I snap Cohen’s arrow in two and throw it on the ground.
I hate him.
CHAPTER 8
THOUGH KING AODREN HAS YET TO DECLARE the country officially at war, the border town of Fennit is teeming with men in steel armor and chain mail. Tents the color of dishwater line the fields northward. To the west, across an expanse of wheat fields and clusters of wooded areas, pillars of smoke dot the horizon. Enemy camps. Preparing, waiting. Thousands upon thousands of men are here, and yet I’m somehow certain Cohen is too.
“My father never thought it would escalate to this,” I tell Leif. “Suspicions aren’t reason for war.”
Tension between Malam and Shaerdan has brewed for years. Papa told me of a time before King Aodren’s rule when a three-year drought decimated Malam’s crops. People blamed Shaerdan’s Channelers, who used to sell healing ointments all over Malam. Suspicion grew but it didn’t spread countrywide till the old king died from a sudden illness after a meeting with Shaerdan’s leader, the chief judge. People were convinced Channeler magic was to blame.
“Course not.” Leif leads his horse to follow the captain through Fennit’s busy market. “But it’s like a pot of water over the fire. Eventually it’ll boil.”
“Sure it’ll heat up. Not explode,” I argue.
He shrugs. “I heard they’re after our ore, too.”
I frown. “That doesn’t make sense.” When commerce had faltered between Malam and Shaerdan, many merchants had been unable to feed their families. The king had been forced to reinstate the ore trade—the one resource that would bring back some of the funds lost when the border closed.
“Their chief judge wants to own a mine in our mountains,” Leif tells me. “King Aodren declined his request two months ago. Then their soldiers plundered one of our border towns.”
That was right after Papa died and my mourning started. The isolation kept me from hearing this news earlier.
Tomas sidles up to us. “They wanna make us heathens like them and their black magic.” He hasn’t uttered more than a dozen words since killing the fawn. I mourn the loss of his silence.
“What do you know of that?” I challenge.
“I heard about one. A real whore, cheating on her husband.”
I cringe at the word whore.
“The old man went fishing with his fellows,” Tomas continues, “and his heathen of a wife did some devilry and made a wave as tall as the Castle Neart crash on that boat. Killed ’em all.”
He sounds like a gossiping market crow. “Horse dung.”
“You snit.” Tomas white-knuckles his reins. “What do you know?”
“I know not to believe rumors.”
He urges his horse closer. “Better hope Mackay doesn’t cross the border. If their army doesn’t get you, some Channeler will hear your sharp tongue and end you.”
I fist my hands. “Somehow I don’t think I’ll be the one they find offensive.”
“Watch it. The border’s dangerous. Anything can happen.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to her,” Leif interjects.
“Not like it’d matter.” Tomas smirks. “Nobody’ll miss her.”
It’s a struggle not to react—I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing his words have pierced me through. He has uttered one of my greatest fears—that I’ll die alone.
The captain shouts a command that ends our conversation. When the captain’s horse canters ahead, Tomas follows.
Leif’s thick hand squeezes my arm. “It’s not true about no one missing you.”
But he’s wrong.
Tomas’s comment is the truest thing in my life. If I died, nobody would miss me.
Leif faces front again, and I feel bad for not speaking. Just like I’m guilt-ridden for not having mentioned Cohen’s visit. His arrow is all I’ve thought about today. It’s planted a grain of hope inside, whispering that there’s something to Cohen’s message. A guilty man would not act so.
It’s nothing but a speck of doubt compared to Lord Jamis’s truth.
Still, doubt has a way of making quicksand of stable ground.
We enter the first tavern we find in Fennit and chat with the local drunkards.
“Yep. I’ve seen him.” The man’s belly rests on the bar like a sack of potatoes. A belch bursts from the man’s mouth. I squelch the need to gag. “Told me he’d give me two silvers for information about a woman named Enat.”
I advise the captain to visit the clergy first, since they have the best records. If that doesn’t pan out, then the merchants might know something. The captain sends Tomas and Leif to inquire with the local lord. Then he accompanies me to the church.
“I don’t know where she is.” The clergyman folds his hands over his book of Scripture. “Told the same thing to your friend earlier.”
“Do you happen to know which way my friend went?” The captain grimaces.
“To Barton, the stonecutter. He did business with the old woman.”
The captain snaps a brusque goodbye and leaves.
My eyes dart to the door, and I hesitate. “Was Enat a member of your congregation?”
“No.” The clergyman gives me a strange look. “She wouldn’t have been. She’s a Spiriter.” My face must show my confusion because his lip curls as he adds, “One of their Channelers.”
“I’ve never heard of a Spiriter.” I talk quickly, mindful of the captain’s lack of patience.