Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (11 page)

Color whips through his eyes. “
No
.”

My heart rate slows its frantic race, but I keep my face impassive, not letting him see my lingering fear or my cautious relief. The only thing I want him to know right now is that I am immovable on this. I know his stubbornness well enough to realize this is the most progress we will make right now.

With an effort, I make myself drop the matter. “Belos is calling in his markers. You remember the prisoner we acquired in the Dry Land? He’s dead.”

“Taken?”

“Most likely.”

Logan follows me through the sitting room to the hallway. I watch him from the corner of my eye. Healed and wearing clean clothes and, of course, that steady, unemotional mask, it seems impossible that only an hour ago I watched him beat three men unconscious.

We arrive at Heborian’s study to find all his Drifters gathered. Even Rood is here, as are Polemarc Clitus and Aron. Gooseflesh rises on my arms. There is a finality to this gathering. Heborian is finished with small missions, with collecting information.

The next several hours are quite illuminating. Both Heborian and Aron have been even busier than I realized. Heborian brings out a map of Avydos, and everyone gathers around the broad table to view it. The paper is fresh, the lines recently drawn. Clitus marks a spot on the map, not in the main city but in one of the smaller villages, where he says a tree stands damaged but alive. Apparently, his Wardens have been scouting.

Heborian lays out a plan with decisive strokes of his finger across the map. From time to time, Clitus shakes his head. Discussion ensues, and Heborian draws new lines with his finger. We work on time estimates: how long it will take the Wardens to get through the Current to the tree, how long for them to get to the city. We weigh that against Logan’s speed and that of the Drifters. So many minutes needed here, so many there. We make projections about Belos’s response and discuss contingencies.

When Rood demands to know why he’s not included in this plan, Heborian says, “You are here only to learn. This is not for you to do.”

“But Astarti—”

“Is not my heir.”

The unspoken part of that statement hangs in the silence. I am expendable, like everyone else at this table other than Rood.

Rood says quietly, “I fought in the battle for Tornelaine. How is this different?”

I answer for Heborian. “Because then you were defending your kingdom. It was a final hope for Tornelaine, with the enemy at the gates. This? Some of us will die, some will come back. If Belos is defeated, that will be the end of it. If he is not, you will have your chance to fight again. But not until it is the last resort. That is why your father is not going, nor is Wulfstan, nor the Arcon. The leaders don’t get thrown away until there is no one else
left
to throw away.”

Silence follows. The only one for whom this truth is new is Rood. Understanding filters into his eyes. He doesn’t like it, but he nods.

Heborian clears his throat and points at the map again. “The Wardens will take position here while Horik—”

Raised voices in the foyer make us all look up. Someone knocks, loud and impatient, and Heborian shouts for them to come in.

The doors swing open, and Inverre, captain of Heborian’s castle guard, advances into the room. A young man, hat crumpled in his hands, follows behind. His eyes are wide and frightened. I’d guess him to be a farmer by his plain clothing and tanned face. Heborian meets the men in the middle of the room. 

Captain Inverre gestures to the young man. “Philippe brings news from the village of Dorelle, forty miles northwest.”

Philippe makes a choked sound, unable to get his words out.

“Take a breath, son,” Heborian advises.

Philippe chokes in some air. “He—he—came into the village square. Out of thin air! He grabbed Frederic and put a white chain on him. They vanished together. When he came back, Frederic was gone. He said there was nothing to fear, but everyone ran, screaming. There was nowhere to hide. He knew where we were! I was in the tavern, hiding under the bar with the others. He appeared in the room in a blue flash. He grabbed Marise from under a table, put the chain on her and vanished. Jean-Marc told me to get away, take a horse and ride for the city. I am quiet and fast. But the floor creaked when I snuck toward the door. I thought he saw me. I ran. I rode as fast I could. My horse died four miles from the city, but I ran for the gates. Please!
Please!
You must—”

“Thank you, Philippe. Captain Inverre?”

The captain dips his chin and tugs Philippe toward the door. Philippe shouts, “Please, please!” all the way to the foyer. The doors click shut, and his frantic cries fade into the distance.

“So,” Logan says tightly, “he’s decided that human souls are better than nothing.”

Heborian frowns. “Perhaps.”

Horik prompts, “You think there’s more to it?”

I say, “Why a village so close? He could have gone farther away, where it would have been impossible for word to reach us in time.”

“Exactly,” mutters Heborian. “He wants us to know. But why?”

I say, “To draw us into the open, get us away from the city and your barrier.”

Jarl adds, “But to expose himself and the Shackle like that is a terrible risk. Especially if he’s alone.”

Horik comments, “But the others could have been anywhere. The villagers wouldn’t have known.”

“It’s obviously a trap,” says Wulfstan.

Horik argues, “But a dangerous one for him to set.”

“The boy mentioned nothing of Kronos, nothing of wind or earth,” Heborian says. “Why is that?”

Logan argues, “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. When I was in Avydos, Kronos was not visible until...well, a human wouldn’t have known he was there.”

“True,” concedes Heborian.

Wulfstan says, “Correct me if I’m wrong—I only heard Logan’s account through Heborian—but we know that Belos needs more power. We know he wants a Drifter. He is trying to draw us out, thinking we will be moved either by pity for this village or by eagerness to apprehend him. Let us
appear
to be falling into that trap while we set one of our own.”

“Go on,” urges Heborian.

Wulfstan looks at me. “Astarti, if you went after him on your own, would he believe it?”

Logan makes a sound of protest, but I say, “Yes, I think so. I’ve done it before.”

Heborian folds his arms, thinking through a plan. “The others would have to hide. Logan, Horik, Jarl.”

Logan snarls, “You would put her in that danger?

Polemarc Clitus cuts in, “Logan, if she doesn’t present herself as a tempting target, Belos won’t take the chance on it.”

Logan’s hands clench on the edge of the table. “I will go with her.”

Heborian shakes his head. “He won’t take on the two of you together. He’ll slip away, try again, wait for a better opportunity. Astarti, you will have to be convincing. Make yourself look hotheaded, as though you’ve come after him on your own, against my orders.”

“I can do that.”

“
No
,” Logan grits out. “It is too dangerous.”

Heborian lets out a silent, humorless laugh. “And this is why he’ll be convinced. He’ll never believe Logan would allow it.”

“Because I
won’t
.”

I see Logan’s whitened knuckles from the corner of my eye, but I don’t look at him directly. “This is an opportunity. We should snatch it before it vanishes. But. I need that knife to free Kronos.”

Heborian’s jaw clenches unhappily, but he knows I’m right. “Do not let him take it from you. I’ve tested it. It does work like I thought. He must not have it.”

“You tested it?” I can’t keep the horror from my voice. Heborian suspected that the knife could kill from within the Drift. There is only way he could have confirmed that. “Who did you test it on?”

“Martel.”

Martel. The one who struck a deal with Belos and brought his army in siege against Tornelaine, the start of this mess.

Heborian shrugs. “We caught him fleeing the battle. It would have been a waste to simply hang him. At least his death served some purpose.”

“None of that matters,” Logan cuts in. “Astarti cannot do this. It’s too dangerous.”

I argue, “No more so that what we were planning twenty minutes ago.”

“I disagree. You will be exposed, alone—”

“We’re wasting time,” snaps Wulfstan. “We need a decision.”

“It’s already been made,” I say. “Logan, would you prefer I actually slip away and do this on my own? That is the only alternative.”

He growls but keeps his mouth shut as we lay out the details of our plan.

Chapter 14

I SKIM THROUGH the Drift toward the village of Dorelle, letting my anger burn brightly. The only part of this that is a lie is that I’m alone. Though I said it to forestall Logan’s arguments, it was true: I would have come anyway. Belos thinks he can take and take and take, as though everything is free to him if he just stretches out his hand for it. The more he takes, the more powerful he becomes, and the better able to take even more.

I don’t let myself think about Horik and Jarl, their energies hidden somewhere behind. I don’t let myself search for Logan, his energies so diffused in the elements as to be equally invisible. Belos must not suspect they are with me.

When I reach the village, I find what I expect: people scattered, hiding, terrified. Belos, unsurprisingly, is nowhere to be seen. I will have to make myself vulnerable before he will attack.

I slide from the Drift in the village center. I am briefly blind in the darkness, then my eyes begin to adjust, picking out the shape of the village well, the dark squares of houses. The only sound is of my boots scuffing the hard packed earth as I turn, hunting for any sign of Belos. I press my arm against the knife, reassuring myself that it’s there.

I shape my spear. It flows into my hand with familiar weight and smoothness. The blade gleams a faint blue.

“Belos!”

A faint snorting sound comes from the side of one building. I spin toward it, startling a pig into squealing flight.

I let out a slow breath, and my pulse begins to ease.

“Belos! Come out, you coward!”

I wait a few more minutes, prowling around the well, alert for any sound or hum of energy. I must not be where Belos wants me. I stalk toward one of the buildings where I saw people hiding. I creep up the steps and pause. Still nothing. I kick open the door. People scream. They are muttering, whimpering, frightened. I let a Drift-light form above me as I walk in.

My light paints cool blue over the fallen benches before the bar and the tables scattered through the room. The tavern.

When nothing happens, I call out, “I’ve come from Tornelaine to help you. Your man, Philippe, reached us with word of your plight.”

Voices whisper behind the bar, but I don’t go over there. Better that they choose to come out. A middle-aged, portly man lifts his head above the bar to eye me. Dirt smudges his checks and nose, and his gray hair is pushed into a messy peak on one side.

“What’s your name?”

“Jean-Marc. Philippe is safe?”

“Yes. Tell me what happened after he left.”

“That...man. Was it...?”

“What did he do?” No good will come of speaking Belos’s name. It will only terrify these people further.

“After Philippe escaped, he...Be...” Jean-Marc trails off. “He left this building. I thought he went after Philippe. We did not see him again.”

“He didn’t vanish with any more people?”

“Not from here.” Jean-Marc adds hopefully, “Maybe he went on to the next village.”

“Maybe,” I say, but I doubt that’s what happened. Belos wanted someone here, someone with enough power to be worth his while. I can’t believe this is not a trap; it is the only thing that makes sense.

I stalk out of the tavern, returning to the open space of the village square.

“Belos!” I shout, letting my voice carry my anger.

I draw breath to shout again when he appears at the other end of the square, lit by a faint blue glow. My heart gives an anxious thump.

Wind stirs around me, lifting the fine hair framing my face, and I silently beg Logan to wait. I need Belos engaged with me before he and the others jump in.

“So,” I call to him. “Is this what you wanted?”

“One of many things.”

I approach slowly. The moon is near to setting, offering little illumination. My Drift-light diffuses in the open air, falling on him only faintly. He is gaunt, as Logan said, his cheekbones sharp enough to cast shadows down his face. I can’t see his eyes.

He surprises me by shaping his Drift-sword. I did not expect him to willingly engage. The Seven must be nearby, waiting for the same opportunity for which Logan, Horik, and Jarl are waiting.

He points the sword at me. “I could see the knife from within the Drift. Thank you for bringing it.”

I ignore that. He surely realizes the knife cuts Leashes, but I have to hope he knows nothing else about it. I won’t be fooled into giving anything away.

I itch to slip into the Drift and cut his Leash to Kronos, but I have to be patient. The Seven could be right beside me within the Drift, waiting for me to do just that so they can grab me.

I adjust my grip on my spear and charge.

Belos sweeps his sword up to knock my spear aside. It sets me into a spin, and I use the momentum to whip the butt around and crack it into the side of his knee. He grunts as the knee buckles. I am too close now to use my spear. I skip away, but he brings his sword across in an angry slash. It catches in my jacket, but I don’t feel any pain.

I dance back, bringing my spear around. Belos passes his sword from his right hand to his left and back again. That teases something in my memory, something not right. I am still distracted by that when Belos leaps forward, jerking his sword in another uppercut. I manage a clumsy block, but my spear shudders in my hand, rattling my bones.

I spin toward him, bracing my spear against my body, using myself as a fulcrum. I slash at his belly. He blocks the blow, but I catch the swinging Shackle in one of my spear’s notches. I rip it from his belt. As it goes flying away, it vanishes.

Something is wrong here.

I don’t have time to puzzle over it, however, because Belos lunges toward my unguarded side. I spin away, only escaping the thrust because he is slower than usual. I continue my spin until I am behind him. I slash at his hamstring. He cries out, falling to one knee. Before I can bring my spear around to cut him again, I am stunned by a blue flash.

Rhode’s hulking form is silhouetted against the bright light, his sword barely distinguishable. I whip my spear in a random block as I leap away to make space. My spear shudders and rings as it connects sloppily with Rhode’s sword. I try to bring my spear around again, but I’m off balance.

Rhode lunges for me.

Wind tears between us, throwing us both off our feet. Dirt whips through the air, pelting my face and neck.

In the lingering glow of my Drift-light, I watch Logan shape himself from the wind. His body frays at the edges, not quite there. In a single, flowing movement, he crouches low, his right hand sweeping the ground. As he rises, a blade grows from the earth, flowing into his hand. It emerges with a deadly point, which Logan whips upward with the force of the wind. Rhode screams as the blade splits him from groin to sternum, spilling blood and entrails.

As Logan switches his grip on the sword, bringing it point downward, Rhode throws up a hasty shield of energy. Logan’s sword cuts straight through to plunge into Rhode’s heart.

Logan wrenches the sword free. My Drift-light paints cool blue over the blade’s smooth length, which is neither pure metal nor the energy of the Drift. Logan wields the blade easily, but the energy rolling off that sword is impossibly heavy.

When Logan steps toward me, I expect the earth to rumble and crack. I breathe out a slow, relieved breath when it doesn’t.

“Are you all right?” His voice is his own, shaped of the deep, rolling cadences I love.

“Belos,” I say, scrambling to my feet. He is nowhere in sight.

“Be careful,” Logan warns.

I nod, draw the knife from my belt, and slide into the Drift.

Horik and Jarl are engaged with Belos, their energy forms bright and lightning quick, a blur of shapes.

The knife gleams white and radiant in my hand. All I have to do is plunge it into his heart, and this will all be over.

When Horik throws Belos away from him, I get my first good look at his energy. I stare, confused. Then horror fills me.

There are no Leashes snaking out from him. Even if that had some explanation, I would still know Belos’s energy, with its mad churning, all the tearing, frantic souls, in a moment’s glance.

That is not Belos.

The Drift allows no illusions, no lies. It strips us all bare.

Koricus darts a sly, satisfied look at me before he flees.

I speed after him, Horik and Jarl close on my heels. Fortunately, Koricus is too busy running to have enough focus to hide himself. He’s fast, but I am faster. I grab onto him, closing my mind to the sickening brush of his energy. I wrench him from the Drift.

He tears out of my grasp, his physical body so much stronger than mine. He makes an angry sound, shocked to have been caught. Horik and Jarl appear behind him, Drift-weapons ready.

Wind howls toward me, making my braid stream over my shoulder and my clothes strain against my body. The tall grasses of the field around us are bowed to the ground. Logan flows into shape beside me, sword in hand.

Surrounded, Koricus shapes his Drift-sword. He knows he cannot win, but he also knows we will kill him. He doesn’t even try to surrender.

I don’t need to ask where Belos is. The truth is a stone in my stomach. This was indeed a trap—just not the kind we expected.

“The Shackle was an illusion,” I say, not needing confirmation, just voicing my anger. “You never Leashed anyone. You only took them into the Drift to make it look that way.”

Koricus looks amused. “They saw what they expected, and you heard what you expected. Belos shaped you. You belong to him, to us. We know just how to use you.”

A growl rumbles from Logan’s chest, but I don’t let the words touch me.

“We have to get back to Tornelaine,” I say. “Now.”

Koricus’s laugh is ugly. “You won’t like what you find.”

“Maybe,” I agree, “but you won’t be there to see our disappointment.”

Each of us is ready to kill Koricus. Of all the Seven, he is the cruelest. But Logan has the most anger to spend. It rolls off him like heat, ghosting over us all. Though Logan has not spoken of it, I do not doubt that Koricus tortured him, and took pleasure in it.

Horik, Jarl, and I stay back by unspoken agreement.

Logan steps toward Koricus, lifting his eerie, elemental sword.

Koricus edges away. He knows he will lose, so he strikes instead with words. “Do you feel like a man again? Because I remember when you didn’t look like one.”

Logan doesn’t respond, but the heat bleeding from him intensifies until I have to step back.

“Does she know that you wept like a child? Does she know how you screamed?”

“Just kill him!” I shout, but Logan is frozen, unable to stop listening, unable to stop seeing himself as Koricus describes.

Koricus hisses, “Does she know that you wanted Belos to take your mind, that you liked it? We
all
knew. And that wasn’t the only thing you liked, was it? Do you remember? Does it embarrass you?”

Logan roars, heat pouring from him. He leaps toward Koricus, bringing his sword around in a powerful swipe. Koricus tries to block the blow, to turn it aside, but his sword shatters when it meets Logan’s. Logan swings again, cleaving through Koricus’s neck.

Koricus’s body falls, twitching, as his head rolls away. His clothes smoke faintly. His skin is blistered from the heat, cracked and oozing.

Logan stands before Koricus, his hands tight on the sword. He gasps, chest heaving, his whole body rocking. He wants to strike again, to kill him again.

I take a cautious step forward, but so much heat rolls off Logan I can’t get close enough to touch him.

“Logan,” I say quietly.

He shakes his head, and I hang back. Horik and Jarl are frozen, staying out of it.

Logan staggers away through the grasses. I follow a few paces behind until he falls to his knees. The sword dissolves into the earth.

He retches, his whole body convulsing with the need to expel something. But there is nothing in his stomach, and what he wants to get rid of can’t be thrown up anyway. I crouch beside him and lay a cautious hand on his back. He still burns with inhuman heat, but at least I can touch him now.

The swishing of grass behind me announces Horik and Jarl’s approach.

Horik says in a carefully neutral voice, “We have to get back to Tornelaine. Jarl and I will go. Meet us there when you are able.”

I nod, and they both vanish into the Drift.

Logan pushes to his feet, breaking from me. His face is angled away. I want to say something, but nothing sounds right in my head.

“I’ll meet you there,” he says, his words uninflected, emotionless. Already he is dragging everything in, hiding from me.

“Take me with you. We’ll travel together.”

“I don’t think I can manage that. Not right now.”

I decide not to give him a choice.

Relaxing my mind enough to feel the currents of air around me isn’t easy, but my need is greater than my resistance. Logan feels me do it, and his agitation filters into the air. I use it, letting it become my own. As I rise up, dissolving, Logan bleeds into the air around me. I brush against him, my diffused energies flowing through the chaotic heart of his. For a second, I am afraid. I fear he is broken, unable to focus. Then he grabs hold of me.