The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (29 page)

At some point in the night, I am awake, staring at the dark canopy, my mind fuzzy with tiredness but unable to escape into sleep, when I hear the sound I have been longing for: the door clicks open.

His feet are silent, but I imagine their approach, his toes on the carpets, his arches flexing. When he reaches the side of my bed, I am sitting up, imagining the shape of his body in the dark. Just enough moonlight filters through my curtains to show his shoulder, the edge of his jaw, his flat belly.

He says sternly, almost challengingly, “We will have to figure this out.”

“Yes.”

“Can I stay?”

His calm, controlled tone tells me he has mastered himself, so I understand that he’s asking only to be here. I check my disappointment. This is better really—he wants to be with me simply to be with me.

I toss the covers back and scoot over. He slides into the bed. I am on his uninjured side, but I still hesitate, unsure whether or not to keep some distance. But his hand works itself under my shoulder, and I slide to him, wedging myself under his arm, my cheek on his shoulder. My body is pressed to his, but this is different from our earlier touching. This is simply being together, and it feels so, so right.

His breathing evens out and so does mine. Soon we are in rhythm. Soon, we are asleep.

* * *

I wake in the dim light of dawn. Logan’s hand is idly tracing my shoulder. I am filled with a new wave of longing, so I push away from him. I sit up, leaning against the padded headboard. Logan works himself into a sitting position beside me. From the corner of my eye, I see his bare torso, and I look away.

These feelings are so unfamiliar and so strong. I don’t know what to do with myself.

Logan says abruptly, startling me, “What did Heborian mean?”

I stare at him dumbly. What?

“Yesterday. He said something. About his children.”

For some reason, this makes me blush. “Oh. Yes.” I clear my throat, unsure where to begin.

Logan startles me again by beginning for me, cutting right to the heart of it. “He’s your father, isn’t he?”

My eyes snap to his. “How did you guess that?”

He shrugs, not answering. I did not realize he was so perceptive.

He gives me a tender look. “I assume you learned about your mother also?”

I am nodding, unable to work up any words, then I say simply, “Sibyl.”

The name feels strange in my mouth. My mother. The thought of her has always filled me with anger and bitterness, but now I feel only loss. She did not abandon me. She tried to protect me. She...loved me. And I will never know her.

Logan stares at me, dumbfounded, then he shakes his head in wonder. Of course he knows the name. “Wow. How did that happen?”

Haltingly, with much backtracking and self-correction as I try to put it all together, I repeat Heborian’s story. At first, Logan listens eagerly, particularly to the parts about Sibyl. His people may pretend indifference to those who are Stricken, but I don’t believe it, especially of Logan. He is hearing the answers to many long-unanswered questions. When I get to the part about Heborian’s deal with Belos, Logan’s face darkens. I sum the rest up quickly, but even so, Logan looks furious. His nostrils are flared, his breathing harsh. His left hand is clenched into a fist.

When I finish rather lamely with, “And then Belos, apparently, you know, took me,” he says, “I should kill him.”

I know he means Heborian, and I say firmly, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because. I don’t know. He’s the only family I have? I never had that before.”

His eyes are green and gold, and a muscle jumps in his jaw. “He
sold
you to Belos.”

I say sharply, “I understand exactly what he did, and don’t make the mistake of thinking I forgive him.”

“And don’t you make the mistake of thinking that I
ever
will.”

We glare at each other, stubbornness setting in in both of us.

I remind him, “He did cut my Leash.”

Logan throws the cover aside and shoves himself from the bed. “That makes up for nothing. Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not defending him. But he
did
cut my Leash.” I am filled with lightness at the thought. I rub my chest, amazed. I am no longer Leashed.

Logan sits back down, his expression softening. His fingers find mine across the bed. “I am so, so happy for you.”

I close my eyes, letting his words soak into me, letting the warm touch of his hand tell me it’s real.

A thought occurs to me, and my eyes pop open. “We could cut Martel’s Leash.”

His eyes grow thoughtful. “We could.”

I scramble into a kneeling position, losing track of Logan’s hand in my excitement. “It would sever his tie to Belos.”

“But he could still ally himself with Belos, even without a Leash.”

I dismiss this. “I don’t think he chose it. I think Belos must have forced him.”

“How could you know that?”

“I don’t. But I spoke with him, remember? He was horrified by the idea. Terrified.”

Logan looks skeptical.

I snap, “Frankly, I don’t care whether Martel chose it or not. I don’t care about Martel at all. But I certainly don’t want Belos to have him or anyone. He has too much power already.”

As anger roils through me, I realize that this is at the heart of what bothers me. Belos thinks he can take and take. And he can. When the rest of us let him.

Logan’s forehead is crinkled in thought. “And if we just kill him, Belos will take his lifeforce?”

“Yes.”

“So we cut his Leash, then kill him?”

“I’m not killing anyone.” My words are sharp enough to sting, but Logan nods, not taking it personally.

“Then Heborian will.”

I shake this away. “That’s his decision. Martel is his enemy, not mine. I’m finished doing other people’s dirty work.”

Logan gives me a look of such understanding and compassion that I have to harden myself inside or I will be turned to water, and I could not bear to be so weak in front of him.

He gets up. “Then let’s go get that knife.”

* * *

When I try to convince Logan that he is in no fit state to travel or, potentially, fight, he gives me a look of such furious refusal that I know it’s pointless to argue with him. Besides, I don’t have time for it. Surely Heborian will stop him.

Logan goes back to his room to dress, and when I meet him in the hallway, he is wearing his leather pants and jacket and a green linen tunic that shows edges of Keldan embroidery. He has removed the sling but is holding his right arm carefully. When he sees me looking, his eyes warn me that he’s ready to argue if need be. I frown at him, just so he knows I don’t approve.

I am wearing the black breeches I wore yesterday and my Earthmaker boots that lace to the knee. Digging deep into the armoire, I uncovered a cream-colored shirt of sturdy linen, and I am relieved not to be wearing silk. The way silk slides over my skin, so smooth and fine, makes me self-conscious, like I’m trying to tell people that I’m something I’m not.

The same young pageboy has been swinging his legs on the stool outside my door, but he is on his feet now, ready for action. He nods hugely when I tell him to take us to Heborian. He strides ahead, his small chest puffed out with importance. He tells several other pageboys we meet that he is taking us to the king, and their young faces fill with awe and not a little envy. For some reason, their innocent reactions make my stomach flip. Heborian is, indeed, the king, the most important man here. My father.

Two hallways later, we are intercepted by a man who looks to be a high-level servant, judging by his velvet waistcoat, and he sends the boy to the kitchens. The boy’s face falls with disappointment, but he is soon hurrying down another hallway, his steps light with excitement at the prospect of breakfast. It makes my own stomach rumble, and I wish we had stayed in our rooms until food came.

The serving-man leads us to Heborian’s study, leaving us at the guarded double-doors and retreating back through the foyer. One of the guards, the one I flung through these doors yesterday, cracks the doors open to announce our arrival. He makes no acknowledgment of our fight. Good man.

After a brief exchange, the doors swing open. I catch a glimpse of several men gathered around the heavy table, which is littered with maps and reports. I recognize Wulfstan, who ignores me, but the others I have never seen. There are five of them, and I wonder if these are Heborian’s other Drifters. At the far end of the table, Prince Rood stands and glares at me. Heborian, wearing a billowing cloak of maroon velvet, his hair braided back in Runish fashion, sweeps across the study. The guards bow him through the doors, pulling them shut behind him.

Heborian doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Well? Your plans?”

Logan is glaring at Heborian, and the tension of his body tells me how he itches for confrontation. Heborian gives him a measuring look, then turns back to me. I am astounded by how unshakable Heborian is.

I edge in front of Logan, not trusting him to be rational. “I want to take the knife and use it to cut Martel’s Leash.”

Heborian grabs my arm and tugs me along as he strides across the foyer, away from the guards. Logan follows so close behind me that his toes skim my heels. We stop at the fountain, where the splash of water will cover low voices. Heborian lets go of my arm.

He says, low and firm, “No.”

The bluntness makes me blink. “Why not?”

“The knife will never leave this castle. And you will never tell anyone of its existence. Or speak of it. Do you understand?”

“But—”

“Do you understand?”

My jaw sets with stubbornness. He can’t just order me around. “Tell me why.”

“You have no idea what that knife could do in the wrong hands.”

“You mean my hands?” I ask hotly.

“No, I don’t mean your hands.”

I cool a little. I know what he means. “So tell me what it could do.”

But here, apparently, his trust ends because he only looks at me steadily and says again, “That knife will never leave this castle.”

My mind is blank. I don’t know how to get past this outright refusal.

Logan shifts to my shoulder, unwilling to be kept back. “Then we will have to bring Martel to the knife.”

Heborian frowns. “Better just to kill him.”

I break in, “And let Belos have another source of power?”

“One more mere human?” Heborian shrugs. “It would make little difference.”

His indifference makes my face hot. One more
mere
human is not acceptable. Nothing is acceptable.

I cross my arms. “Belos cannot have him. If necessary, I will bring him here. You can do what you like with him once his Leash is cut.”

Logan’s fingers find my sleeve. “You keep saying ‘I.’”

I refuse to meet his eyes, focusing instead on Heborian, on the fierce tattoo that hooks around his right eye and stabs down his cheek. “Will you send any help with me?”

“I cannot risk my Drifters for something so dangerous and so unlikely to succeed. What if Belos or his minions are there? This is foolish, Astarti. There will be a siege here. A better chance will open up during the battle.”

“But what if we can prevent that battle?”

Heborian dismisses this with a flick of his hand. “This won’t work. Too risky.”

Logan forcibly turns me toward him. “Maybe he’s right, Astarti. This isn’t even your fight.”

I see the fear and worry in his eyes, and it almost makes me soften, but I can’t afford softness right now. “This
is
my fight.”

“Why?”

My heart pounds with all the things I cannot say, how I must do something to ease the guilt and shame eating at my heart, how I would die to undo even a little of what I have done in service to Belos.

Instead I say, “Think about how many people will die in this battle. People who also have nothing to do with this fight, except that they owe loyalty to one man or another.” I give Heborian a hard look, trying to spark some guilt in him, but his expression reveals nothing. He is used to being king, used to having people die for his causes. I shudder inwardly. I could never rule.

I look from Heborian to Logan. “I will go. Neither of you can stop me. I will capture Martel and bring him here. With him Leashed, I can take him straight into the Drift and have him here in minutes.”

“If no one stops you,” Heborian points out.

I don’t answer that. Of course that might happen.

Logan’s bruised jaw clenches. “If you do this, you know I’m coming with you.”

I look to Heborian for support. “You must see that he can’t possibly.”

Heborian shrugs, and I want to scream. I was counting on him to side with me.

“I’m not a child or an invalid, Astarti. I make my own decisions, just as you do. I don’t try to infringe on your freedom. Don’t do it to me.”

My eyes drop to the tiles, and the blue and gray pattern blurs through my vision. There is nothing he could have said that would make it more impossible for me to argue with him. Still, I make one last attempt, though my voice is feeble, resigned to defeat, “But you’re already hurt.”

Neither he nor Heborian say anything. I glare at Heborian, wanting to blame him, but he is looking at Logan with surprised approval.

Logan says, “I’ll take you through the Current so that Belos, if he’s near, won’t sense your approach.”

I realize suddenly that Logan has begun using Belos’s name instead of calling him the Unnamed. I’d like to ask him why, but it’s not the time.

I point out, “Bran could take me instead.”

Logan’s eyebrows jump. He looks to Heborian. “Where is my brother?”

“He returned to Avydos last night. He said he would be back later today. I had the impression he meant to speak to your mother and brother.” As usual, Heborian’s expression reveals nothing, even though he must now know that Logan is the Arcon’s brother.

“Fine,” I say. “But, Logan, you will take me there and back. You will not fight.”

Heborian fixes me with a hard eye. “You ask too much of him.”

I wheel on him. “You ask too much of me.”