My arm drops, weighted by the instant proof in his words. “You’re telling the truth.”
“Captain Omar is right,” Lord Jamis says briskly. “You’ve had quite the performance. I’ve seen pitiful men go to great lengths to save their neck. This, however”—he gestures in the air to me—“is the most elaborate of all ploys.”
“No, I’m not lying. Please. I can prove it.”
“We’ve seen enough of your proof.” He waves the two waiting guards to seize me.
I scurry around a chair. “I’m not lying. The witness saw the captain’s coat. I don’t know how to explain what happened, but Cohen is innocent. He doesn’t deserve—”
Someone’s arm snakes around my waist, hand clamping over my mouth. I twist and thrash my legs, realizing one of the guards managed to get behind me.
“You asked to wear my coat,” Captain Omar says, the cadence of his words eerily slow.
I pause my fight, confused by his comment, only to find he’s not looking at me. Lord Jamis holds his attention.
“You asked for my coat and I gave it to you,” the captain says.
Lord Jamis takes a step away from the desk. “We can discuss this later.”
If the guard’s hand weren’t clamped to my mouth, my jaw would be on the floor. Lord Jamis had the captain’s coat. I think back to my first meeting with the high lord and turn over everything he said. How he displayed the evidence and led me to accuse Cohen. He never answered me when I asked if he believed Cohen killed my father. He identified the murder weapon and then pushed me into believing Cohen’s guilt by saying there were two witnesses. But he never spoke the words.
Lord Jamis killed Papa.
“No” is Captain Omar’s immediate response. “We will discuss this now. What were you doing in Celize three months ago?”
“You already know we were there to discuss peace.” Lord Jamis shakes his head, as if this conversation is ridiculous.
The guard holding me must be confused by the turn of conversation as well because he freezes as I stare at the man who must be guilty. I need Lord Jamis to say it. I need to feel the confirmation.
Omar opens and closes his hand over the hilt of his sword. “I found the dagger beside Saul’s body, which was suspect. After all, why would anyone leave behind something so valuable? But why would Cohen also leave his personal coat? He isn’t foolish enough to leave evidence about.”
“I do not know,” Lord Jamis says, and a slight chill brushes through me.
“You were almost as good as Saul at tracking and taking down a kill. I used to be envious of you two. I would’ve never believed you could kill him.”
Lord Jamis moves around his desk. “Omar, I’ve done nothing. Let’s end this.”
His confession’s too vague to warrant a full reaction, but his words add to the cold in my gut.
“What reason could you have to kill him?” Omar’s words are clipped with barely concealed fury. “Guards,” Omar commands with the slightest tip of his chin. Forgetting me and Cohen, both guards abandon us and move in on Lord Jamis.
“Stop this now.” Lord Jamis’s face shadows. “You will leave my study and recompose yourself. I won’t speak to you on this matter again.”
Captain Omar unsheathes his sword, and his tone is as sharp as his blade when he says, “Answer now. Did you kill Saul?”
“I did not!” Lord Jamis rages back.
Ice blasts through my veins. I gasp at the intensity of his lie.
Omar’s eyes ping to me and back to the high lord. My reaction is all the proof Omar needs. “I think your little bounty hunter would tell me otherwise.”
In a blink, Lord Jamis has a sword in hand. A ring of steel echoes through the room as weapons clash. With the guards distracted, I snatch the two daggers off the desk and rush to Cohen’s side and cut his ropes. He wraps his free hand around mine, pulling me to his body as he hobbles us both toward the door.
“You’re hurt,” I whisper the moment we’re out of the room.
He grunts, but the sound is laced with pain. “I’m fine enough for now.” His words are labored and his breath is short.
I survey his body and notice a stain of dark blood along the side of his tunic. A stab wound? “You’re hurt. I need to fix you.”
He leans in and presses his lips to my temple. “No, not hurt. Remember, built like a boulder.”
I hate that he’s jesting at a time like this and yet love him for easing my panic, if only by a hair.
“This is your one chance to be free of the guards,” he says. “They’ll notice we’re gone and come for us soon enough. You may have given them your father’s murderer, but they’ll still be after you for confessing you’re a Channeler.”
He’s right. I start to explain it was the only way, but he silences me with a short kiss. “Let’s go, Britta.”
Chapter
40
WE RUN-LIMP DOWN THE NORTH HALL to the end opposite the tower. Before we turn the corner to the king’s chambers, the guards rush out of the high lord’s study and charge in pursuit.
“I’ll hold them back so you can get in.” Cohen pushes me around the corner and down another hall toward two gold-lined doors.
“I cannot leave you out here—”
His look is withering. “You have no choice. One of us needs to fight off the guards. The Spiriter may already know we’re here. The bind needs to be broken now. Can you do it?” His eyes search mine.
He’s right. I am weak and so my feel on the energy in the room beyond isn’t telling other than it’s clear someone is close. I need to find the Spiriter and draw on her energy until the bind breaks.
“Yes.” I pass him a dagger.
“Go now.” He shoves me toward the door. My heart flinches in pain, beating hard like it’s counting our last moments.
One beat.
Two.
Three—
I slip inside the king’s chambers, wary of whom or what I may find. After stealing a quick moment to sweep through the chamber, I find no Spiriter, only a body-lump in the middle of a mammoth bed. A blue, maroon, and gold carpet paves the way to the bed like a game trail in the forest, leading to where the king is sleeping.
He has golden hair neatly combed around a regal face. A young face. Then I remember he is only three years older than me.
For a moment I fear I’ll wake him, but since he’s under the Spiriter’s bind, I don’t think he’ll rouse. I tentatively place my hand on his chest and hone in on the sluggish movement of his energy. Where Enat’s felt like a busy hive of bees, the king’s energy is a barely crawling snail.
I move from his side and hurry around the perimeter of the room in search of another door or passage. The Spiriter must be here somewhere if she’s controlling the king.
“Show yourself,” I call out.
When no one appears, I return to the king’s side and press my eyes shut, listening for the buzz of energy. The king is the only person I detect at first, and then as I push further, I can sense Cohen’s energy as well as the guards’, and then others’ around the castle. Then among everyone’s hum, I can faintly detect another, similar to Enat’s swarm of bees. It’s the Spiriter.
Her specific location, however, is too difficult to determine. In a castle this size, targeting her location is like trying to distinguish one tree in a forest. Which means finding her, with the guards just outside the door, isn’t possible. The high lord’s arrest doesn’t mean we’re free from the captain’s wrath. Especially after my confession.
I bite my lip.
The weight of the weapon in my right hand seems to grow and magnify until my arm drops. Enat said the only other way to break the bind is to bring King Aodren to the edge of death. I stare down at the dagger, my pulse swishing through my ears.
This has to be done. It is the only way to stop the war. I may not get another chance.
A swell of disquiet rolls through me, but I tamp it down and focus on having done this before. I healed
Cohen. I can do it again.
The quickest way to bring him to his death would be to cut him as I would any prey. A quick slice down the thick vein on his neck. My hand trembles and shakes as I press the point of the blade to the stretch of skin between his rough beard and robe. First, his skin shows resistance. The tip sinks in and warmth spills out, staining his clothing, the bed, and my fingers.
The sight turns the air in my lungs to frost. It’s too much like Enat’s death. So much so, it’s nauseating.
The energy depletes from his body like sand shifting through an hourglass, until only a few pieces remain. It’s slow at first and faster in the end. Just when I fear I won’t know the moment to begin pushing my energy into his, the loss of life slows.
His torso jolts. The weak energy pulsing from him is different than before. Less subdued. Less trapped. It’s no longer sluggish. Now the small remainder of his energy is a wounded bird, struggling for flight.
And I know: the bind is broken.
A bubble of relieved laughter escapes as I splay my fingers against his silk shirt and imagine a ghost hand of my soul reaching out and grasping his. The desire to help him wells up stronger than at any other time I’ve healed. The moments beside the well seem like nothing compared to the pull I feel now.
The hourglass has been flipped.
I slump to the bed and allow myself to rest beside him so my fingers will remain in contact. My life, tiny grains of energy, slips away, slow initially and then increasing in speed. Shortness of breath comes first. Then tingling hands, arms, legs, feet. Later sharp pain shoots through my limbs until eventually all those sensations fade into a hollow ache that spreads throughout my body as the king’s energy revives, swelling beneath my palm.
Because I mortally wounded him, his body needs to regain quite a bit of strength before his life is no longer at risk. If left too weak, his recovery could be compromised. I keep filling him, draining myself, until it’s impossible to hold my head up.
The door hinge squeals.
Footsteps click against the floor.
“What are you—no.” Cohen’s unmistakable timbre makes me stir.
“Cohen.” A labored pant is all I can manage.
“Britta, stop. You have to stop.” I pry my lids open to gaze at him once more. I see how he winces as he lowers himself so that we’re eye to eye and my hand is wrapped in his, over his heart. He’s badly hurt. It brings tears to my eyes because I won’t be able to do anything for him.
“I’m. Sorry.” My words are punctuated by the labored breath it takes to push them out. Spots dance in my vision.
His hand tightens around mine. I can see him squeezing even if I’m too numb to feel it. “Take it from me.”
He’s already too weak. If I draw energy from him it could kill him. “No,” I manage.
“You can’t leave me.” Emotion thickens his words and chokes him. “I need you. Don’t you see?” His breath washes over my face as he leans in and presses his lips to my nose. My cheek. My forehead.
My own energy stutters.
“Please take it all from me. I give it to you. Just live.”
Though there cannot be more than ten breaths remaining in my lungs, I do what he asks. I allow the energy zipping beneath his palm to flow into mine. His energy tangles with mine; my heart, my soul, my mind gratefully absorb his gift like water to the desert ground.
I don’t know how long I soak it in, but I fear it’s too late. I don’t even have the strength to lift my head. Focusing on his face as it dances on the cloudy edges of my vision is as difficult as shooting an arrow at a spinning target.
A ragged breath sounds. A choking cough. The king stirs under our combined hands.
My vision slips in and out.
Cohen’s skin loses color. I’ve taken enough to pull me out of the pit of death, but perhaps not enough to take me from the edge of the cliff. Either way, I’ll not take his life. I squeeze his hand once more to let him know we’re done.
“Cohen,” I try to say, but only my lips move.
Blackness crowds my vision and draws me into its grasp.
Chapter
41
I ’m dead.
It’s the first thought that comes to mind, though the pain playing mercilessly with every muscle suggests otherwise. Grit cements my eyes shut. After a few tries, I somehow manage to crack them open without the use of my hands, which I’ve discovered are helpless against an unknown weight.
A few more blinks and I’m awake, lying on a bed, smothered in blankets beside a lit fireplace. A familiar worn book lies on the stone hearth. My book.
This is my cottage. My home.
I struggle to free my arms from the mountain of covers.
“Don’t do that.” A young woman moves into view. Her midnight-black hair falls over her shoulder as she leans closer to the bed, inspecting me. I’m too weak, too worn, to mind.
“Who . . . are . . . you?” My voice is a rusty hinge. She hands me a cup of warm broth. I gag on the drink, which tastes like dirt and flour. In addition to the woman’s disheveled hair, shadows linger beneath her eyes. “You don’t look so good.”
“Ha.” A smile flickers across her thin lips. “I look a league better than you, so watch your mouth. Besides, you’ve slept for almost a week while I’ve watched you night and day,” she says, and then coaxes me into taking more sips of the broth. My stomach manages it somehow, and as it settles inside me, it has a subtle strengthening effect. “We didn’t know if you’d make it. You gave us quite a scare.”
“Pardon me, but who are you? And what happened?” Pieces of memory fill my head. The castle. Lord Jamis fighting Captain Omar. King Aodren’s blood. And then Cohen taking my hand. “Cohen,” I whisper, when my thoughts settle on an image of him wounded and pale beside me. “Where is he?”
She chuckles. “My name is Gillian. I am one of King Aodren’s healers. And I sent your Cohen away. He needs his rest too. Course, he’s doing better than you. Other than a sword wound that needed to be patched, he just needed sleep. He wasn’t getting any over here with how he kept a hawk eye on you. Finally he listened and returned to the castle to catch up on his rest. We would’ve kept you there as well, but Cohen insisted you would heal better here.”
Relief and confusion come together at once. “Why would he go to the castle?”
“So he could rest.” She runs a cloth over my forehead. “Perhaps you should close your eyes and sleep some more.”
She doesn’t understand, and I do not have the energy to explain. I heave out a sigh. “How long have I been here?”
“Six days.”
Before I can ask more, a knock sounds at the door. Captain Omar ducks his head in with Leif at his side. Alarmed, I move to grab my dagger, only to discover my body isn’t responding. My movements are creaky and so painful, I give up and fall back against the bed.
Gillian places her hand on my head, holding me down. “Lie back.”
“How is—?” Captain Omar stops in midsentence when Leif interrupts: “She’s awake.”
“She woke moments ago.” Gillian leaves my side and approaches them. “I won’t allow ya to upset her. She needs her rest.”
“That’s not on my agenda for today,” says Captain Omar before he steps around the healer. Leif remains by the door.
“I’ll speak with him,” I volunteer before she pushes him out, knowing what must be coming. He knows I’m a Channeler.
Gillian moves around him and thrusts another cup of her brew in my face. “Drink this first,” she says.
When the cup is empty, Captain Omar pulls a chair beside the bed. He looks different from the last time we spoke. A few more cuts, bruises, and a little less vengeance blazing in his eyes.
“I know you’re recovering, so I’ll make this brief.” He nods to Gillian before turning back to me. “First, I wanted to say Enat’s death wasn’t my plan. Tomas acted rashly, and he deserved the end he received.”
I don’t know what I expecte
d, but it wasn’t that. I lower the cup to my lap, focusing on the final dregs to keep my sadness at bay. I never imagined I could lose so much.
I dare to meet Captain Omar’s eye. “What does this mean for me?”
“Tomas acted without my command, thus any injury he sustained from a defensive attack is his fault.” Even as he says this, I can see lines deepening on his forehead, as though it pains him to grant me amnesty. “As far as the law is concerned, you acted in defense of the king. You also had an agreement with the high lord, which the king has agreed to honor. You found your father’s murderer and are now absolved of your crimes.”
I blink. “Absolved of my crimes?”
“You’re free to go and live your life, Britta.”
Any relief to be had is at odds with the pain of Enat’s passing. In spite of the freedom he’s offering, I cannot muster anything more than a grimace. He’ll forever be connected to Enat’s death.
“What about my—”
“I know what you did to save the king.” The captain cuts me off. “And no one is accusing you of anything more than tending to King Aodren.” He gives me a knowing look. “Understand?”
He’s completely turning a blind eye to my Channeler ability.
“You’re a smart girl, Britta. I think you understand me just fine. You risked your life for him and this country. Your actions were honorable.” He shifts beside me. “And . . . and I am here to apologize.”
Never in a thousand years would I have expected such a confession from Captain Omar. “Pardon. Did you say you needed to apologize?”
“Yes.” His answer is scant more than grunt.
“Am I dead?”
“Britta, don’t give the captain a hard time,” Leif warns without conviction. “He’s already here, groveling at your bedside for his many, many mistakes and misjudgment of your character, failures that might possibly have brought more harm to the king. Don’t make it any worse.”
Omar’s face purples. Leif laughs.
“You know about the Spiriter, then?” I ask Captain Omar, allowing the change in conversation.
“Yes, which is another reason I’ve come to talk to you. Lord Jamis is charged with your father’s murder as well as treason against the king. He’s detained in the dungeon but has refused to speak to anyone, despite our persuasion. We don’t know who he was working with. Do you?”
Ever the Hunted Page 27