Chapter
7

Britta

PHELIA—NO, ROZEN—ISN’T DEAD FROM THE arrow I just shot at her. It flew true, splitting the space between her arm and ribs, cutting the material of her cloak before hitting a tree behind her. It gave me time to cut the ropes off Aodren and get him to sit up, even if he’s now flopping around in the seat like a toddler on a donkey.

He must be in shock. Moments after an arrow skimmed his shoulder, he learned that his men were killed. Their faces are chiseled into my memory. I wonder about their families. Who will grieve when they don’t return home tonight? Who will honor them through mourning?

It makes me think of my own family. Papa, Enat, and now my mother.

My mother’s dead. It’s a wish that won’t be silenced in the roar of Snowfire’s gallop. The blast of truth in her words has marked me permanently. Part of me leapt at the feel of truth, reached for it in a hungry, anxious way a starved beggar might scramble for food scraps. What I wouldn’t give to know my mother.

Just not her. Never her.

The mix of desire and dread makes me feel like my insides are trying to gnaw their way out of my skin. Gods, the sight of her alone turns my stomach. What are the black marks from? Could it be a sign that she works black magic? Her eyes were soulless. If she truly is my mother, how much am I like her? I fight the urge to glance down at my arms to ensure no obsidian veins are crawling across my skin. A tremor winds up my spine at the thought . . . all the thoughts . . . too many thoughts shoving around inside, banging shoulders, throwing fists, breaking walls.

She’s not my mother, not my mother, I repeat like a mantra as I bounce over the back of the saddle. My mother passed away when I was a baby, a fact confirmed by my father and then my grandmother. My mother was kind and loving. My mother would never align with a snake’s spawn—Lord Jamis. My mother would’ve returned for me.

And yet, I know her claim is true. Hang the truthful heat of her words.

I cannot think straight. What I should be focusing on is the woman’s ulterior motives. Why, after eighteen years, would she return now?

“Britta!”

An arrow slices through my side vision. It hits the tree to my right. The fleeting sight of another rider, a man, isn’t enough to provide information about whom the Spiriter is working with.

Bludger. I heel Snowfire to go faster.

Aodren groans—a good sign. He’s still awake. Another arrow narrowly misses my ear, but cuts close enough that the little hairs on the side of my face tingle. I duck and simultaneously shove the king forward. He goes down with an oomph, falling against Snowfire’s neck. The trees add a minor layer of protection as we dart away. But it still seems like we’re mice, trying to outrun a cat in a field of grass. I yell at Snowfire to sprint faster. I pray her energy will last.

My shooting hand grips Aodren’s waist, keeping him down for a beat before I draw another arrow and, leaning into him for support, aim behind us. The king mumbles, only it’s unintelligible, getting lost in the chase.

I see a couple of riders in the trees, but they’re not visible long enough to get off a solid shot. Eventually the sound of galloping diminishes. I no longer glimpse others. But I stay ready, weapon up, keeping an eye over my shoulder until we reach the royal hunting grounds where the king’s men catch prey to stock the castle. I figure we’ve lost them, or they’ve fallen back for whatever reason. Still, my nerves are in stitches.

The king groans a few times. At one point it comes out like “Your ma?”

Sounds muddled, but I’m pretty certain he’s asking if Phelia is my mother. I was hoping he hadn’t heard that part of the conversation. I’m not sure what to say or how to defend myself. I need time to process what I just learned.

Instead of trying to explain, I urge the horse onward, pretending I don’t understand.

The farther we travel, the more his head bobs, until he’s slouched, leaning against me, and emitting light snores. Placing my bow on the saddle holder, I keep one arm around Aodren. I relax a little, grateful I don’t have to talk. If Phelia’s chilling confession isn’t plaguing me, it’s what Aodren will do with the news. It’s difficult to focus on the gravel road ahead or the trees as they thin out the closer we get to Castle Neart.

I rub my forearm across my eyes.

Aodren’s head flops to the side, weighing his body down to the right. I nearly lose my grip. Since I cannot have him breaking his neck on royal grounds, I hold him firmly to me, allowing his head to tip against my shoulder.

I check his head for lumps to perhaps uncover how he was knocked out. His silky hair glides over my fingers, surprising me with its softness. Despite the events of the day, a smile cracks across my mouth at how easily his fair perfection messes up. After a moment or two, it’s clear he doesn’t have a head injury, so I pull my fingers away, but not before running them through his strands of gold once more. For good measure.

An hour later Snowfire’s steps echo off the wood beams and stone supports of the bridge that arcs over the steep valley surrounding the stone beast, Castle Neart. A slight touch of fear gets me to nudge the king in the side. Once I came here unconscious. The time before that, I was shackled. Last thing I want is for the castle guards to think I’ve harmed the country’s leader and done away with his men.

I’m tempted to withdraw my bow from the saddle holder. “Hey, wake up.”

Aodren moans and mutters garbled nothings.

I tug away the rest of the cut rope that’s been hanging on his legs.

Aodren’s sleepy jade eyes turn to me. He lets out a behemoth of a yawn. “Thanks. It . . . was chafing . . . me.”

I stare at him for a minute, not sure what I was expecting from His Royal Highness. “You doing all right?” I ask, after a beat.

He squints, golden brows lowering. “Yes . . . thanks to . . . your help.” It’s a scratched crackle of a sound. He clears his throat. And his expression turns more somber. “You . . . you said my men didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry.”

Perhaps it’s the tired haze mixing with a frown, but the seeming sadness and vulnerability looking back at me softens my attitude toward the man. “I should’ve died . . . died with them.”

“No,” I say, and then stop, unsure where to go from here.

“Regardless. It . . . appears I’m in your debt . . . again.”

Now that he’s found his tongue, I’m surprised by his candidness. His reaction makes me see Aodren in a different light. He’s not the detached ruler I always believed him to be. I don’t know what I was expecting; perhaps that he’d ask again if Phelia is my mother. But I’m grateful he didn’t. I’ve always thought him presumptuous and pompous. I like this King Aodren more than the king who usually visits my home.

I dip my chin, not sure what to say. Anytime seems like the natural response, only I don’t really want to sign up for that, and considering it’s a bit lighthearted for the situation, I settle for “You’re welcome.”

The royal guards tend to strike first, question later. Two men approach Snowfire as we stop at the outer gate. I fear what conclusion they’ve formed upon noticing their king, sans guards, riding with me. My heart shifts into a rickety state.

“I have King Aodren,” I blurt, though it must be obvious. Times like these I could crack myself over the head. When the king doesn’t open his mouth, I consider doing the same to him.

Say something. I poke him in the spine, and he speaks, thank the gods.

“Open . . . the . . . gate.”

The two guards, like scared dogs, cower into bows before scurrying to the guardhouse and yelling into the courtyard at their fellows. Not a moment later, the metal teeth of the gate screech upward from the bridge’s end.

How can I explain that King Aodren was attacked in the forest by a Spiriter without giving myself away? The guards will question the death of the king’s men who didn’t return. I doubt anyone besides Cohen, Captain Omar, Leif, Gillian, and me know what happened in the king’s quarters that day over a month ago. If I want a chance at living a peaceful life on Papa’s land, that’s a secret that’ll have to follow me to passing.

Other than the guard holding his sword ready, they’ve made no threat on my person. Still, I watch them carefully as the guards escort us beneath the spiked metal gate to the outer keep.

The yard smells of smoke and manure. Two men emerge from the stables. At the sight of the broad-shouldered red-headed bear of a guard, relief cracks the tension weighing on me since the glade.

“Britta.” Leif rushes to my side. “You’ve been riding?”

With the king? can be heard in his tone. He knows I’d never visit Castle Neart of my own volition. Nor spend time alone with the country’s ruler.

I shrug, having no answer to give in front of present company.

A groom lays down braided thrushes for the king to dismount onto. I slide off Snowfire’s other side into the stable dirt.

Leif approaches me while others swarm Aodren. I wonder if it’s always this way for him, men at his heels to do his bidding. I scrunch up my face. Seems that way.

Leif takes my bow from Snowfire’s holder and gives it to me. “Tell me what happened.” Coming from him, it doesn’t seem so much like a command from one of the king’s guard as it does a nudge from a good friend. He escorts Snowfire and me into a stall at the back where the stable is empty.

“He was attacked in the Evers.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I found him unconscious.”

“What about his men? Where were they?”

“Both dead.”

Leif’s shock turns his ruddy complexion pale. “Have you informed the gate guards? Anyone?”

I shake my head.

“Captain Omar needs to know right away.” He starts to leave but must see the distaste on my face. “I thought you were past that.”

I straighten my quiver and hold my bow to my chest. “Would you like to see the scars on my back?”

Leif has the decency to wince. He softly chucks my shoulder with his fist. “I’ll do all the talking. Yeah?” He signals a groom, who comes in with brushes and a towel for my sweating horse.

I mutter an agreement and reluctantly fall into step with him, trailing the guards and Aodren.

Leif veers closer, lowering his voice. “They’re going to ask how you came to be alone with the king. It’s better to have the captain on your side for this.”

I chew my lip, because though Leif has visited me nearly every day, I still haven’t confessed the connection that was forged between the king and me. I cannot tell anyone until I’ve told Cohen. There’s also the matter of telling Leif and Captain Omar that the Spiriter who conspired with Lord Jamis is nearby. She isn’t alone. And she claims to be my mother.

Unlike the few times I’ve been here before, the inner court is empty of lords and ladies. The guards must be pleased about this, seeing as the moment they got Aodren off the horse, they formed a cocoon around him. The guards can relax their circle.

Inside the inner gate, Leif informs the others that he’s taking me to be questioned by the captain of the guard. Leif and I take the hall leading away from the inner court, while the king and his men travel beneath the arcading.

The farther we walk from Aodren, the more his tug diminishes. It’s still there, but not as insistent as we pass the dungeon and take the stairs to the lower yard. With the chaos in the woods, I hadn’t noticed it till now. Even so, it’s nice to be free of the connection.

A span of emerald lawn runs from the stairs and the guards’ quarters, hugging the base of the castle to a low rock wall that edges the cliff. Here, the castle is free of the battering northeastern winds that tear through the Evers in the winter. Here, it almost could be spring for how the winter sun warms the side of the castle. It’s tempting to throw my head back and breathe in the sunshine, but I follow Leif to the guards’ quarters, where he stops at a door and knocks twice.

A whispery breeze manages to wind around the castle and whip strands of blond into my mouth. I rest my bow against my leg and weave my wayward hair into a braid. Just as I finish, the door swings open, handle grasped by Captain Omar. I pick up my bow, fingers flexing around the curved wood.

Don’t sneer. Do not sneer.

Severe scowl and a sleek graying beard give the captain of the king’s guard the look of a hawk. Hungry, ruthless predator. His gaze flicks over me, landing on my bow, before turning to Leif.

“News?” The man’s mouth pinches.

Leif explains my arrival, telling the captain the basics—King Aodren was attacked; I found him in the woods, protected him, and returned him to the castle. The tightening muscles around the older man’s eyes tell me he’s preparing to fire question after question at me.

“What happened? Who attacked him? What of his men?”

“One at a time.” It takes effort not to glower, considering the bitter taste in my mouth whenever he’s nearby. I reiterate what Leif said and end with “I don’t know how he was knocked unconscious or how his men were killed. I looked for injuries . . . There wasn’t a lot of time. But I know the person responsible was Phelia.”

Captain Omar’s hand clenches the sword fixed to his waist. “Phelia’s in Shaerdan.”

As if he could dismiss my information that easily. Apparently not is what I want to say. “She confirmed who she was to me.”

“Mother of stars, Britta.” Leif pushes off the wall. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I just did.”

“Yeah, you should’ve led with ‘the Spiriter killed the king’s men and knocked King Aodren unconscious.’”

“Is he under her control again?” Omar demands.

The king didn’t say much of anything on the way to the castle, but I would know if the Spiriter had bound him again. I would feel it. As of this moment, our connection is still intact. Still as infuriating as ever. “No.”

“Leif, you send word to Cohen. I will inform the men’s families and send guards out to retrieve their bodies.” His eyes drop, but not before I see a flash of something. Pain, perhaps regret. Captain Omar paces out of the doorway and back, turning to me. “Is there anything else?”

I know he means to take care of any questions people might ask. To control—as much as he can—what people say about the king, as I’m the last person anyone would expect to share a horse with royalty. And though I care little for Captain Omar, in this moment, I’m grateful for him. He’s the one who managed the story of what happened behind the king’s closed door a little over a month ago, making sure people know only what he wants them to know. What won’t reflect badly on the king.

And what’s good for the king, in this case, is good for me. No one has accused me of being a Channeler. No one knows the true cause for Jamis’s arrest or his dismissal from nobility. No one knows that the king was controlled by a Spiriter. For all his faults, Captain Omar is a loyal man. He would never allow information to leak if it might make the king look frail. I should confess what Phelia, or Rozen—if she truly is my mother—said, but disbelief and bile keep me from talking.

After Captain Omar dismisses us, Leif leads me up the stone stairs and through the web of hallways to the gate in the inner wall.

A guard steps into our path. “Miss Flannery, your presence has been requested.”

I yank my bow up. Leif holds his hand out, as if he’s settling a horse. Even so, the intrusion unnerves me. Makes me think of how easily Phelia got to the king today. How easily she could get to us anywhere.

The guard repeats himself, adding that the request is on King Aodren’s behalf.

I saved the man’s life and safely deposited him back at his castle. What more does he want?

I hand over my bow—no weapons are allowed in the king’s presence. Leif remains at my side as I follow the guard through the marbled halls that lead to the king’s quarters. The pull to the king grows with each step closer to his polished doors.

I swore I’d never enter the king’s private quarters again. Yet my boots dirty the lush carpet in his study, adjacent to the room where we both nearly lost our lives. I’ve gone this far; I don’t need to enter the king’s private sleeping quarters.

Leif gives me a questioning look when I refuse to go farther. I shrug and act as though my body isn’t crying to edge closer.

The guard who escorted us here along with the two who are stationed by the entrance to the king’s quarters cluster near the door.

“Leave us.” Aodren walks out of his bedroom. He’s wearing clean clothes, a change from what he had on in the woods. I glance to his shoulder, where the arrow scraped him. He moves it stiffly as he crosses the study to sit in a chair so large I cannot stop myself from guessing the number of trees cut down to make such a pretentious seat. Three? Four?

His royal head tips to the side, eyeing Leif after the guards exit.

“He can stay,” I blurt before thinking to censor myself.

Surprise flickers through Aodren’s eyes, turning them a brighter shade of ivy. They’re more alert than when we came to the castle less than an hour earlier.

“My apologies, Your Highness.” Leif bends at the waist, holding a hand over his heart. “I’ll be outside the door if you need anything.”

My glare swings to Leif, but the traitor has already turned his back on me. I curse under my breath, and Leif’s neck reddens as he slips out the door.

“He’s your friend.”

I spin around. Doesn’t sound like a question, but I nod anyway.

“Do you trust him?” All the scratchiness from earlier is gone.

“Yes.”

Aodren’s chin moves in the smallest acknowledgment and then his gaze drops, allowing me an opportunity to study him. Gold lashes contrast the dark smudges under his eyes. Earlier, he showed a bit of kindness. Something I never would’ve imagined from a king. It makes me wonder who Aodren really is. His shoulders aren’t as rigidly square as I imagine the shoulders of royalty should be. In a way, he reminds me of a lone wolf, a survivor, though managing poorly on his own.

His fingers run over the chair’s arms, dipping into the carved wood and gliding out. “How many others have your trust?”

I frown, puzzled by the path the conversation’s taking. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“Truly? There cannot be many—”

“Is that an insult? I did just save your life.” I lean my weight onto my right leg, needing the pressure of my dagger against my ankle.

“No . . . I . . .” His face goes tomato red. “I didn’t mean any offense.” He presses his lips shut. “Forgive me. I’m grateful for what you did today. I know there was nothing to be done for my men. But without you, I’d likely be dead.”

The cadence of his speech is choppy, as if he’s inexperienced at giving apologies. Which is probably true, considering he’s the king. It makes me appreciate the truthful warmth and rarity of his words.

“Three,” I admit. “There are only three who have my trust.”

“And they are?”

I shake my head.

He pauses, perhaps taken aback by my refusal. Even his hands stop tracing the carved wood. “Fair enough. We have that in common.”

A question starts to form on my lips.

“We do not trust many.” He’s careful in the way he delivers each word. “I wanted you to know that you are one of the few on my list.”

I blink, warmth crawling from my belly to my toes to the top of my head. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or to call him a fool.

“You have saved me twice now. I trust you with my life. But not just that—I also want you to trust me, Britta. I heard what the Spiriter said to you. You are her daughter.”

I was wondering when he might bring that up. “It—it seems so.”

He draws in a slow breath. “Did she say why she’s after me? What her plans are?”

I shake my head. “Only that she used you to lure me there.”

Understanding dawns, widening his green eyes. He clears his throat. “Our connection?”

My nod is met with his frown.

“How long will we be this way?” He stands, stepping away from the ostentatious chair, coming closer to me.

“I wish I knew.”

His feet stop. “She offered to teach you.” There’s a hint of a question. Does he think I’m tempted?

“I want nothing to do with her. She’s a murderer.”

“I’m sorry. Today’s meeting must’ve been a shock for you.”

“That’s an understatement.”

A smile cracks his stoic face. He runs his hands one at a time along the sleeve of his overcoat. “We cannot choose our parents, can we? Only who we become.” It seems like the strangest thing for the king of Malam to say to me, and yet it’s the most comforting thing he could say.

“I offer you a suite in the castle, to stay in as long as you’d like, for your own safety. However, I don’t expect you to accept. I know you are partial to your land. If you choose to return to your cottage, I’d like to assign guards to you. Considering Phelia is nearby, you’ll need to stay vigilant.”

“Rozen,” I correct. And when he squints, I explain, “Her real name is Rozen.”

His mouth shifts into a small O of understanding. “I’ll pass that information along to Omar.”

Anxiety spikes through me. “You won’t tell him she’s my mother, will you?”

“I was planning on it, but if you don’t want me to, I suppose I can keep that information for now. Regardless of what she’s to be called, she’s wanted for murder now. Captain Omar won’t stop until he catches her. Though, he’ll likely have to know sooner than later.”

“Just for now.”

“For now, Britta.”

The soft pause he gives my name tongue-ties me and pushes me into the ineptitude I’ve always felt while trying to pilot a conversation. “Um, no thank you for the room at the castle or the guard. I’m capable of taking care of myself. I’d rather not have men posted around my cottage. If that’s all, I should get—”

“I insist on the guards. At least until we know the woods nearby your home are safe.”

“You can have men search the woods and watch my land from the border. That should be enough.”

Brows raised, he steps back to rest a hand on the edge of the ornate wood. “Not many people would come in here and negotiate with me. But your request, though not my preference, is reasonable. I’ll talk to my men.”

What do I say to that? I don’t want to press my luck, so I remain silent.

“We’ll meet again in two weeks’ time?”

Two weeks?

Bludger. The king’s Royal Winter Feast Ball.

“Right, the ball.”

He grins, momentarily stunning me with a flash of genuine happiness. It’s disarming, causing me to nearly walk into the door. I mutter goodbye and, with a small awkward wave, leave before he can say anything more, or before I can make a fool of myself.

Leif falls into step with me once I’m out of the room. He walks with me down a spiral staircase, through the east corridor, past the Great Hall, under the arcading, and through the gate. In the outer yard, billows of steam puff from the blacksmith’s shop like smoke from a dragon’s nose. Our steps part the hot cloud, giving us a brief break from the chill in the air.

Leif waves at the smith and then nudges me toward the stables. “What happened? You haven’t said a word.”

“Just thinking about today.” And what the king said about trusting me. King Aodren’s frankness makes me think that perhaps my dislike of the man is a bit unfair. It’s not his fault we’re connected to each other.

“I promised Cohen I’d watch out for you,” Leif says. “I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

“Cohen knows I can manage on my own. Focus on being a friend. All right?”

A sweet smile lifts Leif’s freckles for a moment before his expression sinks. “Wonder what Cohen’ll think when he finds out she’s here. That she’s killed two men and went after you.”

He’ll be angrier than a bull elk in rut with no cow in sight. Even so, and despite what happened in the woods, I cannot help being pleased. Cohen will be headed back to Malam.

Leif whistles to a stablehand and orders Snowfire and another horse to be readied for travel. I retrieve my bow from where the guard placed it in the weapons hold. After I attach it to Snowfire’s saddle, I turn to Leif. “I can find the way home. You don’t have to come.”

“Safety first.” He leans closer. “Phelia is somewhere out there in the Evers. She’s after something. Until we know what, you’re not safe.”

Me. She’s after me. I think of her offer. Join her, learn from her.

Would Leif think less of me if he knew Phelia is my mother? Would Cohen? Aodren’s reaction wasn’t what I expected.

I want nothing to do with Phelia, and she knows it.

When we meet again, it’ll be the day I capture her.