Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  He’s right. I pull the bonnet off my hair and start picking at the flecks of dirt left in my braid.

  “I’ll meet with the Archtraitor tomorrow,” he confirms. “Then we’ll leave. I made a promise to keep Finn safe, and I won’t break it, even if everyone in Malam thinks I’m a murderer. Still, I’ll give you one more day, Britta.”

  “Nice to see you made it back.” Enat stands beside the woodpile in front of her cottage with a basket resting against her hip.

  “That almost sounded like a welcome.” I hop off Siron and lift the skirt of the dress so it doesn’t drag in the mud as I approach her.

  She snorts. “Better than the arrow.”

  “Ha. So true.” I point at the basket. “Where are you off to?”

  “When I went out a few days ago, the thistleberries weren’t quite ripe. I’m hoping they’ll be ready today.”

  The conversation with Cohen is on my mind as I watch her walk into the woods. Even if Millner identifies the murderer, we will still need her to break the spell on the king. Which, based on Papa’s letters, I’m assuming she can.

  “Could you use some help?” I ask, and then gesture to the dress. “I could change quickly.”

  Her brows lift, showing her surprise at my offer. She waves me toward the cottage. “Go on. I’ll wait for you. Company would be nice.”

  Without hesitation, I rush inside the treehouse and into Enat’s room to strip off the blue garment. Once my breeches and tunic are in place, I hurry to her side, sparing a small wave at Cohen, who has made his way to the woodpile.

  Enat doesn’t talk as we weave between giant tree trunks and over tangled roots. By the time we stop beside a prickly bush, the inside of my mouth is raw with how I’ve been worrying my lip. After the kindness she’s shown us, the thought of asking her to come to Malam, and possibly risk her life by using her Channeler gifts to save the king, doesn’t sit well with me. And yet, I must ask. There’s no other way to break the bind on the king.

  She points at a nearby bush covered in tiny red berries. “This is chokewood. The leaves are good for making a healing tea, but the berries are poisonous.”

  “So don’t eat them?”

  “You’re like me, impudent to the core.”

  I laugh at her assessment. I wouldn’t mind being more like her. She’s witty and strong and agile, as well as wicked with a bow.

  “Gather the greener leaves from the bottom of the plant and pick these.” She plucks an arrow-shaped mushroom from where it’s tucked beneath the chokewood bush. “Find me when you’re done,” she says.

  Ask her. Ask her. Ask—​

  Enat ambles away. I curse inwardly and set to plucking leaves and mushrooms. She has to go with us; if only I knew the right words to ask.

  My fingers are knuckle deep in black dirt when Enat returns. “If I hadn’t already met you, I’d think you were a shy little thing. Since I know better, tell me. Why are you so quiet over here?”

  I snort. “Just busy picking the leaves.” I wipe my hands on my pants and drop the last of the mushrooms into the basket.

  “Busy is an understatement.” She points at the bush where it’s glaringly bald. My cheeks redden. “Have something on your mind, Britta?”

  I glance up, knowing now is the time to ask. Our immediate departure tomorrow doesn’t provide the luxury of putting off this request, not when Cohen’s frantic to reach his brother. I flick my hands, shaking the tightness out of my fingers and releasing my reservations in asking this task of her.

  “Will you . . . can you tell me about Channelers?” Seeds, I’m a coward.

  “I’m willing to talk to you about Channelers, but tell me this: Do you want to learn about Channelers, or are you asking me how to break the curse on Malam’s king?”

  “Both,” I admit truthfully.

  Chapter

  27

  HER LIPS PRESS INTO A WRINKLED LINE. She moves to my side of the bush and begins plucking berries, her curled fingers working methodically. “All right,” she says finally. “Since they go hand in hand, I can do that.”

  My hands go still over the leaves, relief singing through me. Her response makes me realize how much I want to know about Channelers. Learning how to break the bind is the cream on top. Ever since I healed the dog, I’ve been curious about what happened. If what I did is related to a Channeler gift, Enat may finally have some answers.

  She examines the bush beside me. “It’s a rare thing to have an ability. Most Channelers would never use their ability to hurt another. That doesn’t mean it isn’t possible. When it does happen, it’s called black magic.”

  The clergyman said Enat uses black magic. Though she doesn’t seem the type to hurt another, even if she’s all bluster.

  “Most Channelers would never attempt to use their power to harm because when a gift is used wrongly, it changes the Channeler. On the inside and outside. It’s called black magic because it stains a person’s heart and mind, changing their heart’s intent and warping them into someone or something else.” The lines around her eyes deepen as she looks down at her curled fingers.

  “So Channelers use their connection to nature to help people? Like a water Channeler makes Beannach water?”

  She snaps leaves off a small bush that grows at the base of the massive redwood. “You know of Beannach water?”

  I weave the story of what happened beside the well, explaining how I healed Jacinda’s dog and then suffered from a strange temporary exhaustion.

  “You’re a lucky girl.” Enat nods thoughtfully. “Jacinda’s ability to create Beannach water is rare.”

  I don’t know what’s more shocking, that Enat is familiar with Jacinda, or that she has no reaction to my story.

  “So if a water Channeler can influence water, then a Spiriter can influence people’s spirits?” I ask, forging on.

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “Since you’re a Spiriter, can you break the other Spiriter’s bind on the king?”

  Her blue-eyed gaze turns upward to the pine needles before returning to me. “I haven’t done it before, but I believe I can. If close enough to the man. It’s a spell of proximity.”

  “Then will you come to Malam with us and try to break the curse?” A sharp prick of pain in my finger makes me realize my grip on the bush is too tight. I flick the thorn from my skin, cursing silently.

  Enat gently sifts through the berries in her basket. It feels like years passing in the moments before she speaks.

  She meets my gaze. Hers is steady and strong. “I’ll go.”

  I let out a sigh, washed with relief. Cohen will be happy he waited one more day. Though Enat’s willingness to go doesn’t guarantee Finn’s safety, it’s a step in the right direction. Now all that’s left to do is talk to the Archtraitor. If he can identify the murderer, we’ll be headed back to Malam to declare Cohen’s innocence and stop the war.

  “I’ve twice as many berries as you, and I’m nearly three times your age,” Enat says with a laugh as she looks into my basket. “Maybe we should talk less and pick more.”

  I groan my protest, though I don’t mind at all; little of my life has been spent around women like Enat. The needles at the tops of the trees glint like fat emeralds in the afternoon sun, shimmering above as I follow her with a full basket on my arm.

  Moving nimbly, Enat crawls over a tangle of roots that skirt a moss-painted trunk. “You should know the majority of Channelers have only a hint of the original ability. Most are not like Jacinda.”

  I scramble around the tree and fall into step beside her. Papa once bred a horse and a donkey to get a mule, and though it’s a crude thought to pop into my head, it makes me wonder about Enat’s magic.

  “Could two Channelers marry?” I ask. “And create stronger offspring?”

  Her foot pauses midstep over a root arching out of the ground, and a donkey-esque guffaw of a laugh bursts from her mouth. “Marry? No. Channelers are always women, since the gift is passed through t
he maternal line.”

  It never occurred to me women are the only ones with the gift. But of course that’s the case. Still, my question is too funny not to laugh. I join in her chuckling until tears leak from her eyes.

  After wiping her face and restoring some order, she adds, “We all have blue eyes.”

  Hers are the deep cerulean of the ocean, unlike mine, which are pale blue, a sister shade to frost. Britta, your eyes are blue like the jewels, blue like your mother’s.

  I almost laugh once more at the whirl of my thoughts, though unlike before, the humor is eclipsed by uneasiness sliding around beneath my skin. I want to scratch the feeling away. Two weeks from turning eighteen, and it seems as though I may not know myself at all.

  It’s growing more evident every day that Papa kept one more secret from me.

  My fingers rub my sternum where an acute spot of grief grows.

  I never questioned why I could discern the truth in others, because Papa explained it as gut instinct. I even figured my knack for knowing when an animal is close to death was hunter’s intuition. But I cannot explain away how I healed the dog without considering the possibility that magic was involved.

  “When I stopped at the Elementiary in town,” I find myself saying, “that woman, Astoria, thought I was a Channeler. Me, a Channeler.” I chuckle. Wait for the scoff. Any response to confirm the shopkeeper was out of her mind. Nothing comes. Just as I feared . . . and anticipated.

  When Enat doesn’t say anything, I push myself to continue. “I think I might be a Channeler, even if I can’t explain how it’s possible.”

  I never intended on trusting this woman who was a stranger days ago, and now here I am, fully waiting on her answers. Even if I cannot feel the warmth or chill from her words, my instincts tell me she’s someone I can believe. She’s someone who will tell me the truth.

  Trust is a delicate thing, so easily broken and not so effortlessly repaired. I spent years alone, guarding myself until my ability to trust others was reduced to a pile of splintered pieces. It’s as though I’m sweeping all those shards together to ask one question: “Do—​do you think I’m a Channeler?”

  She stops just ahead of me and turns around, a faint smile curving the wrinkles around her mouth. “I’m certain you are. Can you guess which type?”

  “A—​a Spiriter?”

  “Correct.”

  Chapter

  28

  WHEN I WAS NINE, I FOLLOWED PAPA INTO a store where beautiful glass orbs were on display. Somehow, I bumped a delicate ball off the table. I remember it was as if it were happening in slow motion; and yet, to my horror, I couldn’t stop the orb from hitting the ground, where, on impact, cracks spread across the glass, breaking it into countless pieces.

  I’m the glass ball now, falling slowly and shattering into conflicting emotions.

  Shock. Anger. Hurt. Confusion. Relief.

  Seeds and stars, not just any Channeler, but a Spiriter? I rub my hands over my face and shove my fingers into my hair until my scalp twinges.

  “Have you nothing to say?” Enat watches me with a touch of guarded curiosity.

  “I feel like I should’ve known. I should’ve figured it out before now.” My arms drop to my sides.

  Her expression softens. “Oh, Britta, this knowledge is passed down from mother to daughter. And even then, you should know, it’s rare. And not often spoken about because many fear what Spiriters are capable of. The gift only runs through a few bloodlines in Shaerdan. A handful of women in each generation possess this power, though not all have the full gift of being able to sense energy in all things and to manipulate and restore that energy.

  “Your mother passed on when you were a wee baby, and your country has shunned magic. It’s understandable that you didn’t know.”

  Hearing her explanation of what a Spiriter is only makes me wish I’d learned this information years earlier. If it’s passed from mother to daughter, then my mother kept it a secret. She must not have told Papa. When I think of all I never learned because my mother chose to return to Shaerdan instead of raise me, anger ignites inside me.

  “I hate her,” I think aloud, my voice full of sharp edges. “My mother left me alone in Malam. And because of her and my father’s lies, I knew nothing.” Part of me wants to say I hate him as well, but those words could never pass my lips. It’s easier to blame the parent I’ve never met.

  Enat’s hand strays from her side and rests on my clenched arm. “Hate’s a strong word, girl. It is one thing not to fathom the reason for her choices. You can be upset with her and your father for not telling you the truth. But don’t hate her.”

  I glare at the dirt. “I should’ve known something was different about me. What a fool I am.” This conversation started as an exploration and has now turned to bitterness.

  “Don’t say that. Girls your age have had training. They’ve been told about their abilities since they could crawl. You didn’t have anyone to tell you.”

  “I had my father. He could’ve told me, though I suppose he didn’t . . . he must not have known.” I peer up at her as hope rises inside me, easing my anger toward Papa.

  Enat links her arm through mine. “I cannot answer for him. Though I’m sure if he withheld anything, it was to keep you safe. If people knew what you are, you would’ve been in danger. Fear is bred of that which we don’t understand. You would’ve been executed.”

  I remember the many times others ignored me at the market. Or when they didn’t overlook me, instead throwing hateful comments in my direction. “Still, I was an outcast,” I say, though it’s leagues better than death.

  “Our lives are, like these woods, ever changing. Nothing is static. And so you cannot count on an easy, carefree life to always remain that way. Or a harsh existence to stay the same. Life can get better. Or life can always become worse. And then you die.” Enat smiles ruefully. “Don’t reflect on the negative. Think about all the positives in your life.”

  She’s right. And I’m a brat for having pitched a fit at all.

  “I wish . . .” I’m not sure how to finish. I want so many things my situation cannot yield. I wish to be more than what I’ve been. To be free of the past. To understand and embrace who I truly am. But mostly, “I wish I could have one more chance to talk to my father.” My whisper is lost in the wind that kicks through the trees, their shuffling leaves the only answer back.

  Enat adjusts the basket on her hip, trailing her fingers from the berries to the mushrooms. I watch her, remembering the clergyman’s comments about the rarity of a Spiriter. In that moment, details stand out on Enat that I hadn’t noticed much before—​her faded freckled arms, her narrow frame, her sapphire eyes.

  My mouth goes dry as dirt. I lick my lips, though the effort produces no moisture. “Enat, are you—?” I clear my throat, fighting to keep panic from my expression. “Are you my mother?”

  She lowers the basket, her gaze losing a touch of focus for a beat.

  “No, I’m not.” I note a twinge of disappointment in her eyes.

  Oddly, the look is mirrored by my own remorse. I accepted my mother’s death years ago, so it’s utterly moronic to feel bereft now. Still, I wish her answer had been different.

  “Of course.” I ignore the strange ache and shrug. “How silly of me . . . I saw that we both have blue eyes and light hair and . . .”

  “Britta.”

  “Yes?”

  Her left hand contracts around the handle of the basket as she takes a small step toward me. “I—​I am your grandmother.”

  A sputter and a gasp break from my mouth, leaving me gaping at her. “You—​you’re my grandmother?”

  She slips her hand through my elbow and tugs me close, which is as good as an embrace when it comes to Enat. “Welcome home, girl.”

  A hysterical bubble of laughter bursts from my lips. I’ve never felt so tumultuous inside. So happy and at the same time so wronged. I don’t know what to do with all the angry and frustrated thoug
hts directed toward my father. If I have a living, breathing grandmother—​someone else who would accept me, love me—​why, then, would Papa keep me from her?

  Why would he leave me alone in Brentyn to fend for myself? If he knew her to be a Spiriter, wouldn’t he have known the same of me? Or at least suspected as much? The question leads my mind into a dark and hollow place, where vicious thoughts are hungry preying wolves. Recoiling from them, I dig my toe into the soft dirt and turn my chin to face Enat.

  “So, you really, really are my grandmother?” The question begs to be asked once more just to be sure.

  Enat lets out a cackle of a laugh, a rusty rumble that she’s let loose a few times now and that sums up her coarse mix of kindness. “Britta, we are so much alike, it amazes me you didn’t see it before. Yes, I am your mother’s mother. You’re my flesh and blood. Now let’s head back and I’ll make you some lunch while we talk, because I’ve no doubt you’re brimming with questions.”

  Cohen is chopping wood outside the cottage when we walk out of the forest. He must’ve been at it for a while, since sweat marks his shirt in a dark V. He stops the ax and waves. I might as well be tied to a flock of birds for how his smile eases an invisible weight from my shoulders.

  “You were gone for a while, so I chopped wood,” Cohen tells Enat as he tosses another one onto the stack, where it thuds against the others, causing a few to tumble out of the neat pile. “And then some.”

  She appraises his split logs while I struggle to stop myself from appraising the woodcutter. “Good. It’ll keep for winter.”

  I lift my basket and grin. “She’s a taskmaster.”

  “As demanding as Saul?”

  “Close.” I glance at Enat and marvel, once again, at our connection. I have to shake my head to stop myself from gawking at her. My grandmother, the thought, one I never imagined having, makes my body fill with joy. However, the rush isn’t enough to drown out the sadness for all the years missed out on knowing her. The dueling emotions are turning me mad.