“It’s yours.” I do want a piece, but I feel the need to maintain some distance. The last couple days have almost made me forget why Cohen isn’t good for me.
It’s difficult to see his expression, but I think he’s studying my shadowed face. “We used to share everything.”
He tears the roll in two and offers me half. I’m thinking of what he just said . . . how we used to be. I wonder if he thinks about how we used to be as much as I do. But if he did, why didn’t he come back to me?
“You’re welcome,” he says, his fingers brushing mine as he hands me the offering.
I bring the roll to my lips to hide how my smile spreads, even though he likely cannot see my reaction. After we polish off the remaining nuts and fruit, I lie down comfortably on my back for the first time since the whipping.
Someone grips my shoulder, and my eyes snap open to the sight of bloodshot hazel eyes. In the midst of the gray morning, Cohen looks a push away from collapsing. I don’t know when the last time was that he had a good night’s rest.
“It’s been a couple hours.” His voice is rough, gravelly. “The sun will rise in another hour.”
Stretching, I let out a yawn as big as the Malam Mountains. I’m startled to find Cohen watching me with a strange pull on his face.
I start to question him, but he turns away and focuses on the dirt at his feet. “We should get going.”
“What about you? You need to sleep.” He looks back the way we came, into Shaerdan’s strange vine-strangled forest. Indecision plays across his furrowed brow, undoubtedly related to the captain and the guards. “I won’t be able to hold your boulder of a body up if you pass out while we’re riding.”
His brow quirks. “Boulder of a—?”
“A figure of speech.” I flick my hand in the air, dismissing the comment. “Lie down, Cohen. I can keep watch for a couple hours,” I assure him, promising to wake him if I see or hear anything. His exhaustion will render him useless if he doesn’t get some sleep.
Of course he argues. Fortunately, I’m equally stubborn, convincing him to rest an hour.
I’ve scarcely settled myself against a log when his breathing slows.
The early sunrays pierce the blue-black shadows and the dew glistens, painting the landscape in vibrant green. Though we’ve been in Shaerdan a few days, this morning is the first time it truly seems as though I’ve stepped into a foreign world.
The land is quiet except for the birds. They sing perky soprano notes, intermittently broken with clucks and clicks, unlike the caws heard in the Evers. The trees here are different too. They’re similar to the spruce trees in Malam, but these are thicker and grow closer together, like soldiers huddled before a fight. Moss dresses the bark where an ivy-like plant doesn’t cling. Plumes of ferns make green clouds across the forest floor.
This land is bursting with life. A current of energy ebbs beneath the black soil and flows into every plant around me. I’ve never felt this way in the Evers, invigorated by the lush life. The sight reminds me of a time Papa pulled his daggers from their box. The morning light glinted against the sapphire on one handle, throwing a magnificent display of azure sparkles across the wall that captured my attention.
“Do you like this, Britta?” Papa asked.
I nodded, first awed, and then a touch sad because I’d never seen something so beautiful. I was always the girl looking and never having.
“This’ll be yours one day,” he said. If my chin hadn’t been propped on my fist, my jaw would’ve dropped to the table. He saw my shock and added, “I don’t tell you nice things very often, and that’s my own fault. But I want you to know, in my eyes, you’re more precious than these daggers.”
Embarrassed, I lowered my eyes, savoring his words as he continued to explain how I would earn the dagger by completing training with the boy who was coming to apprentice.
Now, as the dawn stretches across the tops of the trees, that same sense of awe hits me. I search for movement in the forest, wherein only birds flutter and prattle.
We are alone, so I allow myself one more quick chance to study Cohen, enjoying the view of his messy brown head. If I could erase the reason I’m here, if I could forget the time that’s passed between us and how he broke my heart, this sunrise beside Cohen would be perfect.
The rush of air presses against my cheeks and tangles my hair as we ride hard through the plains, where tall grasses swish like river rapids. Crossing them puts us out in the open. Cohen urges Siron to go fast, fast, faster, until the wind washes over me with its whispers of freedom.
Just before we reach another stretch of forest, Cohen glances over his shoulder, takes in my outswept arms, and laughs. “What have you done all this time?”
The break in the silence catches me off-guard; even so, I know what he means before he adds, “While I was gone.”
“You first. What have you done?” I ask in diversion, not wanting to explain I did nothing more than what we did together—hunt, train, read—only alone.
“Besides working my body into boulder shape?”
I snort and give him a hard shove in the ribs. “Boulders make great target practice.”
“Warning noted.” He chuckles. “I traveled. Spent a lot of time in the woods. Mostly I took job after job from the king.” His casualness about the time he was away turns the lightheartedness I felt moments ago into something murkier. Makes my innards feel like they’ve been plucked. I spent those months thinking of him constantly.
“What types of jobs?”
“I hunted spies in court, army deserters. Anything they asked me to do. I’ve been busy.”
I think of the bodies we saw and cringe. Papa hunted people for the king. I don’t know why it doesn’t sit well with me to think of Cohen doing the same.
“Is that why you never came back?” The question slips from my lips. Papa once told me I needed cheesecloth over my mouth to catch all the words that should stay in.
His spine goes taut in front of me. “Yeah. That’s why.”
An uncomfortable chill snakes through my gut. Did he forget I’d know when he’s lying?
Before I can ask, he stops Siron. “I’m going to give him a break. I’ll hop down and walk for a bit.”
I start to swing my leg over to follow, but Cohen touches my ankle.
“Stay there. I’m quite a bit heavier than you. Without me, he’ll be able to rest.”
Unsure of what to do, I remain seated as Cohen walks ahead. I consider mentioning the lie, only then his comment about us all having secrets comes to mind.
I kept my secret for years, so perhaps this time he can keep his.
On the fourth day, we’re forced to leave the river when it bends due south. It’s taken us in a southwest direction, so we have to head northwest to correct our path. If anything, our indirect route will confuse the guards, leading them off course. Continuing on land, we’re no longer able to hide our prints as effectively. Our trek slows in pace so we can wipe the evidence away.
North of the river, the forest thins into grassy hills spotted with firebush and thick cedars that make me think of giants squatting around a camp. They grow wide with stretched-out limbs that hang toward the ground. The sun blazes hotter here than the warmest summer afternoon in Malam. My skin reddens where the cap and tunic don’t cover, and sweat drips down my face and into my eyes.
Water is scarce. By the end of the second day on our new course, Siron has hardly had a drop to drink. A horse his size could easily take in thirty gallons a day. I offer half of what’s left of my water jug, hoping to take a small edge off the beast’s thirst and leave a small amount for me, but Cohen says Siron will be fine—that his desert upbringing has made him more tolerant to dehydration. Tomorrow we’ll cut a dead-west course in search of a stream.
Neither Cohen nor myself has been much for talking since our water has dwindled.
Eventually the quiet eats at me. “Did you like being away?” I ask.
His shoulder
s rise and fall, typical Cohen Mackay non-answer.
“A lot to see?”
He brushes away his footprint and nods.
“Shaerdan is different from Malam.” I push, determined to break the wall surrounding his vocal chords. “Warmer and stickier in the woods. Hot as a blacksmith furnace here.” My accompanying laugh comes out stilted and quickly fizzles.
After a beat, he surprises me by saying, “Wait till you see the ocean.”
His eyes lift to mine as he tells of the first time he saw the great blue. He stood on a hill, overlooking one of the bays and watching the waves, like massive walls, crash on the shore. “I’ve never felt so insignificant,” he says.
“Did you jump in?”
His mouth twists into a wry smile. “I waded in till the water was above my knees. The ocean pulled back and curled up in a terror of a wave. I ran for the shore as fast as I could.”
I laugh at the image, amusement bubbling unbidden from my lips.
“You think that’s humorous, do you?” His gaze sinks to my mouth, his shadow towering over me as we walk side by side. He leans closer, inclining his head, and every piece of me halts aside from my galloping heart. The most delightfully peculiar thought that he might kiss me runs through my mind. And I lift my chin—
His brow furrows and he pulls back sharply, putting three hands of space between us.
Crestfallen, I have to turn my head to hide the hopeful feeling that’s capsized and is sinking to the depths of my stomach.
“You, scared of water?” I muse to mask my foolishness. “Yes, that’s quite entertaining.”
“In a couple days, you can find out for yourself what it’s like.” He goes on as though nothing awkward stands between us. “We’ll see who’s scared.”
A shiver runs under my skin. Heaven help me, but I like the idea of going to the ocean with Cohen.
Chapter
14
THAT NIGHT COHEN SITS DOWN ON THE BEDROLL where it’s positioned parallel to mine between the firebush. He stretches out his left leg so it comes knuckles from my knee. “I told you a little bit about where I went. It’s your turn. What have you done over the last year?” His voice sounds scratched from having close to nothing to drink.
I shrug.
“Hunting?” he asks.
I nod.
“Reading?”
Another head dip.
“Did you finish the book about the oceans?”
“You remember that? I don’t recall talking to you about that one.” The corners of my mouth lift, betraying my surprise. “I suppose you thought it odd Papa brought me so many books to read.”
“Believe me, that’s the last reason I would think you’re odd.” Cohen’s lips curl into the smirk I know so well. “I’m glad he encouraged you. You were always beating me to a pulp, out-shooting, out-tracking, outdoing everything I did. The only time Saul praised my efforts was when you were off reading.”
An exaggeration, but it makes me laugh and he smiles in return.
“What about friends? Or suitors? Has anyone been courting you?”
“Who are you, a market gossip?” My tone is light, even though his last question backs my belief that he was never interested in anything more than friendship.
His husky tenor laugh is as lovely as the Midsummer’s Tide fiddlers. “Come on,” he presses. “I’m just asking. I hoped you had made friends. Someone to keep you company so you were not alone.”
Not alone. His words are tiny daggers that pierce my heart, making me ache.
“I worry about you all on your own.” That deserves a glare.
“No need to worry about me.”
His fingers still, abandoning the artwork they were doodling in the sandy dirt. “Didn’t you like it when we went hunting together?”
He knows I did. My gaze drifts to the cedar, hulking beside us like a mammoth watchdog.
Cohen leans forward, inclining his head to the side until I look at him. “It’s what I missed most.”
“Then why’d you leave?” I ask, wondering if he’ll avoid my question again. Needling him about this isn’t my goal—I just wish for answers. His quick departure never made sense to me. Papa didn’t tell me Cohen completed the apprenticeship until Cohen had been gone a week. Why didn’t Cohen tell me himself? Why did he promise to visit the morning after I confessed feelings for him, and then not return? The only explanation is he was so horrified by my admission he couldn’t face me again.
His gaze gives nothing away as the silence spreads between us. When I start to say something, he asks, “Do you remember what happened just before I left?”
My eyes land on the scar, a token from our last hunting trip together. His jaw ticks, the only sign he’s uncomfortable. I don’t remember everything, only bits and pieces. A cave. A mountain cat. Blood.
Too much blood.
Cohen fell through the ground into an underground cave. It was too deep to climb back out, so I searched for another entrance. My efforts were careless—not paying attention to my surroundings, I came face-to-face with a mountain cat. It attacked, and somehow Cohen was there. He threw himself in front of me, risking his life for mine to take on the animal. The bloody struggle knocked me down, and my head hit a rock. Which is why I don’t remember most of what happened after. Everything I know was stitched together from Papa’s comments.
“You saved my life,” I say.
The jaw tick happens again. “That’s why I left.”
Truth. I hate that his words resonate with warmth and at the same time confuse the seeds out of me.
“What do you mean?”
His brow furrows and he shoves a hand in his hair. “I couldn’t watch you suffer . . . not after what happened in the cave. It killed me to see you that way.”
I pull my hands into my lap to fist the material of my bright green top. “So—so you left?”
“I should’ve said goodbye.” His face openly displays raw regret that cuts through me. He moves closer, eliminating the space on the bedrolls between us. “I didn’t because I wouldn’t have been able to leave if I saw you again.”
His words are picks and shovels, uprooting the hurt I buried long ago. I feel turned inside out by his confession. I want to wind back time and keep my feelings to myself. If I hadn’t met him that night, perhaps he wouldn’t have been reminded of my weakness. He would have stayed and apprenticed in Brentyn longer. And then maybe Papa would have lived.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.” His fingers brush my cheek.
I scoot back and clutch my hands together.
Even after Papa told me Cohen was accepted as the king’s new bounty hunter, I still believed he’d return to visit. For the first few months, I watched the road, analyzing every second we spent together, rethinking every interaction, every conversation. The unknown drove me mad. A year passed. When Cohen never returned, rejection and loss devastated me.
“It hurt a great deal when you didn’t return,” I admit. “But it hurts even more to hear you say you left because it was painful to watch me heal. Do not feel guilt over what happened. My foolish actions are the reason you have that scar.” My fingers curl into fists as I force myself to be candid. “I never wanted you to leave because of me. Now that you’re back, I don’t know how to be the friends we used to be.”
Cohen’s mouth curves into a bleak smile. “That doesn’t mean we cannot try.”
The lack of water has made my mind sluggish. I consider crushing handfuls of cedar leaves and sucking the moisture from them. My throat is dry. My body aches. My head pounds when the bouts of dizziness break. I cannot imagine how Siron must feel. Mostly, I fear the lack of water will give Captain Omar an edge, and before we know it, he’ll be on us.
From afar, the small town at the edge of the dry hills is no more than a brown smudge against the greener woodlands beyond. To me it’s an oasis. Where there is a town, there must be a nearby water supply.
Yesterday Cohen managed to siphon som
e water from the roots of a cedar, but the tree was stingy and didn’t provide much. So I don’t argue the dangers of being spotted near the town because I know Siron needs the hydration.
The colorful dyed dresses and tunics worn by the townspeople clash against the brown wood construction. As we come down the hill toward the outer-lying homes, the people look like a scattering rainbow. It makes them easy to see. Easy to avoid.
A timber-framed, two-story cathedral marks the center of town. We skirt around the buildings, moving toward the edge of forest beyond the town.
I hear a woman singing, a string of strange discordant notes and foreign words. Cohen does as well and stops beside me, gesturing to drop back. I shake my head. The sound of her haunting melody intrigues me. One woman isn’t a threat I couldn’t handle. Before he can argue, I draw my bow and follow the voice through the woods, leaving him to trail behind.
A woman with long onyx-colored hair pulled into a messy braid sits on the edge of a rock-and-mortar well, singing as she pulls up a rope from the depths below. At the sight of a well, the dryness in my throat doubles at the promise of water. A dog, snow-colored and large as a donkey, sits beside the woman.
With the cap pulled over my hair and my bow at my side, I gesture for Cohen to wait at the edge of the clearing. The woman finishes lifting the bucket from the well before she notices me. I try to keep my eyes from ogling the bucket. “Good day, miss.”
The dog lets out a small whine and then lays its head down. His mouth is foamy, which I didn’t notice before. He’s dying. Does the woman know this?
“You’re not from around here, boy.” Her voice is friendly, though a touch unhappy as she takes in my cap.
Even so, I worry she’ll realize I’m from Malam and notify the town’s guards.
“I’m passing through,” I say, faking a Shaerdanian accent. Hopefully the dry rasp will assist the charade. “If it’s all right, I could use a drink.”
Ever the Hunted Page 9