The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (19 page)

Aron tilts his head. “Good work, Galen.”

Someone drops to the ground, and my Drift-light reveals a man about Logan’s age wearing a light leather breastplate and greaves. Galen inclines his head. “Arcon. I didn’t recognize you.”

“No matter. Take us to Polemarc Clitus.”

We follow Galen past the horse line—how did they bring horses here?—and through the camp, where men and women cluster around cook fires, eating from tin plates. So. There
are
more female Wardens. For some reason, this pleases me. My stomach rumbles at the wafting scent of roast meat, probably boar at this time of year. I am reminded that Logan and I haven’t eaten anything but bread and honey today. He, who is so much bigger than I am, must be starving.

The tents are small and simple, made of waxed canvas stretched between wooden cross poles. Nothing about them screams Earthmaker. In fact, the only thing about this camp that suggests these are not humans is the organization and quietness. The Wardens are dressed in simple, functional clothing, performing the ordinary tasks of soldiers: eating supper, cleaning weapons, checking gear. But then, Wardens have learned to blend in. Experienced ones are often difficult for even me to identify when they are among humans.

Even though I let my Drift-light vanish before we entered the camp, I feel eyes on me. Do they know who I am? Are they staring at me with that Earthmaker contempt? Or it is just curiosity about why their Arcon and his brother are here with some woman?

At one campfire, a young woman stands up, and I recognize Korinna. Her mouth crooks in a half-smile.

Galen takes us to the middle of the camp. We stop at a tent whose large size and scalloped edges distinguish it as the commander’s. The tent glows with light from within. One of the guards at the tent front ducks his head through the flap to announce us. After a brief exchange, he holds the flap aside. Aron ducks through first, then I do, then Logan. He has stayed at my back the whole time, tense and untrusting. I can’t help but torment myself with the question: Does he distrust me? Or his own people?

With all of us inside, the tent seems smaller than I first thought. A cot takes up one wall and a small table is strewn with papers. A lantern rests on the table, casting light over Polemarc Clitus as he studies a parchment. He is dressed for war in a short-sleeved tunic like Aron’s, belted at the waist. His armor hangs on a stand in one corner, but he wears his bronze greaves and wrist guards.

His face betrays no surprise, even when his eyes flick to me. “Aronos, what brings you?”

Aron waits until Galen leaves, then he says, “We have reason to suspect that Martel might be Leashed to the Unnamed. Which, I don’t have to tell you, would make him an unacceptable ally.”

I feel like he’s also referring to me right now: Leashed, unacceptable.

Clitus sets down the parchment he was studying. “And what leads you to this suspicion?”

Aron looks pointedly to me, and Clitus’s eyes narrow. “How did you apprehend her?”

“He didn’t,” Logan growls. “Astarti came freely.”

Clitus’s searching eyes shift to Logan. “And you, Logan? In what manner did you return?”

For the first time, Logan looks uncertain, uncomfortable. Because Clitus is his commander? He doesn’t seem to have that much respect for authority. But it
is
respect I see in Logan. His head lowers. He doesn’t want Clitus to think poorly of him. I am filled with guilt again. I’ve caused so many rifts for Logan.

“I’ve done what I must, Polemarc.” He picks his head up. “You will see, in the end, that it was right.”

Clitus’s expression softens fractionally. “I hope so, Logan, I truly do. Now tell me what’s going on.”

Aron explains my suspicions. I let him. If he’d rather talk for me, that’s fine. I do correct him once or twice, which irritates him and gives me little pulses of pleasure.

When Aron finishes telling Clitus the plan, Clitus raises an eyebrow. “And who will go with her?”

“I will,” both Logan and Aron say at once.

They glare at each other.

“Clitus,” says Aron reasonably, “you must see that there’s no question of who should go. Logan is compromised. More than that, with his...limitations, he’s all but defenseless if she turns on him.”

An ugly red creeps up Logan’s neck, and I want to shape a Drift-spear and swing it at Aron’s head. He didn’t have to say it like that.

“I’m afraid Aron’s right.” Clitus’s tone is businesslike, neither cruel nor kind.

Logan crosses his arms. “Why can we not both go? I don’t want Astarti to be—”

“If she’s true to her word”—Logan’s eyes flash—“Aron will see her safely back.”

Clitus looks to Aron for confirmation. After a slight hesitation, Aron nods.

I shrug. I don’t need Aron. If the Seven are there and they sense me, there will be nothing he can do. My heart skips at the thought. Should I not do this? Why am I helping them?

I chase that away. I have decided. There is nothing to be gained by waffling. This feels right. The rest doesn’t matter.

Logan’s nostrils are flared, and his breathing is too fast. I put my fingers on his wrist, as I saw Gaiana do. I don’t want him to get into any more trouble. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, they are steady blue. I almost smile. He responded to my touch as to his mother’s. I feel light and happy. But then I feel Aron and Clitus’s eyes on me, and I take my hand away.

* * *

We learn that Martel is encamped some twenty miles deeper into the mountains. The Wardens have been slowly gathering here. Their current numbers look to be about fifty, but I assume more will come. Of course, no one will tell me how many.

Clitus suggests we wait until morning, arguing that if we are in the Drift, no one will see us. When I insist that we go tonight, they stare at me suspiciously, and I am forced to explain that if any of the Seven are there and accessing the Drift, we could be sensed. Better to go at night when they are more likely to be absent or sleeping. The fact that Aron nods acceptance tells me he’s starting to believe me, and the fact that Logan’s jaw tightens hard tells me that he’s not happy about this possibility.

Eventually, after wolfing down some meat and bread that Logan insists I eat—not that I resist it—I get him and Clitus to leave. Aron will have to concentrate to enter the Drift safely. We can’t have any distractions.

When the flap falls shut, I sit cross-legged on the thin mat and point to the floor in front of me. Aron hesitates, looking uncomfortable, then he mirrors me.

I explain, “The Drift is a web of energy. It’s not unlike the Current really, but where the Current has fixed points, because trees don’t move, the Drift is constantly shifting. As living things move, they change its pattern.”

“I don’t need to know how the evil thing works. I just need you to take me through it.”

“You
do
need to understand the Drift. Those who are unprepared do not live through the shock of entering. All the world is torn away. You are reduced to your bare essence—”

“I understand this. The Current is the same.” Aron’s hands are clenched on his knees.

“Sort of. But in the Current, you have the flow between trees.
It
moves
you
. You flow with it from one certain point to another. When you first enter the Drift, you will feel...adrift.” I shake my head, frustrated. I can’t think of a better word.

Aron’s forehead crinkles. “Then how do you stay grounded? How do you know where to go?”

I perk up. This I can explain. “You must feel your connection to other living things, using it to orient yourself. It is difficult to travel to a precise location unless you know the place to which you are traveling very well. For example, when I travel to Tornelaine, I recognize it by the shape in which the moving energies are contained, the shape of the city. But I also know that Heborian and his Drifters are there, and Drifters always burn brighter. When I see them clustered, I know I’m near Tornelaine.”

“But how will we find Martel within the Drift?”

“It won’t be that hard because there are few people here. We’ll follow the threads in the basic direction Clitus indicated. We’ll be able to see something of the land, just not much. When I feel the nearness of a group of humans, we can assume we are close to Martel’s company.”

“But how will you know which one he is?”

“By his Leash, of course.”

Aron frowns, still wanting to doubt my theory.

I lean forward a little. “Now, listen. This is important. Everyone knows that the Drift is deadly to any but a Drifter, but most don’t understand why, and you
must
understand why if you want to live.”

Aron’s fingers, still clenched on his knees, are white with strain. Behind me, the tiny flame in the lantern blooms brighter, licking at the glass panes that contain it. Aron’s tense face glows in the light, and I wonder if his exterior is as fragile as that glass. But no. He is stone. The light dims again as Aron regains control of himself.

I warn him, “If you resist the Drift in any way, you will be unable to enter it fully. Your body will come, because I am pulling it. But I can’t control your mind. If you resist, if you don’t
will
yourself
fully
into the world of the Drift, your body and mind will be severed. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“You must be fully honest with yourself. If you tell yourself you are willing, but then you instinctively pull away, or if you panic, I cannot save you.”

Aron’s nostrils flare, but he gives no other sign of fear.

“This would be easier with the Shackle,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. “It would bind you together, bind you to me. I could hold your mind within mine, and you wouldn’t be able to pull away.” I crack a smile. “You’d actually be safer.”

Aron’s eyebrows lower. “I wouldn’t be safe at all. You could Leash me.”

“It was a joke.” Earthmakers. No sense of humor.

“Oh. So. What do I need to do?”

“When I take you into the Drift, you must stay relaxed. Do not panic. You will have to trust me.”

The corner of Aron’s eye twitches.

“You know I could kill you right now, right?”

“Oh, please.”

“I could. You see my hand?” He glances down to where my right hand is curled as though around a spear. A spear that would be pointed at his belly. “Within a heartbeat I could shape my Drift-spear, and it would punch right through your gut. So if I wanted you to die, I could find easier ways to do it than taking you into the Drift.”

His jaw sets. He knows I’m right.

“I will do everything I can to get you through the Drift. The rest is up to you. And that means not fighting me. You will have to trust, let yourself flow with me. If you can’t do that, we shouldn’t continue.”

Aron unclenches his fingers and lets out a breath. His head lowers a little, and I can see him fighting within himself. I wonder if he is thinking about what I told him before Clitus and Logan left, that I’ve never heard of an Earthmaker, other than the Seven, of course, surviving entry into the Drift. Even if he tries his best, he still might fail. Entering the Drift goes strongly against the nature of an Earthmaker. Can he overcome his nature for a few minutes?

For the first time since I met Aron, he looks vulnerable. I try to tell myself that this is his choice, that if he would simply trust my report, this wouldn’t be necessary. But I understand why he doesn’t. And I respect his courage. I don’t want to respect anything about him, but I do.

He looks up, and I see the resolve in his eyes. “All right. I will try to trust you.”

“Not try. You will
have
to trust me.”

He nods.

I hold out my hands. “Hold them.”

He recoils.

I roll my eyes. “If you can’t even touch my hands, you’ll never be able to travel the Drift with me.”

He sighs and puts his hands in mine, keeping the touch light. I grip him, and he tenses, but I don’t let go. When he relaxes, I tell him to breathe deeply. I scoot closer until our knees are touching. One of his feet is pressed against my shin. It’s a strange intimacy, holding his hands, feeling his pulse, his breaths, his tiny movements. His hands are strong, the palms callused. Like Logan, he knows the sword.

I make him breathe in time with me. I say, adopting the tone I’ve heard the Keldan priests use, making up the words as I go, “Flow with me, know that you are safe with me, that if you accept the Drift, it cannot hurt you. You want to be there. You want to travel with me. Say it.”

“I want to be there. I want to travel with you.”

“You are safe.”

“I am safe.”

“You want to flow.”

“I want to flow.”

“You want to drift.”

“I want to drift.”

I open myself to the pathway of my mooring. I want to rush along it, as I am used to doing. But I ease myself into it, drawing Aron with me through touch. As the world around me dissolves into its bare energies, I flare with joy. I feel Aron hesitate, and I calm myself, trying to send reassurance through our linked hands. He steadies.

Then our hands vanish, and the physical touch is gone.

My own energy is bright, with its whites and golds against the dark, remote background of the trees and tents. My glowing white Leash trails away into the distance. Relief floods me as I realize it flows away from Martel’s camp. Belos is not there. The faintness of the Leash suggests he is in the Dry Land, as I suspected. Maybe luck is with me tonight.

Aron’s energy, like that of most Earthmakers, is slower and quieter than mine. Dimmer. I look around to see many such forms gathered around us throughout the campsite. It’s almost like they are...not as alive? Not as connected? The threads between them are faint. Then I see Logan.

He is pacing at the edge of the camp. His energy roils and burns. He is brighter even than any Drifter I’ve ever seen. I sense Aron’s attention on him. Aron tries to speak, but he doesn’t know how to in the Drift.

I notice another form that burns more brightly than the others. Nothing like Logan, certainly, but bright enough to pass for human. It’s Korinna. I stare. What does this mean?