Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(89)

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.