Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  She nods. “Channelers influence energy. They connect with it differently than others do. For example, a land Channeler could encourage plants to grow faster, stronger.”

  Like the moonflowers at the Merryluna Festival. So would a Spiriter be able to influence a person’s spirit?

  “Why haven’t I heard about the fifth power? Is influencing spirit, or ether, black magic?” I repeat the clergy’s words.

  “That was two questions.” She winks and taps me with her cane. “I’ll answer both and then you’ll do the same for me. Yes?” She must sense my leeriness, because she smiles, adding, “Harmless questions.”

  This old lady is crafty. But I want her to answer mine, so grudgingly I agree.

  “People don’t talk of the fifth gift because it’s rare. Ether was the first of all creation, and all natural powers stemmed from it. It’s the spark of all life.” Although she has one hand holding her hunched form over the cane, she pokes a surprisingly spry finger into my sternum. “Even inside you.”

  I skip back, distancing myself from the woman’s jabbing hands. “Ether is soul?”

  “Not just soul. It’s energy and intelligence.” She flicks her fingers, circling in the air, her gaze clearing as she speaks. “We’re energy first, body second. Ether is in every part of the world from rocks to trees to the ocean to all animals.”

  “I think I understand—”

  “Good place to begin. Other people don’t try to understand.”

  I turn away from her wry smile and check the door. “Why would someone call it black magic?”

  Her nose wrinkles, skin bunching on her face like a sagging sock. “Ah, ignorance. It’s easy to misunderstand what you cannot see. It’s been years since a Channeler was accused of black magic. The woman used her gift to heal a small boy.”

  I chew my lip, growing uneasy. I healed the dog like the woman healed the boy. “And they called that black magic?”

  “No, no. Tragedy struck near the same time. The boy’s sister suffered an accident. Poor thing passed. That’s when people spoke of black magic. A life for a life.”

  I frown. “Is that possible? One life for another?”

  She taps her cane. “Even if it is, it goes against the code of Channelers: Never harm. Our gifts should improve life. Never take. Since Chief Auberdeen declared any act of harm by a Channeler a crime, there have been no accusations of black magic made.”

  “Who was she?” I ask, need blossoming inside. “Where is she now?”

  She tsks her tongue twice against her teeth and winks again. “First, you owe me.”

  Seeds, there are so many more answers to be found, and little time left. If Cohen realizes I’m gone . . . “Go on.”

  “Who’s your mother?” Her question is so plain, almost as if she were asking me about the weather. It catches me off-guard.

  Seeing no harm in answering, I say, “Her name was Rozen.” Her brows rise, and her rheumy gaze hones in on my face. The sudden attention makes my armpits grow sweaty. I shift my weight. “I didn’t know her. She died when I was a baby. And your next question?” I push on, wanting to finish this discussion.

  She shakes her head, muttering to herself. “Never mind. I suppose the first question answered the second.”

  I’m not sure what to make of her cryptic comment. I’ve stayed too long, even though there’s so much more I want to ask. I force myself to thank her and walk toward the door.

  “One thing before you go.” Her cane clips against the floor as she shuffles back to her table. She pulls a pinch of dried hemlock from a jar and puts it in a small satchel. As she moves on to another jar, she looks over her hunched shoulder at me. “The Spiriter who healed the little boy . . . her name is Enat.”

  My body freezes in place. “Is that a common name around here?”

  “Only one around these parts.” She moves on to another jar that releases a potent whiff of musk when she pulls out a pinch of the moss-green stuff. After cinching the pouch’s strings, she shakes the contents.

  I watch her while my mind tosses over how to convince this old woman to give me directions to Enat’s home. She’ll think I’m crazy. Or after no good.

  When the old woman looks up with the pouch in her left hand, I ignore the urge to fidget with the boy’s cap on my head. Despite my plan to share no details, I go on instinct, hoping the truth will earn Enat’s whereabouts.

  “I’ve actually come a far way to find Enat,” I confess. “I don’t mean any harm. I just need answers about my father, and I believe she has them. Will you tell me how to find her?”

  Her curled nails click against her cane. “She’s old and doesn’t take kindly to visitors” is all she says.

  She breathes in deep and slow, thinking. “Odd as it may be, I believe you don’t mean any harm. Hopefully, Enat will see the same and not give much trouble.” I notice she doesn’t say no trouble. “Enat lives on the outskirts of the city at the southern end.” Her words paint a vision of the path I’ll need to follow from the white cliffs to Flat Rock, then east into the Skyward Forest, where goliath trees scrape the sky. Enat’s home is hidden in those woods, beyond a tree cave. To my confusion, she gives the unsubstantial explanation: “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  Seeds and stars, a tree cave? I hope she’s right.

  To my surprise, she hands me the pouch. “Sprinkle this inside the cave under the tree, and it’ll show you Enat’s home.”

  There’s something to be made of the woman’s having mixed the pouch’s contents before I inquired about directions to Enat’s home. Though perhaps sometimes it’s best to offer gratitude instead of wariness. I start to thank her when the slightest prickle along the back of my neck catches me in midsentence.

  A moment later, Cohen barges into the shop, his gaze wild till it lands on me.

  “There you are.” His eyes shift to the woman, and his mouth settles into a hard, unyielding line, his expression guarded. “We need to go.”

  Sparing one last glance in the woman’s direction, I mouth Thank you, and then trail Cohen out of the shop. I’d bet my bow he’s not pleased that I left, although he doesn’t say as much. Cohen jumps right to the business at hand, lowering his voice so only I can hear as we rush away from the Elementiary. “Delmar wasn’t able to give me much—​only that Enat lives on the outskirts of the village. He said Channeler magic obscures her location.” Frustration tinged with defeat darkens his tone. “I don’t know how to get to her now.”

  I beam at him and hold up the pouch. “Good thing I do.”

  Chapter

  20

  WE TRAVEL ALONG THE HILLS, HIDING IN the brush and patches of trees running parallel to the road. Clouds form in the west, gray beasts that slink away from the ocean, growling in an untamed approach. If we move quickly enough, we’ll reach Enat’s home before they’re overhead.

  An hour out of Celize, we pass a group of uniformed men, geared with swords and bows. Soldiers headed to war. The clean press of their coats shows they haven’t seen a fight yet. How soon will that change?

  Though we’re hidden in the trees, Cohen, who’s taken to sitting behind me, stiffens. At first I figure he’s concerned they’ll see us. But the foliage is too dense and dark.

  “Tell me about Finn,” I probe once the men are out of sight.

  “My ma’s beside herself with worry. He’s had hardly any training in hand-to-hand fighting. Only what I taught him . . . It isn’t enough.” Cohen could be a statue for the little he moves; just his low tenor voice and the vibration of his words quaking softly across my back remind me of our proximity. “He’s fourteen. Not old enough to be called a man. Though the king wants him to fight like one.”

  My thoughts shift to the jeweled, lean man I saw in the courtyard that day at the castle. It doesn’t seem right that our spoiled leader can force even the young into war. Once the king’s orders are given, only the king can retract them. It makes me wonder if our leader’s determination will be our country’s downfall
, causing Malam to lose to Shaerdan’s more battle-seasoned soldiers.

  “Will your father fight alongside him?” I ask.

  “He died last winter.”

  His straightforward answer socks me in the stomach with guilt. I’ve been angry with Cohen for not returning for Papa’s wake, while I made no effort to find out what was going on with his family. He loves his family dearly and worked tirelessly during his apprenticeship to make them proud. I can only imagine how the loss must’ve wounded Cohen.

  Twisting in the saddle, I turn back to face him. “I’m sorry.”

  “The ague was too much for him,” Cohen explains so matter-of-factly, it makes my heart ache. “Since Finn is the only male at home, he must fight in the war.” He cracks the knuckles on his left hand as it lies against his thigh. I notice the movement but give him my silence so he’ll continue to talk. “Should’ve been me. Not him. But I cannot go home to my family or take Finn’s place until I’ve cleared my name.”

  I know better than anyone the loneliness and pain Cohen must feel right now.

  “I suppose it’s better to lose your life to war than the guard’s noose,” Cohen says bitterly.

  “You make it sound like Finn has no chance.”

  “Don’t you remember when we were fourteen? Even though we already had a couple years of training, we would’ve been lost on the war front.”

  Cohen quiets behind me. I want to plead with him to keep hope, only those words are dashed by the soldiers, determined men in steel armor, who come to mind. It seems if Finn has any chance at all of making it out of the war unscathed, it cannot be more than a sliver.

  “I swore to my mother that I’d help Finn if it became necessary,” Cohen confesses. “That I’d save him from the war if needed.”

  My brow furrows. “But isn’t that what you just said you cannot do?”

  He doesn’t answer for a moment. “I won’t let Finn get hurt. Right now he’s near the front and training. Should the war start and his unit move into action, then I’ll have to do something about it.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Whatever it takes.” His reply has the cadence of a death march. “I won’t let him die.”

  I’ve no doubt that Cohen would fight every man on the battlefield to save his brother. Cohen’s need to take care of everyone around him is a weakness as much as it’s a strength. One man cannot control everything, though. A reality Cohen has yet to accept. I just hope we can prove his innocence first so he’s not walking into his execution.

  I want to say something that’ll buoy him up, give him some fraction of hope. But I’ve never been the person who believes the impossible to be possible.

  “I’m sorry” is all I say, and even then I feel lacking when I mumble the words, “I wish there were something I could do.”

  “Being near you is enough,” he whispers.

  His words. Always an arrow to my heart.

  I lean against him as he wraps one arm around my waist, our bodies cinching closer together until I’m not sure who is holding the other up.

  The early evening is sooty, taunting us with a light drizzle as we enter the Skyward Forest. Unlike anywhere we’ve been before, these woods are packed with the most massive trees I’ve ever seen. Ancient, thick, and tall, each one is a mountain.

  The trees eat our sounds as Siron maneuvers over the lush ferns. The thick, permeating quiet makes my thoughts feel too loud.

  Being near you is enough.

  It’s all I’ve thought of since the words left Cohen’s lips. Did he mean in that specific moment? Or in general? I turn his sentence over in my head, his words like garden compost, shifting and breaking down until they’ve fallen apart.

  My thoughts scatter when thunder cracks over the forest. Siron snorts and prances. Cohen leans forward and pats the horse as I check our location. Trees like an army of giants stand shoulder to shoulder, blocking our path. A few have low limbs, bent upward like drawn swords. I review the directions from the Channeler at the Elementiary and know we must be close, except I see no cave.

  “It must be here somewhere.” I shrug in response to Cohen’s dubious look, though it’s clear he’s not satisfied with my vague answer.

  Siron continues on, moving deeper into the woods, until once again we meet a line of trees that look like soldiers ready for combat.

  “Haven’t we been here before?” I swivel and glance around.

  “Not possible.” Cohen sounds as confused as me. “Siron’s been walking a straight path.”

  In the underbrush dim, it’s difficult to make sense of all the shadows. I squint, looking closer, and notice two limbs held upward like swords.

  “Look,” I squeak. “We have been here before. We’re walking in circles.”

  Cohen takes a moment to survey the forest, his gaze roving over the plumes of ferns and tree giants, gathering information like he used to when apprenticing to Papa. He mutters a slew of swears. “You’re certain she was trustworthy?”

  I dig my fingernails into my palms. I felt her honesty, I’m certain of it. “I’ve no doubts about the woman,” I say, my voice louder than intended, feigning confidence that I don’t quite possess.

  “Then let’s take a closer look,” Cohen says.

  We hop off Siron and start in separate directions to scan the forest. Walking in touching distance from the trees, I weave over and around their sprawling roots while I curse under my breath about the Channeler’s cryptic You’ll know when you see it madness. All I see are shadows and ferns and the rough bark of these mammoth trees, and more shadows.

  “What—” A dark stain that starts near the roots of one tree and spreads upward seems to grow bigger as I approach it. My steps cautious, I keep my eye on the black spot as it arcs into what looks like a cave opening.

  The soil is soft, dipping inward toward the cave. My foot slips closer and then Cohen appears at my side, his amazement mirroring my own shock. This is the tree cave the Elementiary Channeler spoke of.

  Awe trembles through me.

  Cohen’s fingers slip into mine, clenching tightly as we walk into the dark hole that wasn’t there a moment ago. With my free hand, I pull the pouch from my breeches.

  “I think this is what we’re supposed to do,” I tell Cohen, jittery in anticipation as I tip the contents out, shaking them all over the padded ground.

  A held breath passes.

  And then light spreads before us, the tree cave turning into a shallow tunnel that opens to a clearing where a massive felled log has been made into a treehouse. A door is notched into a fallen trunk, windows glow with warm golden light on either side of the entry, and a mud-brown brick chimney pokes out the top.

  “Cohen! This is it.” My comment squeaks out, airy and excited.

  His gaze swings from the treehouse to me. “Will you wait here if I ask you to?”

  “No way. We stick together.”

  He mutters something that sounds like Mule. “And will you be just as determined to stick with me if she pulls out a sword and attacks?”

  I squeeze his hand and smile. “You’ll need my defense.”

  He snorts. “Come on, then.”

  Siron follows us through the widened tree opening. When we reach the treehouse door, Cohen knocks while I keep my hand on my dagger. When Enat doesn’t answer, Cohen’s brows lift in question. “Do you think—”

  The air slices between us and an arrow thunks into the door. My heartbeat floods my senses as Cohen jumps back and I duck, sucking in a sharp inhale.

  “State your business,” a woman’s voice booms from the woods.

  “It was an arrow. Not a sword,” I whisper to Cohen. “You were wrong.”

  Cohen glares at me as he drops low. “Don’t be a fool. Now isn’t the time to jest.”

  I ignore his whisper and sidestep out of his reach. Humor aside, we don’t have much time, and I need this woman to trust us enough to share her secrets. “We’re looking for Enat,” I call out. “Are you her?”<
br />
  “Even if I am, I’m not interested. Get off my porch.”

  I turn to Cohen with a What should we do? look.

  “My second arrow won’t miss,” the woman who must be Enat warns.

  Cohen rises from his crouch and touches my arm. “Britta, let’s go.”

  “No.” I pull away, giving him a withering, silencing look. We would be fools to give up so easily after we’ve come so far. “We just need—”

  A second arrow zips two fingers’ width past Cohen’s left ear.

  “Bloody stars!” He grabs me, pulling my tunic as he seeks shelter away from the target area. “Britta, come on. We’re sitting ducks.”

  “We cannot leave without talking to her,” I plead with him.

  “We won’t be talking when we’re dead.”

  I rub the back of my hand against my forehead, trying to think of another option and coming up with nothing. “She’s our only lead.”

  Cohen shields us behind a tree to the side of her porch.

  He grits his teeth. “Please don’t move. Let me try. All right?” Then he calls to the woman. “I’m only asking that you hear us out. A few questions. Then we’ll leave.”

  “Boy, don’t lie to me.”

  Surprisingly, she’s guessed correctly. Cohen’s words make my insides dip in temperature.

  “If you want my help,” she yells, her voice gruff and gravelly, “don’t come on my land and try to fool me. Your next lie will be the last thing that leaves your mouth.”

  I put a hand up, stopping Cohen from saying anything more. “Let me.”

  He doesn’t seem pleased, but he agrees. The woman has said enough that I can pinpoint her location. She’s in a fortress of wooden slats high in the branches.

  “Please,” I call out. “Saul Flannery, King Aodren’s bounty hunter, was murdered nearly three months ago while on his way to find you. I just want—​I mean, do you know anything about that?”

  She doesn’t answer. Not a single word.

  Panic sets in, since she’s our only lead to understanding what happened to Papa. Still, we cannot waste time with the guards on our tail and Cohen needing to return to his family.