The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (18 page)

“But, Counselor Demos,” interjects Bran, “how could we possibly verify any of this?”

“By knowing if Martel is indeed Leashed.”

“But we can’t see that,” Gaiana reminds him gently.

“No,” Demos admits, “but
she
can.”

“
No
.” Logan’s voice.

He strides toward me and Demos.

“That is
far
too dangerous. Have you forgotten that Astarti is also Leashed?”

I flinch like he’s struck me. It always sounds so dirty.

“The Unnamed could find her and take her. He will kill her. She cannot leave Avydos.”

Annoyance flares within me. Does he think to command me, as Belos does? “I cannot hide here forever, Logan. I will not.”

He grabs my arm, and his fingers dig painfully. “He could take you.”

There is such pain and fear in his eyes that I soften. He cares for me. He truly does. I have denied it to protect myself from hope, but I see it so clearly in his eyes. It makes me want to give in, to do what he says, but I cannot. This is too important. “Belos can only sense me if he’s near.”

“And what if he’s near?”

“He rarely travels the Drift. The Hounding is drawn to him. I don’t know why, but it is. He will let the Seven do everything until the final stages.”

“And they cannot sense your Leash?”

“No.”

Not from outside the Drift, anyway. And from within it, they won’t need my Leash to sense me. As a Drifter, I’ll stand out like a candle in the dark anyway. I don’t mention any of this, but then, that’s not what he asked. Is that a lie?

“But how can we trust her report?”

Aron’s voice makes me jump. For a moment, I had forgotten that any were in the room but Logan and I.

Aron stares around. “I see you are all eager to throw away your suspicions, but I am not. Have you forgotten that the Unnamed is known also as the Deceiver? Do you not think that one of his own is trained in deception?”

I wince inwardly. I
am
trained in deception, and I
did
just deceive Logan. Even if it wasn’t technically a lie, I deceived him.

Demos rubs at his clean-shaven jaw. “Someone will have to go with her.” He looks to me. “Isn’t that possible? Can’t you take another into the Drift?”

Aron looks appalled. “Counselor Demos, are you really suggesting—”

I square my shoulders. Now we are getting somewhere. “Yes, it’s possible. Dangerous. And the person has to be willing—that is extremely important. Any non-Drifter taken against his will dies instantly. The shock of the Drift is too much.”

This sobering statement hangs in the air.

Demos nods. “Aron? What do you say?”

Aron is shaking his head, but it’s more denial than refusal. “This is madness. She’s a Drifter. A servant of our enemy. Why are we even listening to her?”

Logan’s hand clenches on the pommel of his sword. “Because she’s the only one making any sense!”

“Logan,” Gaiana warns, and I realize that Bran is not the only peacekeeper in this family. “Aron’s concerns are natural and legitimate. But you are right that Astarti’s claims ring true. And Counselor Demos is also right that we need verification. There is no need for hostility among us. Let us move forward on an agreed upon course.”

Logan’s shoulders drop, and all the heat is gone from him. I wish I had Gaiana’s ability to cut through his anger. “You’re right, Mother. Aron? Is the course agreed upon?”

“We have nothing better,” he grits out, refusing to give a more direct sign of acceptance. “You two must clean up and change. Logan, shave off that awful stubble. Then I’ll take you to our Wardens.”

My heart skips with apprehension. Aron is coming with us.

Logan’s jaw clenches briefly. “Twenty minutes.”

Chapter 20

I AM TAKEN to a private room by one of Prima Gaiana’s maids, a slim young woman in flowing white robes cinched at her tiny waist, golden bracelets on her wrists. Logan has gone to another room to change. I felt nervous when we parted ways; I don’t like being in this place without him. But I cannot act uncomfortable. One thing Belos taught me: show your enemies no weakness. I know these people are not exactly my enemies, that I am actually helping them, but I am still uneasy.

The room is gorgeous, like everything else here. I am on the sea-side of the building, and the wall is another partial one, open to the bay. A bed with a golden coverlet and four posts carved like twisting shells stands against the far wall. A dark wood dresser, its face carved with wild roses, stands against another wall, and a tilting oval mirror takes up a corner.

With one hand curled around the flame to protect it, the maid takes her candle to the bedside table and uses it to light the wick in a glass-faced lantern. I am behind her and when the light blooms at her front, it shows her willowy shape through the gauzy robes. I lower my eyes. Earthmakers are less modest even than humans. Perhaps for them the body is only one more thing to perfect. They seem to approach it with the same detachment as everything else.

But not all of them are so detached. Logan certainly is not. And I have caught hints of something warmer in a few others, such as the young Warden Korinna. I am left to wonder whether warmth is more common in Wardens, because they spend so much time in human lands, in the young, who have not yet learned to distance themselves, or simply in individuals who are not quite like the rest.

Footsteps at the door make me spin. Another bracelet-marked maid, her arms full of clothes, steps into the room.

“Ligeia is bringing water,” she says and walks past me to the bed, where she lays down the stack of clothes. She sets two pairs of boots on the floor. “We did not know what you would prefer. Some of these are more Keldan in style.”

I start to dig through the pile, making a mess of it. I find wools and linens, all high-quality, all far too fine for the likes of me. Mostly they are tunics, which I have not seen on the women here, except for Korinna. I wonder if these clothes are meant for young boys. I wonder, too, how many female Wardens there are. I have never met any but Korinna.

Another maid arrives with a bowl of steaming water and a white towel draped over her arm. She sets these on another table, along with a bar of soap from her pocket.

The three gather at the door. One asks, “Do you need anything else?”

“Er, no.” I am uncomfortable with this entire situation. I have never been waited on before, and these are the Prima’s women. Surely they must resent this duty? If they do, it doesn’t show in their faces, but then, it wouldn’t.

“Thank you,” I remember to say as they turn to go.

“If you need us, tell Nicanor. He is waiting outside.”

I frown. Even now I’m guarded. They may pretend it’s all courtesy, but that’s just on the surface. Even so, it’s better than the dungeon, and I turn gratefully to the steaming washbowl as soon as the door clicks shut.

When I am clean and smelling like rose water instead of saltwater and sweat, I braid my hair. I paw through the clothes and find clean undergarments and a dark blue tunic embroidered with a yellow geometric design along the neck and hem. It’s fancier than I usually wear, but it’s the simplest thing in the pile. I choose a pair of slim-fitting black breeches and smooth wool socks. I try on both pairs of boots, and one of them fits better than the other. The boots are tall, almost to my knees, and lace up the front. The dark brown leather is soft and comfortable. Lastly, I pull on a padded leather jacket. It is still spring.

Nicanor snaps to attention when I open the door, and I ask, before I can stop myself, “How old are you?”

His pale skin colors. “Fourteen, my lady.”

I snort when he calls me “lady,” but when his head hangs I realize he thinks I’m laughing at him. Maybe I am, a little. But he’s even younger than I thought, so I try to be nice.

“Are you a Warden?”

“Oh, no, my lady. I’m a house-guard.”

I can’t help but think how that must not be a very serious duty here if fourteen-year-old boys are trusted with it. Once again I am reminded of how removed, how protected Avydos is.

Nicanor offers, “Becoming a Warden takes years of training. I am only three years into mine.”

“They don’t start you until eleven?” It surprises me because most training programs in human lands start the boys younger.

Nicanor looks shamefaced. “I didn’t show my second element until then.”

Ah. No doubt this is shameful among Earthmakers.

“Besides, I’m from Korith.” At my quizzical look he adds, “It’s a village on the eastern side of the island. We don’t do as much testing there. For potential, I mean.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not as common.”

Earthmaker society has so many more delineations than I would have guessed. I’ve always thought they must all be pretty much the same, but I’m beginning to see that’s not so. I also begin to understand why Nicanor has less of the Earthmaker reserve than others here. He’s a village boy. I would guess that most here consider him a bit of a rustic. No wonder he always looks so self-conscious.

I gesture for him to lead the way. “Tell me about your training.”

As Nicanor takes me through several passageways, he leaps into excited explanations. “There’s weapons training, of course. That’s what I like best, though Master Panteros says I’m awful with the sword. I’m a great shot with the bow, and that, he says, is something at least. We also learn geography, politics, history—”

“History? Of where? Avydos? Kelda?”

“Yes, both of those. And more. All the known histories, particularly the war with the, uh, the Unnamed.” His eyes shift to me and away.

Now I’m really curious. “What do they teach you about him?”

Nicanor pulls at the neck of his tunic, and I gather that he’s not supposed to talk to me about Belos. Perhaps he’s not supposed to talk to me at all. Now that we are in the more heavily-trafficked entry hall, men and women are staring, and his neck is bright red.

I lower my voice and prompt him anyway. “So what’s the first thing you learn of him?”

His lip twists, but I give him an encouraging smile. “How, uh, how he went into the land of humans, to the far north, and came back a Drifter.” He shudders.

“The far north? Where? Rune?”

“Rune, yes. Where there used to be so many of...that kind.”

I frown. I have heard there were once many Drifters in Rune, but then they disappeared. I’ve heard various rumors: that Belos killed them, that the Earthmakers did, that they killed each other, that they fled to other, unknown lands. I don’t know the truth of it, but it happened around sixty years ago, when Belos came into power. I highly doubt the timing is coincidental.

I have so many more questions for Nicanor, but we’ve reached the open front doors. I see Aron and Logan waiting on the porch. How long have they been there? I’m suddenly self-conscious of how much time I spent washing up.

Logan is clean-shaven once again and dressed much as he was when I first met him at the Trader’s Choice: leather pants, leather jacket, long-sleeved dark gray tunic that hangs open at the neck to show hints of muscle and the tail end of that curving scar. A sword is belted at his waist.

Aron’s heavy green tunic is finer than Logan’s and cut in an Earthmaker style with short, broad sleeves over a tighter long-sleeved shirt of stark white. He wears loose trousers, which I have not seen on him before. Like Logan, he has a sword belted at his waist, though Aron’s scabbard is more intricately tooled. I cannot wait to get back to Kelda, where I can shape my Drift-spear at any moment. I hate feeling this defenseless.

Logan gives me a failed attempt at a smile. “Ready?”

Aron makes no note of my presence and turns away before I can answer. He tromps down the steps.

I nod to Logan, and we follow Aron across the stone-paved courtyard to a tiny grove of trees.

“We can enter the Current from here?” I ask, surprised. I expected to walk all the way to the Wood.

“You can enter the Current from a solitary tree,” Logan says. “But you should know that. You did it once, remember?”

I think of the dead—well, almost dead—tree in Belos’s courtyard. I still don’t quite believe that I have Earthmaker blood, so it’s hard for me to assimilate these sorts of facts. Part of me knows Logan, and Gaiana, must be right, but it still feels wrong. I am a Drifter. That is how I know myself.

When I follow Logan into the Current this time, I am less fearful of the touch and tug of the golden Wood. I don’t like it, but I can deal with it. It’s let me through several times; it must be safe.

We trail Aron through the Current because he still won’t tell us exactly where we’re going. He’s right to be cautious, even though it irks me to admit it. He doesn’t know me.

When we step from the Current, the rush of cool night air makes me shiver in spite of my padded jacket. We’re in a dark wood, though the paleness of sky through the overhead branches suggests that it’s still early. As my eyes adjust, I make out Aron’s form. He’s staring around, orienting himself.

He jerks his head. “This way.”

We follow him up a rocky slope. I hear Logan and Aron stumbling over hidden undergrowth and roots. After the second time I trip, barely catching myself against a tree, I fill my palm with Drift-light. The quick rush of energy along my mooring makes my breath hitch. So fast, so easy. Tension that I didn’t know was there drains out of me. I am myself again. Whole.

My pale light reveals Aron three paces ahead, staring back at me with disdain.

I stare back. “Do you want to split your face open?”

His jaw sets. “Walk up here, then.”

When we reach a rocky ledge where the trees open, I look out to see moonlit slopes studded with trees. I can’t pinpoint our location, but we are definitely in the foothills of a mountain range, and my guess is that it’s the low, green mountains of eastern Kelda, which the Keldans call the Green Wall because it separates them from Valdar.

We trek on, climbing again.

Lights bloom ahead in what looks to be broad, flat space.

“Halt.”

We all stop at once at the warning tone, which comes from overhead.