Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(23)

“Something for the road.” Molly, the innkeeper’s widow, steps into the sitting room. A simple apron cinches over her dress, and a cloth-covered basket rests in her hand.

“Thanks, Molls.” Cohen hugs the woman.

I stand there, unsure what to do with my hands while I watch them say their goodbyes. I forgot how comfortable Cohen is around people. Or rather, I forgot how much others like him.

“Archers watch the stretch from the town to the border posts,” Molly cautions Cohen.

“We’re going to head south for the wooded hills to get some distance from the guards. We’ll cross there.”

I gape at his openness. He is always so quick to trust others, while I trust no one.

Worry is etched into her wide eyes. “The watchmen scour those woods for traitors.”

“Fewer watchmen are on the border now that they’re needed at the front. One man still stationed to the south is a friend. We’ll be fine. Siron will help navigate those woods, and Britt here is the best tracker in both countries.”

His comment fills me with pride. I glance up to see him watching me.

Molly wrings her hands on her apron. “You should at least change your clothes once you’re in Shaerdan so you fit in. They don’t take kindly to our people.”

Papa told me they could be a ruthless people. Shaerdan is ruled by a council of judges, led by a chief judge. Kinsmen are fiercely loyal to their local judge. If they see we’re from Malam, they may strike first before asking questions. My skin prickles at the thought.

“I’ve already planned to do so.” Cohen taps his pack, and then makes a joke about Shaerdan’s awful bright colors.

“Of course, my boy.” Molly pats his arm. “You’ll do just fine.”

It’s like she’s talking to her own kin. I shuffle away from them, closer to the door, where I’m not as much of an interloper, listening to their conversation.

Molly reaches for me before I can escape, as if she might fold me into a hug. The motion catches me off-guard and I stumble back, flushing a slight magenta all over.

By the gods, Cohen must be mortified by my strangeness. I know I am.

Forcing myself to Molly’s side, I give her arm a pat like the one she gave Cohen. I don’t want her to think I’m not grateful for her help.



We head south, away from the amassing war, away from the main road littered with guards and soldiers, away from Omar, Leif, and Tomas. As we slink through the wheat fields and grasses at a snail’s pace, our movement isn’t detectable. It takes hours to reach the hills and woods south of Fennit.

Cohen’s horse, Siron, waits for us where the woods grow thick and wild and dark. His black coat is perfectly camouflaged in the inky shadows, with only the flash of his yellow eyes to give his location away. Cohen said whenever he enters a town, he commands Siron to remain in the forest because the horse is too noticeable.

Siron drops his nose, pushing out a thin whinny as we approach. He never cared much for anyone besides Cohen.

After drawing a brush from his satchel, Cohen combs the stallion’s body, shoulder to rear. The animal’s cocked leg straightens and his ears perk as he measures me and then turns away with an airy snort. Siron was a wild horse, caught in the southlands, where the harsh Akaria Desert makes animals savage. Though Cohen spent months breaking the madness out of the creature, I’m certain there’s still much of the wild dunes in his horse.

I wait, allowing Siron one more chance to take in my scent.

“Don’t worry,” Cohen says, mistaking my pause for apprehension. It’s the first time he’s spoken without whispering since leaving Molly’s inn. We’re far enough away from Fennit now that there isn’t much risk in being overheard. I haven’t seen others’ tracks since we entered these woods.

“Siron can handle your featherweight,” Cohen says. “I doubt he’ll even notice the difference between you and perhaps an extra bow.”

One thing I am not is vain, since I’ve no misgivings about my appearance. Unnaturally pale, white-blond hair, freckles, bony figure with a hint of breasts; there isn’t much to admire, and so there isn’t much for Cohen to tease about. Still, I cannot let his jest slide.

“You’re certain? I wouldn’t want to be the cause for putting the old horse down.”

Though his face is out of view, I notice how his shoulders grow rigid. “He’s not old.”

My grin should be ear to ear, but I know Cohen’s bond with the horse is strong. Teasing him is mean sport. “No, he’s not,” I admit. “Your horse doesn’t like me very much. I was giving him time to get used to me.”

The conversation flounders as Cohen settles himself on Siron and then offers me a hand. Before I’ve steadied myself, Cohen clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the beast responds by taking off, causing my arms to flap out like bird wings. I flail and end up grasping Cohen around the waist. His ribs move out and in as he chuckles.

“He’s reserved with everyone,” Cohen tells me. “When he was a colt, he didn’t have much contact with people, so he needs time to trust others. Know what I mean?”

More so than I’d like to admit.

With the dangers of crossing the border in mind, we fall silent as we ride. We move into a gentle river to hide Siron’s prints and continue to weave westward. Just before reaching Shaerdan, Cohen pulls up on the reins and stalls in the water.