Her hand closes over mine, lending strength and sympathy, when I should be the one offering condolences to her. “No need to be sorry, my girl. You have the truth. Now you know of her sacrifice.”
She resumes stitching, working until the cloak is finished and the seams are strong. Once she folds the garment and places it between us, I struggle with what to say to take this pain away from her. Unable to let go of my own heartache, I stop trying to search for the right words and, instead, wrap my arms around my grandmother and lay my head on her shoulder.
Chapter
33
COHEN SLEEPS BY THE FIREPLACE WHILE I share a room with Enat. His faint airy snores are barely audible over Enat’s rustling. She is sorting blankets to decide which ones to take to Brentyn tomorrow. I watch her, wondering what our travels will bring.
I didn’t come to Shaerdan to find the truth of my heritage. Though I cannot say I’ve forgiven Papa for the secrets he held, his reasoning makes a little sense. Now that the truth is out, I cannot ignore the gift inside me. To survive, to protect myself, knowledge is essential.
“Will you teach me how to use my ability?” I ask Enat while she folds a rainbow-colored quilt. Her hands are still over the brightly pieced fabric as she glances up.
I throw my hands up. “I promise I’m not looking for a way to keep you out of Malam. I need to know what I’m capable of. The only two times I used my gift, I didn’t have a clue what was happening. So, will you help me?”
Seeing her folds aren’t lined up correctly, she shakes out the blanket and starts again. “You’re certain? You want to learn how to channel the spirit, even though you’re headed to a country where it’s illegal?”
“Yes.”
She smiles and tightly creases the fold of her quilt. “Then on our way to Malam, I’ll teach you.”
Once we’re under way, each of us on a different horse, Cohen says, “We’ll hold out on resting until it’s absolutely necessary. We want to cross this land as quickly as we can.”
We keep to the forest and grasslands that fall north of the main road, careful to stay out of sight. Cohen takes the lead, while Enat and I trade off the rear position as we make the most use of riverbeds. There’s no telling where the captain and his men are. They may have headed back to Malam, but Cohen believes they may also be lying in wait for us.
I watch Cohen as he splashes through the stream ahead. Thoughts of him run endless circles in my head until the guilt of thinking so much about Cohen quells them. Whatever is happening between us is not as important as the task ahead. I have to keep reminding myself of this.
Thankfully halfway into the second day, Enat begins her lessons. Her work keeps me busy and takes my mind off Cohen and the danger we’re heading toward.
“A Spiriter can sense another’s energy.” Enat’s crooked finger points at my horse. “Take his spirit, for example—you can feel it hum beneath you.”
I put my hand on Aspen, unsure what to expect, and I’m a little disappointed when nothing happens.
“Close your eyes and try to feel what’s stirring beneath his body’s movement.”
When, once again, all I detect is Aspen’s body, I grow irritated. “Maybe I’m too old to learn,” I suggest, well aware that my frustration is obvious.
“Could be.” She waves her hand at me. “Seventeen is ancient.”
“Almost eighteen,” I correct.
“Almost. Still, it takes practice and patience. Two things you’ve not yet tried.”
Later that evening, when we stop so the horses can rest, Cohen tugs my tunic before I can follow Enat to the stream.
“What are you doing?” I ask, surprised by his gesture.
“That’s the question I should be asking you.” Though his expression gives nothing away, his tone is short, conveying his irritation. “You’re trying to learn how to be a Channeler like her.”
I frown. Why is he upset? “Yes. I asked Enat to explain how my ability works.”
“Bloody stars,” he mutters.
“Cohen, what does it matter?”
He stares at me, the blanket dropping away from his gaze to show pain and fear flickering like gold flecks in his hazel eyes. “It’s dangerous, Britta. I left you because your father didn’t want anyone to know you had this power. If you learn this now, you’ll draw attention to yourself. I cannot stand aside while you make a target of yourself.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” I protest. “That’s ridiculous.”
He moves closer until his wide shoulders block the light. “I know you, Britta. You’ll test its limits. And what will happen when someone in Brentyn catches you?”
I take two steps away from him, maddened by his sudden involvement. “You left me alone for fifteen months, making the decision to protect me. You never asked me what I wanted. Learning my gift is what I want now, and you cannot expect me to walk away.”
A vein pulses in his neck. “I’m telling you this is a mistake.”
My brows shoot sky-high at his arrogance. I turn on my heel and stride toward the stream where Enat has gone to wash up. There’s space for me to sit beside her, where she’s kneeling on the soft grasses that curve over the bubbling brook. I set to splashing water over my dirty face.
Enat holds out a rag for me. I take it, mindful of the ease between us, a level of comfort experienced only around Papa and Cohen. If anything, my connection to her only increases my frustration with Cohen. Would he truly see me abandon this gift passed to me by my only living blood relative? The idea of doing so distresses me more than the threat to Channelers in Malam.
Enat runs her hands over a patch of wildflowers, a ribbon of purple that winds through the grass along the stream’s edge. “Ready to try again? With the experience you’ve already had, you’ll grasp your ability in no time.”
I check back to see if Cohen is standing in the shadows. Though I know he isn’t, because I can no longer sense his eyes on me or my hyperawareness of him that usually registers when he’s near. His absence doesn’t feel right between us; it grows like guilt that has a way of settling in my bones. During our younger years, Cohen always stood up for me when other children teased me. He was my protector. In his own way, he’s still trying to protect me. I wish he could understand that I’ve finally found somewhere I fit in. Something I can belong to.
“Enat, why can I not feel if you’re honest or lying?” Turning back to my grandmother, I need a distraction.
“Can you sense when others are honest?”
My answer in the positive has her eyes glinting with appraisal.
“When others speak, their energy is livelier, so it’s easier to detect,” she explains. “A truthful word puts the body at peace, while a lie grates against a person’s mind and energy’s need for harmony. That’s why you can sense the truth or lies in others. But with me, you cannot because Spiriters innately have stronger control over their own energy, and so it’s not free flowing for others to detect.”
She straightens, the lines around her eyes tightening as she frowns. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Britta. Is that something you’re worried about?”
“No.” I hand her the washrag. “Just curious.”
“You’ve already shown you can feel the energy from plants and animals. If you can focus on how you do that, you can learn to control your power and call on it when you want.”
The dog felt two breaths from death, just as all animals near death have shown a near-tangible discomfort. I realize now, the many times hunting in the past, as well as beside the well with Jacinda, that I was listening to the animals’ waning energy. Despite the danger of being found out as a Channeler when we return to Malam, I need to understand this gift. If anything, to gain more control over when to act and when not to.
I stretch out beside her along the bank and reach for her hand. She smiles at me, pleased with my offer. Cupping my hand in hers, she places her other hand on top so we’re palm to palm.
“You need to trust in yoursel
f.” She nods at me, giving me the approval to feel for her energy like I tried with Aspen. “For that matter, it’d do you some good to trust in others as well.”
I huff.
“Quiet all your thoughts,” she commands. “Think past my skin to the energy beneath.”
Closing my eyes, I shift my focus only to where we’re touching.
Rough pads of skin. Curled fingers.
A heartbeat throbs at my fingertips—mine. Then another, a soft pulsing slower than the first, stands out—Enat’s. My confidence and determination surge. I focus on the slower beat until something more seems to hum beneath my touch, a slow and steady buzz coming from deep beneath her skin. In awe, I listen to it as it vibrates to my core.
Her triumphant smile gleams at me when I open my eyes.
“Well done, Britta.”
Chapter
34
FOAMY SWEAT DRIPS IN GREAT GLOPS DOWN the legs of Willow and Aspen, accompanied by their usual sweet smell. We’ve ridden them harder than ever before to cross the open plains, where, away from the cover of the forest, we’d be easy pickings if anyone was after us. Siron, though, doesn’t look taxed at all. Upon entering another span of dense woodland, we slow down and seek out a stream from which the horses can drink to replenish all the water they’ve lost.
Cohen passes out rations of bread, dried venison, and the berries Enat gathered earlier. Once we’ve eaten and filled our waterskins, we continue on foot so the horses can go a stretch without having to carry our weight. We haven’t gone far when I stop to kneel at a patch of tiny yellow flowers.
“We don’t have time to linger.” Cohen walks back to me. The horses steal the moment to graze and sniff the wild buds.
“I won’t be long. I just wanted to pick some of these blossoms,” I tell him, which is not a lie.
He grunts and moves ahead.
I scoop out the flower, roots and all, in a protective ball of dirt, and then in a deft move, I snap the stem.
I study the broken stem. Delicate veins run from the base of the stigma to the curved tips of the flower. A soft trill of energy dances beneath my fingertips.
I jump. And then laugh. The power in the plant ebbs against my palm. It isn’t strong and it’s diminishing. I remember stroking the dog, feeling his energy follow my motions. I run my finger from the spread of the petals downward while imagining that each stroke straightens and mends the plant. And then it happens, and I’m slack-jawed, staring at a straight green stem, no longer bent. It’s perfect and wonderful and—
The petals curl inward and the yellow diminishes into a sickly brown.
Panicked, I rack my brain, remembering what happened with Jacinda and her dog beside the well. I pinch my eyes shut to focus on the exact sensations I experienced after my fingers sank into the dog’s fur. The feeling of coaxing the poison out of the animal comes to me. I wonder if doing the opposite now will help the plant. Can I push energy into a living being? It must be possible, since I had to have done something similar to save Cohen.
I run my fingers along the stem up to the browned top, picturing my fingers as a pail of water, dripping liquid energy. A slight tremor overtakes my hand. My fingers numb and a cold tingling sensation eats its way across my palm and up my arm as the flower transforms before my eyes, swelling with color and blossoming open in full, vibrant life.
Transferring the plant to my other hand, I shake out my sleeping hand and grin ear to ear.
Enat nudges me with her elbow.
“I knew you’d figure it out,” she says with pride. “You’re more powerful than you know, girl. Inside you there’s strength you don’t even realize. You’re something special.”
My chest hitches and then expands.
“Remember that,” she admonishes with a warm expression.
Eyes lowered to the healed stem, I tuck her words inside, treasuring them. “I will.”
It’s close to midnight when we stop to skin and eat the rabbits that were an easy catch along the route.
“How’s your hand feeling?” Enat asks.
Cohen looks up, meeting my gaze for the first time since I worked with the plant. It’s funny to me that for years he was so hard to read, and now the frustration and worry are plain in his hooded eyes. Though seeing any speck of hurt in Cohen’s expression makes me wish Enat hadn’t said anything, even if I cherish her concern.
“It’s fine.” An overt display of twisting my hand right and left is for Cohen’s benefit as much as it is an answer to Enat. I need Cohen to see that healing didn’t tax me.
“Good. What you felt was minor. A little numbness, a little tremor. But it won’t always be that way.”
I cringe. This is exactly what Cohen doesn’t need to hear right now.
“Think about when you healed Jacinda’s dog,” she continues, not noticing my discomfort. “The plant needed drops compared to the amount of life force you extended to the dog. To whom, I gathered, you gave a substantial amount.”
Cohen stands and walks to the horses without throwing another glance in our direction. I want to ask him to come back, but I know he’s haunted by what happened over a year and a half ago. This division between us is enough for me to forget my dinner, despite the gnaw of hunger clamoring through me.
“Transferring energy weakens you until you can naturally refuel through rest and meals,” Enat explains. “Sometimes it’ll only take a day’s rest. Sometimes longer.”
“Will my strength always return?” I face Enat once Cohen has slipped out of sight around the far side of the horses.
Her focus drops to her hands, curled around her bowl. “If you haven’t given too much of your own energy away, then yes. You have to understand: you’re offering your life force, the fuel on which you survive, to others. We’re not called Spiriters merely because we can sense the energy in others. We’re called Spiriters because we give that part of ourselves away.”
Despite the heat of the campfire, goose bumps break out across my skin. I wonder if I gave Cohen almost all my energy. Now his apprehension makes more sense.
“That . . . that sounds so selfless.” I push the last bit of rabbit meat around my bowl.
Cohen tosses a bone into the fire, startling me by his return. “There’s no one more selfless than you, Britt,” he says, offering a small truce of a nod.
No one talks for a while. I think of what Enat’s told me, and how she said she saw my mother die.
“Did you not have enough energy to save my mother?”
Enat’s chin jerks up, her blue eyes a little more watery than usual. “There were other circumstances,” she says, and when a question forms on my face, all she adds is “It was too late.”
We travel south to avoid towns and roads. The crisp air, cool nights, and jagged peaks lining the horizon mean that we are near Malam. The border is only a day or two away.
As the daylight fades, Cohen is even quieter than usual—no doubt worried for his brother. He rides ahead, so I have a clear view each time he kneads his neck. His promise must weigh heavily on him.
But what good will come of Cohen rushing to Finn’s aid? He’ll still be a criminal. He’ll be on the run for the rest of his life, and he’ll have to take Finn along with him. When both Mackay men are marked as traitors, Cohen’s mom and sister will be outcasts. I suppose we could be outcasts together, though I wouldn’t wish the life I’ve lived on them.
Our only recourse is to continue this mad pace to Malam, plead Cohen’s innocence to the high lord, and turn in the real killer, Captain Omar. Then we can go about breaking the king’s bind.
I pray, for Cohen’s sake, that there will be enough time.
When we stop for the night, I approach Cohen with a waterskin. “I just filled this. The brook was chilly, so the water will be refreshing.”
He drinks from the skin, and when he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his arm. “Thank you, Britt,” he says, quietly. Vulnerability and worry lighten his eyes. I wish desperatel
y there were something more I could do to help. I tell him as much.
While Enat busies herself with the fire, Cohen twines his fingers with mine. “It’ll be all right,” he says, as if I’m the one who needs convincing.
If only his words didn’t turn my insides cold.
Chapter
35
WHEN I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING, my face is wet and I’m curled into a tight ball beneath my blanket. I long for the days I woke up warm and comfortable beside Cohen’s muscular body. The shadows of the forest are quiet, as a slow, steady misting of rain breaks through the branches above.
Covering my head, I scramble up and hastily pack my belongings. Enat rouses from her sleep with a yawn and a grunt. She puts a hand above her eyes as she looks up, surveying the movement of the gray clouds visible between treetops, and then turns to me with a frown.
“A bad storm’s coming,” she says. “We need to get a move on if we want to gain some ground before it’s on top of us.”
I dust off my hands on my trousers. “I need a moment to clean up. I’ll be quick.”
“Go on, ready yourself. I’ll wake the bear,” she says with a smirk.
A foreign-sounding giggle bubbles out of me. I smack a hand over my mouth and turn on a heel to find the stream.
I scrub my face and hands in the chilly water, noting the temperature. Perhaps it’s the charge in the air—like restrained lightning rallying for a strike—that nauseates me at the thought of crossing the border. The image of the strung-up bodies is not a sight easily forgotten. We’ve already decided to bypass Alyze and Fennit by traveling through the mountains, because there will be fewer guards to watch out for.
Still, there are too many dangers ahead.
Once we reach the castle, Cohen will navigate the secret passages to Lord Jamis’s study so we can present him with the truth about who really killed my father, and then we’ll go to the king’s private chambers, where Enat will break the bind. Not the surest plan, but it’s all we have. What I fear most are the risks we’ll face after we cross the border. I’ve no friends in Malam. Certainly anyone aware of the bounty on my head will not hesitate to aid the king’s guards. One of my biggest worries, however, is for Enat, that she’ll be in harm’s way.
Ever the Hunted Page 23