The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (9 page)

Clitus dips the torch toward a sconce secured to the old stone wall. The sconce flares to life, doubling the light, revealing a winding stair that can only lead to the cells. I try to breathe deeply, to calm myself; I knew this is where they would take me.

Each step down pulls at my side and the slice across my back. I’m starting to get dizzy again. When I waver, Logan’s hand finds my shoulder blade. He steadies me, but he is trembling himself. With each step, he makes a low, restrained sound of pain. He’s trying to be quiet, but in our silent procession even that small sound can’t be hidden.

Clitus looks over his shoulder. “Loganos, you don’t need to come down.”

“Yes,” Logan grits out. “I do.”

By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, Logan’s hand is shaking so hard he takes it away. But he stands straight, and his face betrays little.

I can’t quite match his control. My side flares with pain, spiking through my whole body. I hunch around the wound, and my back screams in protest as the movement opens the cut from the young Warden’s sword and tugs at the scabbed lash marks that Belos left two weeks ago.

Logan’s brow furrows. “Mother, can’t you—”

I give a strangled cry when the Arcon shoves me in the back. I don’t see it, but of course it’s him.

Logan spins, and I hear the start of a fight. Prima Gaiana shouts, and they both go still, though I can hear heavy, furious breathing. Clitus leads me forward.

The torch reveals that we are in a fairly small underground room. There is a weapons rack, a table, two chairs. No doubt for the guards they will position here. The air is cold and damp. Like a tomb. I shudder and think: all that beauty above ground, but beneath it, the Earthmakers are just like the rest of us.

Beyond lies the cell door, heavy, with bars across its small window. Of course I’m not surprised, but my heart still thuds to see it. It seems impossible that only this morning I was released from a cell not unlike this one.

Clitus opens the door and leads me inside. There is a cot and chamber pot along one wall. Shackles are nailed to another wall, the cuffs lying on the ground. It reminds me of the Shackle, and my breath catches.

The Arcon commands, “Chain her.”

Logan responds, low and firm, dangerously, “No.”

Relief teases at me. Will he protect me after all?

Gaiana says the Arcon’s name chidingly, and he grumbles, “On your heads be it.”

Clitus leads me to the cot and releases my arm. The prickling rush of blood to my hand tells me how hard he was gripping. I fall onto the cot and dust billows up from its thin cushion. No one has been in this cell for a long time.

Clitus moves away to stand at the door with the Prima and the young Warden.

The Arcon stalks near. “So,” he says, crossing his arms. “Let’s hear it. Who are you?”

I don’t answer. I will him to go away.

He grabs my shoulder and slams me against the wall. I can’t stop the cry of pain. Logan jerks his brother’s hand away. More shouting.

I am dizzy, sick. The voices recede. The movement looks far away. I start to float.

The Prima crouches in front of me. Her light fingers tug at the slice in my dress, and I wince as fabric pulls away from the wound.

“It needs to be cleaned at least, but it should be Healed.”

“You know the law, Mother. We don’t Heal Drifters. And she’s a servant of the enemy. It shouldn’t even be a question.”

Logan mumbles something.

The Arcon’s voice sharpens, “It’s absurd for me to be treated as cruel because I say so. I don’t care if she’s a girl. I don’t care if she’s young. I don’t care if Logan’s
fondness
for humans has blinded him. And neither should anyone else. She is our enemy, and she will be treated as such. If I didn’t have questions for her, she would be dead already.”

Gaiana’s light gown rustles. “If you want her alive to answer your questions, then get me water and bandages. Better yet, bring Feluvas down to help.”

The conversation continues, but I lose track of it, and of time. I float again.

I wake later to feel hands on me. I try to pull away, but they hold me still. They are at my back.

Someone unlaces my tattered dress, and I hear a gasp. I try again to draw away, knowing they are staring at me, at my lash marks. I feel fingers, sense a gathering around me. I start to struggle. The hands become soothing, the voices low.

I float again.

I open my eyes to see the Prima, gold hair lit by torchlight, fair skin seeming to glow. She looks at me from deep blue eyes, which are filled with curiosity. But no anger, no malice. Her face is smooth and lovely, and I can see that she is, indeed, Logan’s mother.

I hear his voice but can’t make out the words. I am too tired.

I float.

Chapter 11

I AM RUNNING.

The barren Dry Land stretches before me with its yellow-gray dust. The sky is empty and blue.

I am pushing as hard as I can, but my steps are slow, as though I am moving through water, even though the air is dry and hot.

Something is behind me.

I don’t look back. I just run, fighting panic. I can feel the thing catching up.

A bony hand grabs my shoulder, digging into muscle and bone. As I fall, dumb with horror, Belos engulfs me in arms that are thin and hard as iron bars. His face is skeletal, eyes and cheeks sunken, skin tight like it’s too small. His mouth, though, is huge and lined with sharp teeth. He dives at my neck, teeth gnawing, tearing.

* * *

I wake in darkness, gasping. I am frozen, too frightened to move or even scream.

Light falls through iron bars, lying in stripes over my chest. I am in a cell. In Avydos.

* * *

I am walking along a beach, looking for something. The waves crash toward me and draw away again. Sand washes from under my feet.

I hear a woman’s voice in the distance. I run toward it, straining, desperate, but it drifts away.

* * *

I am in the courtyard of the Dry Land, under the dead tree. Someone is fitting a pale, lightweight cuff to my small wrist. No words are spoken, but I hear them in my mind,
This will help you learn, Little Drifter
.

* * *

I am in the Drift.

Energies flow around me: white, gold, silver, edges of blue. I am elated, overwhelmed by beauty.

Something tugs at me, below my heart. I look down into my own humming energies. A white cord flows from me and away. Into the dark.

Something pulls the cord. I resist. It pulls harder. I plant myself against it, but it pulls harder still. I am dragged through the Drift, powerless, picking up speed. I thrash wildly but can’t get free. I try to scream, but no sound comes.

Chapter 12

I WAKE SHIVERING. I rub my arms for warmth and feel sleeves of soft linen. My head feels stuffed with wool, and I open bleary eyes. I am still in the cell. Of course. Light falls in stripes through the barred window, crossing my chest. The light is not like the sun, which moves and changes. Time seems to have stopped for me.

I am wearing strappy Earthmaker sandals, a loose linen shirt, and close-fitting wool pants. In the striped light, the pants look brown, the shirt blue. My side and back ache. When I put a hand to my torso, I feel layers of soft bandage.

I swing stiff legs over the side of the cot. Clutching my side to keep the wounds from pulling, I push myself up and shuffle groggily to the door.

I peer through the barred window. The young female Warden and another, a young male, sit at the table. They are playing a game of stones. The male studies the checkered board, a finger curled above his lip. The girl watches him, trying to hide her impatience. The male picks up a dark stone, holds it hovering over the board, then places it. The girl grins, and her hand darts toward one of the white stones. When she sets it down, the young man’s face falls. Her grin widens.

The boy says, “I hate playing with you, Korinna.”

“Come on, Nicanor,” she teases. “It’s good for you. Keeps that swollen head down to size.”

I’m glad I let her escape, even if it meant trouble with Belos. I like her. Korinna.

Korinna freezes, then looks over to my window. “Nicanor, go tell Aron she’s awake.”

He protests, “Why don’t—”

“You lost the game. Shut up and do it.”

Nicanor pushes back from the table without further complaint and disappears up the stairs.

Korinna listens for his receding steps then rises from her chair. She crosses the small space to my cell. Her blonde hair is bound in a tight, intricate braid. She wears a leather vest, laced down the side. The front bears the print of a branching tree. Her eyes are deep and blue, like most Earthmakers’. Her cheekbones are high and, though her face is still soft with youth, she is already elegant. Disgusting, really.

As I study her, I decide that she does, indeed, look about fifteen. Earthmakers age at a normal rate until they are around twenty-five, so that is probably her true age. So young. Why on earth did they send such a young girl into danger? Of course, it was only by chance that Straton and I encountered her. She was spying on Martel much as we were. What, I wonder as I have so often over the last few weeks, is the Earthmakers’ interest in Martel?

She says abruptly, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

She rolls her eyes. “For letting me go that day. I know what you did.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well.”

She persists, “You saved my life.”

It’s true. I grabbed Straton’s arm when the glow of Drift-energy formed around it. It was automatic, because all I saw was a young girl who would die a horrible death if Straton took her to Belos. What else could I have done?

She is staring me down, her earlier grin having vanished within a stern, earnest face. She wants an answer, but I’m not sure what kind.

I try to explain why I did it. “I know what Belos would have done to you.”

She flinches a little at the name, and her expression grows troubled. She wants something more from me. I have made it worse, not better.

I change the subject. “What time is it?”

“Afternoon.”

“I slept that long?”

“Longer than you think. Two nights.”

I draw back, shocked. No wonder I’m so stiff.

I want to ask her what they will do to me, but I don’t. I’m not naïve. They will question me, then kill me.

That knowledge seems to hang between us, silencing us both.

Korinna’s eyes pinch briefly, like she is upset. “I tried to speak for you.”

I nod. I suppose I should thank her, but the words won’t come. Instead I say, “You shouldn’t have bothered. It won’t change anything.”

“It might help.”

“The Arcon will see me dead. I know enough of men to know that.”

Korinna frowns. “He’s not as bad as he seemed the other night. He gets angry with Logan. But he’s calming down. Earthmakers always do. He will make a good decision. Well, I mean he will argue for one.”

A good decision for whom? And what does that mean, argue for one? I voice only the second question.

Korinna looks surprised, as though I should know. “He will present his argument to the Council.”

Council? My heart sinks. Why did Belos not educate me better? “What does that mean? Doesn’t the Arcon make all decisions?”

“Of course not. He must listen to the voice of the Council. Sometimes he may overrule them, but an Arcon can be removed from power if he does not work within the will of the Council, and of the people. Of course, no such thing has happened for generations.”

“What about Prima Gaiana? She’s his mother.”

“She has a voice. Sometimes she speaks her will. But Aron has served as Arcon since his father, Arcon Arathos, was killed. By the Unnamed. Five years ago.”

That stirs memory. I picture Belos and the Seven in the feasting hall. I had never eaten such a meal. Figs and dates, olives, candied almonds. Then my mind flicks to an image of what was impaled on a spear in the hall’s center. Blood stained the haft of the spear. The face—gray with death, mouth gaping, eyes wide and dull—flashes into my mind. Arcon Arathos. Aron’s father. Logan’s. I swallow hard and will the image to recede into the dark confines of my memory, where so many other things are hidden.

“I see. I understand why Aron hates me so much. You’re a fool if you think he’ll spare me.”

“But you didn’t kill Arcon Arathos. Logan was there, and he says it was the Unnamed. Logan never mentioned a girl.”

I shake my head. “It won’t matter. Don’t you know anything about revenge?”

Her eyebrows draw down in confusion, and I realize that, though she may be only a few years younger than I am, she has lived much less. I turn away from the window and walk to my cot. I sit down, lean my head back against the rough wall. Korinna watches me, her expression frustrated.

“Korinna!” barks the Arcon’s voice from behind her, and she jumps. “I told you no one was to speak to the prisoner before I do.”

Korinna disappears from the window. “I will accept punishment. What do you command?”

“Just go,” he says irritably, and I hear the quick patter of her feet ascending the stairs.

Two sets of feet, one with the slap of sandals, the other booted and uneven, cross the stone floor to my cell. A key turns in the lock. The door creaks open.

The Arcon, dressed in a dark red tunic with broad short sleeves and geometric designs along its hem, sets a torch into an iron bracket by the door. His tunic, belted at the waist, falls to just above his knees, leaving his muscular lower legs bare except for the sandal straps that crisscross up his ankles.

I expect to find Logan in similar garb, now that he is among his own people, and am surprised to see his leather pants and plain wool shirt as he comes in behind Aron, a head taller. Still dressed like a Warden. His hair is clean and combed, but the tidiness and order are surface deep. His eyes are upset, shifting in the torchlight, and dark circles hang under them. He looks like he hasn’t slept since the last time I saw him, which was, apparently, almost two days ago. He limps into the room. I frown. Why hasn’t his leg been Healed?