Never in my life have I possessed the power to heal anything. Truth and lies are discernible to me, and I have an uncanny knack of knowing when animals are close to death. But healing a dog? Normal girls simply don’t heal dogs. It’s a mystery. An alarming, confusing mystery.
I wish I knew more about my mother. Papa rarely spoke of her. She grew up in Shaerdan. Was she also a Channeler? A healer? Could the same power run through my veins? And yet, if that were so, Papa would’ve told me. Wouldn’t he?
Control yourself, thoughts and actions. Then you can combat the world. There’s no comfort in Papa’s words, not today when my mind is spinning and utterly out of control. The farther we travel, the more uncertainty plays tricks on my mind. And Cohen surely isn’t saying anything.
The water helped restore some of my energy, but not enough to keep me awake against Siron’s drumming tempo. My lids droop, my joints ache, and my head pounds. More fatiguing is the allure calling to my entire body at Cohen’s nearness. My gritty eyes close and open, fighting to stay awake; it’s all I can do not to meld into him when his large hand strays from my waist to my head, holding me to his sturdy frame. His breath dances against my cheek.
“Sleep, Britt. I’ve got you.”
Distance, my head cries. But my body, a pushover to his warmth seeping into my back, battles me into silence. His spice and woodsy notes drift with me into the dark.
The scene at the well slowed us down. To make up for it, we travel all night and through the next day. Honeysuckle-and-amethyst rain clouds hover over the lingering blaze of sunset from a storm that passed through earlier.
Once the sun drops and the temperature dips, my flesh bumps up like a chicken’s. The tunic I’ve been wearing for days is too thin, and my weak muscles quiver against the chill in the air.
Cohen mutters a curse under his breath and tugs the reins north. “Padrin’s not far off. It’s a small forest village, away from the main road. We’ll sleep there.”
“Shouldn’t we stay in the woods?” My jaw jitters. Though the idea of sleeping somewhere warm appeals to me, it would be reckless. It’s easier to escape the guards if we steer clear of towns. I can tough it out. A little cold has never hurt me.
“You need a decent night’s rest, maybe two.” His arm flexes around my midsection.
When I object again, his chin dips closer to my ear, his voice insistent. “We’ve been in streams and backwoods for five days on a zigzag course to lose them. Padrin is so far from the main road, they’d never consider checking for us there.” His proximity muddles my thoughts. Makes me think a night indoors doesn’t sound half bad. “If anything, Britt, a day or two there will get them off our scent.”
The planes of Cohen’s torso down to the muscled ridge of his abdomen tense behind me. I cannot stop another shiver from seizing me. He makes a small noise as if my shudder is due to the cold and I’ve proven his point. “We’re sleeping on a bed tonight.”
If there weren’t a road leading into Padrin, a traveler might miss the forest-camouflaged town. The shops and homes, the color of mud, sit wedged between thick, gnarled trees. An earthy tang of new rain mixed with lumber and ripe manure masks the air around a pig farm on the far west reach of town.
Bludger, it’s terrible. At least the odor works to mask Cohen’s inebriating scent. The man’s been traveling for days. Weeks. How can he smell so good?
Cohen nudges Siron toward an inn that sits on the edge of the forest. “I know the owner—?he’s an informant of mine,” he explains as we ride along the back to the stable. “He’ll alert us to any trouble.”
Cohen leaves to make arrangements for rooms while I wait in the stable with Siron, who, per usual, regards me with a casual glance and a snort, though he seems chipper to be out of the woods. Not much later, male voices echo from outside the stable just before Cohen enters with an older man who could be my father’s age.
“I’m Kendrick.” The man extends his callused hand to me in a handshake and then claps me on the back. “Put some more meat on your bones, lad. You’re a mouse compared to Cohen.”
I cough to cover my surprise and realize the cap still hides my hair. Even so, the word “lad” rankles. Outside the well, Cohen didn’t seem to care that the woman knew I was a girl. If it was safe there, why wouldn’t it be safe around his friend? Why didn’t Cohen introduce me to his friend? I’m probably being ridiculous, but it feels a lot like the stinging rejection of my youth. Cohen was never ashamed to introduce me as his friend when we were younger. In fact, he often stood up for me. So what’s changed?
My thoughts are apparently loud enough to garner a questioning stare from Cohen.
I push down my annoyance and give him a subtle headshake, letting him know it’s nothing. Since it should be nothing.
“Have you any news?” Cohen asks.
Kendrick’s eyes dart to me, and Cohen says something about me being trustworthy.
The man’s questioning expression changes to acceptance. “The courier you asked about, Duff Baron, will be in town tomorrow’s eve for the Merryluna Festival.”