Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(11)

Blood sullied the white feathers around my dagger. I crouched down, yanked my blade from the bird, and stared at the mess. The dagger, ridiculously huge against the pigeon’s tiny body, had impaled the bird through the breast. Overkill.

No, not a pigeon. This bird was smaller. Rarer.

Guilt, like rats, crawled down my throat and left a trail of acid. I picked up a red-stained feather. My throat closed.

I’d killed a dove.



I rest my hand against my belt, over the pocket that holds the folded parchment where I’ve been carrying a snowy gray feather going on two years.

The clank of metal on stone alerts me to a group of drunks milling outside. I curse under my breath, recognizing two from earlier.

I gesture for Finn and Lirra to pick up their stride. But when we step out of a nook to cross the street, I lock eyes with the huge bearded man from the fight. Dammit. He’s far down the road, but recognition is clear on his face. “Hey, it’s those Malamian scrants!”

I grab Finn by the upper arm and yank him into the church’s doorway. Lirra scrambles after us. Our steps clatter against the tiled stones laid under pews, which are lined up like soldiers. The yawning ceiling juts up in a spade-shaped arch, echoing in a way that makes me shrink. I gesture for Lirra and Finn to tread softly. We move through the shadows toward a burning lantern that rests at the head of the room on top of a stone altar.

No matter whether you’re in Malam or Shaerdan, the clergymen always keep one lit.

We take a doorway left of the altar. It leads to an empty clergyman’s office, complete with brocade robes in a closet.

I grab one for myself and thrust a second at Finn. His shoulders hike up, kissing his ears, and his face lines with anxiety. Ma’s voice is probably ringing in his head about reverence and respect, but there isn’t time to worry about that. No showing anyone respect if you’re dead.

Outside, in the main part of the church, a door bangs open and someone yells. Footsteps clunk on the stones.

“Don’t think about it. Put it on.” I tug the robe over my tunic and sword.

Finn shakes his head.

A clatter of movement and voices spread through the church.

“Listen to your brother. There’s no other way out.” Lirra pulls out her sword and points it at the door.

Finn’s mouth guppies, his fingers clenching the material. He pulls the robe over his head till the material pools around his lanky form.

Nobody’s going to believe his disguise.

Swearing under my breath, I draw the hood over my head and slice the air with my hand, motioning for Finn and Lirra to stay silent and still. Then I step out of the office.

The door snicks shut and the church goes quiet. The eyes of the four men among the pews turn to me. Their fingers twitch on their hilts.

“Kinsmen, have ye come to make penance?” My voice sinks lower than usual, a baritone that echoes from the walls.

The man closest to the altar speaks. “Where’s Clergyman Nevin?”

“Saying prayers.”

“He’s usually alone.”

My chin is down, but I look up from beneath my brows, seeing the resolution in his glassy eyes falter. If these men weren’t so drunk, this plan wouldn’t work.

“I’ve come from Celize to meet with him,” I say.

“I thought two men came in here. Seen anyone?” The man fidgets with his sword.

“No. There’s been no other commotion than yours.”

I wait, watching him wrestle with what to say next, relieved when he motions for the other men to leave. They’re almost out the door when the man turns back.

“You say you’re from Celize?”

“Aye.”

“My sister lives there. Must be one of your congregation.”

I pause. “Perhaps. We are lucky to have the gods’ gift of ocean beauty. The way the waves strike the cliff just outside the cloisters is truly the music of the divine.” I hold my breath and wait for his reaction. I nearly smirk thinking of the last time I was there. Britta was tucked against my side.

His face relaxes. “Aye, she says the same. G’day, Your Grace.”

They leave. I don’t move until their footsteps fade. A scurrying mouse could be heard in the church. I don’t know when the real clergyman will return. But I know a group of three would draw more attention than a single man.

So, with a quick glance of apology at the closed office door, I turn toward the exit and head out alone.

Keeping my head hidden in the hood, I cross the road. There aren’t many people outside other than the few men lingering near the church. I wave in their general direction. They must not be believers, because they shuffle away until they’re out of sight. I hurry to the oilery’s door.

A cloud of humidity and perfume drifts through the entire shop. Herbs coated in some sort of lard and pressed between plates of glass rest on containers that catch the aromatic drippings. This oilery is larger than most. It has stables out back and clotheslines hanging from a second-story window.

After discarding the robe and shoving it in a basket, I wind through the maze of distillery tables, barrels, and shelves of flutes filled with yellow, green, brown, and gold oils until reaching a desk where a man and woman work side by side.

At first glance, the dark-haired man reminds me of Saul—it’s the patient expression he wears as he watches the much-younger woman. Their features are similar enough. She must be his daughter.