Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(42)

A sensation pings inside my chest. Britta. She’s at the castle.

I put the letter down and stand. Looking out the window, I spy a hawk soaring over the treetops, and then swooping low to catch prey.

I leave my room and walk to the side of the castle that overlooks the training yard.

There, at the base of the stairs, Britta’s white-blond hair blows free from her braid. She stands beside Cohen Mackay, Leif O’Floinn, and a brunette girl I don’t recognize. I watch until they leave, and then I make my way down to talk with Captain Omar.

“Was that Cohen I saw leaving the castle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did he return?”

“Yesterday. He arrived with his brother and a friend.”

The way he says the last bit makes me wonder what it is about the friend that Omar dislikes. “Did you talk to him about the girl who was found in the woods?”

A nod. “And other news as well. We’ll need to discuss it in the privacy of your study.”

“All right. Where is he headed now?”

“He left to escort the friend to Miss Flannery’s home.”

My frown catches Omar’s notice.

I ignore the pucker of judgment around the captain’s mouth as I return to the knowledge that Cohen had the privilege of spending the evening with her. The thought comforts me about as much as a week of grueling training with Omar.

The awareness I have of Britta leaves me thinking about her far more than I should. Mostly, it leaves me wanting more than I should. Captain Omar’s frown is a minor comparison to how my circle of advisers will react should I tell them of my interest in Britta Flannery. I’m expected to marry the daughter of a lord from higher nobility. The problem is, I’ve met them all, and none hold my interest like Britta Flannery.

Of course, as it stands, Miss Flannery’s interest in me is about as great as her interest in every gift I’ve given her—which is to say, not at all. I’m driven to find something she’ll like, and I begin to contemplate the ridiculous. Perhaps a bale of hay, or a cooking pot, or rope for trussing up the next man she finds unconscious in the woods.

I massage my temples, glad the headaches following the attack have finally subsided, and lonesome as I feel Britta move farther from the castle.

The guards do not look our way as Captain Omar accompanies me out of the yard. That’s the way it is with most people in the castle. Nobody dares meet my eyes. It is a custom born of respect that leaves me feeling like I’m in solitary confinement.

Britta Flannery sees me. That’s something I don’t want to lose.

Once inside my study, I lift the letter off my desk and pass it to Omar. As he reads, lines appear around his eyes and mouth, tightening.

“We need to clear ourselves of blame.” I turn to the window that faces west, toward Shaerdan. My blood is thick and cold in my veins, like winter creeping beneath my skin.

The letter includes the names and villages of thirty kidnapped girls, all Channelers. Names of witnesses who claim to have seen men in Malamian dress or heard Malamian accents on dates coinciding with the abductions are listed on the parchment. Including the four girls the kinsmen had recovered when they arrested Lord Conklin, a Malamian noble, heading for the border with them.

Omar moves into my peripheral vision and coughs. “Cohen Mackay reported the involvement of Lord Conklin.”

Omar has my rapt attention as he recounts Cohen’s run-in with the lord. A girl was saved, but Conklin got away with the rest. I tap the desk. “Besides kidnapping girls, what was Lord Conklin doing in Shaerdan?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace.”

I flex my jaw. The stress in this office suffocates me. I wish Omar would address me as Aodren, like he did when I was a child. Only Britta dares call me by name.

“What do you know of Conklin? Does he have proclivities I should be aware of?” I resist a shudder at the idea. It wouldn’t be the first time an older man had kidnapped young girls for despicable reasons.

Omar hums darkly to himself. “He has a sizable fief east of Lord Fennitson’s land, he turns in a sizable tax payment every year, and he’s always been a supporter of the crown. As for other interests, I cannot say.”

“The crown no longer desires his support.” I pause, mulling over what I know. “Phelia is a part of all of this. I’m sure of it. Was Cohen able to identify who else Conklin was working with?”

Omar answers to the negative. He crunches the offending paper in his meaty fist. “It pains me to admit that I’ve heard nothing among the nobles.”

“It isn’t likely that Conklin is the only co-conspirator.”

“No, but he could’ve been working with other Malamians,” Omar says. “This could be a way of carrying out the Purge Proclamation. Perhaps he wants to rid Shaerdan of Channelers in order to keep them from slipping into Malam.” In all the Channeler trials held by my inner circle, I’ve not seen a trace of emotion on the man’s face. Though lack of sentiment is not uncommon for the captain, it makes me wonder if he fears the Channelers. Or is he secretly a sympathizer who hides behind an iron mask?

I lean on the side of my desk, ill at the mention of the Proclamation. It’ll forever be a dark stain on Malam.

“Have we not killed enough of our own women? Must we kill Shaerdan’s women as well?” There’s no masking my bitterness. The Proclamation passed in the first place only because I was a child, too young to rule, and the men my father had left to govern the country in the interim were fools. To pass such a contemptuous, ludicrous law was extremism in its most uneducated form. Their actions have caused a division in Malam that, I fear, is irreparable.