The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (24 page)

Aron’s eyebrows lower. “What is it?”

Bran shakes his head. “I’ll have to do some reading. Something about that”—he shakes his head again—“I’m just not sure.”

“While this is a wonderful intellectual puzzle,” I let the sarcasm drip, “we’re ignoring the more important question: where did she go?”

“Tornelaine.”

I whip my head in Aron’s direction. “How can you be sure?”

“What’s this? Are you thinking she might, after all, have gone back to her master?”

I growl.

“I know she went to Tornelaine because the last thing she and I discussed was warning Heborian of Martel’s new friends.”

Bran says slowly, “And why did she feel it was necessary for her to go do this?”

Aron shrugs. “Because I refused to.”

“Why would you—”

“Bran, you know the Council must make a collective decision.”

Bran grumbles at the truth of this, but I don’t care about politics right now, if I ever do. There are more important questions. “How could you let her go? If the Unnamed senses her, he will take her! She cannot go to Tornelaine.”

“Logan, I hardly expected her to vanish into thin air. I wouldn’t have let her out of the house if I’d known she would—”

“You clearly have no idea how powerful she is.”

“And did you realize she could do that? Vanish?”

“No,” I have to admit.

Bran redirects the discussion. “What do we do?”

I straighten. “I’m going after her. Right now.”

Bran puts up a placating hand. “Logan, wait—”

“I won’t wait! Not for one minute.”

Aron moves to his desk, already in administrator mode, as though this isn’t a crisis. “Bran is going with you.”

Bran and I both say, “What?”

“You heard me.”

I glare at him. “So now you don’t trust
me
?”

“I don’t trust you to be sensible, no. But I do want the two of you to find her. Because I certainly don’t trust her. Bran, I hope, I can trust to make wise decisions. And to remember where his loyalties lie.”

I won’t waste time arguing with Aron any further. I gesture to Bran. I don’t really mind if he comes, as long as he doesn’t slow me down or get in my way.

“Let’s go.”

“I just need a few minutes to—”

“Then you can meet me in Tornelaine. I’m leaving now.”

I push away from the bookshelf and make for the door. I hear grumbling, the start of an argument, but I am soon halfway down the hall. Someone jogs behind me, and I recognize Bran’s light steps. But I don’t look at him and don’t talk to him. Only one thing matters right now, and that’s reaching Astarti. Because if Belos finds her, if he takes her—

My throat closes. I break into a run.

Chapter 25

I HAVE TROUBLE separating myself from the air, and for a moment as I hover over Heborian’s turreted castle, I think I will be stuck here. But I focus on the energies of the people, use that to orient myself, and slide from the air currents much like I slide along my mooring. But I am too high, and the air currents buffet me and send me swirling around one the thin spires topping a round tower.

My stomach drops when I find myself clinging to the spire, hundreds of feet in the air. I close my eyes until the shivers pass. If I’m going to travel like this again—and what
is
this?—I need to learn how to land better.

I open my eyes to find the sun, rising over the steep hills of eastern Kelda, sparking in my eyes. In the distance, sheep graze the steep slopes. The city and closer hills lie yet in morning shadow.

Within the city walls, the early risers, bakers and stablemen most likely, move along the streets, looking like ants from this height. A few tiny merchants’ carts roll through the city gates, and fishing boats skim out of the bay. Such ordinary activity. It won’t last. Soon this city will be locked down.

I feel for the Drift along my mooring, but I can’t enter. I am still outside Heborian’s barrier. I study the steep slope of the tower roof. There’s a six-inch wide ledge at the lip of it. Before I can worry about the danger, I make myself let go of the spire and slide down to the ledge. I gasp when my feet hit the ledge, and I hug the roof, clinging to tiles. When my heart stops hammering, I peer down. Walls and towers, courtyards. The castle is a complex weaving of stone, and I have to close my eyes again.

I have had some fortune in this disaster: there is a window a few feet to my right and two feet down the wall. The rolling coo of pigeons tells me I’ve landed on the pigeon cote, which is lucky because there’s probably no one in there. I edge over until I’m right above the window.

Slowly, very slowly, I scrunch down to grip the ledge by my feet. One breath, then I slither off the ledge and arc through the window.

White and gray wings fill the air, beating frantically, brushing my face and body. Startled coos surround me. My elbow and hip smack hard against stone, and I roll to my side, hugging the pain.

I sit up as the birds settle, returning to their perches and stone cubbies. Dust and feathers spin through the air. I cough on the sharp scent of guano. I push to my feet, and my hands shake as I brush pigeon droppings from my clothes. I grimace when some of it smears in fresh white streaks, but I try to be grateful that nothing worse happened.

The heavy wood door is unlocked. I have to smile to myself. I suppose they don’t expect anyone to break in through the pigeon cote.

The door opens on a turning stairway, which is dark and damp. I run my hand along the wall to find my way through the darkness. When my fingers bump a heavy wooden door, I hesitate. What, really, is my plan?

I need to get to Heborian, but if I wander through the castle halls, I’ll be apprehended, and the chances of getting to the king after being caught as an intruder are slim. Even if they do let me speak with him, there will be a delay. By then, it could be too late. Better to surprise him. He’ll be angry, of course. He may arrest me or try to kill me, but at least I’ll have the chance to tell him Martel is coming.

Now that I’m within Heborian’s barrier, I can enter the Drift, and I ease along my mooring. My whole being fills with joy and power. There is nothing as immediate, as wonderfully intense, as the Drift. Stone walls become dim and irrelevant.

All around me, the castle is full of energies, and I am shocked by the number of people here. Nobles, servants, guards. There must be hundreds people in this sprawling building. Among the ordinary lighted forms of humans, a number of Drifters burn more brightly. None of them are within the Drift with me, so they can’t know I’m here. A few are scattered throughout the castle grounds, but three are clustered together. One of those three burns brightest of all, so I figure it must be Heborian. I had hoped that at this early hour he might be alone, but nothing, it seems, will be easy today.

As I move through the castle, I catch dim impressions of hallways and staircases, one of which sweeps grandly toward the entrance hall. The forms of servants bustle along, burdens in their arms. If I concentrate, I can make out baskets of fresh linens and curved brass hoppers of wood to start the morning fires.

Flickering candles in the wall sconces lick within the Drift. The elements have always felt so removed from the Drift, but I am beginning to wonder if they are not so distant after all. At least, not for me. My father, apparently, was an Earthmaker. Is this how I traveled the air? Did I use just the element? Or did I use some part of the Drift as well? When I entered the air and when I entered the stone, I was attempting to reach the Drift. Entry into the elements was accidental.

I pass my hand through one of the candle flames idly, but nothing happens. The fire is empty here, meaningless.

I put my curiosity aside. I have no time, right now, for questions. I can worry about my parentage another time, if I want to, which I probably won’t. My mother abandoned me. It doesn’t matter what man, Earthmaker or not, passed through her life. I was nothing to either of them.

They are nothing to me.

The deep, regretful clenching in my energy calls me a liar, and, yes, I am a liar, but it’s useful sometimes, even with myself.

I move through what I take to be a broad foyer. A fountain trickles in the center, its bubbling water silent and gray in the Drift. A high, domed ceiling arcs overhead, and two guards flank a set of closed double doors. They are oblivious to my passing.

The room is large, with a fire burning in the hearth. One Drifter, slender and young, stands with his back to the fire. Even looking at him through the Drift, I recognize the smooth planes of Prince Rood’s face. Heborian is at the window, his energy a pulse of silvery-blue power. Another Drifter stands with his fists planted on a table, staring at something, probably a map.

I don’t allow myself to hesitate. I made my decision when I came in here. No, I made it when I left Aron’s study. Nothing to be gained by fear. I ease myself along my mooring.

I brace myself for a fight, but they are so deep in their own thoughts they don’t notice me at first. Prince Rood’s chin is tucked to his chest, and his dark eyebrows are scrunched in thought. The Drifter at the table is an older man, white-haired, the blue Runish tattoos along his neck and across the backs of his hands blurred with age.

The rosy glow of sunrise highlights Heborian’s hunched back as he stands by the lead-paned window. A thick blue robe edged with silver fur hangs from his shoulders. Even with his head bowed, I can make out the blue tattoo that hooks around his right eye and spikes down his cheek almost all the way to his beard. The glossy dark hair braided back from his face catches slivers of orange from the glowing hearth.

When I clear my throat, the reaction is immediate. Heborian’s head snaps up, surprise replaced at once by fury, and the blue of Drift-energy. The old man jumps back from the table with a yelp, and a Drift-sword flashes into his hand. Prince Rood whips a knife from his belt and flings it at me. I throw a shield of energy in front of myself, and the knife bounces off, clattering to the floor.

“I want to talk to you!” I shout, but Heborian bellows, “Guards!”

The doors burst open behind me.

“Wait!” I shout, but I have to dart away for space, dodging as one of the guards hurls his pike. It buries its head into a stuffed chair.

I leap aside as the second guard lunges. I shape my spear as I roll. I come up fast, whipping my spear around to slap the guard in the side of the head. He slumps to the ground unconscious. I’m not here to kill guards who are just doing their jobs.

The first guard has drawn his sword. When he charges, I hit him with a blast of energy that knocks him back through the open doors. He doesn’t get up.

“Just wait!” I yell, but Prince Rood is running at me with a raised Drift-sword, and I have to spin my spear around to jam the metal butt into his stomach. He makes a loud woofing noise and staggers away, clutching his belly.

I’m stepping back, making space, my eyes darting around the room for the next danger, when a blast of energy pummels me in the chest. I skid across the floor, scrunching one of the carpets and banging into a side table, which crashes to the ground. Something shatters with the high, light sound of glass.

I try to get to my feet, but I fall, unable to breathe, my chest hollowed by pain. My spear has vanished. I manage to get to my knees as Heborian stalks toward me, the glow of power lingering around his fist. Wow. Only Belos has ever struck me such a blow.

I am scrunched with pain, unable to raise my eyes above his waist, but I put my hands over my head. I gasp, “I just want to talk to you.”

Heborian’s deep voice rumbles out, “We have an audience chamber for that. People who want to talk to me come on petition day, or they make an appointment if their business is pressing. Sneaking into my private rooms and attacking my guards is something else entirely.”

“I was only defending myself. I could have killed them, but I didn’t. I could have killed you before you knew I was here, but I didn’t.”

He grumbles, weighing the truth of that, then snaps, “How did you get in here?”

My breath is back, so I raise my head, craning my neck to look up at Heborian as he towers above me. With his dark eyes narrowed in angry suspicion, the tattoo down his right cheek seems to sharpen.

Suddenly, his breath catches and his eyes widen. He takes an involuntary step back. Does he recognize me from the night I came here from the Trader’s Choice?

But there’s something more than surprise and recognition in his face, some deeper shock. Is it horror? But he could not possibly know who, or what, I am.

The white-haired Drifter steps forward, Drift-sword still in hand, Runish marks all down the blade. “Why did you sneak in here, except to threaten the king? Why not approach openly and honestly?”

“This was expedient, and I have no time to waste. Nor do you.”

The Drifter’s hand clenches tighter on his sword hilt. “Speak clearly: are you threatening the king?”

“No.
I’m
not. Martel, on the other hand—”

“We know all about Martel.”

“Are you sure about that?”

I let them decide whether they want to hear me. If I make them ask for my information, they will be more likely to listen. I look to Heborian, because he’s the one who matters. But his dark eyes are far away. What on earth could be occupying his thoughts at a time like this? He refocuses on me, and his eyes soften, then harden, then soften again. I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t.

The white-haired Drifter looks to him, finds nothing, and turns back to me. “Out with it, girl. What can you tell us of Martel?”

I keep my eyes on Heborian, who, surprisingly, looks away in discomfort. “Martel has gathered an army. He’s moving from the Green Wall as we speak—”

“We already know that,” Prince Rood says sharply. One hand braces on the heavy table littered with maps, the other clutches his stomach. His face looks a shade green. I certainly haven’t made any friends here.

“But.” I pause for emphasis. “Do you know that he’s Leashed to Belos? That Belos and the Seven are coming to tear this city apart?”