Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (10 page)

Chapter 13

I SHUDDER AS Logan’s dazed opponent is dragged from the ring by three men. Logan held himself back, I could see that, but there’s still so much burning inside him. Even in these few moments between fights, he’s struggling to control it.

I like to spar. The skill it takes, the release of energy. I understand that. But this, what Logan is doing, is something much darker. This isn’t about skill. It’s neither practice nor a fight against a legitimate enemy. There’s a release of energy, yes, but it’s ugly, something that revels in the hurt.

Beside me, Horik comments, “He’s good.”

I mutter, “I don’t know how much more of this I can watch.”

Horik shrugs, unsympathetic. “You wanted to see what he does. This is what he does.”

“It’s horrible.”

The ringmaster gives Logan a moment to catch his breath, then two more men enter the ring. Everyone here is watching the dodging bodies, the swinging fists. I’m watching Logan’s face, trying to understand. I see the way he focuses, the way he becomes nothing but his body. Is that what he wants?

One of Logan’s opponents gets a hold of his right wrist, wrenching his arm, while the other one pounds Logan in the face. Nausea rolls through me. I have to look away.

“Astarti?” Horik sounds worried.

“I can’t take this.”

I stare at Horik’s shoulder, trying to shut out the sounds of the crowd and the fight.

“It’s almost over. Look. He’s got them.”

But I don’t look. Only when the crowd groans with finality do I lift my eyes. Logan is swaying in the ring, both men unconscious at his feet.

As the men are dragged away, the ringmaster approaches Logan. I don’t hear what the man says, but Logan nods. Surely not. But the ringmaster is calling to someone in the crowd.

Suddenly, I am furious. This has been more than enough. I lurch forward, shoving through the crowd. “Hey!” someone complains as I elbow past to enter the ring.

Logan freezes, staring at me through blood and sweat.

“I’ll go next,” I shout to the ringmaster. Logan flinches at my voice, so I snarl at him, “Is this what you want? Is this what I don’t give you?”

The crowd shifts uncertainly, whispering.

“Stop,” Logan slurs.

The horror in his face makes my anger burn more hotly. I shape my Drift-spear and point it at him. The crowd makes a collective gasp.

“You have no business telling me to stop something when you are doing this.” Horik calls my name from the edge of the ring, but I ignore him. I beckon Logan toward me. “If this is really what you want, let me see it.”

He spins away and shoves through the ring of spectators.

I let my spear vanish, and the crowd moans disappointment. I stalk after Logan, bracing to shoulder through the crowd, but everyone scrambles away from me.

I catch up with Logan halfway down the dock road, well beyond the noise and torchlight. I grab his arm, and he grunts. In the moonlight, I see how his arm hangs wrong, the shoulder out of joint. It only makes me angrier.

“Why do you do this?”

He says tightly, “I didn’t want you to see that.”

“You think I didn’t know what you’ve been doing?”

“I just didn’t want you to see it.”

For a second, I don’t know what to say. Logan shifts, grit crunching under his boots. He says, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry. I’m too angry with you.”

“Astarti.” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “I almost killed that girl today.”

“Is that what this is? Punishment?”

He makes a frustrated sound and turns away. In the moonlight, I see his head is bowed. He shakes it, then says quietly, “I need this. I have to do it.” I say nothing, so he tries, haltingly, to explain, “It...helps me. I
have
to get in control. You’ve seen what I do! I—”

“This is
not
control, Logan. It’s—”

“It’s the best I can do!”

“I don’t believe that.”

He shakes his head, frustrated. “I could have killed that girl. Not because I wanted to. I wouldn’t have even known I did it until after.”

“And you think getting yourself beaten half to death will change that?”

He ignores that. Then, “Every time I use my power, it’s a little harder to come back.” The words are barely audible, like that will make them less terrifying.

“Logan,” I say, not knowing how I’ll go on.

He tenses and steps around me, putting me at his back.

“What is it?”

Heborian steps from the Drift. “Come with me.”

I edge around Logan. “This is
not
a good time.”

“I need you to look at a body.”

That gets my attention. “A body?”

“Come with me.”

*     *     *

Heborian’s Drift-light hovers near the cell’s low ceiling, casting a blue gleam over the sweating stone walls. A sagging cot stretches along one wall. A reeking bucket of waste sits in a corner. I crouch beside the thin, crumpled body. Even with his face down, I recognize Fordan’s tattered clothes, the thinning hair, the skeletal hands.

“Is this how you keep your prisoners?”

Heborian grunts. “I have only so many men. Any that can be spared have been sent to warn the towns and villages. Would you prefer I use my men to tend to the likes of that”—he gestures to the body—“rather than protecting my people?”

I breathe out an irritated sigh.

“A king cannot afford idealism, Astarti.”

“If you really believe that, then tell me why Rood isn’t here, learning that lesson.”

He growls, “Will you focus, please?”

“You don’t want him to be like you, do you? That’s why you leave him out of the worst of it.”

He meets my scrutiny with his dark gaze. Something burns in his eyes, something more raw and honest than I have seen in him before. “I will finish this war before I die so that Rood doesn’t
have
to be like me.”

Jealousy flickers inside me and, with it, loss. A reality that could never have been mine, to be shielded like that.

Heborian must see something of it in my face because he says, “Do you hate him for that?”

“It’s not his fault.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No, I don’t hate him.” I add, trying to diffuse the tension, “But you have spoiled him, you know.”

Heborian’s mouth quirks. “Maybe.”

I spoke the truth. I don’t hate Rood. But I do hate Heborian, just a little. For making me respect him. For making me wish he could be more to me.

I turn my attention to Fordan’s body. I lift his shoulder to roll him over. Heborian helps me. The dead, unseeing eyes stare into nothing. His mouth is open, exposing rotten teeth. There is a look of faint surprise about him.

“Well?” Heborian prompts.

“Why did you leave him Leashed? You could have cut him free.”

“He made his choice. I had a use for him.”

“What use?”

“You know I have weapons to test. Must we discuss this?”

I shudder inwardly and lower my eyes to study Fordan’s face again. “I think it’s likely Belos Took his soul, but I can’t be certain, not having seen it happen. There were no guards present?”

“None that witnessed it. The guard on duty said he heard nothing. The body is still slightly warm, so it happened quite recently. You can’t say for sure?”

“No.”

Heborian stands. “Then we must assume he was Taken, and we must assume Belos did it for a reason. I had hoped for more time. My weapons aren’t ready. Regardless, we must attack before Belos does.”

“What
are
you making anyway?”

Heborian pauses on his way to the cell door. “I couldn’t spare you from Belos, but there are still some things I think you shouldn’t know.”

Dark foreboding creeps over my skin. I almost push him for an explanation, but I don’t think he would give it to me. Besides, I’m not sure I really want to know.

Is that wrong?

Am I allowing Heborian to dirty his hands just to stay clean—clean
er
—myself? And if I do that knowingly, does it really keep me clean?

I don’t like the thought, so I push it away.

I follow Heborian from the dungeon and through the maze of the castle until we reach hallways familiar to me. I sense an all-night planning session looming, and I want to find Logan first. He came back to the castle with us, silent and wary, and headed toward our rooms. I don’t know what I want to say to him, but I don’t like how we left things. I’m about to tell Heborian I’ll come to his study shortly when he flags down a pageboy.

“Find Prima Gaiana, and tell her that Logan needs her.”

The boy nods sharply, full of awe to be given a direct order by the king, and hustles away.

I narrow my eyes at Heborian. “Why did you do that?”

“I need him, Astarti, and he doesn’t do me a lot of good in that condition.”

“Can’t you leave him out of this? He was just in Avydos this afternoon. You can’t keep asking him—”

“I will ask him for whatever I need from him. He can refuse, if he chooses. I certainly can’t force him.”

I grab Heborian’s arm, then snatch my hand back. I have never touched him before. He, too, is aware of this, and he goes very still.

I say in a low voice, “He can’t keep using his earthmagic. It’s tearing him apart.”

“I can see that, and I’m sorry. Don’t scoff; I am. But my first concern is Tornelaine, Kelda beyond, even the world beyond Kelda. I cannot afford mercy. I cannot spare one man.”

“Well, I am not a king, so I can put one man above all else.”

Heborian looks at me with something close to sympathy. “Don’t lie to yourself, Astarti. You are too much like me for that to be true.”

“I’m not as much like you as you think.”

“Perhaps. And I hope you never have to learn whether you are right in that belief.”

Heborian turns and strides away, leaving me with a chill in my heart.

*     *     *

I find Logan in our bedroom, trying to pull on a clean shirt. He’s washed away most of the grime, but the knife slash still drips blood down his stomach, and the bruises are darkening. His shoulder hangs wrong, and he can’t move it enough to get his arm in the sleeve. He freezes when he sees me in the doorway. His hands drop to his sides, the shirt strangled in one clenched fist.

My heart pounds with uncertainty. Now that my anger has cooled, I don’t know what to say. 

When the outer door opens and Gaiana comes hurrying through the sitting room, Logan looks an accusation at me.

“Heborian,” I tell him.

Logan’s mouth tightens.

I shift out of Gaiana’s way as she passes through the doorway in a stream of filmy robes.

“I’m fine,” Logan says, catching her hands before she can touch his bruised face. “I don’t need anything.”

“What happened?” she cries, looking over her shoulder at me when Logan doesn’t answer.

I start to edge away. I don’t care to get caught between the two of them.

Just when I expect Gaiana to demand answers from Logan, she sighs and says, “Sit down.”

I stare at her. That’s it? She’s just going to let it go?

Logan sits on the edge of the bed. Gaiana lifts his right arm, pulls a little, and slides the joint back into place. Logan’s face whitens, but he doesn’t make a sound. He’s dislocated that shoulder so many times it’s no longer as difficult to move the joint in and out of place. Gaiana Heals the bruises and cuts on his face and torso. When she is finished, Logan tugs on his shirt and stands. Gaiana takes his hand and squeezes, but I don’t see his fingers return the pressure. She quietly leaves the room, not meeting my incredulous gaze.

Something about Gaiana’s softness, her gentleness, makes it hard to be angry with her while I’m looking at her, but as soon as she’s out of sight, my temper boils. I cannot believe she didn’t confront him. She is his
mother
, and she just let that go.

Grim understanding sinks in. “She’s never tried to help you, has she?”

“She just did.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I don’t need help, Astarti. I just need to be allowed to handle things my own way. She may not like it, but she understands that. I wish you did too.”

“Because your way works so well?”

His nostrils flare. He’s angry. “There is no solution for this. Please, stay out of it. Just accept it.”

“No,” I say simply.

A muscle feathers in his jaw. “If you cannot accept it, maybe it’s best if we just—”

“No. Unless you don’t want to be with me. Is that what you’re saying?”