Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  “Why do you believe me now?” he asks.

  Even though we spent every winter together after he turned twelve, I never told him about my ability to perceive truth. It was a shock that Cohen would be a friend to me despite everyone else shunning me for my mother’s blood and traitorous actions. My ability remained my secret because I never wanted to risk losing Cohen, not when his friendship was my world.

  But I owe him the truth.

  “I believed Lord Jamis for the same reason I believe you now,” I say, disliking how soft and uncertain my voice sounds. I suppose truth is an easy thing to determine. Not so much to deliver. “I feel something when a person speaks the truth. My body has a reaction.” I pause for fear of sounding ridiculous. “It’s like a fire in my gut. Warmth spreads through me. I didn’t want to believe Lord Jamis, but when he spoke, I felt the warmth of truth.”

  Cohen studies me in meticulous measure as he would survey the forest during a hunt.

  My pointer finger tugs at the collar of my top, needing a breeze. The room is too stuffy. “If you were to lie, I would know that too. A lie feels cold, chilly.”

  “Are you ever wrong?”

  “No. Never.”

  He doesn’t blink. “Apparently not never.”

  I start to roll my eyes and then stop. At least he doesn’t think I’ve gone mad. “Lord Jamis must’ve been fed wrong information. Maybe it felt like truth to me because he believed the accusation.”

  I knot my hands in my lap when I realize I’ve been moving them awkwardly while talking, waving the dagger around like an imbecile. Quietly, lamely, I add, “I wanted you to be innocent. I just needed you to say you didn’t do it.”

  Cohen stands and crosses the room to where the forgotten porridge now lies in a gooey mess on the floor. I watch, waiting for a response, as he scrapes up the breakfast. When he finishes and turns to face me, a dark shadow has crossed over his face. “What will happen when you don’t deliver me to Omar?”

  I want to hide my face in my hands, but I force myself to hold his gaze. “I was caught with poached meat and the captain was going to hang me. Lord Jamis proposed a trade. My life for yours.”

  Cohen’s face pales. His hand clenches on the bowl of porridge. He stares at me hard, saying nothing for an uncomfortably long stretch of time. “Good,” he finally snaps. “I would’ve done the same.”

  I recoil, feeling as though he’s smacked me. The strangest part about his comment is it registers in my gut with a mix of warmth and cold sensations. Truth and falsehood. What does that mean?

  Cohen stands and walks toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” He wouldn’t leave me here, would he? He took off before and never returned.

  “To the kitchen.” He gestures to the bowl.

  I push myself off the floor. “I traded my life for yours. I confessed that I could sense when someone’s telling the truth. Have you nothing more to say?”

  “Your explanation is all I wanted.”

  Perhaps he doesn’t believe me. Perhaps he’s too angry with me to care. “Cohen, I’m sorry I kept my secret from you.” The apology rushes out.

  He gives me a sad sort of smile. “We all have our secrets, Britt.”

  Cohen returns to the room with two more bowls of breakfast.

  “If I promise this isn’t poisoned, you have to promise not to stab me in my sleep.”

  My lips flatten into an amused line.

  It takes only moments to devour everything in the bowl. I’m going to need my strength. I’ll never turn Cohen in now. There’ll be no reprieve for me until I find the real killer and bring him before the high lord. Captain Omar wouldn’t allow anything less. And if I cannot produce my father’s murderer in exchange for my life, then the captain will have me strung up.

  Setting the empty bowl on my lap, I turn to Cohen. “I have a plan.”

  “Do you, now?” Cohen stands across the room with a half smirk on his face, his earlier anger gone. “I hope it involves trekking west, since you’re coming with me to Shaerdan.”

  “Er, no. Heading into a country that’s going to war with ours doesn’t sound like a plan. More like suicide. I’m not going to run. I’m going to find Papa’s murderer.”

  His lips quirk. “You’ve been tracking me from Brentyn to here. Where did you think I was headed?”

  “I thought you were dodging the guards.” As soon as I’ve spoken, I want to retract the words. He clearly wasn’t solely evading them. I should’ve figured as much earlier when his path was too direct. The clergyman mentioned a woman named Enat. “You’re already tracking the murderer.”

  The corner of his mouth turns up more in approval. “There’s the Britta I know.”

  Guilt sneaks up and kicks me in the lungs, stealing my breath. I shouldn’t have doubted his loyalty.

  “Is Enat the murderer?” I ask.

  He crosses the room and sits down beside me on the bed. “Possibly,” he says. “Though I don’t think so.” Cohen explains that he’s been following leads to figure out who wanted my father dead. Most people have been tight-lipped. But he has informants listening in on tavern talk who report to him.

  “That explains the cleared path and partial shoe print,” I say, realizing he must’ve met with an informant in the woods before changing directions and heading north.

  He seems surprised and then pleased. “You always were an excellent tracker. Knew you’d catch me, Dove.”

  The familiarity of his comment propels me up and off the mattress in need of space to breathe without him nearby. The rush of old emotions is suffocating. He opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything, though I’m sure I look rabid for how crazed I suddenly feel.

  “I should get going,” I tell him.

  The only man who has a chance of tracking Cohen or me is the captain. By splitting up, we would make it impossible for the captain to find us both. Together, we’re two halves of a massive target.

  “You mean we,” Cohen says in that arrogant way I’ve not missed at all.

  I shoot him a withering look. “No. I’m certain I spoke correctly when I said I.”

  “You have a lot of I’s there.” He teases as his eyes follow my movement to the door.

  “Exactly. So you won’t be confused when I leave.”

  He crosses the room in three steps, setting his bowl beside mine on the bed and moving between the door and me. “As it stands, I have more information than you. Your best bet is me. You go with me.”

  That deserves an eye roll. “You haven’t changed a bit. Still pushy and overbearing.”

  He gives me a tilted smile that does whispery things through every bit of me.

  Even if he’s arrogant, he’s right. “What information do you have?”

  “We need to head to the coast of Shaerdan. To Celize.”

  Oh. Cohen really is going to cross the border, which means going with him will make us both traitors. I’ve lived my life resenting my mother’s choice. Could I really willingly become a traitor? The thought sickens me.

  “Why Celize?”

  The corners of his mouth tip down, as if he’s confused about my question. “Saul was killed in a tavern there.”

  “He was killed in Celize?” The question is more for myself than Cohen.

  Cohen nods, understanding dawning in his caring eyes.

  “How?” I whisper.

  It’s clear he doesn’t want to answer by the way his lips form a tight line. When I repeat my question, he concedes. “He was stabbed in the back. Blade went right through the heart.”

  “Your dagger,” I supply, out of breath.

  He nods. “I was in Celize on a tip about finding the Archtraitor. His bounty would pay off my family’s farm and give my sister a sizable dowry. The night before Saul was killed, a thief broke into the room while I slept. It made no sense to me. I should’ve woken if someone was in my room.”

  He hangs his head. “They stole my coat, my dagger, and my money.”

  I walk to
the lone chair in the room and flop down, needing to rest against the weight of the new information. Even though I knew Papa was murdered, hearing the details of his death makes me unbearably sad.

  “Britt,” Cohen says softly. He pushes off the bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this news to hurt you. I thought you knew about Saul’s death.” How can he always read me like a book? He squats in front of me, his hands touching my knees. His Adam’s apple rises and falls beneath the muddy-brown stubble scattered over his neck. “I’m sorry if I’m being pushy. You always hated it when I told you what to do. Tell me what you want to know.”

  “Everything.” My reply is soft.

  “All right. Saul’s last bounty hunt took him into Shaerdan. After he delivered the prisoner to Omar at the border, Saul told him he’d need a week more.”

  Captain Omar never mentioned he was working with my father. In all the time we traveled together, he could’ve mentioned it. Hateful man. I see now how someone could’ve framed Cohen, but it takes a moment to process what he’s told me about Papa’s death. The guards who came to my door to report Papa’s death lied to me. They said he was killed while tracking a criminal.

  “How do you know this?”

  “It’s my business to know these things. Your father’s contacts became all my confidants. Many he introduced when I was an apprentice, and after I started hunting, I worked with them often. I’m lucky that some stayed true to me even after the murder accusations,” he says, though he sounds anything but pleased with his luck. It must’ve stung when not all his contacts stayed true. Cohen explains how he spent the first few weeks after the murder gathering information and putting together Papa’s timeline while he was in Shaerdan. “Only the other day did I receive word that Saul was searching for a woman,” he says.

  “And you’re certain it wasn’t another assignment from the king?”

  He shakes his head. “Saul covered his tracks so well, it’s clear he didn’t want anyone, not the king or the royal guards, to know whom he was searching for.”

  “Enat.” She’s a piece to this puzzle.

  Cohen’s hand squeezes my leg, a confirmation. He stands, moving back to lean against the door. “I don’t know why he was searching for her, but when we find Enat, I’m sure we’ll find the murderer. Or at the very least, the reason someone wanted Saul dead.”

  I wonder if he even realizes how he’s inserted we into his sentences. I figured that as the older sibling of Imogen and Finn, he bossed them around as much as he tried to boss me. When we were younger, Cohen always wanted to take the head position. Even when it led us into trouble. How much trouble waits if I go with Cohen now?

  I take in his broad shoulders and crooked smile—​the very expression that has always devastated me. In the fifteen months he’s been gone, my foolish heart hasn’t forgotten a single stitch of Cohen. If not for evading Captain Omar, for this reason, I should say no.

  It would be wise to protect my heart. To remember that Cohen left without a goodbye. But all I can think of is Papa saying, Bravery is a choice that is yours to make. Don’t let fear steal your will.

  Something tells me this hunt won’t end well.

  But since I am a brave fool: “Yes. I’ll go.”

  Chapter

  11

  FOLLOWING COHEN, I STEP CAREFULLY AND softly as we sneak out of the room into a dark hallway.

  “Stop lurking, Britt. They’re already gone.”

  I scowl and straighten. Cohen’s genius plan entailed hiding directly under the guards’ noses. Typical of him. “I wasn’t lurking. It’s exercising caution.”

  “Roosters and hens. A fowl’s a fowl.”

  “Something’s foul all right.”

  He chuckles. “They left early this morning. I watched them mount and leave, headed straight for the border. You were too busy snoring to notice.”

  “I was sleeping. I don’t snore.”

  “Ha! Like a tavern rat, you do. Especially after a night of slugging ale.”

  He’s baiting me, much like he used to, and it shoots a twinge of ache straight through my center. Those days are over, and though part of me might wish for us to be like we were, another dose of his rejection will destroy me, so I keep my mouth shut and follow him to the door.

  My bow peeks from the top of the bag slung over Cohen’s shoulder. He insisted on packing our weapons together so we don’t have to do it later when we meet up with his horse, Siron. I reluctantly agreed with the exception of Papa’s dagger, which is in my boot.

  “Something for the road.” Molly, the innkeeper’s widow, steps into the sitting room. A simple apron cinches over her dress, and a cloth-covered basket rests in her hand.

  “Thanks, Molls.” Cohen hugs the woman.

  I stand there, unsure what to do with my hands while I watch them say their goodbyes. I forgot how comfortable Cohen is around people. Or rather, I forgot how much others like him.

  “Archers watch the stretch from the town to the border posts,” Molly cautions Cohen.

  “We’re going to head south for the wooded hills to get some distance from the guards. We’ll cross there.”

  I gape at his openness. He is always so quick to trust others, while I trust no one.

  Worry is etched into her wide eyes. “The watchmen scour those woods for traitors.”

  “Fewer watchmen are on the border now that they’re needed at the front. One man still stationed to the south is a friend. We’ll be fine. Siron will help navigate those woods, and Britt here is the best tracker in both countries.”

  His comment fills me with pride. I glance up to see him watching me.

  Molly wrings her hands on her apron. “You should at least change your clothes once you’re in Shaerdan so you fit in. They don’t take kindly to our people.”

  Papa told me they could be a ruthless people. Shaerdan is ruled by a council of judges, led by a chief judge. Kinsmen are fiercely loyal to their local judge. If they see we’re from Malam, they may strike first before asking questions. My skin prickles at the thought.

  “I’ve already planned to do so.” Cohen taps his pack, and then makes a joke about Shaerdan’s awful bright colors.

  “Of course, my boy.” Molly pats his arm. “You’ll do just fine.”

  It’s like she’s talking to her own kin. I shuffle away from them, closer to the door, where I’m not as much of an interloper, listening to their conversation.

  Molly reaches for me before I can escape, as if she might fold me into a hug. The motion catches me off-guard and I stumble back, flushing a slight magenta all over.

  By the gods, Cohen must be mortified by my strangeness. I know I am.

  Forcing myself to Molly’s side, I give her arm a pat like the one she gave Cohen. I don’t want her to think I’m not grateful for her help.

  We head south, away from the amassing war, away from the main road littered with guards and soldiers, away from Omar, Leif, and Tomas. As we slink through the wheat fields and grasses at a snail’s pace, our movement isn’t detectable. It takes hours to reach the hills and woods south of Fennit.

  Cohen’s horse, Siron, waits for us where the woods grow thick and wild and dark. His black coat is perfectly camouflaged in the inky shadows, with only the flash of his yellow eyes to give his location away. Cohen said whenever he enters a town, he commands Siron to remain in the forest because the horse is too noticeable.

  Siron drops his nose, pushing out a thin whinny as we approach. He never cared much for anyone besides Cohen.

  After drawing a brush from his satchel, Cohen combs the stallion’s body, shoulder to rear. The animal’s cocked leg straightens and his ears perk as he measures me and then turns away with an airy snort. Siron was a wild horse, caught in the southlands, where the harsh Akaria Desert makes animals savage. Though Cohen spent months breaking the madness out of the creature, I’m certain there’s still much of the wild dunes in his horse.

  I wait, allowing Siron one more chance to take in my scent
.

  “Don’t worry,” Cohen says, mistaking my pause for apprehension. It’s the first time he’s spoken without whispering since leaving Molly’s inn. We’re far enough away from Fennit now that there isn’t much risk in being overheard. I haven’t seen others’ tracks since we entered these woods.

  “Siron can handle your featherweight,” Cohen says. “I doubt he’ll even notice the difference between you and perhaps an extra bow.”

  One thing I am not is vain, since I’ve no misgivings about my appearance. Unnaturally pale, white-blond hair, freckles, bony figure with a hint of breasts; there isn’t much to admire, and so there isn’t much for Cohen to tease about. Still, I cannot let his jest slide.

  “You’re certain? I wouldn’t want to be the cause for putting the old horse down.”

  Though his face is out of view, I notice how his shoulders grow rigid. “He’s not old.”

  My grin should be ear to ear, but I know Cohen’s bond with the horse is strong. Teasing him is mean sport. “No, he’s not,” I admit. “Your horse doesn’t like me very much. I was giving him time to get used to me.”

  The conversation flounders as Cohen settles himself on Siron and then offers me a hand. Before I’ve steadied myself, Cohen clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the beast responds by taking off, causing my arms to flap out like bird wings. I flail and end up grasping Cohen around the waist. His ribs move out and in as he chuckles.

  “He’s reserved with everyone,” Cohen tells me. “When he was a colt, he didn’t have much contact with people, so he needs time to trust others. Know what I mean?”

  More so than I’d like to admit.

  With the dangers of crossing the border in mind, we fall silent as we ride. We move into a gentle river to hide Siron’s prints and continue to weave westward. Just before reaching Shaerdan, Cohen pulls up on the reins and stalls in the water.

  I glance over his shoulder, and my hands fly to cover my mouth. On either side of the river, two bodies swing from nooses, one far more decayed than the other. The flesh has decomposed and withered, exposing bones among the corpse’s rags. But the other—​mercy—​stinks of fetid flesh. Flies swarm a man’s pale body that cannot be more than a couple days old. His commoner clothes, a tunic over simple trousers, are stained in blood from multiple arrow injuries. And by the awkward twist of his feet, it appears they’ve both been broken. I’d heard rumors about the merciless watchmen—​men hired by the king to prevent people from passing through the border. They’re paid per person they catch, which makes them a bloodthirsty bunch. The torture they inflict is fodder for nighttime tales. Seems those rumors are true.