Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(39)

Saul told me that being a Channeler, more specifically, a Spiriter, attracts two different types of people: those who’ll want to hurt her, and those who’ll want to use her.

I run my fingers up and down my scar, remembering all that she did for me. All she’s capable of doing. Anyone with knowledge of her gift might be tempted to take advantage of her.

I draw in a deep breath and look straight into her wintry blue eyes. “Ever consider he wants to use you for your ability?”

Britta curses under her breath and mutters something about me having lost my seeds. Thing is, she’s still got all his gifts around her home. If they were nothing, she’d have gotten rid of them.

Britta thinks the man wants friendship. But I think he wants something more than friendship, or he wants something only a Channeler with her capability can offer.

Either way, both options put me on edge.





Chapter

17


Britta


ALL NIGHT, COHEN’S WORDS ROOT BETWEEN MY bones like the morning glory that infests the fields. After Papa passed, when I was too weak from hunger to tend much more than the cottage, the weeds spread, winding around the year-old crops, creeping over an old plow, wiggling into the barn’s cracks. Morning glory has a way of getting into the smallest crevices.

As does Cohen’s question.

Instead of focusing on the fact that Cohen’s sleeping outside my bedroom by the hearth while I share the bed with Gillian, I waste away the early hours of the morning weighing the motive behind the king’s kindness. In a country that has outlawed Channeling, what use could he have for a Spiriter? I don’t like thinking there’s intention behind his gifts. But not considering Cohen’s claim would be naive of me. If only it didn’t make my ability seem more like a curse than a blessing.

The next morning, Gillian bustles around the house, setting pots where they belong and tossing the dirty kitchen water out in the yard by the privy. Cohen is in the stable brushing down his moody ink-blot of a horse.

“They won’t jump into the basket on their own.” Gillian points at the small pile of feathers.

I snap out of my daze and shoot her an exasperated look while I finish sweeping.

“Is that your new morning greeting? An eye roll?” She fluffs her hair.

Her teasing breaks my bad mood. I huff out a laugh while cleaning up the pile.

When I’m done, Gillian takes the basket from me and dips her hand into the feathers. “The pillows could use a bit more stuffing.”

That’s putting it nicely. The pillows are practically empty oat sacks. It’s been ages since I kept feathers for bedding. When Papa was alive, we’d use the quills for arrows or we’d take the extra to market.

“Perhaps it’ll help you sleep better.” Her lips curve in sympathy. My tossing must’ve kept her up last night. Despite her playful picking, she’s never complained about the conditions in Papa’s cottage.

After gathering the few pillows from the cottage, she sits on her favorite chair—the one Papa carved from an old chestnut tree. I find it impossible to dislike Gillian. I doubt she’s ever met a person who didn’t become her friend.

“Need any help?” I ask.

“No, thank you.” Her fingers work at unpicking the seams on my pillow. She glances up, her head tipped. “Perhaps Cohen needs help in the stable.”

The door swings open, cutting me short.

Cohen’s brown mess of hair hangs over his forehead. Using his forearm, he pushes it back. “I just got word from the castle. Captain Omar’s requesting a meeting. The man doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

An understatement. Captain Omar’s about as patient as a pig in labor.

Cohen hesitates, then asks, “You want to come? You can meet Finn. And Lirra.”

Gillian’s eyes whittle to points. “Who’s Lirra?”

Cohen shrugs. “Just a girl I met in Shaerdan. She helped me track the woman I thought was Phelia.”

Gillian pauses before entering the bedroom. “You brought a girl home from Shaerdan?”

I sit straighter than an arrow, taking this in from the very man who was acting like a jealous fool the night before. Anger flashes through me.

“You rushed home from Shaerdan, and yet had time to pick up a girl?” I work out my confusion and irritation aloud.

“Yeah.” Cohen moves to the table and crouches to pick up a few stray feathers. He acts like he’s said nothing of consequence. “Lirra helped me discover Phelia’s ruse, and I agreed to help her find someone. Her friend is one of the Shaerdanian girls who’ve gone missing.”

Mention of the girls cools my temper, and I feel silly for having been irked in the first place. I also feel guilty. After all, I’m the one who is still keeping secrets.

Surprise replaces Gillian’s confusion. “Have there been that many?”

He gives a solemn nod, and then puts the extra feathers in the pillow pile.

I can tell he’s more troubled than he’s letting on. Cohen rubs the back of his neck until his skin brightens. “Would it be possible for Lirra to stay here?”

Surprised by his question, I step back and knock into a small table. “Here?” My voice is a squeak. It’s not that I don’t want to help Cohen, but my space is a commodity I’ve fought hard for. And there’s not much here to share. Not with Gillian living with me. Although, now that she’s been at my cottage for over a month, I cannot imagine how quiet and lonesome it would be without her. Of course, I won’t tell her this. Wouldn’t want to inflate her raven bouffant any more.