Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(21)

Lirra cinches up tight to me. “Come on, love, we should go before dark.”

I straighten my spine, fighting the urge to wriggle out of her grip, and nod. I give my thanks to the barwoman and her poor excuse for a husband. Then we exit the inn and head for the woods.

Finn has the horses watered when we return. I start to explain what happened at the inn, when Finn cuts me off. “Explain later. There’s no time.”

He points to the space between the trees where we have a clear view of the inn. The woodsman we just spoke with has saddled up his horse and is galloping toward the east side of town. He must be gathering his men. Together they won’t have the stealth to sneak up on anyone in the woods. If the smoke he spoke about belongs to the kidnappers’ camp, we’ll have only one chance to sneak up on them. Finn, Lirra, and I have to reach the smoke before the woodsman does.





Chapter

9


Britta


“BRITTAAA!” GILLIAN’S BIRD WARBLE IS LOUD enough to reach Castle Neart.

I huff a breath and brush down Snowfire. “Do you know, most people just say ‘Britta’? No bellowing and carrying on. It’s quite nice.”

She rushes out of the cottage, waving her hands in the air like she’s shooing away a pest. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d come home?”

“I’ve only just dismounted my horse.”

She sniffs away a fake tear. “A hello would’ve been nice.”

My head falls against Snowfire’s flank and I groan. If I could, I’d fall right into bed. Though it’s still an hour or so till sunset, I want to hide away in my room and not come out till tomorrow. It’s been a harrowing day. The king’s visit, Phelia’s attack, and the visit to Castle Neart have worn my sanity as thin as my old hunting trousers.

My frustration is drowned out by her laugh. “You’re so dramatic. The kind Captain Omar sent a missive, which of course I opened.” Gillian flits around Snowfire.

I start to argue with her over the merits of Captain Omar, and then realize she just disclosed she opened my letter.

“Gillian, was the missive for me? Or you?”

“You’re ridiculous. All my letters go to the castle. Before you invited me to live with you, I lived in the servants’ quarters. So of course the missive isn’t for me.”

“You mean before the king commanded you to live with me.”

“Details, details.” She flicks her hand in the air between us and laughs as she pulls a folded piece of parchment from her pocket. “Captain Omar has assigned two guards to patrol the land around your cottage, and another two to search the woods. He’s kindly asked that you report to him if there are any more disturbances. And he shared his gratitude for seeing the king home.” Her hand presses against her chest. “You rode with the king to the castle? What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I snatch the letter from her hands. “And you say I’m being ridiculous. I’ve only just returned home.”

Leif steps out of the cottage and waves at me. I glance around, shocked because I thought I’d ditched him at the castle.

“There’s a shorter route through town. Captain Omar asked me to deliver the message, but you’d already left.”

“That’s the only reason?”

Leif’s face reddens. “The king asked me to ensure you returned home safely. And I’m assigned to see that your property remains free of trespassers.”

Figures. Between Cohen and the king and Captain Omar, it’s shocking I’m allowed to use the privy without someone holding my hand. Though, when I glance at the wall of trees along my property, the accompanying bout of unease is lessened knowing Leif and the other guards are nearby.

I turn to put my tack away. Frost crunches the field underfoot from the stable to my cottage. The air nips at my exposed skin, making me wish for a thicker coat.

Gillian’s hands go to her hips when she catches up to me. “I heard you trussed the king to the back of your horse like some sort of deer you’d shot in the woods.”

I roll my eyes at her and trudge to the door. She follows behind with Leif, entering the cozy warmth of the cottage.

A sigh slips out of me as I plunk down in Papa’s old chair, its familiar curves hugging my body, wood worn smooth from years of use. When I close my eyes, I can practically imagine Papa’s here with me—reading beside the fire, cleaning his daggers, showing me how to skin and gut prey. Papa taught me to shoot an arrow, ride a horse, and anticipate danger. Like the years of wear on his chair, his lessons have shaped me into who I am.

This thought I hold on to like a lifeline. Papa made me who I am. I am his daughter. Not Phelia’s.

I see her face again. The black veins curling over her skin. I wanted to first introduce myself as your mother.

Did Papa know she was alive? I hate to even think it, but considering all the secrets Papa kept, I’d be a fool not to suspect. Where has Phelia been my entire life? How is she alive when everyone thought she was dead? And why return now?

I’ve lived so much of my life not knowing who I really am that now I cannot settle for not having answers.

Across the room, Gillian lowers herself into a seat, her movements giving new meaning to the word “genteel” as she picks up her needlepoint. I smile at her, my frilly friend, remembering her last comment about putting the king on my horse. “First of all, I wouldn’t truss an animal to the back of Snowfire. I’d gut and quarter the beast in the woods. Entrails make too much mess.”