Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (17 page)

Chapter 25

AFTER CLEANING UP, Logan and I sleep most of the day. Fortunately, our rooms are in part of the castle that didn’t get damaged. It’s fairly quiet at this end, though the rumbles of earthmagic wake me once or twice. The Earthmakers are helping clear rubble and repair damage. Clara told me, when we met her in the hallway, that the crater in the courtyard is being filled and the bridge restored. She also hinted that the upcoming feast will be a perfect time to “try a few things.” She winked at me and hurried on her way, oblivious to—or simply ignoring—my look of horror. When Logan asked what that meant, I admitted to my inadvertent promise to let Clara work on my—what would you call it?—style. Logan, blast him, looked quite amused by the whole thing.

The first time the tremors of earthmagic wake me, I sit up, hunting for Logan. It’s almost a reflex now, but he’s dead asleep, too tired to dream. He looks young when he sleeps like this, all of the hardness gone from his face, all the tension gone from his body. He usually sleeps on his back, but right now he’s on his stomach, one arm hanging off the bed, the other tucked under the pillows. I want to slip my arm under his chest, to feel the warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart, but I’m afraid to wake him. Instead, I watch him until I drift off again.

It’s late evening when something other than the distant earthmagic wakes me. I sit up in the dimness, alert and certain that something is in the room. I startle at the sight of Logan crouched at the foot of the bed.

He says, voice scratchy with sleep, “They’re here.”

Gooseflesh rises all over my body, and I scramble out of the covers to crouch beside him. At first I think he means the Old Ones, then I hear the whispering.

Find them, bind them. Bind, Bind, Bind.

They slip through the air like dry leaves on the wind.

Even though it’s useless against the Ancorites, I shape my Drift-spear. I have to have something in my hand.

One of them floats beside me, just beyond my side of the bed. I rise, whipping my spear toward it. I connect first with the bedpost, splitting it like firewood, then my spear swipes through empty air. The Ancorite whispers up my arm and over my shoulder, an icy finger gliding over my skin. In this same moment, the air grows heavy behind me. It’s full and angry like a storm about to break.

Logan roars, his voice partly his own, partly that of the wind. A gust slams into my back and sends me flying from the bed. Training makes me tuck and roll, holding my spear close so I don’t cut myself.

Wind rages through the room, and I come up crouched. I’m braced for attack but uncertain what to do. In the dimness, I make out movement, but I can’t see what’s happening. Furniture topples and fabric rips. The screaming wind blows straight at me. I duck, and it tears over my back. The bedside table clatters. The wind explodes through the window with the sound of shattering glass.

Inside, the room falls silent, but through the gaping window comes the sound of wind howling into the distance.

Cautiously, I shape a Drift-light. The room is a mess of broken furniture and scattered bedding. The sheets, torn and twisted into ropes, lie strewn across the floor. The bedside table lists brokenly against the bed, and the jagged remains of the window glass catch slivers of my blue light. Most of the glass was blown outside, but a few fragments gleam on the floor.

My heartbeat slows. I let my spear vanish, only then realizing I held it in my right hand. I flex the hand, relieved by the strength in it. I am preparing to go after Logan when he blows into the room, sending my heart skipping again. He shapes himself from the wind, standing naked before me with terrible fury in his eyes.

He turns away with a grunt, walking right through the glass. My Drift-light plays over the rigid muscles of his back as he tries to straighten the bedside table. It breaks apart when he picks it up. He hurls the remains aside and slams his fist into the wall. Stone crumbles. Cracks spread like a spider web around his fist. He wrenches his arm back like he’s going to punch the wall again but stops himself.

I watch him drag it all inside. I don’t need to see his face to know it’s happening. It’s in every line of his body. The tension seeps inward, leaving his body hard and angry but still.

He slowly turns to face me and says woodenly, “They’re gone.”

“Dead?”

“They fled into the city. I didn’t want to...”

I nod. He didn’t want to fight them where people might get in the way. Instead, he came back here to punch a wall and turn his temper in on himself.

“I’m fine now,” he snaps, as though he thinks I’m afraid of him.

It’s not that; it never has been, though it must seem that way to him. I just don’t know what to do. He has a right to be angry with the Ancorites. He has a right to destroy them. In fact, I hope he does. But he made the right decision to let them go tonight. How can I help him with that?

Because I don’t know how to help, I order him, “Get out of that glass.”

He looks down, surprised, and picks his way toward me. He sits on the edge of the bed to examine the bottom of one foot. He picks a sliver of glass from his sole, releasing a trickle of blood. He flicks the sliver toward the window with the rest of the mess.

I hunt through the rubble for something disposable or already ruined. I come back to the bed with a strip of shredded sheet. Logan takes it and presses it to his foot.

“Let me see your hand.”

“It’s fine,” he grumbles.

“Let me see it.”

He grudgingly holds out his hand. It should be broken, but his knuckles are only scuffed. It might bruise a little, but that’s all. The more he uses his power, the more it grows, and the less I understand it.

He bites out, “I want to know why they’re here. They’ve never come before.”

“The last of the Old Ones is gone from Avydos. They have no reason to stay there anymore.”

“So, what then? They’re coming after me?”

“Maybe.”

“You know something more. You have a suspicion. I see it in your eyes.”

I hesitate. It’s not that I want to protect Heborian, but I know if I tell Logan what I saw on Avydos, it will start a fight. I breathe out slowly, bracing.

Better a fight than a lie.

Though his face remains still, his eyes swirl with color as I tell him what happened.

He demands, “Did he make some kind of deal with them?”

“I don’t know. Don’t look at me like that, Logan—I
don’t know
. I didn’t hear him speak to them. He was supposed to ask for their help. Like I said, they came back with him. They did what we wanted and prompted Kronos to come out. I have no idea if, when they were helping Heborian with the harpoon, it was by agreement or by their own initiative. I simply don’t know what was going on.”

Unsurprisingly, Logan stands from the bed. “Then let’s find out.”

I sigh in resignation and kick through the mess for some clothes. I find a shirt and breeches from a few days ago. A cautious sniff confirms they are acceptable.

Logan seems to find some equally passable clothes, though his shirt is badly wrinkled. We smirk at each other under the Drift-light. Perhaps someone in this relationship needs to start insisting on a bit of tidiness, but it’s not looking good.

We’re crossing the darkened sitting room when a fist pounds on our door. I shape my spear automatically and shout, “Who is it?”

“Lady? Is everything all right? We heard a crash.”

I ignore the absurd address and open the door. The guard steps back at the sight of my spear. The guards behind him shift uncertainly.

“Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” The lead guard darts a look at Logan behind me.

Why does everyone look at him like that? This wasn’t even his fault.

I let my spear vanish. “Thank you for your concern,” I say with finality.

The guard hesitates then ducks his chin and leads his men away. Logan follows me into the hallway.

Halfway to the royal wing, we run into Heborian. We’re in one of the broad, main hallways. Sconces cast flickering light across the floor and walls. Heborian’s shoulders droop wearily when he sees us. He’s wearing clean clothes, but the tired lines framing his mouth and the dark crescents under his eyes tell me he hasn’t yet been to bed. He waves off the attendant who is hovering at his shoulder, issuing a quiet order to prepare his room. I almost feel guilty, but Logan clearly does not.

“Do you want to tell me why the Ancorites”—Logan’s voice lashes through the word—“are in this castle?”

Heborian’s eyebrows lift. I’m quite adept at detecting false expressions, and he looks genuinely surprised to me.

“They came after you?”

“Is that what you want?”

“No, Logan, that’s not what I want.”

“Am I supposed to believe that? You turned on my father!”

Heborian studies Logan. “How do you know he’s your father? Couldn’t it be one of the others?”

Logan is taken aback, as though it should be as obvious to everyone as it is to him. “I just know.” He adds angrily, “And that is entirely beside the point! Did you let the Ancorites in here?”

“Do you really think I can control where they go? Astarti? Can you talk some sense into him?”

I put up my hands in a you’re-on-your-own gesture.

“Leave her out of this!” snaps Logan. “This is
you
. What were you doing firing that thing at Kronos?”

Logan is losing the thread of his argument, and Heborian takes advantage of it. “What is your question, son? Are you asking about the Ancorites, or are you asking about the weapon?”

Logan’s fists clench dangerously. I’ve let this go far enough, so I say, “Heborian, don’t play games.”

He rubs tiredly at his eyes then drags his hands through his hair. “Listen. It’s been a
very
long day. I just want to go to bed. Can we do this another time?”

Logan says sharply, “Only if you can tell me honestly that you didn’t bring them here.”

Heborian lets out a weary, relieved breath. “Yes, I can tell you honestly that I didn’t bring them here.”

Logan grudgingly accepts this, falling back, but I eye Heborian with suspicion. Heborian meets my gaze with a lifted eyebrow, then turns away without farewell and sweeps down the hallway.

I like that Logan isn’t duplicitous or manipulative. I like that he doesn’t think in terms of technicality or specificity. No, I don’t like it. I love it. It is one of the things I value most about him: an inherent honesty that has nothing to do with speaking technical truth.

But.

It also makes him easily fooled by those who do think that way. He has no idea he asked the wrong question. He has no idea he gave Heborian the opportunity to answer without really answering. No, Heborian didn’t bring them here. He was able to say so honestly.

That doesn’t mean he didn’t want them to come. That doesn’t mean he won’t make use of them.

*     *     *

We go the kitchens partly because I’m hungry and partly for something to do. The kitchens lie in another undamaged part of the castle, and it’s a good thing they’re intact because food is probably more important to the sustainment of this castle than anything else. I’ve been down here before, so I know to expect the large assembling room with its shelves crammed with serving ware. Logan, however, makes a sound of surprise. Yeah, this place is enormous.

Through the wide doorway lies the main room, a vast space filled with ovens and sinks and work tables, the whole thing organized as tidily as the library. Though I’ve had little cause to interact with most of the castle’s residents, many of Kelda’s noble or otherwise-wealthy families stay under Heborian’s roof. None seems to call this home, but they’ll come for a week, a month, maybe several. Horik says it’s normal. Nobles look after their interests, and that’s easiest to do if Heborian remembers they exist. Some left when the trouble started; others seemed to think themselves safer by staying. In addition, there are the scholars, craftsmen, servants, and soldiers to feed.

Even now, with evening well underway and dinner surely over, the clatter of pots and hissing of steam filters from the kitchen into the assembling room. I go to the basket on the long table that stretches along one wall. I lift up the white cloth, but there’s only a single roll left. I break it in half to share.

Chewing, I approach the doorway, hoping I can persuade someone to slip us a more substantial snack, and nearly collide with Horik. I move out of the way as he edges into the assembling room looking harried. He has half a ham in one hand, a flagon of wine in the other, and a loaf of bread tucked under his arm.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” he warns.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Farrah, the head cook, is in a right state about this whole feast thing. Heborian said it needn’t be fancy, but there are about twenty sauces in the works, and I almost got hit in the head with a turkey. Besides, if you come within ten feet of the cake they’re making, prepare to hear at least seven people scream at you.”