Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(3)

On the northern outskirts of Rasimere Crossing, an old barn sits unused. We settle against the wall that faces the forest and catch our breath.

Sweat slides down Finn’s temples. “Cannot believe that.”

“I nearly got you killed.” I’m so angry, it comes out choppy. I promised Ma and myself I’d keep him safe. Piss of a job I’ve done.

“Nah, you made me leave before it got to the good part.”

I rub my thumb over the scar that starts beneath my cheekbone and hides in my short beard. “The good part?”

“I didn’t get any punches in, but still . . .”

“Shouldn’t have been in a situation for you to throw punches.”

“My first tavern fight,” he says, awed.

“Don’t be a fool.”

He grins, teeth and gums shining under the sun.

Footsteps clap against the ground around the corner. I grab my dagger as a girl holding a sword steps into sight. There’s something familiar about her raven hair and tan face. Irritated that she was able to sneak up on us, I gesture with the point of my blade. “Stop there and state your business.”

Her lips twitch. “Nice to see you too, Cohen.”

My frown sets. I rack my brain. Who’s this girl?

She lets out a short, squeaky laugh that sounds like it’s being pressed through a windbag. “You don’t remember who I am? We met once . . .” She trails off, as if hoping I’ll pick up the scent. “In Celize.”

“I meet a lot of people.”

Her grin fades. “At Enat’s home.”

A memory surfaces of a log home outside of Celize. My scowl shifts into surprise. “The Archtraitor’s daughter. Lirra, right?”

Her father is infamous for openly opposing the Purge Proclamation—a decree that eliminated most Channelers in Malam—and defecting to Shaerdan after his wife and small child were killed because of his outspoken defiance.

Lirra cinches up straighter than an arrow. “Don’t call him the Archtraitor. Around here, he’s just Millner Barrett.”

“No offense intended.”

She eyeballs my dagger. “Lower your blade, hunter. I know where you can find the woman you’re hunting.”





Chapter

2


Britta


“BRITTAAAA!” GILLIAN DARTS AWAY FROM THE WINDOW, her midnight-black brows arcing up toward her perfectly combed hairline. Her small hands snake around my arm without care for the dagger that I’m sharpening, and she yanks me toward the window. “Riders are coming this way. They’re carrying the royal flag.”

I pry her fingers off, pushing down the anxiety that her comment raises. In the month since she was assigned as my nurse by King Aodren, to live in my home and care for me, she’s never gleaned that I don’t share her excitement for court visitors. “Careful. I could’ve gutted you.”

She lets out a huffy laugh. “Hardly. Or should I say, it wouldn’t happen by accident.”

A snort bursts from me. For a royal handmaid, raised to be refined and proper in all matters, Gillian has some sass beneath her sophistication.

“Your dagger is plenty sharp. Put it away and go make yourself presentable. What if the king is with them?” She wrinkles her nose at my old trousers—Papa’s old trousers—that hang on my hips beneath a faded beige tunic that once was a rich brown.

My blade zings over the whetstone, and I give her an I don’t care look. But I do. I wish he’d stop coming to visit and drawing attention to me. Every time he’s around, I become prey to town gossip. It takes only one person to accuse me of being a Channeler.

“You are . . . argh . . . belligerent.” She throws her hands in the air. Then, regaining herself, her fingers float over her hair, moving an invisible strand back into place, even though every piece is tugged and taut into stiff exactness. She’s mastered the raven-haired helmet. The girl is a couple of years older than Cohen, but damn if she doesn’t act like a stuffy old woman sometimes.

I slump into the wooden chair, feigning disinterest. “If someone’s trespassing on my land, they can take me as I am.” It’s all I can do to ignore the way the approaching visitor pulls at my insides, making me feel like a bear woken early from hibernation, cranky and drawn to exit my cave. I dig my fingers into the wood.

Seeds and stars, why won’t he leave me alone?

“By the gods, Britta. I cannot fathom why anyone would want to pay you a visit. Please, just this once, can you show a shred of decorum?” Her worried gaze shifts from me to the window, where the afternoon sun is starting to sag in the horizon.

In the last month, Gillian and I have spent nearly every waking moment together, and we’ve learned each other well. The only time we’re apart is while I’m hunting, since Gillian refuses to hunt. Ladies do not hunt, she said last week. I assured her ladies do, in fact, hunt. My weekly fowl catches were proof. Gillian rolled her eyes. Said she meant noble ladies of the court. Obviously, coifed noblewomen didn’t catch their own food.

My father was noble, but I’m half Shaerdanian—about as good as garbage in Malam. So, seeing as I have as much claim to nobility as Gillian’s fat heifer that’s been hogging my stable, what “ladies” do has no bearing on me. Her response to this explanation was a long-suffering sigh.