But if I flip the statement around, putting myself in Cohen’s place, I know undoubtedly that I’d do whatever was necessary to protect Cohen. And I have.
The first snowflake lands on my nose. I touch it and then hold out my hand, palm flat, to catch a few more. When I was fourteen, Cohen stayed out all night with me to enjoy the season’s first snowstorm. The night earned him a cold that lasted weeks. He wouldn’t let me feel bad about his illness. Instead he said, I would’ve stayed out two nights, if you’d asked. I told him he was mad. He said, Only for you.
But I never allowed us to linger in the snow after that. I worried that he would catch the same illness.
Now as I follow the teeny white flakes falling slowly from the sky, I’m sad that this is the first time I’ve just sat and watched them since that night with Cohen. And though Aodren is here with me, it isn’t the same. Some things cannot be replaced.
Chapter
40
Aodren
“ANOTHER STORM IS COMING THIS WAY. MAYBE A bigger one.” Britta’s hair, having fallen on her shoulders earlier, now flies around her face.
A gust of wind smacks against the tent. One side of the tarp flips up, and the securing band snaps in half.
We both rush to opposite sides of the tent. Britta reaches for the corner and winces. Her arm is still giving her trouble, which is likely because she never stops moving it around. Though it’s not nearly as bad as I figured it would be. For having only sustained the injury yesterday, I’m impressed how fast she’s healing. Especially since my hands are still numb and cold, and my feet feel as though they’ve been pricked with a hundred needles.
“You’re going to injure yourself further. Allow me to do this.” I move to her side. I fumble with the tent edge and grimace when my fingers won’t properly obey.
Britta rolls her eyes and then draws a dagger from her boot. She starts cutting pieces of a nearby bush. Despite the pain, which is made obvious only by the flicker in her facial expression, she moves quickly. “These firebushes keep their green core all winter. That makes them difficult to cut. Also they’re hard for the wind to break.”
Using her boots to hold the branch in place, she whittles off the shoots until it looks like a thin whip. She tosses it to me, tells me to fortify the rope to tie the tarp down, and starts on a second branch.
It’s times like this that she reminds me most of her father.
I take the stick and wind it through the hole of the tarp. It takes a few tries to get my fingers to do what I want, but I manage to tie it to the protruding woody root of a bush. It seems like it’s been growing for quite some time and would be harder to uproot. After giving it a sturdy yank, I look up to find that Britta has shaped the remaining branches and has secured the other sides of the tent. I shoot her a sheepish grin. She frowns at my hands and mutters something that sounds like “one more night.”
With Britta’s help, I take the saddle off Gale. I brush him down and have him follow me to a place beside the tent where he can lie down. He won’t be able to fit under the tarp with us, so I cover him with the saddle blanket.
Storms like this, with all the energy kicking through the air, have always made me feel more alive. I used to sit in my secret room and watch the storms rage around the tower. Of course, I made sure to wear warmer clothes and enjoy the comforts afforded to royalty. But the zing in the air feels the same now as it did back then. I don’t think I could fall asleep anytime soon.
Britta hasn’t said much since the snow started falling. The flakes are beautiful, in a world-slowing way, but also very cold. I fold my arms and tuck my hands close to my ribs to keep them protected.
We climb into the tent and sit across from each other, neither one of us moving to climb in the bedroll. I curl my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. The trousers are dry now, though I cannot seem to stay warm. The only time I’ve felt like the cold wasn’t going to rattle me apart was when Britta and I were pressed together.
Outside the tent, winter is a lone wolf. The wind kicks up and howls around us.
It’s a warning song of the brutal night that lies ahead.
Britta shifts her attention from the opening of the tent to me. “You’re shivering.”
“Y-yes, well, the cold and all.”
She frowns. “It’s too dangerous to build a fire out in the open. Plus it’s too windy now.” Her eyes carry to the slits in the tent opening where the wind’s icy fingers slide in. Then she looks back at me and chews her lip. “I can handle sharing a bedroll. Can you?”
I nod, trying to go for subtle, as if I haven’t been praying for her to ask that question.
Her eyes flash to the bottom of her dress, which is damp from the snow and up to me. Another tremor racks through me.
“You’ll be warmer if we share body heat . . . like last night,” she says, though it comes out more as a question than a statement. She stares hard at the bedroll.
It’s all I need as motivation to shrug off my tunic. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m bitter cold and right now her body heat is as essential as food and water.
Her eyes flare, but she turns and starts to undo the ties of her dress.
“That would be good. The storm is getting worse,” I say, to reassure her. She’s as skittish as a new lord coming to his first day of court. It’s one more night. We don’t want to freeze to death tonight.
Not when we could possibly find Omar and Cohen tomorrow. Once I meet with Omar, we can plan how to take back Brentyn and Castle Neart. I’ll decide which troops to gather. I’m not sure word has reached the fiefdoms about the lords who have died. Britta’s comment about me being able to take whatever I wanted since I’m the king has stuck with me. The thought of seizing soldiers from a fallen noble’s fiefdom and forcing them to fight for me without their fealty doesn’t sit right. Even if it’s the way of kings, the last thing I want to do is become the tyrant my father was. I won’t be like him.
Britta tosses her dress on top of the bedroll. I follow it with my trousers and tunic. Then I quickly climb into the bedroll so I don’t embarrass her further with my lack of dress. She’s left standing in a body-hugging chemise that traces her hips and the rounds of her breasts and—
Gods, I have to stop staring.
“This connection between us,” I forge ahead as she crawls into the bedroll and lies down beside me. Her eyes are turned upward while mine follow the lines of her face. “I know what you did for me was an extraordinary gift. One I’ll never take for granted. It’s not my intention to edge out Cohen.”