Chapter
23

Cohen

“WHAT HAPPENED TO HER?” SAUL’S VOICE was no louder than a whisper, but the ferocity gave it the strength of a bear’s roar.

I laid Britta’s comatose body on the bed. “There was a mountain cat . . . it attacked. I—I didn’t have my bow . . .” The story, with all its sickening twists, poured out.

Saul reached for his daughter’s hand. Never having seen a shred of weakness in the man, I felt kicked in the gut watching his fingers tremble over her ghostly pale skin.

My hands hovered over her, useless to help. I watched the subtle lift of her chest, and it cut my own breath in half. Bleeding gods, I hated myself. I’m the reason she came into the cave.

“She saved you,” he said, voice broken in understanding as well as alarm.

I ripped at my hair as I sat down beside her. Then touched the new scar on my cheek. I knew nothing of Channeler magic, but I knew the girl I loved somehow paid a terrible price to save my life. It was a debt I’d never be able to repay, but I’d live my life trying.

The memory eases my conscience, even if the angry hurt in her voice is stuck in my head. The quick strike of my boots smacks the ground, punctuating each step from where I left Britta to the training yard. A fellow guard sees me, starts to tip his chin up in greeting, and then freezes. He moves out of my way.

How can Britta expect me not to consider the risk that Phelia poses? It’s all I’ve thought about since Britta nearly died when she saved the king.

I shove open the door to my quarters. It slams into the wall, and Finn jerks into an upright position on the bed. He clenches a small ball in his hand.

He stares at me. I tamp down my anger.

Finn relaxes against the mattress and tosses the ball into the air. “That’s quite an entrance.” He catches the ball.

When he throws it up again, my hand snakes out and seizes it. “You going to be all right?”

“I’ll be well.” His expression sinks back into the same glum frown he had on earlier when I changed my clothes and told him I was leaving. “I take it you talked to Britta.”

I wrap my fingers around the ball tighter and sit down on the edge of the bed. “Aye. Tomorrow, have one of the guards ride out with you to see her. Her woodpile was looking low. Can you tend to it?”

Finn scoots beside me. “If she’ll let me,” he says. He holds out his hand for the ball. After I give it to him, he adds, “Seems like your talk went well.”

A joyless chuckle slips out.

“I just met Britta, but you’ve talked about her for years, so I feel like I know her.”

“Your point?”

He shrugs. “Maybe she wants to chop her own wood.”

I give him a look. “Didn’t think you’d be one to gripe about chores. All I’m asking you to do is talk to her. See what she wants.”

“I’m not griping.” He tosses the ball. “I’m saying that I’ll ask, but if Britta wants to do it herself, it’s her choice.” He leans toward me, one brow lifted, eyes owlish—it’s the same knowing look Pa used to wear when he was making a point. “I might not like it because, seeds, do I love chopping wood. But I like Britta a lot.”

I smack his ball away. “You love chores, huh?”

He jabs my arm with his pointy elbow. The kid needs some cushioning on those bones.

“You know what I’m saying, Cohen?”

I mess up his hair and pull him in for a hug, even though he shoves me away. “Aye. I do. Take care, kid. All right?”

“Yeah, yeah. You too, Cohen.”

My conversation with Britta sits at the front of my mind as I ride alongside Captain Omar. I dismount Siron and, taking the torch from Geoffrey, scan the woods. Even though there’s a full moon climbing higher, the woods are good at keeping the light out. I want to be sure we’re on the right path. Leif follows behind me while Wallace and Ulrich keep watch from their horses. Ulrich is a narrow fellow, whose sharp eyes and exactness with a bow make him a formidable travel mate. Wallace, however, is average in height and strength. But he’s clever with a mace. His hand-to-hand combat skill will come in handy should we come under attack.

Our team of six has enough varying talent to take on a much larger group if needed.

So far, the tracks have led us here. The number of them indicates that Lord Jamis was traveling with haste, and he wasn’t traveling alone. We don’t know where they’re headed or whom they’re meeting with. So keeping our weapons ready, we follow the newly bent branches and boot prints through the Evers.

When we stop again, I cross through the brush to Wallace’s side and study some broken branches. I run my fingers along the bends. The limbs are turned west, indicating the group is headed for the border. Makes sense.

Captain Omar approaches. “Find something?”

I lower the torch to the trail. “Fresh prints.”

He stares west into the night. “They’re heading for the pass.”

The men exchange silent looks. No one speaks, but we all understand we need to move faster. There’s no telling what Jamis has planned, only that he seems to have a plan in place. If anything, the former high lord is one of the cleverest and most vindictive men I’ve ever met. I feel like we’re heading into a brewing storm. The kind that requires bringing extra buckets of water inside, stocking the firewood, and nailing the windows shut. Instincts tell me that if we cannot stop Jamis soon, his destruction will blizzard over Malam with a vengeance.

I think of Finn’s roundabout advice and shake my head. There are no woodpiles out here. I’d rather face Britta’s anger than let her charge into the squall.

We drive the horses hard up the mountain, stopping now and then to ensure we’re on the right path. In the past, Siron’s led the pack. Tonight, however, Captain Omar and Ulrich take the head position.

The farther we ride, though, the more the captain’s horse slows. Siron cannot help but edge up beside the lead horses. Gut instinct tells me something is off.

When we’re side by side, I notice Captain Omar patting the animal’s withers.

“You all right?” I ask.

The man’s frown is fierce. “He’s been fed, watered, and rested.” He strokes his beard. “He’s lagging. It makes no sense.”

The trees open up and we cut through a clearing. The moonlight glistens on Captain Omar’s horse where sweat has slicked over its coat.

“He’s laboring pretty hard.” I point out the foam around his haunches. “We should stop.”

The captain curses and stares off in the distance, want evident on his features. Any break we take will give Jamis more of a lead, but it cannot be helped. His horse is in a bad way.

Omar takes my advice and dismounts.

The horse huffs out a shaky breath as the captain examines his bit and reins. Hooves stomp the ground. The animal jerks, shaking his head side to side like he’s trying to break out of his skin.

“You better move back,” Leif cautions.

I agree. This behavior isn’t normal.

“Settle,” Captain Omar commands. He reaches for the horse’s bit. I think he’s going to remove it. Only the animal paws the ground, blows out a hard breath, and rears.

“Omar!” I shout in warning, but the captain doesn’t have time to react. His horse’s hooves rake the air and then come down hard, knocking the man in the head and chest. Omar crumbles to the ground.

One of the other men gasps. In that millisecond, I wait expectantly for Omar to roll to his side and stand.

He doesn’t move.

We’re all off our horses and rushing to the captain’s side. Omar’s horse darts into the woods before any of us have a chance to subdue the beast.

Shock chokes me. Did this just happen?

I drop to a knee, all thoughts gone aside from the fear that Captain Omar might possibly be dead, or very close to death. Could he survive the horse’s blow? No matter how many times I see death, it always surprises me. A person is there, and then they’re gone. So fast. I was just talking to him, and now he’s so still. A mark the shape of a horse’s hoof is purpling on his forehead. Blood leaks from the edge of the wound.

I pray there’s life still left in his body.

“Omar?” I touch his shoulder.

He doesn’t move. I stare at his chest where the other hoof left it concaved.

Watch for the rise and fall.

Breathe, Omar.

I find myself waiting until my own lungs burn.