Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  “What have ya done?” he asks as we ascend the stairs.

  “Poaching.”

  A grave nod follows. “A crime of death.”

  I swallow hard and follow him through another door, past a closed room, to the dungeon exit. Daylight pours into the arches and floods the courtyard beyond the arcading corridors, temporarily blinding me, so I’m caught unaware when another guard pushes me through a door and up a winding stairwell of the keep. We pass more guards and walk down another corridor. The interior of the castle is opulent, dizzyingly so. Instead of braided rushes on stone floor, dyed wool rugs lie like puddles of blood on polished granite.

  We stop outside a glossed oak door with iron adornments. I catch my ghosting reflection in the shine until two guards emerge, dragging a prisoner. The man is little more than sagging skin on bones. “Please . . . don’t hang me . . . m-my family.”

  I stare, dismayed as they pull him away, his pleas growing more frantic.

  The guard shoves me into the room. “Don’t talk unless yer told to,” he sneers.

  I scowl and take a step away, trying to shake the sight of the prisoner.

  One piece of tufted furniture in this study could pay for my land outright. I cannot imagine how much the wall of books rising to the ceiling must be worth. Every speck of dirt and blood on my ruined skirt stands out like pox, making me wish I could sink into the pristine floors and disappear.

  “Interested in something?”

  My attention snaps to the man I saw in the courtyard beside the king, Lord Jamis. My gaze travels up and up. Seeds, the high lord must be three hands taller than me. He strides through the room and stops at a desk, where he folds into a seat with the grace of a mountain cat. He makes a curling motion with his hand, to which the guard responds by removing my manacles. Relieved, I rub my wrists until I sense the high lord’s raven eyes tracking the motion.

  “This is my favorite room in the palace,” Lord Jamis says. “All this knowledge at your fingertips is exhilarating.”

  I stand cautiously still.

  His long fingers fan out toward a blood-red chair. “Have a seat, Britta—​excuse me, Miss Flannery.”

  Uncertainty rattles through me as I straighten my ruined top, pushing the ripped sleeve over my shoulder, before slowly lowering myself onto the edge of the chair.

  “I’d like to express my condolences. Saul was revered around here. As military adviser and royal spokesman, I can say that even King Aodren feels your father’s loss.” Lord Jamis’s sympathy is unexpected, and I bristle, even if it warms me with honesty.

  “You must miss him. I’m told you were his shadow.” A small smile quirks his mouth, softening the angles of his face. It’s as if the thought of me following Papa amuses him. It’s annoying. If I only had my bow, I’d show him how pointedly amusing I can be.

  “Am I here to talk about my father?” I cringe at the sharpness of my tone.

  “Such directness.” His eyes flash and I curse myself for having spoken. Elbows on the desk, he steeples his fingers. “Weren’t you brought in on poaching?” The lack of ire in his voice should be a relief, though it only increases the tension building between my ribs.

  I nod, wishing I knew how to proceed. The last thing I want to do is say something wrong and earn a quicker trip to the noose.

  “Your bag held enough meat to hang a man. Or a woman.” I hold my breath as he talks. “Did you catch that bounty alone?”

  My chin dips again, and in response his eyes crinkle at the edges, confusing me with his politeness. I study his relaxed shoulders and clean hands, willing away the pressure behind my eyes.

  Lord Jamis pushes the book on his desk aside and reaches into a satchel, then withdraws a blade. “Recognize this dagger?”

  My brows shoot up. The ivory handle etched in elaborate swirls is decorated with a tear-size sapphire. This is not my dagger, though it is a near twin to my blade. The stone is on the wrong side of the hilt, which means this one is Cohen’s. How did Lord Jamis end up with Cohen’s dagger? Did something happen to—​

  Unease creeps over my skin and stills my thoughts as Lord Jamis’s fingers tap the handle. Once slow, twice fast he pads.

  “This weapon ended Saul’s life.”

  Before his implication can register inside, Lord Jamis pulls out a cloak, stained black in old blood, yet still undeniably recognizable. “And this was found with the blade.”

  “Cohen” comes out on an exhale before I realize his name has passed my lips. No. No. Not him. I cross my arms over my waist. I understand what the high lord’s doing with this trail of evidence, but I won’t believe Cohen’s guilty of Papa’s murder. Impossible. Cohen loved Papa.

  “Someone must’ve stolen the knife,” I tell him. “Finding the weapon or a coat doesn’t mean you’ve found the murderer.”

  “These belong to Cohen Mackay, and Saul’s blood is on both items. This coat was ripped off Mackay, and this dagger”—​his long fingers wrap around the handle—​“was pulled from your father’s back.”

  I flinch. “But . . . Cohen’s gone.” I hate how shaken I sound. I take a breath and start again. “He couldn’t have done it. Someone must want it to look like Cohen killed my father.”

  “Perhaps.” Lord Jamis’s gaze softens into a look I don’t see often—​pity. “However, Cohen was seen in the same town as Saul on the night of the murder.”

  “A coincidence,” I argue. The boy I knew isn’t a murderer. He was a small-town boy who had shown unusual skill with hunting. When my father asked the king regent to find someone worthy to be trained, Cohen managed to earn the high honor of becoming apprentice to the king’s bounty hunter. He loved his family so much that he worked tirelessly on their farm spring and summer and then trained with my father every winter. Everything he did was to give his parents and siblings a better life. That’s not the kind of person who murders his mentor.

  “There are two witnesses.” Lord Jamis pauses. He sits so still, it doesn’t even look as though the man is breathing. The weight of his silence is crushing. “Two men who say they saw Cohen murder your father.”

  Truthful heat crawls through my belly. Breaks me apart.

  For the first time in my life, I loathe my body’s strange ability. I cannot believe . . . don’t want to believe what he’s saying. Not Cohen. Not my Cohen.

  “There has to be an explanation.” The words trip out of my mouth. “He couldn’t have . . . he’d never . . . my father was like a second father to Cohen.” I choke out the last word. No matter how badly I need the high lord’s claim to be false, I don’t have a good explanation for Cohen’s whereabouts, the evidence, or the truth in Lord Jamis’s words. Such damning truth.

  Lord Jamis frowns. “I’d hoped this would be a relief to know.”

  A relief? I stare at the blood-red stitching on the chair, sorting through the destruction and shock and fury crashing around inside me. “D-did he admit his guilt?”

  Lord Jamis places the dagger beside the book and flattens his palms to the desk. He doesn’t need to say anything; his stolid expression says it all. They haven’t caught Cohen yet. When it comes to tracking, hunting, hiding, no guard has ever matched my father’s skill. No one other than Cohen.

  No one other than me.

  I take in Lord Jamis’s pressed suit and carefully combed hair. To be the right-hand man to the king, he’d have to be educated. Clever. He’d already know the best person who has a chance of catching Cohen is right in front of him. “You want me to track him,” I say, shock weighting my words.

  “Yes.”

  I lift my chin, staring at Lord Jamis but seeing nothing. “Why would I do that for you?”

  “Your poaching evidence is enough to warrant a hanging, and Captain Omar demands justice be served. It would be a tragedy to see someone of your skill discarded, so I’ve proposed a trade to the captain, one that will satisfy payment for your crime.”

  I glance down at the filth on my hands and then back to the high lord.<
br />
  The angry swoosh of my pulse echoes in my ears. “You want to trade my life for Cohen’s?”

  He smiles with a hint of pride, displaying a row of large teeth. “Precisely.”

  Chapter

  4

  LORD JAMIS’S ACCUSATIONS TUMBLE THROUGH ME, turning me inside out with doubt and grief and horror. I sit silently as Lord Jamis crosses the room and opens the door to let in three guards. The captain, the same young brute who restrained me earlier and is thick with muscle and built like a bull, and a scrappy fellow whose pinched features remind me of a fox.

  Lord Jamis claps the captain on the back. “As the head of my guard, Captain Omar will ensure your safety.” He means the king’s guard, but of course I don’t correct him. “Leif and Tomas will also assist on this hunt.” The Bull and the Fox. “Once you’ve found Mackay, they’ll return him to the castle.”

  I meet Captain Omar’s stern gaze and wonder if he’s pleased with this development, or if he’d rather justice was served by the noose. Nothing about traveling with him or his men has any appeal. Beside the captain, Tomas has beady eyes that shift about, making me think he’s the type who would stab a sleeping man. And the bigger fellow, Leif, is too brawny to have the grace a man needs to move silently through the woods. Then again, Cohen isn’t much smaller and he always moved like a cat.

  Cohen. He couldn’t have killed Papa. Could he? And yet, there’s no denying the evidence. I crush my fingernails into my palms, needing the distraction of pain.

  I pin my attention on Leif. “Three guards are unnecessary and will make traveling harder to go undetected.”

  Leif shifts his weight, and a frown glances over his mouth.

  “The objective is to catch Mackay,” the captain interjects in a dour tone, dismissing and sharing his dislike. “You may be considered a good tracker, but you’re no fighter. Yesterday should be enough reminder you’re easily overpowered.”

  Yesterday was an exception is what I want to tell him. Then I remember how he responded before to my brazenness and hold my tongue.

  “The guards are not optional,” Lord Jamis says as he crosses to his desk and rolls out a map. “The kingdom’s fiefdoms are not as heavily manned now that the lords have sent their best men to the border. Travel alone would be dangerous. And there’s a chance the hunt may take you over the border. You’ll need Captain Omar and his men for protection.”

  “Shaerdan?” I ask, unable to hide my disbelief that Cohen would flee Malam without the king’s consent. He’d be marked as a traitor. Punishment would be torture until he begged for the mercy of the noose. Then again, he’s already accused of murdering the king’s bounty hunter. What would it matter if he became a traitor as well?

  Tomas, the wiry fox-like guard, stiffened when I mentioned Shaerdan. I wonder if he’s more concerned about the imminent war or the country’s dark magic. He catches me watching him and glowers.

  The captain approaches Lord Jamis and looks over the map. His finger punches a spot on the parchment. “We’ll leave tomorrow at first light. See that our tracker is outfitted to draw less attention.”

  Lord Jamis eyes my tangled hair, my soiled skirt, and nods in agreement.

  “Maybe the scrant will clean up enough for tasting.” Off to my right side, Tomas leers.

  Leif doesn’t react, but my limbs go rigid. Tomas’s comment promises unwanted attention that would lead to his death and then mine for murdering the vile man when he dared touch me. Behind Lord Jamis, Cohen’s dagger taunts me from the desktop. It could mean my escape. No longer restrained by manacles, I could easily maneuver around the high lord and swipe it. If I put it to the fox’s throat, I could use the diversion to get out of this room. Sprint down the castle halls. Reach the stairwell. But then how would I get past the guards at the gate?

  Regardless, I cannot stomach using the blade that ended Papa’s life.

  Forgetting that plan, I make a note to avoid Tomas as the guards follow Captain Omar out of the study. Another option of escape will present itself. At least, I hope it will.

  “A bath and clothing will be brought to the dungeon,” Lord Jamis tells me.

  I tear my eyes from Cohen’s dagger. “I haven’t agreed to go.”

  A confused frown settles over his mouth.

  It makes sense that someone in my position, facing death, would agree to his offer, but he doesn’t understand that I’ve already lost everything. Or maybe he does and thinks vengeance is enough to sway my decision. It should be.

  “You want me to agree to tracking down my father’s killer.” It sounds wrong, so wrong to say. “For what? My life for his? What life do I have to return to? The king has my land and my home, so there’s nowhere for me to go. Without shelter for winter, I’ll be dead anyway. That is, if the captain or his men don’t kill me first.”

  “The captain requested to go as part of the agreement, to ensure you fulfill your end of this bargain. You have nothing to fear if you uphold your end of the deal.” Lord Jamis moves behind his desk and stares at me almost sympathetically. “And the other guards will do you no harm. Trust me.”

  I’ve never had the luxury of trusting anyone besides my father and Cohen. Though clearly trust has done little for me, seeing as how one of the men I put my faith in is dead and the other an accused murderer. I’m certainly not going to start trusting anyone else now.

  When I give no response, he leans forward, elbows on the desk. “Perhaps there’s more I could offer as an incentive.” He is quieter than before, and the drop in his pitch becomes more ardent, drawing me in. “By law, you cannot inherit your father’s land because you were born outside of a legal marriage. But if you find Mackay, I’ll grant you ownership of the land and cottage.”

  Another truth.

  I suck in a breath, shocked that I’ve been able to push him into offering so much. “Impossible. You cannot make that happen.”

  His smile graces the space above his trimmed ebony beard as he spreads his arms, pressing his hands flat on the desk in a way that widens his shoulders. “I have the power to decide a hunter’s bounty. As high lord, I oversee King Aodren’s lands. If your cottage is what you want, then I can give that to you.”

  I’ll be able to keep everything Papa left, not just the dagger. I would have a home. Papa’s home. My home.

  My life and my land for Cohen—​the offer sickens me as much as it thrills me.

  Can I really hunt down my only friend? But that’s just it. He isn’t my friend.

  “The country has been disgraced by Saul’s murder. And you’ve lost a father,” he says, drawing my attention back to Papa. “It may be an unexpected payout, but as you said, you’ll have no home to which to return. The land is nothing to the king. Mend Malam’s pride and get justice for your father, and the cottage will be yours when you return.”

  Papa was all I had left. My decision is for him. I press my hand to the pain beneath my sternum.

  “I’ll go.”

  My washed hair is braided and tucked beneath a boy’s cap, which the captain provided, along with trousers and a tunic. Captain Omar informed me I’d be traveling as a boy to draw less notice. Fine with me. Trousers are more comfortable than skirts and, in this aspect, being small-breasted has its benefits.

  “Shackle her,” the captain tells Tomas as he enters my cell.

  I scurry back. “Manacles weren’t part of the deal.”

  “Would you rather the noose?” Tomas sidles around me, pulling my wrists into the iron cuffs. I shake my head and bite back an alarmed squeak when his fingers dig into my arm where it’s tender and bruised from the earlier scuffle.

  “If you canna find Mackay, the cap’n won’t let you go free.” Tomas’s nasally voice drips with distaste. “Not a daughter of a Shaerdanian.”

  “Release her, Tomas,” the captain clips.

  The guard obeys by shoving me out of the cell so that I trip forward, stumbling into Leif’s barrier of a body.

  Captain Omar tells Leif to escort
me out of the dungeon. Just before we reach the door, I hear the captain say, “Tomas, do not overstep your bounds. Next time I’ll withhold your food rations. Today you’ll tend the horses . . .”

  I’m unable to catch the remainder of the conversation once the dungeon door closes behind us. But the little I heard is a reminder not to disobey the captain.

  Papa taught that a good tracker always knows the lay of the land. East of here, Malam juts up in jagged, monstrous peaks that stay white-capped all year despite the baking summer. The mountain ridge spans into Kolontia, the northern country where snow and ice rule. Papa told me some of their people live in the crystal caves that tunnel under the northern ridge, while others brave the salty frozen bite of the coast that wraps two-thirds of the country.

  Running from the north, the Malam Mountains curve in a southwest sickle to border the Southlands. There, the Akaria Desert’s sand dunes ebb and flow like a crawling ocean, and a gorge scars the land as deep as the mountains stand tall.

  To the east, the Ever Woods run into the Bloodwood Forest, which carpets the mountains until they crumble into knolls and valleys. With Papa, I traveled along many of the ribboning rivers winding from the mountain glaciers to feed the lowland farmlands. From there, hills of fir, hemlock, and spruce roll into Shaerdan. It’s a lush country of suffocating emerald growth. It’s rumored that in Shaerdan the rain magically falls without a cloud in the sky.

  As we ride, I’m shackled and sharing a horse with Leif. He doesn’t wrap a suffocating arm around me like on our last ride together. Still, the uncomfortable lack of space between us is even more apparent when the road rises and falls. Each time I lean forward, Leif pulls me back against his chest. If the captain doesn’t hang me, this ride may be torture enough to kill me.

  We leave Brentyn, where the royal city is nestled like an animal burrowed for winter in a blanket of green. After traveling at a thundering pace on the main road, we cut off for the southwest mountains, to a route Papa and I traveled often. Only traitors and criminals trying to flee Malam hazard this pass. The terrain is dangerous, the path steep and sometimes slippery.