Chapter
4

Britta

BOW IN HAND, I SPRINT TO THE STABLE AND saddle up Snowfire. She’s older than the moon, but she’s all I’ve got. If King Aodren had brought a horse instead of dresses, I wouldn’t have kicked him out so fast.

For once, I don’t loathe our connection.

Hooves flying over frosted brushes and dirt, Snowfire darts through the Evers in the direction I sense the king. I urge her to pick up the pace the deeper we go into the woods. We wind along the trail at the base of Mount Avemoir, one of the highest peaks in the pine-covered range. As we start to climb, I can sense Snowfire’s struggle and exhaustion, and it worries me.

No, it angers me.

I don’t want to lose my only horse because His Royal Travesty foolishly walked into danger. I hold that thought, following the man’s link, until a half league later, his draw intensifies, the invisible rope cinching between us. The pines here grow tall and proud like soldiers lined up to fight. The harsh slant of afternoon light cuts between trunks, glinting off frosted branches. Snowfire slows to a walk. I squint, scrutinizing every detail for clues.

A fallen log, the frost-covered leaves strewn across the underbrush, the narrow glade between trees—the surrounding forest shows no signs of others.

Frustration beats through me because I cannot see him, though I can tell he’s close.

“King Aodren?”

The question ricochets around the stagnant forest, lifting the hairs on my arms. I slam my mouth shut. I might as well paint a target on my chest and wait in the nearest glade.

I quietly slide off Snowfire. Focus is a weapon as much as your bow. Papa’s words beat through me. I add caution to my movements.

Arrow nocked.

Steps soft.

Ahead of me, something moves in the thick knot of underbrush—the breeze blows a black flap of material forward and back, forward and back. The pull in the direction of the material is all I need to know. It drives me from hiding.

I rush forward to find that the caught cloth is an arm span away from the arrogant man who stood in my house thirty minutes ago. Unconscious, Aodren is slumped on his side, the tautness of our bond confirming he’s alive. He could be mistaken for a man taking a nap if not for the biting cold or his collapsed stewards a dozen paces farther.

I cross to the other men, hands jittery, steps wary. The icy space between the trees crackles underfoot.

The first man has both of his hands resting around his neck as though he was signaling he could not breathe. His brown eyes are glass, staring at nothing. He was at my home less than a half hour past, delivering gowns for the king’s feast. Bile burns my throat as I scurry backwards, gasping to catch my breath. My heart rages a violent beating in my ribs. Mercy. What’s happened here?

I force myself to kneel down beside the second man. Though his eyes aren’t open, I know—I know before I’ve even touched him that he’s passed.

As the hunter’s daughter, death has been my companion my entire life.

This man’s passing feels like a patch of cold water in a summer-warmed lake. One hand white-knuckling my bow, and the other pressed to my mouth, I quickly look both men over, searching for signs of death. Only, there are no visible wounds. No marks of struggle other than the first man’s hands around his neck. And yet, under his fingers, I see no bruising to indicate he was choked to death.

It’s as if they both lay down and died.

Survival instincts kick propriety on its arse. I race to the king’s side and quickly run my hands over his shoulders and neck, down his chest and along his thighs, checking for wounds. The buzz of his life force resonates beneath my hands and through me. I’ve never been more thankful for our ever-present connection, a confirmation he’s alive. Even so, I put my bow on the ground and hold my hand near his nostrils until a warm breath puffs across my fingers. Just to be sure.

A sword and a saber are belted at his waist. He must not have had time to draw either. Other than the cloak, his clothes are neat and clean. His leather gloves show no sign of struggle. No blood spots the material of his pants. So how did Aodren survive? Why was he left alive?

All the unknowing rings through me like a storm-warning bell. Flee this place, it cries. Run away. Danger.

“King Aodren, wake up.” I tug his shoulder, urgency making my motions rough.

He doesn’t respond.

My pulse thunders, uncertainty spiraling into panic. What do I do?

I stand, pulling an arrow to the bowstring.

Enat taught me to listen to the pulse of life in the woods around me. If I can hone in on human energy, I might be able to determine the proximity of the threat.

I start by quieting my thoughts. I try to tune into the constant low thrum of life. Slowly, I let my awareness of the nearby woods take in more. I hear my breath, the quickened ba bam, ba bam in my chest, and the whoosh whoosh whoosh of the life running through the trees and plants. If I weren’t so panicked, I’d be awed by this Spiriter gift of mine.

My vision starts to dim. Needle points prick my arms until my muscles grow heavy like I’ve been lugging water buckets for hours. My breathing echoes loudly through my ears. The beginnings of exhaustion drag through me, and I know it’s time to stop. Enat warned me about spending too much energy. It could be fatal.

Right then, something more vibrant than the forest’s thrum, like notes of a viol rising over a cittern, catches my attention. The blend of energies must be more than one person. Judging by the way I managed to pick up on them, they cannot be far from here.

Time to run.

Two clicks of my tongue, and Snowfire is at my side. King Aodren dwarfs me by a head and a half and seventy-plus pounds, so moving him won’t be simple. I place my bow on the ground to free my hands. Rushing around the glade, I find a sturdy log. I drag it near Snowfire and use the rope from the saddlebag to truss up the king like big game. I weave the remainder over a thick tree limb and around the log, then put all my weight against it, rolling it to tighten the rope and hoist the king off the ground and onto Snowfire. Muscles shake and breath snags in and out of my lungs as I fight to maneuver him so he’s lying across the saddle.

It’s not a pretty process. If the man wasn’t bruised before, he certainly is now. I feel bad about that, but since I’m trying to save his life, I’m sure he’ll understand.

Bow in hand, I hoist myself up behind the king and reach for the reins.

Snowfire’s ears flick forward.

My gaze follows the movement, arrowing in on the mountainside, where fifty strides uphill, a woman steps into sight. Her black cloak lifts from a sudden gust. The corner, raggedly torn, flaps at her side. She walks toward us, steps so soft that her passage is noiseless. She reminds me of a winter wolf, icy grayish-blue eyes beneath silvery slashes for brows, ivory skin, and light brown hair with moonlight streaks.

And though she seems leached of color and life, darkness radiates from her like hunger.

I stifle a shiver. Willing my fingers to be still, I lift my bow, pointing my arrow at the woman’s heart. “S-stop there.”

Her chin drops a fraction and, surprisingly, she obeys.

“Who are you?” My voice bobs. I grimace.

King Aodren lets out a low groan. I straighten on the back edge of the saddle, an intense wave of protectiveness rolling through me. “Did you kill these men?”

Her hands, long fingers marked with black paintlike swirls, grasp the edges of her cloak. “Hello, Britta.”

Every part of me turns on edge at the familiarity in her tone.

Lots of people from the royal city of Brentyn know me. After all, my father was the king’s bounty hunter and my mother a despised Shaerdanian. My name is usually followed by a curse, not curiosity. This woman speaks like she knows me, but watches me like she doesn’t.

A wintry blast of air tunnels through the woods, flinging the woman’s cloak over her shoulder.

I gasp at the sight of her neck, the ivory skin covered in the same markings on her hands, obsidian veins that curl and twist. Men in the king’s guard have the symbol of the royal stag inked onto their skin like a cattle brand. But her snaking marks are different. They follow no pattern.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for quite some time.” Her voice, a mixture of scratches and soprano notes, stops my study.

“Me?” The question tumbles out. It takes a moment to realize that when she spoke I felt nothing. No warmth in my belly for truth, no chill for a lie. That nothingness hits me like a discordant note. My mind rings with the sharpness of it, along with the familiarity of having felt the same way once before.

Snowfire paws the dirt, pacing back restlessly.

I—I know who this woman is.

Enat once explained that while I could sense the truth when others spoke, my gift didn’t work on Channelers like myself. I cannot feel truth or lie from Spiriters unless they will it.

“You—You’re her.” I lock my elbow, bow arm straight. The woman doesn’t cower.

She stands taller. I flex my fists against the sudden reminder of a childhood bully. Like the other kids, he taunted me often. After the insults were slung, he didn’t leave. He’d wait and observe like he was studying a cricket he’d captured in a jar.

She watches me that same way now, her pale eyes provoking.

My arrow could end her in an instant. She consorted with Lord Jamis to overthrow King Aodren. She bound the king in Channeler magic to play him like a puppet.

She’s the reason that not so long ago I was in a glade similar to this one, holding my grandmother as her last breaths rattled through her body.

Regret is a dye, blackening my heart and head, spreading hatred and blame.

This woman’s death would be justified.

But even as I think that, no matter how much darkness has tainted my insides, I know that punishment isn’t mine to deliver. After I killed Tomas, the guard who took Enat’s life, I vowed not to hastily take another human life. And yet, right now it’s hard to remember why.

Arms jerk to lower the point of my arrow a fraction, aiming for her thigh instead. “You’re Phelia,” I say, wanting her to understand that I know exactly who she is.

“I am.” Her eerie, scarred voice grows louder. “Only, you’ve stolen my surprise. I wanted to first introduce myself as your mother.”

What?

I stare at her, horror-struck. She cannot be my mother. Not her. In the thousands of times I’ve dreamt of the woman who gave me birth, I imaged an open-armed woman who radiated warmth and love. Not this. Never this. She’s lying. It’s a manipulation tactic.

Snowfire pads back, huffing and snorting. I’ve dug my knees into her sides. I don’t have it in me to calm her. Or even to find words to react.

The gift is passed through the maternal line. Enat’s words kick through me.

I start to shake my head, threaten that I’ll shoot, but I halt when the woman’s hands lift and stir the air as though she’s moving them through water.

An invisible force pushes past me, around me, through me, and draws every hair on my body to stand. I gasp, unable to stop the quaking in my arms and legs brought on by the wave of energy—her energy. Unlike Enat’s strong steady buzz, this woman’s life force is frighteningly powerful. Fierce and free.

Snowfire whinnies. I hold tight to King Aodren to keep him from falling in case Snowfire lurches.

“My name is Rozen. And, Britta, you are my daughter.” Her voice shocks me still with the power of a mountain cat’s menacing growl. This time, because she’s somehow allowed it, the warmth of her words, like hot oil, burns through my stomach and boils beneath my skin, searing me with the truth.

Terrible, terrible truth.