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

chair has been pushed into the corner. Imelda halts her pacing when I appear. When Theron appears beside me, she stumbles back, her heel clanking the folding fireplace screen, which screeches protest against the brick hearth. To her credit, she doesn’t scream.
    I pin her with a glare. “What do you know of Prince Rood?”
    She swallows nervously. Good. She won’t be much of a liar.
    I shape my Drift-spear to speed things up. “Where is he? Does Martel have him?”
    Her eyes fix on the spear and her mouth works, but no sound comes out. Theron stalks toward her and grabs her throat. I wince as he slams her into the fireplace mantel. “Speak!”
    Imelda whimpers. When Theron growls, she stammers, “He-he was here. He comes here often! The Count took him, yes! Please!”
    I lay a hand on Theron’s arm, and he lets go. Imelda sags, coughing, and rubs her throat. She flinches when I touch her shoulder. “Where did they go?”
    “Who are you?” she whispers without looking at me.
    “Imelda,” I warn.
    “I don’t know where they went! Do you think Martel would tell me?”
    “Land or sea?”
    She thinks. “They had horses.”
    “When did they leave?”
    “Twenty minutes ago?” she guesses.
    At least that gives us a radius. It would have taken them half that time to get out of the city. They can’t have gone more than a few miles.
    I’m turning to Theron to suggest we search through the Drift—Rood is a Drifter, so we should be able to identify him—when Heborian bursts through the door. Imelda screams. I jump. Heborian stares at me. He shouts something I don’t understand because Theron and I are already stepping into the Drift.
     
    * * *
     
    By the time we locate Martel and his band of sixty men, they are about five miles from Tornelaine, cutting through a forest that spreads wide from the Kiss River. Another four or five miles away, a much larger group of perhaps two hundred is waiting. We have to slow Martel down so that Heborian can catch up before Martel reaches his other men. Two things have to happen: Heborian has to rescue Rood, and Martel has to escape. We need Martel alive and desperate to wrest Tornelaine from Heborian. We also need Martel to believe we had nothing to do with his failed plan.
    While I am still in the Drift, following an unconscious Prince Rood held in the saddle by one of Martel’s men, I notice two disturbing things. First, my Leash is glowing too brightly, which means Belos did not go back to the Dry Land—he’s nearby. Second, so is the Warden. I sense his wild energy not far behind. I only hope Theron didn’t notice and that Logan has the sense to stay away.
    I position myself ahead of the horse carrying Rood and his captor, who is thankfully not Martel himself. I have to time this right.
    I step from the Drift as the horse bears down on me. The animal screams and skids, then darts to the side. Prince Rood and his captor are thrown from the saddle. The man rolls and skids. Rood tumbles like a rag doll. Theron appears and grabs the man. They both vanish, and I swallow a brief queasiness. I know the man had to die, to prevent him from informing Martel that he saw me, but Theron’s method, however expedient, is cruel. To take a non-Drifter into the Drift without proper preparation is to do more than kill him. The unprepared human mind cannot comprehend the Drift and will be severed from its body. The man’s body will dissolve into the energy of the Drift. But his mind? His soul, if such a thing exists? No one really knows. It seems to vanish. Not a thing to do lightly. But I have no more control over Theron than I have over Belos.
    Sliding over deadfall, I rush to Prince Rood, hoping the fall didn’t break his neck. Martel’s company surges forward, not realizing they’ve lost their prize. By the time they are straggling to a stop and turning back, I’ve reached Heborian’s son.
    He looks like his father, broad for his age and handsome, though his face is soft with