Too soon, I’ll have to face Cohen and trade his life for mine. The anticipation is like waiting for the executioner’s ax to drop.
Now that we’re out of the forest, all around us the farms and fields stretch out in the lowlands like faded patchwork quilts. If I squinted, it would look beautiful. Open space where families grow like corn. Only, the land has grown tired and old. Unattended crops have gone to seed.
“What are you looking at?” The scruff of Leif’s rust-colored beard scratches against his uniform as he turns his chin to face me. Leif and Cohen are close in age. I wonder if Cohen grows as much facial hair as Leif. If it makes him seem older, rougher. Shaking my head, I drag my attention back to the fields. “I thought only one man in each family was required to serve in the army. Is the rumor about boys going to war true?”
“Lord Jamis wanted a stronger front, so he asked every able male to report.” Conflict underlines his words.
“That isn’t what the law calls for.” One man from each household appeases the king’s mandate. How would a family survive if they lost all the able men in their home?
“A month ago, the king changed the law.” Captain Omar’s comment catches me off-guard as he rides up alongside us. “Shaerdan’s troops are larger than ours.” I don’t think offering up young boys to be slaughtered is a solution, or stealing a family’s livelihood by requiring all men to leave, but I don’t say this. “If your Cohen continues on this route, we’ll go right through the south end of the war camps.”
There’s no enmity in the captain’s words; still, I hate the way he says your Cohen.
He’ll never be my Cohen. Not anymore.
Cohen lies in my lap, his motionless body covered in blood. I hold fast to him, as if my hands might fuse together the gashes that have opened his torso and torn his face. I rock forward and back. Forward and back.
“No, no, no, no, no!” The space beneath my rib cage is hot and full like it might explode. I cannot lose him, my Cohen.
And yet, I know it’s soon to happen. I hate that I know when death is near. I can feel the thread left of his once-vibrant presence. He’s a drop. A whisper. Cohen’s hazel eyes, dim and no longer able to focus, wander as he coughs. Crimson speckles his pale lips.
“I—?I never told you.” I choke on my words. A sob breaks out. “I love you.”
When his eyes close, my grief cuts through the woods. I’d trade my life to save his.
I wake in the dead of the night, skin clammy and cold. In those first moments, the strangest tugging sensation ghosts through me, tiny invisible feet dancing across my back and up my neck. I’m being watched. Pushing up off my front, I move onto my knees and glance around the campsite. To the shadows stained blue in the half moonlight. To the three sleeping guards snoring louder than a sloth of bears.
The same impression hit me in the Evers before I took down the bull elk. Before then, I’d never experienced the sensation. Perhaps the stress of Papa’s death, or hunting Cohen, is affecting my imagination.
Even so, I withdraw slowly from my bedroll and stand while pulling the dagger from my boot, where it’s been hidden since the lashing. Two days ago, Tomas noticed the blade was missing, but he doesn’t know I have it. The rat guard doesn’t want the captain to know he lost the dagger, so he hasn’t spoken a word about it.
Movement flickers in the trees, and then the unmistakable crunch of footsteps sounds.
Not my imagination. I suck in a breath.
Casting a wary glance at the dozing captain, I debate what the man will do if he finds me missing.
The fading footsteps snap my resolve. I shove to my feet, ignoring the slice of ache between my shoulders, and run after the intruder—?a tall man, my guess by the glimpse of his shadow.
He’s too far away to distinguish features. Too quick. I’m barely able to follow his silhouette. In an instant, he darts around another tree, leading us farther from camp. Doing everything possible to keep him in my sights, I push my legs faster, pump my arms harder, but the soreness in my back steals most of the needed grace to dodge trees and shrubs.
And then, quite suddenly, I cannot find him.
My legs slow to a jog. Did he change direction?
A familiar sound—?a whir?—splices the air just before an arrow sinks into the trunk beside me. I dive behind the closest boulder. Forget the healing lashes on my back; a war drum pounds beneath my ribs.
I lack strength and a bow. I shouldn’t have followed him. Not alone. How foolish of me.
Some time passes before I’m daring enough to peek around the rock. Except he’s gone now.
I kick the sandstone, cursing under my breath, and whip around to find the arrow. It’s buried a quarter shaft deep into the wood—?impressive for an archer. A wiggling action frees the arrow. The moonlight filtering through the branches provides enough ambient glow to take in the weapon’s details. To read the word carved into the metal tip: Dove.