Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(28)
This land is bursting with life. A current of energy ebbs beneath the black soil and flows into every plant around me. I’ve never felt this way in the Evers, invigorated by the lush life. The sight reminds me of a time Papa pulled his daggers from their box. The morning light glinted against the sapphire on one handle, throwing a magnificent display of azure sparkles across the wall that captured my attention.
“Do you like this, Britta?” Papa asked.
I nodded, first awed, and then a touch sad because I’d never seen something so beautiful. I was always the girl looking and never having.
“This’ll be yours one day,” he said. If my chin hadn’t been propped on my fist, my jaw would’ve dropped to the table. He saw my shock and added, “I don’t tell you nice things very often, and that’s my own fault. But I want you to know, in my eyes, you’re more precious than these daggers.”
Embarrassed, I lowered my eyes, savoring his words as he continued to explain how I would earn the dagger by completing training with the boy who was coming to apprentice.
Now, as the dawn stretches across the tops of the trees, that same sense of awe hits me. I search for movement in the forest, wherein only birds flutter and prattle.
We are alone, so I allow myself one more quick chance to study Cohen, enjoying the view of his messy brown head. If I could erase the reason I’m here, if I could forget the time that’s passed between us and how he broke my heart, this sunrise beside Cohen would be perfect.
The rush of air presses against my cheeks and tangles my hair as we ride hard through the plains, where tall grasses swish like river rapids. Crossing them puts us out in the open. Cohen urges Siron to go fast, fast, faster, until the wind washes over me with its whispers of freedom.
Just before we reach another stretch of forest, Cohen glances over his shoulder, takes in my outswept arms, and laughs. “What have you done all this time?”
The break in the silence catches me off-guard; even so, I know what he means before he adds, “While I was gone.”
“You first. What have you done?” I ask in diversion, not wanting to explain I did nothing more than what we did together—?hunt, train, read—?only alone.
“Besides working my body into boulder shape?”
I snort and give him a hard shove in the ribs. “Boulders make great target practice.”
“Warning noted.” He chuckles. “I traveled. Spent a lot of time in the woods. Mostly I took job after job from the king.” His casualness about the time he was away turns the lightheartedness I felt moments ago into something murkier. Makes my innards feel like they’ve been plucked. I spent those months thinking of him constantly.
“What types of jobs?”
“I hunted spies in court, army deserters. Anything they asked me to do. I’ve been busy.”
I think of the bodies we saw and cringe. Papa hunted people for the king. I don’t know why it doesn’t sit well with me to think of Cohen doing the same.
“Is that why you never came back?” The question slips from my lips. Papa once told me I needed cheesecloth over my mouth to catch all the words that should stay in.
His spine goes taut in front of me. “Yeah. That’s why.”
An uncomfortable chill snakes through my gut. Did he forget I’d know when he’s lying?
Before I can ask, he stops Siron. “I’m going to give him a break. I’ll hop down and walk for a bit.”
I start to swing my leg over to follow, but Cohen touches my ankle.
“Stay there. I’m quite a bit heavier than you. Without me, he’ll be able to rest.”
Unsure of what to do, I remain seated as Cohen walks ahead. I consider mentioning the lie, only then his comment about us all having secrets comes to mind.
I kept my secret for years, so perhaps this time he can keep his.
On the fourth day, we’re forced to leave the river when it bends due south. It’s taken us in a southwest direction, so we have to head northwest to correct our path. If anything, our indirect route will confuse the guards, leading them off course. Continuing on land, we’re no longer able to hide our prints as effectively. Our trek slows in pace so we can wipe the evidence away.
North of the river, the forest thins into grassy hills spotted with firebush and thick cedars that make me think of giants squatting around a camp. They grow wide with stretched-out limbs that hang toward the ground. The sun blazes hotter here than the warmest summer afternoon in Malam. My skin reddens where the cap and tunic don’t cover, and sweat drips down my face and into my eyes.
Water is scarce. By the end of the second day on our new course, Siron has hardly had a drop to drink. A horse his size could easily take in thirty gallons a day. I offer half of what’s left of my water jug, hoping to take a small edge off the beast’s thirst and leave a small amount for me, but Cohen says Siron will be fine—?that his desert upbringing has made him more tolerant to dehydration. Tomorrow we’ll cut a dead-west course in search of a stream.
Neither Cohen nor myself has been much for talking since our water has dwindled.
Eventually the quiet eats at me. “Did you like being away?” I ask.
His shoulders rise and fall, typical Cohen Mackay non-answer.
“A lot to see?”
He brushes away his footprint and nods.
“Shaerdan is different from Malam.” I push, determined to break the wall surrounding his vocal chords. “Warmer and stickier in the woods. Hot as a blacksmith furnace here.” My accompanying laugh comes out stilted and quickly fizzles.