“Lord Jamis.”
He scoffs. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you find me so easily.”
A scowl pinches my features, covering my chagrin. Truth be told, it makes sense that the wild-goose chase was his plan. Typical arrogance. Cohen was always a little too reckless. A little too self-assured.
A small wiggle of my ankle tells me the dagger is still in my boot. Clearly, Cohen’s overconfidence hasn’t changed at all. The fool shouldn’t have left me armed.
In a snap, my blade’s in my hand and pointed at his sternum. “Why did you kill my father?”
CHAPTER 10
COHEN DOESN’T SO MUCH AS BLINK.
He’s always had a gambler’s face. I could be a mule birthing an immaculately conceived fawn, and he wouldn’t bat an eye. Which is why when his foot snakes out and hooks my ankle, it tips me off balance.
Bludger.
I scramble around the bed as he brandishes a knife. On instinct, or years of training together, we both drop into similar fighting stances, circling each other. He kicks the chair out of the way. It clunks against the wood floor. Using the distraction, I rush forward, slicing at his torso. Cohen grunts and jumps back. The best defense against someone Cohen’s size and with his strength is distance. I move away, wobbling while fighting to keep an arm’s reach between us.
Whatever he drugged me with hasn’t completely faded. My head still aches as though it’s been trampled by a herd of horses. A groan slips out as I attack. Cohen parries each of my blows with ease. My strength is dwindling faster than I could empty a waterskin. I manage to punch his perfectly straight nose, but at this distance it doesn’t do more than draw a little blood. In a flash, he has my arms pinned and my body twisted so my back is held flush to his body.
“Are you done, Britt?” he says, low and clipped.
He’s too close, filling my nose with his familiar woodsy scent. I heave to catch a breath. When he steps back to pull me from the corner, I use the amount of wiggle room he’s given me to slam a heel back, aiming for his knee. It catches him off-guard and he tumbles to the ground, taking me with him. With every seed of energy left in me, I wrench out of his grip and twist, falling against his torso with my dagger to his throat.
“I should kill you right now,” I hiss through labored breaths. Blade to his skin.
His nostrils flare. Then he relaxes and lies motionless, waiting for me to make a move, face impassive, calling my bluff. He knows I’d never hurt him when he’s lying there, allowing it. My fingers flex and loosen around the handle. Tighten and release.
I’m a fool.
I scramble away, sliding back on the floor until my shoulders touch the bed, even though this position makes me vulnerable. I suck in deep gulps of air that smell nothing like Cohen.
“Why’d you kill him?” The pain I’ve locked away for the last two months quakes through me, clamoring to get free. It burns my eyes and clogs my throat. “Why Papa?”
I’ve never been good at reading Cohen’s expression, but his daggered glare isn’t complicated.
“I didn’t kill Saul.” His voice sounds close to a snarl.
So worked up, it takes a minute for me to feel his words. Warmth blossoms in my sternum, pools in my gut, and spreads outward to the tips of my limbs. Truth.
Truth?
I lower my weapon. “You—you didn’t do it?” My mouth gapes open.
Cohen’s fingers graze his scar before wrapping around the back of his head to knead his neck. “I had nothing to do with his death.” The warmth in my belly turns into an inferno. Truth. “He was like a father to me. I would’ve given my life for him.”
The dagger in my hand could be a yoke for how it weighs me down. Relief. Sadness. Guilt. Shame. I fix my sight on the floor where a nail sits too high. Cohen knew me better than anyone, and I knew him just as well. I should’ve seen past Lord Jamis’s claim.
Cohen’s head dips and his eyes grab mine. “You believe me.” Not a question.
I nod.
He slips his blade into the sheath at his waist and stares deep into the fire. “I didn’t think you, of all people, would believe I killed Saul.”
I flinch, though he hasn’t said anything I don’t deserve. I’m ashamed that Lord Jamis’s words were enough to turn my faith in my friend. Lord Jamis must’ve believed absolutely that Cohen was the murderer.
“Why didn’t you say something?” It’s hard not to be angry with myself and mad at him for not clearing this up sooner. “You never came back to Brentyn. You missed the wake. You shot at me in the woods. Why?”
“I figured you would know I was innocent,” he says. “Come on, Britt. You know me.”
“But why did you put yourself in danger reaching out to me?”
He groans. “I thought they had something over you. My arrow was a message. So you would know you’re not alone.”
Not alone. His words slay me.
He moves to where the overturned table lies and stands it upright. I gather myself off the floor and plunk down on the mattress. I should tell him I’m sorry, but the words don’t feel adequate.
“Lord Jamis had evidence.” My explanation sounds weak. “Your coat. Your dagger.”
His neck shows cords of tension. I suspect this information has taken him by surprise.
“Why do you believe me now?” he asks.
Even though we spent every winter together after he turned twelve, I never told him about my ability to perceive truth. It was a shock that Cohen would be a friend to me despite everyone else shunning me for my mother’s blood and traitorous actions. My ability remained my secret because I never wanted to risk losing Cohen, not when his friendship was my world.