Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(8)

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. We answer that, and we’ll find Orli.”

Finn moves into the barn’s shade. His jaw is hung wide open like he’s auditioning to be a bug catcher. I elbow him and turn back to face her. “Did you come to this theory on your own?”

She shakes her head. “My pa did.”

“Because an informant told him?”

“Because he once had the same idea. After he crossed into Shaerdan to hide from the king’s guard, he thought about forming a Channeler army in retaliation. Malam has more weapons, more soldiers, and strongholds that are difficult to penetrate. But they have no defense against a magical attack.”

I imagine the need for vengeance Millner must’ve felt after the murder of his wife and child. Don’t know what I’d do if I lost Britta.

If the girls are linked to a greater threat, it’s my duty to the crown to look into it.

Still, something doesn’t add up. “Why would they be taking Shaerdanian girls into Malam?” I ask. “Wouldn’t they keep them and fortify their army here?”

She shakes her head. “That’s what we need to find out. You’re right. It doesn’t make sense, but no matter, if the kidnapping of Shaerdanian girls continues, it may be the push Judge Auberdeen needs to send both our kingdoms back to war.”

Her words ring true in a way that sends a chill deep into my bones.

“You have a deal.” I thrust out my hand. “You help me. I’ll find your girl and the rest of the girls. And I’ll figure out what threat Malam is truly facing.”





Chapter

4


Britta


BOW IN HAND, I SPRINT TO THE STABLE AND saddle up Snowfire. She’s older than the moon, but she’s all I’ve got. If King Aodren had brought a horse instead of dresses, I wouldn’t have kicked him out so fast.

For once, I don’t loathe our connection.

Hooves flying over frosted brushes and dirt, Snowfire darts through the Evers in the direction I sense the king. I urge her to pick up the pace the deeper we go into the woods. We wind along the trail at the base of Mount Avemoir, one of the highest peaks in the pine-covered range. As we start to climb, I can sense Snowfire’s struggle and exhaustion, and it worries me.

No, it angers me.

I don’t want to lose my only horse because His Royal Travesty foolishly walked into danger. I hold that thought, following the man’s link, until a half league later, his draw intensifies, the invisible rope cinching between us. The pines here grow tall and proud like soldiers lined up to fight. The harsh slant of afternoon light cuts between trunks, glinting off frosted branches. Snowfire slows to a walk. I squint, scrutinizing every detail for clues.

A fallen log, the frost-covered leaves strewn across the underbrush, the narrow glade between trees—the surrounding forest shows no signs of others.

Frustration beats through me because I cannot see him, though I can tell he’s close.

“King Aodren?”

The question ricochets around the stagnant forest, lifting the hairs on my arms. I slam my mouth shut. I might as well paint a target on my chest and wait in the nearest glade.

I quietly slide off Snowfire. Focus is a weapon as much as your bow. Papa’s words beat through me. I add caution to my movements.

Arrow nocked.

Steps soft.

Ahead of me, something moves in the thick knot of underbrush—the breeze blows a black flap of material forward and back, forward and back. The pull in the direction of the material is all I need to know. It drives me from hiding.

I rush forward to find that the caught cloth is an arm span away from the arrogant man who stood in my house thirty minutes ago. Unconscious, Aodren is slumped on his side, the tautness of our bond confirming he’s alive. He could be mistaken for a man taking a nap if not for the biting cold or his collapsed stewards a dozen paces farther.

I cross to the other men, hands jittery, steps wary. The icy space between the trees crackles underfoot.

The first man has both of his hands resting around his neck as though he was signaling he could not breathe. His brown eyes are glass, staring at nothing. He was at my home less than a half hour past, delivering gowns for the king’s feast. Bile burns my throat as I scurry backwards, gasping to catch my breath. My heart rages a violent beating in my ribs. Mercy. What’s happened here?

I force myself to kneel down beside the second man. Though his eyes aren’t open, I know—I know before I’ve even touched him that he’s passed.

As the hunter’s daughter, death has been my companion my entire life.

This man’s passing feels like a patch of cold water in a summer-warmed lake. One hand white-knuckling my bow, and the other pressed to my mouth, I quickly look both men over, searching for signs of death. Only, there are no visible wounds. No marks of struggle other than the first man’s hands around his neck. And yet, under his fingers, I see no bruising to indicate he was choked to death.

It’s as if they both lay down and died.

Survival instincts kick propriety on its arse. I race to the king’s side and quickly run my hands over his shoulders and neck, down his chest and along his thighs, checking for wounds. The buzz of his life force resonates beneath my hands and through me. I’ve never been more thankful for our ever-present connection, a confirmation he’s alive. Even so, I put my bow on the ground and hold my hand near his nostrils until a warm breath puffs across my fingers. Just to be sure.