Chapter
17

Britta

ALL NIGHT, COHEN’S WORDS ROOT BETWEEN MY bones like the morning glory that infests the fields. After Papa passed, when I was too weak from hunger to tend much more than the cottage, the weeds spread, winding around the year-old crops, creeping over an old plow, wiggling into the barn’s cracks. Morning glory has a way of getting into the smallest crevices.

As does Cohen’s question.

Instead of focusing on the fact that Cohen’s sleeping outside my bedroom by the hearth while I share the bed with Gillian, I waste away the early hours of the morning weighing the motive behind the king’s kindness. In a country that has outlawed Channeling, what use could he have for a Spiriter? I don’t like thinking there’s intention behind his gifts. But not considering Cohen’s claim would be naive of me. If only it didn’t make my ability seem more like a curse than a blessing.

The next morning, Gillian bustles around the house, setting pots where they belong and tossing the dirty kitchen water out in the yard by the privy. Cohen is in the stable brushing down his moody ink-blot of a horse.

“They won’t jump into the basket on their own.” Gillian points at the small pile of feathers.

I snap out of my daze and shoot her an exasperated look while I finish sweeping.

“Is that your new morning greeting? An eye roll?” She fluffs her hair.

Her teasing breaks my bad mood. I huff out a laugh while cleaning up the pile.

When I’m done, Gillian takes the basket from me and dips her hand into the feathers. “The pillows could use a bit more stuffing.”

That’s putting it nicely. The pillows are practically empty oat sacks. It’s been ages since I kept feathers for bedding. When Papa was alive, we’d use the quills for arrows or we’d take the extra to market.

“Perhaps it’ll help you sleep better.” Her lips curve in sympathy. My tossing must’ve kept her up last night. Despite her playful picking, she’s never complained about the conditions in Papa’s cottage.

After gathering the few pillows from the cottage, she sits on her favorite chair—the one Papa carved from an old chestnut tree. I find it impossible to dislike Gillian. I doubt she’s ever met a person who didn’t become her friend.

“Need any help?” I ask.

“No, thank you.” Her fingers work at unpicking the seams on my pillow. She glances up, her head tipped. “Perhaps Cohen needs help in the stable.”

The door swings open, cutting me short.

Cohen’s brown mess of hair hangs over his forehead. Using his forearm, he pushes it back. “I just got word from the castle. Captain Omar’s requesting a meeting. The man doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

An understatement. Captain Omar’s about as patient as a pig in labor.

Cohen hesitates, then asks, “You want to come? You can meet Finn. And Lirra.”

Gillian’s eyes whittle to points. “Who’s Lirra?”

Cohen shrugs. “Just a girl I met in Shaerdan. She helped me track the woman I thought was Phelia.”

Gillian pauses before entering the bedroom. “You brought a girl home from Shaerdan?”

I sit straighter than an arrow, taking this in from the very man who was acting like a jealous fool the night before. Anger flashes through me.

“You rushed home from Shaerdan, and yet had time to pick up a girl?” I work out my confusion and irritation aloud.

“Yeah.” Cohen moves to the table and crouches to pick up a few stray feathers. He acts like he’s said nothing of consequence. “Lirra helped me discover Phelia’s ruse, and I agreed to help her find someone. Her friend is one of the Shaerdanian girls who’ve gone missing.”

Mention of the girls cools my temper, and I feel silly for having been irked in the first place. I also feel guilty. After all, I’m the one who is still keeping secrets.

Surprise replaces Gillian’s confusion. “Have there been that many?”

He gives a solemn nod, and then puts the extra feathers in the pillow pile.

I can tell he’s more troubled than he’s letting on. Cohen rubs the back of his neck until his skin brightens. “Would it be possible for Lirra to stay here?”

Surprised by his question, I step back and knock into a small table. “Here?” My voice is a squeak. It’s not that I don’t want to help Cohen, but my space is a commodity I’ve fought hard for. And there’s not much here to share. Not with Gillian living with me. Although, now that she’s been at my cottage for over a month, I cannot imagine how quiet and lonesome it would be without her. Of course, I won’t tell her this. Wouldn’t want to inflate her raven bouffant any more.

“She cannot stay at the guards’ quarters for long. It would just be until I can locate her friend and then return her safely over the border.” Cohen’s voice lowers. He glances over his shoulder at the bedroom door where Gillian’s disappeared. “Lirra’s the Archtraitor’s daughter. You met her at Enat’s home.”

Oh. The memory brings a smile and then the sharp pain of grief.

“I don’t want Omar to find out who she is,” Cohen is saying. I blink, coming fully back to the present. “He’d throw her in the dungeon without a second thought. I’d take her on the road with me, but it puts her at risk of getting caught. She’d be killed if that happened.”

So why’d he bring her to Malam? I ask him as much and he says, “Because she’s stubborn, and won’t leave till she finds her friend. The girl’s so stubborn that she insisted I make arrangements for her to stay in my empty quarters so she could follow up on servant gossip about a girl who was found in the woods. Doesn’t matter that she’ll be poking around under Captain Omar’s nose.”

“Seeds, she’s definitely going to get thrown in the dungeon.”

Cohen huffs. “Here’s hoping she hasn’t been already. That’s why I need to get her out of Neart after I meet with Omar.”

“Who’s going to throw whom into the dungeon?” Gillian reenters the room.

“A little privacy, please.” I break out a pleading look.

“Can that be had in a one-bedroom cottage?” Gillian inspects her nails and then flicks her hand in the air. “I think not.”

Cohen chuckles.

I sigh. “Yeah, I’ll make room for her here.”

“Thank you, Dove,” he says, his tenor soft and sweet. His fingers hook mine, and he tugs me to him. “Come to the castle with me.”

My choice is made. The six weeks of separation was torture. Yesterday’s reunion had too many rough edges to be satisfying.

I hurry into the room to hide my trousers under a skirt and tuck my tunic into my waistband. Gillian’s comb smooths my hair, and I braid it into a plaited length. After cleaning my hands and face in the washbasin, I tuck my dagger into my boot and belt one of Cohen’s old rapiers at my waist. I wave goodbye to Gillian.

Cohen stands beside Siron, hand on the horse’s withers. “Ride together?”

I consider it for a moment, but shake my head. To get to the castle, we’ll have to ride through Brentyn. Cohen cannot help but draw attention from adoring townspeople because he’s the king’s bounty hunter. Especially the female population. It’s been years since we rode together in Brentyn. I’m ashamed to admit, I’m still self-conscious about the fact that Cohen could be with anyone.

I look at the castle’s sword-like spires that protrude from the tops of the evergreens. Maroon flags stain the tips of each gray peak. Castle Neart is supposed to be the heart of the Malam Mountains. Today, though, it seems to have taken on a darker aura, like each spire is a giant sword impaling a great green beast.

We garner a dozen glances and half a town’s worth of hushed gossip as we ride through the royal city.

I’m a landowner, unlike most of the townspeople clogging the market. I’ve a right to be here as much as they. I repeat this to myself as we pass the church and the pillory, where, yet again, a woman is manacled to a cross of cedar and shame. I fight the temptation to sink low in the saddle and let my shoulders slump forward. Holding my head high, I own the road all the way to Castle Neart.

The outer yard of the castle is bustling with servants. At the sight of Cohen, a stablehand scurries across the yard to retrieve our horses. All throughout Malam, Cohen is regarded as a hero. Once his name was cleared, the townspeople rallied around him. Once more their beloved bounty hunter.

I’m relieved. Having never felt the country’s judgment before, it must’ve been hard for Cohen.

Once our horses are stabled, I follow Cohen through the inner keep and down the stone stairwell to the guards’ quarters. We’ve barely stepped onto the training yard when a vision of Cohen at fourteen comes barreling toward us.

I stumble back, happily surprised at the welcoming reception. “Well, hello.”

“Finn,” Cohen barks. The rest of his words are lost to the arms flying around me, snaking me in a headlock. Or a hug. I cannot tell.

“Get off her.” Cohen yanks me free.

I take in the boy with big fawn eyes and a sloppy grin.

“I’m Finn.” He lifts up on his toes and then settles into his heels. “You’re Britta, Cohen’s girl.”

My brows shoot to my hairline and I laugh. Cohen sputters out a cough. The scene draws Captain Omar’s attention away from the guard he’s sparring with. The captain sheathes his sword and stalks across the yard to greet Cohen.

“You’re thinner than I thought you’d be,” Finn says, snagging my focus from the men.

Cohen stops talking to the captain to swat the back of his brother’s head. “Not how you start a conversation with a lady.”

Color like a ripened peach overtakes Finns cheeks. He ducks away from his brother, stepping closer to me and dropping his voice. “I’m not saying it’s bad. I just thought, by how Cohen described you, ya might look more like those guys.” He throws his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the sparring guards, strapping and muscle-bound. Sweat dampens their tunics. Metal clashes. Their faces contort as they grunt and parry blows. “But you’re decently pretty.”

I laugh, liking the straightforward ring of his compliment.

I shift my weight. “How exactly does he describe me?”

“Tough and full of grit. Like Leif, but in a skirt. Well, maybe not a skirt. But a Leif-like girl, though a little more sure-footed.”

Well, then. I grin. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But he also worries about you because he’s gone for you.”

Now I’m the one blushing.

Finn shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “Guess I should’ve waited to meet you before making a judgment.”

Cohen, who’s been watching our exchange, wraps his arm around Finn’s neck and tugs the younger boy closer. “Did you and Lirra stay out of trouble?”

Finn points toward the row of doors that line the side of the castle, where a handful of guards surround the dark-haired girl I recognize from Enat’s home.

Captain Omar ignores me as he starts up a conversation with Cohen about the attack in the woods. I listen in as the man explains they’ve had no luck finding Phelia or the people she’s working with.

Captain Omar taps his fingers on the hilt of his sword. “There’s been another development.” His eyes shift to me and Finn.

“Go on.” Cohen crosses his arms.

The captain’s mouth twists before he whispers, “A teenage girl was found in the woods.” This must be the gossip Cohen heard from the castle servants. Omar goes on to explain that Leif rushed an injured girl to the castle. The healer tried to save her, but she died before they could find out what the marks on her arm meant or whom she was running from.

Cohen’s shock mirrors my own. I hope for Lirra’s sake it wasn’t her friend.

Cohen runs his finger along his scar. “Her family hasn’t been located?”

“No. We think she might be from Shaerdan.”

“And you don’t know what led to her death?”

Another shake of Omar’s head.

A curse sounds under Cohen’s breath. “Near the border, after I met up with Lirra, I came across Lord Conklin. He had a few men with him and some girls who weren’t there of their own will.”

The only time I’ve seen shock register on Omar’s face like now was when he discovered Lord Jamis had killed my father.

Omar lets out a heavy breath. “What happened to him?”

I wonder why Cohen didn’t mention this to the captain yesterday. But my body flushes a little when I think of yesterday’s reunion. Cohen relays the story of how they killed a couple of Conklin’s men, but saved a young girl before the lord got away with the rest of the girls.

“Do you know whom he was working with?”

“No. Whoever it is clearly wants Malam and Shaerdan to go to war.”

Omar takes a moment, hand gripping the hilt of his sword. “I’ll report the information to the king. For now, stay vigilant, return here tomorrow. You can have one more night away from the guards’ quarters.”

Cohen starts to argue, but the captain jumps back in. “It is unseemly for you to stay at Britta’s cottage, whether or not you care. At least Miss Tierney is there as a chaperone.”

Cohen steps forward, hands in fists. “Don’t say another word.”

Omar straightens his coat. “Only a warning, Cohen. Rumors are hard to stop once started. Right now, with unrest in the country, you don’t want to draw negative attention to yourself.” Omar’s eyes flick dismissively to me. “Or others.”

“I’ll be back tonight after I see the women to the cottage,” Cohen bites out.

When Captain Omar leaves, I can tell in the pinched lines around Cohen’s mouth that he’s angry. I hate that he isn’t going to stay another night. But this is better for him. I know what it’s like to live under others’ scrutiny. I don’t want to be the person who brings Cohen down.

Lirra says goodbye to the guards and crosses the yard.

Cohen shakes off the conversation with Omar and introduces me to Lirra as if we’ve never met. The sadness that blows through me at the sight of her makes it impossible to not remember our first meeting at Enat’s log home.

“Find anything out?” Cohen’s voice drops to a whisper.

“It wasn’t Orli.” Lirra’s shoulders sag.

“But that’s good news, right?”

“I saw her body, and I think I know how she was killed.” Lirra’s glance darts around the field, but we huddle closer, keeping her words secret. “I’m afraid Orli might face the same fate.”

“Which is?” Cohen steals the words right out of my mouth.

“Her power was stolen.”

“Is that possible?” I blurt, and then realize it wasn’t a whisper. I ask once more, quieter.

Lirra nods. “Aye. It’s Spiriter dark magic, but it’s possible. A Channeler cannot live if all their ability is stolen by a Spiriter.”