Division of the Marked (The Marked Series)

by March McCarron

  “Not without them rings, we ain’t,” Cline said, his voice thick and muffled.

  “How do we know you won’t shoot?” Mr. Paggle asked.

  “I give you my word.”

  Mr. Paggle snorted. “The word of a highwayman?”

  “I prefer to think of myself as an acquirer of charitable donations. Regardless, I am a man of honor. I say I will not harm you if you allow my companion,” he said the word with distaste, “to keep his head. And I mean what I say. It is your choice to trust me or not.”

  He smiled at Bray in an almost fatherly way, as if he found her pistol-wielding quip endearing. She wanted to trust him. She lowered the pistol, marginally.

  Cline pointed at Bray with a fat finger. “I said, not without them rings we—”

  “Cline,” the leader interjected, “if you are incapable of besting a little girl, you do not deserve them.”

  The large highwayman looked mutinously up at his companion, but had the good sense to remain silent.

  “Any chance he doesn’t deserve my watch either?” Arlow asked.

  The leader’s eyes swiveled onto him, and Arlow shrank into himself at their obvious dislike. “You should learn to hold your tongue, nobleson.” The man turned back to his companions. “Gather what’s worth taking and let’s be off.” He heeled his horse and disappeared into the darkness.

  Mr. Paggle put a hand on Bray’s shoulder. He’d retrieved his own firearm, but his expression was still befuddled. “You keep that pistol up until the rest are in the carriage.”

  Bray nodded. The highwaymen had ceased paying her any notice. They loaded Arlow’s valuables into several great sacks, save for Cline, who glowered at her as he used a filthy handkerchief to wipe the blood from his nose. The veins stood out in his thick neck, rippling the fist and crown tattoo upon it. She listened to her three friends climb into the carriage before she backed slowly towards the door herself.

  “Give it here,” Peer said. He leaned halfway out the carriage window. Bray placed the pistol into his hand, darted up the stair, and shut the door behind her. Mr. Paggle spurred the horses into a tremendous gallop, leaving the highwaymen—as well as all of their trunks and clothes—behind.

  The Platstone Inn buzzed with conversation, every table full and many patrons of the bar standing. The yellow light of the lanterns soaked the entire scene in honey.

  The four marked children and their driver entered the room like the fortunate survivors of some harrowing tragedy.

  “Oh, Mistress Ellson,” Mr. Paggle called to the owner as soon as he had entered the room. “You will simply never believe the ordeal we’ve just been through.”

  Mistress Ellson, a handsome middle-aged woman with a warm smile, listened to the tale with all of the animation and horror one could wish for. Though, in Mr. Paggle’s version of the story, he played a far greater role in the besting of the highwaymen than Bray thought fair.

  “You poor dears!” Mistress Ellson said. “You must have been so afraid. Come, come. I’ve got a private dining room reserved for you and a hot dinner all ready. And you’ll have to let me take a look at that head wound, Mr. Paggle.”

  Bray followed Mistress Ellson’s swaying hips through the crowded common room and into their private dining area. Her hands still shook from their encounter, but a strange giddiness began to wash over her. She wanted to laugh, but suspected this might be an inappropriate reaction. She turned to Yarrow beside her, and experienced a pang of guilt at the sight of his split lip.

  “You,” she said to him, throwing her arms around his neck, “are wonderful.”

  He circled his arms around her waist and pulled her in, laughing. “I promised you, didn’t I?”

  Bray pulled back to give him a look of confusion.

  “I promised, if anyone was rude to you, I’d punch them in the nose.” He smiled so widely that blood began to leak afresh from his wound. She beamed and patted his shoulder.

  “And you,” Bray said to Peer, pulling him into a hug as well, “are also wonderful.”

  Peer stiffened in surprise at the embrace—they had only just met, after all—but relaxed after a moment and patted her back. “It was my pleasure.”

  “Where’s my hug?” Arlow asked, fists on hips.

  Bray laughed. “What did you do?”

  “I…” he gestured into the air, as if summoning some once-known piece of information, and coming up empty.

  “Made a very generous donation to the poor?” Yarrow supplied, clasping him on the shoulder.

  Arlow made a disgruntled noise and threw himself into his chair. “Some highwayman’s spawn is going to be very well-dressed.”

  Mr. Paggle entered with a pitcher of foaming ale and a stack of glasses. “I thought we could use a draught,” he said, sitting beside Arlow.

  Bray remembered too well how ill she had felt that morning, but she took the proffered glass for the sake of politeness.

  Mr. Paggle lifted his own ale in the air. “What shall we toast to?”

  “Yarrow’s right hook?” Peer said.

  “Bray’s unladylike nerve?” Arlow suggested.

  “To new friends,” Yarrow said.

  “New friends,” they agreed. Their glasses clinked merrily.

  Bray ate until her stomach protested, full to bursting. The four of them talked for hours, recounting their adventure and laughing at their daring, while Mr. Paggle unabashedly flirted with the Platstone’s owner. Bray marveled at how comfortable these near strangers made her feel. She’d not been this at home since her father passed away.

  Almost as if reading her thoughts, Yarrow leaned in and took the two rings that were still resting on the outside of her bodice. He ran a finger along the engraving of the thicker ring. “Are these all you have of theirs?”

  Bray bit her lip and bobbed her head.

  He took her hand and placed it around the rings, then clasped her fingers in a fist beneath his own.

  Bray swallowed. “Thank you so much, Yarrow.” A tear of gratitude ran down her cheek and she batted it away with embarrassment.

  Mr. Paggle cleared his throat, silencing them in an instant. “I’ll get you to the Temple by midday on the morrow, and you’ll not want to be tired on your first day. So off to bed with you.”

  Half an hour later, Bray found herself alone in a private room, laying wide awake on the single bed. Sleep eluded her, and she could plainly hear the boys talking through the wall. She wondered if they knew how clearly their voices carried.

  “Got his own room?” Arlow’s drawling tone resounded. “More likely he’s bunking with the landlady.”

  Bray clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Did you want to see the book, Peer?” Yarrow asked.

  “Uh…no, not right now.”

  Several moments passed quietly.

  “Hey! Someone’s left a deck of cards,” Peer said.

  Bray frowned at the ceiling. If they were going to play cards she would just go over there and play with them. So what if she was a girl?

  “I don’t gamble anymore,” Arlow said. “I never win.”

  Bray heard the sound of cards being shuffled. She debated whether to get up or not.

  “Rich boy who’s lousy at cards?” Peer said. “My favorite kind.”

  “I didn’t say I was lousy at cards. I’m excellent at cards. I’d win every time, if I ever had a good hand.”

  Peer snorted.

  “We none of us have anything to gamble anyway,” Yarrow said.

  “True enough,” Arlow said. “And I’m not about to sit around playing some kids’ game like Go Fish. So chuck the cards, Peer.”

  “You think Bray’s sleeping?” Yarrow asked.

  Her heart thudded louder at hearing him say her name.

  “What are you, her boyfriend?” Arlow said. Bedsprings creaked and a scuffle sounded. Bray sat up, staring at the whitewashed wall, as if hoping a window would appear, her cheeks hot.

  “Alright, alright, I t
ake it back!” Arlow’s muffled voice called.

  More bedsprings squealed and footsteps thumped against the hardwood floor.

  “I just meant,” Yarrow said, out of breath, “that if she was sleeping, you should shut it or you’ll wake her.”

  Peer sniggered, but the boys descended into quiet.

  Bray collapsed back onto the bed, pushing her burning face into the cool material of her pillow. She lay for some time, vacillating between embarrassment and elation, and could not have said when exactly she slipped into sleep.

  True to Mr. Paggle’s word, they arrived an hour before midday. Yarrow watched through the window as their destination drew closer. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. The Temple was comprised of many domed, circular buildings—one massive rounded structure surrounded by a cluster of smaller, but identically shaped, satellites—built from gleaming rose-colored stones that reflected the sunlight and created a distinctly ethereal impression upon Yarrow’s imagination. The lower levels were surrounded by pillars, the upper by intricately carved window openings. Each rounded roof was topped with a second, smaller dome and a pointed spire. Just beyond, he could discern the massive, glittering field of water reaching out to the horizon. The sea.

  “I’ve not ever seen an ocean before…” Peer murmured, looking as stunned as Yarrow felt.

  “Nor I,” he said.

  Arlow leaned forward to claim a better view. “What strange architecture.”

  It was, Yarrow had to agree. He was so accustomed to the tall, pointed structures of his hometown—and every town they had passed in the preceding two and half days—that the squat, wide-flung, rounded look of the Temple engendered a distinct flavor of foreignness.

  The carriage pulled up to the entrance, an ancient arch covered in strange symbols. Almost instantly, stable hands came forward to take the horses and servants appeared to unload their trunks, had there still been any. Yarrow stepped down from the carriage and took a deep breath, tasting, for the first time, the tang of sea salt. Gulls cawed in the distance, their haunting, echoing chant the only intrusion upon an otherwise perfectly awed silence. The driveway was made up of thousands of timeworn, multicolored stones forming an elaborate swirling pattern, compromised only by the occasional rough shoots of dune grass asserting themselves through cracked mortar.

  “Come along, now,” Mr. Paggle said, as he set a brisk pace through the arch and into the wide doorway of the great central dome. As they walked, Bray’s hand found Yarrow’s, and her touch was warm and familiar, like a piece of home. It calmed him.

  The interior of the building, because of the high curved ceiling, felt cavernous and open. The regularly spaced windows along the curve of the dome cast bright rectangles of sunlight on the marble floor. Just within the door, they were greeted by a dark-haired, middle-aged woman sitting at the marble front desk.

  “Names?” she asked.

  “Arlow Bowlerham, Peer Gelson…” Mr. Paggle listed, but Yarrow was looking beyond the woman at the wide amphitheater that descended into the marble floor. On the bottom level, he saw five figures—their genders were indistinguishable at a distance—performing a sort of slow, fluid dance. They wore long robes, which fastened from neck to waist and hung loose from waist to floor, revealing a pair of unfashionably wide trousers and light black slippers. He watched as they, in unison, lifted their left knees and made a slow, controlled turn, balanced on only their right feet. They then each planted their left foot down again with delicate firmness, as their right hand stretched away from their chests, palm flat, in a sort of beckoning. Yarrow gaped, mesmerized. He could have happily stood there and watched them all day.

  “Yarrow?” Mr. Paggle asked. He shook himself out of his reverie, and realized that his companions were staring at him.

  “Yes?”

  Mr. Paggle’s hand extended, his face serious. Yarrow clasped it in his own and gave it a sincere shake.

  “This is where I leave you, lad,” the driver said. “I wish you the very best of luck.”

  Yarrow thanked him and watched as he walked back through the entrance and out of sight. Yarrow felt unexpectedly sad to see him go. Mr. Paggle had become something familiar, in a time when everything was strange.

  “Luckily, you’ve arrived just in time for the afternoon testing,” the woman at the desk said, rising to her feet. “It only just began. Follow me.”

  She strode off at a brisk pace, leaving the four of them no choice but to hasten and follow. Yarrow exchanged a nervous look with Peer, who seemed to be having the same reaction to the word ‘testing.’ What kind of test? Yarrow certainly hadn’t studied—he’d been out of school for over two years.

  They walked, boots resonating on the marble floors, through the great open space. The woman led them to the left of the amphitheater, giving Yarrow a brief, closer look at the five dancing Chisanta. He saw now that it was three women and two men. All of them had their hair pulled into long, intricate braids that ran straight down their backs. They continued to move with slow grace, their knees bent and their heads and neck held with perfect straightness. They seemed utterly unaware of the four sets of staring eyes and five pairs of ringing footsteps just above them.

  Their guide led them through a back door and into an expansive garden, bursting with lush greens and vibrant blossoms. Yarrow heard Bray draw in a sharp breath at the beauty. It was stunning, and not just for the flora; Yarrow’s eyes traced several stone fountains and a picturesque gazebo overlooking a small lake. In the bright afternoon sunlight, with the birds twittering and the sea breeze cooling his face, Yarrow forgot, momentarily, to be apprehensive of what was to come.

  The woman guided them along a cobblestone path until they came to another amphitheater, this one made of mossy brick. A gathering of youths—perhaps twenty, to Yarrow’s quick estimation—sat on the lower tiers. The crowd’s gaze fixed on two lone figures in the center arena. One was a small boy; he must have been fourteen, as they all were, but from Yarrow’s high vantage he appeared dwarfed, and therefore much younger. He wore a dark uniform, a jacket that came to his mid-thigh over loose pants and dark slippers. In fact, all of the young people sported the exact same outfit, even the girls.

  The other figure in the arena was a grown woman. Her hair had been shorn so close to her head that nothing remained but the thinnest layer of blonde fuzz. She wore a leather jerkin over a white shirt with wide sleeves and tight leggings that tucked into soft, knee-high boots.

  Yarrow understood the nature of the ‘test’ before either figure moved—their stances gave it away. She had her knees bent, her body poised as if ready to spring. She looked positively lethal. The boy held his hands up to protect himself, but his body language and wide-eyed expression revealed his fear and lack of skill. He was the prey, she the predator.

  The fight lasted only seconds. The bald woman sprang forward and dealt several deft blows. She moved so swiftly, it would have been hard to know whether her punches had struck true if not for the sickening sound of fist meeting body. She spun on one leg and kicked the boy square in the chest, sending him sprawling onto the ground.

  Silence crept over the amphitheater, broken only by the boy’s wheezes and the cheery bird songs from the garden. As though struck in the chest himself, Yarrow’s breath came in short, hitched gulps.

  “You four had better go and join the rest,” the woman from the desk said, her sunny tone now ringing offensively in Yarrow’s ears.

  They marched down the aisle, Arlow in the lead, until they came to the third tier from the arena. They sidled in and took seats. Yarrow studied the faces of his peers and found them a diverse body. They possessed different colorings, and facial features, and builds, but they were unified in their expressions of horror. Arlow had taken a seat next to a small girl with olive skin and wide, dark eyes.

  “Arlow,” he introduced himself in a whisper.

  “Magery,” she whispered back, “and this is Roldon.” She gestured to a curly-haired boy beside her.<
br />
  “We’re supposed to fight?”

  Yarrow strained to hear her response.

  “Yes,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  “Why?”

  “You fight until your ‘inner Chisanta’ awakens,” the boy Roldon replied, leaning across Magery to make eye contact.

  “What the corpulent Spirits does that mean?” Arlow asked.

  Roldon shrugged. “Not sure. It hasn’t happened yet, apparently. We’ve just been getting regular beatings, as far as I can tell.”

  The boy in the arena made his way, gingerly, back to his seat while the woman convened with several other Chisanta on the far end of the arena, two in long robes and two in jerkins.

  “Looks like we’ve got a group of slow bloomers this year,” the woman said aloud to the group, her voice sugary and taunting.

  “Perhaps one of our newcomers will prove more worthy,” she said, her eyes on Yarrow and his companions, her lips curved into a mocking smile. Yarrow’s mouth went dry.

  “Young lady,” she said, her gaze falling on Bray, “will you join me?”

  Bray stiffened.

  “No!” Yarrow heard himself shout with no small amount of surprise. His voice echoed around the otherwise silent amphitheater. All heads turned to stare at him, and his face flushed a deep red.

  “Yarrow…” Bray said softly from the corner of her mouth. “What are you doing?”

  The woman’s expression grew dangerous. Her smile deepened.

  “We have a valiant gentleman, do we? Protecting the feeble maiden.”

  Bray stood up, her mouth downturned and green eyes flashing. “I’m no feeble maiden.”

  She sidled past Peer and walked down the steps, into the arena, her head held high.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the woman said. “This is no place for gentleladies.” She assumed the same stance as before, crouched low, elbows tucked. Bray faced her boldly; she looked slight and young in that moment, the breeze stirring her copper hair, her child’s dress so out of place in a fighting arena. The woman sprang, as before. Bray moved to dodge, but too slowly. She received a blow square in the mouth. Yarrow could see the bright red of blood on her lips and felt a muscle in his jaw flicker.