Division of the Marked (The Marked Series) (5 page)

Bray frowned at him. The man who owned the mines in Mountsend lived in a home like this one. He, who set the unreasonable working hours and disregarded the safety of his men, yet paid them a pittance. He, who had held a lavish party on the very day of her father’s funeral, and the funerals of eight other men who’d lost their lives in his mine.
 

“Appears the average social standing of our party is about to rise,” Bray said, her tone bitter.
 

“It would seem so,” Yarrow said.

The two of them watched as Mr. Paggle descended and shook hands with the adults. Servants carried four great trunks out to the barouche and strapped them to the roof. The boy walked toward the carriage, his step oddly sprightly given the circumstances. Yarrow and Bray jumped back to their seats, not wanting to be caught spying.

 
The door swung open and in stepped a black-haired, black-eyed boy clutching a large, leather-bound tome. He would have been good looking if it weren’t for the haughty set of his expression.

He offered them a wicked smile and a shrewd examination. “Arlow Bowlerham, pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking Yarrow’s hand and bowing to Bray. They each offered their own names in turn. The carriage leapt into motion, but their new companion did not spare a glance for the window. Instead, Arlow Bowlerham leaned back in the seat across from them, legs crossed at the ankle, and looked very much at his ease.

“So, from whence do you hail, Yarrow Lamhart?” he asked, his voice thick with the drawling, nasal accent of the wealthy.

“Glans Heath.”

“And what sort of trade were your family in?” He hit the word ‘trade’ with no small degree of contempt; Bray clenched her teeth.

The tendons in Yarrow’s neck stood out slightly as he said, “We run a general store.”

Arlow belted a hearty laugh. “A shop-boy!” He shook his head. “Well I never…”

Bray’s ire rose, her opinion of him formed before his home had even receded from view. She did not like this boy—could they not toss him out on his butt and ride on?

“And how about you, mistress?” he asked her, eyeing the sad shape of her dress with a smirk.
 

She refused to play along with his game. She crossed her arms, lifted her chin, and gave him a level look, but remained silent.
 

Some of Arlow’s pomp left him at that. “I confess,” he went on, “I’ve not spent much time with common folk. I don’t know what sorts of things your kind talk about.”

Bray pulled back her hair and gestured to the mark on her neck—the same one she saw clearly below his own ear. “We are
not
common.”

“Well no, not anymore, of course,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes.
 

Arlow raised his hands and tried to placate her with a wide, charming smile. “Now, I didn’t mean any offense. Honestly. Could we begin again?”

Yarrow nodded and shrugged, but Bray was not feeling terribly forgiving. Perhaps if her head did not still ache she would have been more tolerant, but probably not.

 
She sat up straighter. “I’ve not spent much time with arrogant little prats. I don’t know what sorts of things your kind talk about.”

Arlow flushed and the smile fell from his face.
 

He looked at Yarrow, as if expecting commiseration. “Tetchy, isn’t she?”

Bray was sorely tempted to leap across the carriage and sock Arlow Bowlerham in his smug little mouth.

Yarrow put a hand on her shoulder—had he somehow read her intent? “This is going to be a very long trip if we don’t work to get along better.”

This was a rather diplomatic answer; Arlow tipped an imaginary hat to him. Bray knocked his hand from her shoulder and offered him a cold look. She’d wanted him to take her part, not play the peacekeeper. Heat crept up her face and she turned toward the window, feeling betrayed. A small, more reasonable voice in the back of her head whispered that she might be overreacting. She told that voice to shut it.

They stopped for lunch an hour after acquiring Arlow Bowlerham. Bray longed to leave the carriage, where tension had been steadily building. And as tension in a small space is far worse than tension in an open one, Bray breathed a sigh of relief as her feet found grass.

“We’ll give the horses a rest here for a while,” Mr. Paggle told them, as he distributed cheese and bread. They had halted in a wide field of rolling hills, and though the sun had temporarily hidden behind a tuft of cloud, the day was warm and bright.
 

“We still have one more to pick up, don’t we?” Yarrow asked.

“Yes, indeed. We’ll be fetching the last lad in a few hours. We’ll stay at the Platstone Inn tonight.” Here, Mr. Paggle’s expression grew dreamy. “A fine inn, is the Platstone…best shepherd’s pie you’re like to meet with.”

“And we’ll be arriving at the Temple tomorrow, then?” Yarrow pressed.
 

“Mmm,” the coachman agreed. “By midday at the latest.”
 

Mr. Paggle retreated from their little picnic to tend to the horses, leaving the three youths in an awkward silence.
 

“I hope this chap is right. I detest long journeys,” Arlow said at last. Bray rolled her eyes and bit a chunk of bread.

Arlow didn’t seem to require assistance carrying a conversation, however, as he went on to say, “Drivers so often misjudge the matter, it’s a wonder anyone can estimate an arrival time at all.”

Odious boy!
Bray pocketed her lunch, stood, and strode away without comment. In the distance, a field of wildflowers danced in the breeze, a dense patch of purple and white amidst the green. She picked her way towards it without a backwards glance.
 

She had not taken many strides before she heard someone jog up behind her. Yarrow reached her side and matched her pace, out of breath. She said nothing to him.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked.

Yes.
“No.”

“Really?” he asked. “Because you seem mad.”

Bray bent and plucked several flowers with violent, rapid jerks of her hand. “Well, I’m not.”

“Are you angry with the flowers, then?” he asked, as she yanked an offending bud from the earth.

“No.”

Yarrow sighed. “I’m sorry, I was just hoping to…kind of…smooth the situation over. I thought it would be better.”

Bray strode past him and began uprooting miniature daisies for her bouquet.
 

“I promise, the next time someone is rude to you, I’ll punch them in the nose.”

Bray, despite her resolution to ignore him, snorted. She could not imagine Yarrow, as placid and kindly as he was, punching anyone.
 

He crouched down just opposite her and reached for her hand. “I’ll go hit him right now, if you’d like.”

She allowed him to squeeze her fingers apologetically and the anger drained from her in a rush. She let out a gust of air. “No…it’s not important.”

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.”