Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) (27 page)

Foy, looking somehow regal perched straight-backed atop his towering chestnut steed, snapped a gaze on Arlow, who unconsciously adjusted his own posture. “He must be an accomplished liar, then. Careful, Mae, snakes have a tendency to bite.”
 

“I only bite if a lady asks nicely,” Arlow said, smiling at the man, though the mirth did not touch his eyes.
 

Mae snorted an indelicate laugh but Foy’s expression only hardened further. “What a gentleman,” he said sarcastically.

“I am, perhaps, not as refined as certain criminals, but I extend what courtesies I can.”

Mae grabbed the reins back from Arlow and clicked her tongue, urging Poppy Seed Muffin to hasten. The mule flicked her tail indifferently and continued at the same plodding pace, undaunted. “If you two are gonna hiss at each other like stray cats, do it someplace else.”

Arlow crossed his arms before his chest. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”

“Yes, Mae, we were merely bantering. No need for such melodramatics,” Foy said, friendliness returning to his expression.

She laughed and darted looks between the two of them. “Spirits help me, you’re bound to be the best of mates, what with your fancy talking and that smug eyebrow thing.” She used her index finger to push one of her sandy brows up quizzically. Arlow felt his own brow reciprocate before he could help himself. A similar look crossed Foy’s face. Arlow did not know whether to feel pleased that Mae was so familiar with his expressions, or irked that she was equally acquainted with another’s.

She pointed at a sign indicating the distance to Andle, the nearest major city. “Turn-off should be just up here.”

Arlow trained his eyes on the tree line until the dirt road veering west appeared. Mae directed Poppy onto the unnamed path, the wheels of the gig only just clearing between the tree trunks. Foy followed behind.

They remained quiet, listening for the sounds of habitation. For a long while Arlow discerned only the rumbling of the carriage on the uneven pathway, Foy’s horse snorting with impatience at their pace, and the creaking of tree branches in the wind. Until, at last, the murmur of human voices became discernible—a tremendous number of voices.

Mae guided Poppy off of the path and into the forest to conceal the gig from view. Foy tied off his own mount and they made their way forward on foot. Arlow held his breath as they neared the end of the trees, unsure what he would find beyond.

His eyes flew wide. The archeological dig was positively massive. They appeared to be unearthing an entire city; the warm hue of clay stretched as far as Arlow could see to the east. He’d never seen an excavation before. He found it a peculiar sight, a strange mix of order and chaos. There were hundreds of people: adults with clipboards hurrying from one place to another, individuals hunched over the earth with brushes or chisels, people pushing wheel barrows and stretchers full of dirt. But it was the children and teens who snared his attention.

Mae gasped beside him, and Arlow felt his own chest tighten. The young people were filthy, clothed in matching outfits of rough burlap, but most alarmingly, they were chained—fettered by their right ankles in groups of ten or so, clearly to impede their ability to escape.
 

This is no work project
. His jaw tightened.
This is slavery.

Arlow watched with a mounting sense of outrage, his gaze lingering on a teenaged boy as he attempted to persuade the much younger girl chained to his right to continue digging. The girl had fallen to her knees. She wept, and the tears parted the filth on her face as she stared down at her palms. Arlow was too far away too see properly, but he suspected her hands were blistered. The teen shook her, shooting worried looks over his shoulder at the adults, but she only wailed louder.
 

A middle-aged woman, holding—
great Spirits, is that a whip?
—stepped forward. She crouched to have a brief conversation with the girl. Then the entire group climbed out of their trench. The woman pulled the burlap dress over the girls head, leaving the young one utterly naked save for the layers of grime. She was long-limbed but unthinkably thin. She trembled on her knees.

The woman raised the whip, and before Arlow had made a conscious decision to intervene, he found himself bursting from his hiding place and sprinting into the dig site. He had not acted fast enough to prevent the first lash; the sharp sound of it, and the shrill cry of pain that followed, snaked into his abdomen and sped his step.

He caught the second lash on his forearm, and even through the thick fabric of his shirt and coat, the blow stung. He’d undoubtedly have a nasty welt. His boots planted in the earth.

The woman—who had a pinched expression, her black hair pulled so tight it seemed to tug at the flesh of her face—stumbled in surprise. “What do you think you’re doing, you—” she cut off as her eyes landed on the Chisanta mark on Arlow’s neck.
 

Arlow wrenched the whip from her grasp and tossed it aside. “What am
I
doing?” His chest heaved and he pierced her with a glare of pure revilement.
 

She opened her mouth and shut it several times. “Are you the new site director Mr. Asher promised?”

Arlow swallowed, kept his face even. “I am.”

She curtsied and smiled uncertainly. “You’ve made excellent time, sir. I have been managing things in the interim. I am Ms. Topher.” Arlow bowed his head in acknowledgement but did not offer his own name, uncertain whether they were expecting someone in particular. “I apologize for this,” she gestured to the weeping child. “We have followed Mr. Asher’s recommended motivational techniques, but some of these little thieves are incurably lazy.”

Arlow licked his lip and glanced down at the ten chained youths. They eyed him with uniform expressions: one part animosity, two parts fear.
 

“My sister ain’t lazy, lady,” the teenager said, his face hard with defiance. “She’s just tired.”
 

Arlow hated himself for it, but he put on the necessary mask to maintain his ruse. “Watch your mouth when you speak to your betters, boy.”

Ms. Topher nodded approvingly. “Have you learned your lesson, girl, or will the new director have to finish your lashes? He looks to have a strong arm.”
 

The girl shook her head, darting one terrified glance in Arlow’s direction. “No, ma’am. I’ll dig, I swear.”

“Excellent,” Ms. Topher said cheerily, and turned her full attention on Arlow. “I’m sure you would like to see the rest of the site. I will happily show you around. The children are just clearing the dirt. Some of the more capable ones are allowed to handle the sifting screens, but the professionals manage the more delicate matters. We’ve made excellent progress. I think Mr. Asher will be most pleased—these sorts of excavations usually take decades.”

She held out a hand, signaling which direction Arlow should move. He shot one look towards the trees where, presumably, Mae and Foy still hid.
 

Then he took a gulp of air and proceeded further into the dig, prepared to keep a cool exterior in the face of so much human suffering, though it grieved him to do so.

Yarrow’s lips parted in silent shock. He closed his eyes and opened them again, certain his vision had turned faulty. “But…you’re dead. You died.”

Adearre stepped closer, and Yarrow noticed that he appeared somehow less solid than himself. He glanced down at the grass and saw that he alone cast a shadow. “Yes, I did. An unpleasant business, dying. I do not recommend it.” His eyes glittered.

“Then…how?”

Adearre smiled and gestured around him. “The rules are different in this place. You are the first living man to come here physically in a long time, but it is customary for a spirit host to greet visitors. I volunteered.”
 

“It’s the
Aeght a Seve
?” Yarrow asked, looking around him once again.
 

“Yes and no. This place was never named such when men came here in the body. Then, it was the Confluence.”
 

Yarrow frowned.
Confluence? There’s no river here
.
 

“Not of waterways, of realms. This is the confluence of the Spirit Home and the world of men—where the veil that divides the two is thinnest.”
 

Yarrow licked his lips. “You know my thoughts?”

Adearre laughed. “You were always an easy man to read.”
 

Yarrow stepped towards the tree to examine it more closely—despite a friend returning from the dead, he could not seem to wrest his attention from the unsettling sight. He could smell the char of burnt wood, and again his stomach clenched with an emotion he could not understand.
 

“
This
is the Confluence,” Yarrow murmured to himself. “Not the grass or the rocks, but this tree.”

“Yes,” Adearre said.

Yarrow fixed his gaze on a single leaf that had blossomed from the sapling. It was minute, perfect, a vibrant green—like Bray’s eyes. Its stem was light and strong, the blade of the leaf itself formed with heart-wrenching symmetry, its tip a point that curled slightly underneath itself.

It’s only a leaf
, some part of Yarrow’s rational mind whispered, yet it seemed so much more. It was the embodiment of perfection. Yarrow pulled the glove from his hand and, with tremulous fingers, reached out, longing to stroke the stunning bit of greenery.

“Wait,” Adearre said.

Yarrow saw Adearre’s hand grab his own to halt his motion, but he could not feel the weight of flesh. It was like being clasped by the wind. “Why?”

“If you touch the Confluence, something will happen to you. It holds the knowledge of the Spirits and the potential of man. From it, long ago, some received gifts, others were given knowledge. I do not know what will happen.”

Yarrow took a step back, though the Confluence tugged at him, beckoned him. “You think I shouldn’t?”

Adearre smirked. “I think you will do it regardless of what I say, but I thought a warning, at least, was in order.”

Yarrow quirked a brow. “What makes you say that?”

“You are a trollop for truth, Yarrow Lamhart. It is one of your defining qualities.”
 

He laughed. “Cannot say I’ve ever been called a trollop before.” He turned back to the Confluence, to that lovely leaf. “Will you remain with me until it’s over…whatever it is?”

Adearre placed his hand on Yarrow’s shoulder, and he shivered at the strange sense of contact without contact. “I will stay with you, love, for as long as you require me.”
 

Yarrow swallowed against the hard lump that lodged in his throat. “Adearre, I’m so sorry. I should have done something differently. I should have—”

“It was my sacrifice to make,” Adearre said, his golden eyes intent. “I believe it to have been a worthy one. Do not pain yourself on my account, Yarrow. I have no regrets and you bear no blame.”

Yarrow brushed at the tear that ran down his cheek. He then took a bracing lungful of air and raised his fingers, once again, towards the Confluence. “Wish me luck.”

The pad of his index finger grazed the firm, velvety flora and he felt himself fall forward, absorbed bodily into the Confluence.
 

He was no longer himself. He was someone else, a Spirit from long ago—a person called Charlem Bowtar.

15

Charlem Bowtar scampered between the spindly legs of an accommodating camel, his bare feet skating on the hot, sandy tile. The streets of Nerra were densely packed with shoppers, but Charlem was adept at navigating the currents of a crowd.

He heard, distantly, the cry, “Halt, thief!” but was unconcerned. Adults never could move quickly through a busy street.

Still, better wise than hanged.

He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled between several stalls selling spices, the aroma of hot red pepper thick in his nose. He crept until he came to the back of a familiar wine-red tent, then he ducked under the fabric and into the cool shade of a tea vendor’s stall.
 

Mrs. Velerre started upon seeing him, hand flying to her chest. “Spirits, you gave me a fright, Charlem.” She crossed her arms beneath her bosom and assumed a stern expression. “And what have you stolen today?”

Charlem stood. He realized that he must have grown—he was now only a head shorter than Mrs. Velerre, when there had been a far greater difference in their heights not long ago. No wonder his trousers were short.

“I am terribly offended, Madame,” Charlem said, placing his own hand to his chest with affront. “A man lost his purse and I happened upon it. A small tragedy for him, an excellent birthday gift for me.”

He withdrew the sack from his pocket, delighting in the weight of it. This would feed him for months if he spent it wisely. No hungry nights for Charlem, no sir!
 

He extracted a coin and offered it to Mrs. Velerre. “For your trouble.”
 

She smiled and tucked the mark in her apron pocket. “That’s good of you, Charlie. I’ll get you a cup of tea.” She bustled over to her hearth and Charlem sank down onto a cushion. “Is it truly your birthday?”