Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)

Since Captain Omar knows where we’re headed, it would be pointless to travel through woods that will slow us down. Our only option is to ride hard and fast to reach Celize.

Siron’s energy is high. His power thunders beneath his midnight coat. Hooves pound against the dirt road as trees fly past. I revel in the rush of the wind, knowing that when we stop, the freedom of this moment will be over. Hopefully when we reach Celize, the man Cohen calls Delmar will know where to find Enat. With only eight hours’ lead, there’s not much time to locate her.

Near dusk, we pass the road that leads to Padrin. Sitting behind Cohen gives me a clear view of the muscles clenching around his neck and jaw. I can only imagine he’s thinking of Kendrick’s betrayal. Having intimate knowledge of the hurt from losing a friend, I give him time with his thoughts while I focus on the shades of autumn that bleed across the horizon.

But when tension spreads down his shoulders and to his hands, which grip Siron’s mane like a lifeline, I take a deep breath and pull my gaze from the sky. My arms wrap around Cohen’s back, and, for the first time in fifteen months, I hug my friend.





Chapter

19


THE OCEAN IS A ROLLING FIELD OF THE BLUEST crop I’ve ever seen, filling our view two days after escaping the guards. The sea touches the horizon, swaying and moving like a living, breathing being beneath a lid of white clouds and sunshine. It’s possibly the most beautiful thing in this world.

Cohen slips off Siron at the edge of the mammoth trees and motions for me to stay behind as he darts into the open farmlands that spread out before Celize. Leaving Siron, I follow Cohen, regardless. He needs a lookout. The first farmhouse has three rows of clothes strung up in the yard. How many men live here? A half dozen? Hopefully they won’t miss a few items.

While monitoring the area for any movement in or around the home, I gesture at a billowing linen seaman’s frock, wide enough to fit Cohen. He frowns at the suggestion but snags it quickly, along with a pair of breeches and a jerkin. He grabs similar clothes for me while I keep watch until we’re back in the safety of the woods.

The short navy breeches and linen shirt, combined with a blue bandanna to cover my hair, turn me into the perfect shipmate to Cohen’s sailor attire. When he steps into full view, jerkin fastened to his taut body and sleeves puffing around his arms, I cannot hold my laughter—?it bursts from me like water slipping past a dam, swift and free and explosive. Cohen’s eyes lighten, and one side of his mouth tips up as he’s carried along in the wave. It only lasts a moment until he straightens his face and makes an incensed sound.

“Stop yer laughing,” he says, sounding gruff and serious in perfect Shaerdanian. “I’m warning you, mate, I’ll send ye between the devil and the deep.”

His ship talk surprises another roll of laughter from me. I salute him as though he were my captain, saying, “Aye, aye, sir,” and a full smile cracks his lips.

Together we snort and carry on like we’re kids once again, escaping Papa’s chores instead of running from the king’s guard.

It’s a release we both need before heading into Celize.

Great white birds with bright orange beaks swoop on the salty wind, where, beyond them, white-painted clay buildings climb the cliff that faces the ocean. Their orange rooftops and brightly painted shutters remind me of the strange birds. After we leave Siron, we make our way down a narrow road that winds between buildings. Garments hung from clotheslines flap above us like seagulls, snapping in the wind that beats against the cliffs.

Delmar, another of Cohen’s informants, owns a blacksmith shop sandwiched between a stable and other merchant buildings. Stepping out of the quiet street, we enter Delmar’s shop. Heat from the forge licks at our faces, bringing with it the smell of steel and sweat. Near the source of the blaze, Delmar, a giant of a man, dripping from the heat, pounds a mallet against something I cannot see. His arms, thick chunks of muscle darkened with a crop of black hair, work to bring the mallet down in consistent timing.

“He doesn’t like newcomers,” Cohen cautions over the clang, clang. His hand briefly touches my arm, a staying gesture, before he moves deeper into the shop. I find a place to rest by the door when Cohen and Delmar step out of view. Though surely they cannot have been gone long, it feels like hours. After a while, the heat plays tricks on me, turning my mouth dry. My tongue swells and I need a drink, but my waterskin is with Siron.

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