Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(9)

A sword and a saber are belted at his waist. He must not have had time to draw either. Other than the cloak, his clothes are neat and clean. His leather gloves show no sign of struggle. No blood spots the material of his pants. So how did Aodren survive? Why was he left alive?

All the unknowing rings through me like a storm-warning bell. Flee this place, it cries. Run away. Danger.

“King Aodren, wake up.” I tug his shoulder, urgency making my motions rough.

He doesn’t respond.

My pulse thunders, uncertainty spiraling into panic. What do I do?

I stand, pulling an arrow to the bowstring.

Enat taught me to listen to the pulse of life in the woods around me. If I can hone in on human energy, I might be able to determine the proximity of the threat.

I start by quieting my thoughts. I try to tune into the constant low thrum of life. Slowly, I let my awareness of the nearby woods take in more. I hear my breath, the quickened ba bam, ba bam in my chest, and the whoosh whoosh whoosh of the life running through the trees and plants. If I weren’t so panicked, I’d be awed by this Spiriter gift of mine.

My vision starts to dim. Needle points prick my arms until my muscles grow heavy like I’ve been lugging water buckets for hours. My breathing echoes loudly through my ears. The beginnings of exhaustion drag through me, and I know it’s time to stop. Enat warned me about spending too much energy. It could be fatal.

Right then, something more vibrant than the forest’s thrum, like notes of a viol rising over a cittern, catches my attention. The blend of energies must be more than one person. Judging by the way I managed to pick up on them, they cannot be far from here.

Time to run.

Two clicks of my tongue, and Snowfire is at my side. King Aodren dwarfs me by a head and a half and seventy-plus pounds, so moving him won’t be simple. I place my bow on the ground to free my hands. Rushing around the glade, I find a sturdy log. I drag it near Snowfire and use the rope from the saddlebag to truss up the king like big game. I weave the remainder over a thick tree limb and around the log, then put all my weight against it, rolling it to tighten the rope and hoist the king off the ground and onto Snowfire. Muscles shake and breath snags in and out of my lungs as I fight to maneuver him so he’s lying across the saddle.

It’s not a pretty process. If the man wasn’t bruised before, he certainly is now. I feel bad about that, but since I’m trying to save his life, I’m sure he’ll understand.

Bow in hand, I hoist myself up behind the king and reach for the reins.

Snowfire’s ears flick forward.

My gaze follows the movement, arrowing in on the mountainside, where fifty strides uphill, a woman steps into sight. Her black cloak lifts from a sudden gust. The corner, raggedly torn, flaps at her side. She walks toward us, steps so soft that her passage is noiseless. She reminds me of a winter wolf, icy grayish-blue eyes beneath silvery slashes for brows, ivory skin, and light brown hair with moonlight streaks.

And though she seems leached of color and life, darkness radiates from her like hunger.

I stifle a shiver. Willing my fingers to be still, I lift my bow, pointing my arrow at the woman’s heart. “S-stop there.”

Her chin drops a fraction and, surprisingly, she obeys.

“Who are you?” My voice bobs. I grimace.

King Aodren lets out a low groan. I straighten on the back edge of the saddle, an intense wave of protectiveness rolling through me. “Did you kill these men?”

Her hands, long fingers marked with black paintlike swirls, grasp the edges of her cloak. “Hello, Britta.”

Every part of me turns on edge at the familiarity in her tone.

Lots of people from the royal city of Brentyn know me. After all, my father was the king’s bounty hunter and my mother a despised Shaerdanian. My name is usually followed by a curse, not curiosity. This woman speaks like she knows me, but watches me like she doesn’t.

A wintry blast of air tunnels through the woods, flinging the woman’s cloak over her shoulder.

I gasp at the sight of her neck, the ivory skin covered in the same markings on her hands, obsidian veins that curl and twist. Men in the king’s guard have the symbol of the royal stag inked onto their skin like a cattle brand. But her snaking marks are different. They follow no pattern.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for quite some time.” Her voice, a mixture of scratches and soprano notes, stops my study.

“Me?” The question tumbles out. It takes a moment to realize that when she spoke I felt nothing. No warmth in my belly for truth, no chill for a lie. That nothingness hits me like a discordant note. My mind rings with the sharpness of it, along with the familiarity of having felt the same way once before.

Snowfire paws the dirt, pacing back restlessly.

I—I know who this woman is.

Enat once explained that while I could sense the truth when others spoke, my gift didn’t work on Channelers like myself. I cannot feel truth or lie from Spiriters unless they will it.

“You—You’re her.” I lock my elbow, bow arm straight. The woman doesn’t cower.

She stands taller. I flex my fists against the sudden reminder of a childhood bully. Like the other kids, he taunted me often. After the insults were slung, he didn’t leave. He’d wait and observe like he was studying a cricket he’d captured in a jar.

She watches me that same way now, her pale eyes provoking.