Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (21 page)

He stands abruptly. “I’ll let you finish dressing.”

“Rood,” I call as he turns to leave. When he stops, I find I have nothing to say.

He inclines his chin, seeming to understand, then strides to the door, his boots ringing on the stone floor in the spaces between rugs.

I’m peering through the doorway into the bedroom when Clara, skirts swishing, hustles to catch me.

“I have to explain them!”

That makes my eyebrows climb. Clothes need an explanation? I humor her, standing back so she can precede me into the room. I do, however, look over her shoulder. The room is a rainbow of color, a forest of texture. Dresses hang from the wardrobe front and before the window. They spill over the backs of chairs and spread across the bed. Some are full and frothy, others sleek.

She says, “You’re probably thinking it’s a bit much”—I give her a wry lift of an eyebrow to confirm that—“but I wanted you to see the possibilities.”

“I just need a nice dress. Any would do.”

She puts a hand to her chest and closes her eyes, shaking her head slightly. “No,” she mutters. “No, no.”

“I just want to look nice for Logan,” I insist, trying to train my eyes away from the streams of color.

“No,” she says again, firmly. “You must never dress for another, not even for him. Never. The point of this is to decide how you want to present yourself
to yourself
.”

“Present myself to myself?”

She holds up a finger, asking for my patience, as she swishes toward the wardrobe. “How will you see yourself tonight?” She pinches the hem of a full and decorative green skirt, pulling it out to display the gown. “Regal and bold?” She lets that one drop and tugs at the next one, a slim red dress that looks clingy. “Smooth and sophisticated?”

When I frown down both of these options, Clara moves to the chairs and holds up a black dress heavy with black beading. “Mysterious and grand?” She lays this one back down and shows me the next, a frothy pale yellow dress. “Charming and sweet?”

As she sweeps to the bed, she explains, “When you put on a garment, it draws out those elements of yourself that it reflects. Do you see?”

I tilt my hand in a so-so gesture, but Clara is undaunted. She lifts a dark purple dress from the bed. The bodice and sleeves are fitted. The skirt sweeps out long and elegant, and a slit up one side reveals a black underskirt.

“Ooh,” I say. “Maybe.”

“Elegant but bold,” Clara describes it. She lays it down and moves to the window.

Most of the dresses hung there are, like the others, too pretty and too grand. I don’t think I like that. I interrupt Clara’s litany to suggest we just go with the purple one.

“Wait,” she says. “You must see the last one.”

She hurries to the end of the arrangement and takes down a garment. She holds it out for my inspection. I approach slowly, taking in the unusual design. A full skirt of dark blue splits in the front, sweeping away to trail behind and exposing black breeches. The bodice looks like a separate piece, though it is constructed of the same dark blue material. It looks almost like a jacket, fitted through the waist but accented by a slight puff in the shoulders. Black embroidery swirls and eddies around it. The neck is high in the back and would almost reach my ears. It angles sharply in the front, plunging to a low point, though a black shirt of fine wool with a scalloped neckline would cover the chest.

“I thought so,” Clara says with a smile. “Subtle, beautiful, dangerous. And the only one that can be worn with boots.”

Chapter 30

“AND DONE,” CLARA announces as she slides a final pin into my hair.

She motions me toward the full length mirror that stands in the corner and tweaks its angle until she’s satisfied. I step forward cautiously, part of me expecting to find myself looking terribly silly.

“Well?” Clara inquires, twisting her hands together as I stare at my reflection.

“Oh, Clara.”

“You like it?”

“I never would have thought—yes, I like it.”

I don’t look silly at all. At least, I don’t feel it, looking at this reflection.

Clara hands me a small mirror so I can look at the back. She has done my hair in a series of braids, all of them swept up and gathered high on the back of my head. The standing collar mostly covers the Griever’s Mark, though the upper edges show a little.

Clara notices me looking. “I can adjust your hair if you want.”

“No. I don’t mind it.” I’m surprised that the statement feels honest. When did this change for me? I didn’t even notice it happening.

Clara says, “You wait here while I see if Logan is ready.”

She bustles away. I hear the front door open and close, then the distant rapping of her knuckles on the door to the other rooms. Over the last hour, I’ve heard a bit of movement in there and even a few different voices. One of them, I’m sure, was Heborian. Clara was working on my hair at the time, and when I made a move to get up, she said warningly, “Don’t even think about it.” Heborian did not stay long, and though I listened intently for raised voices, I never heard them.

I hear them now. Well, one at least. Though I can’t make out Clara’s words, her chastening tone comes muffled through the wall. Logan’s deep rumble answers her. After a brief exchange, the doors open and close, and Clara comes marching back to me.

“You would think,” she mutters, “that the son of the Prima would know not to wear
leather pants
on a formal occasion.” She takes a calming breath. “At least the colors are right. He did accept my message on that.”

I grin. “I don’t know. I like how he looks in leather. I think I’d be disappointed if I didn’t get to see that fine—”

“Well, yes,” Clara interrupts, blushing. “There is that. It’s just not
formal
. But, come. He’ll be here any moment.”

We’re halfway across the sitting room when a knock sounds at the door. My heart skips a beat. Ridiculous, of course. I just saw him a few hours ago.

Clara motions me to halt as she proceeds to the door, opening it with a little flourish. She stands aside, smiling, as Logan stares across the room.

I stare right back. He wears a dark blue velvet doublet buttoned down the front, the top revealing the edge of his white shirt. He’s not as transformed as I, perhaps, but the cut of the jacket, the way his hair is combed back—all of it is perfect, even the leather pants. He walks slowly into the room, breath held.

I can’t keep up the grand silence. “Well?” I prompt as he reaches me.

He leans down and kisses my forehead. “Gorgeous. And very much
you
.”

I laugh, and some of the nervousness rings through my voice, “Really?”

“Oh, yes. Really.”

“Clara deserves all the credit. She even modified this dress for me. So it could be worn with boots.”

Logan glances down at the soft leather boots that reach to my knees. A big grin spreads across his face.

I grin back. But it slips from my face when Logan draws a silver bracelet from inside his doublet. I recognize the piece of jewelry at once, and now I know what Heborian was doing at Logan’s door. Heborian tried to give that to me once before.

“That was my mother’s,” I whisper.

“Yes,” Logan answers softly. “You don’t want to wear it?”

“No.”

“Will you tell me why?”

“It was my mother’s.”

It’s enough answer for me, but it doesn’t seem to be enough for Logan. He looks confused, but he slides the bracelet back into the hidden pocket.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know it would upset you.”

“It’s not your fault. Heborian is full of tricks.”

Logan’s jaw clenches briefly, and a thread of green curls through his irises.

I say, “It doesn’t matter, not tonight. Tonight, we should just enjoy ourselves.”

Logan nods and lifts his elbow for me to take.

“I’m not a lady,” I remind him.

“Yes, you are. Boots and all.”

I take a steadying breath and hook my hand in the crook of his arm. It’s not how it’s supposed to be done, but it feels right. A smile tugs at the corner of Logan’s mouth.

“It works?” I ask.

“It works.”

*     *     *

The evidence of damage has been cleared from the dining hall. Notably, the crystal chandelier is gone, having shattered, Clara told me, when it fell. People are filtering in, so we are allowed to enter without particular notice. That is, until we come within hailing distance of the raised platform where Heborian sits. He beckons us.

We could refuse, but there is no reason. Besides, everyone I know sits up there. Horik and the remaining Drifters; Rood; Aron, Bran, and Gaiana; the Polemarc and several Counselors. A few seats are unoccupied but not open. Blue Drift-light floats where people would have sat. I count one light for each Drifter that died. One of those lights floats beside Rood, where Wulfstan once sat. I have thought little about Heborian’s losses. Wulfstan was his uncle and advisor, perhaps even his friend. It is so easy to forget that Heborian is not simply king but also a man.

He watches us approach the dais, turning in his seat as we climb the steps at the back. I take the chair at Heborian’s left, and Logan sits on my other side. Heborian doesn’t comment on my clothes, but he nods approval. Then his eyes flick to my empty wrist and away.

Serving staff move up and down the long tables, both ours and those lining the floor below. I drink some wine and munch on the cheese and crackers. Logan drinks sparingly. I wish I didn’t notice, but I do, and I am relieved. I watch the people. I don’t recognize many, though the presence of the Earthmakers is noticeable, given that they wear their traditional robes. Aron and Bran are dressed in such as well. Some of Heborian’s soldiers—the officers, I would imagine—occupy one table. The other tables are crowded with richly dressed people, though many plainer clothes can be seen toward the back. I’ve spent a few evenings in here, and it looks much as I remember.

When the tables are settled, the serving staff wheels out carts bearing huge tureens of soup. I accept only a small amount. Experience has taught me to pace myself. While I might consider soup a meal, I know that here it’s only the first course.

When we get to the main dishes, it’s harder to exercise restraint. Succulent pork and tender beef call to me from the platters. Because I can’t choose, I take a bit of each and grudgingly make room for the onions and carrots. I do like vegetables, but with these cruel choices before me, I have to prioritize.

Logan, I’m surprised to find, does know how to eat at an event like this, and I self-consciously try to copy him. His manners do, however, look a bit rusty. He keeps frowning at his fork and adjusting his grip. When he notices me studying his methods, he puts his knife down and uses the side of his fork to cut the tender meat. He stabs a piece and brings it to his mouth with a who-cares shrug. Now
that
, I’m only too happy to imitate.

As the meal winds down, Heborian speaks quietly to one of the serving staff. The man nods and hurries off. Heborian stands from his chair, and a hush slowly spreads through the hall.

“Friends of Kelda,” he calls out, his voice carrying through the room and banishing the last of the whispers. “We’ve faced some dark days together. Destruction and death have haunted us. But there are two things I would ask you to remember. One is that we prevailed because so many were willing to give their lives for this great city and our country. All hail the dead!”

Heborian raises his wine cup, and the gesture is echoed through the hall. Gooseflesh rises on my arms to see the communal acknowledgement of our losses.

“But,” Heborian continues, “this is not a day of mourning. This is a day of celebration and certainty, and that brings me to the second point I would like you to remember. This land is my first priority. You may be certain I will always do what is needed to protect it. I would give my life for it. I would give my soul.” He lets that fall heavily before offering a wry smile. “Of course,” he adds, “we may sure the Deceiver no longer offers such temptation to our people. We have vanquished our enemy!”

A cheer explodes into the air. Even up and down this raised table, everyone shouts approval.

I, however, am uneasy.

Why did Heborian say,
I would give my soul
, and not
I would
have
given it
?

Something tells me once again: this is not over.

I put these dark thoughts aside when the serving staff wheels out a broad cart that holds a towering cake. I count five layers and suspect that the bottom one is as big around as an oak tree. No wonder Horik got yelled at for stepping too close.

The cake takes a long time to serve. Our table is served first. Initially this seems like good fortune, but my plate is empty and my belly aching from the sweetness by the time the cake is making its way to the back tables.

Just when I’m ready to tell Logan I’ve had enough finery for the night, the music starts. I trace the sound to the far end of the room and find that a group of sharply dressed musicians have taken their places atop a platform in the corner. The broad space between the platform and tables is open.

Heborian rises from his chair and walks along the dais to Gaiana. It’s a political gesture, but I’m glad of it. This celebration marks a new beginning. Heborian is signaling that it will be a time of cooperation. Of course, that is because cooperation benefits him, but I try not to dwell on that.

Heborian and Gaiana sweep across the dance floor. Her filmy robes float like banners around them. Heborian, I must admit, cuts a dashing figure in his snug red doublet and white breeches. He dances well, if formally, and if he still looks a little tired, I can’t blame him. Gaiana is smooth and graceful, matching him effortlessly.

As others filter onto the dancing floor, Logan offers his hand. I take it, feeling his tension at once.

“It was a statement, Logan, nothing more.”

He inclines his chin, accepting that, but I can see in his eyes that he is unhappy to have watched his mother with Heborian. He cannot forgive my father for yielding me to Belos. Even if I can make sense of Heborian’s decision, Logan cannot. Of course, Heborian’s other decisions heap upon that first one. I cannot ask Logan to let any of that go; I’m not sure I even want to.

As Logan leads me to the open space, I whisper, “I hope you remember I’m a terrible dancer.”

“‘Highly dangerous,’ I think we decided.”

“No, I decided that. Should I be offended that you agree?”

He gives me that half-smile of his, then says seriously, “You dance beautifully with your spear. Surely you can dance with me?”

“Are you offering to let me lead?”

That draws a worried line across his forehead. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” I say quickly. “That was a joke.”

“Then just relax, and let me show you.”

When we are halfway through a song, I realize I haven’t stumbled once. Maybe it’s because I trust Logan, because I allow myself to move with his body. Then I realize that my feet aren’t on the ground. Logan and I are floating just an inch above the floor, high enough to make my steps easy but not high enough for anyone to notice.

“Isn’t this cheating?”

“I don’t think there are actual rules for this kind of thing.”

“Maybe not rules, but conventions.”

“Since when did you worry about conventions?”

“Since never.”

“Good.”

Logan sweeps me around, and my skirt swirls, wrapping around us briefly before streaming outward. At the edges of my vision, the other dancers move in streams of color. Normally, I would avoid something like this, but it’s different being here with Logan. I’m not lost in the crowd, not oppressed by it. I am centered; the rest flows around me.

As the music fades, Logan lets us touch the ground. A tall figure approaches. I grin at Horik in his fine shirt and vest.

“Where’s your doublet?” I ask, teasing him.

“Too hot,” he grumbles. He glances at Logan. “May I?”

Logan steps back, retreating to the edge of the dancing floor. As another song begins, I hold my hands up for Horik.

“You look beautiful,” Horik says.

“And you trimmed your beard.”

“That’s your return compliment?”

“Just an observation.”

“It looked funny with my hair so short. Besides, now you can see my tattoos better. I’m told they’re sexy.”