No show of gratitude could ever be enough for Caitlyn McFarland, who helped me take the seed of an idea and mold it into a flushed-out story. Thank you, Caitlyn, for being my sounding board, my first reader, and my friend when I was sleep deprived and whiny. My heartfelt thanks go to Lindsey Leavitt, who took my plot crises and showed me a smorgasbord of possibilities. When I started to lose my way, Charlie Holmberg, Kathryn Purdie, and Pintip Dunn helped draw more emotion into the story by giving invaluable romance advice. To Rahul Kanakia who is brilliant and knows exactly when to call me and share anecdotal humorous advice. My gratitude to Veeda Bybee for writing on my couch when I needed a friend and nudging me to continue learning and growing. And the hugest huggy thanks to Jodi Meadows and C. J. Redwine who are practically shoe-ins for Buffy the Vampire Slayer because they saved me from a rabid bat attack and became my go-to cheerleader support when I wanted to give up.
I would be utterly adrift without my agent, Josh Adams, who always manages to steer me in the right direction. Thank you for being my champion on this literary journey. I am ever grateful that you found value in that first manuscript I sent your way.
My heartfelt thanks goes to Nicole Sclama, who found the heart of my story and helped it to beat through the pages. And to my wonderful team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt—Tara Shanahan, Tara Sonin, Alia Almeida, and Emma Gordon—you have provided wonderful support, creative marketing ideas, and stunning books. You are a joy to work with.
While writing Once A King, I found friends in the blogger/Instagram community that inspired me and encouraged my love of reading and writing. Thanks to Christine Manzari for supporting me and offering friendship. Many thanks to the wonderful Bookstagrammers that have welcomed me and offered wonderful advice—Bridget Howard, Kristen Williams, Kayla Cercone, Erin Fehres, Cait Herold, Brittney Singleton, Brie Wood, Tara Hansen, Christy Mullins, Fallon Vaughn, Kristina Selby, Rebecca Longi, Joanna Garcia, Dina Dennaoui, Meredith Mara, Sara from @novel.novice, Lori from @Loriimagination, Lisa from @lifeinlit, Nicole from @fearyourex, Christy from @cbookaddiction, Anna from @thecityofdarkclockwork, Mariana from @bookisglee, and Mai from @bookish_mai.
My warmest thanks goes to those that have been willing to hear my ideas and give feedback and friendship over the years—Peggy Eddleman, Jessie Humphries, Emily King, Tricia Levenseller, Elana Johnson, Adam Johnson, Sara Larson, Rosalyn Eves, Brekke Felt, Taffy Lovell, Erik and Shanelle Bayles, and Rob and Karly Code.
And last but not least, to all the readers. I’m ever grateful for your kind words and willingness to read my stories. Your continued support and pre-orders always humble me.
Chapter
1
TO SURVIVE THESE WOODS, A MAN HAS TO BE strong as the trees, Papa had said. The memory is a whisper compared to the attention my cramping stomach demands.
I try not to think of him or my trembling legs as I dust my boot prints from the path with a broken branch. Every starved scrap of me begs to stop and hunt here on the foot trail in the Ever Woods. Only the danger of getting caught propels me onward, boots stumbling over rocks and dirt.
Weak as I am, I won’t make it through the craggy Malam Mountains to where King Aodren’s land edges the lowlands. It’s a two-day walk. Two long, grueling days. Spots dance in my vision. Seeds, I need food. Papa’s old training spot will have to do. The king’s guard, the eyes over the royal city of Brentyn, aren’t likely to catch me there. Through a pinched, rocky canyon, the remote site has only been used by Cohen, Papa’s former apprentice, and me. A spasm racks my insides, and the decision is made. To the practice clearing.
The sun’s halfway to its peak when I stumble into the glade. Heady, sweet pine scents the brisk air. The leaves on the white-barked quaky trees around the nearby lake glow like embers, fiery gold and auburn against the evergreens. The sight is a warm welcome home.
Though starved and here to hunt, I cannot stop myself from finding our tree and tracing the carved names: Britta & Cohen.
Nor can I swallow the emotions that lump in my throat.
Since Cohen left last year to work for the king and Papa was killed two months ago, I’ve kept the pressing loneliness mostly at bay, managing it in little pieces. But this morning, it’s like isolation up and walloped me in the face.
I swipe a sneaky tear away and ready an arrow to my bow.
My body resembles a freckled skeleton for how thin I’ve become. Not much will change my paleness, but catching a squirrel or grouse will satisfy my hunger. Something to strengthen me. Later, I’ll bag a larger beast. Winter’s not far off, and I desperately need a decent kill to trade for lodging. The king’s guard will soon seize my land—no, Papa’s land—now that my mourning is over.
Bludgers will be pounding on my door in a couple days, foaming at the mouth over my cozy, one-room cottage. I pull back on my bowstring, testing the pressure, needing to shoot something. Anything. To keep a Malam tradition—home isolation for two months of mourning—I nearly starved, and now must break the law, since no one brought food after Papa died. Never a kindness for me—Britta Flannery—daughter of a Shaerdanian and, therefore, an outcast.
A year before my birth, the king regent closed the border between Malam and Shaerdan. Since then it seems all of Malam contracted amnesia; nobody remembers the good that came from the neighboring country. Once, we prospered from Shaerdan’s trade and relied on Channelers’ healing salves. Now we shun them for their strange Channeler magic. We fear what they can do.
With a huff, I push down the anger and focus on the hunt.
That’s when I discover the print of an elk hoof, two half circles with pointed ends. The moisture puddling inside the tracks reveals that the elk was here recently. My pulse quickens at the promise of a good catch as I stand stiller than a tree to listen for the elk’s movement. Birds whistle; leaves swish. All normal sounds of the Ever Woods, but something is off. That something abruptly tugs inside me, and an invisible finger skitters unease up the back of my neck.
I’m not alone.
My eyes ricochet from the branches to the shrubs to the sky, seeing everything and nothing. I spin around, expecting to meet the red coats of the king’s guard, and only find pine trees. I bite my lip. Swipe ghostly blond strands of hair out of my face.
Who else could be here?
No one dares hazard a hunt in the king’s Ever Woods. Hunting is only permitted where royal land ends near Lord Devlin’s fiefdom. That’s two days west in the Bloodwood firs or three and a half days south. On a rare day, poaching will get a man whipped or tortured. Most days, death.
I clench my bow and push myself to search for signs of an intruder: broken tree limbs, prints in the soil. It’s frustrating to abandon the elk hunt, but safety ensures survival—Papa’s first lesson.
An hour of combing the underbrush passes before the strange sensation disappears. Which in a way is more unsettling, since my instincts have never led me astray. Perhaps hunting without Papa has me on edge. Perhaps being alone—
A shadow shifts a few lengths ahead.
I dash behind a rotted trunk. My fingers contract and relax around the bow’s well-worn grip. Flex. Release. Papa would clap my ear for acting like a skittish girl. Stay in control, he’d say. Focus is a weapon as much as your bow.
I draw a breath, slow and calm, and force myself to lean away from the decaying wood to get a look.
Whatever I was expecting to see, it wasn’t a six-point bull elk. A king of the forest, he struts into the glade. Proud shoulders, sturdy haunches. It takes a beat to remember this elk means my survival. From where I’m crouched, the angle makes for a tricky shot. One knuckle-width too high or low will hit bone or cartilage, seriously wounding but not killing. Torturing, if my aim is off.
I shoot. The arrow thunks deep into the bull’s chest, impaling the vitals in a killing blow. The elk starts, jerks to a run, staggering a few steps before his eyes roll white. He thuds to the needle-covered ground.
I stare blindly at
the beast, my bow arm falling to my side. A touch of sadness, a trickle of unworthiness beats through me as blackbirds flap out of the branches. An absurd reaction for a hunter, I know. His husky, labored breaths echo around us, to which I whisper shapeless, calming words as the beast accepts death. The life left in the animal struggles, a ravaged soldier fighting his way off the battlefield, having no hope of survival.
My hunter’s instinct always recognizes the cusp of passing. The awareness you possess is a talent only the best hunters develop, Papa said. Except, how can it be a talent when it’s only ever felt like a curse? I give the elk a quick end, slitting his throat.
My grip tenses over the intricate etchings on Papa’s dagger, my knuckles a match to the ivory handle. I force the blade to the animal’s belly to begin gutting and quartering. Stick to the task. Cut through the fur. Slice the skin. Roll out the innards. I’m good at pressing forward, always moving onward.
While some elk is curing and drying, other pieces roast over a small fire. It’s the same way Papa prepared the meat from my first kill ten years ago. He laughed when I took a bite and grimaced from the gamy taste. Nothing better than this dinner right here, he’d said. Because you caught it. Now I know you can do it again. His praise didn’t come as often as his lessons. When it did, I treasured every word.
I chew the last sinewy bite and pull my threadbare blanket from my satchel. The cloak of night cinches around the forest. Chilly air sneaks through the blanket’s weave and nips at my arms. And still, the evening is better than any I’ve had since Papa passed. Stomach sated, I settle onto a bed of needles. If only he could see me now, surviving on my own.
Sleep steals me away in seconds.
* * *
I’m standing outside. Behind me, the coarse stones and thatched roof of my cottage are stained bluish black from the night.
Stars sprinkle the sky like salt spilled across a well-oiled table. My hair, which is usually bound in a braid, falls past my shoulders, a veil of pale blond that shines silver in the moonlight.
Where our pasture meets the Evers, something moves. It’s the shape of a young man.
My eyes narrow, and then I smile. Since the incident, he’s only come once—earlier that day he traveled the half league from Brentyn to visit our cottage. My heart gallops as I force myself to walk to where he stands in the shadows until the darkness swallows me whole. There, his whispery breath breaks the stillness.
Hair the rich color of soil after a rainstorm. Sharp hazel eyes. A face too handsome for the angry scar that mars his cheek. The guilt is overwhelming as my fingers itch to trace the shiny red mark. I want to touch him and tell him how I feel about him. How he owns my heart.
All that comes out is “Cohen, I’m sorry.”
* * *
The howling wind wakes me. Cohen vanishes, replaced by the gray shaded trunks and the pine limbs stretching above like specters. I curl my legs in tight and cinch the shoddy woolen blanket snug around my shoulders. The dreamt memory has left me disoriented, and it takes two inhales and two exhales to ground myself. To calm my pulse.
When I was twelve, Papa no longer took me on regular bounty hunts for King Aodren. Alone in the cottage, I felt the quietness eat at me. I pretended the creaking woods or my own breaths were other voices. Company to pass the night. Ridiculous, but it helped me fall asleep.
Those old tricks won’t work tonight. Not when Cohen’s face lingers in the darkness. Always, I see his scar first—an injury suffered weeks before he left. Starting just under his eye, it leads to the strong line of his jaw that’s covered in sparse sable scruff, because at eighteen, when we were last together, he was too boyish to grow a full beard. Perhaps that’s changed now that he’s twenty, two years and a pinch older than me.
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.
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About the Author
Author photo by Mark Summerill
ERIN SUMMERILL was born in England. After spending years bouncing between Air Force bases in Hawaii, England, and California, her family settled in Utah. When Erin doesn’t have her nose in a book, she’s busy chasing after her four kids, two dogs, and a cat.
Visit her online at www.erinsummerill.com
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