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

Chapter 5

THE PANICKED SHOUTS from above deck, audible even over the roar of wind and water, warn me to brace for impact. I grab onto a support beam and widen my stance. Even so, the slamming of the boat into what I assume is the port road jerks me away from the beam and throws into one of the barrels.

I lie across the barrel for a moment, letting the pain in my hip settle. Then I hear pouring water. I flood more energy into my patch and renew the Drift-light I’ve kept floating above me. I don’t want to be in the dark down here. The smells of blood and meat and oil turn my stomach, and I’d rather see the weapons fully than catch glimpses of their blades when light filters from above. The harpoons are two and three times the length of my spear, and they hook back with wicked barbs to anchor in the flesh of whales. Thick ropes trail from the blunt ends to coil on the wet, stained floor.

“Astarti?” inquires Horik’s rumbling voice from the top of the stairs.

“Down here.”

Horik and another Drifter, Jarl, tromp down the steps into the hold.

“Gods,” Jarl mutters, dragging his tunic over his nose.

Men start filing into the hold behind the Drifters. They shout to each other in what sounds like Valdaran and start wrestling the barrels toward the stairs.

“The captain wants to save his cargo,” Horik explains. “It might take them a while to clear the hold. You want some help?” He eyes the gaping hole in the stern, where the murky water of the harbor sloshes against my faintly glowing patch.

I nod Horik closer. “It’s a lot of pressure.”

When Jarl and Horik have built a shield that lines mine, I let mine dissolve. Some of the energy dissipates; some seeps back into me. I sag with weariness and relief.

I wait until the sailors, grunting and cursing, have heaved another barrel onto the deck before I trudge up the steps. The sudden light makes me wince.

Logan and Heborian are talking near the rail. Logan’s arms are crossed. He looks jittery, like he’s trying to get away from Heborian. Seeming to sense me, he spins around. He leaves Heborian in the middle of a sentence and strides across the deck to me.

His eyes swirl blue and green. His hands skim over my hair, then my shoulders.

“I’m fine,” I assure him.

“When the ship hit, I—”

“I’m
fine
, Logan.”

A muscle feathers in his jaw, and I know what’s coming before he says it. “You scared me today. Don’t do that again.”

My temper flares. “I did what was needful, as you did. Don’t tell me not to take risks when you take them.”

An argument swirls through his eyes. He closes them and takes a calming breath. His body is rigid, as though he’s forcing himself to remain solid. I shiver at the memory of him dissolving—he didn’t even realize it was happening. My fingers itch to trace the lines of his body, to feel that he is really here. He turns at the sound of Heborian’s approach.

“As I was saying, Logan.” Heborian sounds annoyed. “You felt nothing of the one Belos has Leashed?”

Logan’s body tightens further at the word. “No.”

“Can you communicate with them at all? Can you ask them—”

“They’ve never spoken to me with words.”

Heborian’s eyes narrow. “But they speak to you some other way?”

Logan shifts uncomfortably. “It’s more of a feeling. They are...” Logan frowns, hunting for an explanation. He shakes it off, abandoning whatever he was going to say. “They weren’t attacking Tornelaine. The city just got caught in the ripple.”

Heborian raises a dark eyebrow. “That was a ripple?”

Logan jerks his chin toward the ocean, where the Floating Lands, ominously still, continue smoking. “Yes, that was a ripple.”

Once the hold has been emptied and the ship allowed to sink to the bottom of the harbor, the day fills with slow work in the city. Heborian’s Drifters and soldiers check buildings and look out for any conflicts among the city’s inhabitants. Logan and I join the Earthmaker Wardens as they scout the refugee camps for the same.

We enter the market square, where waxed canvas tents form neat rows. The crowding is less severe than it was initially. Many of the refugees have moved outside the city gates. I don’t know whether pride or fear motivated them, but given the danger of falling buildings within the city, they may be safer out there.

Gaiana disappeared before Logan and I left the harbor, vanishing with Logan’s shirt. I certainly don’t mind the view, but the muscles move tightly under Logan’s skin. He doesn’t like people to see his back.

Aron catches sight of us from across the square. His step falters when he draws near. He shrugs off his overtunic and hands it to Logan. I’m not sure whether that was for Logan’s benefit or for Aron’s.

We follow Aron to the edge of the encampment, where a neat row of tents dissolves into a mess of broken tent stakes, trampled canvas, and scattered goods.

“Keldans?” I inquire.

“They’re frightened. And they don’t want us here.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Not badly. Feluvas and Korinna have seen to the injured.” Aron anticipates my next question. “On both sides.”

“Good.”

Aron sniffs disagreement. He looks across me to Logan. Questions show in Aron’s eyes, so I hold up a staying hand.

Logan notices nothing. His eyes are fixed on the paving stones ahead. He has not dissolved again, but the effort to stay in his skin is obvious. I want to get him back to the castle. I need to talk to him, to know he’s all right.

We help restore the damaged tents. The Earthmakers can do it themselves, but it’s important that everyone see cooperation.

Apparently Heborian is of a similar mindset. Rood steps from the Drift, startling me as I shake dust from a blanket.

He grins. “I’ve been wanting to do that.”

“And I’ve been wanting to see how a prince folds a blanket.” I hand him the other end.

He frowns but helps me fold. It feels odd doing something so ordinary with him.

“Impressive,” I say as he raises his end to join mine.

He rolls his eyes.

I check on Logan, as I have been doing every few minutes. He’s setting up a cooking tripod for a mother with four children. There is no man in sight, and I wonder if the father is dead. Given the somber faces, I would guess that he is.

Logan strikes fire into the dry tinder. The movement of his hands takes me back to the time I spent with him in that abandoned hut in the Floating Lands. In these simple tasks, he is comfortable. Some days, I long for that quiet stretch of beach and the ramshackle hut. It feels like another lifetime. I wonder if the hut is even still standing, whether that tiny, removed island has survived the desolation. I decide to imagine it has.

Rood eyes Logan with suspicion. “He draws them away. Why do they follow him?” When I don’t answer, Rood prompts, “He’s a lot like them.”

“It’s none of your concern.”

Few know that Logan is a son of the Old Ones. If he wants people to know, he can tell them. I won’t.

Rood slides a sideways glance at me. “I think it’s everyone’s concern.”

“Ask your father, if you think he’ll tell you.”

Rood looks hurt, and I wonder if he has already asked Heborian and been denied an answer. Though I will never take Rood’s political position, I begin to understand why he feels threatened. He is jealous of the time Heborian spends with me, little as it is. He envies my involvement. Before Logan, I couldn’t have understood that. I never had anything I was afraid of losing, no one’s attention that meant so much to me. Now, having seen Logan with the Old Ones, remembering how he touched the hand of one, fear clenches my guts. How quickly we can lose what we love. How easily it turns from us.

*     *     *

It’s late in the afternoon before Logan and I get back to the castle. Two trays of food await us in the sitting room. I know it’s just the way of things here, but I hate how people come and go from our rooms while we’re gone, sometimes even while we’re sleeping.

I sandwich a chunk of roast beef between slices of bread and sit on a footstool. I silence my groan as the juices hit my tongue. Almost, I can forgive whoever intruded to bring this food.

Logan eats quickly, obviously hungry. He drains a glass of water and refills it. Even though he is solid and real and right beside me, he is so far away. I touch his knee and watch him gather himself back to me.

“What happened today?”

He frowns. I give him a minute to sort out an answer, but he doesn’t give it. I bite back my frustration and focus my next question away from him. “What do they want?”

His frown deepens. “Nothing. And everything.”

He meets my eyes at last. His are a riot of color, green streaking through the blue, gold firing along the edges. His stillness, his containment, is a lie.

I wonder how long it will last.

“I don’t know what that means.” Frustration slips into my voice.

Logan scratches his gold-stubbled jaw and hunts for better words. “They are like children. Playful. Easily distracted.” His eyes harden. “And just as careless.”

“But you like them.” I meant it to be a question, but it comes out as a statement, maybe even an accusation.

His lips thin. “They are dangerous.”

“But...”

He is silent for a long time. “They tempt me into things I don’t want.”

I wonder if he hears the contradiction—how can he be tempted by something he doesn’t want? I let that pass, but there are other things I want to know, deeper fears that were stirred today. I pick at my sandwich, trying to bury them. I can’t.

“What happened on the ship? With you? I’ve never seen you struggle to keep your body.”

There. The words are out. My heart hammers as they hang in the air between us. Logan is frozen on the edge of his footstool, trying, perhaps, to not hear that. But he does. Tremors start working through his body. He tries to suppress them, but they travel along his limbs until his hands are shaking.

Guilt worms through me. I wish I knew what to say, that I were better with words. I can use them to lie and manipulate, to harm. Belos taught me those skills even as I learned to speak. But I never learned how to use words to help someone.

I try to touch Logan’s hand, to take back my question. His hand closes in a fist, a silent refusal. I tuck my hand into my lap.

His body stills as he pulls it all back in. He takes several measured breaths. When he speaks, his voice is almost normal.

“There’s hot water in the bathing chamber. Why don’t you clean up first?”

I have to look away. It’s almost worse to watch him exert such unnatural control over himself. I know what I’d see if I stepped into the Drift; this control is only skin deep. Even so, he makes it happen, giving me only this thin outer shell. Whatever is going on with him, he doesn’t want me to see it. He trusts me with his body, but not, apparently, with his mind. My fingers tighten, smashing through the bread of my sandwich into the warm meat.

“No, you go first.”

“Astarti...”

“You go,” I repeat, more sharply this time.

He hesitates then pushes to his feet.

I can look at him now that his back is to me. As he walks to the bathing chamber, he tries to hide the soreness of his damaged knee, but I see the hitch in his gait.

I chastise myself. It’s only been a few days since he broke free of Belos, only a few weeks since he was tortured by him. Add to that all that’s happened with the Old Ones and the Ancorites, all we’ve learned? He’s not ready to talk about anything that touches on those subjects. He has no answers yet. I thump my forehead against my knee. I know, I know. I have to be more patient.

When the bathing chamber door closes, I dutifully finish my sandwich, though I barely taste it. I take the empty trays to the door. I set them in the hall so no one will have to come inside for them.

When Logan emerges from the bathing chamber, I slip inside. He’s barely used the water, leaving it warm for me. I sigh in relief as the itchy salt washes from my hair. I soak in the tub until the water cools.

By the time I finish my bath, I am more relaxed, ready to compromise. If Logan is not comfortable with words, I will not use them. I will speak to him in the way he is able.

I find him in the bedroom, standing by the window and looking out into the darkening garden. He still has the bathing towel cinched around his waist. He must not hear me come in because he starts when I touch his back.

I skim my fingers along the edge of the towel, enjoying the warm solidity of his body. He sucks in a breath as I trace the cut of muscle at his hip, following it below the towel. When I brush his aroused flesh, his stomach muscles tighten. He turns to me and leans down. His lips brush along my jaw to my ear. I shiver.

I tug the towel away so I can see all of him, and it is a beautiful sight. His hands find the edge of my towel, but he pauses.

“What is it?” I whisper. His fingers barely touch me.