Division of the Marked (The Marked Series) (16 page)

Yarrow rolled his eyes and he and Ko-Jin departed, heading towards their cabin.

“I bet he’s gotten some terribly dull gift and is just trying to hide it,” Ko-Jin said

“He just likes keeping us in suspense. We should really stop asking him about it.”
 

Ko-Jin bumped headlong into Rinny as she exited her own small room, shared with several of the other girls.
 

“Alright, give it back,” Ko-Jin said, holding out his hand.
 

Rinny smiled innocently. “Give what back, mate?”

“My watch.”

Rinny laughed and handed it over. “Just keeping you on your toes.”
 

She began to walk away and Ko-Jin called out to her, “Hey, Rinny.”
 

He flourished an object Yarrow didn’t recognize and lobbed it to her. She caught it and laughed.

“Out-thieving the thief! You rascal, Sung Ko-Jin.”

Yarrow shook his head in bemusement. Ko-Jin beamed and led the way into their bunk, where they drilled the pronunciation of Chaskuan vowels until they heard the boat dock.
 

“Ready?” Ko-Jin asked.

Yarrow took a fortifying gulp of air and mounted the stair, off to see the country that would now be his home.

“I’m leaving come morning, Bray,” Peer said.

“
We
are leaving come morning,” Bray corrected.
 

He quirked his eyebrow skeptically—an expression she was growing used to.

The cicadas droned soporifically in the moonlit gardens. Somewhere, an owl hooted.

Bray clenched her fists. “I’ve nearly gotten it, I swear.”

“I’m knowing you have, but it’s three in the morning.” He rubbed a bleary eye. “The next ship’ll be leaving in a few weeks.”

“I am not staying in this place for weeks, alone, Peer. Go to sleep if you want. I’ll continue on alone.”

Peer rolled his shoulders. “It’s not that—I’m not even tired. I’ll stay with you till it’s boarding time. Just don’t want you being hard on yourself.”

Bray set her jaw and crossed her arms.

“Alright, let’s go again. Close your eyes.”

Bray shut her eyes and pictured the mirror version of herself, her
Mearra
. It came to life with alacrity. This, Bray had mastered days ago.

“Now, reach on out and—”
 

Bray reached, endeavoring confidence. This was her stumbling block—upon physical touch, her
Mearra
would usually poof into nothingness. Even though her phantom was not truly there, Bray needed to feel her. You cannot fight a thing you cannot touch.
 

Bray’s fingers extended and grazed her
Mearra’s
shoulder, felt the smooth glossy leather.

“Got her?” Peer asked.

“Yes,” Bray said, her eyes still closed.
 

“Good. Now, push on into the mind of your
Mearra
and look at yourself.”
 

This, Bray had only managed for an instant on one occasion. She must be able to think for both halves of herself, which meant she needed to be in both heads. This was no easy feat.
 

Bray focused so intently she suspected she’d give herself a nosebleed. A bird twittered in the tree above her. When she opened her eyes, she could see that bird, perched on a branch above her own, original head. She was actually looking at herself—her real self—through the eyes of her own projection. It was such a strange experience that she nearly lost it, but she grabbed hold and did not let go. Through her own real eyes, she could still see her
Mearra
, could see Peer sitting on the ground looking at her encouragingly. It was exactly like being in two places at once.

“Now, attack,” Peer said.

Bray—the original Bray—swung. But her
Mearra
saw this coming and dodged easily. Bray made her
Mearra
take advantage of her own lack of balance and struck out with a kick. Her original body, only just in time, rolled onto the ground, out of danger. She got up onto her feet and parried two more blows. Her
Mearra
left a gap in her defenses, and Bray struck out and delivered a sharp blow to the stomach.
 

Bray felt the pulse in her neck quicken, her mind sharp and vigorous, honed to slice. She sensed a kind of parting in reality, like a crack in the world. Mentally, she thrust herself into the opening.

Abruptly, Bray no longer fought in that dark garden. She was in an entirely different place, bright and dry. She stood at the center of a round clearing, natural rock rising all around her, forming many monstrous steps. The circle of grass was interrupted only by a single, familiar-looking tree.
 

Bray laughed—she had done it! She was in the
Aeght a Seve
and yet she was still completely aware, not only of her own body back in reality, but the body of her
Mearra
as well, still fighting fiercely.
 

Bray tilted her face up toward the sun, its warmth kissing her cheeks. That heat ran straight through her, from the tip of her head down to her toes. And she knew, knew without any real evidence, that she had been gifted. Gifted with the thing that she had always desired. Exploring the
Aeght a Seve
would have to wait—she was too desperate to show Peer her gift.
 

Bray focused on the part of her mind that still fought, and slowly the warmth receded and she found herself back in the darkness of the garden. She allowed her
Mearra
to pop into nonexistence and turned to Peer, beaming.
 

“You’ve done it?” Peer asked, rising to his feet.

“I have,” Bray said, smiling so wide her cheeks ached.

“Bray!” Peer exclaimed and came to embrace her. She patted his broad back, grinning into the leather of his jerkin.

“Well?” he asked, as she pulled away. “What did you get?”

She smiled mischievously. “I’ll show you. Hit me.”

Peer looked nonplussed. “What?”

“Hit me.” She readied her stance and pointed at her chin. “Right here.”

“Come on Bray, I’m not going to hit you. Just tell me what it is.”

She shoved him in the chest. “Hit me!”

“Bray…”

“Peer, for the love of Benteen, you won’t do any damage. Just take a swing.”

Peer sighed, defeated, and punched at Bray’s face with an obvious lack of force. Only his fist did not make contact with her cheek. Rather, it floated straight through her.

His sandy eyebrows contracted. “You’re a ghost?”

Bray snorted. “Don’t be daft. Ghosts are dead. I’m just…untouchable.”

Peer frowned and crossed his arms. “And all I got was some lousy literacy.”

“Don’t worry, friend. I’ll share.”
 

She took Peer’s hand and phased them both into nothingness. Her flesh thrummed and rippled, the sensation strange but not unpleasant. Peer’s hand clamped harder onto her own. Bray pulled him along, towards the wall to the Chiona meeting hall. She charged at it, and Peer matched her stride. He flinched slightly—she did as well—as the stony surface should have struck them. But it did not. They passed through the wall unscathed and appeared on the other side.

Peer released her hand. “That…” he said, running fingers along the solidness of the stones, “was the strangest thing I’ve ever felt.”

Bray yawned dramatically. “Well—it looks like you won’t be leaving without me after all. Want to get some sleep?”

“Nah,” Peer said. “Not much point. We can sleep on the boat.”
 

“So, what do you want to—”

“We can pass through walls.” Peer beamed down at her. “I’m thinking we can find some mischief.”

The Cosanta welcoming feast had been raging for hours. Though the evening air outside was chill, the hall sweltered. There were hundreds of people, ranging in age from those of a year with Yarrow to those shriveled with age. The accents and skin tones varied as widely as the topics of conversation. The din grew steadily louder as the Cosanta worked their way through cask after cask of fine Adourran wine. Yarrow’s head pounded. He needed to escape.

He searched for his friends. He spotted Ko-Jin in conversation with a pretty Chaskuan girl in their own tongue. She laughed loudly at regular intervals and found every possible excuse to touch him—straightening his collar, patting his hand. She wasn’t the only young woman looking at Ko-Jin with desirous eyes.

Arlow, too, was deep in conversation. He spoke with a middle-aged Dalish man who had a tight, chestnut mustache and a drawling accent much like Arlow’s. They seemed to be discussing politics; something about which Yarrow knew little and cared for none.
 

Yarrow shouldered his way through the crowd, cursing the lack of space. When he’d entered the hall that morning he’d thought it absolutely cavernous. Arlow had assured him that it rivaled the Great Hall of the King in Accord. The detail and artwork of the room had awed him. Every single inch of wall, ceiling, and pillar space was covered in tight, colorful designs.
 

After many long minutes of apologizing and elbowing in equal measure, Yarrow found his way through the great doors. He meandered onto the grounds, where the air brushed deliciously cold against his flushed cheeks.
 

The Cosanta Temple comprised a vast collection of breathtaking buildings and gardens, all highly influenced by Chaskuan design. The corners of the roofs overhung dramatically and curved, pointing up towards the sky. The underside of each and every such structure was as intricately designed as the walls in the great hall.
 

Yarrow wandered between building after stunning building, puffing clouds of vapor with each exhale. He walked past a thin-branched tree still bearing several plump orange fruits—he would have to ask Ko-Jin what they were called—and up to a large open pavilion.

Within loomed five time-weathered statues. They glowered down at Yarrow.

“Not a lover of crowds?” a deep musical voice asked from the shadows.

A shape stepped forward; an old Adourran man. He had skin like the bark of a tree, dark and deeply grooved. His mustache, braided hair, and unruly eyebrows shone snow white in the limited light of dusk.
 

“I like them fine…for a little bit,” Yarrow said.

“A lad after my own heart, then.”

Yarrow’s gaze returned to the statues.

“Do you know the four sacrifices?” the Adourran asked. He crossed the pavilion to stand by Yarrow and laughed, a rough, pleasant barking sound. “Of course you do not—not one so young.”

“Yes I do. The four sacrifices are Propagation, Contact, Identity, and Mind,” Yarrow recited.

“Ah, lad—to name a thing isn’t to know it. If it were, we would all have gifts coming out our
parennas
, wouldn’t we?” The man said.

 
Yarrow’s eyes traced the first statue. He saw now that it depicted a mother, father, and infant, though they seemed to be heads and arms all extending from the same base; not three separate entities, but one with three faces. Yarrow walked along the hall, examining each in turn. The next, Yarrow was embarrassed to see, portrayed a man and woman kissing, holding each other tightly. The last two Yarrow didn’t understand—the third was a monstrous head of a man, but within were carved various scenes—another kissing couple, three laughing figures, a man with a sword, and several more. The fourth depicted the face of a woman split in two. One half of her mouth smiled, one eye looked directly at Yarrow with intelligence. The other half of her mouth hung slack and open, and the other eye was wide, wild, and unfocused.
 

“I don’t really understand them,” Yarrow said at last.
 

The Adourran man smiled. “Good lad. It’s always better to acknowledge incomprehension than feign expertise. What is your name?”

“Yarrow Lamhart.”

“I am Dedrre Alvez,” the man said, and the two of them clasped forearms.

“Let us start at the beginning,” he said, and they walked back to the rendering of the first sacrifice. “As you correctly asserted, the first sacrifice is propagation—the ability to have a child. Most Chisanta don’t marry and never have children, so some might think this would be an easy thing to willingly forgo, but it is not. You know what it takes to make a sacrifice?”