Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(7)

He tips his head as though he cannot fathom my motive for asking. “That scrant? Crossed over from Shaerdan. She’s one of their Channelers.”

I think of the woman’s mumblings, more curious now.

“She’s dying,” I say softly, mostly to myself.

“Aye. Good thing. We don’t want her kind here.” He fits manacles on my wrists and shoves me forward. I’m aware of what happened to the people Papa tracked down. Traitors and spies were always tortured for information and then executed. Channelers were hung. I wish the woman a quick end to her suffering.

“What have ya done?” he asks as we ascend the stairs.

“Poaching.”

A grave nod follows. “A crime of death.”

I swallow hard and follow him through another door, past a closed room, to the dungeon exit. Daylight pours into the arches and floods the courtyard beyond the arcading corridors, temporarily blinding me, so I’m caught unaware when another guard pushes me through a door and up a winding stairwell of the keep. We pass more guards and walk down another corridor. The interior of the castle is opulent, dizzyingly so. Instead of braided rushes on stone floor, dyed wool rugs lie like puddles of blood on polished granite.

We stop outside a glossed oak door with iron adornments. I catch my ghosting reflection in the shine until two guards emerge, dragging a prisoner. The man is little more than sagging skin on bones. “Please . . . don’t hang me . . . m-my family.”

I stare, dismayed as they pull him away, his pleas growing more frantic.

The guard shoves me into the room. “Don’t talk unless yer told to,” he sneers.

I scowl and take a step away, trying to shake the sight of the prisoner.

One piece of tufted furniture in this study could pay for my land outright. I cannot imagine how much the wall of books rising to the ceiling must be worth. Every speck of dirt and blood on my ruined skirt stands out like pox, making me wish I could sink into the pristine floors and disappear.

“Interested in something?”

My attention snaps to the man I saw in the courtyard beside the king, Lord Jamis. My gaze travels up and up. Seeds, the high lord must be three hands taller than me. He strides through the room and stops at a desk, where he folds into a seat with the grace of a mountain cat. He makes a curling motion with his hand, to which the guard responds by removing my manacles. Relieved, I rub my wrists until I sense the high lord’s raven eyes tracking the motion.

“This is my favorite room in the palace,” Lord Jamis says. “All this knowledge at your fingertips is exhilarating.”

I stand cautiously still.

His long fingers fan out toward a blood-red chair. “Have a seat, Britta—?excuse me, Miss Flannery.”

Uncertainty rattles through me as I straighten my ruined top, pushing the ripped sleeve over my shoulder, before slowly lowering myself onto the edge of the chair.

“I’d like to express my condolences. Saul was revered around here. As military adviser and royal spokesman, I can say that even King Aodren feels your father’s loss.” Lord Jamis’s sympathy is unexpected, and I bristle, even if it warms me with honesty.

“You must miss him. I’m told you were his shadow.” A small smile quirks his mouth, softening the angles of his face. It’s as if the thought of me following Papa amuses him. It’s annoying. If I only had my bow, I’d show him how pointedly amusing I can be.

“Am I here to talk about my father?” I cringe at the sharpness of my tone.

“Such directness.” His eyes flash and I curse myself for having spoken. Elbows on the desk, he steeples his fingers. “Weren’t you brought in on poaching?” The lack of ire in his voice should be a relief, though it only increases the tension building between my ribs.

I nod, wishing I knew how to proceed. The last thing I want to do is say something wrong and earn a quicker trip to the noose.

“Your bag held enough meat to hang a man. Or a woman.” I hold my breath as he talks. “Did you catch that bounty alone?”

My chin dips again, and in response his eyes crinkle at the edges, confusing me with his politeness. I study his relaxed shoulders and clean hands, willing away the pressure behind my eyes.

Lord Jamis pushes the book on his desk aside and reaches into a satchel, then withdraws a blade. “Recognize this dagger?”

My brows shoot up. The ivory handle etched in elaborate swirls is decorated with a tear-size sapphire. This is not my dagger, though it is a near twin to my blade. The stone is on the wrong side of the hilt, which means this one is Cohen’s. How did Lord Jamis end up with Cohen’s dagger? Did something happen to—?

Unease creeps over my skin and stills my thoughts as Lord Jamis’s fingers tap the handle. Once slow, twice fast he pads.

“This weapon ended Saul’s life.”

Before his implication can register inside, Lord Jamis pulls out a cloak, stained black in old blood, yet still undeniably recognizable. “And this was found with the blade.”

“Cohen” comes out on an exhale before I realize his name has passed my lips. No. No. Not him. I cross my arms over my waist. I understand what the high lord’s doing with this trail of evidence, but I won’t believe Cohen’s guilty of Papa’s murder. Impossible. Cohen loved Papa.

“Someone must’ve stolen the knife,” I tell him. “Finding the weapon or a coat doesn’t mean you’ve found the murderer.”