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

wonder if this is what a mother is like. I wonder if this is my mother, come to take me into death, as she always meant to do.
    When I feel a tug deep within me, at the core of my being, I gasp. My Leash! Belos! But the tug vanishes, and instead of feeling sickened, I feel the strangest sense of completion, of immersion. I feel the immense weight of earth, the living breath of wind, the rhythmic lull of water, the fierce lick of fire. I am surrounded and filled. Whole.
    More voices. Deep and angry this time, male.
    The sense of wholeness vanishes, and I am shivering with cold. There is no water, no wind, no earth, no fire. I feel loss. Emptiness. And pain. My side is on fire, and my hand finds it instinctively. It’s wet and sticky, still oozing blood. Reality plucks at me. I am in a building. People are arguing. I open my eyes.
    At first, nothing makes sense. I am in a long, wide hallway. On one side, the moon shines through a balustrade, washing the pale stone floor with cool light. On the other, a sweeping white wall hung with tapestries gives way at intervals to dark, arched passages. Bronze braziers, some glowing dimly with coals, others burning bright, cast uneven light up the walls and onto the high ceiling. The stone floor is patterned like the ceiling, but I can’t quite make out the design.
    I sit up, and my head is almost clear, the pain at the back of it a dull ache. Logan stands in front of me, his left leg bearing most of his weight. The worn leather of his right pant leg is dark with blood. His whole body is tense, furious. But the sharp, clipped voice isn’t his. I peer around him.
    Facing Logan is a shorter, broader man wearing traditional Earthmaker robes, belted at the waist. A gold lantern with glass faces swings in his hand, flashing its light over the man’s broad face and flaring in his short-cropped red-gold hair, which sticks up in places, probably from interrupted sleep.
    The man barks, “Who is this? This is a human. Why have you brought her here? Where have you been? Explain yourself!”
    “Aron,” Logan warns. “Let Feluvas finish Healing her, then I will explain. Not before. Feluvas?”
    Logan glances over his shoulder, and I turn to follow his eyes. A stern-faced woman kneels behind me, giving me a look of suspicion. She wears loose blue Earthmaker robes gathered at the shoulders. Her arms are bare and slender.
    I am in the Floating Lands. In Avydos.
    My blood chills.
    The woman, Feluvas, explains calmly, “I’m sorry Logan. The word of the Arcon overrules.”
    Arcon. I know that title. Essentially, the Earthmaker king. I struggle to my feet. I have to get out of here. They will kill me.
    Logan turns to me, grips my arm. “Sit down.”
    I pull free of him and edge around Feluvas, who is rising to her feet. I back away, one step, two. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I know this is a bad place for me. There are too many of them.
    “Stop her!” shouts the Arcon.
    My heart leaps at the words, and I spin to run. A sword lowers in front of me. Gripping it is a young girl, perhaps fifteen. She wears a leather vest and gauntlets. She is small with a long blonde braid, a pretty face. Familiar somehow. Her eyes widen like she recognizes me, then her mouth gapes.
    She cries out, “She’s the one I told you about! The one who let me get away!”
    Understanding hits. This is the young Warden that got me in so much trouble two weeks ago when I let her escape. And now she has just revealed who—what—I am. What is it the Keldans say? No good deed goes unpunished.
    The Arcon shouts, “Then she is a servant of the Unnamed! A Drifter!” He looks accusingly at Logan, and I use the moment to feel for my mooring.
    Something is wrong. I can sense my mooring, but I can’t access it. I fight down panic and try again. My mooring feels dim and far away. Fear surges. This has never happened before.
    I back away, looking for space. I don’t like to be trapped. The young Warden shifts toward me but