Division of the Marked (The Marked Series) (3 page)

As dusk gave way to night, Bray and Yarrow stepped out of the carriage before the Gallan Inn. The air smelt strongly of campfire and Yarrow shivered in the breeze. He strode into the inn, grateful for the warmth.
 

The somber tone of the common room doused Yarrow’s spirits like a cold bath. The patrons perched stiff-faced upon their stools, wearing black; they clutched their drinks like lifelines.

“What’s happened here?” Mr. Paggle asked the owner.
 

The man had drooping eyes, which seemed to droop still further as he answered, “A fire three days back. Whole family perished inside, or so it seems. Very strange, sad business.”

Yarrow thought of the smell which he had taken for a bonfire, and nearly retched.
 

“How terrible,” Bray said, her voice soft and eyes wide.

The innkeeper nodded agreement.

Five portraits rested on stands, wreathed in flowers, one for each family member. Yarrow’s gaze lingered on the image of a girl his own age. Her face was so white against her black hair that she seemed a ghost, even before death. Her eyes followed him.

“Are there still rooms available?” Mr. Paggle asked.

“Oh, aye. Plenty of rooms,” the man said.

As Mr. Paggle and the owner of the Gallan Inn spoke of prices and accommodations, Yarrow was distracted by the sound of a young woman weeping at a nearby table.
 

“He said he loved me,” the woman gasped, her red eyes wild.
 

An older matron patted her on the shoulder and made soothing noises.

“He did, Mama, just last week.” A loud sob broke from her throat. “He said
Breide En Alama
. And I asked what that meant—you know, because the Ollas family all spoke Deltish—” her voice rose higher with each word, and it clearly pained her to speak, but she plunged on, “and he said it means ‘our hearts are belonging.’ Isn’t that nice, Mama?
Breide En Alama…
our hearts are belonging…” The woman collapsed onto the table with a grief-sound so animalistic, so painful, Yarrow could not have assigned a word to it.

The entire inn had grown silent. Bray exchanged an alarmed look with Yarrow.
 

“It is a pity,” a man whispered too loudly, “almost no one speaks that tongue any longer.”

A murmur of agreement met this statement and more drinks were called forth.

Mr. Paggle’s mustache drooped solemnly and he clapped Yarrow on the shoulder. “Let’s wash before supper.”

Yarrow nodded. Anything to get away from this morbid scene.

Their host led them up the stairs to their rooms, one for Mr. Paggle and Yarrow and an adjoining one for Bray. They were comfortable enough, though oddly bare. The innkeeper lit the lamps and left them to their business.

Yarrow splashed his face at the washstand and watched the driver from the corner of his eye. He should surely say something about the scene they had just witnessed, but he could think of nothing and Mr. Paggle appeared unperturbed. He was moving slowly through some methodical evening routine, whistling to himself—a slow, soulful tune—his mustaches sticking out comically from his face.
 

Yarrow sunk onto his bed with a squeak of springs. Without Bray for company, his mood began to plunge, his thoughts returning to his family. Had they eaten dinner yet?

“Ready, Master Lamhart?” Mr. Paggle asked at last. Yarrow jerked, abruptly pulled from his thoughts. He nodded and stood.

Bray was waiting in the hall, and the three of them made their way downstairs to a table in the common room, apart from the morose hum of the other patrons. Waitstaff in spotless aprons distributed platters heaped with steaming victuals—beef, potatoes, vegetables, and a loaf of fine, crusty bread. Yarrow attacked his portion with fervor, and they chewed in silence for several minutes.

“Spirits above, did you truly eat all of that already?” Bray asked, marveling at Yarrow’s empty dish. The vast majority of her own meal remained upon her plate.

Yarrow shrugged. “In a big family, if you don’t eat fast, you don’t eat.”
 

She laughed and returned her attention to her own meal. Yarrow watched her with covert glances. The way she ate fascinated him. She chewed each mouthful with the utmost care and pleasure, then seemed to swallow with regret. She appeared to take more delight in each solitary bite of that meal than Yarrow had ever experienced from any meal in his life. Strange, as the beef had been dry.

Once the last of the gravy had been mopped from his plate, Mr. Paggle ordered them each a modest glass of dessert wine, a delicacy.
 

“To the King,” the driver toasted.
 

Bray and Yarrow raised their glasses. “To the King,” they agreed, taking a long draught.
 

Full, sleepy, and content, Yarrow leaned back in his chair. Their chaperone’s face had grown decidedly pink, the tips of his sandy mustaches perked like the ears of a frisky pup.
In good humor enough to answer a few questions?

“Mr. Paggle,” Yarrow began slowly. “Can you tell us about the Chisanta?”
 

Bray sat up straighter, her eyes sharpened.
 

Mr. Paggle produced a clay pipe, packed it, and with a whisper of match head to table grain, lit it, the small flame casting the deep pores of his cheeks and nose in sharp relief. He did not reply until he had taken a long draw, filling the air with the sweet, sharp smell of tobacco.
 

“Well, what do you know of them?” he asked and reclined in his seat, very much in his element.
 

“Not much…that they are unbeatable fighters and magic users—”

“And they know everything—” Bray said.

“And even the King has to do what they say—” Yarrow said.

“And the women wear trousers,” Bray concluded, looking as though this peculiarity were as significant as the rest.
 

Mr. Paggle took another long, slow draw from his pipe, the corner of his eyes crinkled. “I thought as much,” he said. “Smaller towns, like the ones you two hail from, tend to have some strange notions.”

Bray leaned forward. “What are they really like, then?”
 

“You’ll be knowing everything there is to know soon enough. But I’ll tell you a bit.” He sipped his wine while Bray and Yarrow exchanged matching expressions, raised eyebrows and half-stifled smiles.

“To say they do magic is a misnomer, you see. Magic implies spells and potions and old witch stories.” He cast his voice conspiratorially. “Now, the Chisanta, they don’t do magic. They have
abilities
.” He paused dramatically.
 

“What kind of abilities?” Bray asked in a whisper.

“Oh, all sorts of things. They don’t each have the same ones, you know. Some can become invisible,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that. And some are able to read your thoughts. And others can move a thing only with their minds.” He wavered his voice and shook his wine glass, as if it were moving of its own volition and not firmly gripped in his hand. “The Chisanta are split into two groups, the Chiona and the Cosanta, and they couldn’t be more different.”

Yarrow’s imagination whorled. A dreamy smile crossed his lips as he envisioned himself doing impossible things—flying amidst clouds, throwing great balls of fire, lifting a carriage over his head one-handed.
 

“Which kind are we?” Bray asked.

Mr. Paggle shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I suppose you’ll find out when we get to the Temple. The Chisanta are pretty closed-mouthed. Most people don’t know much about them.”

Yarrow scooted his chair in closer. “And does the King?—”

“Have to do what they say?” Mr. Paggle supplied with a loud, derisive snort. “Boy, where did you get that notion? No, no. The King always has Chisanta advisors, of course. He’d be a fool not to. But the Chisanta are separate from Trinitas. They don’t have any political power.”

That was just as well. Yarrow had no interest in politics. “Well…are they really fighters, then?”

“Oh sure, amazing fighters. I knew another driver once who said he saw a man with a sword—and the knowledge to use it, mind you—run at one of the Chisanta while his back was turned. And just like that,” he snapped his fingers again, “that fool was on the ground with a broken nose and the Chisanta had his weapon.”

Yarrow realized his mouth was hanging open and shut it with a click of teeth.

“But even more than fighters,” Mr. Paggle continued, “they are scholars and experts. A real smart bunch, always studying.”

“What kind of things do they study?” Bray asked.

“Everything there is: mechanics, history, sciences…” The driver leaned further back in his chair, draping his elbows over the armrest, and took another long draw from his pipe. “I hear they’ve got a fair-sized archeological dig going on out east. And there’s a Chiona gentleman doing some work on fireless light sources. A friend of mine saw it. Says it was like looking at a little star right here on earth.”

“I don’t know anything about all that…” Bray said softly.

Yarrow tipped his head in agreement. He had always had a fair head for numbers and, before he’d been pulled from school to help his father in the shop, he’d been at the top of his class. But that hardly seemed to qualify him for such scholarly enterprises.
 

Mr. Paggle yawned. “Well, you’ll learn, won’t you?”
 

The common room had thinned, but the volume in the room increased as some of the mourners at the bar became rowdy with drink. The noise recalled Mr. Paggle to the time, which he verified with his pocket watch.

“We’d better be off to bed, at that,” he said, his voice becoming brisk again. “We’ll have an early morning.”

Yarrow sighed with disappointment, but rose from the table all the same.

Two hours later Yarrow lay wide awake in his bed, listening to the sound of Mr. Paggle’s rumbling snores and staring at the whitewashed ceiling. His mind worked too furiously for sleep—thinking about his family, about Bray, about the abilities he might be, at that moment, developing.
 

He sat up, took his father’s pocketknife from the bedside table, and placed it before him on the bed. Then he stared at it, willing it to lift into the air with his mind. He stared until his eyes itched, but it remained resolutely stationary. He gave up with a sigh—he must not have
that
ability—and flopped back into the cold, empty bed.

Yarrow had never had a mattress to himself before. The forms of warm, slumbering siblings usually pressed upon him as he slept. He tried arranging the pillows so they lay on either side of him, to emulate the presence of his missing family, but they were too soft and cool to accomplish the task. What were Ree and the others doing back home? Were they thinking of him?

“Yarrow.” He heard whispered tentatively from the adjoining room.

Mr. Paggle continued to snore undisturbed, so Yarrow slipped soundlessly from his bed and padded to the door.

“Yes?” he whispered back.

“I can’t sleep,” Bray’s voice answered. “Can you?”

“No.”

“Want to take a walk?” she asked.

Yarrow looked over his shoulder at Mr. Paggle. If he were to wake and find them missing, what would be the consequence? It certainly would be a breach in propriety, he and a girl of his own age wandering around, unchaperoned, at night.
 

“All right. Meet you in a moment,” he whispered through the door.
 

Yarrow slipped into his pants, coat, and boots as quietly as he could, and thanked the Spirits above that Mr. Paggle was a sound sleeper. His heart thundered in his chest, and he tried to tell it to be calm. “It’s just a walk,” he counseled. “Don’t be foolish.” But the stubborn organ beat rapidly all the same.

He crept out of his room and into the hall, where he closed the door as slowly and quietly as possible. The click of the latch bolt sliding back into place sounded loud as a gong to Yarrow, but Mr. Paggle’s steady breathing continued unabated within.
 

Bray waited for him at the head of the stair. She still wore her blue dress, but her russet hair now hung completely loose around her shoulders. She placed a finger to her lips and he nodded. They slipped down the stairs onto the landing, which was thankfully dark and empty. Bray waved for him to follow.
 

They were passing the kitchens and nearly to the side door when she said, “Go on out, I’ll be there in a second.”

Yarrow didn’t like to be separated, but she darted into the kitchen, giving him no opportunity to raise an objection. So he passed through the door, out into the cool, dark night, alone.

The sky was wondrously clear, like soft dark velvet, freckled with the bright pinpricks of stars. Moisture clung to the grass and the insects trilled their evening song, a medley of buzzes, chirps, and hums. The air still bore the distinct smell of charred wood.
And flesh
, Yarrow’s mind added.

When Bray came through the door, she cradled a bottle of uncorked wine in the crook of her left arm. She smiled and held it out for him to see. “To help us sleep.”