Chapter
22

Britta

GILLIAN NUDGES ME THROUGH THE GATE toward the Great Hall, where a herald announces our names to the gathered crowd. In the opulent rectangular room that seems as wide and long as the castle’s training yard, some curious gazes lift, though most seem not to care. Which is a relief.

I stand at the top of a grand staircase, marble steps that pour into the hall, knees knocking together like two woodpeckers confusing each other for sticks. At the far end of the great room, there are two arches, each one an exit. Should anyone riot when the king carries out his plan for the night, I’ll escape through one of those halls.

“Come on,” Gillian whispers out the side of her mouth. She links her arm through mine and tugs me down the steps.

A pull toward the back of the room has me cringing internally. It’s so much stronger here than it was in the stable yard. As always, knowing he’s nearby infuriates. I feel drawn toward him. Tonight the struggle frustrates me more than usual because all I want to do is seek out Cohen.

My hands ball at my sides. I try to study the crowd. It’s smaller than I imagined. I never feel comfortable in a small crowd. Too many people who can see you. Too few people to hide.

After a moment of searching for Cohen, I give in to the king’s draw and allow myself to scan the nobility for the man I’m yoked to. I haven’t seen him since the day he was attacked. I hope his shoulder has healed.

Ladies with giant coiffures resembling snail shells talk in whispery voices. Beside them, the men wear awful embroidered and silk ensembles with puffy trousers and pointed shoes. For a moment, I’m distracted by their ridiculous extravagance. Surely, the cost of one of their outfits could feed a family for a month. For some reason, I think of Lirra’s comment about everyone being liars. Makes me wonder what is hidden beyond their baubles and accessories.

Voices mingle in hushed conversations that I care little to be a part of. Gillian mutters something about how odd it is no one has welcomed us. I snort, and then try to cover it with a cough. She doesn’t understand that people who ignore me are the people I feel the most comfortable around.

I stick to Gillian like she’s my anchor, keeping me from drifting in the king’s direction, even though I haven’t yet spotted the man. He isn’t seated at the head table. Or at the carved wood monstrosity of a throne parked at the end of the room opposite the entry stairs.

“Not so confident out of the woods, are you?”

I whip my head to the side to see who’s talking. A guard stands nearby beside one of the wood columns.

Gillian’s arm cinches tighter. “Jealous of her hunting skill, Niall? Figures, since you’re stuck here, tending nobles like a nanny.”

“Scrants.” He hisses.

I straighten. Lift my skirt and march up to him. For a guard I’ve only just met, he needs an antidote for the venom he’s spewing. “Glorified nursemaid.”

His glare is so fiery, it could burn down the entire castle.

Gillian flips her fan open with a snap and turns on her heel. “What a fool.”

But the guard is right. Eyes slide our way and feet scurry out of our path like we’re wolves in a herd of sheep. Walking through the nobility is torturous. Their glares put Niall’s to shame, weighing me down. By the time we reach the center of the room, I might well be dragging a millstone for how much I have to fight to keep moving.

I remain on a course to Aodren. Or where the invisible lead pulls me. I make an effort to search once more for Cohen, but, hang it, the king has commandeered my attention, directing me like one of the castle’s homing pigeons.

Two men walk out of the east corridor, carrying long trumpets. Royal banners drop from the polished metal. Raising the instruments to their lips, they blow out resonant notes that fill the Great Hall, demanding silence. When the song ends, both men lower their trumpets and drop their chins to their chests.

“Honor the bearer of the crown, King Aodren the III, ruler and leader of Malam.” The herald’s voice booms.

Men’s heads lower. Women dip into fabric puddles across the shining granite floor.

I follow suit, remaining that way until the herald announces we may all rise. I’m not expecting Aodren’s eyes to lock with mine amidst the sea of faces. His skin is unusually waxen, and there’s a tight pinch to his features that makes me wonder where he’s just come from. I fight the rope connecting us, frustratingly aware that the bond is stronger than what I shared with Cohen.

Whispers sweep through the hall. I turn away from Aodren to find that the men and women around me have noticed the king’s attention. Prickles dance along the back of my neck. This dress suddenly feels ten times smaller than before. I tug at the material where the skirt blossoms out from the waist, hoping to give myself breathing room.

No use.

The herald announces that King Aodren will move through the room to greet everyone. Thankfully, the interruption pops the moment of awkwardness.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Aodren’s movement. Starting at the side of the room where lords and ladies stand shoulder to shoulder just inside the pillars, Aodren shakes hands, speaks a word or two, and moves on. Each interaction is no more than twenty seconds. That means I have five minutes or less before he arrives.

“Stop twitching.” Gillian waves her fan over her mouth. If I wasn’t already rubbing shoulders with her, I wouldn’t have noticed she spoke. She’s so stealthy about it. Until she smacks her fan closed and swats my hand. “Stand taller. Smile. Pretend you’re happy.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the words turn to vapor the moment Aodren stops in front of me. Gillian provided too much of a distraction for me to keep track of the man. I must look like a guppy fish, opening and closing my mouth, hoping words will land on my tongue.

A hundred eyes are on us as Gillian tugs me down into a curtsy. Somewhere in the background, there are titters about traitors and whores. The king must be realizing his mistake now. The idea that I could be noble is farcical.

“Rise, Miss Flannery, Miss Tierney.”

His command grates on me. Forcing myself to straighten, shoulders back and nose up, I show the onlookers that I don’t care a whit about their insults.

Aodren’s hand snags mine. He brings it to his lips. The feather-light kiss on my skin could be a cattle brand for how it sends a whoosh of heat through me.

I try to tug away because everyone is watching. Everyone. Gods, how I wish the granite floor would ingest me whole. I wiggle my fingers, but the devil king’s grip constricts. I mutter bludger under my breath.

His brows raise and, I swear, his eyes glint like polished emeralds.

“I’m pleased you’re in attendance tonight.” His voice echoes off the columns, the ceiling, the floor, the walls. Seeds and stars. I yank my hand away. Could he have spoken any louder?

“We’re so honored to be here, Your Majesty.” Gillian holds her hand out for him to shake. He doesn’t place a kiss on hers. “How kind of you to invite us to the feast. You are a truly magnanimous leader.”

Has she drunk tainted ale?

Gillian loops her arm through mine, ignoring the look I’m throwing in her direction. “Britta was just saying how thankful she was for the dresses.”

My head whips to face hers.

Aodren’s mouth twitches. “Is that so?”

I’m going to suffocate Gillian with a pillow tonight. “Actually—”

Her arm snakes tighter around mine, cutting off the blood flow. “Of course.” Her little laugh sounds as frilly as her fan. “Britta would be wearing one this evening. However, the fit wasn’t quite right.”

“Regardless. You look lovely, Miss Flannery. Your father was beloved in this kingdom, and so your presence honors us all.” His smile sweeps around the room and returns to me. It’s a smile I’ve not seen from him before. It’s strong and sure, arrogant and assertive. It’s baffling, almost, for he seemed so shaken when he entered the room, and yet now he’s the image of confidence. That’s when I realize—the castle, the nobility, the subjects and servants—all of that is his Ever Woods. He’s the hunter here, with manners and words as his weapons.

He pivots toward Gillian. “And you look equally fetching, Miss Tierney.”

A few words from him and she’s a flittering, blinking ball of blushes. “Your Majesty, you flatter me.”

It’s a relief when Aodren moves on. The next woman he greets has enough feathers on her headdress that she could pose as a peacock.

I wiggle away from Gillian and shoot her a glare. “Do not talk for me ever again.”

“Calm yourself. I was only helping.”

“Your help is not needed.”

Her fan opens with a fwack and flaps in front of her furrowed brow. She inclines her head, nearly gouging me each time the fan comes close to my cheek. “You may think my help unnecessary. But you’re unpolished, Britta. Here, addressing the king the way you’ve done at the cottage will get you sent to the dungeon. Or worse.”

For all Gillian’s fluff and fancy words, she has a point. Regardless of our connection, one word from Aodren could end my life.

“You’re right.”

She tilts her head, lifting her ear. “What was that? I’m not sure I heard you.”

I snort, then chuckle.

“Britta.”

I jolt, Cohen’s voice catching me unaware. He stands in the west corridor. Shadows mix with the yellow lantern light like hornet-striped jigsaw pieces on his face.

Unlike the king, who arrived tenser than a deer downwind of a mountain cat, Cohen’s face shows nothing.

A fleeting worry that he’s displeased with my appearance niggles. Then I frown, irritated with myself. When did I start acting like a twittering town girl?

Gillian lowers the fan. Her lips part as if she’s about to say something.

Ignoring her, I back away from the reception line. I don’t want to hear her disapproval. I don’t want to discuss propriety. I don’t want a lecture on how I should smile, talk, stand, or walk.

The conversations from the Great Hall make a low, echoing drone in the corridor. I follow Cohen to a corner where the darkness is deepest.

The fancy clothes he had on earlier have been replaced by a faded gray cloak, scuffed boots, and patched trousers. The waist belt hanging on his hips holds Papa’s dagger beside Cohen’s sword. I cross my arms, studying him in meticulous measure. I’d bet my bow if he turned around, there’d be one more knife hooked through the back of the belt. And all would be newly sharpened.

“You’re dressed to hunt.” Accusation sharpens my tone.

He clears his throat. “I have to.”

A moment ago I was worried he might not like my dress, when really he’s been focused on hunting. It’s doubtful he even noticed that I wore his gown. Cohen’s leaving. Again. “Why now?”

“Lord Jamis escaped.”

A chill pebbles over my exposed skin. “W-what? How?”

He scrubs a hand over his face. When it drops, I notice tight tiny lines around his eyes have replaced his usual confidence.

“Don’t know,” he says. “The dungeon master was murdered, and the guard who discovered him had just returned from checking another level of the dungeon. No one saw anything.”

“But the trail’s fresh. Your best chance at catching Lord Jamis depends on leaving immediately.” I say this more to remind myself that his abrupt departure is standard for tracking. A trade I know well, having spent years saying goodbye to Papa at a moment’s notice. Still, my words don’t salve the sting that this night is going awry.

“Aye.”

I peer past his shoulder to where music and chatter filter from the Great Hall. Gillian won’t be pleased that I’m leaving. “What will I tell Gillian?” I muse aloud.

Cohen shakes his head. “Britta—”

“Cohen.” Captain Omar’s austere tenor identifies the man before either of us look down the hall. There, Leif and three other guards wait with the captain.

Cohen holds up a finger to them. “I—I have to go, Britt. The team has already been chosen.”

“I’m coming with you. Finding Lord Jamis is as important to me as it is to you.”

He doesn’t speak. The resolution in the set of his shoulders leaves no room for misunderstanding.

My eyes lower into furious slits. “You said when you returned from Shaerdan, we would hunt together.”

“Two minutes,” Captain Omar interrupts. Judgment wafts off the abhorrent man like stink from a skunk.

I turn my glare on the captain. But Cohen winds his fingers into mine, centering my attention. He mutters an agreement to the captain and then waits while the man stalks away. Two of the guards follow, like pack mates flanking an alpha wolf.

Leif stays behind, an entreating smile on his freckled face. I don’t return the look.

“Go on, Leif. I’ll follow in a minute,” Cohen says.

“What about Finn and Lirra?”

Cohen’s jaw tics. “Finn knows. Already talked to him. Lirra will have to wait.”

“You aren’t going to tell her?” My irascible tone notches up a peg. I blink at him.

“There’s no time to ride out to the cottage,” Cohen says after Leif slips out of sight. “I was hoping you or Gillian could talk to her for me. It’s not that I want to leave her in the middle of her plight to find Orli, but Jamis has escaped.”

The same urgency came from Papa each time he had to leave Malam to hunt. It felt different though. It didn’t hollow out my chest.

Suddenly, I’m angry with Cohen. He makes decisions for others based on what he thinks is right or best, without taking into consideration what the person wants. But because I’m all too familiar with the bite of being left behind, I promise that I’ll find a way to deliver the news to Lirra.

“I’m a better tracker than any man on that team. And you know it,” I argue. If Cohen wants me to go, he could convince the captain to add me to the hunting party.

His mouth dips at the corners. Lately all I’ve caught are frowns from him. “The men going are already assigned. You’re not needed.”

I flinch.

“Gods, that came out wrong.” His fingers graze my neck, curling around my shoulder. The heavy warmth of his touch usually sends sparks through my core. I jerk away.

“Britt, it’s safer here. There’s no telling what we’re facing out there. This isn’t about whether or not you can take care of yourself. It’s not even about Jamis. Phelia’s still out there. I’ve a hunch that she’s a part of Jamis’s escape. At the very least, she could hurt you and expose you”—he lowers his voice—“as a Spiriter.”

Deep down, I know that what he says makes sense. Papa taught me to be cautious, not reckless. I rub my eyes, trying to erase the image of Phelia. I stare at the charcoal veins running through the granite floor, no order in the markings, much like Phelia’s skin. I feel like those same veins are winding through my innards, twisting my gut, and staining my thoughts with their black ink.

Voices echo from the Great Hall like muted bird warbles, reminding that the royal celebration is happening not far from us.

I lift my chin. “Those risks are mine to consider. Not yours.”

“Seeds, Britt.” His gaze flickers, the gold in his hazel eyes dimming, before a stony expression slides down, shutting off all emotions. “Please stay with Gillian. Enjoy the night.”

I gape at him, unsure which bit exasperates me the most—the part where he thinks I cannot protect myself, or that he thinks I’ll be able to remain at the feast and enjoy the night.

I put space between us, moving until my shoulders press to the icy castle wall. “Tell me this, Cohen, did Captain Omar make the choice not to include me on this hunt? Or you?”

A long silent beat passes. “Dove . . . please be safe,” he says, his low voice sounding almost pained. A silent apology is written between the crinkles around the edges of his eyes.

The space beneath my breastbone throbs.

Cohen cuts the distance between us in a blink and drops his lips to my cheek. He lingers for a moment, drawing in a deep breath before he leaves and strides down the hall without looking back.

Bludger.

“You too,” I whisper, ignoring the sting in the corners of my eyes. Not that it means I’m content to stay back and wait for him to find her.