The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) by Katherine Hurley

The guard is thorough in his search, and I have to grit my teeth as he runs his hands under my breasts and down my hips and thighs. I want to punch him in the face when I see his grin.
    Instead I comment, “You’re lucky Madame isn’t here. That would have cost you a copper.”
    His grin widens, and he says, friendly now, “Come on, lass. Let’s get you your reward. But mind you, if you’re lying, thinking to get a silver for false information, Heborian will have you whipped and locked in the stocks, pretty face or none. You’re sure you want to disturb him?”
    I give the guard a cool look. “I’m not lying.”
    “All right, then.”
    He leads me across a cobbled courtyard lined with trees. The king’s castle, unlike Belos’s rough Fortress, has perfectly rounded walls, smooth sided towers, ornate doors, and stained-glass windows. The moonlight doesn’t reveal everything, but it shows enough.
    As the door guards, smartly dressed in black and silver and holding sharp-edged pikes, push open the thick, finely carved doors of the castle, I feel an edge of nervousness. I am about to meet the king of Kelda. Another Drifter, and a Runish one at that. I know it’s silly to be impressed. I’m here for Belos, and no king’s power, no Drifter’s power, can compare to his. Besides, though I don’t know all of Belos’s plans, I do know that if he succeeds, Heborian won’t be king much longer.
    I wonder, though, as I have before, why Belos doesn’t try to make a deal with Heborian. Surely Heborian would be the stronger ally? Then it occurs to me: could Heborian have already refused him? Is this revenge? As I follow the guard into the foyer, I drive these questions away. As Belos so often reminds me, it’s not my place to wonder, only to serve.
    The ceiling sweeps high, but the vast overhead space is nearly filled by a massive crystal chandelier. The chandelier’s candles are unlit, but silver sconces lining the stone walls blaze with light, picking out a few sparkles in the glass faces above.
    I wonder if the guard will lead me to a huge audience chamber, where the king will look down on me from a raised dais, his hands draped casually over the gilded arms of a throne. To my relief, he takes me instead to what looks like a sitting room. Chairs with short, curved backs are clustered before a huge, empty fireplace. Paintings line the walls, but none of them are portraits. They are horses, dogs, battle scenes. The room is so casual that I am uncomfortable, and when the guard tells me to wait and his footsteps fade down the hall, I pace.
    I pass a painting of a huge black horse with a high, proud head and streaming tail. Another horse. A battle scene. Another battle scene. I stop at the third one. It features all the typical elements: horses rearing, men trampled under them, spears, swords, armor. But in the background, almost hidden behind the fight, is a pale glow surrounding a dark figure. Some might take it for a mistake in the work, but I don’t. It’s a Drifter. One standing back, watching.
    “I see you admire LeCarte’s work.”
    I spin at the low, gravelly voice. Heborian stands in the doorway. It can only be him. Tall and broad, handsome, just like people say. His hair, as dark as mine, is braided down one side of his face in the Runish style but otherwise makes a dark mane around his shoulders. His beard is neatly trimmed. A blue tattoo curves along the outside of his right eye and spikes down his cheek. I am suddenly conscious of my own tattoo, glad it’s hidden under loose hair. Most people don’t know what it means, but a Runian like Heborian would see it for what it is: a symbol of my mother’s rejection, a failed attempt to kill me.
    I don’t know the meaning of any of Heborian’s tattoos. Another peeks above the fur-edging of his tunic. A third curls around his right wrist, twisting down his hand and around his fingers. Those fingers are relaxed, his body language easy and confident. All of it