Chapter
11

Aodren

I FINISH COMPOSING MISSIVES FOR EINER’S AND Nicolas’s families. Not that a handful of words can ease their loss, but I want to give their loved ones what peace can be gained, knowing their men were valued by me. I press my signet ring into the hot wax of the seal, then place the missives in my coat pocket and lean back, attempting to rest in my father’s chair. This room has the comfort and warmth of a cave with its dark mahogany furniture, bear- and wolf-skin rugs, and heavy, dark draperies that block the light. Everything in here is hard, cold, or dead.

My shoulder itches where the arrow skimmed me. I don’t scratch, because that would tear off the fresh scab. The itching drives me half-mad. Pathetic. Two men, two good men, lost their lives today. A scrape is nothing.

I push the chair back and stand.

I can still sense Britta through our strange connection. She’s a faded echo. When I first realized the bond Britta forged when she healed me, it was bewildering. I was off-kilter when she was around, lonely when she was gone. Now, my reaction is more controlled. But one thing remains constant: the draw to Britta grows daily.

I leave my quarters—a rarity these days during daylight hours. Since Jamis’s deception, I’ve found myself distrusting of others and wanting to avoid them altogether, only attending meetings when necessary. I walk toward Britta’s pull. It leads me down the stairs, through the halls, and down another staircase like a dog on a leash. Halfway through Neart’s guts, the connection disappears completely.

What am I doing?

Britta’s left the castle. The guard, Leif, should already be headed for her home. And I’ve two letters that need to be delivered to grieving families.

Even so, I consider having a horse saddled up so I personally can verify she’s made it back to her cottage safely. Only, the rumors circulating about my temporary madness keep me en route to Captain Omar instead. Tongues will wag enough when I announce Britta’s ascension to nobility at the ball. It wouldn’t be prudent to encourage more damning tales.

As always, the guards who trail me everywhere are paces away. I cross under the arcading around the inner court and think of Britta’s hesitation to attend the Winter Feast. My smile quirks at the memory of her scowl. She may not want to be noble, but she deserves it. She saved my life. Twice, now.

The image of her in a silk gown that matches her brilliant blue eyes is a welcome distraction today. Britta’s blond hair swept off her slender neck, exposing even more of her freckles . . . It plays in my mind, and something like longing curls through me.

It seems Britta Flannery is more potent and destructive than the local ale. Every time we talk, whether she’s doling out bladed words or scrutinizing looks, I leave our conversation wanting more. Always more from her.

I’ve been mildly curious about the bounty hunter’s daughter for most of my life. Now that we’re bound, my inquisitiveness is insatiable.

The guards shadow me as I walk down the stairs. The stone path leads to the open training yard, where a dozen or so men cross swords with one another beneath a cloudless sky. Winter’s claws are in the air. It’s evident by the puffs of steam that billow from the men’s mouths and noses as they lunge, duck, and hit blades.

Omar’s growl blares over the men, shouts of drill changes coming one after another.

I wait on the edge of the lawn, rolling my neck and shoulders, working out some stiffness. The ache might’ve come from being tied up on Britta’s horse or the night sparring sessions I’ve had with Captain Omar. In the last month, we’ve spent the late evenings working on rebuilding the strength I lost, and adding muscle and agility.

Though it didn’t help much today. I grit my teeth.

Omar notices me. He breaks from the formation and takes long strides in my direction. The man is nothing if not a rigid observer of custom. Fist to his chest, he drops to a knee until I ask him to rise. This is something I’ve repeatedly told him isn’t necessary. I think of Omar as a grumpy uncle. Then again, I once looked to Jamis as a father.

Judging others is not my strong suit, but I do trust Omar. He’s proven himself many times over. Just as I trust Britta.

I cut a sideways glance at the men beside me. Both fall back, providing the pretense of privacy. “Do you have a plan in motion?”

“Men are assigned to scour the woods beyond Britta’s land and set traps. We’ll find Phelia. I’ve sent a missive for the bounty hunter to return.”

Cohen Mackay. Though I trust the man with my life and he’s served Malam diligently, the mention of his return slides like a sliver into my conscience.

“He’s in Shaerdan?” I verify.

“Last he reported, that was the case.”

Depending on where he is in Shaerdan, he could be one to two weeks of travel time away. Knowing Cohen and his Akarian horse, I wouldn’t be surprised if he arrives here six days after he receives Omar’s missive.

“We’ve also assigned guards to Britta’s cottage.” Omar pauses with a judgmental sour face. “Those guards are in addition to the ones combing the forest for Phelia and her co-conspirators,” he says, as if I don’t already know this.

Omar is likely wondering why Britta would need the added protection. Considering she shot arrow after arrow while riding halfway out of the saddle as her horse galloped full speed between trees, there’s no doubt in my mind that she can defend herself. If even a quarter of my soldiers possessed Britta’s courage and fortitude, Malam would be unstoppable.

“She was attacked today,” I say. “Two men were murdered. It’s better to be safe.”

“Very well.”

“You don’t seem pleased. What is that look, Omar?”

“I feel as though I should warn you that courting Britta Flannery could have . . . consequences. After all, she’s practically engaged.”

“Is she?” My teeth click together. “I wasn’t aware Cohen Mackay had offered her marriage.”

Omar’s eyes narrow. For a moment I wonder if he’ll actually air his grievances about Miss Flannery. It’s no secret that he dislikes her. “He hasn’t. That doesn’t mean he isn’t planning—”

“Her engagement or future engagement is little matter to her safety now. I want her protected, and you’ll see to it. If I need market gossip, I’ll ride into Brentyn.”

Omar’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t say anything more.

The problem is, now that he’s said something, the idea that Britta Flannery is soon to be engaged sits like a damp blanket on my thoughts. Irritation flares inside my chest. Britta and I are connected intimately. We have a relationship. Granted, a tenuous one. Even so, I find I want to pursue it, regardless of Cohen Mackay’s return.

Before I move to leave, I draw the missives from my pocket. “Deliver these today. Also, please see that both families’ debts are covered.”

“Einer’s widow will be grateful. But Nicolas wasn’t married. He lived with his parents. Last I heard, their debts were overwhelming. It isn’t the responsibility of the kingdom to pay off his parents’ debts.” Omar’s rigid sense of justice is another reason I’ve only ever seen him as an uncle and not a fatherly figure.

I fix him with a stare. “Those men are dead. For me, money is hardly equal to a life.”

I think of the years Lord Jamis ruled as regent, how he ignored the poor and needy. The conversations in which I pleaded with him to allot more money for the homeless and hungry went ignored. Harsh winters passed, and townspeople froze to death while Lord Jamis sat in my father’s throne room, preaching about survival and strength. The weak are a weight upon us. If they are not strong enough to see to their own survival, why should I?

Britta Flannery has given me a second chance. There are times for justice, but I have been shown mercy. I will give my people the same.

Omar’s displeasure could start an early winter. “I would caution you not to pay it all. Nicolas’s family’s debts are indeed excessive.”

“You’re right. They are sizable.” I glance at the side of the castle, to the stone fortress that rises upward, hard and impenetrable. I think of the years I did nothing, the suffering of the Purge Proclamation, the way Jamis ground commoners under his boot to make sure all trade and business with Shaerdan ceased except for his own, the manipulations Jamis used to pit noblemen against noblemen. “But so are mine.”