Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(51)

He pivots toward Gillian. “And you look equally fetching, Miss Tierney.”

A few words from him and she’s a flittering, blinking ball of blushes. “Your Majesty, you flatter me.”

It’s a relief when Aodren moves on. The next woman he greets has enough feathers on her headdress that she could pose as a peacock.

I wiggle away from Gillian and shoot her a glare. “Do not talk for me ever again.”

“Calm yourself. I was only helping.”

“Your help is not needed.”

Her fan opens with a fwack and flaps in front of her furrowed brow. She inclines her head, nearly gouging me each time the fan comes close to my cheek. “You may think my help unnecessary. But you’re unpolished, Britta. Here, addressing the king the way you’ve done at the cottage will get you sent to the dungeon. Or worse.”

For all Gillian’s fluff and fancy words, she has a point. Regardless of our connection, one word from Aodren could end my life.

“You’re right.”

She tilts her head, lifting her ear. “What was that? I’m not sure I heard you.”

I snort, then chuckle.

“Britta.”

I jolt, Cohen’s voice catching me unaware. He stands in the west corridor. Shadows mix with the yellow lantern light like hornet-striped jigsaw pieces on his face.

Unlike the king, who arrived tenser than a deer downwind of a mountain cat, Cohen’s face shows nothing.

A fleeting worry that he’s displeased with my appearance niggles. Then I frown, irritated with myself. When did I start acting like a twittering town girl?

Gillian lowers the fan. Her lips part as if she’s about to say something.

Ignoring her, I back away from the reception line. I don’t want to hear her disapproval. I don’t want to discuss propriety. I don’t want a lecture on how I should smile, talk, stand, or walk.

The conversations from the Great Hall make a low, echoing drone in the corridor. I follow Cohen to a corner where the darkness is deepest.

The fancy clothes he had on earlier have been replaced by a faded gray cloak, scuffed boots, and patched trousers. The waist belt hanging on his hips holds Papa’s dagger beside Cohen’s sword. I cross my arms, studying him in meticulous measure. I’d bet my bow if he turned around, there’d be one more knife hooked through the back of the belt. And all would be newly sharpened.

“You’re dressed to hunt.” Accusation sharpens my tone.

He clears his throat. “I have to.”

A moment ago I was worried he might not like my dress, when really he’s been focused on hunting. It’s doubtful he even noticed that I wore his gown. Cohen’s leaving. Again. “Why now?”

“Lord Jamis escaped.”

A chill pebbles over my exposed skin. “W-what? How?”

He scrubs a hand over his face. When it drops, I notice tight tiny lines around his eyes have replaced his usual confidence.

“Don’t know,” he says. “The dungeon master was murdered, and the guard who discovered him had just returned from checking another level of the dungeon. No one saw anything.”

“But the trail’s fresh. Your best chance at catching Lord Jamis depends on leaving immediately.” I say this more to remind myself that his abrupt departure is standard for tracking. A trade I know well, having spent years saying goodbye to Papa at a moment’s notice. Still, my words don’t salve the sting that this night is going awry.

“Aye.”

I peer past his shoulder to where music and chatter filter from the Great Hall. Gillian won’t be pleased that I’m leaving. “What will I tell Gillian?” I muse aloud.

Cohen shakes his head. “Britta—”

“Cohen.” Captain Omar’s austere tenor identifies the man before either of us look down the hall. There, Leif and three other guards wait with the captain.

Cohen holds up a finger to them. “I—I have to go, Britt. The team has already been chosen.”

“I’m coming with you. Finding Lord Jamis is as important to me as it is to you.”

He doesn’t speak. The resolution in the set of his shoulders leaves no room for misunderstanding.

My eyes lower into furious slits. “You said when you returned from Shaerdan, we would hunt together.”

“Two minutes,” Captain Omar interrupts. Judgment wafts off the abhorrent man like stink from a skunk.

I turn my glare on the captain. But Cohen winds his fingers into mine, centering my attention. He mutters an agreement to the captain and then waits while the man stalks away. Two of the guards follow, like pack mates flanking an alpha wolf.

Leif stays behind, an entreating smile on his freckled face. I don’t return the look.

“Go on, Leif. I’ll follow in a minute,” Cohen says.

“What about Finn and Lirra?”

Cohen’s jaw tics. “Finn knows. Already talked to him. Lirra will have to wait.”

“You aren’t going to tell her?” My irascible tone notches up a peg. I blink at him.

“There’s no time to ride out to the cottage,” Cohen says after Leif slips out of sight. “I was hoping you or Gillian could talk to her for me. It’s not that I want to leave her in the middle of her plight to find Orli, but Jamis has escaped.”

The same urgency came from Papa each time he had to leave Malam to hunt. It felt different though. It didn’t hollow out my chest.