But Leif’s right. Lesson learned. I won’t underestimate Seeva’s power or that of any of the women in the Guild again. I reach Omar’s room and squeeze in alongside Leif, Lirra, and the Channelers.
The women gather around the bed, and each one touches Omar in a different place. Katallia’s palm covers the man’s mouth, Yasmin’s fingers touch Omar’s collarbone, Torima’s hand rests below his navel, and Seeva’s holds his head.
Their heads dip, except for Seeva, whose mouth opens as she looks toward the ceiling. “Gods of old, grant us the energy to give this man, that he might walk again in this world.”
Then her head bows and the women begin a collective chant.
Never having witnessed anything like this, I stand there, mesmerized.
A cough breaks their words. The women step back, and Omar hacks again. His eyes crack open. He looks as hazed as a tavern rat, but it’s one of the best looks I’ve seen on him in a while.
Relief has me rushing forward, reaching for the man’s arm with my good one, verifying he’s alive even though his skin burns under my touch. “Thought we were going to lose you.”
Leif is slack-jawed. “Praise the gods, you’re going to live.”
Omar takes a labored breath. “Not . . . so . . . sure . . . yet.”
“He’ll need a couple more days.” Katallia sounds drained. “We each used our gifts. Pushed air in and out of his lungs and into his blood. Moved his blood faster through his body. Encouraged the bone to re-knit, and raised his body temperature to fight the infection.”
“We don’t have a couple more days,” I say. “We have to get to Brentyn.”
She taps Omar’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but he needs time. While we can encourage his body to make those changes, we don’t have the energy to replenish what he’s lost.”
“Like a Spiriter would?” When Britta healed me, it was instant. Figured their healing would be the same for Omar.
“You know about Spiriters?”
Behind Katallia, all eyes of the others shift to me.
“Well, yeah. Been tracking one for the last six weeks before this mess.”
“You’ve been hunting Channelers?” Seeva steps forward.
I move back. No shame in that. “Hold on, we’re after the same person. You want the people who are kidnapping your girls. I’m pretty sure one of those people is a woman who goes by the name Phelia. She’s a Spiriter who was working for the high lord of Malam to control the king.”
Seeva’s eyes narrow to slits. “You lie.”
“It’s true. Ask the captain. There was an attack on King Aodren a couple of weeks back by the very same Spiriter. The king saw girls with her at the time of the attack. And before that, Phelia bound the king’s energy to her own so she could control him.”
“How do you know these things, hunter? Did she tell you?”
While I might tell Aodren’s secret, I won’t tell Britta’s. And I know the captain won’t either, because he promised. “A woman named Enat told me about the Spiriter who put the king under a Channeler bind. I later discovered it was Phelia.”
Murmurs move through the women. They’ve heard of Enat.
“If she is indeed part of the group taking our young, then she’ll be dealt with by the Guild,” Seeva says, dismissing the conversation. “For now, you must swear an oath to us. As agreed, we’ve saved your captain and spared your lives. But when we move forward to overturn the Purge Proclamation, we want your support.
“Do you swear an oath?” Seeva takes in each of us. The wind cries through the home’s cracks. A flurry of snow batters the window.
Omar is the first to speak. “We do.”
“We do,” I repeat. I think of Britta in that moment, and what this may mean for her. The last thing I want is to draw more negative attention in her direction. But I hope like hell she can see I’m doing this to bridge the gap between our two worlds.
Chapter
39
Britta
DAWN REVEALS THE IMPACT OF THE STORM. A few fingers of snow rest over the forest. Not only will it be harder to find Cohen’s tracks; it’ll also be easier for someone to follow us. Without a bow and with an injured arm, I’m down to protecting us with just my dagger and my less accurate left arm.
I don’t want to consider what this might mean for us. My focus needs to remain on our survival.
We eat some dried venison and nuts, and get dressed. Aodren’s movements are stilted. I watch him fumble with his tunic, noting the tremor in his hands and the accompanying grimace. I offer to heal him, but Aodren resists.
“You cannot risk aiding me when you’re injured,” he says.
I let my suggestion drop because there’s no time for me to rest and recoup my energy, and there’s no telling what dangers we may face today. However, guilt pricks at my resolution when Aodren stands, walks stiffly toward Gale, and fails at lifting his foot into the stirrup. He tries to stifle a groan.
I need to find him somewhere warm to sleep tonight so he can heal from the winter exposure.
We ride Gale south as more clouds roll in overhead. Aodren sits behind me, holding on to my waist as best he can with numb hands.
For the first part of our journey, neither of us talks. It’s so much harder to converse with him this morning. I don’t know if it’s our connection stealing all my words, or the fact that we’re alone, or that I’ve seen him unclothed. Seeds, memories of last night burn my cheeks. The only man I thought I’d ever see unclothed was Cohen. But I cannot unsee Aodren, and every time I twist around to say something to him, my foolish blush is our constant companion.
Survival, I tell myself. Aodren wouldn’t have made it through the night.
When Aodren asks me about my childhood, I latch on to the distraction. I talk about Papa, Cohen, training to hunt, and growing up in Brentyn. I tell him about the time Cohen and I got into a scuffle with some boys over a bag of apples. “There’s a tree half on Papa’s property and half on royal lands. As we picked Papa’s apples, I got it in my head that the ones on the other side of the tree were better. So I picked some, but a couple of boys from town saw me. They told me if I didn’t give them all the apples, they’d turn me into the guard.”
“And did you?”
I move my head side to side. “No, but I gave one a black eye. Cohen told the other kid that if they said a word about the fruit or me, we’d come after them that night.”
He laughs. “Ah, so you were brazen and friends with a bully.”
“Cohen isn’t a bully—he’s just . . . protective.” A warm smile spreads across my face. He was definitely an intimidator when needed. Which is why he makes such a great bounty hunter. It’s also why he made such a good friend. I always felt safe. Cherished.
Aodren seems to mull over what I’ve said, pausing long enough that it almost tips into awkward silence. “You’ve been friends a long time.”