We stop when we reach the summit, where the path is narrow and overgrown with creeping ground cover.
“Mackay was sighted here two days ago,” Captain Omar says. He points west. “I need to know if he’s headed toward Lord Devlin’s fief.”
“I need to be closer to the ground,” I tell him. His face darkens and I realize he must think me insolent. “To look for broken branches, prints, any disturbance in the undergrowth,” I explain.
The captain gestures and then Leif’s off the horse, pulling me to the ground. The sweet pine scent slaps me with memories. Papa pointing out edible berries. Sifting through the forest floor in search of prints. Storytelling around a campfire.
Focus, Papa’s voice echoes.
“The manacles?” I lift my wrists.
The captain regards my arms. “Prove yourself helpful. Then I’ll take them off.”
My raw wrists throb, but I bite my cheek to stop from arguing and scan the bushes for any unusual disturbance. A broken branch, crumpled leaves, limbs bent all in the same direction, hoof prints, hairs, swatches of fabric.
Tomas and Leif trail behind while the captain inspects my every move. Eventually I find a damaged bush with branches bent west. Someone came this way recently. Perhaps two or three days at most. I find it odd Cohen hasn’t done a better job of hiding his passage. Still, I’d bet my bow he left these tracks. Hoof prints mark the dirt where the fallen leaves aren’t ankle deep, and two strands of coarse black hair dangle from a shrub. There’s no forgetting Cohen’s black stallion named Siron.
“He’s headed this way,” I say, ignoring the accompanying illogical twinge of guilt.
“Seeds, she’s fast,” Leif mutters as Captain Omar views the evidence.
The captain shoots the bull guard a look of irritation before turning to me with eyes that glint with approval. I should feel pleased, but I don’t.
“Miss Flannery.” Leif clears his throat.
“Britta,” I correct him.
“Britta . . . do you, uh . . .” Leif stammers and looks down, so his auburn head fills my view. His neck and ears stain purplish red, which draws a hoot from Tomas, who has sauntered closer.
“The brute’s trying to ask if ya gotta use the privy.”
My face reddens against my will. Besides Cohen and Papa, I’ve spent little time around men. It takes a second to find my voice. “Seeing as there isn’t a privy in these woods, I cannot say.”
“We’re supposed to keep an eye on ya.” Tomas’s beady-eyed gaze crawls over me. “Even when you’ve got personal business.”
My hands curl into fists, missing the curve of my bow. “Well, then, I’ll let you know when I need to piss.”
Leif’s brows rise.
Tomas cackles.
Thankfully we load up and continue the hunt.
The next morning I’m stiff and groggy. It takes another day to reach the end of the Evers where the pines are replaced by the firs of the Bloodwood Forest. The mountains under the crowded firs settle into foothills cut with valleys. Where the black bark trees choke the way, we ride through the river until reaching the flat stretch where logging has left knee-high stumps to wither under the sun. Eventually, after two days, the Bloodwoods dwindle to rockier ground. Piles of boulders lie haphazardly between trees like a giant child’s been playing with rocks.
Captain Omar rides up alongside Tomas, who has had the lead during the sun’s good light. “Most of Lord Freil’s men have left for Fennit. Still, I want the royal colors posted,” he tells the fox-faced guard. The guard complies, setting the pole and banner against the leather hold on his horse, so the deep red material flaps as we ride. Lord Freil’s men are rumored to be the fiercest in Malam and do not tolerate intruders. For once, I am glad for my companions.
Our search of the valley demands crawling over boulders that block the path. Tracks aren’t easy to spot among the rocks, and after an hour my frustration peaks. At first, the sound of Leif’s whoop of surprise puts me on guard, thinking he’s spotted one of Lord Freil’s men. Until I notice he’s pointing at the ground. I dart around a massive stone and scramble to his side. A crescent indent is a whisper in the dry dirt.
“Look there, Britta.” He beams. “I found one too.”
Over the last couple days, he’s been kind, even helpful, while the captain remains cold and aloof, and Tomas malevolent. If it were not for his red coat, I might consider the auburn-haired, muscled wall of a man an ally.
The boyish excitement plastered across his oak eyes reminds me of Cohen from years ago, when we were green at tracking, and every discovery was a gift. “Well done.” I whisper the words Papa would’ve told me. Captain Omar turns up to silently peruse the print, and I shuffle away. The man nods once, and Leif’s so proud of himself that he lights up like a sunrise.
I drop my chin so the boy’s cap hides my frown. I should’ve found those prints. Fighting the needling worry, I return to tracking, moving quicker than before, telling myself that a couple missed tracks do not mean the captain will think me worthless.
After a while I notice Leif in my shadow, studying my movement much closer than usual. When I pointedly stare back, his teeth shine through a wide grin. “It’s Captain’s orders to keep tabs on you.”
“Can you not do that more than a step away?” I hold up my manacled wrists. “No risk of escape here.”
He chuckles, and then his voice drops low so only I can hear. “I’m studying you, hoping some skill will rub off on me.”
I smile inwardly at his secret confession and continue searching till finding a wilted yellow flower on a bent narcissus plant.
I point out the find to Leif. He moves in for a closer look and startles me when he props his tree-trunk arm on my shoulder. The unexpected touch, combined with my uneven balance from hunching, sends me sprawling forward, elbows and knees cracking against the rocky ground.
Leif helps me to my feet and mutters a red-faced apology, but not before Tomas notices and tramples the wild flowers to reach us.
“You oaf, that’s not how you touch a girl,” Tomas says, voice leering. I ignore him and show the tracks to Captain Omar, who leaves his position beside his horse to study the broken stalk. The captain’s approval comes when he pulls keys from the leather satchel at his waist and removes the manacles.
I rub my free arms. If only the captain would throw the iron bands into the stream so I never have to see them again. “Thank you,” I mutter, unsure of what else to say.
He dismisses my gratitude with a terse nod. “I’ve only done what’s fair,” he says, and then commands the others to move on.
Even though I’m glad for the freedom, so very glad, I turn back to the crumpled narcissus where it rests between rocks in an otherwise cleared glade, something nagging me.
Cohen was never sloppy. Except when it was intentional.
“You’re better at erasing your tracks,” I said.
Cohen and I had been sitting at the lookout since completing Papa’s tracking test. I passed the search portion but didn’t do well at leaving no trace.
Cohen traced lazy letters on my arm. “You’re better at tracking.”
I huffed. “Doesn’t matter, if there are no prints to follow. You could take off and I’d never find you.”
“Oh, Britt, if I were ever the hunted, you’d find me. Is that what you’re worried about? That I’ll take off and leave you behind?”
I didn’t know how much longer he’d apprentice. He’d reached marrying age and, though it hurt to admit, my circumstances would exclude me. He could have the daughter of a lord.
“Dove?” His hand covered mine.
I fought the sudden longing that swelled in my chest. “You’ve got your family. They rely on you. You’re gonna leave sooner or later.”
“True. I’ll work for the king eventually, but I’ll always return.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t know that.”
He twined his fingers with mine. “Nothing could keep me away.”
/>
I study the tracks once more, waiting as the guards move out of earshot.
“Cohen,” I whisper to the broken branch. “Is that what you want? For me to find you?”
The last time I saw Cohen, he promised to return the next day. Only he never came back. Why, when the king’s guard are after him for Papa’s murder, would he leave a trail? Why would he want me to find him now?
As the sunset fades to gray, I’m thankful for the cloak of night. It hides how I worry my lip. I cannot shake the feeling Cohen is leading me somewhere. He must have his reasons. I just wish I knew what they were.
I’ve no choice but to find Cohen and turn him over.
If only it didn’t feel increasingly wrong the closer we get.
Chapter
5
ON THE FIFTH DAY WE’RE A WORN-OUT, soggy-looking bunch from a sudden downpour that came on earlier. The sun is balancing on the horizon, a flame bobbing above the silver arrow-tops of the forested hills in Lord Conklin’s fiefdom.
Captain Omar stops at a pile of horse manure and then shouts for Leif to set me down to do the inspection. Dung beetles and crows have ruined most of the droppings that haven’t washed away from the rain. A portion breaks easily in my fingers, reminding me of how Cohen used to offer to check dung for me when we tracked together.
“Maybe two days old,” I tell the captain before rinsing my hands in the stream that hugs the low hill. My eyes are unfocused while my thoughts wander, always returning to him. Which is why I don’t immediately notice the other side of the embankment, where the dirt has been smoothed, wiped clean of tracks. Unlike the other crumbs of evidence that have led us westward through thorny silver bushes and wildflowers beneath the firs, the cleared area indicates Cohen has turned north.
I frown. Why would he go toward the main road?
Most of Malam’s towns are connected by the gravel road that runs east to west like beads on a string. It stands to reason that a person evading the king’s guard would avoid the most populated areas of the country.
When Leif ambles over, breaking my concentration, I show him the area across the stream, noticing a partial boot print in the smoothed soil. Why would Cohen clear part of the dirt but not all?
Before I can figure it out, Captain Omar is beside me, keenly studying the ground. “Headed for the main road,” he murmurs to himself, a question in his tone about Cohen’s change in direction.
The captain stands and tells Leif to set up camp and then turns to me. “Britta, you’re going hunting.”
I figured one of us was going to have to hunt soon, since our rations are meager.
“How can I hunt when I have no weapon?”
“Watch your mouth,” Captain Omar clips.
I press my lips together, frustrated that I always manage to say the wrong thing.
The captain commands me to hunt under Tomas’s supervision. Upon hearing this, Tomas’s expression sharpens; he’s a starved mountain cat ready to pounce on injured prey. I stifle a shudder at having to be alone with him, keeping a mask of calm on my face as the captain hands over the bow in its quiescent position. How I’ve missed the comfort of its easy weight.
The smooth bends of the horn-and-sinew recurve bow fight against me until wrangled into place and the string is set. A pluck to test the tension emits a tenor note that captures all three guards’ attention. Leif’s brows lift like a charmed child’s at Midsummer’s Tide.
“Seeds and stars, that was fast.” Leif’s appraisal is short-lived, cut when the captain pulls out my blade and two hands grasp for it at the same time. Tomas snags it for the win.
“You didn’t think he meant it for you, did ya?” Tomas says with relish. He tosses my dagger in the air and then catches it, hand bouncing to test the weapon’s weight. “I’ll use this to keep you in line.”
My knuckles whiten around my bow. Tomas’s threat will never be anything but empty. I’ll never let his slimy hands molest Papa’s blade. Especially not against me. The rat guard doesn’t know the damage one arrow loosed from my bow can do.
When the captain leaves, I point south. “We should go that way.”
“Jumping at the bit, are ya? We’re not gonna walk any which way. A little scouting first.”
Leif shoots me a sympathetic look.
“Scouting for tracks?” I ask Tomas. I point to the cluster of small pebbled dung a few paces south. “Like that?”
Leif lets out a snort. His broad shoulders curl inward, jerking with laughter. “Looks like a decent place to start to me.”
“Nobody asked you, filly. Go bludger off,” Tomas goads him.
I nod a silent goodbye to Leif and stalk into the woods.
Tomas trails behind with the grace of a bull stung by a bee. He snaps branches and sets off a cacophony of sounds. I put a finger to my lips and hold out a hand.
“What?” he mouths.
I point to the game trail beaten into the earth. At his bounding pace, he would’ve missed it. In the dirt there’s a cloven print that is two knuckles long. A fawn’s print. I wish I hadn’t stopped. Papa and I never hunted animals still in their youth. They’ve not lived through their purpose, he’d said.
I suggest we take cover and wait for the animals that will surely be making use of the game trail, since the rain has stopped. Thankfully, Tomas agrees.
Hardly any time passes before the soft pad of the fawn sounds. I hope she’s not alone and she’s come with a bigger kill. Only, that’s not the case.
The thought of killing her doesn’t sit right with me, but I consider the situation. She wouldn’t be alone unless her mother was dead. Winter’s approaching. Without a caregiver, the fawn has little chance, so perhaps a kill is a reasonable choice.
The twang of a bow—
A sudden slice of air—
And the choice is stolen.
A horrible bawl breaks from the animal’s mouth as it jumps once and kicks its back legs before darting away. Beside me, Tomas fumbles for another arrow.
“Stop!” I screech. “What have you done?”
He’s not looking at me, so I swipe my dagger from his belt and start for the tortured fawn to end the animal’s life.
Tomas crashes through the brush, chasing. “Did ya forget how to hunt?”
The entire forest rattles around me. I blink once and then realize the motion is coming from me, shaking with anger and sorrow as I focus on the gleaming red trail.
“Please stay here,” I beg Tomas.
He opens his mouth to argue.
“You’re too noisy. She’ll hear you coming and keep running. If you want to eat before tomorrow, please stop. I’ll finish the job.”
Resentment flares in his eyes. But he stays.
Daylight is on its way out when I spot the fawn bedded in the grasses. Fear and pain waft from her like smoke from a fire. At the sight of the arrow protruding from her guts and the blood gathering beneath her, shame floods me.
This isn’t how I do things. Torture is never how I kill.
I should slit her neck. But my approach would need to be slow and all the while she’d be suffering. I draw an arrow, ready my bow, and shoot the fawn in the neck.
A gush of blood spills across the forest floor—it’s a hit to the jugular.
My insides are coated in brackish water, and all I smell is the tang of blood everywhere as I kneel beside her.
“You’re pathetic.” I look up to find Tomas leering over me. “They said you’re the best tracker and hunter in Malam. You’re nothing but a weepy girl.”
It takes every ounce of control not to notch one more arrow. There’s nothing I can say to Tomas that’ll release my fury or grief. Without a word, I tear into the woods, leaving him.
I wander through the firs, shooting off the remaining arrows. Each one nails a target and releases a little of my frustration and anger and guilt. I aim and release, until my anger fades away. I’m not absent long. I plan to reach camp about the same time Tomas does, since he’ll need
to field dress the kill. Except when I return, Tomas is already there.
Captain Omar sheathes his sword with a ringing slap. “Where. Have. You. Been?”
I flinch. The angles in the captain’s face are drawn tight. He passes Leif, taking long, purposeful strides to reach me. It was a mistake to leave Tomas. A massive one.
The captain’s eyes widen, showing too much whites. “You were told to stay with Tomas.” He draws in a breath through his nose and expels it with a puff. “If you’re unable to fulfill the bargain made with Lord Jamis, you forfeit your life. Do. You. Understand?”
I can barely get it out: “Yes, sir.”
“You directly defied me. There are consequences for disobedience.”
Leif works the manacles and rope around a nearby trunk and takes my bow and quiver. I’m too unnerved to tell him about the dagger in my boot as he gently pulls my hands in front of me and fixes the iron cuffs on my wrists.
He squeezes my arm and gives me a mixed look—alarm, regret, distress. Then he mouths, “Be strong,” reminding me of Papa’s advice.
“Ten lashes,” the captain says. My only warning.
The whip strikes.
I cry out, unable to hold it in, and stumble against the trunk. The pain and fire and stinging are merciless. Strong as the trees, Papa’s voice echoes over shallow breaths. I imagine he’s with me when I lock my knees, shut my eyes, drag air between clenched teeth. I imagine I’m stronger than the crumbling girl tied to the tree.
The second lash hits.
Chapter
6
AFTER THE FOURTH LASH, I FALL TO MY KNEES, nearly unconscious from the agony. After the fifth, the captain stops. “You deserve more, but you have a job to do,” Captain Omar says. “Step out of line again, and you’ll get your just due.”
The throbbing in my back is consuming, the pain too raw to think of anything else.
“It needs cleaning.” Leif’s voice pulls me back to where we sit beside a stream. He’s holding a wet rag in one hand and an herbal balm in the other. I extend my hand, even though the small movement has me wincing and gasping for breath.
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