The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (16 page)

Such thoughts fade when Logan passes me a plate with three thick slices of bread, a section of golden, oozing honey comb, and a little mountain of strawberries. I take the plate greedily, tearing into the food with manners that must surely remind these Primos that I am no lady. I can’t even stop the moan of pleasure when I bite into a strawberry coated with honey.

Bran chuckles. “Thought so.”

I color with embarrassment, but Logan is giving me that half-smile of his, and I grin back sheepishly.

Logan’s plate rests on his knee, the food untouched. “Well? How bad is it?”

“Eat, Logan,” Bran and I say at once. We stare at each other in surprise.

Bran recovers first. “You heard her.”

Logan takes a heavy, noisy breath to communicate his annoyance, but he does turn to his plate with a business-like attitude. Though he manages to avoid any indecent sounds like the ones I made, he does eat more like a soldier than a royal, even in front of his brother. I am oddly relieved.

When Logan’s plate is empty, which doesn’t take long, he gives Bran a pointed look.

Bran fingers a bit of honeycomb onto his bread. “It could be worse.”

Logan waits for more, and so do I.

Bran raises the dripping bread to his lips. “The Council is demanding your return.”

Logan shrugs. “That’s to be expected.”

I interrupt, “How does the Council work?”

Bran’s eyebrows twitch, and he lowers the bread. His body language tells me I should know this. I hate feeling ignorant and stupid.

“Surely Belos”—Logan glares at him, but Bran is unrepentant about the use of the name—“has taught you of the Council? His father, after all, was once a member.”

I blink. Somehow it feels like Belos should have sprung into being, fully formed. Strange to think of him having a father at all, of being a child like any other.

Bran explains, “Essentially, the Council debates issues and speaks with the voice of the people, but the Arcon puts words into action. It’s more complicated than that, and there are certain duties and decisions that fall straight to the Arcon, some straight to the Council. But basically, they work together.”

I am about to ask about Belos and his father, but Logan has other questions. “The Council’s terms?”

“You must hand over”—Bran’s eyes dart to me and away—“You must hand her over. They plan an inquiry, of course.”

“But they wouldn’t—I mean, Logan won’t be—”

I can’t say the word. I won’t. Even so, it hangs in the air.

Bran’s eyebrows are low and thoughtful. “Surely not.” But it sounds less like belief and more like hope—or denial.

“And Astarti?” Logan asks darkly. “What do they intend to do to her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why even bother coming here? You know me better than that.”

I frown to myself. What does that mean? And what, exactly, do
I
mean to him? Is it principle only? That he won’t undo what he did? Is it—could he possibly care for me? Me? I shut that down. Of course not. He knows what I am. But his words from last night echo through me:
you will remake yourself
. He was challenging me to do it, telling me that he believed it possible.

“There’s more,” Bran says, and I don’t miss the edge in his voice. “The Council is pushing for our involvement in the inevitable war between Martel and Heborian. It’s all but settled. The Wardens are being gathered. They will fight for Martel.”

“Why?” I demand. “What do the Earthmakers care about this?”

Bran hesitates, and I realize from his discomfort that he doesn’t really trust me. He thinks it possible that Aron is right, that I am spying for Belos. Though I know it’s unfair of me, that his suspicions are natural, I resent this.

Bran tenses further when Logan answers, “Heborian is a Drifter. The Council has always hated that he’s king. We fought for King Barreston, when Heborian invaded. That defeat stung the Earthmaker pride as much as the Keldan pride. But, unlike the Keldans, who mostly just want to live their lives, we don’t forgive easily.”

Bran is stiff and unhappy with Logan’s depiction of their people, but he doesn’t contradict it. Does he agree with Logan? Or is silence just part of his peacekeeping?

Logan rises suddenly, a smooth unfolding of his body. I scramble to my feet beside him.

He stares down at Bran. “Anything else important?”

Bran shakes his head.

“I need to think. I’m going to walk.”

I nod understanding, and he tromps down the sandy steps, his back flexing with the descent, the silvery scars sliding over muscle. The scars bother me. Because I have my own. Because I know what they mean. Someone hurt him. Someone wanted him to feel that he was wrong, unacceptable.

Logan has almost reached the water by the time I realize Bran is standing beside me.

Before I can lose my courage, I ask angrily, “Who whipped him?”

Bran doesn’t answer, and I look up to see him studying me.

“What did he tell you?”

“Practically nothing. I mean, well, he did tell me he has trouble with his earthmagic. He said that he destroyed some buildings when he was first learning.” I shrug it off as though it’s not as horrible as it is.

Bran says slowly, “And he told you what happened when those buildings came down?”

I don’t answer, but Bran can see it in my face. I can’t shrug that away.

Bran takes a deep breath. “I’m shocked he told you that much. He never speaks of it.”

“I am...assuming that—”

“Yes. They tried to teach him control. Focus. I’m sure you think it cruel, and it was. But it did help a little.”

“How? By teaching him not to use his power? By teaching him shame?” I am breathing hard. Anger pulses through me.

Bran rubs a hand across his face. “There’s much you don’t understand about our people. And about Logan. Don’t be so quick to judge.”

“So tell me then what it is that I don’t understand.”

“Why don’t you tell me something first.” Bran’s voice is light, as though the matter is closed.

I stare at him.

“Why do you care so much about my brother?”

A flush creeps up my neck.

“You know our law?”

I feel like he just slapped me, like he just accused me of throwing myself at Logan like a whore. I am indignant. Then I recall the way I have watched him, how I’ve studied the shape and movement of his body, the structure of his face. I remember how my body shifted against his last night, how I wanted him. My flush deepens. Am I so obvious?

“Yes. I know your law.”

“It’s been less than twenty years since someone was last Stricken. The Council would hate to do it again so soon, but I think they would.”

I look away from Bran, to the beach and the water. Logan is gone. “And what was that man’s crime?”

“It was a woman.”

I glance at him. “A woman?”

“Her name was Sibyl.”

His face is solemn, his eyes unseeing, and I know he is picturing this woman, whoever she was. I say softly, “I thought being Stricken meant your name was forgotten.”

He turns deep blue eyes on me. “Officially, yes.”

“And what was Sibyl’s crime?”

He hesitates. “Dissent.”

“Dissent?”

Bran takes a deep breath, looks out to the ocean. “Sibyl had...ideas. Theories.” He shakes his head a little and ends harshly, “They were unacceptable to the Council.”

Bran’s face is closed now, and I can tell he will say nothing more specific about her “crime,” so instead I ask, fearing the answer, needing to know, “And what happened to her?”

“She disappeared. No one knows. I’m sure she died. No Earthmaker can live long away from her own kind. Or
his
.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t want that for Logan.”

Bran gives me a searching look, and I meet his eyes, even though they invade my space. “I believe you.”

I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “And do you have a law against being friends?”

Bran’s mouth quirks. “Nothing official. But don’t expect anyone to like it. And don’t expect them to be without suspicions.”

“Nothing happened.”

Brans nods slowly. “I see the way he looks at you. The way he...is different around you. It can’t be good.”

I am torn between wild hope—how
does
Logan look at me?—and black despair. What a fool I am. Did I really think, even for a second, that I could have him?

* * *

Bran doesn’t try to stop me when I walk down the sandy steps, doesn’t follow when I start across the beach. Logan is nowhere to be seen, but that’s all right. I need time to think also. Or perhaps to not think. To let my thoughts settle.

At the end of the beach, where the sand hills rise to scrub and rock, I find the outlet of the freshwater river that winds from the mountains to the sea. It spreads flat and wide here at the end, and I wade through it easily to reach the rocky slope beyond.

The rough stone abrades my bare feet, but I don’t mind. The pain helps clear my mind.

About twenty feet up, I find a cozy niche and sit down. The high sun—it must be early afternoon—beats down on me. I listen to the waves crash against the rock below, imagine them carving away at the stony face. A seagull screams overhead. Far out in the water, a dark shape appears briefly and vanishes.

I must doze off because I jerk to awareness in the cool shadows, the afternoon sun having disappeared behind the western ridge. A question grips me like a vice, making my heart pound: what does Belos want with Martel?

Before, this was an idle question, the answer seemingly simple and obvious. But now I realize there might be more to it. No, not “might.”

I think about what Bran said, about the Earthmakers joining Martel for no reason other than that they want Heborian out of power. Predictable, really. I’m sure it will not surprise Belos.

In fact, I bet he’s counting on it.

I think of the map in Belos’s study. A dusty stretch of vellum with Kelda scrubbed clean and the Floating Lands nothing more than a burn hole in the Southern Ocean. Burned out, vanished. Like they do not exist. Like they are Stricken.

* * *

When I burst through the door of the hut, Bran and Logan leap up from the sheepskin. The iron tongs clatter to the hearth, and the fire winks out.

Logan strides toward me. “What is it?”

I say breathlessly, “We have to go back to Avydos.”

“No. I just explained this to Bran. We will not go.”

I grip his sleeves, which are rolled to his elbows. “You don’t understand. Belos—”

“Astarti,” Logan warns.

Bran takes a step toward us. “Let her finish.”

I loosen my grip on Logan’s sleeves, step back so I can see them both. I direct a question at Bran. “You really think the Wardens will join Martel?”

“Yes. I’m sure of it.”

“They can’t. It will be a disaster.”

“What do you mean? Why?”

“Don’t you see? That’s exactly what Belos wants.”

Chapter 19

I HAVE NO trouble convincing Bran to return to Avydos, but convincing Logan is another matter. After the second time he asks, “You understand that I might not be able to stop them from seizing you?” I grip his hand and say, “Stop.”

His eyes swirl with color.

“You said I could remake myself. How should I do that, Logan? By hiding here?”

His jaw clenches, and his eyes search mine frantically. What is he thinking?

From the corner of my eye, I watch Bran tense. But he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at Logan.

We trek along the path that brought us from the edge of the wood to the house. The sun is just low enough that we move from shadow to light, depending on the position of the peaks and troughs of stone. Logan wears his sword belted at his waist. The weapon has stood in the corner, by the broom, for the past few days. I had almost forgotten it. But it’s back in its place now, with Logan’s hand resting on the pommel.

I have not handled a physical weapon since I was a child, since before I learned to shape weapons from the Drift. I wish I had one now.

When we reach the trees, mostly pine, I watch Logan and Bran’s faces. They each take a breath, relax. Logan puts out his hand and I take it. He leads me to a pine tree with bark that looks like huge, uneven scales.

“Touch it. Feel the tree’s energy. Pay attention to the way it responds, the way the Current sweeps around and through it.”

I press my palm to the tree, which oozes sap between its scales of bark. I empty my mind, as I would when entering the Drift. As Logan takes me into the Current, I feel something of what he says: the way the Current licks out at me from the tree as it flows, the way the tree is a gateway.

I know the moment we reach the Wood itself. The Current intensifies, whirling around and through me. The golden fingers of the trees grab and tug at me. Fear clenches me. They see me! They
know
me.

Logan, in his beautiful golden form, shifts beside me, and I feel the energy of his touch.

As he pulls me from the Current, I try to feel the gateway. I sense a gap, but that’s all. I know I could not have found it, could not have escaped on my own.

I shiver as the physical Wood resolves itself around me. High above, the tops of the trees rustle in a breeze that doesn’t reach into these depths. I will my heart to settle.

Bran is looking accusingly at Logan. He says nothing, but I can guess his thoughts: Logan should not try to teach me earthmagic. I am a Drifter, unclean. I might be a spy.

As we emerge from the Wood, no one marks our presence. We take a stone path different from the one down which Logan and I escaped two days ago. We wind along the slope and emerge onto a paved road. Men and women, all dressed in the Earthmaker style, go about their business. In many ways, Avydos looks like any human city. There are sailors in broad hats, tailors with yards of cloth in their arms, bakers with fresh bread. I hear the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer, the screeching of seagulls. The main difference, other than clothing, is that the people here are quieter, more reserved, and the buildings are grander. Everything is beautiful, but I’m not sure I like it.