called him a ‘cretin.’

  “Hand over jewelry, watches, anything you got of value. Turn out your pockets,” he said. Even from a distance, Bray could smell the rankness of his breath. Arlow leaned back, his expression appalled.

  “Or do I have to hold ya by the feet and shake ya empty?”

  Arlow blanched and turned out his pockets. He handed over a watch, a ring, all the money in his wallet, and the last pair of cufflinks to complete the set. Cline tucked these in his pocket then slid down the line to Peer. Peer pulled his pockets inside out to show that he had nothing but a handkerchief. The highwayman proceeded to pat Peer down, rather invasively, to ascertain he was hiding nothing. Bray swallowed, her heart galloping into motion in her chest. He would not do the same to her, would he? She could not abide the idea of his hands on her.

  Yarrow, beside her, turned out his pockets as well. They held nothing other than a simple pocketknife and two handkerchiefs—one plain and dirty, the other feminine and lace-lined. Cline did not bother taking either, nor to pat Yarrow down—his clothes were in such a sad state he was probably deemed too poor to rob. Finally the big man slid over to Bray. He looked down at her and she stared up into his ugly face unflinchingly. His nose appeared to have been broken at some point in the past, and his eyes protruded bulbously from his face like a frog.

  She held up empty hands. “I don’t have anything.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “There weren’t any dresses in them trunks, were there?”

  “Nah.”

  Cline looked down at her and she raised her chin defiantly. “Where are your belongins, little girl?”

  “I told you,” she said. “I don’t have anything.” Her mouth had grown uncomfortably dry.

  “Is that so?” he asked and, with unexpected speed and deftness, he plucked the leather strap from beneath her bodice, revealing the two rings she kept by her heart. One was large and thick, the other small and delicate. Both were made of silver and carved with interlocking leaves.

  “Give it here,” he said.

  She clasped the rings in her fist and pressed them to her chest. “No.”

  His eyebrows drew down a
nd his hand came to rest on his pistol. “Now, girl, I ain’t askin. You give it, or I take it. Your choice.”

  The wind whipped Bray’s hair about her face and she felt a chill that had little to do with the weather. She clenched her hand tighter and felt the rings dig into her palm. “No.”

  “Just give it to him, Bray,” Arlow hissed.

  She shook her head, her knees trembling in fear.

  The man moved as if to grab her. She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for his touch, but it did not come. She opened her eyes again to find herself staring at Yarrow’s back. He had stepped before her protectively.

  Cline laughed and tried to push Yarrow out of the way, his eyes never moving from the bounty clutched in Bray’s hand. He didn’t notice Yarrow’s fist until it struck him squarely in the crooked nose.

  He stumbled back, eyes watering in pain. “Why you little…”

  The big man pulled back his fist, preparing to punch Yarrow in the gut. Before the blow could land, Peer leapt onto his back, his arms circling around the man’s neck.

  The highwayman bucked like a great beast trying to rid itself of a fly, but Peer held on, pulling all of his weight against the man’s windpipe. An errant elbow cracked Yarrow in the face and he hit the grass with a pained grunt.

  Before Cline’s companions had time to react, Bray darted forward and snagged his pistol from its holster. With two shaking hands, she pointed the weapon at the man’s head. Peer let go and scurried safely out of range.

  “Hey now girl,” he said, eyeing the weapon, “none of that. We got a lot more ’en one pistol.”

  Bray flexed her finger over the trigger. “Yes. And how many heads have you got?”

  Cline’s companions came forward. In a moment, four pistols were trained directly on her.

  “Let’s take a breath here, gentlemen,” Mr. Paggle’s groggy voice broke in. Bray’s head snapped to the sound in surprise. The driver had risen as far as his knees, his hand pressed to a bleeding head. “I don’t see any reason why we can’t all ride safely away from this unfortunate encounter.”

  “We will allow you to leave if you give us no more trouble,” one of the men on horseback said—the one who had named them Pauper’s King men. He was tall, with a bright red beard and smiling eyes.