The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (36 page)

Bran says quietly, “I don’t know.”

My eyes prickle, threating to embarrass me with tears. I widen them until they go dry.

“It was a battle, Astarti. Your blood was up. War is different. All of us were fighting and killing. I can’t know whether my earthmagic killed any of our own either. It’s not precise like Drift-work.”

Even though that is sort of what I wanted him to say, it doesn’t make me feel better. It doesn’t change anything. I am still filthy with guilt.

He adds, “I also saw what happened just before.”

I stiffen, staring into the trampled grass. I try to hold the image away, but I see Logan: confused, hurt. I feel my failure as my bow vanishes.

I know I should have done it, should have killed him, if for no other reason than to spare him what he must be enduring now. He is in the Dry Land; I feel it in my gut as a certainty. Will they chain him? Beat him? How much will he hate me for leaving him to that fate?

Bran says gently, “I wouldn’t have been able to do it either.”

“I have to get back to the tents.”

I spin away from Bran. He lays a hand on my shoulder. I want to acknowledge the gesture, to comfort him because this hurts him also, but I am too weak. I pull away.

* * *

Night drapes itself over Tornelaine. I slide from the back of the physician’s cart as it bumps and rolls through the city gates. I hear it clatter away as I climb the shallow steps to the top of the wall. The guards on the platform over the gate ignore me as I walk past them.

The moon, rising in the east, flashes through the arrow slots as I walk. Just ahead, its light lies heavily over the crumbled section of wall that almost brought disaster to Tornelaine.

The deadness that got me through the afternoon fades, exposing pain in its wake. My chest begins to constrict. I gasp for air, bending over my knees as panic and horror course through my body. I lost him, lost him, lost him.

I slide down, my shoulder scraping against the rough stone, sparking with pain as my stitches snag. I crouch in the shadow of the wall, slowing my breathing, fighting down the panic.

As the moon edges higher, creeping over my shoulder through the arrow slot, the horror dulls, and a slow anger starts to burn in its place. This is not the end. I will not allow it to be.

I see the dim glow of Drift-energy on the distant guards’ platform, but I ignore it. I refuse to look up even when the steady thump of footsteps draws near. They stop a few paces away.

Heborian says, “What are you doing? I’ve been looking for you.”

Anger licks through me at the sound of his voice. I stare at the dark humps of my knees, not trusting myself to look at him. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer.

When I do look up, moonlight limns his cheek, gleaming along the blue tattoo, clinging around the tired lines framing his eyes.

He says roughly, “I’m sorry. About Logan.”

Anger flares. “I will
never
forgive you.”

“I couldn’t let you take the knife out there.”

“Why?” I grind out the question, making it an accusation.

Heborian leans into one of the arrow slots. “The knife is...dangerous. If it ever got into Belos’s hands—”

“What do you care if Belos can cut Leashes? He’s the only one who
makes
them.”

Heborian is too silent, too still.

I push to my feet, hover behind him, suspicions nagging. “What else does the knife do?”

Heborian says nothing.

“You still don’t trust me,” I accuse.

“It’s nothing personal. Rood doesn’t know either.”

“This doesn’t concern Rood. But it does concern me.”

Heborian takes a deep breath. “The knife can cut through barriers. Do you understand how dangerous that makes it?”

He doesn’t look at me. He is ever so slightly hunched, protecting something. The signs are subtle, but I have been trained to read such things. It’s not a complete lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. All the same, it’s enough truth to tell me he’s right about one thing: the knife is dangerous. If Belos had that in his hands, he could drift straight into the castle.

I say weakly, “But I needed it.”

“I know.”

We both fall silent on this impasse.

Heborian shifts, and I feel him looking at me. He says softly, gently, “I’m sorry, Astarti.”

He’s not talking about Logan now. Instinctively, I know what he means, and I refuse to meet his eyes, refuse to hear the apology. He was right when he said that it wouldn’t change anything. I ask, partly because I want to know, partly because I want to rub in the guilt, “Why didn’t you come after me?”

“I did. I tried.”

I look up in surprise.

“Where do you think I got the bone for the knife? In the Dry Land, in the broken city. The Old Ones built that place.”

That sparks some curiosity in me, but I store it away for another time. “I never saw you.”

Heborian answers gruffly, “I couldn’t get to you. The Seven almost captured me. I gave up.” He pauses, and his next words are heavy with admission. “Sometimes I think I should have fought harder, that I should have tried again.”

His words prick at me like needles. I don’t want to hear his regret; I don’t want to care about his pain. But I can’t stop myself from asking, “Why didn’t you?”

He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks, his voice is his own again: firm, certain, unapologetic. “Sibyl was gone, I was sure of that. You were firmly in Belos’s clutches. I still had a kingdom to run.”

I prefer him this way, so hard and unyielding. I don’t want to hear any more apologies, ever again. That is over and done, in the past, irrelevant. The prickling across the back of my neck, through the Mark, calls me a liar, but I ignore it, shut it out. I have more important things to think about right now. Like how I will steal that knife.

I turn from Heborian, staring beyond the moon-drenched field to the dark horizon. “I will fight harder than you did.”

Heborian doesn’t answer, but I feel his eyes on me, weighing me, judging.

I swear, more to myself than to him, “I
will
get Logan back.”

He says, “You are so much like your mother.”

* * *

I don’t know when Heborian leaves me. As the moon climbs higher and the night turns cold, I stay at the wall, gripping the stones in silent promise: I’m coming.

Thank you for sharing this first part of Astarti and Logan’s adventure with me! If you enjoyed
The Griever’s Mark
, please consider leaving a review—even a very short one is so helpful to me and future readers. Word of mouth is everything—truly,
everything
!—for a new book and writer.

Astarti and Logan’s story continues in
Chains of Water and Stone
, coming April 2015. To keep up with news of the series and for sneak peaks and other treats, sign up for my
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Thanks for joining me—until next time!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katherine Hurley was born in New Mexico, raised in Kansas, completed her MFA in Michigan, and currently resides in West Virginia. She does her writing with a cat on her lap, a dog at her feet, and a horse waiting impatiently outside (waiting for treats, of course—she has no delusions about
that
). When the chapter is finished and the animals content, she might get out on her mountain bike, which means she’ll huff and puff her way up some West Virginia hills, hills, and, yes, more hills.