The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (32 page)

I look at him, puzzled. “Why do you care what I do?”

Bran leans into the arrow slot next to mine so I can’t see his face. “If Logan were here, and you had been taken, would you want him to give up? Mope around while other people stand up to Belos? How do you think that would make him feel years later, looking back on himself?”

I stare at the pitted surface of the stone. The answer is obvious. Bran, to his credit, doesn’t make me say it.

A gull, winging in gray and white over the castle, screeches into our silence.

I say softly, “Logan is dead.”

“Probably.”

My head snaps up, and I am abruptly, unreasonably angry. “What do you mean ‘probably’? Of course he is. Well?” I demand when Bran is silent. “What did you mean?”

Bran wedges himself more deeply into his arrow slot. “Nothing, Astarti. Just forget it.”

* * *

Whether I want to be involved in this or not, I am dragged in by questions. Heborian, his Drifters, Aron, and Clitus all want to weed information from me.

Even before the midday meal, I find myself once more in Heborian’s study, barraged by questions.

“What are the capabilities of each of the Seven?”

“What are their weaknesses?”

“What are Belos’s weaknesses?”

“Where will Belos position himself?”

“How strong is Martel?”

“What is the state of Martel’s army?”

I have never been so much the center of attention in my life. When someone—I have completely lost track of who is speaking—asks about how Belos will use Martel’s Leash, I grip my head in my hands and shout at them all to be silent for one second.

Everyone backs away like I might burst into flames.

I hear the sound of a stopper being pulled from a decanter. Heborian hands me a glass filled with two inches of amber liquid.

I set it on my knee. I won’t drink the stuff, but it’s nice to have something to wrap my hands around to keep them from shaking.

“I’m sorry,” I tell them, and I am. I know their questions are important, and I am pleased, really, to be able to help, to betray Belos just a little more.

I begin to explain that power flows both directions along a Leash. Belos can use Martel’s Leash to control him, but he can also imbue him with unnatural physical strength and speed, with greater intelligence, even with some control of the Drift.

“But Martel can still be killed?” someone asks.

“Of course. He’s still mortal. But Leashed, his death will only give Belos more power.” I flick my eyes to Heborian when I say this, wanting to blame him, but his dark eyes are as impassive as ever, giving me nothing.

When they have exhausted their list of questions and my head is throbbing enough to pop my eyes from my skull, I am free to go. I hurry for the door, desperate to get away. Someone is on my heels, so I pick up my pace.

Aron catches up with me halfway across the foyer. “Astarti.”

I close my eyes. “What now?”

“I’m sorry,” he says gruffly.

I spin around in surprise. “For what?”

He looks uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other. “For pushing you.”

“Oh. That.” I wave it away.

“It was inexcusable, losing my temper like that. I certainly didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I can see that he has something else to say, but I turn away. I don’t want to hear him say anything about Logan.

* * *

I try staying in my room because I don’t want to talk to anyone, but I only find myself pacing and watching, in my memory, as Belos grabs Logan again and again. Here, being still, I cannot escape it.

I practice with my Drift-spear in the garden, slashing at the flowers that are so offensive to me right now. When I cut the heads off a clump of daffodils, I stare at the scattered yellow trumpets. Stupidly, it’s this little thing that almost makes me cry. I am cruel, a monster. I gently sweep the severed heads off the stone path and into the soil.

I seek out the training yard, a grassy field near the barracks. Men practice archery at one end, expertly firing arrows into the concentric rings painted on canvas and stretched over straw bales. Other men train against one another with swords and spears. I am the only woman here. No one meets my eyes. No one wants to join me.

When I’m on the verge of leaving, someone calls out with a Runish accent, “I’m Horik.”

I turn to see one of Heborian’s Drifters, whom I recognize from the grueling question session, leaving a small group of young men to approach me. He looks to be one of the youngest Drifters here, probably in his late-thirties. His dark hair is braided away from his face in the Runish style, and his deep orange tunic shows Runish embroidery—wolves, bears, and serpents—along the edges. His big, muscular body moves with surprising grace. Though he must have been young when he left Rune with Heborian, he looks every inch a Northerner. He stops a few feet from me, but even at the distance he seems to loom.

“I did not get to introduce myself properly before. Horik.” He presses a hand to his chest, then gestures to me. “You are Astarti.”

I don’t say anything. He knows who I am. I will wait, see what this is about before I react.

He adds, undaunted by my cold reception, “I remember you. I was a young man, but I remember the firstborn.”

The way he says it, like it means something, sparks a flicker of pride within me. I am the firstborn of the king. But a cool breeze wending through the training field lifts stray hairs from the back of my neck, and I imagine the Griever’s Mark exposed, flashing bright blue. Firstborn, yes, but still forsaken.

Horik bows to me, as though only the first part matters. “Spar with me? I would see what the king’s daughter can do.”

I search for a mocking smile, glance at his companions to see if they are laughing, but Horik is only waiting for me to meet his challenge. An involuntary smile tugs at my stiff mouth when I shape my Drift-spear.

Horik nods appreciatively at the notched blade. “A true Runish weapon. But then, so is this.”

A heavy battle axe appears in his hand. The blade boasts a long, wicked beard, gleaming with the power of the Drift. He smiles, jerks his chin, and I follow him to an open space in the center of the field.

Horik faces me, hefts his axe, raises his eyebrows to ask if I’m ready. I take a deep breath, still and focus my mind. Everything around us recedes. The world is filled only with me and my spear, Horik, and his axe. I nod.

His powerful lunge surprises me. He’s not playing around. I dart back, whipping my spear over my head and spinning to slash the blade at his neck. He blocks with his axe, but his eyes pop in surprise. I am very fast.

His blows are powerful, his movements smooth and well-timed. I have never fought a man so big and strong, and I have to compensate for my weakness with greater speed and agility.

Crouch, leap, slash, roll, deflect. I am soon panting. I did not realize I was so out of shape. Horik, though, is just as tired, his blows heavier, his reactions slower. He is used to fighting men who fight as he does. I make him work harder, make him chase me, make him lunge again and again.

When Horik overreaches, a little too desperate to end this, I slide under his blow and slap him in the back of the knees with my spear shaft. His knees buckle, and I am on my feet before he reaches the ground, the point of my spear tight against the back of his neck.

Silence. I become aware that a crowd has gathered around us, and that crowd is holding its breath, stunned. Time seems to have stopped.

Then Horik laughs, and someone else laughs. A few start clapping, and then the whistling begins, and excited debate draws attention away from me.

Horik climbs to his feet. The knees of his linen pants are damp and dirty from his fall. “You did not disappoint me, firstborn. If I were less of a man, I might be ashamed to be beaten by a girl, especially when I am the king’s champion.”

His humility and arrogance are so interwoven that I don’t know where one ends and the other begins, but I decide that I like him, and I clasp his forearm when he offers it to me.

I am elated, riding high on this first hint of acceptance, when I see Prince Rood stalking away, disgust apparent in the curl of his lip. We still have not spoken. It should not hurt me, because I don’t know him. But he is my brother, even if only by half, and he, like my father, has rejected me.

I excuse myself from the field. I walk around the castle grounds for the rest of the day, past the field and the barracks, the armory, the smithy, the stables, the cooking houses. After my sixth or seventh lap, people begin to stare at me, but I ignore them.

When my feet ache from the uneven cobblestones and the evening grows dim and cool, I return to my rooms and fall, fully clothed, into bed.

* * *

I dream of Logan. He is beautiful, grinning that mischievous grin of his, but his eyes widen in surprise when a spear bursts through his chest. He is yanked backward, away from me.

I wake with a cry, reaching for him. My hand closes on empty air.

Chapter 34

FOR THE NEXT two days, as Tornelaine teems with brisk, sometimes frantic preparations, I busy myself with any task I can find. I spar with Horik and with others, now that the men have seen I’m worth their time. I try to help in the stables, because I want to see the horses, but I know nothing about horses, never having had a need for one. Because I’m in the way, I leave. Instead, I help in the armory, handing out weapons and fixing armor.

On the third day, in the dark hours before dawn, a small group rides hard to the gates. I see them come in, a tight knot of horsemen, because I am up on the battlements, waiting for dawn, unable to sleep.

I make my way to Heborian’s study, where a light shows at the bottom edge of the door. I guess I’m not the only one not sleeping. I wait in the dimly-lit foyer as a captain in torn, bloody armor limps to the door, flanked by guards. I don’t try to follow because I don’t want to be told to leave.

When the captain emerges again and limps away, I pace around the fountain. The door guards watch me but say nothing.

When Heborian and a surprisingly large group of people come out, Heborian stops in his track. He motions everyone onward and approaches me.

He says nothing of my lurking, only appraises me. “Are you ready?”

“That didn’t look good.”

Light from a sconce flickers across Heborian’s stern face. “Of the four hundred sent to harry Martel, sixty have returned.”

“Only sixty?”

Heborian’s mouth sets in a grim line. “The Seven now travel with Martel.”

He offers no more detail, but I don’t need it. I know what the Seven are capable of.

“So.” He looks fixedly at me. “What will you do?”

It irritates me. “What do you think? That I’ll betray you?”

“No.”

The simple answer deflates me. “I will fight.”

One dark eyebrow lifts. “After you were brought back, I thought—”

I don’t want to hear what he thought. I don’t want to talk about that day, so I shut him up with a bit of honesty. “I would be ashamed to stand aside while others fight.” Besides, this is what I have often wanted: to choose my own enemies. And I have chosen. I will kill Belos for what he did to Logan. Or I will die trying.

Heborian looks at me for too long, then the corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Then prepare. The enemy will be at our gates by dawn.”

* * *

The bells are rung, and the deep brass warning booms through Tornelaine. Soldiers pour out to the city walls. The massive beams barring the gates are checked and double-checked. The people stay hidden in their homes, and when I follow Heborian and his Drifters along the hilly streets to the wall, the streets are gray and empty. It makes gooseflesh rise on my arms.

I am wearing leather breeches bound at the shin by light steel greaves. Armguards protect my forearms, curving plates cover my shoulders, and a light breastplate protects my torso. When I chose this, the armorer tried to get me to wear chainmail and heavier plate, but speed and agility are my best protections, not metal. Even this is cumbersome, and I wish I could strip it off and wear only my close-fitting tunic.

We climb the steps to the platform over the main gate. Heborian takes position in the center, and I move with Horik, Rood, and the other Drifters to the space left for us just beyond the gate. The wall is two paces deep and protected by a square-toothed crenellation, much like the one atop the emptied castle.

Already the east is paling, and the temperature has dropped with the predawn chill. The Drifters’ expressions are grim and ready. Most wear heavier armor than I do: layered steel breastplates and heavy, grinding chainmail, gauntlets, sweeping neck guards. Horik towers above us all, and he grins at me from within his steel helmet. At least someone is excited about this.

Beyond our tight group Heborian stands with his personal guard and with Wulfstan, the only Drifter who is not part of our plan, because he will not leave the king’s side. Next to Heborian’s cluster of guards stand Aron, Clitus, and Bran, and beyond them a long string of Wardens.

For the last few days, the Wardens have walked the fields around Tornelaine, “studying the earth’s lines,” as Bran unhelpfully explained. Except for the various shades of blond hair and the presence of women among them, no one would guess they weren’t Keldans. In their leather pants and stiff vests of boiled leather, they look like Heborian’s archers. Only Aron and Clitus wear the broad-sleeved tunics typical of Earthmakers, each with a tighter tunic beneath. But even their armor is light, meant only to protect them here on the wall. They won’t be going onto the field like the Drifters will. The swords belted at their waists are only backup protection, in case the wall is breached.

Down the line, I spot Korinna peering over the wall. Regret flashes within me. I did not even know she was here until last night, and I have not yet spoken with her, mostly because I didn’t know what to say. She is, after all, my cousin, the daughter of Sibyl’s sister. I worry it would appall her to learn of our relationship. Now, realizing that one of us might die today, I wish I had tried.