Division of the Marked (The Marked Series) (15 page)

“We’d better go back,” Bray said at last. Yarrow nodded.

They walked together until their paths were forced to part—his towards the Cosanta sector and hers towards the Chiona.
 

At the junction, Yarrow pulled Bray close for a tight embrace.
 

“I’ll miss you, Bray Marron,” he whispered into her ear.

“And I, you,” she mumbled into his robe.
 

She pulled away and looked up at him. He stared down into those wide green eyes and knew that he should kiss her—that she wanted him to. His insides burned with trepidation. The raindrops ran down Bray’s cheeks like teardrops, turning her hair a deep red and plastering it wetly to her face and neck and shoulders. He leaned forward. She tilted her head. He could feel the heat of her breath—just a bit further and their lips would touch.

A loud crack of thunder made Yarrow jump back, his hands falling away from her. He cursed himself for letting the moment pass, and for not having the courage to try again.

“Goodbye,” he said. It was an inadequate parting.

“Goodbye,” she agreed, the set of her mouth betraying disappointment.
 

He exhaled deeply and turned away from her, the rain landing thick and cold on his face. From the corner of his eye he watched her depart. She looked over her shoulder at him once more, then the turn in the path stole her from view. And then she was gone. Spirits, how she would haunt him.
 

“The bloke was downright nutted.” Peer thumbed through a few loose, yellowing pages.
 

“Everyone loved him though…” Bray said.

She was glad for the emptiness of the Temple library. Peer seemed incapable of keeping his voice down.

It was late; the warm, dancing illumination of lanterns were all they had to see by.

“Still don’t understand why you’re wanting to read this…” Peer said.
 

Bray ran a hand over her head, feeling the short, prickly fuzz of her hair. “We found him.
I
found him…I don’t know, I guess I just want to know more about the man. I want to understand who he was. Maybe then I can figure out why someone wanted to kill him…”

 
Ambrone Chassel had spent his entire adult life searching for ancient artifacts from legend, most generally believed to have never existed. Bray had spent the past three evenings in the library, poring over the man’s tight script. She bent closer to the page before her and read:

The Scimitar of Amarra
,
forged during the reign of Leanna in west Adourra. Legend holds that the scimitar imbued its bearer with incredible precision. Not seen since the year 417CL
.
 

Bray’s eyes skimmed to the small drawing that accompanied the text, of the curve-bladed sword itself. Ambrone had been a gifted artist. For some reason, that thought pained her. She flipped to the next page:

The Seve Tapestry
.
The tapestry is said to depict the way in which the Spirits select the marked. The noted early Cosanta Alber Darning II was said to have acquired this item from the famed Mute Fifth, who spun truths with her hands. However, some reports mention that Darning II was a drunk and a liar. The legend of the Mute Fifth, herself, is yet unproven. Item may or may not exist.

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
—

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

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

—Origin 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 toward 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, steeling herself.

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 sea.
 

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.”