Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(14)

The same woman standing over my bed beside Jamis. Her voice in my head. Her words coming out of my mouth.

A veiled woman on the path today, seeking help, claiming her carriage had overturned just around the bend.

Her face, showing through the veil as she stepped closer. Recognition slamming into me.

Britta’s talking with the Spiriter!

I groan and fight harder against the restraints. She said she was Britta’s mother. But that cannot be. I’ve known Britta’s father—and by extension, Britta—her whole life. Her mother died when she was born. The woman is either manipulating Britta or she’s returned from the dead. Either way, I wonder if Britta knows the Spiriter isn’t alone. I remember that much now.

I wiggle some more.

Whoever tied me up did a bloody good job.

Phelia was backed by a group of at least six young women, none of whom were armed. I didn’t think them a threat when my men dismounted their horses. It wasn’t until Phelia touched the girl closest to her and an unnatural blast of wind, like a swift jab to the jaw, knocked me off my horse. Britta’s tough, but can she take on a half-dozen Channelers?

Compelled to protect her, needed strength surges through me. “No,” I manage.

“Shhh.” The warmth of her touch returns to my back.

“No,” I try again. She needs to know we have to get out of here. “Uhng . . . trap. A t-trap.”

Britta curses. A ffffffp sounds just above my head, like an arrow has been shot. A gasp. Then an oomph. Have we been shot? I rock right and left over the blasted horse trying to speak her name. All that comes out is “Brrrrit.”

My arms are being tugged and yanked. A knife grinds across the rope binding my wrists. Then my arms are free, and she rolls my body until I can feel the point of her knees in my back. I feel the movement of a horse beneath us. I see the treetops, the gray sky, and her face. She’s a messy painting in shades of pearl and the barest hint of gold, scattered with freckles. I fight to stop my head from lolling.

“Can you sit up?”

I stare at her, a blur of pale skin and blue, blue eyes.

“Sit up.” Her expression could frighten the barbarians from the south. Who am I to argue with this girl?

“I-I’m trying.” It’s an embarrassing, wobbly struggle, trees and shrubs spinning past my vision, but with her tugging at my coat, I manage an upright position on her horse. She thrusts the reins in my hand and commands me to ride.

But where are my guards? Have they already escaped? “My men?”

An arrow scrapes my shoulder, zipping on to a tree, but not before slicing my shirt. My shoulder burns. Britta curses like a royal guard.

“Faster,” she shouts, and turns, her elbow digging into my back, as she raises her bow and shoots an arrow.

“Where are my men?” My dry throat turns each word into a bark that barely carries over the horse’s gallop.

The warmth of her breath returns to my cheek. Her voice is in my ear. “I-I’m sorry. They didn’t make it.”

Shock snaps through me. They’re dead? Nicolas and Einer are dead?

Gods.

I grip the leather straps as best I can and—heart thundering in my chest, shoulder stinging—command the horse to flee the glade. My focus, thin as commoner threads, barely manages the trees blurring past, the shouts echoing from pursuers, and the guilt knotting my stomach.

As king, the death toll in my name never ends.

It never ends.





Chapter

7


Britta


PHELIA—NO, ROZEN—ISN’T DEAD FROM THE arrow I just shot at her. It flew true, splitting the space between her arm and ribs, cutting the material of her cloak before hitting a tree behind her. It gave me time to cut the ropes off Aodren and get him to sit up, even if he’s now flopping around in the seat like a toddler on a donkey.

He must be in shock. Moments after an arrow skimmed his shoulder, he learned that his men were killed. Their faces are chiseled into my memory. I wonder about their families. Who will grieve when they don’t return home tonight? Who will honor them through mourning?

It makes me think of my own family. Papa, Enat, and now my mother.

My mother’s dead. It’s a wish that won’t be silenced in the roar of Snowfire’s gallop. The blast of truth in her words has marked me permanently. Part of me leapt at the feel of truth, reached for it in a hungry, anxious way a starved beggar might scramble for food scraps. What I wouldn’t give to know my mother.

Just not her. Never her.

The mix of desire and dread makes me feel like my insides are trying to gnaw their way out of my skin. Gods, the sight of her alone turns my stomach. What are the black marks from? Could it be a sign that she works black magic? Her eyes were soulless. If she truly is my mother, how much am I like her? I fight the urge to glance down at my arms to ensure no obsidian veins are crawling across my skin. A tremor winds up my spine at the thought . . . all the thoughts . . . too many thoughts shoving around inside, banging shoulders, throwing fists, breaking walls.

She’s not my mother, not my mother, I repeat like a mantra as I bounce over the back of the saddle. My mother passed away when I was a baby, a fact confirmed by my father and then my grandmother. My mother was kind and loving. My mother would never align with a snake’s spawn—Lord Jamis. My mother would’ve returned for me.