The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (8 page)

* * *

The Current changes. What had been a flow strengthens to a torrent. I am suddenly alone, with the Current alive around me. It is aware of itself, and of me. It doesn’t like me. I struggle as it pulls at me, twists and bends me. I will drown. I will die.

Then I feel Logan tugging, dragging. The Current clings, not wanting to let me go. Logan’s form flares silver-gold. At last I tumble from the Current and into the cold, dark night.

* * *

Moonlight lays silver stripes between dark tree trunks. Earthy scents of clean soil, fresh leaves, and blossoms fill my nostrils. The cool air plays over my exposed face and hands. I sigh, letting exhaustion pull me down into this dream.

Someone shakes me, calls my name. I know that deep, rhythmic voice. Logan.

His arms wrap around me, and the warmth of his body lulls me. I will sleep.

He lifts me. For some reason, his heart is pounding. Suddenly, I am being jostled and shaken. He is running. I feel an edge of annoyance. I just want to rest, to sleep, to go down into this darkness.

I dimly register sounds: the trickle of a fountain, the far off flow of a waterfall, the distant wash of tide. So much water. Where am I?

Logan’s feet pound across stone, his moving body jarring mine.

I hear a voice ahead, light and musical. A female voice.

Light blooms over my face. I feel it against my closed eyelids, which are too heavy to open.

The light voice grows high, alarmed. It bars our way. Logan shouts. I can’t focus on any of the words until I hear the female say, surprised, “Primo Loganos? Is that you?”

Chapter 9

MY MIND CYCLES through those words: Primo, Loganos, Primo, Loganos. My thoughts refuse to coalesce, to bring understanding.

Logan shouts again, something about a Healer.

More voices, bare feet slapping across stone.

Logan lowers me to a cool stone floor. Finally, I force my eyes to slit open. Firelight flickers somewhere, dances against the white and gray pattern of a high ceiling. Bodies move at the periphery of my vision. Logan’s worried face, eyes swirling blue and green, appears in my line of sight. That word echoes again: Primo. I know that word. What does it mean?

Cool, smooth hands cradle my head. They are too delicate to be Logan’s. They weave through my hair, and a low female voice eases me, lulls me nearly to sleep. I wonder if this is what a mother is like. I wonder if this is
my
mother, come to take me into death, as she always meant to do.

When I feel a tug deep within me, at the core of my being, I gasp. My Leash! Belos! But the tug vanishes, and instead of feeling sickened, I feel the strangest sense of completion, of immersion. I feel the immense weight of earth, the living breath of wind, the rhythmic lull of water, the fierce lick of fire. I am surrounded and filled. Whole.

More voices. Deep and angry this time, male.

The sense of wholeness vanishes, and I am shivering with cold. There is no water, no wind, no earth, no fire. I feel loss. Emptiness. And pain. My side is on fire, and my hand finds it instinctively. It’s wet and sticky, still oozing blood. Reality plucks at me. I am in a building. People are arguing. I open my eyes.

At first, nothing makes sense. I am in a long, wide hallway. On one side, the moon shines through a balustrade, washing the pale stone floor with cool light. On the other, a sweeping white wall hung with tapestries gives way at intervals to dark, arched passages. Bronze braziers, some glowing dimly with coals, others burning bright, cast uneven light up the walls and onto the high ceiling. The stone floor is patterned like the ceiling, but I can’t quite make out the design.

I sit up, and my head is almost clear, the pain at the back of it a dull ache. Logan stands in front of me, his left leg bearing most of his weight. The worn leather of his right pant leg is dark with blood. His whole body is tense, furious. But the sharp, clipped voice isn’t his. I peer around him.

Facing Logan is a shorter, broader man wearing traditional Earthmaker robes, belted at the waist. A gold lantern with glass faces swings in his hand, flashing its light over the man’s broad face and flaring in his short-cropped red-gold hair, which sticks up in places, probably from interrupted sleep.

The man barks, “Who is this? This is a human. Why have you brought her here? Where have you been? Explain yourself!”

“Aron,” Logan warns. “Let Feluvas finish Healing her, then I will explain. Not before. Feluvas?”

Logan glances over his shoulder, and I turn to follow his eyes. A stern-faced woman kneels behind me, giving me a look of suspicion. She wears loose blue Earthmaker robes gathered at the shoulders. Her arms are bare and slender.

I am in the Floating Lands. In Avydos.

My blood chills.

The woman, Feluvas, explains calmly, “I’m sorry Logan. The word of the Arcon overrules.”

Arcon. I know that title. Essentially, the Earthmaker king. I struggle to my feet. I have to get out of here. They will kill me.

Logan turns to me, grips my arm. “Sit down.”

I pull free of him and edge around Feluvas, who is rising to her feet. I back away, one step, two. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I know this is a bad place for me. There are too many of them.

“Stop her!” shouts the Arcon.

My heart leaps at the words, and I spin to run. A sword lowers in front of me. Gripping it is a young girl, perhaps fifteen. She wears a leather vest and gauntlets. She is small with a long blonde braid, a pretty face. Familiar somehow. Her eyes widen like she recognizes me, then her mouth gapes.

She cries out, “She’s the one I told you about! The one who let me get away!”

Understanding hits. This is the young Warden that got me in so much trouble two weeks ago when I let her escape. And now she has just revealed who—what—I am. What is it the Keldans say? No good deed goes unpunished.

The Arcon shouts, “Then she is a servant of the Unnamed! A Drifter!” He looks accusingly at Logan, and I use the moment to feel for my mooring.

Something is wrong. I can sense my mooring, but I can’t access it. I fight down panic and try again. My mooring feels dim and far away. Fear surges. This has never happened before.

I back away, looking for space. I don’t like to be trapped. The young Warden shifts toward me but keeps her sword neutral. She is conflicted. Maybe I can use that.

Arcon Aronos tries to step around Logan, but Logan blocks him. Aron shouts, tries to shoulder past. Logan grabs him, and the lantern swings crazily.

Other Earthmakers, perhaps a dozen of them standing back from the conflict, stir uncertainly.

I take a shuddering breath. I cannot run from here. There is only one escape. I breathe deeply, feel for my mooring, feel for the Drift. There! It feels wrong—sluggish, far away—but it’s there. I try to slide into it, to will myself deep into its far off energies, but nothing happens. I am frozen, shocked.

A blast of air knocks me loose. The Drift vanishes. I slam into a body behind me and hear a surprised cry. A sharp pain slices my back. My knee bangs painfully against stone. My elbow lands on something soft.

The young Warden and I untangle ourselves. Her sword, which slid across my back, scrapes against the stone floor as she scrambles away from me. I stagger to my feet and look to the real threat.

The Arcon’s lantern is rolling across the floor, its light extinguished, its glass face broken. The Arcon, face red with anger, grabs the front of Logan’s shirt.

“Stop!” commands a smooth, melodious voice.

A woman flows into the hall, her light ivory robes tied with a silken coral sash. Her neck is long and slender, and blonde hair curls down her back.

“Mother!” shout Logan and the Arcon at once.

Understanding clicks. They are brothers. Primo Loganos. Brother to the Arcon.

Their mother glides over to them, moving quickly without seeming to hurry. Like water.

She lays a light hand on the Arcon’s arm, and he lets go of Logan’s shirt.

She looks from one son to the other. “What is going on?” When Logan, favoring his right leg, steps back from his brother, she cries, “Loganos! What happened to you? Aronos?” Her voice is a warning. An accusation.

“I didn’t do that!” Aronos exclaims. “He came in that way. With her!” He points at me. “She’s a Drifter, Mother, and a servant of the
Unnamed
!”

Along the wall, the hovering Earthmakers mutter. One steps forward, a man in loose night clothes.

“Prima Gaiana?” he directs at Logan’s mother.

Prima. Logan’s mother.

Primo Loganos.

“Polemarc Clitus, please help Korinna.”

Polemarc Clitus. I know that name. And that title. Commander of the Wardens.

No.

Oh no.

“Mother!” Logan exclaims, but I don’t hear the ensuing argument. I have more immediate problems.

Polemarc Clitus, who is short and thick for an Earthmaker, strides toward me. He is frowning, determined. Even in night clothes, with loose pants and his tunic hanging halfway to his knees, he looks dangerous. I edge away.

“Be easy, Drifter.”

I step back again. I know I can’t escape, but I can’t just let him take me. Better to die fighting than to sit in a cell and wait for a headman’s axe.

“Clitus! Clitus!”

Logan jogs—limps—toward us.

Clitus pauses. “The Prima has spoken, Loganos.”

“I know. Just—wait. Let me help.” Logan’s eyes, swirling with color, are pleading.

Clitus’s jaw tightens, but when no counter-command comes from the Arcon, he nods, and Logan brushes past him. Approaching me. I back away again. He is helping them. He is turning on me.
Of course he is
, sneers a voice deep inside me.
What did you expect?

Logan raises a hand as though to calm a frightened animal. “Astarti. Let them take you. You cannot fight them. We will figure this out.”

“You’re the Arcon’s brother,” I accuse him. I know he had no reason to tell me, that his part was well-played, but I still feel tricked, a little betrayed. He is a prince of Avydos. He will never help me. He probably never intended to. Once again I think: Straton is right about me, I am stupid. I’ve played right into their hands, given myself to them.

“You must let Clitus take you.”

I edge back again, feeling hopelessly for the Drift.

“You cannot drift from here. You cannot fight.”

I reach half-heartedly for the Drift once more. Nothing. I can’t escape. If I could, I have nowhere to go. I can’t go back to Belos. His name brings a wave of fear. My Leash! He will find me, he—

He can’t enter the Floating Lands.

This is the one place he can’t get me.

Despite my situation, I feel a sudden sense of safety, of immunity. The Earthmakers may take my life, but they cannot take
my mind.

Clitus shifts impatiently. I have to decide: would I rather die fighting or let them take me?

Logan’s eyes plead; his hand reaches for me. He has not asked me to trust him, has not promised to protect me. Why would he? Of course his loyalty is to his people, to his family. But I remember his panic as he carried me. He was worried. He did not want me to die. But. Could it be that he only wanted me to live so he could get information from me? They don’t know how little Belos tells me; I must look like quite a prize. I don’t know, I just don’t know.

Suddenly, I am worn out, too tired to think. If only they would attack, I might find the strength and will to fight. But they don’t. They wait.

Wearily, I incline my head. Polemarc Clitus stalks over and grips my arm.

Chapter 10

WE PASS FROM the main hall into one of the arched passageways. We are swallowed briefly by darkness, but I don’t have to see; Clitus never eases his grip on my arm, and he clearly knows where we’re going. Logan, the Arcon, the young Warden whose name I already forgot, and Prima Gaiana are behind us. The uneven footsteps are Logan’s. I know I shouldn’t care, but I’m worried about him. He should get off that leg before he makes it worse.

We turn a corner to find an arched doorway filled with moonlight. We pass through it into a large square courtyard. The courtyard is lined on all four sides with covered walkways, and we are moving through one of those, passing by sturdy columns. I hear wind rising beyond the building, but it doesn’t reach us here. The dark shapes of the courtyard’s trees are still. In the courtyard’s center stands a pale stone fountain. Water trickles from the mouth of some sea creature that forms the central figure, the cheery bubble incongruous alongside our silent, tense passing. Around the sea creature are carved even stranger shapes, half human, half fish. I can’t make out the details, and we are soon at the end of our walkway, moving again into darkness.

Several turns. I try to memorize them, knowing I should collect information, but my mind won’t focus well enough. My side hurts. I know it was partially Healed, or else I would probably be dead, but it bites at me, drains me. And I am tired, so tired. I’ve used the Drift heavily today and been in several fights. I haven’t eaten since I wolfed down the plateful of greasy meat at the Trader’s Choice.

At some point, Clitus stops me. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and I see him taking something from the wall. He goes silent and still, then fire blooms by his face, engulfing the head of a torch. I am used to earthmagic, but I still jerk back at the gleam of his Earthmaker eyes. He looks euphoric, like Theron or any of the Seven when they use earthmagic. I wonder, do I look like that when I use the Drift? Somehow, I doubt it. Then again, I rarely enjoy those things I use the Drift to do.

The Polemarc turns, tugs me forward.

We pass into an older part of the building. I can smell its age. The airy entryway where all this started smelled clean and fresh, a mix of ocean breeze and healthy plants. Here the smell is musty and damp. In the flare of Clitus’s torch, the stone is revealed to be darker and rougher, the ceilings lower. When we reach an opening, cool air creeps from it.