“That’s not what I meant.”
She offers a wan smile. “Well, then we must find the Spiriter when we reach the castle. Once she’s in sight, I’ll break the bind before she realizes what’s happening. Only if she fights the unraveling of her magic will we need to subdue her with the tea.”
Though I haven’t seen Enat use her gift, I’m certain she’s a force to be reckoned with.
Once we’ve eaten the roasted quail, we travel all through the day and into the next night, bringing us to the Evers and hours from Malam’s border.
Chapter
36
THE SILENCE OF THE BIRDS WAKES ME.
Someone is here.
I slowly rise, hand on my dagger, and leave the warm blanket behind to step into the frigid morning. Enat and Cohen are sleeping as I quietly slip the dagger into my boot and grab my bow.
I walk farther from camp, hoping the energy pulsing around me will give some clue.
The light shifts ahead.
I crouch, grasping for my bow and notching an arrow. The rough bark of a pine tree jabs into my back as I draw a slow inhale, hold it, and then let it out while I monitor the woods, waiting for my target to make his appearance.
A dozen paces north, a man moves around a tree. His steps are marked with the sure carefulness of a trained hunter. Any question of who this man is dies the second I see the royal stag on his uniform. A watchman.
The guard heads straight for our camp, drawing closer to Enat and Cohen than I am. Panic zips through me.
I slide my right foot forward, adjusting my weight to my front leg to gain a better defensive position.
The man stops. Looks around. Cocks his head in my direction.
I cannot let him get any closer to Enat and Cohen, who are sleeping and unprepared for a fight. Shaking off the nervous tremors in my hands, I raise the bow. The tension releases with a twang. My pulse hurtles through my veins as I take in the scene: the arrow piercing the guard’s coat, pinning the material to the tree, and the surprise flooding his face. I pray I haven’t made a grave mistake in sparing this man’s life.
His hands fly into the air as he searches the trees for his attacker. “I mean no harm to you.” His voice wobbles.
Harmless isn’t an accurate descriptor for a border guard. My mother’s story is proof of that.
“I’m looking for Cohen Mackay. Are you with him?” His words echo through the trees and warm me with their honesty. I am immensely more wary than seconds before. Of course he’s looking for Cohen. All the king’s guard are searching for the alleged murderer, but I’d serve myself up to another mountain cat before I’ll turn Cohen over.
The guard must think I’ve left because he drops his hands and twists to snap the arrow. Before he is completely free, I shoot another, catching the man unaware as the arrow slices through the material at his shoulder, possibly nicking skin. Instantly, the man freezes.
“I—?I—?I got your message.” His face is gray as his wide eyes zip from limbs to the needled groundcover. “I meant what I said about meaning no harm. If you don’t wish to be known, leave now. I won’t follow. There aren’t many travelers through this pass, and . . . and yesterday I came across a sign from my friend. I thought you were him or with him. If I’ve made a mistake, let’s both walk away from this as strangers. Please. I’ve a family.”
I bite my cheek, debating what to do next, but the verity of his words stops me from walking away without making myself known. “Who left you a sign?”
He jerks toward the location of my voice. “Cohen Mackay. Is that—?are you Britta Flannery?”
He knows me.
“He’s my friend,” the guard says urgently. “He left signs so I’d know he was passing through. I’m here to give him news.”
I cannot get over the stag and stripes on his coat. “You’re one of the king’s guards.”
“I am,” he says. “Though I’m here now not as a guard, but as his friend.”
Before I can answer him, my neck prickles, sensing Cohen’s nearness.
“Britta?” Cohen whisper-yells. He cuts through the undergrowth, directly for me, his steps only slowing when he has me in sight. His shoulders relax. “What are you doing over here?” he asks, at the same time the guard says, “Cohen.”
The tension snaps back into place over Cohen’s features; his body coils like he’s ready to pounce. His gaze darts to me, to my bow, and then around the woods in search of my target.
“Cohen, it’s me, Bernard.” The guard jerks against the arrows, breaking them.
“Bernard! You found my tracks,” he says.
“You left tracks?” I’m stunned I didn’t notice. I cannot afford to miss anything out here.