The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (30 page)

His answer is stern, filled with layers of meaning, “I ask nothing of you.”

Both their jaws are set with male stubbornness, and I want to scream at them. I throw my hands in the air.

Logan’s mouth quirks. “I knew you’d come around.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Chapter 30

HEBORIAN LEADS ME and Logan through a hidden tunnel that provides quick escape from the castle. We emerge from damp darkness onto a beach. I freeze. This must be the route my mother took when she fled with me. I try to picture an Earthmaker woman with long blonde hair, a dark-haired babe in her arms, but the image is vague, blurry. I do not know what she looked like. I stare up and down the sandy beach. Where was the exact spot? Where did she die?

Heborian stands beside me, and for a moment I see loss in his eyes, so much deeper and more painful than I would have guessed from him. But it’s soon gone, and he beckons me onward.

When a stand of trees comes into view at the edge of the beach, where sand, castle, and green hills meet, Heborian jerks his chin in their direction. We can enter the Current from there.

“You know where to go?”

“Yes,” Logan answers, his hand on the pommel of the sword Heborian lent him. He has belted it at his waist for a left-hand draw because his right arm is all but useless. I have never seen him wield a sword left-handed. I hope he doesn’t have to today.

Before we left the castle, Heborian used a detailed map to show us Martel’s last known location. The information is two days old, but we know their destination, and we’ve made a guess at two days of progress.

Heborian nods, seemingly out of words. He studies my face until I feel uncomfortable. He raises a hand and almost brushes my cheek, but I pull away instinctively. He drops his hand. Logan bristles beside me. Logan and I are in agreement on one thing: Heborian has no right to touch me.

Heborian says gruffly, “Be safe,” and strides away.

I watch his retreat, his maroon cloak billowing in the ocean breeze. His shoulders are broad and squared. I hate it, because he betrayed me even before I was born, but I am a little bit proud to know that my father is such a strong man.

Logan shifts impatiently beside me, and I follow him. When we reach the trees, he takes my hand and pulls me in the raging gold of the Current.

We step from the Current into wooded hills. We can’t see the Green Wall from the cover of these trees, but it lies north of us, to our backs. Martel’s army should be within a few miles. It’s fairly easy to guess the speed of an army: slow. Wagons, war machines, oxen. They’re not moving fast.

Logan takes me back into the Current, and we travel a few miles south. I wish I knew how the Earthmakers navigate the Current because it all looks the same to me. Maybe Logan will explain it to me someday. At least I am beginning to find the entry and exit easier. It’s not unlike the Drift, really. There is a moment of darkness and pressure, like passing through my mooring. Only, it’s not myself I am passing through, but the trees. That, I still find a little foreign.

When we step from the Current again, I hear the distant creak of wagons, the occasional whinny of horses. Even in the early morning they are already on the march.

I take a deep breath to prepare myself, but Logan grabs my arm.

His fingers clench. “I changed my mind. I don’t like this plan.”

I gently pry his fingers away. “We agreed. This is the only way. I can only grab Martel easily if I reach him through the Drift. It will only be seconds. I’ll grab him, bring him back here to you, and you can take us all through the Current to Tornelaine.”

“What if—”

“We agreed.”

He takes a shuddering breath. “Just be careful. And quick.”

“You’ll barely know I’m gone.”

“I always know when you’re gone.”

My heart swells, and I turn fully to him, to really look at him. He reaches for my face, and I allow him what I denied Heborian. His hand slips across my cheek and behind my head. His fingers knot in my braid. Heat swells within me, and I answer his touch with my own, sliding my hands around his torso. He leans down and kisses me. It is deep, hungry, full of promises.

My hands skim upward to tangle in his hair, and he moans softly against my mouth. Our kiss deepens until I am dizzy with it. When we break away, he rests his cheek against my temple. His heart pounds, as mine does. I know this is forbidden and that we must stop, that we will have to give each other up. But for this one moment, he is mine and I will allow myself to love him.

His fingers stray to the back of my neck, and I tense when they brush my tattoo. His cheek is still pressed to my temple, so his fingers are moving blindly. Even so, they trace the Mark, gliding up and down each branch of it. I cringe. He knows it’s there. He’s seen it.

When I start to pull away, he grips me tighter, and his lips press against my hairline, just above my ear. At last, I understand. He is accepting me, every part of me. I melt.

When
I lean back to look at him, his eyes are green and gold, his face so beautiful. I gather my strength and push away. If I look at him any longer, I will not be able to leave him, not even for a few seconds.

I ease along my mooring and into the Drift. Around me, the world darkens, lit only by the energies of living things. For the first time, I notice that the trees are indeed part of this glow. They are dim within the Drift but more present than I had realized before. I feel Logan’s wild energy behind me, feel the fine thread connecting us by proximity, by feeling. He sensed me in the Drift once before. Does he sense me now? I don’t let myself look at him for confirmation, to see if his attention is on me. We will have time for those questions later.

Just ahead, Martel’s army is a faintly glowing serpent winding through the hills. Relief washes through me when I see they are only human. None of the Seven. No Belos. It doesn’t surprise me, really. Belos will only come for the battle, for the end. He doesn’t waste his time on mundane tasks like getting wagons and war machines through wooded hills.

I drift to the snaking army, finding Martel riding in the vanguard, near the front. I know him by the white Leash that flows from his belly, fading into the distance. I take a moment to marvel at my own free form.

I position myself behind him and travel my mooring into the physical world.

Martel cries out in surprise when I wrap my arms around him. His men shout. A hastily-drawn sword flashes toward me, but I am already dragging Martel into the Drift. The lighted forms of the men mill about in confusion. Martel’s horse has bolted.

Martel struggles with shocking strength, and I begin to worry. How much power has Belos given him? How much of Belos is
in
him? A human should not be able to fight me in the Drift. I wrestle him down, winding threads of my energy around and around him. I haul him along, but he wills himself away from me, and I have to grapple with him constantly. I did not expect this. It’s taking too long.

When his Leash pulses bright white, fear rips through me, and I do something I’ve never done before, something horrible. I jab my hand into the center of Martel’s energy, gripping him from inside. He goes limp with shock. I hope I haven’t killed him, but there is no time to check. I drag him along.

Ahead, Logan’s bright, gold and silver form appears. I fill with joy at the sight, even though I’ve only been away a few moments. His energy is knotted with fear. He is worried about me. I wonder if that will ever stop filling me with surprised delight.

I reach Logan, and I am about to ease along my mooring when Martel’s Leash flares brilliant white. Panic surges through me. I know what that means. I follow the line into the distance, where a raging torrent of energy flies toward us.

I shove Martel aside and shape my spear, bracing myself for Belos’s attack.

Chapter 31

I TURN BELO’S sword aside with my spear, but the blow reverberates through my energy, lacing me with pain. I scramble back to make space.

Belos’s energy rages, a whirling madness of silver and gold and sickly orange. Within that chaos, one face or another will take brief shape. Hands appear and grapple with one another. Belos’s form is in constant flux, all the conflicting energies seeming to tear him apart and reshape him at every moment, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His face contorts with rage, turning him fully, deeply ugly. I am afraid, terrified even, but I am exhilarated also. For the first time, he cannot force me into submission. For the first time, I can fight.

I whip my spear around to slash at his belly, hoping to cut right through his energy, to kill him. I will it with every fragment of my being. Death in the Drift is death.

He spins away and shapes a second sword. The weapons flash in his hands, reflecting his will. He charges. I leap, using the fluidity of the Drift to lift myself over his head. I stab downward to pierce his neck. He twists, and my spear slashes across his shoulder instead. He staggers back, and I stare in wonder at the small, dark tear in his energy. I have hurt him.

I am glowing with triumph, stupid with it, when his blast hits me. Fierce, angry energy slams into my chest. I am flung back, stunned, as the energies whip around me like vicious, scrabbling hands, tearing at me. My mind seems to fray, and I am lost in their prodding and grabbing.

Belos stalks near. He will kill me. No. He will Leash me again.

He will take my mind,
make me a slave in truth. I will be nothing.

With the last shreds of my concentration, I will myself through my mooring and flee into the physical world.

* * *

I stagger, tripping over deadfall. Green branches and pale blue sky spin overhead. Where am I? What happened?

“Astarti!”

Running steps snap twigs and scatter last year’s leaves.

Am I whole? Am I me?

“Astarti!”

Hands grab my arms. Someone spins me, and I sway with dizziness until Logan’s face swims into focus. His eyes are a swirl of color, and his fear sharpens me.

“We have to go. Now!”

“What—”

The blast hits Logan from behind, and he crashes into me, knocking me down a muddy, deadfall-littered slope. As the world rolls around me, I catch flashes of Logan falling, flashes of a dark shape at the top of the slope. I plant my feet, grinding to a stop as I reach the snowmelt stream at the bottom. Mud sucks at my boots, but I jerk free. I scramble up, shaping my spear.

Belos looks down from the top. I can’t see his face clearly from this distance, but his stiff posture tells me that his anger is beyond fury. It is cold, hating.

I wait for him to attack, but his gaze shifts away from me. I follow it to Logan, who is staggering to his feet a little way up the slope, injured shoulder sagging. He jerks his sword from its sheath. Panic swells within me.

“Logan!”

Belos vanishes.

Logan looks to me, and so he doesn’t see Belos appear behind him.

I scream again, something inarticulate. I try to find my mooring, to enter the Drift, but my mind is like a thousand pieces of shattered glass.

Belos’s hands clamp onto Logan from behind.

Logan’s eyes widen in surprise. Belos smiles at me.

They vanish.

* * *

I only realize I have been screaming when my voice cuts off hoarsely, when I am gasping and choking on the dregs of that scream.

I get up, not remembering my fall into the water. My clothes cling wetly, but the chill of my body is distant, not quite real to me.

Only a Drifter can enter the Drift without preparation or Leashing. To drag a human or Earthmaker into it—

I clutch at my chest. I cannot breathe. I fall back into the water.

The cold grip of water returns some of my wits to me, and I still my mind and step into the Drift.

I am alone.

There is no sign of Belos. No sign of Logan.

Even Martel is gone.

* * *

I step from the Drift into a busy street. A mule lets out a screeching bray. Hooves scrabble on cobblestone. A man shouts. People shift around me. Some are yelling.

I stumble forward.

I bump into a cart stacked with baskets, sending a few of them rolling from the stack. I watch numbly as one rolls into the path of a wagon and is crushed into a mess of broken strips.

Beefy hands grab and shake me. A ruddy face slides in and out of focus before me, and the sharp smells of sweat and musty straw fill my nostrils. The man shakes me again.

“Hey!”

I dimly register the familiarity of the voice.

“Let her go!”

Another voice, also familiar.

I slump against the side of the cart as two sets of hands grab my attacker.

I stagger to my feet and stumble onward.

Someone calls my name.

I steady myself against a drainpipe.

My name again.

Someone grabs my arm and jerks me around. All I see is Logan’s face, and the breath leaves my body. Then the jaw squares itself, and the hair shifts to red-gold. Blue Earthmaker eyes search my face.

My mouth works on his name, finding it, giving it to him hoarsely, “Bran.”

“What happened?”

Another face, so similar but so much harsher, appears at Bran’s shoulder.

Aron’s eyes narrow. “Where is Logan?”

The words are slow to form as Aron and Bran stare at me. “Bel—” I swallow something horrible. “Belos. Took him. Into the Drift.”

Bran cries out and staggers away from me, but Aron lunges forward and grabs my arms. My hands go numb under the pressure of his grip.

“What did you say?”

I can only stare at him.

“What did you do?” He shakes me. “What did you do?”

“Aronos,” calls a deep voice from behind, and stocky Polemarc Clitus steps forward.

Aron shoves me away and I slam into the drainpipe. My head cracks against it. Bright light flashes, then wonderful, empty darkness takes me.

Chapter 32

LOGAN