Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  “You won’t be able to reach,” he says. “I can help.”

  I blink. Surely he’s not suggesting I lift my top and let him wash my bare skin. I may not know much about social interaction or friendships, but exposing myself seems inappropriate.

  “I won’t look. You don’t have to worry about me.” The tips of his ears are redder than autumn leaves. Well, then, I was wrong. I try to grasp my ripped tunic and end up hissing while spots burst in my vision.

  “Let me,” Leif urges. “I know you must feel alone right now. But I’m here and—​and you can trust me. No one’s strong alone. We need each other—”

  “Don’t . . . Y-you don’t know me—” I cut him off, letting rage distract from the pain. What does he know about being alone? He’s a king’s guard. He doesn’t need to worry that he’ll never marry. That his home will be taken. That he’ll die alone.

  “Perhaps not as well as I’d like.” His voice turns shy. “But I’ve seen your strength and cunning and determination. You’re loyal. And I know life hasn’t been very fair to you.”

  I let out a snort. But he has my attention.

  “My father died when I was nine,” Leif continues. “When my ma caught the ague, I was thrown off my horse on my way to fetch a healer. My leg was hurt badly. I couldn’t do much for my family. Then someone made me a crutch.” He pauses, looks up. “It was your father.”

  I stare at Leif. Warmth from his words blossoms and spreads through me.

  “My ma always used to say, ‘It’s a good thing to need others.’ It’s okay to need my help, Britta. I’m not gonna make you pay for it later.”

  The leaves of a sapling beyond the stream flutter as a dove emerges and flits away. The sight of the gray puff reminds me of Cohen. You don’t need a lot of friends, just a good one, Papa said. Back then Cohen was my “good one.”

  “Go on, then,” I whisper.

  Leif slowly lifts my shirt upward until my backbone is exposed. He huffs out a breath. I’m about to ask what he sees when the cool press of the rag forces every nerve in my body to hiss. I fist my hands and slam my eyes shut—​it’s all I can do not to scream.

  “You shouldn’t waste the grain on the birds.” I twisted my hand until my satchel’s straps bit into my skin. We had drawn the attention of a few marketgoers milling near the cathedral. Cooing doves pecked the stones just beyond Cohen’s reach.

  “Give me a couple more minutes.” His pleading gaze swung to mine. He jiggled a handful of grain, palm outstretched to lure in the chestnut-colored speckled fowl. None were daring enough to eat from his hand.

  A nobleman cut through the crowd, scowling at me. His fur-trimmed overcoat skimmed the cobblestones. My grip on the satchel tightened, even though my fingers were already numb.

  “Let’s go,” I urged. “We’ve been here too long. Papa will worry.”

  Cohen sighed. His golden-brown eyes searched mine. Then he tossed the bits to the birds.

  On the road that led to my cottage, Cohen looked at the bag of grain in his left arm and then turned to me. “Usually they’ve gone by now, but this year’s been warmer.”

  “The birds?” I wrinkled my nose.

  “They’re doves.” He shrugged. “They’re interesting. Compassionate and loyal.”

  Skepticism was written across my face.

  “Really,” Cohen argued. “Both male and female doves care for their young.” When I didn’t appear interested, he added, “And they mate for life. Shows they’re loyal to one another.”

  A blush rose to my cheeks from his comment. “Guess they’re not just dull brown birds.”

  I hoisted my satchel higher on my shoulder to take the weight off my arms. It was heavy with tubers from the market and new arrows from the fletcher.

  “Not all are brown. Sometimes I’ll spot a fair one as pale as you.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. How lovely to be compared to a fowl.

  Without asking, Cohen tugged the bag off me and swung it onto his back.

  “Didn’t ask for your help,” I said, bothered that he always felt compelled to take care of me. I may have only been fourteen, but I could manage well enough the months he wasn’t there.

  “So you didn’t ask, but can you not simply accept it sometimes?” He shook his head.

  I huffed. “Why accept it when I don’t need it?”

  Cohen returned the satchel. With the tubers weighing down my arms again, I wished that I hadn’t thrown a fit about his help.

  “Stubborn as the birds,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Did you just compare me to the doves?”

  He looked at me squarely. “That I did. They wouldn’t eat from my hand when I had food for the taking. Like them, you’re loyal. Compassionate. But you never want help when I offer.”

  “Stop offering and I’ll stop refusing.”

  He chuckled. “Whatever you say, Dove.”

  That night I dream Cohen is bloody and dying in my arms, and I am choking on fear and sobs.

  My throat is dry as stone when I wake flat on my front, my entire body sweating and smarting from the pain. I haven’t had the nightmare since right after the accident that gave Cohen his scar.

  Trembling, I push up to sitting. Captain Omar watches me through the fire pit’s smoke.

  “She’ll need food to help regain strength,” he tells Leif, who is loading a pack on the captain’s horse. “And give her more balm.”

  When the captain leaves, Leif hands me a tin of food. Tomas saunters over and I turn away from Leif, who is the one ray of sunshine on this bleak excursion.

  “Learned yer lesson?” Tomas’s pointy chin juts at me. “Need me to give you another?”

  “Shut your gaping hole, you son of a scrant.” Leif jumps up. “Stay away from her. You couldn’t take two of those lashes.”

  Tomas lunges at Leif and slams his fists into the bigger guard’s jaw. The scuffle ends before it can truly start when the captain grabs Tomas and yanks him on his rear. I watch, motionless, as Tomas scuttles backwards.

  “Told you to leave her alone.” Captain Omar’s nostrils flare as he pins Tomas to the dirt.

  The guard’s face purples, but he’s got the sense not to say anything.

  “No lunch rations for you today and tomorrow.” Captain Omar pulls the guard off the ground and drags him to the horses. Their conversation is no longer audible, but a short while later I see pinch-faced Tomas working on grooming the horses and readying them for travel.

  “Captain Omar’s not pleasant,” Leif whispers to me. “But he’s consistent and fair.”

  Perhaps in Tomas’s case. Not sure I agree with Leif otherwise.

  Chapter

  7

  CAPTAIN OMAR KEEPS THE MANACLES IN HIS satchel the next few days, since I can barely move as it is. After two nights lathered in balm and sleeping on my stomach, the pain is manageable. Leif cannot believe my speedy recovery, but I’ve always been a fast healer. Which is good, considering once we reach the main road, the captain demands we move faster.

  Too soon, I’ll have to face Cohen and trade his life for mine. The anticipation is like waiting for the executioner’s ax to drop.

  Now that we’re out of the forest, all around us the farms and fields stretch out in the lowlands like faded patchwork quilts. If I squinted, it would look beautiful. Open space where families grow like corn. Only, the land has grown tired and old. Unattended crops have gone to seed.

  “What are you looking at?” The scruff of Leif’s rust-colored beard scratches against his uniform as he turns his chin to face me. Leif and Cohen are close in age. I wonder if Cohen grows as much facial hair as Leif. If it makes him seem older, rougher. Shaking my head, I drag my attention back to the fields. “I thought only one man in each family was required to serve in the army. Is the rumor about boys going to war true?”

  “Lord Jamis wanted a stronger front, so he asked every able male to report.” Conflict underlines his words.

  “That isn’t what t
he law calls for.” One man from each household appeases the king’s mandate. How would a family survive if they lost all the able men in their home?

  “A month ago, the king changed the law.” Captain Omar’s comment catches me off-guard as he rides up alongside us. “Shaerdan’s troops are larger than ours.” I don’t think offering up young boys to be slaughtered is a solution, or stealing a family’s livelihood by requiring all men to leave, but I don’t say this. “If your Cohen continues on this route, we’ll go right through the south end of the war camps.”

  There’s no enmity in the captain’s words; still, I hate the way he says your Cohen.

  He’ll never be my Cohen. Not anymore.

  Cohen lies in my lap, his motionless body covered in blood. I hold fast to him, as if my hands might fuse together the gashes that have opened his torso and torn his face. I rock forward and back. Forward and back.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” The space beneath my rib cage is hot and full like it might explode. I cannot lose him, my Cohen.

  And yet, I know it’s soon to happen. I hate that I know when death is near. I can feel the thread left of his once-vibrant presence. He’s a drop. A whisper. Cohen’s hazel eyes, dim and no longer able to focus, wander as he coughs. Crimson speckles his pale lips.

  “I—​I never told you.” I choke on my words. A sob breaks out. “I love you.”

  When his eyes close, my grief cuts through the woods. I’d trade my life to save his.

  I wake in the dead of the night, skin clammy and cold. In those first moments, the strangest tugging sensation ghosts through me, tiny invisible feet dancing across my back and up my neck. I’m being watched. Pushing up off my front, I move onto my knees and glance around the campsite. To the shadows stained blue in the half moonlight. To the three sleeping guards snoring louder than a sloth of bears.

  The same impression hit me in the Evers before I took down the bull elk. Before then, I’d never experienced the sensation. Perhaps the stress of Papa’s death, or hunting Cohen, is affecting my imagination.

  Even so, I withdraw slowly from my bedroll and stand while pulling the dagger from my boot, where it’s been hidden since the lashing. Two days ago, Tomas noticed the blade was missing, but he doesn’t know I have it. The rat guard doesn’t want the captain to know he lost the dagger, so he hasn’t spoken a word about it.

  Movement flickers in the trees, and then the unmistakable crunch of footsteps sounds.

  Not my imagination. I suck in a breath.

  Casting a wary glance at the dozing captain, I debate what the man will do if he finds me missing.

  The fading footsteps snap my resolve. I shove to my feet, ignoring the slice of ache between my shoulders, and run after the intruder—​a tall man, my guess by the glimpse of his shadow.

  He’s too far away to distinguish features. Too quick. I’m barely able to follow his silhouette. In an instant, he darts around another tree, leading us farther from camp. Doing everything possible to keep him in my sights, I push my legs faster, pump my arms harder, but the soreness in my back steals most of the needed grace to dodge trees and shrubs.

  And then, quite suddenly, I cannot find him.

  My legs slow to a jog. Did he change direction?

  A familiar sound—​a whir​—splices the air just before an arrow sinks into the trunk beside me. I dive behind the closest boulder. Forget the healing lashes on my back; a war drum pounds beneath my ribs.

  I lack strength and a bow. I shouldn’t have followed him. Not alone. How foolish of me.

  Some time passes before I’m daring enough to peek around the rock. Except he’s gone now.

  I kick the sandstone, cursing under my breath, and whip around to find the arrow. It’s buried a quarter shaft deep into the wood—​impressive for an archer. A wiggling action frees the arrow. The moonlight filtering through the branches provides enough ambient glow to take in the weapon’s details. To read the word carved into the metal tip: Dove.

  My fingers rattle as I run my hand from fletching to tip, knowing he’s touched the arrow the same way just moments before.

  I spin, searching the woods wildly for him, even though he’s long gone.

  The scratched word, Cohen’s nickname for me, is rough beneath the pad of my thumb.

  He missed intentionally.

  Nothing makes sense. Not this arrow. Not his tracks.

  The last time I saw Cohen was after a mountain cat attacked us in the woods, which caused me to be bedridden for a week and Cohen permanently scarred.

  I ran a hand over my hair—​a sheet of silver under the stars and moonlight—​left down how Cohen liked it. Movement across the pasture caught my eye. It took squinting to make out Cohen’s form. When he’d visited earlier, he said he’d come again. My heart leaped at the sight.

  Nerves rattled inside as I slipped into the shadows to meet him. After the accident, I vowed I wouldn’t wait to tell him of my feelings. Still I worried he didn’t feel the same.

  The angry line under his left eye socked me with guilt. “Cohen, I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your—” He started to argue but stopped when my fingers twined with his.

  “It kills me that you’re hurt. I—​I care about you . . .”

  “I care about you too.” Heat from his skin spread through mine.

  I summoned the courage to finally admit my feelings. “I—​I meant as more than just friends. I have feelings for you. I want to be with you, and I don’t ever want to lose you.”

  His eyes widened, and dark sable swallowed the usual gold flecks.

  “Britt” floated out. His head dipped, and he pressed his lips to my cheek, then the corner of my mouth. Soft and sweet. He asked me to wait for him. That he’d return the next morning.

  Though confused, I agreed. For Cohen, I’d do anything. Then he whistled for Siron and left.

  He didn’t come back like he said he would.

  Not the next day. Not the following fall to apprentice. Not even when Papa died.

  I stare deep into the darkness. We need each other, Leif said the other day, but he was wrong, because I don’t need any part of this.

  I hate the way Cohen makes a mess of my thoughts. Hate that I’m here in these woods, hunting him for murder. Hate the doubts tangling my mind because they’re meaningless next to the truth in Lord Jamis’s words.

  I snap Cohen’s arrow in two and throw it on the ground.

  I hate him.

  Chapter

  8

  THOUGH KING AODREN HAS YET TO DECLARE the country officially at war, the border town of Fennit is teeming with men in steel armor and chain mail. Tents the color of dishwater line the fields northward. To the west, across an expanse of wheat fields and clusters of wooded areas, pillars of smoke dot the horizon. Enemy camps. Preparing, waiting. Thousands upon thousands of men are here, and yet I’m somehow certain Cohen is too.

  “My father never thought it would escalate to this,” I tell Leif. “Suspicions aren’t reason for war.”

  Tension between Malam and Shaerdan has brewed for years. Papa told me of a time before King Aodren’s rule when a three-year drought decimated Malam’s crops. People blamed Shaerdan’s Channelers, who used to sell healing ointments all over Malam. Suspicion grew but it didn’t spread countrywide till the old king died from a sudden illness after a meeting with Shaerdan’s leader, the chief judge. People were convinced Channeler magic was to blame.

  “Course not.” Leif leads his horse to follow the captain through Fennit’s busy market. “But it’s like a pot of water over the fire. Eventually it’ll boil.”

  “Sure it’ll heat up. Not explode,” I argue.

  He shrugs. “I heard they’re after our ore, too.”

  I frown. “That doesn’t make sense.” When commerce had faltered between Malam and Shaerdan, many merchants had been unable to feed their families. The king had been forced to reinstate the ore trade—​the one resource that would bring back some of the funds lost wh
en the border closed.

  “Their chief judge wants to own a mine in our mountains,” Leif tells me. “King Aodren declined his request two months ago. Then their soldiers plundered one of our border towns.”

  That was right after Papa died and my mourning started. The isolation kept me from hearing this news earlier.

  Tomas sidles up to us. “They wanna make us heathens like them and their black magic.” He hasn’t uttered more than a dozen words since killing the fawn. I mourn the loss of his silence.

  “What do you know of that?” I challenge.

  “I heard about one. A real whore, cheating on her husband.”

  I cringe at the word whore.

  “The old man went fishing with his fellows,” Tomas continues, “and his heathen of a wife did some devilry and made a wave as tall as the Castle Neart crash on that boat. Killed ’em all.”

  He sounds like a gossiping market crow. “Horse dung.”

  “You snit.” Tomas white-knuckles his reins. “What do you know?”

  “I know not to believe rumors.”

  He urges his horse closer. “Better hope Mackay doesn’t cross the border. If their army doesn’t get you, some Channeler will hear your sharp tongue and end you.”

  I fist my hands. “Somehow I don’t think I’ll be the one they find offensive.”

  “Watch it. The border’s dangerous. Anything can happen.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to her,” Leif interjects.

  “Not like it’d matter.” Tomas smirks. “Nobody’ll miss her.”

  It’s a struggle not to react—​I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing his words have pierced me through. He has uttered one of my greatest fears—​that I’ll die alone.

  The captain shouts a command that ends our conversation. When the captain’s horse canters ahead, Tomas follows.

  Leif’s thick hand squeezes my arm. “It’s not true about no one missing you.”