Chapter
2

Britta

“BRITTAAAA!” GILLIAN DARTS AWAY FROM THE WINDOW, her midnight-black brows arcing up toward her perfectly combed hairline. Her small hands snake around my arm without care for the dagger that I’m sharpening, and she yanks me toward the window. “Riders are coming this way. They’re carrying the royal flag.”

I pry her fingers off, pushing down the anxiety that her comment raises. In the month since she was assigned as my nurse by King Aodren, to live in my home and care for me, she’s never gleaned that I don’t share her excitement for court visitors. “Careful. I could’ve gutted you.”

She lets out a huffy laugh. “Hardly. Or should I say, it wouldn’t happen by accident.”

A snort bursts from me. For a royal handmaid, raised to be refined and proper in all matters, Gillian has some sass beneath her sophistication.

“Your dagger is plenty sharp. Put it away and go make yourself presentable. What if the king is with them?” She wrinkles her nose at my old trousers—Papa’s old trousers—that hang on my hips beneath a faded beige tunic that once was a rich brown.

My blade zings over the whetstone, and I give her an I don’t care look. But I do. I wish he’d stop coming to visit and drawing attention to me. Every time he’s around, I become prey to town gossip. It takes only one person to accuse me of being a Channeler.

“You are . . . argh . . . belligerent.” She throws her hands in the air. Then, regaining herself, her fingers float over her hair, moving an invisible strand back into place, even though every piece is tugged and taut into stiff exactness. She’s mastered the raven-haired helmet. The girl is a couple of years older than Cohen, but damn if she doesn’t act like a stuffy old woman sometimes.

I slump into the wooden chair, feigning disinterest. “If someone’s trespassing on my land, they can take me as I am.” It’s all I can do to ignore the way the approaching visitor pulls at my insides, making me feel like a bear woken early from hibernation, cranky and drawn to exit my cave. I dig my fingers into the wood.

Seeds and stars, why won’t he leave me alone?

“By the gods, Britta. I cannot fathom why anyone would want to pay you a visit. Please, just this once, can you show a shred of decorum?” Her worried gaze shifts from me to the window, where the afternoon sun is starting to sag in the horizon.

In the last month, Gillian and I have spent nearly every waking moment together, and we’ve learned each other well. The only time we’re apart is while I’m hunting, since Gillian refuses to hunt. Ladies do not hunt, she said last week. I assured her ladies do, in fact, hunt. My weekly fowl catches were proof. Gillian rolled her eyes. Said she meant noble ladies of the court. Obviously, coifed noblewomen didn’t catch their own food.

My father was noble, but I’m half Shaerdanian—about as good as garbage in Malam. So, seeing as I have as much claim to nobility as Gillian’s fat heifer that’s been hogging my stable, what “ladies” do has no bearing on me. Her response to this explanation was a long-suffering sigh.

A small vibration unsettles the floor beneath my boots in time to the clip-clop of horses growing louder.

Gillian’s tawny skin pales to a shade closer to mine. Her wide, ebony eyes dart from the door to the window to me. “What if it’s the king? Will you greet him like that?”

Knowing it is the king makes me feel guilty. It makes me think I should take her advice. It also makes me resist moving from my chair, clench my dagger harder, and curse his name under my breath. I wish I didn’t know it was him at all. Or that he’d realize he’s putting me at risk every time he comes around. Mostly, I wish I wasn’t keeping this secret from everyone.

Especially Cohen.

Over the last month, King Aodren has visited three times. Each time filled me with certainty that the strange bond that shackles us together—drawing me toward him when he’s near—was forged when I saved his life. The link I once shared with Cohen, which ended when the king’s connection formed, was different. It was one-sided. And because it was so subtle, I’m certain Cohen wasn’t aware of it. We never spoke of it since I didn’t understand it. But there’s no ignoring the king’s connection. It’s so much stronger.

Which is why his persistence in visiting is worrisome. Each time King Aodren comes around, I fear someone will notice the way we’re tuned into each other and call me out as a Channeler. Aodren may be the king, but I doubt he’d stop an entire mob of Channeler haters if they set their sights on me.

Three distinct raps rattle the cottage door.

“Sit up. Look sharp.” Gillian’s plea is a hurried whisper. She goes to answer.

Her hands shake as if the king himself might be on the threshold. Ridiculous. That man’s hand is so weighted in jewels, servants have to knock for him.

The rusty hinges on the door cry when it opens, letting in the late fall chill. The king’s steward stands on the threshold. “A delivery for Miss Flannery.”

Gillian peeps past the steward. Her gaze sinks to the floor, followed by the rest of her body, skirts piling on wood planks in a deep curtsy. “Y-Your Highness.”

The steward retreats and is replaced by a lean servant in a royal gray-and-maroon wool coat. He carries a box past me into the cottage’s bedroom. Someone murmurs from outside, and Gillian rises and follows the servant.

I consider staying in my seat, except the pull toward the king has grown to an itch that has me white-knuckling the chair. The link to Cohen never felt so aggravatingly strong.

With a growl, I stalk to the door.

The steward stands beside a gray horse, the royal flag propped in a leather holder on the saddle. Next to him, the king sits on a wheat-colored steed.

Unlike the other three times he has come to my cottage, flanked by a half-dozen royal guards, he’s with only two men today. I figure the added protection is no longer needed now that he isn’t the slender, sickly man I saved a month ago. His shoulders and legs look broader, sturdier, stronger. His fair skin has a touch of golden coloring, which must’ve been earned under the sun. It makes the silvery scar on his neck, a gift from my blade, stand out even more.

Gillian reappears at my side. Her nails dig into my arm. She drops into another curtsy, dragging me down alongside her. “Your presence honors us greatly, Your Highness. Britta is so pleased you’ve chosen to visit her humble cottage.” Her face is so low that she speaks to the steppingstones. Her words run cold through my veins, my Spiriter senses picking out the lie. The truth—for example, if I actually had been honored by the bludger’s presence—would’ve warmed me.

“You may stand.” King Aodren’s voice grates, a hint of a rough edge beneath fine breeding. “I’m here to speak to Britta privately.”

I rise, bristling at the way his voice softened around my name. When will he leave me alone?

His golden hair, combed smooth despite the two leagues he rode from the castle to my land, rivals Gillian’s helmet head. No dirt specks his polished sable boots. When I found him in his chamber, unconscious and pulse weak from being controlled by a Spiriter, he seemed more human, more inviting, than now. Sort of wish I was facing that man again. I clench my fists, irked by every stitch of his noble perfection as he dismounts and leaves his men’s side. And irked even more by the urge to reach out and touch his hair. Just to see if it really is as smooth as it looks.

The king strides to my door and brushes past me. Gillian shoots me a saucer-eyed plea as she exits the cottage, and I harrumph under my breath, digging my toe into the moss that’s sprouted through the cracks in the cottage’s stone floor. Even the way he enters my home, authority punctuating each step, irritates.

“Welcome,” I mutter, slamming the door on the king’s men and Gillian.

He says nothing, only scans the main room of my cottage. Wooden chairs, threadbare curtains, mats made of rushes by the fireplace and table—not much to view. His gaze moves on, pausing at the blades and whetstone on my table before stopping at the open bedroom door. Papa’s old, ratty quilt is covered with dresses. Dresses?

Five fine silk dresses.

Unsuitable for hunting, tracking, or normal life.

My eyebrows squish together. Last time he brought a fancy cloak and a gold necklace. He’s lost his seeds. When would I use any of these things?

“A gift,” he says, as if reading my mind. “For the Royal Winter Feast Ball.”

I went to the Winter Feast celebration when I was fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen on Papa’s request. Papa said we had an obligation to attend once I was of age. So, he paraded me around the lamp-lit streets of Brentyn, where boughs of holly and sage rested on tables and pigs sizzled over fires. Townspeople chatted in groups and danced in the square. Luckily, most ignored me. The few who didn’t dampened the merriment of the evening with their insults that were forgotten until now.

No way do I want to go again, let alone to the pompous Winter Feast Ball at the castle itself.

King Aodren’s jade eyes jump to mine, and I realize I spoke my protest aloud.

“I . . . uh, pardon me.” I rub my clammy palms on my trousers. This man could order my execution if he wanted—unlikely, but still. “Five dresses are, um, excessive.”

“To give you a choice.”

I frown.

“At the Royal Winter Feast Ball. Where you’ll be presented to the court as nobility.”

Warmth oozes from my belly to my toes—confirming that he speaks the truth. I clutch my queasy stomach. Nobility? He’s definitely lost his mind.

Does he even realize how that would look?

Ever since my father’s death, all I’ve wanted is to live my simple life outside the public eye in Papa’s cottage with Cohen.

But Cohen is gone. He made no offer of marriage before he left. A painfully brief kiss and an I’ll catch her was all I got. Now I’m stuck with a king who won’t leave me alone and my Spiriter ability burning like wildfire through me, driving me mad with want to use it.

I hate being near the king, feeling the connection pull me to him with invisible claws. First, because I don’t know how to break it. And second, because Cohen doesn’t know about my bond with the king. Knowing nothing much gets past Cohen and that I’ll have to explain the strange link douses me with anxiety.

I cross the room to the table, putting myself in arm’s reach of my dagger. Right now, I need its stability. “Your gesture is . . .”—I fumble for the right words—“. . . unnecessary. I’m not noble, and I’ve no lofty goals. The Winter Feast Ball isn’t for me.”

“Your father was a noble. You’ve inherited his land. You deserve the privileges that come along with it.”

My laugh sounds salted and dry. “If by ‘privilege,’ you mean the acceptance of the nobility, no thank you.”

“I was told people in town have made you feel unwelcome.” He sounds uncertain. “And I . . . well, I’ve seen some things. After the declaration, you would be treated differently.”

“No.” I stand stiff, not sure if I’m more annoyed by his admission that he’s seen others’ cruelty toward me, or by his preposterous idea that would only serve to draw more of their ire. More attention that could get me killed.

His face slackens for a beat before hardening. He’s not used to people telling him no. I don’t know what else to say to make him understand that I’ve no interest in mingling with the flocked and feathered of Malam, so I remain quiet.

“You saved my life. And in return . . .” His voice is subdued, cadence measured. “I insist on improving yours. Also, the gowns are a gift, not just a token of my gratitude, but to wish you a merry birthday.”

How did he know? I pluck my dagger off the table and flex my fingers around the handle.

“I know I’m a day late, but I chose not to come yesterday so I wouldn’t disturb your celebration with Miss Tierney.”

I will strangle Gillian. We made sweet cakes and rode into the woods to ring in my eighteenth birthday. When I stayed out, she must’ve sent a missive to the castle. I wish I could throw the dresses and the king out the door. The only thing I want is for Cohen to return home. That would be a much better birthday gift.

King Aodren turns away and enters my bedroom, where he touches a green gown. It’s almost the exact shade of the lake’s reflection of the pines.

“Whichever one catches your fancy, wear it to the ball two weeks from today.” A command, not a question.

A scowl is all I can muster. “I don’t know the first thing about attending a ball.”

Can he not see my favorite accessory is a dagger? I’d rather tromp naked through a forest full of bears and mountain cats than get gussied up for a royal ball.

“Surely, you could spare a night.” His lips curl into a subtle, almost imploring smile. As if he’s giving me a choice.

Something hard and heavy forms in the pit of my stomach.

“If you’re worried about the dancing, I could teach you.”

“I’m worried about my life.” I glare at him.

“I would never let any harm come to you.”

Right. I drop my dagger on the table with a clunk, cut to the door, and yank it open.

“You’ll come, though?” He says it like a question, but it isn’t. Not when he’s who he is and I’m who I am. I glance back at my dagger on the table and consider throwing it right through the heart of the dresses. He might understand that message better.

“Fine,” I say, with teeth gritted, leaving a sour taste on my tongue and a dull ache behind my eyes.

He gives a tight nod and leaves.

My fingernails chew my palms as the king and his men ride away into the Ever Woods.

Gillian sweeps in, face beaming. I want to shake her shoulders and erase that smile. I slam the door.

“You look murderous.” Gillian spins around, her skirts swishing against the stone.

“I am.”

A blink. “You don’t like the dresses?”

“Really? You’ve been living with me for a month.”

“Right. So they’re not your usual choice, but there’s a variety. Something different from brown trousers.”

“They’re for the Royal Winter Feast Ball. He wants to sprinkle royal dust on me and make me noble.”

Gillian presses her hands to her cheeks and pretends to swoon.

“Stop it,” I snap.

She flounces into the bedroom and lifts a rose dress from the bed. That grin. Seeds. She’s as mad as the king.

The pull to the king, still taut in my chest, halves my attention from her squealing prattle. I press my palm to my sternum. I’d give anything to be free of him. To be able to live in peace on Papa’s land. But I don’t know how to break the bond.

If Enat were still alive—the thought flattens me—she’d know what to do. She’d tell me how to free myself from King Aodren. He’s been gone for five minutes, and I can still pick out his location in the Ever Woods.

I pound my fist on the door. I have to figure out a way to rid myself of the bond. I have to.

Gillian jerks to a stop. “It’s not the end of the world.”

I start to respond, but an answering rush of something strange and shuddery slips under the surface of my skin. I lurch, cradling my suddenly clammy hand, eyeing Gillian, then the door with growing alarm. Unease spreads from the top of my head to my heels, a drop of poison fanning through a jar of ale.

I’ve felt this way before.

“What is it?” Gillian’s fists crinkle a rose-colored gown.

Breath suddenly short, I yank the door open and stare deep into the Evers. The breeze’s icy fingers caress my face. There’s nothing to see, but something is very wrong.

“The king.”