The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (26 page)

“But you said you tried to stop Belos.”

“Yes. But I was motivated by feeling, not a sound way to make decisions. Faced with it again? Weighting the pros and cons with a cool mind? I’m afraid I know what I would do.”

Anger, so distant before, rolls through me suddenly, like a floodgate has lifted. The emotion is easy, comfortable, familiar, and I let it wash away all other feeling. For the first time since Heborian began his story, I feel like myself again. This, I understand. This, I can be. I ease along my mooring.

As I shift, I feel the lick of fire. The flames tease and pull, responding to my fury with heat of their own. I slide myself deep into their wild, destructive energy. They whip through me with fierce need, and I revel in the turbulence, drawing myself deep into the burning heart.

Heborian stands mere feet from me. It would be easy to destroy him, to burn away his indifference, his callousness, to show him that it’s unacceptable. I flare and lash around him, exulting when he stumbles back with a cry. For once, I am the one in power.

I snap and crackle, whip, burn. The fire lets me
be
what I feel.

Heborian stares into the flames. Why doesn’t he run? Doesn’t he know I could kill him? I whip out with a tendril of flame and encircle his wrist. He jerks away, frantically patting his sleeve to extinguish the flame. He keeps his distance, but he still doesn’t run, doesn’t flee into the Drift. He holds his wrist, pain scrunching around his eyes. It dampens me.

Am I really what Belos has made me? Someone who would take pleasure in killing, as the Seven do? Someone who would murder her own father? Logan believes I can remake myself. What would he think of me, to see my now?

With a straining, tearing effort, I wrench myself from the flames. I rise from the hearthstones as the fire settles behind me, a mindless force once more.

Heborian, still holding his wrist, blinks at me, mutters, “She always said it was possible.”

It takes a moment to penetrate. “What are you talking about?”

He clears his throat, and his voice normalizes, “The blending. Of the Drift and the elements. She always called the Drift ‘the fifth element.’ That’s why they cast her out.”

The pieces click together. Sibyl was Stricken for her ideas. Hearing this, I can understand why. Nothing would horrify an Earthmaker more than to hear that the Drift is an element.

Heborian’s eyebrows lower as he remembers something. “Sibyl was always curious about the Drift. She would have me take her into it, and she had less trouble entering than you would think. She was gathering evidence, she said. I think she meant to go back to her people, to tell them they were wrong. I begged her to let it go, to forget them, but she couldn’t.” Heborian shakes his head at this remembered frustration, but his mouth quirks when he adds, “She was so stubborn.”

I look guiltily at the blackened edge of his left sleeve and the puffy red burn circling his wrist. He follows my eyes but says nothing.

I want to hate him. No, more than that: I want to be disgusted, to look down on him. I want him to be pathetic. I could hate him if he were pathetic. But he’s proud, strong, unmoving. I am angry with him, yes, furious, but there is a grudging respect growing within me. I really don’t know what to do with him.

“You look so much like her.”

I start. “What?”

“Like your mother. You have her cheekbones, her pale eyes.”

Wanting something to stay angry about, I accuse, “You moved on awfully quickly. Rood isn’t much younger than I am.”

Heborian grimaces. “That wasn’t for love. It was political. My marriage to Margitte brought the LeVarre family into alliance with me. That’s all.”

“Does Rood know that?”

“He’s a prince. He understands these things. And his mother has been dead for ten years. It’s hardly relevant now.”

“I wonder if it seems that way to Rood.”

He eyes me, warning me. “I know my own son.”

I shrug. Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s not.

Someone knocks on the door, and I jerk in surprise. Heborian’s dark eyebrows lower dangerously.

“What is it?” he barks in a tone that makes even me flinch.

The white-haired Drifter, Wulfstan, ducks his head through the doorway. “My deepest apologies, Your Majesty,” he says, though he doesn’t look sorry. “But two young men, Earthmakers by their looks, have tried to enter the castle. They are looking for a woman”—Wulfstan’s eyes slide to me—“and one of them put up quite a fight when we tried to turn them away. We’ve arrested them, of course, but given their interest”—his eyes slip to me again—“I thought you should know. Your orders?”

My heart races. Two Earthmakers. Logan? And who else?

I step forward. “Bring them here.”

Wulfstan ignores me, waiting for Heborian’s answer.

Heborian jerks his chin. “Bring them.”

Chapter 27

BOOTED FEET TROMP through the foyer. The double doors swing open, and eight guards shuffle inside with the prisoners. I see Bran first because he is upright, hands bound behind his back and a guard’s gloved fingers clamping his shoulder. Then I notice Logan, hunched and stumbling, hands bound, being half-dragged by two of the guards. I can’t see his face, but I hear his rasping breath.

“Let him go!”

The guards hesitate, looking to Heborian. He must nod because the guards take their hands away. Logan crumples to the stone floor. Bran tries to catch his brother, but a guard’s hand stops him.

I run to Logan.

His face is pressed to the floor, and he’s trying to get up. I grab his shoulder to help, and he grunts in pain. A knob of bone is out of place, and I snatch my hand back, not wanting to hurt him. More carefully, avoiding the injury, I work my hands under his chest to turn him over. An ugly bruise is already forming along his jaw. His eyes are confused, out of focus. I lift his head and feel the sticky warmth of blood.

I look across him to the guards. “What have you bastards done to him?”

One of the men, a captain by his shoulder stripes, answers defensively, “He attacked my men. We had to stop him.”

“I told him not to,” mutters Bran, jerking away from the guard to crouch beside us.

I push Logan’s messy gold hair back from his face, and he blinks me into focus. “Thank the eternal earth,” he says, and I am relieved to hear that his voice is clear.

His eyes close, and I shake him a little, worried he will lose consciousness.

“Someone get a physician,” I say firmly, but no one moves.

Logan’s eyes open again, and they are a flat blue that I don’t like. He struggles into a sitting position. I reach behind him to work loose the knotted rope, and he pulls his hands free. The injured shoulder, his right, sags as he moves it with careful slowness. His right hand lies limp on his thigh.

“I’m all right,” he insists.

“You’re swaying.”

“I am not. You are. Just be still for a second.”

I bite my lip in concern. “What were you thinking?”

With his left hand, he grabs my shoulder as though to steady me. “They wouldn’t let us in.”

I put a hand on the back of his neck and pull him down so I can see his head. His breath hisses when I probe the split flesh. The bones feel whole. “And why were you in such a hurry to get in?”

He jerks upright, nearly smacking my chin with his head, and surges to his feet. I scramble up beside him and steady him when he sways. I have one hand pressed to his back, the other to his belly. I feel the hard notches of muscle through his shirt. Despite my worry, sweet warmth spreads through my body at the touch.

Logan twists away from me and grips my arm with his good hand. His eyes are a swirl of blue and green. Relief floods me; that’s what he’s supposed to look like. “You shouldn’t have left Avydos. You have to let us take you back. Right now. If he senses your Leash—”

“You are
Leashed
?”

Heborian’s voice is harsh with horror, and I wheel around to find him staring at me. “You have no business acting disgusted with me. It’s
your
fault—”

Heborian’s eyes soften. “That’s not what I meant. I just—I didn’t think Belos would do that. The Seven aren’t Leashed.”

“Well, I guess he trusts them more than he trusts me.” I blink with sudden realization. “And I guess he was right. I have betrayed him.”

“He’ll come after you.”

“I know that.”

“Please, Astarti,” Logan pleads, and his fingers find my arm again. He is shaking, and I turn back to him in concern.

I look over my shoulder at Heborian. “I want a physician to look at him right now.”

“Just listen!” Logan’s fingers tighten painfully. “You have to get out of here. If he finds you, he’ll kill you.”

“Oh, he won’t kill her.” Heborian comes to stand beside me. “She’s far too valuable for that. He’ll use her Leash to control her, to take her mind and enslave her to his will.”

I shudder, closing my eyes.

“Please, Astarti,” Logan begs, and there is such fear in his eyes, such concern for me, that my heart fills with sudden joy.

“Astarti, come with me.” Heborian brushes past me, and the guards scatter out of his way. “Captain Inverre, you are dismissed.”

The captain snaps his heels together, and Wulfstan strides uninvited after Heborian. I hesitate, clinging to Logan.

Heborian stops when I don’t follow. His voice snaps at me, harsh and impatient, “Now, Astarti. Unless you want to remain tied to Belos?”

“But—”

Bran puts my question into words. “Are you saying you can destroy her Leash?”

“I won’t leave Logan,” I say stubbornly.

“This is more important,” Heborian insists.

Logan pushes me forward. “I can make it. If he can help you, then I can make it anywhere.”

Heborian looks at Logan critically. “He won’t make it up the stairs. Leave him. I’ll have my own physician sent if it makes you feel better.”

Logan straightens. “I can make it.”

Heborian looks at him skeptically but shrugs. He turns and strides through the foyer, not looking back this time. Wulstan is on his heels.

I hold Logan back when he moves to follow Heborian. I don’t know how serious his head injury is, and he needs to lie down and wait for the physician. But I don’t like the thought of leaving him alone in the belly of this castle with eight guards nearby who just beat the hell out of him. Eight guards sporting enough of their own cuts and bruises to tell me they might want a rematch.

“Bran, stay with him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

Bran nods, but Logan says sharply, “If you leave me behind, I will start a fight.”

His eyes are a swirl of green and blue, and a muscle jumps in his bruised jaw. Bran’s closed eyes confirm my suspicion: it’s not an empty threat.

“You are the most stubborn, unreasonable man I have ever known.” He gives me a lopsided grin, and I force a scowl to cover my smile. “Fine. Come on. Let’s see what this is about.”

One of the guards hastily unties Bran’s hands, and Bran and I walk beside Logan, ready to catch him. As we move through the foyer, where Heborian has finally deigned to wait for us, my heart lurches with fear and with absurd, wild hope. Can he really help me? No, I caution myself. A Leash cannot be destroyed.

Heborian leads us through hallway after hallway, up stairways and around corners. I would pay more attention to the route, but I have too much of my mind on Logan. He is keeping up amazingly well, but he’s limping, his right shoulder sagging, his face scrunched with pain. Blood runs down the back of his neck. I know he’s dizzy because every now and then, he closes his eyes and swallows hard. I wait for him to collapse, to give up, but he doesn’t. Bran and I share looks, and I see that he’s as worried as I am.

When Heborian leads us to another set of stairs, this one winding through a tower, I put a hand on Logan’s chest.

“Please. Don’t.”

“This is the last climb,” Heborian calls back from halfway up the stairs.

I sigh with resignation as Logan starts up the stairs ahead of me. Bran shakes his head.

At the top of the stairs, Heborian stops. I see the faint bluish glow of Drift-work. Despite all the other emotions coursing through me, I can’t suppress a little curiosity. He is unraveling a barrier, one similar to that which encompasses the entire castle. How is that done? And what could be behind that door that’s so important to protect?

We enter what looks to be a sparsely furnished apartment, with a divan stretched along one wall, a blanket crumpled on it, and a single chair sitting before an empty fireplace. Another door indicates a further room beyond.

Logan staggers through the doorway and catches himself against the chair. He is breathing hard, his head hanging.

“You are so stubborn,” I tell him as I brush hair back from his sweaty face.

Heborian pauses at the second door. “The Earthmakers stay out here.” He nods to Logan. “He needs to lie down. Wulstan, stay with the Earthmakers. Astarti.” He beckons me forward, but I ignore him, helping Bran get Logan over to the divan.

Logan collapses onto it. “I’m right here, if you need me.”

I suppress a smile. “Good to know.”

Wulfstan, glowering at us from the corner, rolls his eyes.

“I’ve got him,” Bran assures me.

I rise and move cautiously toward Heborian.

Chapter 28

I FOLLOW HEBORIAN into a workroom, and he closes the door behind us. Unlit candles stand all around the room, on small tables and chests, even in an iron chandelier suspended over a heavy worktable, and hardened wax drippings cover every surface. Light filters through high windows to fall in broad stripes on the worktable. Strange metal tools lie scattered across it. I recognize clamps, a sharp awl for boring holes, files of varying coarseness, hammers, and knives, but the rest are a mystery. One, a wickedly pointed screw with a crank handle, looks like a torture device. At the end of the table lie drawings and plans, all sketched with precision. I pull one toward me. The picture looks like a modified crossbow with an arrow made of bone.

“Just ideas,” Heborian says gruffly, tugging the sketch away. He turns it face down.