Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (27 page)

“A man?”

“Yes.”

She gives me a teasing smile, and her cheeks dimple. She takes my hand and squeezes it. “I like you,” she says.

“You don’t know me. I do not think you would like me if you knew me.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

I look away. “But it’s true.”

“That’s not fair. You must give me a chance.”

“We don’t have a chance,” I tell her. I want to tell her why. I want to tell her what is coming. But, again, it sticks in my throat.

“Let’s get back,” she says. “The tide is turning.”

*     *     *

I curl up again on the sheepskin rug, thinking. Maybe she would not be ashamed of me. I want to tell her what I’ve done. I want to know for sure.

I stare into the fire, looking for Kronos, hoping he can answer me. But the fire crackles and pops, oblivious to my questions.

*     *     *

The next day, we walk the beach again. Sibyl loves the shoreline. Either that, or she is looking for the Floating Lands. I would like to think that she simply enjoys being here with her daughter.

We sit in the sand while the sun is high. Sibyl spreads her skirt and turns the baby loose in the confines of her legs. Sibyl’s eyes are on the back on the baby’s neck, where the fresh blue tattoo is edged with red.

“She’ll be all right,” I assure Sibyl.

Sibyl looks up. “She will be strong. I’m sure all mothers say that, but I know it in my heart.”

“She’ll be all right,” I say again, and this time, I know it is true. She will be. Because I am.

When Sibyl gets up and wraps the baby again in the sling, snugging her to her body, I stay where I am.

I say once more, stuck on this, “She’ll be all right.”

Sibyl says, “If she is kind, I will be happy.”

Sibyl turns and walks away, but I do not follow.

My eyes fill with tears as I watch her retreat.

Am I kind?

My mind sticks in my past, catching on every moment when I was not kind. Or strong. I push ahead to more recent things, since I broke from Belos and started to act for myself. I begin to find what I am looking for. In moments. In pieces.

Does it add up to a kind and strong woman, as my mother hoped I would be?

Logan would say it does, for he has always seen the best in me. When he looks at me, I feel like I am that woman my mother would be proud of. Someday, perhaps, I will see that when I look at myself.

“Are you ready?” Kronos is sitting beside me, his feet made of sand.

“Can I not change it? Sibyl’s fate?”

“Perhaps. But what would you change it into? You cannot guess. You cannot know. You can go on with the life you have, or you can throw it away to see what you might get instead.”

“But Logan...”

He lets that drift away on the breeze.

I say, “I would be someone else, if I had not lived the life that I’ve lived.”

“Yes.”

I look down the beach, but Sibyl is long gone. I say, “Take me back.”

Chapter 39

I STAGGER IN the cool dimness of the cavern after the sudden release from Kronos’s wild energy.

“Astarti!”

Logan’s voice seems to come from everywhere at once, and I wheel, disoriented. He grabs me into his arms and swings me around. The world swoops and spins, but I don’t care. I am centered.

He sets me down but doesn’t let go. Neither do I. My ear is pressed to his chest, and his heart thunders against me. He is trembling.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“I am now. You were gone so long I was afraid you wouldn’t come back. Kronos wouldn’t let me go with you.”

“You didn’t get stuck in your past?” So many things he would surely like to change, so much pain he might have spared himself.

“No,” he says firmly. “I didn’t go into mine. I’ve spent too much time there already. I want to move forward.”

I tighten my arms around him, reveling in the warmth of his body and its familiar contours. “So do I.”

Kronos settles into form beside us. “He is coming.”

For one bizarre moment, I think he means Belos, then I remember that Belos is dead. “Who?” I ask, grasping for my bearings after all that has happened.

“Your father.”

“But how?”

Even as I ask, I find the answer myself.

It all fits together in a pattern I should have seen before we ever took Belos from his prison. What is Heborian if not a pragmatist and an excellent judge of character? What use did he have for Belos except to find this place? And why else would it have been so easy for us to get Belos out?

I say weakly, “He must have lodged part of himself in Belos. Belos may be dead, but his trail led straight here.”

It’s too horrible to believe, too obvious to deny.

Logan’s jaw tightens. He has no trouble believing it of Heborian.

“He knew we would take Belos—that’s why he did it. He knew just what to expect. But that he would pervert himself that way...” I shake my head, unable to finish.

I am still reeling from this new knowledge when someone appears from the Drift. I shape my spear automatically and slide away from the others to make space.

“Peace, Astarti,” rumbles Horik deep voice. He steps into the gray curtain of light that falls through the crack overhead. It must be early evening, though I don’t know of what day.

“Is that what Heborian brings?” I challenge Horik. “Peace?”

“He doesn’t want you hurt. Nor do I. Please leave this place.”

“You realize what he must have done to track us here?”

Horik’s grim silence is answer enough.

“And you would serve him still? A man who would tie himself to Belos, who would accept that taint willingly?”

Horik does not try to justify Heborian’s actions. I already know the justification, and I’m glad Horik leaves it unspoken. Anything can be justified from the right perspective. But this is a line he should not have crossed, for if he is willing to do that, then he is capable of anything and cannot be trusted.

Horik says, “I am sworn to him, Astarti. Please do not ask me to break my oath. I will, if you force it, but I beg you not to.”

Kronos moves forward, his footsteps cracking like stone on stone. “We leave this place. There is no need for further death.”

Logan asks, “And how will you leave it?”

Kronos looks long at Logan then long at me before he says, “Intact.”

Horik tells him, “He does not believe you will stay away.”

Anger sparks in Kronos’s eyes. “We will
not
be bound again. You may tell him that. Go.”

Horik, if anything, looks disappointed. And torn. Hefting his axe, he looks hopefully to Kronos, but Kronos makes no move.

My chest aches to see him looking for death here, hoping for it. I tell him firmly, “We will not kill you, Horik.”

He says, “Better death than the other courses open to me. I must either break my oath or betray my friends.”

“I am sorry, Horik—I am. But I will not yield.”

Kronos insists, “We are leaving. There is no need for this.”

“You cannot leave,” Horik says grimly. “He has already caught one of you.”

“
WHAT?
” The word booms through the cavern, shaking the ground beneath and making dust fall from the ceiling.

Kronos explodes into the air, shooting through the crevice. The wind that swirls in his wake rips me off my feet, but I don’t wait to fall. I leap into the Drift.

The dark bulk of the mountain is dim and dreamlike from within the Drift. The lighted forms of several hundred Earthmakers and human soldiers gathered at its base are the reality. I spot Heborian’s bright form near the front.

My attention catches on the glowing white harpoons that stand around Heborian, ready to be fired. One, anchored to the ground, stretches into the sky, chain straining, its hook embedded in the body of a frantic Old One, whose energy flickers and flashes as she strains to get free. Another form, shifting through degrees of substantiality, surges around her. Kronos. And he’s right where Heborian wants him.

I slide out of the Drift near Kronos and have to shift myself into the wind to not be flung to the deadly stones below.

I try to shout, but my voice is nothing but air. He doesn’t notice me, so frantic is he to free the one trapped. I catch a glimpse of Logan as he moves in and out of the wind. I do not know if he’s trying to help free the Old One or if he’s trying to drive Kronos away to safety.

The setting sun blazes against the snow, making it look like fire burns along the ground where the force of men is battered by the other Old Ones. Their forms shift as they sweep through the gathered men. They are deadly wind flinging shards of ice. They are the stones of the earth rising to trap and crush. Heborian ignores it all, focused on his purpose. Bluish Drift-energy builds around him as he prepares to fire another harpoon, and the faint, ghostly shapes of the Ancorites whisper around him.

I follow his aim to Kronos, still furiously tearing at the harpoon lodged in the captured Old One.

I have to choose. I must sacrifice one of them, for I am not fast enough to reach Heborian before he fires.

I
am not fast enough.

My spear, however, is.

I am half wind, half myself as I call my spear. What comes into my hand is not the familiar Drift-energy I expect, but rather a spear of ice, drawn from the cold, moist air around me and glowing with the blue radiance of the Drift.

I hurl it as hard as I can at my father.

Chapter 40

TIME SEEMS TO slow, though perhaps that is only because I am keenly aware of the importance of this moment, and my mind traps every detail.

The spear flies straight and true toward Heborian, but it is not the only thing streaking that way.

Logan—a blend of wind and himself—flies in the spear’s wake. At first, I think he is turning on Heborian with the same realization I have had. Then I see: he is trying to catch my spear.

He might be fast enough to do it.

But he is not only moving after the spear—he is flying into a wall of harpoons and swords.

I explode after him in a gust of wind, screaming like a winter storm, but I cannot possibly catch him.

The spear is no more than a foot from Heborian when Logan grabs it, jerking it aside and turning his body so that his shoulder—instead of my spear—slams into Heborian’s chest. The harpoon fires but flies off course. Logan, grappling with the spear, goes sailing over Heborian’s toppled form and barrels into the line of men bristling with blades.

I put on another burst of speed, but I arrive only in time to watch the soldiers and Wardens being flung away from Logan as he rises in a torrent of wind and stone. He extends his hand toward the earth, and his sword flows into his grip.

Heborian is staggering to his feet, grabbing for another harpoon when Logan swings a fist and knocks him to the ground. Logan’s sword point comes to rest on Heborian’s exposed throat, and everyone around them goes still.

I settle into my body a few paces away. Logan’s chest heaves, and blood runs from his forehead, over one eye, and down his cheek. Heborian, I can see now that I am close, is gray-faced and weakened by illness.

The gaze he fixes on Logan, however, has all his usual sharpness. “Do you intend to kill me?”

“I might,” Logan hisses.

“Then why did you save my life?”

“So that if you die today it is not by Astarti’s hand. You have already weighed her down with enough burdens; I won’t let your actions demand this of her as well. Make no mistake, I will kill you myself if I must. But better she hate me than herself.”

“Logan,” I call softly.

“Astarti, please. Let me handle this.”

The Ancorites, who fled the fight, come whispering back. They flow around Logan, trailing their fingers over him. He shudders, and his shoulders hitch with tension. He cannot deal with them and Heborian at the same time, and he is clearly choosing Heborian.

Bind, bind, bind.

It is the sight of them, cruel and thoughtless, tormenting him when he can do nothing about it, that sets my blood on fire. I lash at them with everything in me, and it is Drift-energy and wind and water, earth and fire. I hook claws of energy into their insubstantial bodies and rip them away from him. They flicker in and out of shape, more ghostly and strange than anything I have ever seen. Their faces, as they take brief shape, are skeletal and worn beyond what life should allow. It is long past time they were dead. But as I reach into their energies, as I touch their emptiness and loneliness, as I feel the long, wretched stretching of their existence, my anger cools. I do not forgive them for what they’ve done to the Old Ones or to Logan, but pity stirs in my heart.

Where I meant to destroy them, I find something else flowing from me—the warm energy, the empathy—of Healing. There is only one way they can be Healed, and though it comes to the same as destroying them, it feels different in my heart. I meld their elemental energy with that of the earth, letting them dissolve, helping them let go. The last thing I feel from them, as they turn to dust, is relief.

Wind howls down the mountainside behind us, and I spin to watch a storm of wind and snow streak our way.

Movement snags the edges of my vision, and I jerk my head toward Logan and Heborian. Heborian has used the distraction of Kronos’s thunderous approach to roll away from Logan’s sword. Heborian leaps for the nearest harpoon. Logan swings his sword at Heborian’s back. From the line of soldiers, someone lunges forward, a blade slashing for Logan. I shape my spear and thrust, only at the last moment seeing it is Rood I am attacking. In a flash of blue, an axe flies into my line of sight, and Horik’s huge form appears from the Drift.

Suddenly, everything freezes, even the scream in my mouth.

Though my mind is free, my limbs are frozen mid-strike, sheened and smooth with ice. Everyone around me is the same, the clear coating making watery paintings of the forms within. We are toy figures, posed mid-fight, all of us about to destroy ourselves as we destroy each other.

The whole world has turned crystalline, gleaming with the pink and orange of sunset. Oddly beautiful, but so still and so deadly.

Snow gathers into Kronos’s form. It hardens to ice until he is a moving sculpture. He does not try to put us at ease with a body like our own. He is the ice, the storm, the unrelenting cold.

He gazes at the imminent destruction. His eyes come to rest on me, and he treads silently through the snow to reach me. The sunset paints his smooth, clear face with all its fiery colors.

He lifts a hand of ice to my cheek, though I cannot feel the touch. He draws his hand back and examines his finger, where a tear clings like a raindrop, like a diamond, sparkling with color in the light of the setting sun.

He closes his hand, trapping my tear within it. He walks to Heborian.

He says, in a voice like the wind, “Death may make life, but this destruction is not creation, and I cannot abide it.”

He tilts Logan’s sword away so that is will swing clear of Heborian. He nudges Rood’s sword off its mark, where it was about to lodge in Logan’s back. He pushes my spear away from Rood’s neck. Horik’s axe, aimed at someone behind me, he tilts downward. He walks to my back where I cannot see and shifts yet another weapon, and only then do I realize I was about to die.

Kronos comes back into my line of sight and sweeps a hand across the sky. In the east, where the blue has deepened most, the stars begin to emerge, glittering as though in response to his gesture.

“We will walk the stars, as we intended to do long ago. But I cannot leave Gaia like this.” He gathers the harpoons in a swirling cloud of wind and snow. One flies to him from where it fell at the base of the mountain. He must have removed it from the Old One Heborian had caught. She is nowhere to be seen, and I can only hope that she is not dead.

The harpoons spin faster and faster until they are a blur of white. When the whirlwind slows and settles, there is nothing but snow.

Kronos walks to Logan, still frozen mid-lunge. I cannot read the expression on Kronos’s icy face, but his voice, when he speaks, is soft and full of farewell. “Remember, my son: the raging wind is also a sweet breeze, the torrent of water can be a trickling stream, fire may burn low and comfortingly, and what the earth grows best is grass.”

Kronos moves away from us, and the other Old Ones drift to him in an intricate jumble of form and substance. Together they rise up, beginning to glow. Each glow shrinks and brightens until they are points of light, like stars, then they shoot into the sky and are gone.

*     *     *

The ice binding us slowly dissolves, and we fall, an inch at a time, to the melting snow.