Division of the Marked (The Marked Series) by March McCarron Page A

sweet smell in the air that tickled at her nose. The space was exceptionally dark—the only light came from the moon, stars, and the deep blue of the sky through the narrow gap overhead.  
    “It’s strange. There are no doors or windows down here. What could this place be for?” she shouted to the boys above her.
    “Do you see the sword?” Roldon called.
    “Yes,” she said.  
    She took hold of the weapon. It was lighter than she expected; it felt oddly comfortable in her hand. The hilt was engraved. She could not see properly in the darkness, but she thought it bore the five circles of the Chisanta.  
    “It’s amazing,” Bray said, as she whipped the sword around, slicing the air. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and she could make out her surroundings better. Across the room, there were stacks of old crates piled all the way to the ceiling, broken glass strewn across the ground.  
    “How’re we going to get you back up?” Peer asked. “Is there anything to stand on?”
    Bray did not answer. Her eyes had moved back to the sword. Now she could see that its tip was covered in dark, dried blood. She let the weapon fall from her hand. It hit the stone floor with a clatter.  
    “Bray, what’s wrong?” Peer asked.  
    She could not find her voice to respond—the dark shape they had seen from above was now discernible to her adjusted eyes.
    It had four limbs, splayed at odd angles. The leather jerkin and white shirt beneath were both stained black with blood. Its gray face and lifeless eyes pointed in Bray’s direction, as if seeing her.
    She felt her mouth go dry and her legs turn leaden.
    “Bray? Bray, what’s happened?” Peer pleaded.  
    She wondered if she should scream or faint—that was what women always did in sensation stories after all. Instead, she just felt weary and sick.
    Finally she found her voice. “Peer?”  
    “Yes?”
    “You need to go for help,” Bray said, her voice sounding calm in her own ears.
    “Why, are you hurt?”
    “No,” she answered, “but there’s a dead man down here.”  

    Yarrow sat at a large round table with several of his brothers and sisters of the Cosanta. Ko-Jin, on his right, tapped his foot rhythmically against the floor.  
    “You think she’s alright?” Ko-Jin whispered.
    “Yes,” Yarrow replied. He recalled how Bray had wielded a pistol and threatened a highwayman without even a tremor in her voice. Yes, she would be alright.
    Yarrow watched Ander Penton as he dipped his pen in ink and scrawled several short sentences on a sheaf of paper. The other faces around the table watched as well, having nothing more interesting to stare at. They were all familiar to Yarrow now, though he wouldn’t label any as ‘friend.’ It was no wonder; Britt, at the age of twenty, was the youngest of their party. Twenty-year-olds and fourteen-year-olds didn’t have a lot in common.  
    Yarrow heard the door open and shut behind him.
    “What news?” Ander asked.
    Britt swatted at a few fair hairs fallen loose from her braid as she strode into the room. “They estimate he’s been dead for twelve to fourteen days.”
    “Who?” Ander asked. There was a collective holding of breath.
    Britt collapsed into a chair and rubbed at her eyes. “He was Chiona—Ambrone Chassel.”
    Ander’s eyes closed and he exhaled slowly. “You are certain?”
    “Yes. His wife just identified him.”
    Yarrow hadn’t known that a Chisanta could marry, but shelved that question for a later time.  
    “This is grave news, indeed,” Ander said. He continued softly, as if to himself, “Ambrone and I came here in the same carriage, all those years ago...”  
    Yarrow pitied the older man. If Arlow, Peer, or—he could not even think the last name—were found dead, he would be distraught. The Chiona and the Cosanta did not much like each other, but some bonds go deeper even than prejudice.
    “He died by his own sword,” Britt plunged on. “Enton, you may want to lay