I like the idea of an older, rugged Cohen. More than I should admit.
A year and three months have passed since Cohen completed his apprenticeship and became one of the king’s court, taking up the title only my father, my grandfather, and all Flannery men before them held. As one of the king’s two bounty hunters, Cohen is allowed to travel through Malam’s fiefdoms and cross the borders. It’s unimaginable to me. I’ll never have the chance to leave Malam.
When Cohen left without a goodbye, I hoped he would visit. Except he didn’t return; not even for Papa’s wake.
Using the heels of my hands, I try to rub him out of my mind. A useless endeavor. Cohen has taken up too much space in my heart and head for the last five years to dismiss so easily. As always, my thoughts turn to his long absence. And I wonder if he never returned because he realized there’s no future for us.
As the king’s bounty hunter, Cohen is in a league above commoners. Ten leagues above me. Like Papa, he’ll be revered for his position in the king’s court. He’ll be considered nobility and be given lands. And if he chooses, he’ll marry the daughter of a lord.
A noble marriage, let alone any union for that matter, is about as likely for me as the king himself proposing. I snort at the idea.
All that came with Papa’s honored title, home, and land returns to the king, since Papa has no living relations except me. And I’m ineligible to inherit. Though my parents married in Shaerdan, the law only recognizes unions made before a priest of Malam. Before they could do so, my mother was accused of selling secrets to Shaerdan and killed.
In the law’s eyes, I’m illegitimate. To most of Malam, I’m Shaerdanian. But to some, the gossipmongers in Brentyn, I’m a traitor’s daughter.
None of that matters to me, though, because like my father, I’ll always be a Flannery, and I can take care of myself.
At sunrise, I walk to the crystal-clear lake and splash water on my face. Brisk morning air fills my lungs and prickles my skin. It isn’t until I’ve patted dry with my tunic that a disturbance along the muddy shore seizes my attention. Fresh boot prints. A man’s—?by the size of them.
I leap to my feet, spinning wildly to search the clearing. Like yesterday, nothing stands out. Nothing more than evergreens and the glassy blue water spread beneath the cloudless sky. Even so, there’s no question now.
I’m not alone.
Chapter
2
IT ONLY TAKES A FEW MOMENTS TO THROW together my pack and to shove strips of cloth-wrapped elk around my bow and blade. A pile of elk cuts remains on the edge of my camp, but there’s no room left in my bag. I groan and curse the leftovers. But I cannot carry it all. Nor can I risk returning.
I glance at the lake. At the boot prints.
An arrow of fear zips through me.
The lucky forest animals will get to devour the remainder. I quickly fasten a gray woolen skirt over my trousers and adjust my tunic, belting it at the waist like the style worn by most townswomen. Balancing the heavy bag on my shoulder, I dart out of the clearing, eyes peeled for any signs of movement in the trees and undergrowth.
Autumn bites the air as I hurry down the mountain.
Brentyn’s royal cathedral sits like a stone watchman, its spires snaked in green ivy and piercing the sky. A sullen viol harmony drifts through the stained glass. It clashes with the market sounds: commoner chatter, shouts from traders, creaking carts, cooing church birds. I hide in the cathedral’s shadow and smooth down my braid. I’m restless and anxious, as always when coming to town. Today, though, with boot prints on my mind and poached meat burdening my bag, the usual nerves feel more like a bout of winter ague.
Something at the far end of the square has drawn the crowd’s attention. People shuffle closer, filling in the square like pigs in a pen when the slop is served. On my tiptoes, I stretch to see what has everyone’s interest. My insides twist harder.
A woman is in the pillory, wrists and neck captured in the wood planks. Dried blood clings to her broken lip. Agony is written on her tear-stained and dust-caked face as she shifts her weight from one filthy, swollen foot to the other. A ring of dirt surrounds her—?a ritual believed to draw out a Channeler’s power.
A farce is what it is. If a woman draws water from a well thought to be dry, she’s a Channeler. If she walks through a storm and doesn’t catch a sniffle, it’s black magic. All the real Channelers fled to Shaerdan, where their magic originated, twenty years ago during the Purge.