Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (9 page)

The instant I curl fingers of air around his throat, he vanishes into the Drift. My hands close on nothing.

Belos reappears across the room. “Be on your guard,” he commands, but the Seven are already on their feet, Drift-weapons in hand.

My unspent anger swirls within me, seeping out. Tapestries flutter on the walls. Straton’s black cloak flaps.

“The Ancorites?” asks Devos uneasily.

“I don’t know,” Belos snaps. “Something touched me.”

“Not Kronos?”

“I don’t think so.”

“An Ancorite, then,” says Rhode. “If we catch him, let’s Shackle him.”

Belos snarls, “If you can find a wrist to put the Shackle on.”

“You got Kronos, didn’t you?”

“Do you forget, Rhode, that Kronos was weakened and unprepared? Do you think the Ancorites will be?”

Light footsteps approach from the hall. The girl, Dela, halts in the doorway, a tray in her hands. The teapot rattles loudly.

“Her!” shouts Koricus. “Leash her!”

He vanishes into the Drift and reappears beside Dela, who screams and drops the tray. The teapot shatters, and Koricus leaps back from the gush of hot tea.

“You fool!” Belos shouts. “You think
she
will make one bit of difference? Focus! It’s stirring! It’s the Old Ones!”

But it’s not. It’s me. I try to reel it back in, to hide myself, to make this nothing. Maybe I can salvage something of this. Be calm, listen. That’s all I’m here to do.

Then I feel them. The Ancorites.

They drift into the room like a dry wind. They swirl around me, whispering. Fingers like bare bones slide through my energies. I shudder—with revulsion, with fear, with rage.

Bind him
, they whisper.
Bind him
.

Something snaps inside me. Even without my body, the sensation is physical. I yell, and it is a wind howling down a mountainside. I claw and scrape at the Ancorites, mindless with rage, but they float through my grasp like smoke.

“Logan!” shouts Belos. “Is that you?”

I wheel. Belos!

I streak toward him, half wind, half myself. I want to feel his body break in my hands. The Ancorites are clawing at me, scraping their bony fingers through my energies.

I barrel into Belos, driving him into the wall. My hands solidify around his throat. His face purples, and I revel in the power I have over him.

Glowing bands of Drift-energy loop around my wrists, jerking me away from Belos. I explode through the binding, a gust of wind. But the freedom is short-lived. The Ancorites are clawing, tearing, scrabbling for a hold on my energies. I whirl, flinging them off me.

I need more power. I need something stronger than air. I plunge into the stony floor and the earth below, electrified by the crack and boom as the floor breaks.

I tear through the rocky bones of the earth, letting them explode, letting all that strength and power
do
something.

A deep and ponderous energy stirs. I call his name through stone—
Kronos!
—and it is a rocky grumble, the sound primordial and awesome.

We burst through the floor, and his face, ancient and craggy, shapes itself briefly. His rocky hand reaches for me with curiosity and gentleness. Then he cries out with the most terrible sound I have ever heard. It is the earth breaking; it is unending pain.

I wheel on Belos. He stands on the splintered table, his face tight with concentration. Kronos moans.

Furious, I slam my fist into the shattered floor. The boom ripples through the earth, and the walls shudder. Columns crack and crumble. I will bring down this whole house just to bury Belos in it.

A high-pitched scream pierces my fury. A girl’s scream.

Horror slides through me like cold water. I wrench free of the earth and whip through the air to where Dela lies crying, her leg pinned under a fallen column. She whimpers at my approach. I throw the column aside with a gust of wind. She scrambles away from me, dragging her broken leg. I latch onto her. She screams.

The Ancorites tear at me again. Dela howls, and the Ancorites tear at her. Belos shouts. Kronos rises from the floor, a rocky giant. His eyes are empty, belonging to someone else. He lunges for me.

I shape Dela into the wind and blast through the open wall.

Chapter 11

I STAND ON the battlements with Heborian, waiting, as the sun sinks toward the sea. A boom sounds from distant Avydos, and the shock travels the ocean floor to reverberate through the stones under my feet. Below, the ocean tosses in response.

My heart skitters.

“Astarti,” Heborian says warningly, drawing out the syllables of my name.

I start to rise up, dissolving, feeling my way between the currents. Heborian persuaded me to let Logan go alone, that I would only give us away. But something is happening, and the time for subtlety is over. Heborian’s voice grows distant.

When a gust hits me, the power is unreal, shattering. I scramble for purchase, for control, but I am tumbling away like fluff on the wind. Then he surrounds me and eases me back to my body. For that moment, I am not the master of myself; I am mere matter to be shaped. Even though it’s Logan, I don’t like the feeling.

We emerge from the wind to the sound of crying. A young girl tears away from Logan, sobbing with terror. She crawls away, dragging a bloody, broken leg. She runs up against Heborian and throws her arms around his knees.

Logan is rigid beside me. I glance up to find his face like stone, though his eyes swirl with green and blue. A muscle is etched in his jaw.

He doesn’t respond when I say his name.

“Astarti?” calls Heborian. “A little help?”

I reluctantly leave Logan standing like a statue and kneel beside the girl. She grabs my hands, wringing them so hard the bones grind.

“Hush,” I say, “hush. You’re safe.”

She sobs into my shoulder.

I hear Logan approach. So does the girl. She glances up, and her crying intensifies. Logan backs away.

In all the time it takes to get the girl down to the infirmary and into the Healers’ hands, Logan doesn’t say a word. Even as he, Heborian, and I walk to Heborian’s study, Logan is silent. By the time we get to the study, my shoulders are hunched with tension.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I wheel on him. “What happened?”

“What do you think? I hurt her.” His eyes are wild and dangerous, but his body is unnaturally still, as though he hardly trusts himself to breathe.

Heborian says calmly, “Start from the beginning.”

Logan’s report comes out in fragments and bursts, drawn from him by Heborian’s questions. He stiffens further every time I approach, clearly not wanting to be touched.

When Heborian says, “That’s enough. Go get yourself cleaned up,” Logan turns mechanically for the door.

“Wait!” I jog after him.

Logan pauses with his hand on the latch. His head is bowed. “Astarti, I can’t.” They are the first words he’s said directly to me, and I don’t even know what they mean.

“Logan—”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t.”

He fumbles with the latch, wrenching the door open. I rock forward as he storms out.

“Astarti,” Heborian calls from behind. “Let him go.”

I glance over my shoulder. “You said that to me once before. I didn’t listen then. I don’t intend to now.”

“I need you here. It’s more important. You can find him later, when he’s ready to be found.”

I exhale an angry breath. Logan disappears around a corner. He doesn’t want me—that’s clear enough—and I doubt I can stop him from what he’s about to do. Should I try, even when it’s pointless? Or should I give myself to larger problems?

“Astarti, you know this matters more.”

I grit my teeth as I close the door, hating that Heborian can convince me.

“So,” he begins. “What should we expect?”

Chapter 12

LOGAN

THE GIRL’S SCREAMS echo in my head. I empty my glass and push it back to the barkeep. He gets out the bottle of spirits but pauses with it over my glass, wanting to see my money. I dig some coins from my pocket and toss them on the bar. He fills the glass and slides it back to me.

Maybe it’s the way my hand tightens on the glass. Maybe it’s something about the way I sit on the stool. Maybe he recognizes me. He says, “You should check out the north end of the port road. They’ll be starting soon.”

“Starting what?”

He shrugs. “Something that might interest you.”

I tip back my head and let the spirits burn their way down my throat.

I do what he says. Because I’m curious. Because I think I know what he means. I find what I expect, and it’s exactly what I need.

The ring of torches casts flickering light over the gathered crowd. I spot velvet doublets and tattered leather jackets, rich and poor drawn to the same spectacle. You would think that with war looming, people wouldn’t want this, but it makes a certain sense. Here is conflict confined to a circle. Predictable, a game, something to bet on. Win or lose, everyone will go home afterward. Smiling or grumbling, they will go home and life will go on.

The crowd shouts encouragement to the two men in the center as they circle one another, throwing fists. The torchlight gleams over their bare, sweat-sheened backs.

I make my way to where a man in a red coat watches dispassionately. “I want in,” I tell him.

He doesn’t take his eyes from the fight. “Winner gets half profit, loser gets nothing.”

“I don’t care about the money.”

He looks at me, weighing something. “You looking to hit or be hit?”

“I just want in.”

His eyes widen as he gets a good look at mine. “You one of them earthmovers?”

“I want someone better than either of them.” I jerk my head toward the ring, where one of the men is already down.

“You can fight dirty, but no earthmoving. You got that?”

“That’s what I want.”

“Markan,” the ringmaster calls over his shoulder. “I’ve got one for you.”

Markan, who is almost as tall as Horik, sizes me up as we step, shirtless, into the ring. The buzz of voices—speculation, bets being placed—fades into the background. Markan rolls his huge shoulders and jerks his head to one side then the other, cracking his neck.

The anticipation clears my mind. I start pulling everything in, bracing. I put up my fists.

Markan lunges for me with enough power to crush brick, but he’s slow. I dodge the blow and bring my own fist up, driving it into his exposed armpit. He grunts and shuffles back. When he comes at me again, he delivers a series of quicker punches. I could slip away, get around behind him, but that’s not the point. I dodge some blows, but a few catch me in the ribs. I land punches of my own, but Markan takes them like they’re nothing, even though they would lay most men out.

Frustration kicks in, and I swing a right hook that takes Markan hard in the jaw. His head snaps around, and he staggers. I could finish it while he’s dazed, but I need more out of this first.

Markan recovers enough to charge, but I dodge away. I know better than to let him get me on the ground. I kick the back of his knee as he surges past me. His knee buckles, but as he goes down he spins, swinging. Bright pain slashes across my chest. I stagger back, stunned. Blood wells along a cut that goes from my ribs to my sternum.

Markan climbs to his feet, grinning, a knife in his hand. The crowd shouts, but more with annoyance than surprise. The ringmaster did say we could fight dirty.

Markan lunges, the knife flashing in the torchlight. Instead of leaping back I dive toward him, skimming past the knife to get inside his guard. I cock my arm and whip my elbow up, ramming it into the underside of his jaw. It staggers him but not enough, and now I’m within his grasp. He hooks an arm around my chest, lifting me bodily, and slams me to the ground. My head cracks against the paving stones, stunning me with pain as lights dance in my vision. I have just enough awareness to shift away as Markan’s fist comes down. He pummels my shoulder instead of my face.

Markan is hunched over and off balance, trying to finish me quickly, but that’s a mistake. He thinks me weakened by the pain, but it’s not even close to enough to deaden me. I spin and knock his legs out from under him. Like all big men, he goes down hard. I leap on top of him and let my fists rain down onto his face and neck. He tries to protect his face, but he’s dazed, not used to this. When his head lolls, I shove to my feet. He’s had more than enough.

But I haven’t. I’m hot with anger, looking for more, for another safe place to give and take what I need. This kind of rage is good: it’s clean, purely physical, and it will wear itself out.

The crowd is silent, unhappy. I’m sure I just cost a lot of people their bets. Then the ringmaster shouts, “Let’s see how he does with two on one!” and everyone cheers.