Chapter
21

Cohen

IN BRENTYN, THE GIRLS TAKE NOTICE OF THE bounty hunter’s apprentice.

I roll my shoulders back. Stand as tall as I can at fifteen. Hitch a grin at a red-headed maid, hoping to get a rise out of Britta.

A snort comes from beside me. Sounds like it could be jealousy. I hope so. “Should I buy you a mirror at market?” Britta asks. “Then you can admire yourself whenever you like.”

I throw back my head and laugh. “You cannot afford that. You spent all your coins on that new quiver.”

Her pallid skin reddens. I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. I only meant to poke fun of how excited she was about her new quiver. Bludger.

“Don’t be so loud.” She tries to duck away, but I swing an arm around her neck, not caring that market-goers have stopped to watch.

“I’m sorry, Dove.”

She wiggles out of my grip and scrunches up her nose till her freckles touch.

Her voice drops low. “If you spent half as much time on tracking, archery, or knife throwing as you do flirting, you might pass for a decent bounty hunter.”

I stop on the cobblestones, chafed by her comment. “I’m a fine hunter.”

“Tell that to me when your apprenticeship is over. See if you compare to my father.”

I scoff as she walks away, as if her words haven’t scraped a scab off my insecurities. “I’ll be better,” I start to say, and then stop because that doesn’t really matter to me. What I want to prove ten times over to Britta is that I’m just as dependable as her father. That I can be someone she trusts as well.

In the past, I could never coerce Britta into venturing away from her father’s side at the Winter Feast celebrations in Brentyn. I wait for her in the Great Hall, hardly believing she’s here.

Servants bustle around, pouring wine into goblets that line the pine bough– and ivy-littered tables. Noblemen and ladies gather round the entrance, talking in murmurs as a herald calls out names of guests as they arrive.

“Mackay.”

Leif rushes across the room, dodging the gathered nobility and long rows of tables to reach me. “Captain Omar wants to see you in the dungeon.”

“I’ve known that for years.” I cross my arms. “Settle down, Leif.”

Leif blows out a breath, his demeanor not changing. “This isn’t a jest. He needs to meet with you.”

“What for?”

His voice drops and he leans close to my ear. “Lord Jamis is gone.”

My head snaps back, nearly giving him a bloody nose. “Gone?” Without a glance back at the ballroom and its finery, I stride for the dungeon, Leif scurrying after.

The dungeon master’s throat is slit.

His body blocks the base of the stairs in the lowest remote part of the dungeon where no other prisoners are held.

While Leif looks through the other celled caverns for clues as to how Lord Jamis escaped, I study the dead man’s body. No bruises on his limbs or knuckles, no scratches or skin under his nails. No part of Lord Jamis’s cell has been upset.

Must’ve been a surprise attack.

Leif reports back. He hasn’t found anything that might point to who has taken Jamis or how they got out. I give the dungeon one more thorough search and find nothing.

We return to the dungeon master’s body, where Captain Omar and King Aodren wait. When the captain asks for my input, I lay out the measly findings. I don’t know how Lord Jamis escaped. Don’t know who helped him. Don’t know where he went. But I’ll figure it out.

Omar stalks away from the cell and kicks the dungeon master’s spit bucket. It flies across the torture chamber and bangs the wall.

Not the news he wanted.

King Aodren’s gaze flicks to the can and then to where black juices run down the wall like blood. The night Britta saved the king, he looked like a corpse. Today he’s stiffer than the statue of his grandfather that takes up the center of the Great Hall.

It’s impressive that the king doesn’t react to Omar’s mess or the dungeon master’s body. Just turns back to Omar, expectant, like the captain will be able make Jamis reappear.

“I’ll take a group of men and head out right away.” Omar straightens, his shoulders roll back.

King Aodren nods. “Jamis and Phelia have got to be working together. Perhaps he’ll lead you to her.”

Phelia. Britta’s mother. I notice how the king’s arms go rigid as he mentions her, almost like he wants to squeeze them in closer, but fights it.

I’m like Siron, chomping at the bit when all I want to do is go, but the king takes a moment for thought. “Take a larger group with you. Exercise caution. Jamis won’t be alone.”

Obviously.

“We’ll take Ulrich, Geoffrey, and Wallace.” Captain Omar turns to Leif. “Order them to be packed, fully armed, and ready with their mounts in twenty minutes.”

Leif bows to the king and heads for the stairs. Before he’s out of earshot, King Aodren says, “The escape remains quiet. No one can know. I do not want rumors spreading through tonight’s feast.”

It makes sense that King Aodren doesn’t want nobility to know. With Lord Conklin’s betrayal on the heels of Jamis’s near-takeover of the kingdom, the king must be wondering how many more traitors are hiding in the fold. When my friend Kendrick sold me out to the soldiers, it leveled me. Made me rethink whom I should trust.

I don’t envy King Aodren.

Casting one more glace at the deceased dungeon master, I wipe my hands on my slacks and nod at Captain Omar. “I’ll prepare my gear and be ready shortly.”

“What about Britta? She’ll want to go.” Leif’s voice stops me in my tracks.

I want to tell him to keep his mouth shut. But I catch the jerk of King Aodren’s chin, a reaction that has me fisting my hands. Why should he care whether my Britta goes or stays?

“A group of six will get the job done.” The corner of my eye stays on Leif as I watch the king for any reaction. “With Ulrich, Geoffrey, Wallace, Leif, the captain, and myself, we’ll have a full team. I cannot see how Britta would be any more help.” Every word I’ve spoken is true, yet even as I say this, I know she’s going to be spitting mad. She won’t want to be left out now that Jamis is on the loose with Phelia.

Leif’s mouth skews. “Don’t you think two trackers will find Lord Jamis’s trail faster?”

It’s an unnecessary risk. Putting Britta near Phelia might expose Britta as a Spiriter. Frankly, I’ve no clue what all Phelia is capable of. But neither do I want to find out.

The king’s reaction is minuscule, a twitch of the mouth; it’s enough to suspect he doesn’t like the idea of Britta leaving any more than I do.

Captain Omar steps away from the spittle mess and straightens his coat. “Cohen’s right. She’s not needed.”

Good. Whether the captain’s decision is based on logic or dislike of Britta, I don’t care. All that matters is that she won’t be in any unnecessary danger.

“No.” King Aodren’s crisp voice breaks into our conversation. All eyes turn toward him.

The man lifts his chin, gaining height. “Miss Flannery deserves the choice to go. The decision should be hers to make.”

Shock the seeds right out of me.

It’s obvious he doesn’t want her to go any more than I do. So why give her the option?

I scoff, an interruption that raises the king’s brow. “My apologies, Your Highness. Considering Britta’s recent interaction with Phelia in the woods, and the likely possibility that Jamis is working with Phelia, it might be best to leave Britta out of this tracking party.” The rest goes unsaid, though he knows exactly what I’m referring to. Britta told me that the king heard Phelia admit she’s Britta’s mother.

I may not like the attention King Aodren’s paid Britta, but I appreciate that he seems to consider my comment. After a moment of deliberation, he says, “Agreed.”

The last thing I want is for Britta to face danger again. This is for the better.