“Gods, that came out wrong.” His fingers graze my neck, curling around my shoulder. The heavy warmth of his touch usually sends sparks through my core. I jerk away.
“Britt, it’s safer here. There’s no telling what we’re facing out there. This isn’t about whether or not you can take care of yourself. It’s not even about Jamis. Phelia’s still out there. I’ve a hunch that she’s a part of Jamis’s escape. At the very least, she could hurt you and expose you”—he lowers his voice—“as a Spiriter.”
Deep down, I know that what he says makes sense. Papa taught me to be cautious, not reckless. I rub my eyes, trying to erase the image of Phelia. I stare at the charcoal veins running through the granite floor, no order in the markings, much like Phelia’s skin. I feel like those same veins are winding through my innards, twisting my gut, and staining my thoughts with their black ink.
Voices echo from the Great Hall like muted bird warbles, reminding that the royal celebration is happening not far from us.
I lift my chin. “Those risks are mine to consider. Not yours.”
“Seeds, Britt.” His gaze flickers, the gold in his hazel eyes dimming, before a stony expression slides down, shutting off all emotions. “Please stay with Gillian. Enjoy the night.”
I gape at him, unsure which bit exasperates me the most—the part where he thinks I cannot protect myself, or that he thinks I’ll be able to remain at the feast and enjoy the night.
I put space between us, moving until my shoulders press to the icy castle wall. “Tell me this, Cohen, did Captain Omar make the choice not to include me on this hunt? Or you?”
A long silent beat passes. “Dove . . . please be safe,” he says, his low voice sounding almost pained. A silent apology is written between the crinkles around the edges of his eyes.
The space beneath my breastbone throbs.
Cohen cuts the distance between us in a blink and drops his lips to my cheek. He lingers for a moment, drawing in a deep breath before he leaves and strides down the hall without looking back.
Bludger.
“You too,” I whisper, ignoring the sting in the corners of my eyes. Not that it means I’m content to stay back and wait for him to find her.
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.”