When we’re outside the stable, Omar and Tomas drop Cohen to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Tomas kicks Cohen’s ribs. I whimper, wanting desperately to stop them, to help Cohen. The sight of the dark blood around Cohen’s hairline makes my eyes watery. I blink hard and search for a sign that Cohen is breathing. Please be breathing.
Finally, his chest rises and falls.
My relief is cut short, however, when Kendrick walks out of the inn and Omar nods to him. “My word is good. Your son will be spared.” His accent holds the perfect Shaerdanian lilt. Omar is a lying, sneaky bludger. Kendrick must’ve turned us in because he thought Captain Omar and his men were from the Shaerdanian army. He thinks they’ll save his boy from service. How wrong he is. Before I can say anything, Leif’s hand clamps over my mouth.
“Shh,” he whispers so only I can hear. “Don’t make it worse right now.”
When he releases my mouth, I nod, accepting he’s right, that talking now will only get us killed faster.
“I couldn’t let them take my son,” Kendrick says to me. He is grief and guilt and relief all mixed in one. “Ten is too young to go to war. Tell Cohen I’m sorry. I had to do this.” He casts one more glance at Cohen. “I couldn’t lose my son.”
The rage that filled me moments ago disappears. I cannot hate a man for wanting so badly to save his son that he was willing to trade us.
Leif escorts me toward a carriage that is marked with a brown and blue crest with a gold bird painted above it. The captain must’ve stolen this wagon from the Shaerdanian army when he swiped the uniforms. Clearly, I underestimated the lengths to which Captain Omar was willing to go in order to find us.
After putting Cohen in the carriage, Captain Omar manacles my wrists and shoves me in as well. One look at Cohen’s unconscious body and remorse cuts through me. I should’ve never made that deal with Lord Jamis. If I hadn’t tracked Cohen, he’d be free and clear now, and probably would know who the real killer is.
When the time comes, I’m going to right this wrong.
I’m going to do what it takes to free him.
Chapter
17
ONCE WE’RE MOVING, THE CARRIAGE lurching along the rutted roads of Padrin, Captain Omar finally speaks. “I wasn’t pleased you slipped through my guards’ fingers. That’s a mistake they won’t make again.” As always, there is an undercurrent of bitterness in his tone. He must be furious that I managed to best his men. “You weren’t easy to find. It was luck more than anything. Leif remembered Cohen had a friend in this village.”
His confession makes me think he wants me to know that Leif and Tomas paid for what happened the other day and I will too. I grit my teeth and focus on the wall of the carriage.
“Perhaps you understand now how far I will go to see that you and your Cohen are rightfully sentenced.” The captain pulls out my dagger and twists the ivory handle in his leathered hands. “A nice blade. Good weight. Sharp. Showy.” He touches the tip of the dagger to his finger. “I might keep this as a token.”
He’s goading me, and yet, despite knowing this, watching him fondle my father’s weapon enrages me. In a measured tone, I manage, “When this is over, I’ll have my dagger back.”
“Your dagger? When you betrayed the king, you forfeited the few rights you had, including your property.”
My spine could be forged with iron for how straight I sit. Everything inside me rallies to act on my anger, but I need to be smart if I’m going to escape. It’s clear the man has a firm sense of what he believes to be justice. My back itches at the memory.
“I would never side with a murderer,” I say, hoping to draw on that sense of justice now.
The dagger is in midtoss. Omar catches the handle and pauses.
“I could’ve led you off course,” I go on. “There were tracks I could’ve overlooked. If my goal was to run off with Cohen, I would’ve escaped the first night you left me unshackled.”
His eyes narrow to slivers, barely containing the man’s loathing.
“But I didn’t. I led you to Cohen because I believed he was guilty. You must see that. I only went with him because I found out he didn’t kill my father.”
“You say he’s not guilty. Yet you’re running away from Brentyn.”
“We weren’t running away—we were running to somewhere,” I say lamely, not wanting to divulge our secrets. Again, he gives me a look of disbelief. I have to offer something because our only option is to gain the captain’s trust. “We were headed to the place my father was killed to find the real murderer. Or, at the very least, clues.”
“Celize,” he says.
“Yes. And I wouldn’t have told you if I were trying to hide a murderer,” I add, hammering on the fact of Cohen’s innocence.
Captain Omar watches me, his scrutiny fierce and unwavering, like a predator’s. Though his expression seems void of the usual dislike, his thoughts are a mystery. A scant seed of hope starts inside; it’s an indigo drop of dye tinting a vat of boiling water.
The carriage jerks, jostling us and breaking the man’s attention. “Don’t speak again unless you want me to gag you.”
When night falls, the carriage rolls into the small village Cohen and I avoided before we stopped at the well. Having woken earlier, Cohen has said very little. He didn’t so much as grunt when Tomas punched him for moving too slowly back to the carriage after we’d stopped for a privy break.
When he meets my gaze, his dark eyes are heavy with disappointment. No word has been spoken about Kendrick, but Cohen is shrewd and has likely worked out his friend’s betrayal. I offer a thin smile in return.
The captain finds an empty inn. When he enters with Cohen and me in tow, he plays the part of a Shaerdanian soldier as he orders the keeper to give us his largest room.
Tomas manacles me to the bed while Omar and Leif tie Cohen to a chair at his ankles and wrists. Considering the injuries to his head, his night is sure to be hellish.
Later Tomas unties one of my hands and places a meager meal of bread and broth in my lap, while Cohen isn’t given anything.
“Eat it,” Tomas says.
The rounded loaf would usually set my mouth watering, but it has no appeal. It doesn’t sit well with me to eat in front of Cohen.
Cohen must sense my dilemma. “Britta, eat.”
Reluctantly, I take a bite of the bread. It coats my tongue like ashes. I chew. Swallow. Think about how to get free.
“You’ll listen to the murderer but not me?” Tomas sneers.
I should ignore him, but I cannot let the comment go.
“He is no more a murderer than you are a gentleman.”
The back of his hand whips my cheek, snapping my head to the side. I’ve been hit in the same spot so many times that the skin below my eye socket smarts as if stung by a hundred bees.
Cohen lurches in his chair. “Don’t—”
“Shut yer mouth.” Tomas points his knife at Cohen. “I’ll kill you now.”
My eyes meet Cohen’s, pleading silently for him to say no more.
Tomas squats in front of me and grabs my chin, pinching the skin between his dirty fingers. “Now you’ll talk to me, eh? You liked to think you were above me. The whole time we were traveling together, you didn’t have nothing to say to me.” His spit flicks my cheek as his hot breath cascades over my face.
My stomach roils. Over the guard’s shoulder, Cohen’s lips form a thin line and his eyes flash murderously, his once-unreadable expression now a promise of pain for the vile guard.
“You’re an ugly thing.” Tomas laughs to himself and taps my nose. He angles his body so Cohen no longer has a clear view. I squirm in an effort to gain precious space. “Too much freedom has given you ideas. I should teach you a lesson.”
I shudder to think what his lesson entails.
His hand travels away from my face and down my arm to my thigh. He squeezes my leg, sending a new slithering alarm through my body. Anxiety presses against my chest, a winter storm enc
roaching on a cottage, slipping icy fingers through every weak crack. His grip clutches tighter to the point of bruising, and I cannot stop myself from trembling. I hate myself for showing weakness. It’s a fight to keep my face a stone mask, hiding the way I want to gag and retch as he touches me.
The door opens. I nearly sigh aloud, never having been so relieved to see Captain Omar.
“What’s going on in here?” the captain demands.
Tomas stands up and steps away. “The snit was trying to convince me to let her go.”
The captain regards the scene. “I’ll take the first watch. You’ll have the third.”
Tomas leaves the room. The captain tightens my restraints after binding my free hand, takes a seat in the corner, and then orders Cohen and me to sleep.
I’ve too many aches to doze off, and the night trudges by until sometime during the wee hours, after Leif has replaced Omar, I finally fall asleep. It seems like only a wink later when Leif is waking me, holding two bowls of porridge.
I’m glad he brought something for Cohen. Leif places a bowl in Cohen’s lap and unties his right hand. Then he comes to my side, unbinds one wrist, and helps me sit up. He catches my eye, and his face twists into an apologetic grimace.
When we traveled together, I thought he was the bright spot in a dark situation. I thought we were almost friends. Perhaps he felt the same.
“Do you believe me?” I whisper, needing to know if he still thinks I’ve sided with a murderer.
He nods almost imperceptibly, but I see it. Maybe Leif could help us—
“Leif, come ready the horses,” Omar barks from the doorway, crushing my hopes.
Leif pushes the bowl of food closer and leaves the room on the captain’s heels. Tomas saunters in, a new bruise shining on the underside of his cheek. A punishment from Captain Omar? If so, it’s deserved.
“Noticed that, did you?” His mouth twists into an ugly grimace.
The toe of his boot connects with my leg, just below my knee, and I yelp, surprised. My leg stings, but it’s not too bad. It’s muted by the sight of Cohen, who’s behind Tomas, trapped in his seat, a vein bulging from his neck.
“You’re lucky you made a friend of Leif.” Tomas moves behind me and jerks the restraint on my left wrist, since it’s still bound. The metal cuts into my flesh, breaking old scabs. I bite back a cry. A dagger to the kidney, arrow to the vitals, Siron’s kick to his head, my hands around his neck—my mind recites all the ways I’d like to see Tomas perish.
“If he weren’t around, I’d have a little more fun with you,” the guard says. “For now, I’ll just have to enjoy leaving marks he’ll never see.”
I tense, the image of last night when his hand was on my leg sticking in my thoughts. Tomas steps in front of me, crowding me so his mildew odor wafts around me. He traces my jaw with rough fingers. “And you’re not going to say anything because at any time I can and will exact punishment on your friend here. I have to take him to Malam, but it doesn’t mean I cannot torture him first.”
No.
“Now get up. It’s my turn to escort you to the privy,” he says with a sickening smile.
Dread seeps into my muscles.
Tomas leans in to unchain the restraints from the bedpost, and panic pipes through me at his proximity. And then realization dawns—his nearness also compromises him, and my right hand is still free from breakfast.
I try to capture Cohen’s attention to send a message, only Tomas blocks my view of him. This may be our only opportunity to fight back. If we can bring Tomas to heel before the other men return, we’ll have a chance of getting away.
My free hand balls into a fist and, just before Tomas pulls back, I punch him in the nose. Only there isn’t enough force to drop the guard.
“Scrant!” Tomas’s eyes turn wild as he snakes a handful of my hair and yanks back. “You’ll be sorry for that.”
I might be sorry for a lot of things, but punching Tomas will never be one of them.
The keys clatter to the floor while Tomas grabs for his dagger. One-handed, I fumble for anything to use as a weapon, and seize the bowl of porridge. He raises the dagger just as I slam the hot breakfast into his face.
A crack sounds.
He roars and releases my hair as the dish clatters to the floor. Blood runs like a waterfall from his nose. There’s only so far I can move while still manacled to the bed; scurrying back doesn’t get me far enough away. He lands a furious punch to my temple and, I swear to the gods, my eyeball might pop out.
“Britta!” Cohen yells.
I shake my head to clear the pain. Focus.
Tomas lunges for me, but I manage to roll away from him, twisting my restrained arm almost to the point of breaking. I pull my knees into my body and then thrust both feet at his chest, hitting him squarely.
The impact causes Tomas to stumble back, trip over Cohen, and fall to the floor.
Cohen tips himself and the chair over like a felled tree, landing on Tomas’s torso. The breath whooshes out of the guard. His unconsciousness is sealed when Cohen slams the butt of his elbow against the side of Tomas’s head.
My grin stretches across my face like an addled person’s. Cohen and I each have only one arm free; yet, we downed one of the king’s guards.
“Where did the keys fall?”
“Underneath the bed.” Cohen twists against his bindings.
I turn until the edge of the key ring is visible, only it lies out of reach. Right then the locking mechanism in the door clicks.
No! I jolt up. Cohen’s eyes meet mine. As soon as Captain Omar enters the room, our lives will be forfeit. We were so close. So close.
The door opens.
The captain doesn’t walk in.
The woman from the well does.
Chapter
18
I WONDER IF TOMAS’S PUNCH BRUISED MORE THAN MY FACE. Surely, I’m not seeing things right. But after a good eye rub, she’s still there—with ebony hair pulled to the side in a braid that snakes over her right shoulder, it’s definitely the woman from the well.
“I heard about your arrest and came to help,” she explains as she rushes to Cohen’s side and loosens his bindings.
The truth in her words amazes me. Gratefulness wells up inside, putting a lump in my throat. “Someone told you we were arrested, and you didn’t run in the other direction?”
She smiles like I’ve said something comical.
“Who helps two criminals? We could be murderers for all you know.”
The woman unlocks my manacles. “Not you. Your heart is too good.”
“How’d you find us?” Cohen asks as he finishes freeing his legs.
“This inn belongs to a friend.”
How trustworthy is that friend?
“Promise, you’re safe for now,” the woman assures me as if reading my mind.
“The guards, they’re not from Shaerdan,” I say, realizing the additional danger she’s put herself in.
She nods. “Aye. Noticed that. The big one doesn’t hide his Malam accent well.”
True. Leif’s faked brogue sounds more like a lamb’s bleat and bellow than Shaerdanian.
She steps around Tomas and extends a hand to help me to my feet. “Besides, you needed my help. Doesn’t matter where the guards are from.”
Not wanting to question her motives any further, I ask her if she passed Leif and the captain on her way in. Even though Tomas has been knocked out, the captain will never allow us to stroll out of here.
She pulls a flask from her skirt. “Sleeping draught.”
I stare at her slack-jawed and, at the same time, mesmerized by her cunning as she explains how she snuck a few drops into Leif’s and the captain’s morning drinks. According to her, both men will sleep for eight hours.
Cohen steps beside me and points a thumb to his chest. “Cohen. This is Britta. We’re glad for your help.”
“Jacinda.” Her blue eyes twinkle. “Happy to be of service.”
My lashes lower. “Probably not as bad as I look.” After a day’s travel and having the crow beat out of me, I’m probably no sight to behold.
“When we get some distance, I’ll make a poultice for the swelling,” he promises.
My palm moves to the curve of my cheek, where his hand was moments ago.
“I found your horse in the woods. Must’ve followed the guards. Smart animal. Never seen such a loyal southland horse before,” Jacinda tells Cohen, seeming impressed. “He’s in the stable now, having a drink.”
It’s not the least bit surprising that Siron followed his master. If that horse were from Shaerdan, I’d think he had Channeler abilities.
Cohen takes her hand and inclines his head. “I’m in your debt. Thank you for watching out for him,” he says, relief coloring his voice, before crossing the room to pick up the manacles. He shoves them on Tomas’s wrists and jerks twice to test that they’re secure. “I’ll go check Omar and Leif. Then we can figure out an escape that won’t alert neighbors. Don’t want anyone pointing the guards in our direction.”
Jacinda goes to drop the key on the bed, but Cohen stops her. “We can find a resting place that’ll be a bit more difficult to find. Wouldn’t want to make it too easy for them.” His mouth tilts in a half smile.
With an expression that mirrors his, Jacinda tosses the iron ring to me. “Sly friend you have there, Britta. I like him. And I certainly don’t mind putting a little hurt to those Malam guards. Last night, Lockdell, the village southeast of here, was raided by soldiers from your army. Buildings were burned down. It’s chaos in the town square here with all the surviving kinsmen gathering.”
“Malam attacked an entire town?” Astonishment raises my voice a notch.
“Aye,” Jacinda says gravely. “Not the entire army, but some of your men did.”
My eyes dart to Cohen, taking in his flat expression. “What does this mean? Is this the official beginning of the war? Has King Aodren declared it so?”
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