Boots scratch the plank floor. Men step closer.
The barkeep cocks his head. “A fortnight back, two teenage girls went missing. Upset a lot of kinsmen ’round here. A town over, a girl was taken just a week ago. Her pa saw the men who did it. Tried to fight them and lost his life. Poor man’s wife caught sight of the raiders as they were shoving her girl in a carriage. Heard ’em speak. Said they sounded Malamian. Now, why would a few ball-less scrants from Malam want our girls? Maybe they’re itching to rekindle the war they almost started. What do you know of that, traveler?”
“No more than tavern hearsay.” During my travels I’ve caught a few stories similar to this man’s. Daughters taken at night. Some snatched during the day. No women, just girls. It’s enough to raise concerns, but that’s something to focus on after I’ve got Phelia manacled.
“Now, I can see you’re a smart man,” I tell the barkeep. “You don’t really think my brother and me have something to do with that. Coins don’t mean anything. Collector’s items.”
“Your brother’s awfully silent.”
“He’s shy. You scare the piss out of him.”
A shadow shifts over my left shoulder. A giant of a man glares down at us. “Yeah, speak, boy.”
“Leave him out of this.” My unspoken warning is clear.
Another person moves behind Finn, blocking the path to the door. “Maybe we’ve caught us two of their spies. Maybe we pry loose answers about where they been hiding our girls.” His bush of a beard barely moves when he talks, the comment sliding from the slits of his lips like snakes from under a briar. He must not really think we’re the kidnappers, or he’d have gutted us already. Still, I eye his hand as it moves to the dagger tucked into his belt. “Explain yourself, boy.”
In Finn’s fourteen years, I figure I’ve seen every one of my brother’s expressions. The wide tooth-and-gum smile he flashes when he catches a river trout. How tight-knit his brows get when he’s frustrated or angry. The somber set of his eyes before we part for months on end. None of those expressions match the look he’s giving me now. Panic and fear and something more. Something like disappointment.
I put a hand on Finn’s shoulder, squeezing. Reassuring. “He’s a boy. One who needs to get back to tending fields. Not sit around in taverns. Time to go, Finn.”
“You aren’t leaving so soon” comes from the Goliath behind me.
“It’s the truth.” Finn misses the accent target by a league.
“He’s from Malam!” the barkeep yells.
Bloody seeds!
Someone reaches for Finn, but my brother skitters out of his seat. I slam an elbow into the man behind me before he can grab Finn. “Get out of here,” I rasp.
My brother jerks away, maneuvering for the door before more kinsmen come at me. Four to one aren’t bad odds, considering the barkeep is blocked by the counter.
The bearded man charges. I jump back, grab my stool, and shove it into his gut. Angling for the door, I slam a shoulder against another fellow. Fend off a punch. Take a fist square to the chin. Bludger.
I block a hit, bob out of reach from someone coming at my side, and narrowly avoid a crashing stool. Cheers erupt over the fight. A few voices shout to end it. Or end me. The tavern is chaos.
I manage to push someone onto the playing table. Cards scatter. Money falls to the floor. The diversion leaves one mountain of a man between the exit and me. He’s easily a half-head taller and a half-body bigger. The zing of his drawn sword has me cursing.
The man swings. I grasp a stool, thrusting it between us to catch his blade before it takes off my limb. My arms rattle from wrists to elbows. I use all my strength to twist the stool and shove, a move that sends the man off-balance and gives me the opening I need to flee the tavern.
Finn’s across the street, headed for an alley. I scramble after him, my breath running hard. The tavern thugs chase us around town, but they’re drunk and we’re sober. We wind through shops and hide in shadows until we’ve lost any followers.
On the northern outskirts of Rasimere Crossing, an old barn sits unused. We settle against the wall that faces the forest and catch our breath.
Sweat slides down Finn’s temples. “Cannot believe that.”
“I nearly got you killed.” I’m so angry, it comes out choppy. I promised Ma and myself I’d keep him safe. Piss of a job I’ve done.
“Nah, you made me leave before it got to the good part.”
I rub my thumb over the scar that starts beneath my cheekbone and hides in my short beard. “The good part?”
“I didn’t get any punches in, but still . . .”
“Shouldn’t have been in a situation for you to throw punches.”
“My first tavern fight,” he says, awed.
“Don’t be a fool.”
He grins, teeth and gums shining under the sun.
Footsteps clap against the ground around the corner. I grab my dagger as a girl holding a sword steps into sight. There’s something familiar about her raven hair and tan face. Irritated that she was able to sneak up on us, I gesture with the point of my blade. “Stop there and state your business.”
Her lips twitch. “Nice to see you too, Cohen.”
My frown sets. I rack my brain. Who’s this girl?
She lets out a short, squeaky laugh that sounds like it’s being pressed through a windbag. “You don’t remember who I am? We met once . . .” She trails off, as if hoping I’ll pick up the scent. “In Celize.”
“I meet a lot of people.”
Her grin fades. “At Enat’s home.”
A memory surfaces of a log home outside of Celize. My scowl shifts into surprise. “The Archtraitor’s daughter. Lirra, right?”
Her father is infamous for openly opposing the Purge Proclamation—a decree that eliminated most Channelers in Malam—and defecting to Shaerdan after his wife and small child were killed because of his outspoken defiance.
Lirra cinches up straighter than an arrow. “Don’t call him the Archtraitor. Around here, he’s just Millner Barrett.”
“No offense intended.”
She eyeballs my dagger. “Lower your blade, hunter. I know where you can find the woman you’re hunting.”
Chapter
2
Britta
“BRITTAAAA!” GILLIAN DARTS AWAY FROM THE WINDOW, her midnight-black brows arcing up toward her perfectly combed hairline. Her small hands snake around my arm without care for the dagger that I’m sharpening, and she yanks me toward the window. “Riders are coming this way. They’re carrying the royal flag.”
I pry her fingers off, pushing down the anxiety that her comment raises. In the month since she was assigned as my nurse by King Aodren, to live in my home and care for me, she’s never gleaned that I don’t share her excitement for court visitors. “Careful. I could’ve gutted you.”
She lets out a huffy laugh. “Hardly. Or should I say, it wouldn’t happen by accident.”