The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (21 page)

I hover uncertainly, but I really have nowhere to go. What will I do, sit on the porch steps? Korinna’s eyes plead. I sigh resignation, promising myself that if any of them laugh, I will kill them.

When I am crouched beside Korinna, Logan leans against the railing. In one breath I wish he would go away; in the next I fear he will. The toe of his boot edges into the corner of my vision. I shift my eyes away. I know I should thank him for pulling me from the Current, for not fleeing when Belos appeared, but I just can’t. Maybe tomorrow. Right now, I am too ashamed to speak to him.

Bran, who has been helping with the more seriously wounded, tries to catch my eye from down the hall. I ignore him but see in his face that some silent communication has passed between him and Logan. They know each other well enough to talk without words. Envy gnaws at me, that someone knows Logan so well, that some people have family.

Feluvas and Gaiana move down the row of wounded. There are twelve of us, and both Healers are pale and drawn by the time they are halfway down the line. I didn’t realize that Healing drained them.

I feel Earthmaker eyes on me, no doubt wondering why the Drifter is here, wondering what makes me think I deserve Healing. I shift uncomfortably among these people who hate me. I don’t belong with Earthmakers. I know I can’t go back to Belos, that I will not, but I know I can’t stay here either. This may be a sanctuary for them, but it’s not for me, even if it is the one place Belos cannot reach me.

I jerk in surprise when Gaiana kneels before me. She studies me. I want to squirm, but I hold myself still. I stare at my knee, though her airy blue gown and shapely hands blur at the edge of my vision.

“I once had a very good friend. You have her eyes. Earthmaker eyes.”

That startles me into looking at her. She is swaying a little, tired from Healing so many. Even so, her face is delicate, perfect.

“My friend was beautiful, like you.”

I don’t respond to that. I know what I am: coarse, clunky, dirty. Gaiana is making up comparisons as though to say I belong here. If I believed her, I might be comforted, but I don’t. I know she’s being kind, but I wish she wouldn’t. It only makes me more uncomfortable. Me, like her friend? Please. I grit my teeth.

But I do study Gaiana in turn because I am curious about her. Her eyes are pinched with more than weariness. Is it loss? Regret? I want to ask who this friend was and what happened to her. Maybe because I am curious, maybe because I want to think about something other than myself. But I can’t bring myself to be so intrusive. Instead I ask a polite, meaningless question, “What was her name?”

Gaiana’s lips part, but no sound comes.

Beside me, Korinna stiffens. Gaiana’s gaze drifts to her, and sympathy fills her eyes. Gaiana whispers, still looking at Korinna, “Her name was Sibyl.”

Sibyl. Bran mentioned her as well, a woman who was Stricken, whose name is not to be spoken. What did Bran say was the cause? Her ideas? I wish now that I had pushed him to explain. I wish I could push Gaiana now, but I let my questions die. It doesn’t matter, and it’s not my place to interrogate the Prima.

Gaiana helps me remove my jacket, and I try not to wince as the fabric rubs against my oozing, blistered arm. It looks disgusting. Gaiana tears the hole in my sleeve wider and puts her hands to my skin. I grunt at the pain, then gasp as sensations of earth, air, fire, and water flow through me. I seem to disappear within a living, shifting pattern of elements.

Then they are gone, and Gaiana sways before me. Logan jumps down from the railing to catch her, but she brushes him off.

I marvel at the absence of pain, at the way I can move my arm again. I am humbled by what a Prima has lowered herself to do for me, and not for the first time. I mutter, “Thank you.”

I suppose I should feel uplifted by her generosity, but I don’t. I feel low and undeserving. When the Prima’s light fingers touch my knee, I can only stare at them, at the perfect nails, the pale, flawless skin.

Korinna is the only one still waiting to be Healed. Gaiana shifts closer to her, and I breathe relief to be forgotten. Feluvas, who has just finished Healing a man’s neck wound, joins her. Together they straighten Korinna’s leg. The girl cries out as the broken bones scrape, but she bites the sound back quickly. She is breathing hard, crushing her lip between her teeth. Her face is white and sickly, but she makes no more sound. Brave girl.

The Healing is soon done, and Korinna leans back in relief, muttering her thanks. She does not look ashamed to have been Healed by the Prima. Is it such a natural thing for one of her kind?

Feluvas and Gaiana share a look, then both stare curiously at Korinna. Feluvas’s lips thin. Gaiana’s eyebrows crook. But whatever troubles them is soon put aside, and they rise, clutching each other for support. Several maids with golden bracelets hurry to them and guide them away.

Korinna’s eyes are closed. I could not possibly feel that comfortable. I am edgy, twitchy. Any moment Logan will speak, and I’m not ready for that. I nudge Korinna.

“You know something about this woman the Prima mentioned.”

Her eyes pop open.

Somehow I don’t mind pushing Korinna in a way I would never have pushed the Prima. Perhaps because Korinna is young, perhaps because I once spared her life. This gives me some leeway, doesn’t it?

When Korinna offers nothing, I prompt, “So who was this Sibyl?”

Korinna eyes me warily. “I’m not supposed to talk about her.”

I wait. I feel Logan’s attention on us, and so does Korinna. She shoots him a worried look. I don’t follow her eyes because I can’t yet look at Logan, but she must find permission in his face because she whispers, “She was a Healer, like the Prima.”

That makes me sit back. Healers are the most valued of all Earthmakers. And this woman was a friend of the Prima. What could such a woman have done to have been Stricken? What ideas could have been so terrible?

Korinna whispers, so low I barely hear it, “She was my aunt, my mother’s only sister.” She stops my next question by adding, “I never met her. She was...gone before I was born.”

Korinna pushes up from the balustrade. She inclines her head to Logan, and I am reminded that he is an authority figure to her.

Logan says formally, bowing, “Thank you for your service.”

She responds with equal formality, “My service is my life, and I give it freely.”

Her words make my chest feel hollow. I wonder how it feels to say such words honestly, to choose to serve, to choose
how
to serve. And to have Logan offer honor in return. Honor. The word weighs like a stone under my heart.

I stand as Korinna crosses the hall to Aron. He says something brief to her. She inclines her head and walks away, disappearing through the arching passageway that has swallowed the other Wardens, no doubt heading for whatever passes for barracks here. They are probably beautiful.

The hall has almost emptied. I shift uncertainly, wondering what they will do with me. Suddenly, I am glad that Logan has not yet left me. He hovers at my shoulder, perhaps as uncertain as I am.

Footsteps ring across the stone as Aron approaches, Bran at his side. I force my shoulders to loosen, my hands to relax. If Aron tries to apprehend me, I will fight him.

He stops several paces away. His mouth works on something he doesn’t want to say, then, “You were right. About Martel.”

My eyes widen a little, but I make myself shrug. I don’t need his admission. We both know I was right. What concerns me is what he will try to do with me.

He looks like he has something else to say, but he swallows it. He gestures to a young woman hovering in the background, a woman wearing gold bracelets. She comes forward.

Aron turns away, already striding off when he says, “Leitha will show you to your room.”

I stare at his retreating back. My mouth is hanging open slightly, so I close it. I take a step toward Leitha but stop when Logan’s hand comes down on my shoulder.

I see Bran looking at me, at Logan, with pain in his eyes. What does he see?

I take a steadying breath and turn to Logan. His eyes swirl green, blue, and gold. A muscle bunches in his jaw.

“I will see to her needs,” Leitha assures him.

Logan’s jaw loosens and he takes his hand back. He looks...angry? Hurt? I bite my lip. I owe him something. I owe him everything. But all I can say is, “Goodnight.”

Logan nods, accepting it, which makes me feel wretched, but I turn away to follow Leitha down the hall.

Leitha takes me to the room where I changed my clothes—could that have been only a few hours ago? A lantern glows beside the bed, where the golden covers have been turned back to reveal white linen sheets. A bowl of water steams on the elegant little table. Fresh towels lie folded beside it. A nightgown hangs fluidly from the face of the dresser.

“This is a lady’s room,” I say sharply.

“The Prima chose this room for you.”

I stare at Leitha, wanting to ask her why, wanting someone to tell me where I stand here, but Leitha’s face is cool, composed. I won’t make myself look a fool in front of her.

She folds her hands before her, and the gold bracelets gleam in the lantern light.

I narrow my eyes. “Why do you wear those?”

Leitha glances down. “They are a sign of my service.”

“They look like shackles.”

I don’t know why I’m being nasty. Perhaps I just need
someone
to squirm. I hate how calm everyone is here.

Leitha regards me steadily. “Shackles have chains. I am not chained. I have chosen my service, as all must do.”

“The Wardens serve, but they don’t wear bracelets.”

A little color finally creeps into Leitha’s neck. “We each serve as we can. Can I get you anything else?”

“No.”

She leaves in a flow of light gowns, and I clench my hands. I am a bully. A mean, awful creature. I feel my face twist, and I imagine how ugly I must look, how low and vile. I close my eyes and picture my Leash, how it would look if I could see it now. I work my hand under my tunic and scrape at my sternum, at the edge of my ribcage. Only when I feel pain do I realize I have clawed away a layer of flesh.

I force myself to the washbowl. I strip off my clothes and scrub hard at my face and body, bringing a deep flush to my skin. Watery lines of blood trickle down my belly. When I throw the dirty scrubbing cloth into the water, my hands are shaking. I glance at the nightgown, admiring its filmy ripples, but I won’t wear something so fine. I pull my torn tunic back on and pace the room.

A glitter of crystal behind the lantern catches my eye. A decanter, its contents gleaming bloody red in the light.

I pull out the stopper and sniff. I don’t like wine, and this stuff smells earthy and strong. I try a sip. The wine seems to dry my tongue, to bite me in the back of the throat. I wonder idly how expensive it is. I raise the decanter again, tipping my head back this time to chug. Better. This, I realize, is the key. Don’t let it sit too long in your mouth.

Before long I am weaving through the room, swigging from the decanter. I chuckle as the room sways around me, like I’m on a ship. No wonder people do this.

I trip over the rug and catch myself against one of the bedposts. The decanter slips from my grip and shatters against the stone floor in a bright tinkling of sound. Glittering shards fan out from a red splatter, which swims in and out of focus. I sigh and haul myself onto the bed.

* * *

I am in a stone room with no windows. The walls expand and contract, like lungs. A pulse, a heartbeat resonates through the room, not quite in time with the give and take of the walls. Though there is no source of light, I can see the grime darkening gray stone to scummy brown. Something heavy circles my neck.

A collar.

A chain runs from the collar to the ceiling, like a hangman’s rope. Panic rises. I want to tear at the collar, claw it from my throat, but I am afraid to touch it.

Chapter 23

LAMPLIGHT FLICKERS over me, and I stare at the bed’s embroidered canopy, a pattern of blue and green waves. My hand drifts to my throat, but I find only skin and the strings of my tunic. I sit up and have to clutch at the bedpost for support as the room lurches and sways. Nausea rolls through me, and I swallow a bad taste. I squint in the direction of the balustrade. Still dark.

I push myself from the bed and gasp as pain slices my foot. I squint the broken glass into focus. I have to rest my hip against the bed as I lift my right foot and pluck a jagged shard from it.

I hobble across the room to where my pants lie in a heap. I shake them out and drag them on. When I pull on my socks, blood seeps through the bottom of my right one. I tug on my boots and lace them up with slow, clumsy fingers. I get one tighter than the other, but I don’t bother to fix it. I steady myself against the table, waiting for the room to stop that obnoxious swaying, then head for the door.

A dozing guard whom I’ve never seen jerks awake when I open the door. Even through my dull and dizzy mind, I feel annoyance.

“Who are you?”

“Varus. Are you going somewhere?”

I lean against the doorframe. I hadn’t really thought this far. When he wrinkles his nose, I realize I’m breathing at him.

I scowl. “Oh, shut up.”

I feel him looking at me, but I keep my eyes on his chest instead of his face. A silver brooch worked with a branching tree secures his cloak at his left shoulder. His shoulders are broad and strong, like Logan’s. I squeeze my eyes shut. No. I won’t think about Logan right now. Then my eyes pop open, and I dart a glance around, hoping he’s not lurking somewhere, witnessing my disgusting display of myself. I groan as the hallway dips and sways.

Varus studies me. “Why don’t I take you to the kitchens?”

My stomach lurches at the thought of food. “Oh, gods, no.”

“How much did you drink?”

Is it that obvious?

I shrug.

“And how much did you eat?”

I rub my eyes. “You are making my head hurt.”

“Don’t you know anything?”