The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (27 page)

He goes to a large metal chest and crouches before it. He presses his hands to the top, and I catch the glow of Drift-work. The box opens with a faint click. He shifts uncomfortably when I come to look over his shoulder, but he doesn’t object. He flicks a cloth wrapping aside to reveal a knife made of bone. Next to it, lying curled like a snake, its cuffs open and waiting—

I stagger back. “Why do you have a Shackle?”

Heborian frowns as I bump into the table behind me. “They were once used to teach. This has been in my family for generations.”

My heart beats hard in my throat.

Heborian lifts the Shackle from the box and brings it toward me. I skitter away, and he lays it on the table.

“Do you know what it’s made of?”

“Bone.”

“Do you know whose bones?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. Come look at it. It’s a tool, child, nothing to be afraid of.”

“Easy for you to say,” I grumble, but I come to his side. I’m not a child.

The Shackle is smooth and white with age. It’s so glossy, like Belos’s, that it doesn’t really look like bone at all. Heborian runs a finger over it, and I shudder. When I notice Heborian looking at my wrist, I realize I am rubbing it unconsciously. I stop and straighten myself. I glare at him. For the briefest moment, some deep sadness clouds his eyes, then it’s gone.

“The Shackles were all made of the bones of the Lost Gods, as the Runians call them. The Earthmakers call the gods the Old Ones, though they rarely speak of them.”

I nod impatiently. I know the stories of ancient beings who shaped the world. Children’s tales.

“They were real,” Heborian insists, his dark eyes burning on me. “Don’t ever doubt that. You cannot make a Shackle out of ordinary bone.”

“No one can make a Shackle at all,” I say shortly, eager to dismiss all this. “The knowledge has been lost for hundreds of years.”

Heborian smiles, and there is something disturbingly wolfish in it. King Heborian, the Wolf. He goes to the box and brings back the knife, carrying it like it’s the most precious gem on earth.

“Can you guess what this is?”

“A knife?”

“Don’t be flippant.”

I sigh and take a better look. The knife is simple in shape, but it has the same glossy whiteness as the Shackle. “A bone knife?” I amend.

“Better. This”—his expression grows intense, hungry—“is something of my own creation.”

I stare at him, my heart thumping. No. I will not dare to hope.

He nods. “Yes.”

I continue to stare, refusing to believe it until he says it.

“I will cut your Leash, Astarti.”

I whisper, “That’s not possible.”

A faint flicker of doubt passes through his dark eyes. If I weren’t staring at him so hard, I wouldn’t have noticed it. He says, too firmly, “It will work.”

“But you’re not sure, are you?”

“It will work.”

“Have you ever cut a Leash before?”

“Step into the Drift with me.”

He holds out his hand. I don’t take it. I might want to throw myself into this dizzy hope like a fool, but I won’t. Nothing would hurt more than to hope and be disappointed.

When I don’t take his hand, Heborian lets it drop. He admonishes me, “Have courage.”

I steady my breathing. I will ground myself with doubt, let it center me. “But you don’t know, do you? Don’t lie to me.”

“I am ruthless, when I must be, cold, when it serves me. But I am never a liar. You’re right, I don’t know. But I am sure nonetheless.”

Gooseflesh rises along my arm and legs. I duck my chin.

“We must be quick.” The faintest glow of Drift-energy surrounds him, then he’s gone.

I ease along my own mooring. The room falls away, and Heborian and I are sharply defined forms in the dimness. The knife glows bright white in his hand. He studies the whitish-blue Leash that runs from under my heart into the distance. He glances at me to see if I’m ready, and I nod. I keep my thoughts locked away. I will not allow myself to feel anything. He might not be a liar, but he could be mistaken. If I refuse to hope, I will not be disappointed.

Heborian swipes the knife through my Leash. I am seized by nausea and pain, and for a second I think he has taken control of my Leash, that he’s pulling it as Belos does. He has tricked me!

But the sensation vanishes, and I stagger back.

I am light as I have never been. I could float away. I look down and stare numbly at my silvery form, whole, independent, unleashed.

Heborian shifts beside me, and despite the strain and distance of his voice, I don’t mistake his urgency when he says, “We have to go.”

But I need a moment to see this, to believe it’s real. I look for my broken Leash in the distance, but there is nothing. Gone. Like it never existed. I am dizzy. Dumbfounded.

I am free.

Suddenly, wind rushes toward me. My energy pulses with fear as the Hounding skims around and through my energy form. I have a moment to consider fleeing before my thoughts scatter in the whipping wind, leaving my mind in hazy dullness. When the wind tugs at me, I feel myself submitting. A foreign thought invades me: I want to go into this wind. It calls me with its mystery, with its strange, otherworldly power. Yes, I will go.

A flashing Drift-sword whips through the wind. The wind screams in protest—pain?—swirling away from the weapon. My mind clears, and I stagger back. Heborian swipes through the wind again. It forms tendrils of mist, faint, nebulous fingers, which lash and grab at his sword. Heborian vanishes.

I dive into the safety of my mooring.

When the physical world resolves itself around me, I clutch the table for support. I did not know the Hounding could take my mind. I shudder. Heborian’s face, I am glad to see, is as pale as my own must be.

“Is the Hounding drawn to the knife?”

His eyes appraise me. I think I see approval in him, and my chest warms with satisfaction, though it makes me annoyed with myself. I shouldn’t care what he thinks.

He doesn’t answer my question. “Well? How do you feel?”

I press fingers to my sternum and the edge of my ribs. Despite the Hounding, I want to return to the Drift, to see it again.

I say numbly, still disbelieving, “It worked.”

Heborian studies the glossy white knife in his hand. His mouth sets with satisfaction.

My eyes prickle. “Thank you.”

Heborian freezes, then turns away in discomfort, refusing to accept my thanks. I understand why: it was his deal with Belos that led to my Leash, and I should not feel grateful, but I do. He has done something that I did not believe possible. He is, I realize, a brilliant man.

He carefully lays the knife into the chest and lowers the lid. It seals with a click. He rises as the glow dies around it.

He says roughly, “We should check on your friend. He needs to rest. Will you stay until he’s better? He should not travel today.”

I nod and follow Heborian to the door. For a moment, I had forgotten about Logan.

When the door swings open, Logan jerks upright on the divan. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

I realize there are tears on my face, and I brush them away. “Nothing is wrong.”

He glares at Heborian then staggers over to me and grabs my arm with his strong left hand. His eyes search my face, and I wipe self-consciously at the new tears. I am happy. Why, then, am I crying? I never cry.

“I—my”—I gesture in frustration—“he cut it.” I laugh a little. “It’s gone.”

Logan makes a sound like someone hit him in the stomach. He crushes me to his chest and holds me more tightly than I have ever been held in my life. He kisses the top of my head. I am so warmed by this that fresh tears slide down my cheeks.

I laugh again and push him back. I rub my face against my shoulder. “I’m such an idiot.”

“None of my children are idiots,” Heborian says gruffly.

Logan freezes. As he stares at Heborian, I realize that he doesn’t know.

I put a hand on Logan’s arm. “It’s a long story, but I won’t tell it to you until you’ve seen the physician. Bran? A little help?”

It takes some pushing and some sharp words to get Logan moving, but when we do, the fight goes out of him, and he leans on Bran heavily. I try to help by supporting his right side. Even though I avoid his shoulder, just touching his arm brings a sound of pain from him.

“It’s dislocated,” Wulfstan says from behind me, and I drop my hands, hovering uselessly behind Logan as we start down the stairs and work our way through the castle.

Heborian leads us to a different wing, one where the carpets grow progressively richer and the sconces more ornate. He barks orders to a young pageboy, who scurries off to fetch the physician.

We reach a beautifully carved door and follow Heborian into a richly furnished sitting room. I have little time to register the stuffed chairs and yawning fireplace before we pass into a further room with a wide bed. A window looks out onto a garden.

Bran tries to make Logan lie down on the bed but succeeds only in making him sit. He does accept water, which he gulps down. At every moment I expect Heborian to leave, indifferent to us, but he stays, pacing along the wall before the bedroom’s smaller fireplace.

We have only minutes to wait before the physician, a sharp-eyed little man with a fringe of short brown hair around his bald head, bustles into the room.

“Renald,” Heborian greets him, and the physician bows with a quick, “Your Majesty.”

Renald hurries to the bed and sets a black satchel on the bedside table. He takes Logan’s head in his hands. Logan jerks in surprise, and Renald mutters impatiently, “Hold still.” He peers at the back of Logan’s head, probing.

When he looks into Logan’s eyes, he draws back sharply. “What is wrong with your eyes?”

I wince, thinking how I asked Logan the same thing when I first met him.

Logan’s jaw sets.

Renald blinks, shakes his head, and resumes his inspection. “What caused the blow to the head?”

“Sword pommel,” answers Bran.

“Mm-hm. And he’s not been moved, I trust, except straight to this room?”

We all squirm a little guiltily as Renald stares around at us. He knows we moved him. He lets us sweat for a moment before he assures us, “He should be fine with rest.”

I sag with relief.

Renald motions Logan to take off his shirt but has to help when Logan can’t use his right arm. I wince when I see the knob of bone where his shoulder is out of place. Renald nods at it but turns his attention to Logan’s ribs. He take no apparent notice of the arcing scar across Logan’s chest, but he freezes when he looks at his back, and I know he is staring at the horrible lash scars. Logan tenses, but Renald doesn’t comment and is soon back to work, probing Logan’s bruised ribs along his back and front.

“Three cracked,” he pronounces. “Now lie down, right arm at the edge of the bed.

Logan complies, and Renald takes hold of Logan’s hand. He plants a foot in Logan’s armpit and pulls. Logan’s eyes close at the pain. His shoulder makes a sickening pop, and he bites back a cry. His breathing is harsh and fast, but he soon calms.

“Better?” asks Renald.

Logan’s face is white, but his voice is strong and steady. “Thank you.”

Renald helps Logan sit up, and I am antsy, fidgety, wanting to help. I twist my fingers together to keep myself still.

Renald takes a large square of white cloth from his satchel and forms a sling. He sets Logan’s arm into it with a stern, “Keep this as still as possible.”

Renald goes to the washstand and pours water into the bowl. “Once I clean his head wound, he needs to rest, but I don’t want him to sleep deeply for the first two hours. Who will stay with him and wake him every quarter hour, then check on him hourly after that?”

“I will,” both Bran and I say at once. We look at each other, and Bran says, “Let me do it. You should rest. You look exhausted.”

I hesitate, wanting to be the one to stay with Logan, but I know Bran cares as much as I do. I nod acceptance, not because I’m tired but because my mind is such a whirl, and I could use a little time alone to sort through the mess.

I go to Logan, guilty at leaving him, but he takes my hand. His eyes search mine. “Are you all right?”

“You’re the one I’m worried about.”

“He’s fine,” says Renald as he comes back with a damp cloth.

“I’ll check on you later,” I say and turn away before he can stop me.

Leaving Logan with Renald and Bran, I follow Heborian to the door. Wulfstan is already gone.

Heborian leads me into the sitting room and to another door. This one opens onto a second suite of rooms.

“For you.”

I nod but refuse to look at him. He has given me and Logan adjoining rooms as though we are lovers.

Heborian doesn’t acknowledge my discomfort. He simply sweeps to the door, saying, “I have things to do. Rest. If you want me, just tell one of the pages or servants. I will let them know you are to be brought to me immediately at your request.”

“Heborian,” I call as he reaches the door.

He halts, but when he looks back I find I have nothing to say. He seems to understand because he nods to me then leaves.

* * *

After glancing over the rich furnishings of the rooms—stuffed chairs and ornately carved tables, crystal chandeliers, stone fireplaces, a lush bed and huge armoire in the bedroom—I open the glass doors that lead out to the little garden shared by Logan’s room and mine. This is indeed a suite for lovers. What on earth made Heborian think that Logan and I are together like that?

I trace the far, curving expanse of a high wall. Within its spacious confines lie the curling fingers of flower beds, fans of trellised vines, and the knobby shape of a tree. Sunlight sparks in my face as I follow a winding stone path.

I hear the trickling of water and follow it to a little pond with a bubbling fountain. On the far side of the pond stands an old crabapple, its pink blossoms beginning to emerge from gray-green buds. Below the tree rests a stone bench, flanked on either side by trumpet-faced daffodils. Green nubs protruding from the earth in farther beds promise more growth as summer approaches.