Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(79)

I shift farther away. My head is hazy and my body tired and sore, but I press my point once more about needing to find camp so we can build a fire.

“It’s barely past noon.”

“You’re freezing.”

He lifts the shirt away from his body. “It’s nearly d-d-dry.”

The warmth of his words rings with truth. His clothes might be drying, but they’re still damp and icy. His fingers are angry red, and his lips have a bluish tint. Physically, he’s showing signs of being cold. Too cold.

I start to shake my head, to disagree, but he turns and strides away. “Finding Omar is our priority,” he calls over his shoulder.

I roll my eyes. Who am I to argue with the king of Malam? If he’s all right braving out the chill in damp clothing, there’s not much I can do to stop the fool. And I thought Cohen was the only stubborn man in my life.

Tracking is easier in the frozen months because barren scrub oaks show damage from travel at a quick glance, instead of the scrutiny needed in the warm months. I move quickly, mindful of my injured arm in its sling, until I come across hoofprints and a bunch of broken branches.

Aodren approaches, his feet scraping along the frozen ground. He lacks the finesse of moving with any semblance of stealth. I wonder if he’s always this way, or if his movements are jerky from the frozen river bath.

I gesture to the cluster of prints and damaged bushes. “Could belong to Omar and his men. I count about six sets.”

He holds his arms crossed; his entire body shivers every few seconds, and his teeth chatter. “That’s odd. B-b-because I’m certain there’s another s-set over there.”

My look of worry is silenced when he makes a show of pointing again. With a sigh, I follow the direction of his finger to the dense brush.

I don’t tell him that he’s probably mistaken. Maybe the cold’s gotten to him. Or if he has found something, it’s likely old, having been immortalized in the frosted ground until spring.

The brittle bush’s thorns hook on my dress as I push between the leafless mounds to verify Aodren’s find. He catches up to me, crunching the ground cover with every step.

“Perhaps you should stay there,” I tell him.

“Yeah, perhaps.” With a sheepish smile on his face, he wraps his arms around his body and stops moving. Which hits me with a touch of guilt for being so hard on the man. After all, it was because of him that we escaped.

The ground is dented with horseshoe prints. I squat down and run my good hand along them. Aodren was right. The ground is cold and hard, but there’s still give to the dirt. The soil flakes in my fingers. This print could be recent.

“Do you think someone followed them?” Aodren asks, giving voice to the fear whispering in the back of my mind.

I hope not.

But I know these trails aren’t traveled often. In the winter, they’re mostly forgotten. The treacherous mountain passes and steep cliffs become impassable from the winter storms. The few logging towns that can be reached from this trail close down after autumn, ceasing trade until the summer months. If these are Cohen’s tracks, not only do they have a traitor—they also have someone tailing them.

We mount Gale and continue onward.

The intensity of the day catches up to me. Along with Gale’s monotonous walk, my body relaxes, to the point that I’m leaning against the king. It doesn’t register in my mind until Gale starts downward, and then when our weight shifts, I realize how comfortable I’ve been in his presence.

I straighten. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says over a yawn. “There’s not much room to move. I don’t expect you to sit with a rod in your back. Unless my damp clothes are making you uncomfortable.” Which reminds me he stopped shivering a while ago.

“Are you dry now?”

“Almost.”

Those words ring untrue. Even if I can’t feel the chill of his clothes, I can sense the ice in his words. “You’re still wet and cold?” I ask, knowing he must be suffering.

“If you lean closer, it’ll warm me up.”

True.

“Besides, the last time we were on a horse together, I’m certain you were the one holding me up,” he adds. “I don’t mind if you lean on me. Might as well make it even.”

The idea of ever being even with the king of Malam is laughable. Though I’ve known him for only a month and a half, I have to wonder if sometimes he doesn’t realize the importance of who he is.

“You rule a kingdom,” I say. “You could take my land, my home, even my life. And somehow, I’d still owe you. That’s how things work.”

He doesn’t talk for a while. “That was my father.” His tone is pensive. I’ve not heard this from him before. “He treated the kingdom like a plaything. But that’s not me. I’d hoped you would have seen that.”

I wish I could turn back time and stop myself from making such a callous comment.

“I’m sorry. I have seen that.” When he doesn’t say anything more, I switch topics. “You came back for me.”

“You sound surprised. You shouldn’t be. I care about you. I wouldn’t have left you to rot in the dungeon.”

He cares about me? I don’t need to ask because the truth of his statement warms me through. I try to keep my body relaxed so he doesn’t notice how the sensation puts me on edge. Still, I cannot leave it alone. “Because we’re bound together. That’s why you care?”