The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (15 page)

“Somehow I can picture Bran surrounded by a stack of old manuscripts.”

“He probably is at this very moment.”

“Not a Warden, then?”

Logan’s face darkens. “No.”

I curse myself for stumbling onto a bad subject. For a moment, everything was right and easy again, and I ruined it.

Logan uses a long fork to spear the fish from the pan. He slides a few onto my plate. I blow on them, and the steam curls in the firelight. The salty fish and the sweet wine make a nice contrast of flavors.

Logan sips his wine, picks at his food. How can he not be hungry? I search for some conversation to distract him from whatever he’s thinking about.

“Does anyone live on this island? On the other side maybe?”

“Not that I know of.” Logan frowns thoughtfully. “But I haven’t been here for several years. Someone could be somewhere.”

“Do Earthmakers live on many of the Outer Islands?” I had always imagined them empty and wild.

Logan takes a bite. “Actually, yes. Many seek solitude, especially the old. They want to be close to their element—whether it’s earth, water, air—and nothing else.”

“What about fire?”

“Most of those die young.”

I know that Earthmakers tend to favor one element or another, typically to the point that they have very limited control over the other three. Those who can master two or three often become Wardens. I don’t know of any who control all four, not even any of the Seven.

I study Logan in the firelight, watching him eat. Green moves along the edges of his irises. I want to ask him about his eyes. I know they are not normal, not even for an Earthmaker. But I asked him that when I first bound him at the Trader’s Choice, and he went very still, which, I’ve learned, is what he does when he’s most upset. But I still want to learn
something
about him. I know he’s a Primo and a Warden; I know he can fix a door, manage a boat, wash clothes, cook dinner. But that’s all I know. He’s told me nothing about himself that really, deeply matters.

I ask, thinking it will be a safe starting place, “So what are your elements?”

Logan’s face stiffens, and his fork freezes over a piece of flaky fish.

Why did that upset him?

He says carefully, “I can control no element better than another.”

I rock back. “You control all four?”

He sets down his plate. “That’s not what I said.”

“I don’t understand.”

He is silent for so long I think he won’t answer, then he says softly, “I can’t
control
earthmagic.”

“But you used it that night, when Belos came. I saw you.”

His body is perfectly still, but his eyes swirl with color. “And did you see what happened?”

I try to remember, but the events are a blur. I remember roiling earth. I remember tumbling away, falling. Violent wind. Were there screams?

Logan climbs carefully to his feet. “I’m tired. Do you want the bed?”

“It’s warmer here,” I say, silently begging him to stay with me.

He nods. He walks to the curtain, pulls it aside. It falls shut behind him.

My heart is skipping with uncertainty. What did I say?

* * *

I sleep lightly, tossing and turning on the sheepskin. I cannot get comfortable. When I hear murmurs and low moans coming from behind the curtain, I recognize the sounds of nightmare. I lie still, waiting, hoping they will subside, hoping I don’t have to intrude on something so private. But they go on, rising now and then to nearly a shout. I creep to the curtain and pull it aside.

The bed is washed in moonlight. Logan shifts restlessly in a twisted mess of blankets. He grunts, mumbles something. I hesitate again, unsure whether to wake him. Surely this is none of my business? But when a low whine sounds in his throat, I make my way along the small gap between the bed and wall. I touch his shoulder.

He explodes awake, shouting. I jerk back and collide with the wall. I say his name—once, twice—and he realizes it’s me, that he’s safe. The animal energy leaves him, and he rubs his face with both hands, scraping them through his hair. Harsh, ragged breaths tear through his throat. In the pale light of the moon, I see that he’s shaking. His pain unfreezes me, and I sit on the bed and reach for him.

He is stiff and unyielding at first, trying to control and harden himself. I know I have exposed him, caught him when he is vulnerable. Maybe I should leave, let him pull himself back together in private, but instead I tug at his shoulder, my fingers insistent. At last he lies down on his back, rigid, eyes staring into the darkness above. I lie against his side, hoping he doesn’t pull away or tell me to leave. His chest and torso are slick with sweat; his heart hammers. I feel him trying to control his trembling: the effort at repression, the failure, the effort.

Slowly, slowly, the tension drains away.

“Are you all right?”

He answers roughly, “Just a dream.”

We lie together for a long time, he on his back, with me curled against him. I grow aware that nothing but thin cloth separates us. He is wearing only his undershorts and I my shirt. His body is warm and solid, a man’s body. I have never lain so close to a man. His fingers trail through my hair, and the touch sends shivers through me.

His hand leaves my hair and brushes from my shoulder down my side, leaving a trail of heat behind it. His fingers come to rest lightly on my hip. My own fingers, as though with a will of their own, trace the curve of his chest. They glide down his muscled belly. His breathing quickens, and his fingers tighten on my hip. Then he takes a shuddering breath and moves his fingers back to my hair.

I snatch my own hand back, tucking it safely between my breasts, which I realize suddenly are pressed to his side. I am burning with conflicting needs: the need to escape and the need to touch him again. I have never felt this before.

But neither of us moves, and eventually, I doze.

I wake later when the moon has set. The curtain glows dimly with the light of the dying fire, but otherwise the room is dark. Logan stirs beside me.

My fingers curl against his sternum. “Are you all right?”

No answer.

“Will you tell me?”

Silence. Then, “You know how I said I couldn’t control earthmagic?”

I don’t answer. Of course I remember.

“I—” He cuts himself off.

“You don’t have to tell me. Not if you don’t want to.”

His lips press to the top of my head. He takes a shuddering breath.

I splay my hand against his chest, trying to will peace and comfort through my skin into his.

He begins abruptly, “When I was young—five, six, I’m not sure—they tried to teach me to control the elements. It’s the standard age for introduction, though most children can do very little at this time. I—”

Silence.

I wait, not willing to push him.

His heart thumps hard under my hand. He swallows hard. “I destroyed four buildings. Killed two people.”

I freeze at his words. He misreads my shock, taking it, perhaps, for revulsion. He starts to draw away, and I pull him back. I press my cheek against his chest, wrap my arm around his torso.

He asks harshly, mockingly, “Aren’t you going to say, ‘You were a child. It was an accident’?”

I crane my neck to look at him, but it’s too dark. I run my fingers along his jaw, feel it unclench at my touch. I smooth my fingers to his hairline and down the side of his neck. They linger at his throat.

“You already know those things.” I don’t need to add that they haven’t helped.

He looses a shaky breath. “They tried...everything to get me to control it. Nothing worked.”

I trace the hollow of his throat, mulling over his words. Something troubles me about the way he said that, about the word he stumbled over. “What do you mean ‘everything’?”

He doesn’t answer, and I know with instinctive certainty that he won’t. But I think of the scars on his back, and I shudder. Could his own people have done that to him? I thought only terrible people, like Belos, did such things.

I chew at my lip, unsure what to say. At a loss, I let my hands speak, smoothing over his chest to try to still his renewed trembling. I slide my hand around his ribcage, gripping him. I turn and press my lips to his temple, then his throat.

His breathing quickens, and so does mine. Our bodies start to shift against one another. Heat spreads from low in my belly. My skin tingles, sensitive to every brush of his flesh—his hand gliding down my back, his hip shifting against my belly as I ease a leg over his. I want to let go, to let this happen. It feels so right.

But he will be Stricken.

Cast out.

Condemned to a fate as bad, in its way, as Leashing.

I freeze.

No. I cannot do that to him. Not even when this feels right and that stubborn Earthmaker law feels wrong. I tell myself that he is upset now, perhaps not thinking clearly. What if he regretted this in the morning? How could I bear the reproach in his eyes?

He goes still when I do, breathing hard against my neck. He swallows, gets control of himself.

I know how vulnerable he must feel right now, having exposed such a dark secret, and I feel I must say something, give him something for what he’s given me. I wedge my face into his shoulder. “You know when you asked me what was in my heart? Yesterday?”

I feel him shift, as though he is trying to look at me. “Yes.”

“It’s—” Can I say this ugly word?

He waits, fingers resting on my shoulder.

I whisper it, as though that will make it less black. “Hate.”

He takes the word in, but he doesn’t draw away from me. His fingers trace my spine. “For whom?”

“Belos. Myself.”

He is silent, thinking. Then, “Him, I understand. But why for yourself?”

I swallow hard, already regretting my decision to speak. I try to finish. “For—”

“For what?”

I whisper it, trying to diminish it again, knowing I cannot, “For what he’s made me. For what I am.” Shame blooms hot in my chest; I have never allowed myself to acknowledge this before, and it hurts just as much as I thought it would. Yes, I hate myself.

I tense when Logan’s fingers glide up my spine to my neck, unknowingly brushing the Griever’s Mark. What might I be, if not for that?

It doesn’t matter. I am what I am. Nothing will change it.

He grips my neck, gently but firmly. Does he know the Mark is there? Did he see it?

“You will remake yourself, Astarti.”

I let his words linger in the silence. My eyes prickle. Could I? Is that possible?

We lay there, holding each other until, as the sky begins to lighten, we sleep.

Chapter 18

I WAKE TO the sound of someone knocking on the door. I bolt upright, fear clenching my throat. I am disoriented, blinded by bright sun flooding the room. Belos!

No. Not here.

Logan draws his leg from under mine and rises calmly from the bed. I take a breath. Despite the unknown threat outside, I can’t stop myself from watching him as he slides along the wall to the bed’s foot. It’s not that I have never seen men unclothed before. But this is different. Logan’s muscles slide smoothly under his skin, and even in the cramped space, his motions are graceful, powerful, controlled. Even the terrible curving scar on his chest seems a natural part of him. My eyes drift to the band of his undershorts, but there I stop myself, self-conscious.

Logan finds his black leather pants on the chest at the bed’s foot and tugs them on. When he turns to pull the curtain aside, the silvery lash scars on his back catch the sunlight.

Another knock sounds on the door as Logan disappears through the curtain. I scramble to follow.

Logan peeks through one of the shutters while I paw through the blanket by the cold hearth, looking for my pants.

“Bran.”

I sag with relief. “Alone?”

“He wouldn’t bring anyone here.” He calls through the window, “Just a second!”

Even though I know it’s Bran, I still jam my feet through my pant legs, hopping clumsily. I feel like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.

“Breathe, Astarti. It’s all right.”

I slow down, finish more calmly. It’s not like me to get this frazzled. I tuck part of the billowy shirt into my waistband and comb my hair back with my fingers. I take a deep breath and nod to Logan, who opens the door.

Bran, dressed in a white Earthmaker tunic belted at the waist, stands on the porch with a leather sack. He is looking out at the ocean, waiting patiently. When he turns to us, his face is composed, unreadable, but he looks from Logan to me and back to Logan. Logan’s jaw clenches, and I blush. I want to shout, “Nothing happened!” but I know it’s better to read the situation first, to react only when I know where others stand. I wait for Bran or Logan to take the lead.

Bran jostles the sack. “Tired of fish yet? I have bread, honeycomb, fruit.”

My mouth waters instantly, and I glance hopefully at Logan. He won’t refuse, will he?

Logan’s nostrils flare, but Bran only waits. Bran, I realize as I watch them, is the peacekeeper in this family. Logan, most certainly, is not.

“Bread,” I say to Logan with an edge of desperation.

He sighs.

Bran grins with victory and goes to sit on the porch.

Logan sits beside him on the sand-covered stones. As I approach, I study the brothers. Bran, with his tidy red-gold hair pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck and his fine white tunic, sits cross-legged, at ease. He looks like a Primo, even here on the porch of a dilapidated little hut. Logan, with his shorter blond hair a wavy mess, his scarred back tense, crouches with one leg tucked under himself and the other bent, his foot planted. He looks ready to push to his feet. How can these two even be brothers?

Logan looks over his shoulder at me. Caught staring, I jerk into motion. I hurry to sit beside Logan as Bran pulls a round loaf from the sack. I jump back up and dart inside for a cutting board and plates, wincing when my impatience sends a knife clattering to the stone floor. What is wrong with me?

When I clumsily pass off the cutting board to Bran, he gives me a brief smile. I tear my eyes away from him, feeling more reproach from his kindness than I would from a glare. Accusation would make me defiant; kindness makes me guilty. I have gotten his brother in trouble—why be nice? Logan, I decide, is right: having a pleasant little meal won’t change things.