Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(77)

“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 desperately 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.