Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (29 page)

Epilogue

LOGAN

BRAN HANDS ME a newly whittled peg, which I pound into the tabletop to connect another leg. Tools and wood shavings lie scattered across the paving stones I laid over the summer. Now, with fall coming on, I have to seize these last warm days to work outside.

Bran, sitting on the low wall I built to keep the sand out of the patio, works on another peg. He gazes over the hut, though I’m not sure it can be called that anymore. The walls are stone, and the whole thing is much bigger. The roof is shingled with clay tiles, and the windows have sturdy shutters. There’s a garden started in back, and I can hear the goats jumping on the wooden boxes I put in their pen. “The great mountain range,” Astarti calls it.

Bran asks, “You do all this by hand?”

“I might have cheated a little,” I admit.

He nods sagely. “Thought so.”

In truth, I cheated a lot. I would have liked building it all by hand, but there wasn’t time. The roof of the former hut had collapsed, though that could have been from age as easily as from the wildness of the Old Ones. Actually, this remote island escaped largely untouched. Most of its trees survived because this was too far away from the city to be of any concern to Belos. Many seedlings have been taken from the woods here to the main island to begin restoring life there. It will be a long process. Though earthmagic may speed things up, trees can only be rushed so much. Besides, not everyone has returned to the islands to help, and that slows things as well.

Rood, in rebuilding Tornelaine, has tempted some of our best craftsmen to stay. I can’t complain. The more our people mix with the others, the better.

When Astarti steps from the Drift into the courtyard, Bran jumps and drops his peg.

“Sorry,” she says, setting down her pack.

Bran retrieves the peg and goes back to whittling. “How does that not startle you?”

I shrug. “I feel her approach.”

Bran tosses the finished peg at me, and it bounces off my shoulder. “Didn’t feel that approaching, did you?”

Astarti snorts. “Why, Bran, was that a joke? Is that allowed in the Earthmaker rulebook?”

He fights back a smile. “I guess I’ve been spending too much time with you.”

“If that’s how you feel, you don’t have to eat with us.” Astarti crouches to open the leather pack, peering inside with great drama and raising an eyebrow.

Bran hops down from the wall. “No need to take it like that, Astarti.”

She grins and pulls cloth-wrapped bundles from the bag. We sit among the tools and wood shavings, arranging the food on the overturned table.

“It’ll be finished tomorrow,” I promise.

“That’s what you said yesterday,” she reminds me.

I sniff, which is all the answer I think that deserves.

The bread is slightly smashed, and the glaze on the ham has run everywhere, even onto the apples and honey cakes, but no one complains. While we eat, Astarti tells us about her day in Tornelaine. Though my mother and Feluvas returned to Avydos to serve as Healers, Korinna chose to stay in the city, and Astarti has been working with her to learn more of Healing. Korinna’s decision surprised me, and I only stared at Astarti blankly when she said, “Horik is there.” I said, “Of course he is,” to which Astarti, shaking her head, muttered, “Oblivious.”

After Bran leaves, Astarti helps me gather up the tools and move the half-finished table inside. I feel rain coming.

I crouch in front of the hearth, where the coals from yesterday are banked. I brush the ash aside and arrange kindling over the coals. I breathe deeply and try to still my mind. I sense the heat and spark of the coals, feel their potential to grow, to consume, to set a whole forest on fire. But they don’t need to be so wild. Fire, my father said, may burn low and comfortingly. And that is neither waste nor confinement.

I draw the heat from the coals into the kindling, teasing the sparks to life. It goes well at first, but as the flames burst to life, they eat greedily through the kindling, consuming it too quickly. I toss a few logs onto the fire before it burns itself out.

This was Astarti’s idea, that I use my earthmagic for these small things. There were a few disasters in the beginning. There will be more, I’m sure. But it’s getting better. It helps to let out a little at a time. The fist I once kept clenched so tightly inside myself has eased. It’s still there, but I’m learning to relax it a little.

Astarti settles onto the sheepskin rug beside me, commenting, “At least you didn’t singe your eyebrows this time.”

“We’ll call it an improvement then.”

“When you finish that table, what do you think about working on a bed for us?”

“I thought you liked sleeping by the fire.”

“I do, but this rug is always full of sand, and it gets everywhere when—” She cuts off when I lean into her and bite along her jaw in that way she loves.

“When what?” I prompt, easing her to the rug.

“Oh, never mind,” she mutters and tugs me down.

Dear Reader,

THANK YOU for joining me for this final installment of
The Griever’s Mark
trilogy! If you enjoyed
Unbound
, please consider leaving a review—even a very short one is so helpful to me and future readers. Word of mouth is everything—truly,
everything
!—for a book and author.

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Until next time!

About the Author

KATHRINE HURLEY was born in New Mexico, raised in Kansas, and currently lives in West Virginia. Her cat takes feline delight in stepping on the keyboard at the worst of times, and her dog uses a magical combination of tail-wagging and woo-wooing to transform a writing session into a romp in the yard. Luckily, the horse has better manners. (Katherine writes fiction, so take that as you will....) She loves her mountain bike also but claims it's not as nice to pet.