The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) by Katherine Hurley Read Free Book Online Page B

me to wonder.
    “Theron—”
    “You make things hard for yourself, you know that, right?” His voice is more frustrated than angry. He hates to see me in disgrace, though he would never speak or act for me, not against Belos.
    “Yes. I know that.”
    “Why do you do it?”
    I shrug, but he only looks at me, waiting. I say, feeling how stupid my words are but unable to think of better, “Things bother me. I can’t just...do them.”
    Even in the faint, uncertain light of the moon, I see puzzlement in his eyes.
    I insist, “I can’t, Theron. It would go against—” I almost say “my soul.” What does this mean? Why did this word come to me so easily when I don’t understand it?
    Theron reminds me, “But you always have to in the end anyway. You must do what he says, as we all must. Why not save yourself the pain?”
    I tug his cloak around myself, losing track of my skirt, letting it drag and catch on the grass. I don’t have an answer for him. I don’t have one for myself.
     
    * * *
     
    Tornelaine comes into sight when we reach the top of a rocky, scrubby bluff. We know we’ll have to drift into the city because the gates are closed for the night. Luckily, when we enter the Drift, the Hounding is gone.
    We step from the Drift just beyond the bridge to Heborian’s gates, where Heborian’s barrier falls. It is much like Belos’s barrier, a twisting of lighted threads, a straining of energy. Someday, someone will explain these to me.
    Theron insists on waiting for me at the foot of the bridge, and he won’t tell me why. When I push him, all I can learn is that he doesn’t want to see Heborian. I don’t see the problem; there’s no reason that Heborian would recognize one of the Seven. Theron gives some vague answer about how it wouldn’t look right. I shrug. I know a lie when I hear it, but I’m used to being kept ignorant.
    The plan is simple: when I get to the castle, I’ll tell them I’m a whore from the Trader’s Choice. I am, after all, dressed the part. I’ll say that I saw Martel there. I recognized him by his scar because my father, who had served in the war, told stories of Count Martel’s slashing. The story is simple, clean, with an edge of truth. The perfect lie.
    The castle sits high on the bluff, connected to the city by the wide stone bridge. I will be seen long before I reach the gates, which offer the only entrance to the stone-walled courtyard. As the bridge curves high, I catch a glimpse of the moonlit ocean beyond. The Floating Lands are hidden behind one of Heborian’s towers. I crane my neck to see them but snap back to attention when a guard yells from the platform over the gate.
    “Halt! Show your hands!”
    I raise them. I am lit by the moon. My shape and the pale expanse of chest above my low neckline reveal that I am a woman.
    “I have information for the king.”
    “Come back tomorrow and request an audience. No admittance after dark.”
    “This can’t wait until tomorrow.”
    I continue my approach, ignoring the shouted warnings. When I am ten paces from the gate, I stop. Torchlight shines on the guards’ crossbows.
    “I have urgent information for the king.” That alone will not get me through the gates, so I add, “Count Martel is in the city.”
    The crossbows don’t move, but the guards whisper to one another. One shouts, “Where?”
    “Let me speak to the king.”
    “You will speak to me!”
    “And let you take credit and cheat me of my reward? Not a chance.” I am fully in character now. I’m a woman who knows what it means to buy and sell; I’m a woman who gives nothing away for free.
    More whispering. A groan of metal and a clatter of chain. The heavy gate creaks open.
    One of the guards meets me at the bottom. He pats me down, searching for weapons. Good thing I thought to pass my knife to Theron. Good thing, too, I suppose, that he stayed behind. My story is more believable like this. Maybe he wasn’t lying. Maybe my instinct was wrong.