Daniel accepts my red cloak from one of the soldiers and stepping behind me gently throws it over my shoulders, covering my gruesome wounds.
“It hurts,” I almost whisper.
“Can it hurt?” the prince asks Morok with surprise in his voice.
“Yes, but the wounds will heal in a few days.” Morok’s voice is as low and flat as usual, with zero emotion.
“But I’m… dead… my body can’t heal…”
Morok turns back to me and I instantly regret saying anything.
“Our connection. You will be healed with the help of my powers. The same ones that make you walk and babble right now.”
I bite my tongue and wince in pain. I’d love to ask when the wounds will stop hurting but I don’t dare try his patience.
“Are you satisfied with the performance, Your Highness?” I do my best to keep the contempt out of my voice.
“More than satisfied, my dear Agatha!” He gently wraps my hand with both of his. “Now, it’s about time we cleaned you up and introduced you to my father.”
2
“How lucky!”
“The family is blessed!”
“Marked twice!”
The villagers are whispering to each other, huddled together around the house where six Maras, their scarlet cloaks standing out against the snow, are gathered to meet their new sister. And I am among them.
That’s because one of us died of old age last week. And as soon as she let out her last breath, we all felt that a new sister was born, the one who is to take her place. And it is the first time I’m welcoming a new member to the family.
We are already a few days into the first winter month but snow has taken its sweet time this year. The landscape stayed grey and brownish with rotten leaves and sticky mud covering the earth, the legacy of frequent rains, for what seemed like an eternity. But no sooner than we set off on our journey, what does it do? Start snowing – heavily, all day and all night, blanketing the ground and slowing us down.
When we finally arrive at the village, it is after midday. The sky is a dazzling blue, the sun is high and its rays are reflected off the painfully white shroud of snow. The villagers freeze when we brush past them in our scarlet cloaks and the ground is crunching under our boots. I’m thirteen and till now I have been the youngest sister.
I became a Mara three years ago, a week after I turned ten. It happened the same way it does to all of us. Only ten-year-old girls with jet-black hair can discover these powers.
“Are you happy, Agatha?” asks Irina, whose hand I’m clinging to.
Irina is my mentor. It is she who is responsible for my training. She must be around seventy years old but looks no more than thirty. Maras live longer than ordinary people. Up to nineteen, we grow just like everybody else and then our aging process slows down significantly. Or so I was told. That’s why even the oldest of us, who has turned one hundred twenty-three years, looks about fifty.
Irina, like other Maras, has long black hair, a beautiful face and a pleasant smile.
“I’m nervous,” I mumble. “Do you know who she is?”
“No.”
“And when you came to take me, you didn’t know either?”
“We didn’t. You feel that invisible thread… we all feel it as if she’s summoning us,” I nod and she smiles at me. “So, we follow the thread till we find her, our new sister.”
“Why is everyone whispering?” I mutter again, looking around me.
I’ve hated being the center of other people’s attention since I was little, but now thanks to my garments and my powers, everyone notices me, wherever I go.
“Who knows… they might have an idea about who the new sister is,” says my mentor, a mysterious smile playing on her lips.
We arrive last, the other sisters are already gathered in front of the house. We are not going to enter though; everyone knows why we are here. At this very moment the parents of our new sister must be wrapping her in warm clothes and packing some food for her journey… and saying their goodbyes. They must be doing the same things my parents did a few years ago. I’ve never seen them since.
Even if I’d wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to see them because they left our village. That’s another rule. After a girl is taken by Maras, the family must leave. It keeps newly marked Maras from running back to their parents’ home in the first few years of living in the temple, before they get accustomed to their new family.
You can’t run to your parents if you don’t know where to run.
The villagers, too, start gathering around the house. They stand behind us, buzzing with anticipation, casting occasional glances at the closed door. Some people are wondering out loud how beautiful the girl is going to be. Everyone knows she’s going to have a fair complexion and jet-black hair, matching Morana’s. But all Maras have different eye-colors, so there’re no rules here. The Goddess herself is said to have dark-brown eyes, almost black. Irina has hazel eyes and Kira – brilliant green, like dewy grass on a summer morning. My eyes are blue, as cold as ice so my mom used to say. Like beautiful half-transparent ice.
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