Chapter
5

Cohen

LIRRA BLINKS TWICE AS IF SHE’S TAKEN ABACK by my change of mind. She grasps my hand. “Phelia’s at the oilery in town. Her parents own it.”

I yank two new tunics out of my satchel, tossing one at Finn before we reach the main part of town. We change so we don’t look the same as when we high-tailed it out of the tavern. A poor disguise, but I’m too eager to get to Phelia to come up with something better.

We hug the shadows of an alley by the main road. Skipping from one narrow way to another, we go unnoticed past a church in the heart of the town. Statuettes of four different gods watch us from each corner of the roof. At the end of the road is the tavern and the oilery.

I study the distance and count the people nearby. Near us, birds fly into the church’s rafters, cooing as they nestle down.

Doves.

At fifteen, Britta’s fingers were slender. I couldn’t rip my eyes away when she touched my arm. Couldn’t shake the image of the mountain cat. Or how unnatural she looked a speck away from death. When she spoke, “I care about you,” I burned with shame.

I’d come to say goodbye, to tell her I was going to Shaerdan to hunt—

“. . . I have feelings for you. I want to be with you.”

“Britt.” I pulled her in, my heart a winter-storm. I didn’t deserve her. Definitely didn’t deserve the life she nearly lost to save mine. But gods, she was soft. Her hair, her skin, her lips. She always had a way of scrambling my thoughts. The words I should’ve said were gone. Instead, I said, “Tomorrow, wait for me. I’ll come back.”

After she left, Saul’s warning returned to mind.

If Britta’s Channeling ability was discovered, she’d be killed. The healers had asked too many questions. The longer I was in Brentyn, the more she was in danger. I would never allow harm to come to her.

I hated myself for leaving. I rode all night. No matter how fast Siron galloped, there was no outrunning the guilt. Shouldn’t have told her I’d be back. She deserved a goodbye, but I was too weak to give it. She’d hate me. Hell, I hated myself.

The gray morning filled with squawks and coos. As I passed under the branches that overhung the road, birds darted away. Except one, a grayish puff. When I rode beneath it, the bird flew ahead, finding another branch from which to watch me. Its presence galled, like a market square pigeon begging for scraps.

“Get out of here.” I pulled Siron to a stop.

It didn’t spook.

“Haw! Go!”

It cooed. Bloody bird.

“Get!”

Don’t know what about the fowl rubbed me the wrong way, but I yanked my dagger from my belt and hurled it. A cry of rage tore from my lips. A cry I’d been holding down since leaving Britta. The dagger found its mark. A startled chirp broke the forest calm, and the feathered ball tumbled into the dust.

I slid off Siron, hands jittering. The bird was too small to bother plucking to eat. What a waste. What a stupid thing to do.

Blood sullied the white feathers around my dagger. I crouched down, yanked my blade from the bird, and stared at the mess. The dagger, ridiculously huge against the pigeon’s tiny body, had impaled the bird through the breast. Overkill.

No, not a pigeon. This bird was smaller. Rarer.

Guilt, like rats, crawled down my throat and left a trail of acid. I picked up a red-stained feather. My throat closed.

I’d killed a dove.

I rest my hand against my belt, over the pocket that holds the folded parchment where I’ve been carrying a snowy gray feather going on two years.

The clank of metal on stone alerts me to a group of drunks milling outside. I curse under my breath, recognizing two from earlier.

I gesture for Finn and Lirra to pick up their stride. But when we step out of a nook to cross the street, I lock eyes with the huge bearded man from the fight. Dammit. He’s far down the road, but recognition is clear on his face. “Hey, it’s those Malamian scrants!”

I grab Finn by the upper arm and yank him into the church’s doorway. Lirra scrambles after us. Our steps clatter against the tiled stones laid under pews, which are lined up like soldiers. The yawning ceiling juts up in a spade-shaped arch, echoing in a way that makes me shrink. I gesture for Lirra and Finn to tread softly. We move through the shadows toward a burning lantern that rests at the head of the room on top of a stone altar.

No matter whether you’re in Malam or Shaerdan, the clergymen always keep one lit.

We take a doorway left of the altar. It leads to an empty clergyman’s office, complete with brocade robes in a closet.

I grab one for myself and thrust a second at Finn. His shoulders hike up, kissing his ears, and his face lines with anxiety. Ma’s voice is probably ringing in his head about reverence and respect, but there isn’t time to worry about that. No showing anyone respect if you’re dead.

Outside, in the main part of the church, a door bangs open and someone yells. Footsteps clunk on the stones.

“Don’t think about it. Put it on.” I tug the robe over my tunic and sword.

Finn shakes his head.

A clatter of movement and voices spread through the church.

“Listen to your brother. There’s no other way out.” Lirra pulls out her sword and points it at the door.

Finn’s mouth guppies, his fingers clenching the material. He pulls the robe over his head till the material pools around his lanky form.

Nobody’s going to believe his disguise.

Swearing under my breath, I draw the hood over my head and slice the air with my hand, motioning for Finn and Lirra to stay silent and still. Then I step out of the office.

The door snicks shut and the church goes quiet. The eyes of the four men among the pews turn to me. Their fingers twitch on their hilts.

“Kinsmen, have ye come to make penance?” My voice sinks lower than usual, a baritone that echoes from the walls.

The man closest to the altar speaks. “Where’s Clergyman Nevin?”

“Saying prayers.”

“He’s usually alone.”

My chin is down, but I look up from beneath my brows, seeing the resolution in his glassy eyes falter. If these men weren’t so drunk, this plan wouldn’t work.

“I’ve come from Celize to meet with him,” I say.

“I thought two men came in here. Seen anyone?” The man fidgets with his sword.

“No. There’s been no other commotion than yours.”

I wait, watching him wrestle with what to say next, relieved when he motions for the other men to leave. They’re almost out the door when the man turns back.

“You say you’re from Celize?”

“Aye.”

“My sister lives there. Must be one of your congregation.”

I pause. “Perhaps. We are lucky to have the gods’ gift of ocean beauty. The way the waves strike the cliff just outside the cloisters is truly the music of the divine.” I hold my breath and wait for his reaction. I nearly smirk thinking of the last time I was there. Britta was tucked against my side.

His face relaxes. “Aye, she says the same. G’day, Your Grace.”

They leave. I don’t move until their footsteps fade. A scurrying mouse could be heard in the church. I don’t know when the real clergyman will return. But I know a group of three would draw more attention than a single man.

So, with a quick glance of apology at the closed office door, I turn toward the exit and head out alone.

Keeping my head hidden in the hood, I cross the road. There aren’t many people outside other than the few men lingering near the church. I wave in their general direction. They must not be believers, because they shuffle away until they’re out of sight. I hurry to the oilery’s door.

A cloud of humidity and perfume drifts through the entire shop. Herbs coated in some sort of lard and pressed between plates of glass rest on containers that catch the aromatic drippings. This oilery is larger than most. It has stables out back and clotheslines hanging from a second-story window.

After discarding the robe and shoving it in a basket, I wind through the maze of distillery tables, barrels, and shelves of flutes filled with yellow, green, brown, and gold oils until reaching a desk where a man and woman work side by side.

At first glance, the dark-haired man reminds me of Saul—it’s the patient expression he wears as he watches the much-younger woman. Their features are similar enough. She must be his daughter.

Upon noticing me, the woman’s shoulders go rigid and she grabs the satchel at her feet.

“Rori?” A quizzical look comes from the man.

“Nothing, Pa, just something to add to the oil press.” Her gaze shifts to me, and a mask of indifference slides over her panic. “Did you need something?”

“I’m looking for someone, a woman named Phelia.” I run my finger through the dust coating an oil crock. I watch the woman’s reaction. She’s jumpier than a smuggler at the border.

“There’s no one by that name around here.” The man’s chair creaks as he leans back.

“Certain?” I dust my hands off on my pants. “Someone told me she came in here.”

The man shakes his head. “I’m sorry to say only my daughter—”

“Pa.” She stands, maneuvering so his view is blocked. “You’ve been given wrong information. If you don’t need oils, please leave.”

“Rori, don’t speak to customers that way.” The man rises and walks around the table to his daughter’s side.

She doesn’t match Phelia’s description. Despite what she says, the dust and worn marks covering her boots tell a different story. A story of travel. Based on that, her jumpiness, and Lirra’s tip, I’d wager this is the woman I’ve been following or the woman who will lead me to Phelia.

“No harm done.” I step back, looking around the shop. “I’ll be on my way.”

Rori nods, her posture relaxing. I turn and wind my way back to the door.

When I return to the church, Lirra’s a hissing rattler.

“Leave me again and our deal is off.” She cuts through the gardens, spitting out something about ruining me.

Finn trails behind. “Where’d you go?”

After checking that the road’s clear, I point to the far end where carts creak past the oilery. “To the oiler.”

Lirra spins around, plowing into me. “What game are you playing, hunter? Why would you leave us at the church? Are you trying to get out of our deal?”

“Settle down. No one’s reneging. I already told you I’d help find your friend and the girls. My word is good.”

She blasts me with a squinty-eyed scowl. “That had better be the case.”

We run from the shade to a shadowed space between buildings, and after confirming once more that the tavern kinsmen are nowhere in sight, on to the oilery. Finn and Lirra go inside while I head for the stables, hoping their presence will spook the oiler’s daughter into running. She has to be on edge after my visit. Gut instinct tells me she’ll run straight for the stables when they show up in her pa’s shop. Right to where I’ll be waiting.

It isn’t long before boot steps rustle against the hay-littered floor. I wait behind a tired colt, guessing it’s the oiler’s daughter’s based on the crust of dried, foamy sweat on the animal’s haunches. He’s the only horse here that appears recently ridden. Gets me angry she didn’t take care of her animal. Girl shouldn’t own a horse if she cannot take care of one.

The young woman approaches and slings her saddlebag over the animal’s flanks, barely missing my chest.

“Where are we headed next, Phelia?” I catch the edge of the burlap and swipe my hand inside to grab whatever she’s carrying.

She yelps and yanks the bag off the horse. “That’s not my name.”

“Maybe so, but half of Shaerdan thinks you’re her. And you’re going to tell me why.”

She pinches her lips together.

My sliver of patience snaps in half.

I thrust a pouch of herbs in her face, and she blinks. “No? Then perhaps your father can tell me about this. Not many carry a Channeler mix. Only ever knew one other woman to do that. A Spiriter. Used the herbs for healing teas and other charms.”

I move to her side, dagger in hand, swinging the small bag. Last time I saw something like it was on Enat’s hip. The old woman carried one everywhere. She used the herbs to make sleeping draughts, healing aids, and wards to protect her home. “An explanation. Now.”

She staggers. But there’s no escape—something that seems to dawn on her a moment later when her hands start trembling. “I—I don’t know her. She crossed my path near Padrin and somehow knew I needed money. All I had to do was make a tea every morning on my trip home. Her requirements were to go quickly, avoid you, and lead you to Sima.”

“What’s that?”

“The next town over.”

The town with the trap. “What does the tea do?” I glare. Her explanation of the herbs makes as much sense as a donkey in a mare race.

“It’s a charm. When people look at me, they see her.”

I didn’t know charms could work that way, but there’s more to Channeler magic than I’ll ever understand. Of course Phelia, a Spiriter—the most powerful type of Channeler—would know how to use her magic this way. But why wouldn’t she just disappear? Why keep me on the hunt for a month, chasing a mirage?

“Where’d she go?” The desperation in my words sounds like a growl.

“S-s-she didn’t say.” The girl cowers, wringing her hands. “But I, ah, watched her leave. She took the northern road that cuts through the Bloodwood Forest back to Malam.”

Her words spiral inside with jagged edges. Suspicions run under my skin. Why would Phelia return to Malam? A couple of reasons come to mind—to help her lover, Lord Jamis, escape the dungeon or to take back control of the king.

I kick a hay bale to shake my frustration.

Doesn’t work.

One thing is for certain. I’m going home.