Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  A gaggle of children winds around a log, laughing uproariously and singing a tune of Midsummer’s Tide as they imitate the maypole dance. I sidestep their play, wondering how it would’ve been to have so many friends. You won’t trade with Britta? Then I’ll take business elsewhere, Cohen once told a merchant, and never bartered with the man again. Cohen was the only friend I needed.

  Mr. Tulach’s tent is busy with patrons who are admiring winter blankets and woolens.

  “Filth.”

  It’s spoken softly, but the venom in the word snags my attention. I glance up to find two townswomen, woolen brown dresses, full skirts dusting the cobblestones, and arms holding baskets of tubers and carrots. One woman is old, her skin like crumpled parchment, and the other is young and well fed, if not overfed. The two months of isolated mourning come to mind, and my abdomen grumbles in remembrance. Under the women’s gaze, I self-consciously smooth a free hand over my ratty skirt.

  The older one turns her nose up. “Dirt. Like her mother.”

  I stiffen. Papa said not to let their words affect me. Words cannot hurt.

  Besides, the same could be said of her, considering the mop of hair on her head looks like an entire flock of birds has used it for nesting. I cannot react. Ignore them. Biting the inside of my cheek, I force my feet to the side of Mr. Tulach’s tent where the leather flaps hide me from the market and those awful crows. It doesn’t block the sound, though.

  “Their kind shouldn’t be allowed here.”

  “Gods bless the border.”

  A murmur of agreement then: “Did you know her mother tried to follow the Archtraitor?”

  I roll my eyes at the outrageous rumor and the ones that follow about the Archtraitor’s blood thirst, the savages he’s gathering, his plan to take over Malam. The gossip never changes.

  Malam’s built on gossip; its towns are pens of sheep. Papa’s silly saying makes me want to bleat at the ladies, since nobody really knows where Millner Barrett, the Archtraitor, is or what he’s doing now. Once he was captain of the king’s guard. Then he opposed the Purge and the border closure before he cut down his own men and fled. His disgrace will never be forgotten. At least, not till he’s caught.

  Once they leave, I release my grip on the table and quickly straighten the leathers and wools as Mr. Tulach steps to my side of the tent. His attention remains on the passing patrons. He doesn’t like for others to see us trading.

  “You haven’t been here in a while.” Mr. Tulach’s chin dips in a subtle nod.

  He knows I’ve been in mourning, so I forgo this detail. “I need to trade. I have bull elk for you. A six-point catch. It’s fresh—”

  “Where’d you hunt it?” He whips around to me, raven braids slicing around his broad back. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” His eyes volley to the crowd. “What are you asking?”

  The profile of his hawkish nose doesn’t alter direction as he waits for my answer.

  “You have a connection to a place of lodging in Fennit,” I say, fighting to keep my voice from cracking with desperation. “I need a place for winter.”

  Mr. Tulach shoots me a questioning look.

  Surely he knows about the king’s inheritance law. I meet his stare, but when he doesn’t yield, I rush to explain, “The king will soon be seizing my cottage.”

  Mr. Tulach turns away, crossing umber-brown arms. “I cannot take the risk. Not when we’re on the brink of war. The guards overlook nothing these days. A bunch of bloodthirsty wolves, they are.” His voice drops. “You’ve known the law your whole life. You must have other options.”

  Panic presses on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  Papa said I had a talent for knowing the honesty of a man’s word. A sort of heightened gut instinct. When someone speaks the truth, a warm sensation starts in my belly and spreads beneath my ribs. A handy trick, considering it works for lies too, except dishonesty feels like ice on my insides, chilling me top to bottom. I can feel the warmth of his words, the truth of his rejection.

  The table’s edge digs into my hip as I lean closer. “Please,” I say, swallowing my pride. “The other merchants won’t trade with me. And I didn’t plan on my father getting murdered.” The words taste like ash.

  He balks. “If I’m caught with your poached meat, I’ll be thrown in the dungeon. Or worse. Boys as young as fourteen are being made to fight against Shaerdan. I cannot risk my family. Take your trade and go.”

  The closed look in Mr. Tulach’s eyes, coupled with the warm truthful sensation spreading through my core, crushes my hope. I grit my teeth, sling the bag over my shoulder, and dash from the tent. How will I get lodging now?

  The other merchants will have nothing to do with me. Eyes shift away when I approach. Backs turn. It’s no different from the first time I went to market without Papa by my side. Can you not see we’re here to do business with you, sir? Cohen’s words were steely.

  I’ve got no business with Shaerdanians, the vendor sneered.

  Cohen stepped in front of me. If she’s a Shaerdanian, then you’re a jackass.

  It took a beat for the insult to settle on the merchant. By then we were running away. The man’s rejection stung, but Cohen’s defense soothed the hurt.

  If only he were here now.

  I’m nearly out of the market when Old Lyman, in soiled rags huddled on the church’s steps, whispers a plea from his cracked lips. He lifts his beggar’s cup. I don’t know why I pause.

  When Cohen accompanied me to town, he always stopped to give coins to the poor. If I were ever in this situation, I’d like someone to extend the same kindness, Cohen said with conviction, even though a man like him—​the chosen apprentice to the king’s bounty hunter—​would never fall to such misfortune. But that was Cohen, always charitable. Even to those deemed worthless.

  I’ve nothing to give Old Lyman, and so I feel foolish for having stopped. I shake my head, a touch flustered for having dallied at all.

  “Kind of ya, anyway, to share yer smile.” His words are garbled by the loss of teeth.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I swing my satchel to the side, and, after checking every face in the square, pull out some elk. The portion is small. All I can spare. I press the meat into his dirty palm while muttering an apology for not giving more.

  His other hand lands atop mine, trapping me softly between trembling, mud-crusted fingers. “They’re lookin’ for ya, lass. Guards are comin’. Best go quick.”

  It takes a beat for his warning to hit me. I jerk out of his grip, mumble thanks, and race toward home.

  I’m nearly to my cottage on the outskirts of Brentyn when a whinny and nicker echo behind me. In the distance, the pebbled dirt road hums with the pounding of hooves.

  Quickly, I scan for a place to toss the bag. The piles of leaves beside the road aren’t ideal, but they’re the only hiding spot. Distress snakes through me as I bury my sack, making frantic work to memorize the area before darting back to the path.

  Where will I live when they seize my home? Who will take me in?

  Dust dirties the air as the riders draw closer. Only then do I remember Papa’s dagger in the bundled meat. I glance at the lump of leaves, hedging on making a desperate grasp for the blade, but time is gone. Six royal guards wearing red coats with gray stripes and the king’s emblem—​a circular badge with the head of a stag in the center—​emerge around the bend.

  I tug my skirt lower and run my fingers over my braid, drawing out twigs. When the group trots closer and divides, three riders moving to my left and three to the right, I drop into a small curtsy, as is customary around nobility and the king’s men.

  A man with a staunch scowl set against weathered skin brings his mare to a stop so that the animal’s breath of heat and hay puffs across my face. I stifle a cough and keep my spine tree-trunk straight. The man must be the leader since he has the most stripes on his shoulder. Five in total.

  “Britta Flannery.” Not a question. “Where have
you been?”

  “On a walk.” My eyes remain forward despite how badly I wish to check the leaves beside the road.

  “Is that so?”

  His doubt makes me ill. I never know what to say. My usual awkwardness feels like a death sentence as I fumble for a believable answer.

  “Perhaps you could explain what that is.” His chin jerks to the side where a guard pulls my bag from hiding. No! Fear jolts through me.

  I stamp the urge to grab the pack and run, and feign indifference. “I—​I don’t know.”

  “The bag’s marked with your father’s emblem.” The leader’s mouth purses behind a tidy graying beard.

  If they see the meat, they’ll have evidence I was poaching. “Are you here for my land?” I ask in diversion. Better to give up my home than my life.

  “Watch it, scrant,” a guard sneers, “that’s the captain yer talking to.”

  Captain of the guard? The condescending tone and crusty expression make sense now. He reports directly to the king. Why didn’t they send the lower guards?

  On the captain’s command, a guard dumps the bag’s contents on the road, and strips of meat tumble out with my bow and dagger. I blanch, staring in horror at the elk pieces.

  “We came for your father’s property. But it appears you’ve been poaching on the king’s land.” The captain’s voice is cool and eerily calm. His fingers drum against the hilt of his sword for a prolonged moment before his lip curls. “Seize her.”

  Boorish hands come at me, grasping my shirt and ripping the sleeve as I jerk away. The dagger is all I can think about through a frenzy of elbows and fists. Mine, his, all so I can get Papa’s blade. Somehow I free myself of the guards. Maneuver to the pile of meat and weapons on the ground. Push aside the wrapped strips of elk. My fingers find the familiar curve of ivory and—​

  I’m slammed to the ground. Dirt and rock mash against my mouth.

  My arms are wrenched behind me, followed by a kick that knocks the wind from my lungs. I cough and wheeze, spitting blood and saliva and dust, until the air comes back. The captain plucks my dagger off the ground.

  “No!”

  The captain grabs my braid and twists my head. “Stop. Or I’ll end you here and now. It’s my duty to ensure lawbreakers get their due punishment. Poached meat warrants a hanging.”

  I know he means every word, because sickening warmth spreads in my gut.

  I’m boneless as a hulking young guard, maybe a couple years my senior, forces manacles on my wrists and throws me on a horse before climbing behind me and wrapping my waist in an iron grip. Now that the guards have come—​now that poaching has made my situation infinitely worse—​defeat turns me wooden as the group gallops toward the castle. They’ve torn the last piece of Papa from me. They’ve taken my weapons, my bounty, and my father’s land. All that remains is my life. Considering the crime, there is no doubt the king’s guard will soon have that as well.

  Chapter

  3

  AN HOUR AFTER THE GUARDS SNATCHED ME, we come into full view of Castle Neart. She’s a beastly goliath perched in the mountains overlooking Brentyn. Six arms of spires and rust-peaked turrets grab for the sky. Legs of arcading corridors hide behind a ten-man-tall stone skirt trimmed in parapet. In spite of having seen Castle Neart before alongside Papa, the daunting view shreds my courage. I am an ant about to be squashed.

  The castle’s bridge arcs over a deep, jagged gulch. A dozen rock pillars support wood planks that groan beneath us, a reminder of sheer death below as we cross. It’d be a relief to reach the bridge’s end if not for the awaiting reek of excrement. The moat’s stench smacks us in the face, only fading after we pass the guardhouse and enter the yard.

  Once we’re inside the castle grounds, my companion’s grip cinches around me, locking me against his body, the bludger. As if I could escape while manacled and weaponless. He pulls the reins to stop beside the others in the yard. Dust curls around the horses’ hooves. Only then does the brute guard give me a knuckle’s space of breathing room.

  The stables are busy. Grooms tend to carriages and muscled steeds, the kind used for heavy cavalry. The guard dismounts and tugs me down alongside him, where I tumble to my knees. Pain zings through my legs, then his thick paws are under my arms, hefting me up. He mutters something that sounds like Sorry but couldn’t be. A king’s guard would never apologize. Especially not to me.

  The captain barks an order, and a groom appears to lead the horses away. Red coats flank my sides. Another pushes me forward, farther from the gate, farther from escape, to shuffle over dirt and bits of manure.

  Heat pours from the blacksmith’s shop, licking at our faces, as we march toward another wall and another entryway—​a stone arch over wooden doors. I’ve never been past this point. Not many are allowed beyond the inner wall. Never imagined it would happen by the escort of guards.

  The heat from the smithy dries my throat. Am I marching to my death? With that much evidence, they’ll surely hang me. My feet move like they’re shod in iron boots.

  The archway door groans open into the heart of the keep. I search around in confusion, taking in the crowd of high nobility gathered in the courtyard. There are so many people. Lords and ladies in striking furs and silks, pointed-toe shoes, mushroom hats for men, lace-trimmed veils for women. So unlike my filthy raggedness. Why would the captain bring me here? The guards shove me along the back of the open area, to a passage tucked under carved stone arcading. I still have a view of the gathering as we march under the shadowed arches.

  Though Papa was considered nobility, he didn’t hold a fief, wherein he could profit from commoners living on his land. He could never afford the finery these lords flaunt. And yet the nobles’ attire is nothing compared to the jewels and gold-rimmed crown worn by the young man elevated on the stone steps at the far end of the courtyard. It’s a shock to realize that the glittering beacon is Malam’s ruler, King Aodren. I’ve never laid eyes on him, as he does not often leave the castle. Gossip of his youth and golden-haired handsomeness is a market favorite. I see now, not all the chatty crows’ rumors are false.

  As the guards lead the way through another corridor, I sneak one last curious glance at King Aodren. He is nothing like the man beside him. Lord Jamis, the high lord, who was the king regent before Aodren turned eighteen and took over as crown ruler, addresses the crowd, dropping words like gathering army, border, Shaerdan. He has severe features, silver-flecked midnight hair, sharp coal eyes. While the king is thin and reedy, with pale skin, a shadowed gaze that watches with disinterest.

  Seeds, a fine ruler he is. Anger and frustration beat through me. Only a few years my senior, he’s never wanted for anything in his life. Never been ostracized. Never alone. Never hungry. And apparently he never needs to address his people. Why was Papa so loyal to this spoiled man?

  The question slips from my mind seconds later when my escorts stop outside a guarded and locked solid wood door. I realize with a start that this entrance leads to the Dungeon Under the Keep, the kingdom’s most secure jail. The captain yanks me forward, despite how stiff my legs have become, as another person unlocks and opens the door. A burly bear of a man, round as he is tall, steps into view, keys jangling against the leather belt supporting his gut.

  “Brought me fresh meat, did ya?” The mix of humorless chuckle and chaff cuts the remains of my nerves. I don’t even realize I’ve stepped back until the captain’s hand is bruising my arm.

  He shoves me through the entry. “She’s yours till sentencing.”

  The door closes, the lock clicks, trapping me in the dim with the dungeon master.

  A day, maybe two have passed. The odor in the Dungeon Under the Keep could knock a grown man out. Years of prisoners have used the back of the cell as an outhouse. Too deep a lungful and I’m fighting the urge to gag in this cell that’s no bigger than a horse’s stall.

  I press my eyes shut, struggling with the moans from the other prisoners. It’s too dark to see, which
forces me to listen to their shuffling and whimpering. A woman nearby mutters something about fire, about her touch being useless, until she starts hacking. Eventually her cough stops, replaced with choppy breathing.

  She won’t last the week. I wish I didn’t know this, but I’ve known death my whole life, so I know she’s slipping away. I rub my raw wrists.

  A lantern flickers to life like a cat’s eye blinking against the blanketing pitch-dark, illuminating the arm span of the man holding it as he approaches.

  “He’s ready to see ya.” The dungeon master’s voice is scratchy, like he hasn’t had a glass of water or seen daylight in months—​a good match to the unkempt beard that grows like wild wood from his chin.

  I stand tall, trying to look formidable despite my tattered appearance. Weaknesses control you, Papa had said. “The king?” I think of the lean young man deciding my fate.

  “Bullwart, no! ’Tis the high lord.” His accent is similar to the tradesmen from Fennit, the town closest to the border. In Shaerdan and in the border towns, the townspeople speak mostly the same words as us, but they have a strange twist to their sounds.

  The dungeon master unlocks the cell, holding the lantern in one hand and the keys in the other. “I’m told yer a feisty one even if yer not much bigger than the wee folk. Be a good girl and ya won’t rot like the rest of ’em.”

  I nod and then glance in the direction of the dying woman. “What’s she in here for?”

  He tips his head as though he cannot fathom my motive for asking. “That scrant? Crossed over from Shaerdan. She’s one of their Channelers.”

  I think of the woman’s mumblings, more curious now.

  “She’s dying,” I say softly, mostly to myself.

  “Aye. Good thing. We don’t want her kind here.” He fits manacles on my wrists and shoves me forward. I’m aware of what happened to the people Papa tracked down. Traitors and spies were always tortured for information and then executed. Channelers were hung. I wish the woman a quick end to her suffering.