Mara and Morok. Лия Арден

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      The sisters stand in complete silence, waiting for the family to finish their preparations. I am the only one shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. I’m looking round a small vegetable patch in front of a simple one-storey house, the lopsided roof of which, like everything else around it, is blanketed in snow, making the walls look almost black. The curtains on the windows are closed, allowing no curious glances inside. White smoke billows from the chimney showing that the family is at home. By the time the door opens, my hands are freezing. I breathe the tiniest cloud of steam onto my cupped hand for the last time and look up.

      “Mom…”

      Irina gives my left hand a gentle squeeze. She is still holding it in hers but doesn’t resist when I pull it out and take a few steps forward.

      “Agatha!” My mom gives a sob.

      I hesitate. I’m looking at my parents who are standing in the doorway not daring to take a step towards me. They are not sure if it’s allowed. I glance at the house again, not knowing what to believe, if it is even possible. Peering out from behind their backs is my little sister. She is wearing a blue, winter fur-lined jacket. We were never rich; I would even say we were pretty poor, and this simple winter jacket must be the most expensive item of clothing my sister owns. It brings out the color of her eyes, which are also blue, like mine, but a darker, deeper sky-blue. Our mom often told us that we were beautiful, but even back then I knew it wasn’t true. My sister is the real beauty, you just can’t take your eyes off her. Her complexion is fairer and her hair is darker and shinier than mine, and she has enormous eyes. She always looked like a fancy doll and she still does.

      Our mom opens her arms, still sobbing, and without any further hesitation I run up to her and fall into her embrace. Then I hug my dad. I also try to pull my sister in but I can’t reach her.

      “That’s true then…”

      “The second daughter in the same family!”

      “What a blessing!” the villagers are whispering louder now, watching us with rapturous attention.

      I look back at my sisters, Maras, and I see them smiling. But these smiles are thin and sad for, unlike the villagers, they realize what a tragedy it is for the family. They know people only talk about the blessing till it comes to their own house and forces them to give up their own child.

      And my parents have to give up a second one.

      I feel a treacherous joy rising up in me, mixing with bitter disappointment. I know this pain of separation, I know the lessons my sister will have to learn the hard way, the destiny that awaits both of us. We are destined to live a lonely life, devoid of love of our parents or a husband. We can’t marry, our lives are dedicated to ridding the world of evil. I don’t want that for my sister. But the warm feeling that I’m no longer alone is already spreading inside my chest.

      “Anna,” I reach out for my baby sister again and now, she presses against me like she used to when she was a baby.

      My father wipes away the tears before they fall, but my mother is not trying to hide hers. She cries openly, gently stroking my hair. They don’t say anything to the other Maras because they know that no pleas or threats will stop them. Anna will be taken away no matter what, even if she has to be prized away from her parents’ arms.

      They say there used to be families that tried to escape and save their daughters from their destiny. But it would always end the same way. The girl would be either given up voluntarily or taken from the arms of already dead parents. So now, no one even tries to resist. No girl who was marked by Morana has ever managed to escape her fate.

      But no family has ever been ‘blessed’ with two Maras either. I glance at the Maras again and it hits me. Anna must be special.

      Irina steps forward and gives me her hand. I grasp it like a straw and follow my mentor. My other hand is still grasping Anna’s, so I’m dragging her away too, to some new, magical world that she’s only heard of from the fairy tales and legends. The world that will become her new reality, so different from the one we used to dream of, huddled together around the fire on cold, winter evenings.

      3

      I grit my teeth when Prince Daniel orders his men to find a white steed for me, even if they had to turn the whole village inside out in the process. The more time I have to spend in his company, the more annoyed I become. His childish enthusiasm and the way he talks about the old legends, which for me are (or rather used to be) harsh reality, are really starting to get to me.

      “I don’t need a white steed, Your… Highness.” I add the last word under Dariy’s intense and hostile stare. I’m doing the best I can not to snap at him that the dislike is mutual.

      Daniel turns to me and his lips break into a ready smile. Either he doesn’t notice the way he sets my teeth on edge or he’s doing it on purpose, just to have a little fun at my expense. And judging by the fact that his smile that doesn’t stretch to his observant eyes, I’m gravitating towards the latter.

      “Oh, my dear Agatha, but you do! For two centuries people have thought of Maras as a thing of the past…”

      “We are.” I butt in.

      “…and here you are, in your scarlet cloak…” he goes on paying no heed to my comment. “…entering the capital on a white steed. A living legend. White is one of your colors, isn’t it?”

      “It is, but…”

      “Good!” says Prince, turns away from me and shouts to his soldiers to double down on the search.

      I feel an overwhelming urge to give him a good kick, but one glimpse of Morok stifles it immediately. He’s standing still like a statue, in his black armor and his black-and-gold mask, half hidden by the hood. If Maras’ colors are red, black and white, Moroks are said to wear only black and gold.

      The Shadow’s servants are just as real as Maras or evil spirits, but back when I was still alive, they were somewhat of a legend or a cautionary tale for Maras. They have a similar job to ours, they lay lost souls to rest. But if Maras were always easy to reach and anyone could come to the temple and ask for our help, Moroks are hard to come by. Rumor has it that there are only three to five Moroks out there at any one time and only a few people know for sure where their temple is or if they have one at all. Moreover, not many people would have the guts to reach out to them even if they knew how to. Maras are merciful, even when we sever the life threads tying you to earth, we offer a chance of reincarnation, of life after death. The soul finds its peace and flies to the Goddess, who will determine its next life form. Death at Morok’s hand is… the end. There’s no rebirth, no second chances. Some say that Moroks can also send a soul to the Shadow forever. No one and nothing is there, there are no smells or sounds, it’s neither hot nor cold in the Shadow. Just an eternal excruciating emptiness that you can’t escape. The mere thought of that place, impossible even to imagine, makes me shudder.

      Kings used to take interest in Maras for our ability to prolong a life. But a Morok has a different power, to raise the СКАЧАТЬ