Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (8 page)

Gaiana gives me a small, warm smile. “I’m sorry. I tend to forget that you’ve spent precious little time with other women. It must have been difficult for you, when your courses first came.”

My ears are surely about to burst into flames. Difficult is one word for it, mortifying might be another. I thought I was dying. Gods, how Belos and the Seven laughed at me.

Gaiana doesn’t push, but she does insist, “It would be best for you to take a contraceptive anyway if you do not wish to find yourself with child unexpectedly. If you want, discuss it with Logan first.”

Oh, gods. We really are talking about this.

A thought rises through my discomfort. She knows I am sleeping with her son. She knows what that could mean for him, yet she doesn’t seem upset. I recall the words she once whispered to me.
Take care of him.
As though she knew this would happen, as though she accepts it. I have to ask, “You’re not...worried about him?”

Emotion shimmers in her eyes: tears, maybe, or simple fear. “I am deeply worried about him, but not because of you.”

“But your Council. Your laws.”

“Nothing will be the same again, Astarti. Avydos will never be the same, nor will its people.”

I think of the Council session I just witnessed, and I’m not so sure. I tell her this, but she shakes her head.

“Even if nothing changed among our people, I would feel the same. Even if you were not as much Earthmaker as he is, I would feel this way. I’ve had no hope for him for a long time. You’ve given it back to me, and I thank you for that. He is better, so much better, with you.”

I gnaw on my lip. I can’t believe that. He turns away from me. He hurts himself. I haven’t helped him at all. And what I am seeking now is a flimsy bandage for a gaping wound. I push sedatives at him because I don’t know what else to do. How, then, is that better?

“You don’t believe me,” Gaiana says, “but I see the truth. You will, too, in time.”

Now the confession spills from me. “He cannot sleep unless I drug him. He will not speak to me about any of it. I don’t know what to do.”

Gaiana lays a cool hand over my clenched fist. “Bones that have not set right must be rebroken before they can be Healed. But I’m a coward, and I always make Feluvas do that. She has a strong stomach, like you do.”

I frown. Rebroken?

Footsteps in the doorway cause me and Gaiana to look up. Bran says, “Ah, good. Farston said you were headed this way, Astarti. Heborian has called a meeting. He’s requested you come to his study at once.”

“I can’t,” I tell him. “I have to check on Logan.”

“Logan is already there.”

I jump to my feet. “He was dead asleep not twenty minutes ago.”

“Heborian woke him, apparently.”

I lurch forward, fuming, as Gaiana rises smoothly. She catches my arm. “Think about what I’ve said. If you want the herbs, I have them.”

“Thank you.”

I find myself pulling ahead of Bran as we pass through hallway after hallway. I force myself to slow down. “You have no idea what this is about?”

“It’s an odd gathering. You and I, Logan, Heborian, Wulfstan, and Farston? I can’t begin to guess.”

“Who’s Farston?”

“The Earthmaker from the whaling ship.”

I frown. It is an odd group. Neither Aron nor Clitus have been called, so whatever is to be discussed won’t involve a collective decision. Not that Heborian makes many of those. And yet, few Drifters will be there, and that worries me even more. If action is to be taken following this meeting—and Heborian isn’t one to talk and do nothing—it’s not hard to guess who will be called on.

*     *     *

When the guards open the double doors to Heborian’s study, my eyes fly straight to where Logan sits in one of the armchairs. His head leans against the chair back. His eyes are half closed, his lips slightly parted. I had also meant to ask Renald for something to dispel grogginess.

While Bran enters the room, I wait impatiently for Heborian to finish his instructions to the guards. Apparently, we’re not to be disturbed. Before the guards can close us inside, I snag Heborian’s elbow and pull him into the foyer.

He lifts an eyebrow.

“Don’t ever go into our rooms without knocking.”

“I did knock. No one answered.”

“So you just sauntered in when you thought we were out? It’s bad enough having the servants do that.”

“I knew he was in there and you weren’t. I needed him here. What’s your problem? You didn’t want me to see you’ve been drugging him? I already knew that.”

I glare because there’s nothing else
to
do.

Heborian presses on. “Was that the amount Renald recommended? Because he was way out. He’s still pretty out of it.”

“You should have asked me to wake him. Next time, see that you do.”

“Oh, settle down. And, no, you can’t shoot arrows from your eyes to kill me, so stop trying. Now, can we begin?”

I glare at Heborian’s back as I follow him into the room, but habit prevails and I turn my attention to the room’s other occupants. The old Earthmaker, Farston, stands by the empty fireplace. His crossed arms and scowling expression make clear he doesn’t want to be here. Farston. It’s not an Earthmaker name. Did he take a new one, perhaps, when his people struck his from memory?

Wulfstan also holds himself apart from the gathering. He stands behind the chairs, his hip leaning against a table covered in maps. Bran sits with comfortable patience, though his eyes are on his brother.

Logan rouses when I near his chair. He rubs a hand across his face and inhales deeply, trying to wake himself up. His rumpled tunic is unlaced, exposing his collarbone and the upper edge of the shiny scar that arcs across his left pectoral. His eyes are flat blue, a little dull. Maybe I did give him too much last night. He meets my gaze and blinks slowly. By the time I’ve settled into the chair beside him, he’s slumping again.

Guilt makes me glance in Bran’s direction. His eyes travel from Logan to me and back to Logan.

“I’m sure you all want to know what this is about,” Heborian begins, “but I will only say that it’s about questions.”

Those, of course, will be Heborian’s questions and no one else’s. We all seem to know this, and we are silent, bound by curiosity and by his commanding presence.

“Farston,” Heborian says, and all eyes jump to the Earthmaker standing so stiffly before the fireplace. “You tell me you remember Belos as a child.” Surprise makes my eyebrows jump, both at the connection between Farston and Belos, and to think of Belos ever having been a child at all. “You said he was curious about the Ancorites, that he asked for books about them.”

Logan’s head comes up at the mention of the Ancorites.

“Yes,” Farston confirms, “but as I explained, there are no books about them. I was curator for the Arcon’s library, and I traveled far and wide to build the collection of Prima Gaiana’s father, who was Arcon at the time. But I never found anything directly about the Ancorites. I told Belos this.”

“And how did he respond?”

“He was frustrated. He began to ask questions about the Drift, and he told me—years later—that he believed the Ancorites made use of the Drift.”

I saw this for myself, when the Ancorites tried to bind Logan as they had the Old Ones. Belos, it seems, was way ahead of me. As usual.

Heborian demands, “But
why
was Belos interested? Did he suspect, even then, that the Ancorites had trapped the gods?”

I glance at Logan. A little of the fog has cleared from his expression, but his eyes are still flat blue. I’m almost glad he’s too groggy to absorb all this. Heborian should know better than to throw Logan into such discussions.

Farston protests, “I don’t know. He gave me no indication of that. But.” Farston pauses, remembering. “He did find an interesting passage in an old volume that the Arcon later burned. I can’t remember every detail, but Belos kept saying that the Ancorites had bound time. He was obsessed with that book.”

Heborian’s brow furrows. “What does that mean? They ‘bound time’?”

Farston shrugs. “The book was the ravings of a madman. It was terribly disjointed, out of order and full of tangents. The author went on and on about time. He said it was fluid, whatever that meant. The one line I recall clearly is this: ‘Time makes children of us all.’ Belos would mutter that under his breath as he read. He was a strange child, but he had a sharp, curious mind.”

“Thank you, Farston, that is all.” Everyone startles at the abrupt dismissal, but Farston strides stiffly from the room without comment.

“What is this about?” I demand.

Heborian waits for the door to shut. “Doesn’t it make you wary that Belos hasn’t attacked us? None of the Seven have even been seen. What does he really want? Why did he Leash the Old One? He didn’t need to. Avydos would have burned regardless.” Heborian’s eyes flick to Bran. “Primo Branos, are you familiar with the book Farston described? Is there another copy perhaps?”

“I’ve never heard of that book.”

“But the ideas are familiar?”

“Not exactly. Though...” Bran frowns, looking thoughtful. “I did find one particularly puzzling line in an old manuscript. It said: ‘time lies within all the elements.’ I have no idea what the writer meant by that, but something about it stuck with me.”

Wulfstan interjects, “Creation is destruction, life and death the same.”

I look up in surprise. Sunhild, Heborian’s mother and Wulfstan’s sister, used those same words. She told us that the Runians hold that truth dear. “What does that mean?”

Wulfstan explains, “It means many things, but one is that our future and past lie within the present. We carry our birth and death with us always. This is fate, immutable, inescapable.”

Puzzling over that, I don’t notice Heborian dismissing Bran until the door opens and closes.

Heborian says grimly, “Astarti, I’ve given him all the time I can. More than I should have. I need to know.”

My nape prickles with warning. “What, exactly, do you need to know?”

“You wouldn’t push him, so I must.”

Chapter 10

LOGAN

I SWIM UP from my foggy pit when Astarti’s voice rises. “Push him to what?”

“Don’t argue with me, girl, or I will continue this without you.”

I roll my head in Astarti’s direction. She teeters on the edge of her chair, undecided about something.

Heborian calls my name, and I focus on him with difficulty. What is wrong with my head? It feels like there’s a blanket wrapped around it, muffling everything. Heborian waits for some sign from me, which I must give because he says, “Belos was very interested in the nature of your power. Did he suspect, from the beginning, what you are?”

The words skitter along the edges of my mind, not reaching all the way through the fog. “I don’t know.”

“You were possessed by him. You must have experienced some portion of his thoughts.”

That makes something quicken inside me, something I don’t like. I don’t answer.

“Did he intend, all along, to Leash the Old One?”

Kronos
, I want to say, but my mouth doesn’t work. My thoughts seep away like water into sand. I let my eyes close.

“For the love of the gods, Astarti, what did you
give
him?”

“Renald gave it to me.”

I hear shifting bottles, then Heborian crosses the room toward me. My eyes open as he crouches before my chair. Memory shudders through me. Astarti, crouched like that, smiling coldly, delighted by my revulsion. But it wasn’t her. It was Belos, toying with me. I growl, at the memory, at Heborian.

He pulls the stopper from a small glass bottle and wafts it under my nose. My consciousness explodes. Morning light streaming through the window slashes into my awareness. The room and people around me solidify, like a dream sharpening to reality.

I push up from my chair, shaking my head. Heborian shifts out of my way, stoppering the smelling salts. I stride past Wulfstan, who edges away from me. I lean on the windowsill. The ocean lies in the distance. Avydos is a black, unmoving spot.

How long have I been like this?

Astarti’s boots sound a cautious approach. She stops beside me, not touching.

“Don’t ever give me that shit again.” My temper must surprise her because she jolts a little, but I need her to understand that I
must
be in control of myself—my mind, my body. “I’d rather—”

“Let’s not talk about this here.”

My scalp prickles as I sense the energies of Heborian and Wulfstan. I rake my hair back and take a deep breath, clearing the last of the fog from my mind. What has been happening here? Snatches of the conversation float up through my memory. Belos. The Old Ones. Something about time? I turn to face Heborian across the room.

He nods when he sees my attention. “Logan, we need to understand how Belos intends to use the one he’s Leashed. You agree?”

I do, but I hate this little game of let’s-all-be-reasonable. I grunt.

“If we can’t determine that from what we already know, we’ll need fresh information. You are the only one who can give us that information, either from your memory or from reconnaissance.”

“It will have to be fresh information because I don’t know what he intends.”

“When he possessed you—”

I shudder involuntarily as the memory of Belos’s possession slides through me. I feel it in my blood, my bones, in the deepest parts of myself.

Heborian must know me pretty well by now because he doesn’t waste time pursuing what I won’t give him; he changes course.

“The Ancorites. Some of them may yet live. We need to know where they will stand in this.”

“Where do you think? They will stand where they always have.”

“And where is that?”

“They will want the Old Ones bound again.”

Heborian falls silent, and I don’t like it. What is he thinking? The thought closes behind his expression. “And you? Will they want you bound as well?”

This time I’m prepared, and when the memories threaten to crowd in on me, I force them back. “Of course.”

“Can they do it?”

“I have no idea. Why? Do you want them to?”

“I need to know that you can get past them.”

Astarti says in a warning tone, “Heborian...”

Heborian nods to me. “He wants to do it. I can see it in his face.”

I try to still myself, but anticipation hums through me. “When do I go?”

“If you’re going to do this, I need you focused. There will be specific goals. If you can’t stay focused, this will be pointless, and you’ll only get yourself captured or killed.”

Astarti snarls, “You are
not
sending him to Avydos.”

“He is the only one who could possibly go, and we must know what is happening there. No matter the cost.”

*     *     *

I skim through wind and water, whipping toward the black hulk of Avydos. I force myself to slow before I reach the rocky arms of the horseshoe bay. As I slide through the rocky gateway, I see at once that Avydos is not quite as desolate as it looked from Tornelaine. The Wood is destroyed, certainly, a black plain rising to the blackened slope of Mount Hypatia. But a sharp line lies behind the city, a towering rough wall that halted the flow of liquid fire. The city’s white buildings still stand, though they are gray with smoke and ash.

I drift through the empty streets, wending my way to the House of the Arcon.

The air is heavy with energy. It weighs me down, clouds my mind. He’s here, the Old One. In the air, in the water, in the earth.

Overlaying it all is the taint of Belos and the Seven. Their energies slide over his like oil over water.

I float through the paved courtyard of the Arcon’s house, but the doors ahead are closed. I drift around the side of the house to the open balustrade. It takes every ounce of my will to hold myself to the slow, thoughtless pace of a breeze. The need to
move
builds inside me like a thunderstorm.

I pass between the columns of the balustrade and into the long entry hall. Though everything outside is dull with ash, the Arcon’s House has been scrubbed clean. The white and gray patterned floor gleams in the afternoon light.

The bitter and seething energies of some of Belos’s Seven are gathered in the dining hall. I can’t pinpoint Belos himself. Deeper in the house, in the kitchens, I feel the trembling energies of five or six people. I drift that direction.

Two women tending the bread ovens look up when I breeze into the dim, warm room. I draw myself into a smaller knot, force myself to slow, to be nothing. After a moment, they turn their attention to the ovens again. Another woman and a man hunch over a broad worktable, their wooden spoons whipping around their bowls. A girl of about thirteen crouches before the open fire, stirring the steaming soup in a cast iron pot hung over the flames. The girl sniffs loudly from time to time, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve.

“Dela, will you
stop
that sniveling,” chides one of the women as she shuts the door to the bread oven.

“I can’t help it! It’s almost dinner time. I will have to go in!” Dela bursts into tears. “None of you understand!”

The woman’s shoulders droop. She shuffles over to the girl and kneels beside her. “Come here, child,” she says gently, holding out her arms. Dela throws herself into them, sobbing.

Angry currents spool away from me. What have they done to this girl?

Pots rattle on their ceiling hooks. The flames dance under the soup pot. The woman and girl scramble away from the fire.

“It’s him!” Dela cries, frantically grabbing at the woman. Everyone in the room cringes, ducking instinctively.

I forcefully gather my energies back to myself and slide from the room. The girl’s cries follow me down the hallway.

I pause in a quiet corner. If I cannot control myself, I might as well leave. I am here to listen, to gather information. I force my body to take shape because my body, I can control. I lean against the cool stone wall, breathing calm through myself.

Heborian knew as well as I do that I’m not suited to this task. Unfortunately, no one else can listen in. The Drifters could conceal themselves within the Drift, but all they would be able to do is spot the locations of Belos and his men. They would not be able to hear anything.

I take measured breaths until I am calm. I want nothing more than to go back to the kitchens and get everyone out. It’s hard to remember the larger goal when something else so important lies right before me.

After, I promise myself. After I find out what Belos plans, I will come back for them. I let myself dissolve into the air.

As I drift into the dining hall, I recoil at the wash of tainted energies. They all have a touch of his oiliness.

The dining hall is a rectangular room with a long table running down the center. One side of the room is partially open. The wall comes to about three feet, then columns rise to support the roof. The view was once of the Wood, but now there is nothing to see but a charred slope and the blackened remains of trees.

Four of the Seven lounge on the long benches at the far end of the table. I float near, and they shiver.

“I hate this place,” mutters one, rubbing his arms. Devos, I think he’s called.

“Quit whining,” chides another. Ludos maybe? “It’s better than the Dry Land.”

“Not by much,” says Devos stubbornly. “
This
is not what we were promised.”

“Well,
this
”—Ludos gestures around—“is not the end of it. Stop complaining, before he notices.”

Devos sighs and rests his head on his arms, which are crossed on the table. Ludos and the other two—Theron and Maxos—slump on the benches. They look exhausted, and I don’t know what to make of that. There have been no attacks on Tornelaine. As far as we know, they haven’t been doing anything. Why, then, are they so tired?

Suddenly, they all raise their heads and look at each other.

One says, “He’s coming. He found it.”

The others nod agreement.

They climb to their feet, backs straight.

Only then do I feel him, sliding near through the Drift. How did they know before I did?

Belos, flanked by Koricus and Straton, steps from the Drift. The three of them are soaking wet. Belos’s blond hair is slicked back, his leather vest hanging soddenly. He raises his hand to show off the gleaming Shackle in his grip. I recoil, sweeping through the open wall. Belos scowls over his shoulder, as though unsurprised by the sudden draft. He seats himself at the table and drops the Shackle onto it.

“He tried to stop me from getting it. He continues to be difficult.”

“We need more energy,” says Straton, taking a seat beside Belos. “Why not hit some of the smaller towns, Take a few humans? Or go to Rune. There are still Drifters there.”

Belos sneers, “None of you comprehend him. You feel an edge of his power, but you don’t really know. Kronos is a hurricane, and you want to hold him in a paper cup.”

I swirl with agitation. Kronos. That
is
his name. Where did that knowledge come from? Where, for that matter, did that vision of him and me and my mother come from? It felt like a dream, but there was truth in it, of a sort.

Ludos glances over his shoulder. “Is that him?”

Belos frowns. “It must be, though I thought him deeper. After we found the Shackle in whatever that place was—the ocean, the Drift?—he was...displeased. He’s pouting.”

Belos rubs his face, then rests his chin on his fist. He looks wearier even than the others. Dark circles hang under his eyes. He’s thinner than I remember. Fat and muscle have worn away to expose a body of sharp angles. But the eyes are the same. Too bright a blue, too keen, too cruel. I shudder at the memory of his mind within mine. He found all the things I had hidden so deep and brought them out. I still haven’t been able to put them back.

Koricus gestures at Belos’s chest. “Bleeding again.”

Belos grunts annoyance. The wound Astarti dealt him in the battle for Tornelaine looks less healed rather than more. Belos takes a white napkin and presses it to the wound. Blood quickly soaks through.

Suddenly, one of the Seven—Rhode, I think—cries out. He grips the edge of the table, white-knuckled.

Straton looks from Rhode to Belos with resentment burning in his eyes. “We need one of the Drifters. Heborian, Astarti, any of Heborian’s Drifters. Or, better yet, Gaiana’s son.”

“What a fine idea.” Belos’s words drip with sarcasm.

Fresh anger slides through me. He will
never
Leash Astarti again. And I will die before I let him touch me.

Heborian warned me I would hear these things. I told him I could handle it.

I was wrong.

I slide near Belos, hovering over his shoulder. Wouldn’t his death serve us better than information? Isn’t that the ultimate goal?