The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (13 page)

As we draw near the house, I see that it is, indeed, abandoned. Wind and sand have worn away much of the plaster, leaving patches of exposed beams. Many of the roof tiles are broken or missing. Stone steps, almost entirely covered with sand, lead to the door, which hangs crookedly. The windows are shuttered, though one has fallen off its hinges and into the sand.

Logan opens the door, which scrapes against the stone porch. He motions me inside with a grand gesture.

“Home,” he announces.

Chapter 16

SAND HAS BLOWN through the door and open window and lies in beautiful, whipped patterns over the red tile floor. A table stands along the back wall under a wide shelf that holds bowls and plates, jars, lanterns, tools, and candles. Along another wall is a faded green and blue curtain that probably separates a sleeping area from the main room. In the fireplace, a kettle hangs on a blackened chain and a grate straddles long-dead coals. A thick, dusty sheepskin lies before it.

Logan takes a ratty broom from beside the door. He begins to sweep briskly, and I move out of his way to stand by the fireplace. When the worst of the sand is gone and dust dances in the light, he leans the broom against the wall again.

“I’ll fix the door. Will you go get some water? There’s a freshwater stream about a hundred yards that way.” He points.

I am dumbfounded by these ordinary tasks after all that has happened.

Logan disappears through the door and returns a minute later with a wooden shoulder yoke from which two buckets are suspended by rope.

I stare at him in disbelief. “What are we doing?”

“Are you not thirsty?”

“Logan.”

He takes a shuddering breath, and his eyes meet mine with a brief swirl of color. “I don’t know, Astarti.”

I reproach myself. It’s not like any of this was planned. And he has just put himself in great trouble with his brother, the Arcon. And with his Polemarc. For me. Of course he doesn’t know what we’re doing, not any more than I do. I take the yoke and fit it to my shoulders. I manage a smile, hoping it doesn’t look too grim.

I find the stream easily. It’s about ten feet wide and three deep. I crouch in the sand beside it and cup water in my hands to drink. The water is cold, no doubt coming from the snowcapped mountains. The taste is clean. I fill the buckets.

When I return to the house—more of a hut, really—Logan is testing the swing of the door. A hammer lies on the ground by his foot.

“Is carpentry part of a Warden’s customary training?”

He looks up in surprise, then smiles a little, not answering my question.

I set the water by the empty fireplace and eye the dusty sheepskin. I roll it up and take it outside to shake it. Dust and sand fly from it, making me cough. Even Logan hides behind a sleeve.

He says, eyes watering, “I’ll take the boat out.”

“Boat?”

“It’s behind the house. Hopefully still sound. There aren’t food supplies here anymore, so it’s fish or nothing.”

Again I want to ask him what we are doing, what the
plan
is, but I hold it back. I nod.

From the doorway I watch Logan drag the boat from behind the house and down to the water. I glimpse nets and spears. Logan’s movements are brisk, a little jerky, and I realize how worried he must be.

I go down to the beach to collect driftwood for a fire. The boat is close enough that I can see Logan rowing. I worry briefly. It’s a very small boat in a big ocean. And clouds are forming.

Several trips to and from the house builds a substantial pile of driftwood. I find flint on the mantel and am surprised. Wouldn’t an Earthmaker just call on fire? Why use these tools?

Soon a fire is crackling, and water is heating in the kettle. I find soap and a linen towel on the shelf above the table. I pour hot water into a large earthenware bowl and sit on the sheepskin by the fire. I scrub my face and body with a corner of the towel and wash my hair as best I can. When I am done, I throw the disturbingly brown water outside and resettle myself by the fire, drying my hair with the cleaner parts of the towel.

The flames dance and warm my face. I have always loved the play of fire. It fills my eyes and mind until I am nothing but flame. The rest of the world dies away. Worries fade.

When a spark pops and lands on my exposed arm, I start. I look around, expecting...something. But there is only the quiet room, its simple features lovely in the half light of the fire. Beyond there is sand and ocean. No people. No conflict.

This place is, most definitely, an escape. Logan said he found it when he was young. What was he escaping then?

The rain starts a muted patter on the tile roof. I enjoy it at first, but then I think of Logan out on the water. I go to the door but can see nothing on the dark stretch of water. The rain isn’t heavy, but it’s cold.

My hair is almost dry when I hear Logan pull the boat around the side of the hut. When he comes in with a bucket, I smell fish and salt water. He lets the bucket drop with a thump and comes straight to the fire. He crouches beside me, chafing his hands together near the flames. His wet shirt clings to his back, and water drips from his hair onto his neck. He’s shivering.

“You’re freezing. Are there any blankets?”

His teeth clack when he says, “Behind the curtain.”

When I pull the curtain aside, I find a narrow sleeping cubby with a bed and a chest at the bed’s foot. I open the chest. It’s too dark now to see anything much, but I feel wool and sheepskin. I gather an armful and return to Logan. I drop the pile to the ground and dig through it for a heavy blanket.

“Take off your shirt. It’s soaked.”

He hesitates. Then he pulls the shirt over his head. My breath catches when I see the scars crisscrossing his back. They are deep, puckered, evidence of a much worse lashing than Belos gave me. Probably multiple lashings. He is tense, expecting me to comment, hoping that I don’t. When I drape the blanket over his shoulders, the tension goes out of him. He doesn’t look at me. I hand him a towel for his hair. He scrubs quickly and starts to get up.

I press fingers to his shoulder. “Stay. Get warm. I’ll start the fish.”

“There’s some olive oil in the stone jar. It might still be usable.”

I find the jar on the shelf and pop the cork. I take a wary sniff. It has the usual rich aroma. I dip my finger in and taste. My mouth waters, and my stomach rumbles in expectation. I pour a little oil into a cast iron pan. Selfishly, I am relieved to see that Logan has already gutted the fish.

I slide the pan onto the grate straddling the fire. When it’s hot, I drop in the fish. Oil splatters. I jerk back.

“Careful,” Logan warns, and I smile at the irony. This is certainly among the least dangerous moments of our day.

“I don’t suppose there’s any salt?”

Logan says excitedly, “Yes, I think there is,” and he pops up from the rug. He must be at least as hungry as I am. He rummages along the shelf and comes back with a little wooden box of salt. He sprinkles the sizzling fish, whose silver and gray striped skin is starting to crisp.

While the fish cooks, I hunt the shelf to find plates, forks, and tin cups for water. I scoop up some water for Logan and he drinks greedily. I offer him more, and he drinks that too. I know it’s a very small thing, but it feels good to take care of him. I have never taken care of anyone before.

When the fish is white and flaky, I fill our plates. Logan is spearing fish and shoveling it into his mouth before I am even settled on the sheepskin. Yes, hungry. I smile to myself, relieved that he doesn’t eat with royal manners. That would make me uncomfortable.

“Sea bream,” Logan says when I ask him what we’re eating.

Delicate and mild. I imagine it with fresh bread and tomatoes, maybe some soft goat cheese.

When we’re both full, I take the plates outside and wash them, then return to the fire and sit by Logan. Now that we have nothing with which to busy ourselves, I am keenly aware of the nearness of our bodies and the fact that we are so far away from other people. His knee brushes mine when he shifts position.

Questions churn within me. I want Logan to speak about himself. I want to know why he helped me. I want to know why he comes to this place. I want to know why his back is scarred from a lash. Even Belos never beat me like that. And Logan is a Primo. Who would beat him so brutally? But I can’t ask any of these questions. Logan’s closed face tells me they are all off limits. So I ask another question, one that has troubled me almost as much.

“What did you mean when you said your mother was right? What was she right about?” My voice breaks awkwardly into the silence.

Logan stares into the fire so long that I think he will refuse to answer even this. Then, “Do you know what you did in the cell today?”

My heart leaps. I have been trying not to think about that. “When I broke the stone?”

“Yes.” His words are slow and careful. “When you broke the stone.”

I give him the only answer that makes sense to me, the only one possible. “I finally got to the Drift. How is it that the Drift is so...buried here? It’s like searching through the dark. No. More like trying to find something in a dream, but you can’t. When your movements are slow and what you want eludes you. Do you know what I mean?”

He studies me with his strange Earthmaker eyes until I grow uncomfortable. What is he seeing? “It’s always been that way.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

His answer doesn’t satisfy me, and I am about to push for more when he asks, “How did you enter the Current that day when I pulled you out?”

I shrug. “It was an accident. I fell into it.”

“How?”

His tone makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong. “I don’t know.”

“Describe it.”

I consider refusing, because this makes me uncomfortable, because
he
is making me uncomfortable, but he just waits. “Belos and I were fighting. He was very angry, and I thought he would kill me. I fell against the tree, and I was...willing myself to escape. I thought I would go into the Drift, but I fell into the Current. Belos told me it’s part of the Drift but difficult to access.”

“It’s not part of the Drift,” Logan says firmly. “Only
Earthmakers
can use it.”

I stare at him blankly.

“Do you understand?”

I try not to agree with Straton on questions of my intelligence, but something about what he’s saying refuses to penetrate.

Gold flickers through his irises. He asks again, “How did you break the stone?”

I cannot allow myself to take him seriously. I force a laugh. “I’m a Drifter. You can’t possibly think I used—”

“My mother is a Healer. When a Healer Heals, she is in close communion with the...inner self...of her patient—I can’t explain it; I’m not a Healer. But she says that you have earthmagic. She could feel it in you.”

My blood goes cold, but I force another laugh. “That’s absurd.”

“Aron thought so too—until you broke the stone. Even Bran was skeptical.” A shadow seems to pass over his face. Some thought about Bran? Does he worry what Bran will think of him for helping me? “But I would imagine that Bran will be convinced by now.”

“And you?”

“I found you in the Current remember? Either the Unnamed took you into it or you got there yourself. Initially, I chose to believe the former because it made the most sense to me, but given the other evidence...well. I believe my mother is right: you are part Earthmaker. Why don’t you believe that?”

“I’m a Drifter. That’s all. What you’re saying, it just can’t be.” I brighten as I think of another reason to disbelieve him. “That’s not even possible. Earthmakers don’t—you know—with humans. Isn’t that against your law or something?”

Logan looks away from me, into the fire. A muscle bunches in his jaw. “Yes. That is our law. Earthmakers cannot be with humans, especially Drifters.”

I feel the sudden distance between us, and my chest hollows out. His knee may be inches from mine, but there is a divide between us greater than the distance between Avydos and the Dry Land. I am a Drifter, dirty in his eyes. I tell myself not to shift away, not to acknowledge this Earthmaker prejudice, but my knee, with a mind of its own, edges away from his. I have heard what Earthmakers call my kind: the Unclean.

He says emphatically, “It’s not impossible.”

For a brief, euphoric moment I think he means it’s not impossible for us, and then I realize he means it’s not impossible that I am of mixed blood. My cheeks flame. What “us”? I speak the Earthmaker word to myself, imagining it in Logan’s mind: Unclean, Unclean, Unclean.

Logan’s fingers play with the whorls of fleece, winding and unwinding it from his finger. “There are old stories of those with mixed blood. The names are lost, blacked out. But the stories remain as cautionary tales.” He shakes his head. “I don’t remember the stories, but I do remember the lesson, that the mixing of blood is forbidden.”

“What makes it so bad?” I hate the whine that slides along the edge of my voice. Why do I care what they think?

“They say it’s dangerous.”

That catches my interest. “How so?”

“No one says exactly. No one seems to know. Or maybe I just can’t remember. But you can use the Drift. And, it seems, you can use earthmagic.”

“I can’t use earthmagic.” Maybe if I keep saying that, fear will stop twisting my stomach.

“You used the Current. Alone.”

I say nothing. I don’t even allow myself to think.

“You really know nothing of your parents?”

I say hotly, “I told you—”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“This theory is ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous, Astarti, and it would go a long way to explain why Belos wanted you.”

“He didn’t
want
me. He found me. My mother left me at the water’s edge”—I don’t say
to die
—“and he picked me up.”

“Oh, and he’s in the habit of adopting orphans, is he? Just making sure they have a home? I suppose he takes in lost puppies as well. That would be right in character for him.”

Heat washes through me. I lurch to my feet. I stride for the door and swing it open. The rain is gone. I breathe deep in the fresh, moist air, calming myself. Logan is suggesting that Belos sought me out specifically. That he knew what I was. Can this be? Does Belos, perhaps, know who my parents were? Did my parents perhaps know that Belos—