The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (11 page)

Gaiana’s hands reach for me, but she pauses, waiting for my permission. I hesitate, then nod. She shifts closer and lifts the hem of my shirt.

“Hold it,” she commands gently, and I take the lifted edge.

Her fingers work the bandage loose and unwrap it. Logan and Bran both shift uncomfortably, looking away, looking back, looking away, and I stifle a snicker at their discomfort.

As the facts start to click, I ask in surprise, “You’re a Healer?”

“Yes. Feluvas and I are the only ones in Avydos. It’s a rare gift.”

I am awed by this, that the Prima is about to Heal me.

As Gaiana drops the bandage, which is stained with dried blood, I hear Logan’s sharply drawn breath. I study the wound myself. It looks several weeks old, partially Healed already, but it’s still ugly. A round hole, raw, ringed with bruising. Gaiana looks at my back, and I feel her fingers tremble slightly.

I tense, thinking she is looking at the Griever’s Mark, but then she asks breathlessly, “Did
he
do this to you?”

Ah. The lash marks. I know “he” means Belos, but I don’t know why it should be a question, why it should surprise her.

“Yes.”

Her fingers curl against my back. “Why?”

The question almost sounds rhetorical, as though she is not expecting an answer, but I say, “For letting a Warden get away.”

“Korinna.”

“Yes.”

“You saved her life. Thank you.”

I shift uncomfortably and clear my throat. Why do these people have to make everything so awkward?

She persists, “You saved my son as well.”

I say roughly, wishing she would dispense with the thanks, “He was only in danger because he was saving me.”

Gaiana studies me from deep blue eyes, looking suddenly like Bran. “Why do you diminish everything you do?”

When I start to pull away, Gaiana’s hands grow firm, and she places them over my wounds. I freeze when I feel again that sense of immersion: water, earth, air, fire. I am swimming, enveloped, floating, burning. The elements move through me, around me. I am part of them. My heart seems to lift from my body.

Then it’s gone, and I gasp. I am cold, in a dank cell. I ache with loss, wondering if that is what it feels like to command earthmagic.

Gaiana sits back. She is studying me once more, but there is something different in her expression this time. Is it suspicion? Fear? What did she feel in me? My Leash, perhaps? Can an Earthmaker feel that? She opens her mouth as though to say something but closes it again, and her expression returns to smoothness.

I look away, certain she was only sensing my dirtiness. I prod my stomach where a faint scar marks my flesh. I am whole. I have never known such power, not in Belos, not in the Drift.

I swallow hard. “Thank you, Lady.”

Gaiana smiles at the Keldan word, and I color. Again she looks about to say something, but it vanishes once more.

I clear my throat and look to Logan, whose expression betrays his relief. His whole body sags, as though tension has drained from him and left him exhausted. I was right: he was worried. No one has ever worried about me before. I can’t help it; it makes me feel warm. “Now you.”

“Later. I want to talk to you now.”

Everyone, it seems, has questions for me.

Gaiana saves me. “You are not walking up those stairs again on that leg. Sit down. Right now.”

I pop up from the cot without being told, marveling at the easy, pain-free movement. I slip over to Bran as Logan limps to the cot.

Gaiana says, “I need to be able to touch it.

Logan looks flustered. “I’m not taking down my pants.”

“Then cut a hole in them. I don’t care. But I need access to the injury. Right now.” She snaps her fingers, and I smile privately to see the Prima vanish within the mother.

Logan sighs. He unbuckles his belt and unlaces his pants. Now it’s my turn to shift uncomfortably. I look away, staring at Bran’s shoulder, at the torch, at the door.

When I hear Logan sit with a thump, I glance back. Black undershorts show below the hem of his tunic. His legs are long and muscled, well-shaped. My heart skitters. I have never stared at a man’s body before, but I know I’m staring now. He unwinds a white bandage from his right leg, and I draw a sharp breath at the sight of the bruising and swelling. The ragged puncture seeps blood. I am suddenly furious with him for not letting it be tended.

So is Gaiana. She’s shaking her head, muttering, and I’m sure I hear the word “idiot” in there somewhere.

She falls silent when she puts her hands on the wound. Logan grunts in pain at the touch, then sighs as the wound Heals. When he sags in relief against the wall, I realize how much it has been hurting him. I am furious all over again.

When he stands to pull up his pants, I look away. Only when I hear the slide of his belt do I dare turn my face back.

When I see Bran’s face relax, I realize how tense he was also. Relieved silence fills the cell.

Logan breaks it with, “Give us a moment.”

Bran and Gaiana’s hesitation tells me that Aron has likely forbidden this, but I’m glad to see them incline their heads. Even if I don’t want to answer more questions, I want a moment with Logan when others aren’t looming. I want to judge his loyalties and his intentions. I tell myself there is nothing more to it, that it has nothing to do with simple
wanting
. Deep down, I know myself a liar.

Gaiana lingers in the doorway a moment. She studies me, and I sense once more that trace of suspicion, of an unasked question. None of the others have hesitated with their questions. Why does she?

Finally, she takes Bran’s offered arm. Logan and I are frozen, waiting for privacy. Overlaying Bran and Gaiana’s footsteps are their voices, but they are too low for me to make out the words. They are whispering.

When we are alone, with the torchlight flickering over Logan’s shoulder and playing along his jawline, he says, “I need to know something, Astarti.”

My name in his mouth is a wave, with crests and troughs of sound, drawn out and lovely. Usually, people pronounce it harshly.

I train my own voice to steadiness. “What?”

He takes a step closer. “Why did you not kill me when you first had the chance? Why did you not let Belos do it later?”

“You Earthmakers dig and dig until you get the answers you want. I already told you I didn’t know.”

“I believe you. Partially. I want more.”

I am keenly aware of the small space between us, the way we are both torn between closing it and distancing ourselves.

He asks, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Yes. Have you?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then he asks, “Are you ashamed of any of your kills?”

An image flashes. A young man with a cleft lip crouching in a horse stall. Belos, eyes livid, snarling at him, “Deal breaker.” Belos staring at me. “Kill him.” Belos’s fingers clenched on my throat. Blood sprayed across the straw and wood paneling of the stall, dripping into the feed trough.

I close my eyes, willing darkness to fill me and take away this memory.

I feel Logan draw near. He lifts my chin, lets go when I open my eyes. There is too much shadow for me to read his eyes. He asks again, gentle but insistent, “Why did you not kill me?”

“Belos may own me. But he does not
own
me.” I shake my head, frustrated. I cannot explain this; I can only feel it. I try again, “I will not just be his creature. I am, I know. But I will not.”

I turn away, grind my palms against my eyes in aggravation. Why must he drag up such things?

Logan’s fingers touch my shoulder. “He doesn’t own you.”

Even though I just said that, I cannot agree with him. “I am
Leashed
, Logan.”

“He doesn’t own you. You will break free.”

I laugh hollowly. “A Leash cannot be broken.”

“Not unless he dies.”

The laugh, bitter and ugly, shakes through my whole body. “Right,” I say sarcastically. “Unless he dies.”

Logan’s fingers tighten, digging painfully into my shoulder. “Don’t lose hope.”

“Don’t you see, Logan? I haven’t lost it. I never had any to begin with.” The words burn like acid in my mouth, in my chest.

“Yes, you did. And you do. Or you wouldn’t have saved me. Or Korinna. You have not given yourself fully to him, even though he’s all you’ve ever known. I don’t pity you, Astarti. I am angry on your behalf, but I don’t pity you because you are strong and don’t need it. You need faith in yourself. That’s all.”

I swallow a lump in my throat. No one has ever spoken to me like this. It feels good, but it hurts, too. It daunts me. He’s suggesting that I challenge Belos, defy him. I know I did that already when I protected Logan, but I wasn’t really thinking then, and it was a small act anyway. Do I have anything more in me?

I don’t know when Logan leaves. I am deep within myself, thinking.

* * *

I am sitting on my cot, running my fingers through the stripes of light that fall over my knees, when someone tromps angrily down the stairs. I have been trying to access the Drift, getting a little closer. Once, I summoned a light into my palm, though I let it go quickly in case the guards outside noticed.

I hear sharp words, the Arcon telling the guards to go.

Then Polemarc Clitus’s voice calls after them, “If one of you tells Loganos, you will both answer to me.”

That makes my heart skip.

I am standing, fists clenched, when the key rattles in the lock. The Arcon wrenches the door open, and it bangs against the wall.

“You,” he says, “will give me some answers.”

Chapter 14

THE ARCON’S VOICE cracks like a whip, and I wonder what set him off.

He doesn’t leave me in suspense.

“First, you beguile my brother; now you have my mother convinced of the most absurd nonsense. What is this? Some Drift-work? Some manipulation your master has taught you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play with me.”

My heart pounds in warning, but thankfully my voice holds steady. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what you mean about Logan. Or the Prima.”

He sneers, “Of course you don’t.”

Clitus says, “Aron, focus.”

Aronos grits his teeth. I am shocked by how much he hates me. Even Straton, with his sly condescension, doesn’t show it like this.

Aronos takes a shuddering breath, and that Earthmaker control slides over him. His voice is suddenly brusque, even cool when he asks, “What is your master’s interest in Martel?”

His abrupt shift takes me aback, but I recover quickly, and I sneer at him as he has done at me. “You need me to answer that? He wants to Leash him, of course.”

My sharp answer cracks Aron’s calm façade. He glares. “You might pretend to be stupid, but I don’t believe you actually are. Why does your master”—he emphasizes the word nastily—“want him Leashed?”

“Beyond the obvious purpose of absorbing Martel’s lifeforce and increasing his own power?” I don’t know why, but I can’t help but needle Aron. He only stares at me. “I’m still not sure why you need me to tell you. Belos”—I love watching him flinch when I say Belos’s name—“wants to control the next king of Kelda.”

“As simple as that, is it?”

My mouth opens on a snarky reply when Clitus cuts in, “Why Martel? What does he offer? The Unnamed could choose any man.”

I have to accord Clitus a grudging respect. At least he asks the right questions. Still, he shouldn’t have to ask me. “Don’t your Wardens know? Isn’t that their job? Do you not realize how many men Martel has gathered?”

Clitus’s face is stone. “None have reported a sizable force.”

I cross my arms, growing more comfortable. For the moment, I have the power here. “Clearly you haven’t been watching Martel long enough. Or closely enough. He got stupid because he panicked”—I don’t add that I manipulated him into that—“and he almost ruined everything for himself, but he’s been preparing for years.”

Clitus demands, “How?”

“Gathering supporters obviously.” Unfortunately, I am already reaching the end of my knowledge. I know Martel has men hidden in the mountains east of Tornelaine. I’ve heard rumors that there are more to the north. Beyond that, I am as ignorant as Aron and Clitus. Because I am still annoyed, I poke them again. “Why haven’t your Wardens reported this to you?”

Aron and Clitus share a furious look. I’ve touched a nerve. Then I grimace inwardly; I hope I haven’t just gotten Logan in trouble. He is, after all, one of those Wardens.

The Arcon turns a stiff face to me. “Logan reports that you held a private conversation with Martel. You offered him a deal?”

“Yes.”

“The terms?”

“Haven’t we covered this? Martel will be Leashed. Belos will support him in his war.”

“But the Unnamed will control him.”

I grin wickedly. I have never enjoyed this part of the deals, but I am enjoying Aron’s horror. “That part is always...implied.”

Aron’s look of disgust gives me a wash of satisfaction.

Clitus flicks a warning glance at Aron before eyeing me. “And what was Martel’s response to your offer?”

I hesitate. Nothing I have yet said has given them useful information, but I don’t know how they will use this next fact. Do I want to help them? Then I wonder: why am I protecting Belos?

I admit, “He refused.”

Aron’s shoulders drop in relief.

“Why do you care about Martel?”

Aron snaps, “I’m asking the questions,” so quickly that I know my question matters.

I cross my arms confidently. “He will give in to Belos eventually. It’s only a matter of time.”

Aron gives me a dirty look.

I ask, not letting go of my suspicions, “Why is he important to you?”

“Do you really think I would give information to a spy of Belos?”

I blink in surprise. It had not occurred to me that they might think me a spy.

The Arcon stalks closer, stopping just beyond arm’s reach. “You can play innocent all you want, but you won’t fool me. You did a very good job of fooling my brother, but I’m sure that was all part of your master’s plan.”