Chapter
15

Britta

TEN DAYS AFTER THE ATTACK ON THE KING, a missive arrives from the royal steward. I almost don’t open it.

I’ve been hard-pressed to get Aodren’s admission out of my head. I don’t want to be one of the people whom he trusts. I don’t want the responsibility. I don’t want any more connection. It may be selfish, but all I want is peace and quiet in my papa’s cottage, where I have control over my life. Where I’m free to do what I want. Is that a futile desire? Every day since I woke after saving the king over a month ago, it seems I’m further from achieving it.

The edges of the letter are curled as if it were shoved in a tube and sent by homing pigeon. Which would mean it was sent to the castle. Nobody else nearby keeps courier birds.

“It’s not a snake.” Gillian hovers over my shoulder.

I turn, hiding the note from her view. Is this what it’s like to grow up in a house of siblings? People always underfoot. Overhead. Nothing is private or personal. My fingers slip under the seal, cracking the wax.

Dove,

Meet me at the clearing at noon.

—C

My heart turns into a hummingbird trapped in the cage of my ribs.

“Cohen?” Gillian’s eagle eye misses nothing.

Thrilled that he’s hours away, I cannot speak. I move to the wall where my bow and quiver rest because I won’t be able to sit in this cottage and wait. Time is always better spent in the woods.

Boots laced and dagger bedded by my ankle, I stalk to the door.

Fists plop on Gillian’s hips. “What did he write? Where are you going?” She trails me. “Say something, Britta.”

“I’ll be back later. I’m headed to the clearing.”

She growls through pursed lips.

“Was that sound befitting a lady?” I slide my quiver over my shoulder with a smirk.

“Not two weeks ago, the king was attacked. Two men were killed. The woods aren’t safe. Must you go out?”

A hit of guilt gets me between the lungs. I’ve not shared the secret about my mother with anyone other than Aodren. I’ve wanted to talk about Phelia, but shame and residual shock keep me from opening up to Gillian.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her. Leif and his men have spent the last ten days scouring the Evers for any sign of Phelia and her accomplices. They’ve found nothing. The clearing, on the king’s land, is safer than where the king was attacked. “I’ll bag a goose for supper while I’m gone.”

“We have enough meat for the rest of the week. And that’s not an answer to my questions.”

“Winter’s coming.” I open the door. Echoing one of Papa’s many lessons, I add, “The best defense is being prepared.”

Her hands wrap in her skirts, wrinkling the dusty blue fabric. “Don’t just run out. I—I suppose I could come with you. It’ll be safer if we go together.” It ends on a questioning high note. Her upturned nose and the tight clench her hands have on her dress spell out how much she’d dislike tagging along. Gillian would be content if the world were covered in gravel roads and stone buildings, swept free of all dirt.

“I’ll be well. Promise.” I tap my bow on the ground.

Her look of relief amuses me as she wraps her arms around me in a tight squeeze of a hug. We are so different.

There’s an undercurrent of energy in the Evers. In all life. Enat taught me to recognize it. But something about healing Aodren has awakened my awareness, making it impossible to ignore the forest’s thrum. The tune sticks with me while Snowfire carries me to the base of the narrow canyon that leads to Papa’s old training spot.

Nobody crosses my path as I ride to the clearing that sits on the edge of a frozen lake. Here, the quaky trees are little more than skeletons this time of year, leaves hanging from limbs like tattered rags.

I rub Snowfire’s neck while I wait. The sun moves behind thick, overcast clouds. When the light lowers in the sky, edging further past noon, Cohen still hasn’t come.

Needing a distraction, I slide an arrow out of my quiver. Steadied to the bowstring, I aim at a cluster of dead leaves on a quaky tree and shoot. My arrow snaps a branch that’s no thicker than a raven’s claw. The leaves sail to the frosty ground.

I scan the shadows between pine trunks. With an ear tipped toward the gray sky, I listen for anything beyond the rustle of wind.

Few birds remain in the trees now that winter has settled over the Malam Mountains, and those great black predators who have lingered don’t seem to be on alert against anyone besides me.

I’m alone.

Don’t you want to know all you’re capable of? Phelia’s question taunts me. It’s wound through my thoughts a dozen times since the attack in the woods.

Enat’s lessons on our trip from Shaerdan to Malam taught me the basics. I’m not sure about much else when it comes to Channeler magic. There’s no one in Malam who can teach me because there are no Channelers here, let alone rare Spiriters. Only Phelia.

I shudder, wanting to pry her words out of my head.

No way would I ever go to Phelia to learn. Not ever.

I pick up the broken branch and then walk to find my arrow. The three leaves on the branch look like dead mice curled around the stick. Resting my bow against a boulder, I focus on the gray veins that stretch over the browned velvety leaves, honing in on the branch. A week more and they’d be brittle enough to crumble between my fingers. As they are, I might be able to bring them back. Under the branch’s white skin a hmm hmm hmm registers. Barely there, barely moving, barely enough to recognize as life.

I imagine my energy is a dance of bright blue color zipping through me to the beat of my heart.

What I’m doing is illegal. It likely will always be in Malam. Knowing that should be enough to make me stop.

Like Enat taught me, I push some of that sapphire energy from my elbow, past my hand, and into the branch. It’s much easier this time. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was stronger now. Phelia said something about turning eighteen. Could my birthday have changed the way I sense energy around me?

Tingles spider walk up and down my forearm. My pulse throbs in my hand as I push a little more. A little more. A little more.

The first leaf uncurls, its teardrop shape returning.

The second leaf opens, exposing veins of amber that crawl from the stem outward.

The third leaf flames to life like a spit-shined gold coin.

Awe and relief course over me, warming me like an August sun at high noon. I sink down, place the branch in my lap, and pump my hand in and out of a fist to encourage more blood flow. An ache blossoms between my elbow and fingertips, sleepy tingles like mites crawling under my skin.

Wind chills the forest. The bite of the season is dulled by the drowsiness spreading through my body. I wish I could sustain the leaf’s vibrancy, but to keep this branch alive, I’d have to push life into it every few days.

Ravens flap out of the nearby trees.

At their sudden departure, adrenaline shoots through me. I shake my limbs awake and on instinct dart behind a trunk. The rough bark’s ridges press into my back.

The guards are patrolling the woods around Mount Avemoir. No one would be near this clearing.

Except Cohen . . . but it could also be Phelia . . . Rozen . . .

To be safe, I slide the hood of my cloak back for better visibility. I slip the branch into my pocket and nock an arrow.

Footsteps crunch.

I twist to the left and . . .

Cohen moves at the far end of the clearing, slipping between the evergreens, his broad shoulders bunching beneath a mossy-brown coat. The rough elegance of his movement. The precision. The predatory grace. I forget what I’m doing and just stare, transfixed by the sight of him. My heart thumps and jumps beneath my breastbone.

Cohen. I lower my bow and return the arrow to the quiver.

His head snaps up; recognition alights in his features even though we’re far enough apart that he couldn’t have heard me. For a split second, hope kicks through me that nothing has changed between us. That I still have the ability to know when he’s near or in danger even at times I’m unable to see him.

Only, that’s not the case. Unlike Aodren, my bond with Cohen was one-sided. Cohen could never sense my nearness. Since he didn’t know we shared a connection, he doesn’t even realize it was severed. I’ve no clue why Aodren can sense our link. All I know is the strange invisible thread that used to connect Cohen and me was broken when I healed the king.

Now I no longer have a heightened awareness of Cohen. I could no more say Cohen was at my door than I could guess if it was Gillian.

“Should’ve figured you’d beat me here.” Snowflakes scatter over his knit cap. He’s a vision with an easy grin, assessing hazel eyes, and a small headshake that obliterates my thoughts.

“Been waiting ages. Thought I’d have to set up camp.” Exaggerating stiff muscles, I clomp across the clearing until all that separates us is a game trail beaten between the naked gray shrubs. Frosty cloven prints dimple the path, immortalized until spring’s thaw.

Cohen glances at the orb of light fighting to break through the gray wall of clouds. Half his mouth hitches up, crinkling his month-old scruff. He never shaves when he’s hunting. “Camping sounds fun.”

I hide my smile. “Your letter said to be here at noon. That was a couple of hours ago. I thought you wouldn’t show.”

“Got here close enough.”

His tired eyes tell me that, in order to return on time, he must’ve slept little, ridden Siron hard, and hunted tirelessly. Of course, he doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he crowds my space, towering over me. “You must be chilled. Let me warm you. Make up for the long wait.”

I laugh, unable to keep a straight face.

His eyes target my lips, and a thrill shoots up from my toes. I wonder if he’ll kiss me. But no, his arms enfold me, stealing my thoughts as he draws me into a hug that leaves no room for shyness. “Come ’ere, Dove. Missed you.”

Seeds and stars, it’s nice to have him back. His beard tickles my neck. Cohen’s body lends heat better than a fire raging in an iron stove.

“Missed you too,” I echo his words, though he cannot hear me since my lips are muffled by his brown overcoat. Cohen isn’t required to wear the official maroon-and-gray layers the king’s guard does, even though he’s the king’s bounty hunter. It’s a blessing. Enat died only six weeks ago at the hand of a royal guard, and Papa three months before her.

“Your hair looks different.” Cohen’s tenor rumbles against my cheek.

I lean back to look up at him. “Gillian” is all I say as he continues to study the crisscrossing braids atop my head.

His attention lasts entirely too long, so I jab him in the ribs. “Don’t act as though you’ve never seen a woman wear braids. Gillian was bored. She sits at my cottage all day.”

Cohen moves his head side to side. “Shame they’re so pretty, Britt.”

“Oh?”

“They’re gonna get messed up.”

“What—”

His gloved hand slips around my cheek to the back of my head, and the other brands my hip. My breath catches as his lips mark my temple, my forehead, my cheek. Before his kiss touches my mouth, he pauses in silent question. The week after I woke from healing the king, Cohen was nothing if not cautious and considerate.

My answer is immediate. It always will be with Cohen.

I rise on my tiptoes, pressing my mouth against his, coaxing his movement over mine. He leans back to bite the tip of his glove to rip it off his hand before his fingers return to the base of my head, tilting my face to a better angle. His kiss is slow and cherishing, heated and sweet, a hello and so damn glad to be back with you.

My body hums against his like the string of a bow after the arrow’s been freed. His kiss shifts, growing more urgent. His fingers wind havoc through my hair, making good on his promise. I’m lost to him, my worries obliterated by his touch. Here, in his arms, I feel safe and loved. I grasp at the broad muscle beneath his shoulder blade, urging him closer even though a sheet of parchment couldn’t fit between us.

His groan is on my lips. His grasp migrates down my sides and under my cloak and the edge of my tunic until his palms find my ribs and sear me with want. Stars, could anything be better than the touch of his calloused fingers against my ribs?

A crunch sounds from my pocket.

I break away, breath as ragged as my thoughts, my face tingling from the scratch of his beard. Our inhalations and exhalations and banging heartbeats drown out the wintry world.

I slip my hand into my cloak pocket, registering what made the sound a scant second before withdrawing my little branch. The stick, broken into two pieces, hangs with one of the leaves now in a sad, crumpled state.

“What’s this?” Cohen’s voice is harsher than seems right from kiss-swollen lips.

“Nothing.” I frown at the quickly browning leaf, frustrated with myself for wanting to hide my actions and irritated with Cohen for giving me reason to be frustrated. I’m not going to feel ashamed for wanting to learn about something that was hidden from me most of my life.

“Where’s Siron?” I switch subjects.

“I sent him on. His prints can be tracked in the frost too easily.” He nods to Snowfire. “Perhaps you should’ve done the same.” Then his fingers brush over the leaf. His voice drops. “Are you trying to distract me, Dove?”

I put three steps between us and cross my arms. “How else am I to learn if I don’t practice? There’s no one left to teach me.”

“It’s too dangerous to practice, even out here. I went to the castle before coming here. Omar informed me of the attack. Said he put guards in the woods.”

His comment bleeds through me with warmth and a slight chill at the end. Truth mixed with a little untruth. My guffaw is short. “Their patrol isn’t nearby. And nobody else would come here besides us. No one would risk hunting on royal lands.”

“Still . . . I don’t—I don’t want to think what would happen if you were caught.”

I cross my arms. It’s a terrifying thought. Even so, it’s my choice to make. “No one’s going to catch me. You forget we were trained by the same man. I’m just as capable of hiding my tracks as you.”

Cohen shoves off his cap and pushes a hand into his matted sable waves. “I’m not saying you’re unable. Only it’s dangerous. Your life is at stake.”

“I won’t get caught.”

“I wish you’d consider letting this go. At least for now.”

Let it go? I stare at him, frustrated with the turn in our reunion. “Would you let go of the one thing that connects you to your family? Papa’s gone. Enat’s gone.” Speaking their names dampens my chest like the dark wet of Castle Neart’s dungeon. “This is all I have left. Being a Channeler is who I am, even if I didn’t know it till two months ago.”

He rubs his neck. Pauses. “I don’t want you to give it up.”

Another lukewarm half-truth. I huff out a breath of annoyance.

“All right. I do want you to take a break. For now. Until there’s less danger. I’m worried about you. People take notice of you, Britt. I hate to think what would happen if you were accused.”

It’s not a pleasant thought. Still, it frustrates me that Cohen doesn’t understand how much it means to me to learn about my Channeling ability.

He reaches for my wrist, gently wrapping his hand around mine, and bringing my fingers to his lips. He drops a soft kiss on them. “I’m sorry, Britt. I don’t want to argue.”

Allowing our fingers to weave together, I stand beside him. We fall into silence and stare out over the glassy lake, half the water flattened and dulled by a layer of ice. Geese waddle around the hardened end, honking and quacking to one another.

“Come on, let’s bag a few geese. Then head back before it’s too late.” Cohen grabs his gloves off the ground.

We walk along the hardened rutted shoreline and onto the narrow path through the pines. The wind lifts and twirls the snow around our boots, dusting the ground with winter. My thoughts swirl with the flurries. When I think of my peaceful cottage, Cohen is there with me. But I never imagined I’d have to live my life pretending I’m something I’m not. I want Cohen to love me and accept me as I am. Despite the danger. I don’t want to forget everything Enat taught me. I value my Channeler heritage as much as I value the time I spent with my grandmother.

When we near the far edge of the lake, Cohen points at the reeds—take a vantage point here is what he’s saying.

I do, spreading the reeds to make squatting room, just like we’ve done a hundred times before.

Stalking silently away, he finds a place to hunker down in the scrub oaks. I pull three arrows from my quiver, lifting one to the bowstring and holding the remaining arrows ready to nock with my free fingers of my right hand. Cheeks puffed, I blow air past my curled tongue to intimidate a soft goose’s honk. Cohen hears my sign, telling him I’m ready for him to call the birds. Once he does, the leader will fly in his direction, and hopefully his fellows will follow.

Cohen turns to the geese, sucks in a chest full of air, and lets out his signature goose call. A honk-cackle combination that always makes me snicker. If Cohen weren’t so good at calling them, we wouldn’t eat goose so often.

Here, in these woods, we work seamlessly together.

Here, we’re good.

When we’re apart—Cohen traveling across Malam and Shaerdan, and me trying to avoid most of Brentyn—everything gets too complicated. I wish there were some way to simplify, to align our goals, just like we do here.

The leader of the gaggle takes to the sky, and the others fall into formation. The geese pass over me. Once I have a clear shot, I aim for an animal’s neck and let loose. My arrow plucks the bird right out of the air. My second and third arrows manage to impale birds near the back of the formation as the remaining geese escape over the treetops, unaware of the fallen few.

I glance across the clearing to Cohen, who’s scratching his scar. He points up at the limbs over his head where his arrow protrudes from a dead branch. He shrugs and turns away. But before he does, I catch the frown that carves a canyon between his brows.

I don’t want him to feel bad for having missed his goose, so I don’t mention anything as I move to my first kill. I say a silent prayer of thanks and well-meaning as the fowl’s energy fades. Once the words are spoken, the goose seems to accept death, its frenzied energy slowing to a calm, weak beat until its body stills.

My arrows have no bends or breaks, so I snatch them from the three geese, clean the tips, and tuck them back into my quiver. When the birds are strung together, Cohen slings them over the saddle as I put my bow in the holder.

“Well done, Britt,” he says.

“Same to you.”

His small shrug tells me he doesn’t believe me, so I add, “It took both our efforts. Don’t forget that.”

He squeezes my hand. “I won’t.”

Together, we head down the mountain, walking with Snowfire in tow.

“Will you tell me what happened with Phelia?” Cohen asks. “When I got the news, I rode back to Malam as fast as I could.”

I touch his beard. “Is that why you look like you haven’t slept in days?”

“Didn’t want to sleep anywhere but in your cottage.”

Even though the thought of him being nearby at night thrills me, I remind him, “Gillian practically had an episode of fits when you last slept there.”

“We were in separate rooms.” He pulls me close. “Not nearly close enough.”

“Tell that to Gillian.”

He ducks and pecks my cheek with a quick kiss.

I start with my discovery of the king and his men in the clearing. I don’t say how I knew the king was in danger. It’s not that I want to lie; it’s that the words don’t come. They’re locked away with worry. I’ll explain my connection to Aodren later. Instead, I tell how I loaded the king onto Snowfire before the Spiriter showed up.

“Wasted a month searching for her.” He huffs out a wintry breath.

“Was it Omar’s missive that let you know she wasn’t in Shaerdan?”

“I figured it out just before I got word. Came across a girl who was working for Phelia. She’d been employed to lay a false trail.” He goes on to explain the charm Phelia used. Then he shocks me with news about Channeler girls being taken, and how he saved one from Lord Conklin.

I swallow over a dry throat. “One more thing.” Pushing out the words feels dangerous, like I’m yanking on the thread that holds me together. “Phelia’s real name is Rozen. She’s my mother.”

He stops.

Blinks.

Blinks again. “What?” His bafflement would be comical if it didn’t make me ill.

“She did something . . . I could sense her energy and feel the truth.”

“You’re certain?”

I nod.

Cohen scrubs his face with his hands, running his fingers along his scar. “Unbelievable. Phelia is Rozen? Your mother is Lord Jamis’s mistress?”

I hadn’t thought of it that way. Now I might lose the contents of my stomach.

“Who else knows?”

“Only you and the king, who heard most of the conversation. I told Captain Omar everything except the bit about Phelia being my mother.”

“You should tell him, Britt.”

My fingers are icy and tingling by the time we reach the edge of the Evers where the hills flatten into snow-dusted fields broken up by dirt roads. In the middle of the valley, Brentyn is a spider lording over her web.

I stare off to the east, where Castle Neart is visible in the tree-topped mountainside. “Knowing Phelia’s my mother won’t give the captain any more reason to find her.” If anything, admitting she’s my mother will draw more of the captain’s judgment.

“Yes, but it might help him figure out her end goal.”

Perhaps. But I already know one thing she wants. “She asked me to go with her,” I admit, “and said she’d teach me about Channeling.”

Cohen stills.

I can see the war behind his eyes, the way he wants to protect me, yet doesn’t want to overstep his bounds.

“Not that I’d consider her request,” I say before he responds. “But I need time. Let me make sense of this. I thought my mother died.”

“Far as I’m concerned, she is dead. That woman might’ve given birth to you, but she’s no mother.”

The brisk air raises bumps on my arms. Somewhere nearby, a crow caws.

“I agree. I just don’t want the captain to know. Not yet.”

Neither of us says anything more. The road home takes us past a few cottages that huddle like weary travelers beside the wall of Ever Woods.

I think of how Phelia’s a part of me, how we share the same blood, and how I must be capable of the same darkness. And it’s hard not to wonder if Cohen, in his silence, is thinking the same.