As we ride, I’m shackled and sharing a horse with Leif. He doesn’t wrap a suffocating arm around me like on our last ride together. Still, the uncomfortable lack of space between us is even more apparent when the road rises and falls. Each time I lean forward, Leif pulls me back against his chest. If the captain doesn’t hang me, this ride may be torture enough to kill me.
We leave Brentyn, where the royal city is nestled like an animal burrowed for winter in a blanket of green. After traveling at a thundering pace on the main road, we cut off for the southwest mountains, to a route Papa and I traveled often. Only traitors and criminals trying to flee Malam hazard this pass. The terrain is dangerous, the path steep and sometimes slippery.
We stop when we reach the summit, where the path is narrow and overgrown with creeping ground cover.
“Mackay was sighted here two days ago,” Captain Omar says. He points west. “I need to know if he’s headed toward Lord Devlin’s fief.”
“I need to be closer to the ground,” I tell him. His face darkens and I realize he must think me insolent. “To look for broken branches, prints, any disturbance in the undergrowth,” I explain.
The captain gestures and then Leif’s off the horse, pulling me to the ground. The sweet pine scent slaps me with memories. Papa pointing out edible berries. Sifting through the forest floor in search of prints. Storytelling around a campfire.
Focus, Papa’s voice echoes.
“The manacles?” I lift my wrists.
The captain regards my arms. “Prove yourself helpful. Then I’ll take them off.”
My raw wrists throb, but I bite my cheek to stop from arguing and scan the bushes for any unusual disturbance. A broken branch, crumpled leaves, limbs bent all in the same direction, hoof prints, hairs, swatches of fabric.
Tomas and Leif trail behind while the captain inspects my every move. Eventually I find a damaged bush with branches bent west. Someone came this way recently. Perhaps two or three days at most. I find it odd Cohen hasn’t done a better job of hiding his passage. Still, I’d bet my bow he left these tracks. Hoof prints mark the dirt where the fallen leaves aren’t ankle deep, and two strands of coarse black hair dangle from a shrub. There’s no forgetting Cohen’s black stallion named Siron.
“He’s headed this way,” I say, ignoring the accompanying illogical twinge of guilt.
“Seeds, she’s fast,” Leif mutters as Captain Omar views the evidence.
The captain shoots the bull guard a look of irritation before turning to me with eyes that glint with approval. I should feel pleased, but I don’t.
“Miss Flannery.” Leif clears his throat.
“Britta,” I correct him.
“Britta . . . do you, uh . . .” Leif stammers and looks down, so his auburn head fills my view. His neck and ears stain purplish red, which draws a hoot from Tomas, who has sauntered closer.
“The brute’s trying to ask if ya gotta use the privy.”
My face reddens against my will. Besides Cohen and Papa, I’ve spent little time around men. It takes a second to find my voice. “Seeing as there isn’t a privy in these woods, I cannot say.”
“We’re supposed to keep an eye on ya.” Tomas’s beady-eyed gaze crawls over me. “Even when you’ve got personal business.”
My hands curl into fists, missing the curve of my bow. “Well, then, I’ll let you know when I need to piss.”
Leif’s brows rise.
Tomas cackles.
Thankfully we load up and continue the hunt.
The next morning I’m stiff and groggy. It takes another day to reach the end of the Evers where the pines are replaced by the firs of the Bloodwood Forest. The mountains under the crowded firs settle into foothills cut with valleys. Where the black bark trees choke the way, we ride through the river until reaching the flat stretch where logging has left knee-high stumps to wither under the sun. Eventually, after two days, the Bloodwoods dwindle to rockier ground. Piles of boulders lie haphazardly between trees like a giant child’s been playing with rocks.
Captain Omar rides up alongside Tomas, who has had the lead during the sun’s good light. “Most of Lord Freil’s men have left for Fennit. Still, I want the royal colors posted,” he tells the fox-faced guard. The guard complies, setting the pole and banner against the leather hold on his horse, so the deep red material flaps as we ride. Lord Freil’s men are rumored to be the fiercest in Malam and do not tolerate intruders. For once, I am glad for my companions.
Our search of the valley demands crawling over boulders that block the path. Tracks aren’t easy to spot among the rocks, and after an hour my frustration peaks. At first, the sound of Leif’s whoop of surprise puts me on guard, thinking he’s spotted one of Lord Freil’s men. Until I notice he’s pointing at the ground. I dart around a massive stone and scramble to his side. A crescent indent is a whisper in the dry dirt.
“Look there, Britta.” He beams. “I found one too.”
Over the last couple days, he’s been kind, even helpful, while the captain remains cold and aloof, and Tomas malevolent. If it were not for his red coat, I might consider the auburn-haired, muscled wall of a man an ally.
The boyish excitement plastered across his oak eyes reminds me of Cohen from years ago, when we were green at tracking, and every discovery was a gift. “Well done.” I whisper the words Papa would’ve told me. Captain Omar turns up to silently peruse the print, and I shuffle away. The man nods once, and Leif’s so proud of himself that he lights up like a sunrise.