Chapter
36

Britta

AS WE RIDE AWAY FROM HAGAN’S HOME, I THINK of Gillian and Finn and wonder if Papa felt this fearful when he left me alone for weeks at a time. My guts twist around my stomach with worry. I press my fist to my navel. Having never experienced this sort of wrenching apprehension for another, I have to wonder if life isn’t better alone. On my own, there’s only myself to fend for.

Then again, there’s only myself to pass the hours. I shiver and scoot closer to Aodren. That sort of solitude taunts me with the same menace as the pillory in Brentyn’s market square.

We’ll find Cohen, I tell myself. He’s alive and well.

All this worry is turning the insides of my mouth raw. I sit up taller and relax my hands so they rest loosely on Aodren’s waist as we ride his horse northward. In the woods, we’ll be safer. It’ll be easier to stay out of sight.

Once we’re in the forest, Aodren puts Gale on a course westward. Our plan is to swing around Brentyn, cut across the road, and turn south to where Cohen and Omar were last headed.

Soon the rising sun will give us more visibility. For now, though, we make use of the slow dawn and how it cloaks the forest in shades of gray. Shapeless shadows blend, hiding us. As we travel, I listen to Gale’s steps crunching the ground cover. Then it occurs to me that his movement is all I hear. My hair stands on end.

Gale’s ears flick back.

Aodren twists in the saddle, looking around at the same time I do.

Three guards on horses peel out of the darkness, riding toward us from the east. No. Aodren takes in a cut of air. He digs his heels into Gale, pushing the horse to sprint. While the king focuses on what’s ahead, I watch the rear, but I don’t see the hounds until I hear them howl.

Four dogs bolt past the riders, coming for us like shot arrows.

“Go, go, go!” I shout.

Gale leaps over a fallen tree. The dogs bark.

I know the Evers as good as or better than anyone. We can lose them. But doubt screams over Gale’s jarring run, telling me it’ll be much harder to lose the riders with bloodhounds on our tail. How are we going to lose the dogs? They’ve got our scent.

It’s good that they’re following us because that means they’re not pounding down Hagan’s door. Gillian and Finn will be safe. Better us than them, right?

Keeping one hand on Aodren, I take Hagan’s bow from the holder and count the arrows in his quiver. There are only six. I cannot waste a single shot.

I’m a good shot, but on horseback, sprinting through the woods . . . perhaps not so much. Focus. Papa’s words come back to me: Focus is a weapon as much as your bow.

My pulse rockets in my veins as I draw my first arrow and set it to the bowstring. When a hound surpasses the others, I take aim and shoot. The pup yelps and rolls in the dirt while the others fly past.

I wince, wishing there was another option. But the men are all single riders, and Gale is laboring under the weight of two. They’re gaining on us.

Clenching the back of the saddle with my inner thighs, I grab two more arrows, shooting them one after another, taking down two horses with arrows to the neck. The animals stumble and their riders fall to the ground.

I aim for another hound—

An arrow impales my upper arm. A scream, mixed shock and pain, bursts out of me. The bow tumbles out of my grasp, hitting the forest floor.

“Britta? Britta, what happened?” Aodren is pure panic.

“Got hit. Arrow to my arm,” I manage, despite the fire radiating through my right arm. My shooting arm.

The hardened dirt trail winds to the left, climbing the mountain, but Aodren yanks the reins in the opposite direction, sending us on a sudden course downhill. Gale runs and stumbles, crashing through a small riverbed.

I fight to hang on to Aodren with my left arm, my face pressed against his back as we jolt and bounce in the saddle. Stabs of pain come from each movement. For a moment, hounds and riders disappear from sight.

“To throw off their scent,” Aodren yells over his shoulder at me. “Stay with me.”

Shards of icy water flick our feet and ankles.

In the distance, the bark of the dogs and shouts of men sound again.

The arrow has gone through my dress sleeve and the fleshy part of my arm, sticking out the other side. Though it hasn’t hit bone, the jostling of the horse is killing me. It’s causing more damage every time my arm bangs against my body or Aodren’s.

Regardless of where Cohen and Omar may have gone, our goal at this point is survival. I need to get the arrow out while Gale’s gait is relatively smooth.

Clenching my jaw and holding my breath, I bite one side of the arrow, then wrap my fingers around the other side of the shaft. On the count of three, I bear down and snap the wood in half.

Seeds!

I throw the fletching half on the ground and feel under my arm for the point side. My fingers are shaky. Breath saws through my lungs. I pluck the tip out, and my ears go fuzzy from the burst of agony. I hold tight to the edge of the saddle with my good arm, trying to fight the haziness filling my head. Blood oozes from the wound, seeping down the sleeve of my blue gown.

The stream curves, cutting farther south. Gale’s front legs dip deep. He founders, and we’re jolted forward. I manage to hang on to the back of the saddle, but Aodren flips over Gale’s head and falls into the water with a great splash. He rises, short breaths punctuating his body’s tremors from the icy plunge. I guide Gale to the side of the stream, looking back over my shoulder to make sure the remaining guard and dogs haven’t caught up.

My brain races as I look over Aodren, sopping wet and shivering. He needs to get out of the wet clothes, but he doesn’t have another change of clothes. All we have is a tarp and two bedrolls.

I reach back along Gale’s flank, to where we secured our supplies. One of the blue rolls is gone, lost in our flight or in the stream.

I try not to show my panic as I tell Aodren to climb up behind me. He can lean into my back for warmth while I get us farther away from the pursuers. Maybe the clouds will clear and the sun will dry his clothes.

“But your arm,” he protests, pointing to the streaks of red coming down both sides of my sleeve.

I hold up my good hand. “I can manage.”

Knowing we have little to no time, he scrambles up behind me and we set off.

I stay alert, putting as much distance between the remaining guard and us as I can. We cut across the main road to the southern woods and wind our way through the Evers to the most likely path Cohen might’ve taken.

Aodren said he heard the guards talking about a traitor in Cohen’s midst and mention of the southeast cliffs. I keep all my thoughts at bay until we’ve gone two hours without any sign of our pursuers. We’re near the path that leads to the cliffs.

Aodren hasn’t stopped shivering. His cold has seeped into my ribs, where there is less fabric to my dress. While I’d hoped for sun, the clouds haven’t cleared. I doubt his clothes will dry without a fire. I cannot stop thinking of all the warnings that Papa gave about keeping dry and warm during winter travel. It’s been hours and I’m certain he’s still wet. We need to find somewhere safe to set up camp. At the very least, I need to get him moving to keep his body temperature up.

“We should get down, look for tracks, perhaps find somewhere we can camp.” I dismount and gesture for him to do the same. The adrenaline of the chase has worn off. The exhaustion from two nights spent in the dungeon without food is edging back in.

Aodren slides off Gale. “We cannot do anything until your arm is wrapped. You’ve lost so much blood.” Aodren points to my dress’s hem. “I could cut some off and use it for your wound.”

Knowing it must be done, I hold my dress out for him, watching the way his hands shiver as he wraps one around his dagger and slices off part of my dress. He cuts the fabric in two pieces, one longer than the other. One piece wraps around my arm, and the other is constructed into a sling.

“Thank you.” I cradle my arm even though it’s held by the fabric. “But I’m worried about you. We need to find somewhere to make a fire.”

Aodren pushes hair from my face. His fingers are ice. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll let you know if I get too cold. Anyway, you scared me today. I thought I might lose you.”

I go to tell him that’s not the case, but my words are stolen from me when he leans in and presses his chilled lips to my forehead. I understand why he kissed me in the castle. He wasn’t thinking straight and it was reactionary. But this kiss? I don’t know what to think. It settles in me, another layer of guilt.

I shift farther away. My head is hazy and my body tired and sore, but I press my point once more about needing to find camp so we can build a fire.

“It’s barely past noon.”

“You’re freezing.”

He lifts the shirt away from his body. “It’s nearly d-d-dry.”

The warmth of his words rings with truth. His clothes might be drying, but they’re still damp and icy. His fingers are angry red, and his lips have a bluish tint. Physically, he’s showing signs of being cold. Too cold.

I start to shake my head, to disagree, but he turns and strides away. “Finding Omar is our priority,” he calls over his shoulder.

I roll my eyes. Who am I to argue with the king of Malam? If he’s all right braving out the chill in damp clothing, there’s not much I can do to stop the fool. And I thought Cohen was the only stubborn man in my life.

Tracking is easier in the frozen months because barren scrub oaks show damage from travel at a quick glance, instead of the scrutiny needed in the warm months. I move quickly, mindful of my injured arm in its sling, until I come across hoofprints and a bunch of broken branches.

Aodren approaches, his feet scraping along the frozen ground. He lacks the finesse of moving with any semblance of stealth. I wonder if he’s always this way, or if his movements are jerky from the frozen river bath.

I gesture to the cluster of prints and damaged bushes. “Could belong to Omar and his men. I count about six sets.”

He holds his arms crossed; his entire body shivers every few seconds, and his teeth chatter. “That’s odd. B-b-because I’m certain there’s another s-set over there.”

My look of worry is silenced when he makes a show of pointing again. With a sigh, I follow the direction of his finger to the dense brush.

I don’t tell him that he’s probably mistaken. Maybe the cold’s gotten to him. Or if he has found something, it’s likely old, having been immortalized in the frosted ground until spring.

The brittle bush’s thorns hook on my dress as I push between the leafless mounds to verify Aodren’s find. He catches up to me, crunching the ground cover with every step.

“Perhaps you should stay there,” I tell him.

“Yeah, perhaps.” With a sheepish smile on his face, he wraps his arms around his body and stops moving. Which hits me with a touch of guilt for being so hard on the man. After all, it was because of him that we escaped.

The ground is dented with horseshoe prints. I squat down and run my good hand along them. Aodren was right. The ground is cold and hard, but there’s still give to the dirt. The soil flakes in my fingers. This print could be recent.

“Do you think someone followed them?” Aodren asks, giving voice to the fear whispering in the back of my mind.

I hope not.

But I know these trails aren’t traveled often. In the winter, they’re mostly forgotten. The treacherous mountain passes and steep cliffs become impassable from the winter storms. The few logging towns that can be reached from this trail close down after autumn, ceasing trade until the summer months. If these are Cohen’s tracks, not only do they have a traitor—they also have someone tailing them.

We mount Gale and continue onward.

The intensity of the day catches up to me. Along with Gale’s monotonous walk, my body relaxes, to the point that I’m leaning against the king. It doesn’t register in my mind until Gale starts downward, and then when our weight shifts, I realize how comfortable I’ve been in his presence.

I straighten. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says over a yawn. “There’s not much room to move. I don’t expect you to sit with a rod in your back. Unless my damp clothes are making you uncomfortable.” Which reminds me he stopped shivering a while ago.

“Are you dry now?”

“Almost.”

Those words ring untrue. Even if I can’t feel the chill of his clothes, I can sense the ice in his words. “You’re still wet and cold?” I ask, knowing he must be suffering.

“If you lean closer, it’ll warm me up.”

True.

“Besides, the last time we were on a horse together, I’m certain you were the one holding me up,” he adds. “I don’t mind if you lean on me. Might as well make it even.”

The idea of ever being even with the king of Malam is laughable. Though I’ve known him for only a month and a half, I have to wonder if sometimes he doesn’t realize the importance of who he is.

“You rule a kingdom,” I say. “You could take my land, my home, even my life. And somehow, I’d still owe you. That’s how things work.”

He doesn’t talk for a while. “That was my father.” His tone is pensive. I’ve not heard this from him before. “He treated the kingdom like a plaything. But that’s not me. I’d hoped you would have seen that.”

I wish I could turn back time and stop myself from making such a callous comment.

“I’m sorry. I have seen that.” When he doesn’t say anything more, I switch topics. “You came back for me.”

“You sound surprised. You shouldn’t be. I care about you. I wouldn’t have left you to rot in the dungeon.”

He cares about me? I don’t need to ask because the truth of his statement warms me through. I try to keep my body relaxed so he doesn’t notice how the sensation puts me on edge. Still, I cannot leave it alone. “Because we’re bound together. That’s why you care?”

“No, Britta. Not simply because of our connection.”

Again, his truth burns through me, confusing everything I believed about the man. Not sure what to say in response, I return to asking him a dozen times over the next couple of hours if he’s all right, if we should stop, if we should set up camp and start a fire. His response is “Keep going.”

Gale maintains a quick pace until the light starts to fade. The temperature dips. Dark clouds move across the sky. The first few snowflakes start to fall.

It’s then that Aodren wobbles in the saddle. His head falls back, resting in the crook of my neck. His skin is ice.

“Aodren? You doing all right? We should stop and set up camp now that it’s starting to snow.”

“Sotiredandcold”—his words slur together.

Seeds. I go on instant alert, knowing—even before Aodren’s teeth stop chattering and his body slumps farther back so I’m balancing his weight—that we need to move rapidly. I made a terrible judgment in allowing us to continue this far. This is my fault.

“Aodren, hold on to my waist,” I command, cinching tighter around him and talking into his chilled ear. “We’re going to find somewhere to camp right now. Can you do that?”

I shouldn’t have listened to his protests when I suggested we stop. I push Gale to pick up the pace as I scan the rocky face of the mountains for shelter. An empty shallow cave would do. Even if the idea of spending a night in one brings back dark memories, I bite back my fear. The man in front of me desperately needs warmth.

Gale comes up on a cave. Aodren rouses enough to hold himself up, so I dismount and lead the horse inside with the king still in the saddle. Aodren’s head bobs side to side as I peruse the shelter. The cave goes back only a hundred paces, and there appear to be no animals using it as a residence. The ceiling is tall enough that we can safely build a fire.

Once I help Aodren dismount, he hobbles to the side of the cave and sits down, curling his limbs into himself. Worry is my constant companion as I leave him alone to gather wood and make a fire ring on the sandy floor of the cave. In our rush to leave Hagan’s home, we didn’t grab flint and steel.

I swallow back a cry of frustration. How foolish of me.

The branches have been exposed to frost for a month now. Most are too green to burn. It doesn’t help that I’m limited to my non-dominant left hand and minimal use of my right hand. My head is hazy from exhaustion, but I cannot sit down, not until we have fire.

I find a few sticks that’ll work and awkwardly grind them together, twisting and twisting as snow flurries start to float through the cave opening. My arm burns. My fingers go numb. I want to scream. The wind sings, promising a rough night if I cannot make any embers. My right arm throbs, pleading to stop, but I keep going.

A small spark and smoke plumes from the pile of woodcarvings I’ve circled around the spinning stick. Relieved, I push the carvings closer and blow into the pile, encouraging the flame to take. Once it sparks big enough to set in the dry kindling, I add bigger pieces of wood chips and shavings until the flame can support a log. For the first time since we left Hagan’s home, I feel like I can take a steady breath.

It’s not a big fire yet, but if Aodren slides close enough, he could start to warm at least his toes.

I glance up to tell him to come sit beside the fire ring.

He’s slumped on his side.

“Aodren,” I call out. He doesn’t stir.

“Aodren?” I rush to him. He is colorless. No, no, no. “Please wake up. Aodren, please.”

Nothing. Panic flares through me. I try to feel for his energy, but my hands are too stiff and numb. I cannot focus my hazy brain enough to try any sort of healing. Nor do I know if I have enough energy to spare.

I go into the survival mode I know best. I use my good hand to rip off his boots. Why didn’t I have him take those off when we first got into the cave? I run my hand over his feet and realize how wet and frozen his toes still are. A sob breaks out of me.

“Wake up.” I try again, squeezing his glacial flesh. Seeds, what a foolish mistake.

I lay the bedroll near the fire. Tear at my clothes. Bite my lip against the pain of each movement. Right now, pain is my punishment. I’ve been trained to keep dry and warm while traveling in the winter. I know the dangers involved. I should’ve demanded we stop earlier. I shrug out of the beast of a dress, crying out as the sleeve peels down my injured arm. The material can be another layer of added insulation. I toss it on the bedding and crouch over Aodren in only my chemise.

Using my teeth, I re-tie the bandage around my arm and set to work on his clothes. I push him on his side to yank off his tunic.

The man needs body warmth. He’s slipped into dangerous sleep. The only way to get his body back to a safe temperature is skin-to-skin contact.

I reach for his trousers. But shock at the sight of his well-muscled chest stills my hands. The modest fire’s flicker gives shape to his flat, toned stomach and strong arms. I push my new awareness of Aodren to the back of my mind and remember that this means his survival.

I don’t look. I don’t look anywhere lower than his chest as I tug his trousers down his legs. My arm smarts from the awkward chaotic maneuvering required to push his chilled body into the bedroll. Once he’s under the layers, I climb inside and lie on top of the man, drawing the bedroll snug over us.

I don’t think about what he’s not wearing. All my focus is on warming his skin. Creating friction. I run my hands up and down his arms and over his chest. I wrap my body around his, hoping my warmth will seep through my thin chemise.

But he’s so cold. Winter-lake cold.

I rub more vigorously, scrubbing his body with my own, ignoring the burn of my wound.

He groans. The sound nearly inspires tears.

Eyes closed, he turns his nose toward the fire. I take the small movement as a good sign and continue to run my hands along the strong lines of his face and plunge my fingers into his hair.

“Wake up, Aodren,” I plead, full of hope. “Please, wake up.”

I massage his torso, arms, shoulders, neck, and head, noticing tiny details I hadn’t seen before. Like a small scar dissecting his right eyebrow. The stubble on his chin is a shade darker than his golden locks. The space between his shoulder and neck is . . . I slam my eyes closed. Stick to the task of warming him up.

Frigid hands find my waist and I yelp. Aodren’s green eyes slide slowly open, piercing me with their intensity.

“Hello, Britta,” he drawls.

It sounds wrong. It doesn’t have Cohen’s gravelly tenor. It makes me question what the hell I’m doing.