The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (17 page)

We take a side path to the royal house, the building with smooth columns and wide porches. The place is less square than I first thought. Wings and additions have complicated what was perhaps originally a more basic shape.

We climb the stone steps to the huge porch and arched front doors, which stand open in the cool spring air. They must really trust the Wood to protect them. I can’t imagine Heborian ever leaving his gates and doors open like this.

We pass through the doors into the open, airy hall that I remember from the first horrible night here, when Logan brought me to be Healed. My heart starts to pound. I did not escape then; I will not now.

The hall is crowded, or at least it feels that way after the open, empty beach. Men, some wearing knee-length, broad-sleeved tunics like Bran’s, some wearing longer tunics and swathed in soft robes that wrap from right hip up to left shoulder, stare at us with hard eyes, their mouths grim. Women, who wear light, filmy dresses gathered at the shoulders, glance over us with disdain. One woman actually glares, and among the reserve of Earthmakers, it’s like a shout. One or two men, whose purposeful strides make me suspect they are Wardens, shoot Logan questioning looks, which he ignores.

I notice golden bracelets on the wrists of those more simply dressed. Are these the servants? Should I interpret their bracelets as marks of prestige or marks of ownership? Earthmakers don’t enslave, but something about the bracelets makes me think of the Shackle, and I shudder inwardly.

An older boy that I recognize as one of my former guards stops dead when he sees us.

“Nicanor,” Logan calls. “Where is Prima Gaiana?”

The boy’s face twitches nervously. “With Arcon Aronos and Counselor Demos. On the Prima’s balcony.”

Logan grimaces. “Just as well.”

“Arcon Aronos said to—that is, if you were seen we were to—”

Logan’s mouth quirks. “By all means. Lead the way.”

Nicanor straightens his lanky frame with sudden dignity. Bran glances at me with a half-smile. I hide my own. Nicanor is probably about fifteen, but he seems so much younger to me. When I was his age, I was already—well, I had done a lot of things by then. This kid looks like he’s hardly been out of the city.

At the end of the spacious entry hall, we turn into a narrower passageway. Even preoccupied with worry, I cannot help noticing how beautiful it is. Like the entry hall, the sea-side wall is partially open. The stone columns here are smaller and more ornate, carved with climbing vines of grape and clematis. Amazing—almost creepy—that stone can look so alive.

The solid wall opposite the sea is cut with arching niches that hold fine porcelain vases and lifelike statues. Some are lost in shadow, but those at just the right angle catch the orange-gold glow of sunset. The glow reveals the statues to be strong, stoic figures, their faces beautiful but severe. Even those gripping spears or swords show no emotion. Most are nude, or close to it. Bygone Arcons? Earthmaker heroes? I know so few stories of the Earthmakers that I could not begin to guess, and I am reminded of how ignorant Belos has kept me.

We soon come to a winding stair that, similar to the hall, is cut with arching windows. At the top, another short hallway brings us to a wide, vaulted doorway, which leads to a covered balcony.

I peer around Logan. The balcony’s smooth floor stretches to a finely cut stone railing, which looks out over the bay. We are higher now, and the view reaches beyond the rocky arms of the bay to the dark expanse of the ocean, which gleams sunset orange in the west.

Prima Gaiana sits within the graceful curves of a wooden chair softened by a tasseled velvet cushion. Her light gown of pale green is gathered at the shoulders and cinched at the waist in that elegant Earthmaker style, and a shawl has slipped down her arms to leave her slender shoulders bare. Delicate gold earrings dangle from her ears, and a gold bracelet shaped like a snake winds around one wrist.

At the Prima’s elbow is a round table with clawed feet, which bears a porcelain tea set so fine that the light from a nearby brass brazier shines through it. The pot is set in a silver stand with a short beeswax candle burning beneath to keep the tea warm. But her cup rests on the table, full of tea, untouched, no longer even steaming. Whatever has been under discussion has been going on for some time. Gaiana appears calm and composed. Were I not learning to read subtle signs of Earthmaker emotion, I would not even realize she is upset. It shows only in the slight crease between her pale brows. In a human, that would mean nothing.

An Earthmaker I have never seen, dressed in a tunic and cross-body robe, perches at the foot of a wide divan. This must be Counselor Demos. He is one of the oldest-looking Earthmakers I have yet seen, which is to say he looks about fifty. His body is clearly fit, his bare legs muscled, skin toned. Most human politicians are pale and fat by the time they reach thirty. Is it fitness that makes the Earthmakers attractive? It’s not that they are all beautiful, but they all have a certain
something
that makes you believe them so. Is it their confidence? The sense of power? The simple absence of defect?

Demos and Gaiana’s backs are to the door because they are listening to Aron, who stands at the stone railing, flanked on either side by terracotta pots, which contain rose bushes not yet in bloom and ivy that twines through the railing. I’m saddened a little; this seems too lovely a space for the conflict that I know is coming.

Aron sees us in the doorway and pushes away from the railing. Gaiana and Demos twist to look. They both rise to their feet, a slight parting of their lips the only sign of surprise.

Gaiana glides over to Logan and takes his face in her hands. Her deep blue eyes search his face, and worry, impossible for even an Earthmaker mother to fully conceal, etches into the faint lines around her eyes. “Loganos, what have you done?”

I squirm guiltily. Any moment she will notice me, accuse me. I have done this to her son. What mother would not blame me?

Aron’s sandals slap across the stone floor. Though his face is still, his hands are clenched into fists. Despite the loose robes meant for the indoors, there is nothing casual in his demeanor. He is dangerous, ready for a fight.

“You’ve come to hand her over?” Aron’s voice is half question, half command.

A muscle bulges in Logan’s gold-stubbled jaw. Gaiana steps back, but I see her fingers lingering on Logan’s wrist. To reassure him? Or to hold him back?

“We’ve come to talk,” Logan says shortly. “Astarti insisted.”

Surprise flits across Aron’s face in the slight lift of his eyebrows. This is the prime moment, and I grab it. I edge past Logan to face Aron. He is only three paces away, close enough to charge me. But I won’t back down now. I came here for this.

“Where is Polemarc Clitus? I would address him also.”

Aron’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “He is away.”

Bran’s voice comes over my shoulder. “Let’s not stand in the doorway. There is much to discuss.”

The tension breaks a little as we move into the room. Nicanor, after a curt dismissal from Aron, hurries away. Aron tries to linger in the doorway, no doubt thinking to block any escape, but Logan glowers at him. Aron moves stiffly to the railing and stands before it, arms crossed. Gaiana and Demos sit, as does Bran. Logan and I stand in the open space between the chairs and the railing.

“Well?” prompts Demos. “What do you have to say?”

Logan glances from him to me. “Astarti, this is Counselor Demos.”

Even though I’ve gathered that, I appreciate the introduction. I nod thanks to Logan, even as Aron gives him a dirty look. Apparently, everyone but Logan would prefer to keep me as ignorant as possible. I grit my teeth.

Aron looks at me expectantly.

I force my hands to unclench and, even though they are sweaty, I refuse to reveal my discomfort by wiping them on my pants. “I understand your people intend to join Martel.”

Aron shoots Bran a dangerous look, which Bran receives calmly. Perhaps I misjudged Bran. Apparently, he wasn’t supposed to tell me even that. Could it be that he does trust me, at least a little?

“Aron,” Bran says patiently. “If she is a spy, wouldn’t she have tried to get away by now? To tell the Unnamed of this plan?”

“A
good
spy would wait to learn the location of our force.” Aron looks at me pointedly, then back to Bran. “I trust you did not reveal
that
to her?”

“No.”

Aron turns to me again. “I won’t tell you. And I won’t tell Logan. Because I don’t trust him right now either.”

“Aronos!” chides Gaiana. “Logan would never betray us. Mind yourself.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t intend to, Mother, but you have to admit that his judgment right now is...compromised.”

Logan says in a low, dangerous voice, “I would say the same of you. You have a source of information here, and she has come willingly, in order to spare us disaster. At great risk to herself. And yet, your anger is so strong that you cannot even let her speak.” What Logan says next he says in the tone of lecture, as though the words have been drilled into his head, “Anger is unseemly in an Earthmaker.”

Everyone goes still. What does this mean to them? Logan’s eyes are a swirl of color, all but flashing as they reflect the light of the brazier. The swirl I have come to expect; what troubles me is the Earthmaker stillness of his face. His expression is almost dead, and it doesn’t look right on him. Though he is a Primo, a noble, he is not quite one of them. Why? And what is he thinking? There is so much I wish I could ask him. But this is not the time or place.

I clear my throat and turn to Aron, whose face has paled. “You cannot send your people to Martel. It is surely a trap.”

Aron’s eyes focus on me as though he has been somewhere else. “What do you mean?”

“Belos”—everyone tenses at the name, and I almost roll my eyes—“
Belos
will expect that.”

“Why would he expect that?” This comes from Counselor Demos. At least
someone
is paying attention.

“Belos was once one of you, his father a Council Member. Who knows the Earthmaker mind better than he?”

Aron’s lip curls. “One such as he never understood what it means to be an Earthmaker.”

“Don’t underestimate him. You would pay for it dearly.”

Aron breathes control into himself and nods acknowledgment. “Go on.”

“I believe Belos’s main goal in this coming war is not to take Kelda, not at all. I think he means to destroy you, your people, Avydos itself if he can.”

Counselor Demos leans forward on the divan. “You think he doesn’t care about Kelda, that it’s a ruse?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll try to take Kelda. But it’s not his primary goal. I think he is waiting for you to join Martel, then he will destroy you. You will be gathered together, away from Avydos, unsuspecting. Do you have any idea what he could do to you?”

Aron turns away, braces himself against the stone railing. “You keep saying ‘I think,’ ‘I believe.’ You are not sure of any of this. Even if you are not trying to manipulate us, you could be wrong.”

“Belos does not tell me his plans. He has not trusted me since—” I cut that off and start again, “He does not trust me with valuable information. But I know him, Arcon, as you, perhaps, do not. I have seen him burn men to ash for imagined slights. I watched him kill one of his most loyal men for telling him an ugly truth. Any who stand against him, any who tell him he is wrong—”

Understanding fills me so suddenly I am dizzy. I know why he hates me. He sees that I don’t agree with him, even when I say I do, and he can’t stand it. How could I not have seen this before? And why, I wonder suddenly, has he been so lenient with me? Others have died for less.

I finish, “Any who question him or act against him or try to make him see he might be wrong are destroyed. And who has told him more loudly or more often that he is wrong? You. Your people. He will strike you out, as you have Stricken him.”

Never in my life have I spoken so much at once, demanded so much attention. It has never been my place to pose an argument, to persuade. I am meant only to serve. And so I feel awkward and self-conscious as they stare at me, as they absorb my words like they might be important. But beneath this self-consciousness stirs another feeling: pride. This is a new kind of power.

“Even if this is so,” says Aron, and I hear in his voice an edge of fear, “the Unnamed cannot destroy us if he cannot find us. And we will be an army. Two armies.”

“But he can find Martel,” I argue. “And that second army, you will quickly discover, is
not
your ally.”

Demos stirs on the divan. “It’s not so easy to find one man.”

I spin to catch a view of everyone. “Are you all mad? Martel is Leashed by now!”

Aron turns to stare out over the bay. “You don’t know that.”

I stride toward him. “You’re right, I don’t
know
that. But I do know that Belos always gets what he wants, and he wanted Martel
very
badly. Belos will take him against his will, if need be.”

Aron turns to me. He searches my face. “How can I trust you? How could I ever trust you? You’re asking me to withdraw support from Martel. You’re asking me to let Heborian stay in power. A Drifter. How do I know what
you
want?”

I shake that away. “Belos will see Heborian destroyed. He hates him, too.”

I pause to wonder once more: why
does
Belos hate Heborian? He hates those who defy him. How could Heborian have done that? Is there some history between them?

“Belos is smart,” I remind Aron, and saying that brings more into focus. I gasp with realization. “He will let you and Martel kill Heborian, and then he will destroy you. He will have everything he wants, with half the effort.”

Aron’s Earthmaker control slips. He throws up his hands. “This is all guessing!”

I turn at the sound of footsteps and find Demos at my shoulder. His face may be fairly young, but his eyes are old, settled, wise. “Aron, you were young when the Unnamed was Stricken. But I was not. His father was my friend. And I remember him in those early days. I think what the Drifter says could be true.” He ends sternly, “We will have to verify it, of course.”