Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (13 page)

Chapter 17

I DON’T LIKE Heborian’s plan. Too many moving pieces, too many opportunities for things to go wrong.

Not that there were any better options.

I skim through the Drift, giving Avydos a wide berth until I am well south of it, beyond Belos’s notice. The weapon hums with power in my hand, but its balance is off, making it heavy and awkward. This is not a weapon designed to be wielded. It was made to be launched.

I understand, now, Heborian’s interest in the whaling ship that Logan and I brought into harbor. I understand why he wanted such large pieces of bone.

I grip the harpoon just behind its barbed head. The shaft extends behind me, and the chain trails like a snake’s listless body. I have to hope this thing can cut Kronos free, even if that isn’t what it was made to do.

But what
was
it made to do?

“A last resort,” Heborian called it, and there was no time to argue or question him further. When this is over, I will force him to explain that.

Heborian makes another wide circuit around me, scouting. We must not be detected. Anything that gives us away endangers both our mission and Logan’s.

We skim toward Avydos’s southern shore, then slide from the Drift onto the sandy beach, softly lit by the rising sun.

I scan the hills behind us with their green tops and black hollows. The fire damage is less than expected here. Every dip and hollow of ground is choked with what looks like hardened black mud, but the higher ground is largely untouched. Rain and wind have already washed away much of the ash, exposing tufts of grass and young, healthy branches of brush.

“Five minutes, Astarti,” Heborian reminds me. “Then my backup plan goes into effect.”

I run my eyes across the sand, filled in one low trench with the black mud, and face the clean blues of the sea.

Logan could do this better than I. I tried to argue for that, but no one supported me, especially not Logan. I know why. His task is more dangerous, and he did not want me involved in it. My numb hand was such an annoyingly convenient excuse.

“You feel nothing?” inquires Heborian.

I say waspishly, “Like I told you, he’s not drawn to me like he is to Logan.”

Heborian doesn’t bother arguing.

I hand him the harpoon, not wanting it to weigh me down. I take a deep breath and try to relax my mind. I feel for the small currents of air, attune myself to them. My body falls into rhythm with the air, and I rise through it, dissolve into it. This is getting easier for me. Watching Logan helps. I see how he just lets himself go. I see the relief in him when he doesn’t have to hold himself together anymore. That has helped me better understand the need to surrender. But I don’t let go as fully. I don’t need to because I don’t have to hold myself together with the effort that it takes Logan. For me, this is about balance.

I think that is what kept me sane and helped me remain myself through all those years with Belos: balance. Finding small ways to be
me
even while I obeyed him. He allowed me my small defiances so long as they fell within my larger compliance. Because I never really fought Belos, I never broke myself against him.

For a second, that makes me ashamed. There is something noble and appealing in the idea of fighting until you are killed, or at least until your strength gives out. But I always hold something in reserve. I slide through, slide around, balance myself against my world. It has polluted me, in a way. I have accepted a measure of evil, found ways to balance even that. I do not know if that is right or good, but I know it is true of me.

Logan is not like that. In some ways, he is cleaner, more pure than I am. He fights more than I do, refuses to accept what he doesn’t like and what he doesn’t want to be. I respect that, but it worries me. He doesn’t know how to find his balance. He doesn’t know how to handle all the incongruous parts of himself, what to accept, what to reject, how to fit them together. He certainly doesn’t know how to handle what has happened to him. He drives everything he doesn’t like—every feeling, every memory—deep inside himself, as though that gets rid of it. But it just makes it more a part of him. He doesn’t realize that it’s all right for him to be angry, to feel hurt, to need healing. He closes that off, hides it from me, hides it even from himself. I have long suspected that releasing himself into the elements must be a little like dying: a relief to let go.

Until the moment of my death, I will never know that kind of absolute freedom, but I also won’t spend the time in between suffocating myself as Logan does, trying not to seize it.

I am a survivor, a scrapper. Less noble, perhaps, but I accept that. To me, that is balance. Oh, I’m willing to risk my life, willing to die. But not on principle. It would have to be for a reason.

And so I am able to perform this search, to float along the shore, giving in to the currents of air, but also using them to get where I want to go. I skim along the surface of the water, brushing against it, alert for any disturbance, anything that disrupts the natural, mindless currents.

I circle back to Heborian, where he waits impatiently on the shore. I draw myself together, slipping away from the air currents with increasing ease.

“Well?” he prompts.

“If he’s out there, I can’t feel him. I’ll travel inland.”

“I’ll follow from within the Drift. I’ll need you to step out periodically so I can track you. I can’t see you when you’ve got no body.”

His voice is tighter than usual. The casual confidence I am used to seeing in him has been replaced by a studied one. I wonder if it is hard for him to not be in the group going after Rood. I wonder if he would, in the end, let his son die in order to achieve a larger victory. Part of me thinks that he would, even if it destroyed him to do it. I don’t know whether to be awed or horrified.

I slip into the wind, channeling myself toward the looming peak of Mount Hypatia. The mountain no longer belches great clouds of smoke, but particles of ash and dust float along the currents around me.

I shape my body now and then, on hilltop after hilltop, then at the blackened base of the mountain. My skin crawls at not knowing what may be happening in the Drift, so I slide into it. Heborian hovers near, the gleaming harpoon in hand. I turn to look for other energy forms, but no one is close enough to be seen. When many are gathered together, as in a city, the glow is visible from a great distance. When only a few are gathered, and especially if they are hidden on the other side of a dim, looming mountain, they cannot be seen. Even though that means Heborian and I also are not visible, I wish I could have caught a glimpse of Logan and the others. Heborian shakes his head, reading my delay. Unhappily, I press through my mooring to stand on the desolate mountainside again.

I am surprised that the other Old Ones are keeping away. I thought the harpoon would surely draw them, but there is no sign of their presence. Perhaps they will not come so close to Belos.

I let myself filter into the air again. I ride the currents up the mountainside and soon feel a heaviness in the air. Logan, no doubt, would have sensed it from a greater distance, but it doesn’t become obvious to me until I am very close. I brush the craggy, blackened face of the mountain, letting the immense weight of stone fill my awareness.

Kronos lies deep in the body of the mountain. I feel the weight of his energy. I feel the sorrow. For a moment, I am stunned by realization. Of course I knew he was a feeling being: sentient, sensitive, able to suffer. But he is also so powerful that I have regarded him largely as an obstacle. Now, seeping through the bones of this mountain, blending for a moment with his pain, I am moved to pity. He is trapped, abused, as Logan has been, as I have been, as so many have been.

He stirs at my touch, surprised, perhaps, to find me here. I silently beg him to emerge. I cannot cut his Leash from here. I need him to enter the Drift, and I don’t know how to communicate that without words. When he feels my silent urging, he draws away, like an animal that does not want to be touched. I try to be patient, but I don’t have much time. I tug at him more insistently, but he only buries himself more deeply in the warm heart of the mountain. Soon he is only a dim presence.

Frustrated, I withdraw, easing myself between the heavy stone until I break the surface and shape myself from the earth. The sensation reminds me of the sword Logan drew from the ground. I had no chance to ask him about that.

Heborian appears beside me, harpoon in hand.

“Well?” he says, as he did before. He reads my frustration and nods. “I’ll try to find them.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t care whether you like it. We should have done it from the first instead of wasting time.”

“You think finding them will be any easier?”

“Yes. I do.”

I don’t understand his certainty. There’s something he’s not telling me, but there is no time to argue.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”

“You will wait here. I’ll bring them.”

My skin creeps with distrust. “Why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to be calm and logical in their presence.”

Some of my distrust eases. He’s right about that. I want them dead for what they did to Logan. I certainly don’t want their help.

Heborian seizes on the thread of understanding in my eyes. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

With that, he vanishes into the Drift.

Chapter 18

LOGAN

I SWEEP UP the mountainside, lifting swirling clouds of ash and dust into the air. I keep a fragment of my attention on the Drifters I carry, but mostly I focus on control. As always, the temptation to indulge in mindless freedom itches through me. More than that, emotion distracts me. I am worried about Astarti because I cannot see her. I am worried for the boy, though that concern is more distant because I don’t know him. Mostly, I am furious with Belos.

For endangering Astarti.

For so much else.

With Koricus’s words sticking like tar inside me, the faintest touch of Belos’s sick energy vibrating through the air is all but unbearable.

I force myself into the present, into my task. I don’t have time for those other thoughts.

I sense Kronos buried deep in the mountain. I hope Astarti can draw him out. If she fails, we may still achieve something, but it won’t be enough to save us. Tornelaine is vulnerable now. It won’t survive another attack.

Belos and his men, along with the boy, wait on a rocky ledge near the top. Astarti was right. He is using the boy as bait; he knew we would come.

There is desperation in his actions. Tornelaine may be vulnerable, but so is he. He’s stretched himself too thin, grabbed at too much. He needs more power to hold the power he has already taken. The boy is Heborian’s son, a strong Drifter. If Belos wants more than Rood can give, there’s only one of us he’s likely to trade for.

As planned, I stop down the slope. We need Belos in sight so if Astarti succeeds—or fails—we know to act and can do so quickly. But we also need to buy her some time.

I shape myself from the wind and let the Drifters’ bodies settle into their own forms. Dust billows away from us. Not my smoothest landing. Lief and Jarl stagger away from me, visibly shaken. I doubt anyone likes having another control their body. Horik, who has traveled the wind with me before and is remarkably difficult to rattle, just brushes ash from his tunic—smears it really—and gives me a stern look.

I close my eyes for a moment, willing myself to calm down. Too much depends on me right now. I must be in control. I feel the wind die, feel a sudden weight to my body that tells me I wasn’t quite here a moment ago. When I open my eyes, Horik nods.
Better
, he seems to say.

I glance up the blackened slope. We’re close enough that I can see five distinct bodies but not close enough for me to see who is who. Two vanish.

Straton and Theron appear before us, the faint blue glow of the Drift lingering around them. They are both pale and exhausted-looking.

“Where is Astarti?” Straton asks in his sly voice.

Because I’m a terrible liar, I do as planned. I glare at him like I want to rip his face off. Well, I do want that. I see what Astarti means about lying: find the grain of truth and build around it.

Horik rumbles, “We lost her.”

“What do you mean you ‘lost her’?” Theron sounds genuinely concerned, and that annoys me. What right does he have to know anything about her, to care?

“In the Drift,” Horik says. “She went after Kronos. You didn’t see what happened?”

It seems like a good lie to me. Simple, partially true.

Theron and Straton share a look. I’m not sure if they believe us, but they drop the matter.

Straton says, “You’ve come for the boy.” When we don’t confirm, he says, “Belos will trade.”

“For whom?” Horik asks.

“Whom do you think?” Straton sneers.

Horik states our terms. “If the boy is Leashed, he will first be cut free. I assume Belos has the knife?”

Straton’s smirk is answer enough.

“Furthermore,” Horik continues, “We will be allowed to get him away before you start on Logan.”

Straton counters, “The boy will be free after the trade is complete. As for getting him away, well, you won’t be there. You three will wait here, in sight at all times. Should any of you step into the Drift, the boy will be Taken. Should Logan attempt to resist or escape, the boy will be Taken.”

Lief and Jarl shift uncomfortably. We didn’t anticipate this.

“No,” Horik answers.

“Fine.” Straton begins to turn away. “He will Take the boy then come after you. Prepare yourselves.”

“We accept the terms,” I say.

Horik makes a warning sound, but I ignore him.

Straton turns back to me. “Good. But. There is one more thing Belos requires you to accept.” He elbows his cloak open and holds out the Shackle, one cuff already on his wrist, the other dangling from his grip. I recoil before I can stop myself, and Straton gives me sly smile. “No? If that’s how you feel...”

He begins to turn away again. I think frantically. I knew that thing would end up on me at some point today. Does it matter if I have to wear it a little longer than expected? Belos is doing this to mess with my head, that’s all. If I refuse, will he Take the boy to prove his point? Astarti might know, but I don’t. I can’t take the chance.

“All right,” I bite out. “But only if we walk. I won’t go into the Drift with you. That’s final.” What better excuse, really, to buy Astarti more time?

“You’re more reasonable than expected,” Straton comments. “I don’t remember you being like this at all.”

I stiffen as he steps into my space, but I don’t allow myself to move back. When he holds out the smooth white cuff expectantly, I extend my left hand. Horik makes a sound of protest, but there’s nothing to be done. When the cool cuff clicks shut on my wrist, a shudder creeps through me, but I swallow it back into myself.

“Let’s go,” I say.

Straton looks briefly disappointed, then he gestures grandly up the slope. The liquid fire cooled in bumps and waves, like mud that spilled down the mountainside. In places where the rocks protrude more, the burning gush passed around, leaving the brown and gray stone exposed. A white flower, growing from a cleft in one protruding boulder, dances in the breeze.

“So,” Straton says as we begin to pick our way up the blackened slope. “Astarti is dead then.”

Either he is taunting me or he’s testing for the truth. I don’t trust myself to lie well, so I say nothing. Maybe that’s what gives me away. If Astarti really were dead, what would I do?

I would lose my mind. I would kill them all, no matter the consequences.

“He’s lying,” Theron hisses, the inflection of his voice not his own.

My skin crawls, but I make myself look at him. The tilt of his head, the way he walks—all of it is Belos. The Shackle seems to hum on my wrist, and it’s an effort not to wrench my arm away from Straton.

Theron shakes his head, and his body language shifts subtly. He stares ahead, scowling, his expression once again as I remember it.

“How can you stand it?” I ask him, unable to keep the disgust from my voice. “Why did you ever let him do that to you?”

Theron ignores me, but Straton snaps, “It is not for
you
to question
us
.”

“You hate it,” I say, only half-guessing. Straton seems too proud, too haughty to bear such a thing gladly.

His lip curls, telling me I’m right. He gives the Shackle a yank, trying to remind me of my situation.

I glare along the length of it to where the other cuff encircles his wrist. “I would have thought you all had learned by now: power travels both ways along a Leash.”

Now Straton ignores me too, and we make our silent, awkward way up the slope, the Shackle chain swinging between us.

I feel in control, anchored in myself and my purpose, for most of the climb. The exercise helps, lets me focus on walking. I fixate on the dull ache in my bad knee. The joint clicks annoyingly with every pushing step.

Belos’s slick, oily energy washes at me. Anyone who says that memory is only in the mind is wrong. It is physical too. I
feel
the slide of his energy through me, violating every fiber of my being as though I am still bound to him. Sweat breaks out all over my body.
Focus
, I tell myself,
on each step, on the plan. You are here of your own volition.
I squeeze the fear and revulsion into a tight ball and drive it deep inside myself until it is small, distant, buried.

We reach the ledge where Belos stands with the bone knife pressed to Rood’s throat. Ludos lurks behind them. I look the boy over. Blood stains his doublet at the shoulder, but he’s standing on his own. His dark eyes are wide and wary, but his fear is under control. I shouldn’t be surprised. He is Heborian’s son.

Belos, gaunt and hollowed by strain, looks me over. His lips pull back in a cadaverous grin. “I should have known from the beginning what you are.”

Only then do I realize I’m fraying at the edges, beginning to dissolve. I force my body to obey me. I will be in control.

“You think you can win,” Belos says. “You think you are stronger than I am.”

I want to ignore him, to pretend his voice doesn’t creep under my skin. “Every bit of your strength is stolen. None of it is you. All of it is someone else.”

He smiles, delighted to debate with me. “You know better than that. Everything I have taken, I had the strength to take.” When I don’t react, he adds, “I think you know, quite intimately, that I have made all that strength and power my own.”

I force myself to be still and silent. I can’t argue with him. He’s better at it than I am. He will use it to unsettle me, to weaken me.

He smiles a little, understanding my silence. “I will use that strength now to take yours.”

“You will try. That is what this trade is. Rood, for your opportunity.”

He gives me a look that, if it weren’t so perverse, would be tender, and it makes bile slide up my throat.

“Oh, Logan,” he croons. “Let us not lie to one another. I know you too well for that. Deep down, you want to be Taken. You want to let go. Don’t you realize? It was the key to unlocking you. You wanted it, Logan, what I did to you. You resisted, but you wanted it.”

I hear the Shackle chain rattle and realize I’m shaking. So easily he gets to me. My hands tighten into hammers. I want to break him apart. I want to smash his face until he doesn’t even look like a person anymore.

I can’t. As always, he has the power, the leverage. It is horribly familiar, glaring at him with my impotent rage. I think,
Nothing has changed. I’ve never been free of him. Every small victory has been a lie, a delay.

Belos inhales deeply, as though he smells my reaction, as though he is savoring it. “Don’t you remember how good it felt when you finally gave in? I was there. I felt your relief.”

I rock toward him, burning with the need to shut him up. The Shackle jerks my wrist, and Belos presses the knife harder against Rood’s neck. The boy sucks in a breath.

I growl, “Enough! Let’s get this over with!”

Belos’s lips quirk in a smile. “With pleasure.”