Division of the Marked (The Marked Series) (8 page)

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.

“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.
 

Bray teetered, but remained on her feet. She assumed a fighting stance once again.
 

The bald woman flashed a humorless smile. “Some of these plebes have backbone after all.”
 

Then Bray did what the boy who preceded her never attempted—she took a swing. But the woman was ready. She grabbed Bray’s arm, pulled her forward, delivered a sharp kick to her abdomen, and thrust her to the ground. The arena hushed and the Chisanta woman strode away, the fight quite obviously at an end.

“Brutal…” Arlow whispered.

Yarrow clutched his hands into such tight fists that his nails dug into the flesh of his palms. He wanted to go to her, to help her—and only with the greatest effort did he manage to keep his seat. He did not care if the woman mocked him, or what his peers thought, but he knew Bray would not thank him for making her appear weak a second time.

So, he sat motionless as she pushed herself to a sitting position, clutching her stomach. Then, awkwardly, she pulled herself up to her feet and hobbled out of the arena, each step taken delicately. Peer hopped out of his seat to let her pass, the concern in his eyes unmasked. She sat, her chin lifted in defiance, but Yarrow could tell by the set of her jaw that she was in pain. Her split bottom lip trickled blood down her chin, leaving dark stains on the bodice of her dress. She kept her gaze resolutely forward and refused to meet Yarrow’s eye.
 

“I think, perhaps, the boy would like to avenge his lady love,” the woman in the ring announced. She regarded the evident rage on Yarrow’s face with amusement. Again, every head turned to look at him, their expressions, for the most part, conveying pity.

Yarrow refused to give this woman the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid. He schooled his features and silently stood. He tromped down the steps with all of the determination and fearlessness he could muster—at least on the outside. Within, his heart beat so fast he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. He kept his hands balled into fists, to hide the fact that they trembled.
 

He strode into the arena and took a moment to be grateful that the ground was dirt and not stone; it would make for a softer fall. He pictured Bray crumpled on the earth there, as she had been moments ago, bleeding and in pain. Abruptly, his heart stopped pounding, his hands ceased to shake. A strong breeze tousled his hair and brought, again, the strong salty smell of the sea. It cleared his mind. He came to the center and turned to face the woman. She was close enough now that he could see a thin scar running along her jaw, see the bright blue of her eyes. The fear left him. The anger did as well. His body was suffused with a sort of numb readiness.

“Prepare yourself,” the woman said.
 

Yarrow heard, distantly, the words of his father in his head:
“Keep your chin up and your feet flat.”
He spread his stance, bent his knees, and felt completely grounded—as if roots had sprung from the soles of his feet and dug deep into the earth.
 

The bald woman lunged to attack. Though Yarrow knew from watching at a distance that she moved with blinding speed, her motions in that moment appeared slow and obvious to him. He could see what she intended clearly; her left fist would meet his right jaw if he did not move. But before that could happen, she would need to plant her raised foot on the earth—ground herself. Without grounding, there could be no strength or control.
 

He moved out of instinct. He placed his foot with care and lifted his hand, palm outstretched, to the proper location. Right on cue, her booted foot landed on top of his and her strike, still lacking the force of the earth, made contact with his hand. He grabbed her fist—saw her blue eyes widen in shock—and pushed her back, knocking her off balance. She stumbled, but did not fall.
 

He expected her to strike again, was ready to counter her. But she did not. Rather, she offered him a small bow and turned away. He heard the drone of whispers from the stands and looked up at the group—at Bray, Arlow, and Peer especially. Bray was beaming encouragingly at him, Peer’s mouth was agape, and Arlow had his arms crossed and his mouth pulled into a close-lipped smile, as if the victory of his traveling companion was also his own victory.
 

The two robed Chisanta rose from their seats and swept across the arena to where he stood. One was a man with graying hair and a tightly trimmed beard, the other a young blonde woman. They wore the long billowing robes of those he had seen dancing earlier, one a deep blue and the other charcoal gray.
 

“What is your name?” the man asked. His voice resonated in his chest and his dark eyes glinted genially.

“Yarrow Lamhart.”

“Welcome, my brother, Yarrow Lamhart.” He held his hand out, and Yarrow made to clasp it in his own. Instead, the man took hold of Yarrow’s forearm in an ancient greeting.

“You are Cosanta, and one of us.”

Yarrow’s heart began to thud anew.

The steel-colored sea thrust a foam-tipped fin up the shore. Bray squealed as the cold water lapped around her ankles, and darted up the beach, small pebbles and shell fragments jabbing the bottoms of her bare feet.
 

“It’s freezing,” she said, looking down at her toes, surprised to find them their normal fleshy color and not blue.

“That’s why you’ve got to be running faster at the start,” Peer said. “Watch me.”

He ran down to the water as the ocean pulled into itself. His black uniform whipped in the wind.

The wave turned back toward the beach; Arlow shouted, “Now!”
 

Peer’s legs tensed then sprang, propelling him up the shore ahead of the wave, his large feet kicking clumps of sand airborne as he ran. He smiled, rosy-cheeked, and bowed several times as if before an applauding audience.

“Your legs are longer,” Bray said and crossed her arms before her chest.
 

“And freakishly muscular,” Arlow added, attempting to ring some of the cold wetness from the cuffs of his own trousers. “This is a stupid game anyway.”
 

“What would you rather be doing, then?” Peer asked. He collapsed onto the beach, then buried his hands and feet in the sand. The sun illuminated the puffiness around his right eye. The lid had swollen in such a way that it drooped like a half-drawn curtain over his blue iris.
 

Bray leaned back, letting the sun soak into her skin. She’d probably be sunburnt, despite the coolness of the day, but she didn’t much care just at that moment.

“This isn’t at all what I thought it would be…” Arlow said, his hand gingerly assessing the lump on his right cheek.
 

Bray ran her tongue along the jagged cut inside her bottom lip and thought of the purple bruise forming on her abdomen. She had to agree.

“How do you think Yarrow did it?” Peer asked.

“Blighted if I know.” Arlow flung an offending seashell at the water.

“I wish we could talk to him,” Bray said.
 

She turned, and so did her companions, at the sound of voices and footfalls. Several of the other marked children worked their way along the steep cliff that ran from the Temple’s perch down to the beach. Bray recognized a few of them, but several wore civilian clothes. New arrivals.