“You’re certain? I wouldn’t want to be the cause for putting the old horse down.”
Though his face is out of view, I notice how his shoulders grow rigid. “He’s not old.”
My grin should be ear to ear, but I know Cohen’s bond with the horse is strong. Teasing him is mean sport. “No, he’s not,” I admit. “Your horse doesn’t like me very much. I was giving him time to get used to me.”
The conversation flounders as Cohen settles himself on Siron and then offers me a hand. Before I’ve steadied myself, Cohen clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the beast responds by taking off, causing my arms to flap out like bird wings. I flail and end up grasping Cohen around the waist. His ribs move out and in as he chuckles.
“He’s reserved with everyone,” Cohen tells me. “When he was a colt, he didn’t have much contact with people, so he needs time to trust others. Know what I mean?”
More so than I’d like to admit.
With the dangers of crossing the border in mind, we fall silent as we ride. We move into a gentle river to hide Siron’s prints and continue to weave westward. Just before reaching Shaerdan, Cohen pulls up on the reins and stalls in the water.
I glance over his shoulder, and my hands fly to cover my mouth. On either side of the river, two bodies swing from nooses, one far more decayed than the other. The flesh has decomposed and withered, exposing bones among the corpse’s rags. But the other—mercy—stinks of fetid flesh. Flies swarm a man’s pale body that cannot be more than a couple days old. His commoner clothes, a tunic over simple trousers, are stained in blood from multiple arrow injuries. And by the awkward twist of his feet, it appears they’ve both been broken. I’d heard rumors about the merciless watchmen—men hired by the king to prevent people from passing through the border. They’re paid per person they catch, which makes them a bloodthirsty bunch. The torture they inflict is fodder for nighttime tales. Seems those rumors are true.
“They’re meant to scare. You never know when you’ll cross one.” Cohen’s low tone is apologetic.
“They serve their purpose well, then. We best not get caught.” I shiver despite the day’s heat. Covering my nose to stop myself from heaving, I drop my forehead against Cohen’s back.
He digs his heels into Siron, urging him to a run, water splashing against our legs, till we’ve crossed the border. And then farther. We don’t slow until we’re a good distance into Shaerdan. We pass a giant tree with a trunk so thick, Cohen and I couldn’t wrap our arms around it if we were fingertip to fingertip.
I thought I’d feel different once we entered Shaerdan. That I might notice a strangeness in the forest. This is a country of black magic, after all. But a few hours past the border, nothing stands out as unusual.
The only noticeable change is my increased worry. We’re traitors. And now I have firsthand knowledge of what my punishment will be, should they catch us.
“We shouldn’t slow down yet.” My comment is muffled by Cohen’s back.
“We’re clear, Britt.”
“They could still follow us.” The grotesque bodies fill my mind. As well as thoughts of the Archtraitor. My father hunted him for twenty years on order from the king. I’ve no doubt the captain would chase our hides for that many years, if not more, to ensure justice was served.
Celize is a ten-day trek past the border. We plan on taking six, seven days at most. The first few days are an arduous ride over rocky trails and dense brush. Which is why I’m not prepared when Siron starts down a steep ravine. Cohen leans back and his body mashes against mine, the heat of his back instantly seeping into my front. It’s impossible not to notice the way his muscles flex and relax against me as he moves.
I tell myself not to get comfortable. Not to fall back into our old patterns. He’ll only leave again.
“Are you all right?” Cohen glances over his shoulder. “Need a break?”
I catch myself about to suck in a deep breath of Cohen’s scent. “Ah, no. I’m fine.” Good thing he cannot see me blush.
Cohen tugs on the reins and Siron stops.
“Why are we stopping?” The sun sits low in the sky, but there’s still enough light to travel.
He glances to the side, eyes raking the landscape as though he’s taken notice of something, but then turns to me with a carefree smile. “You were squirming like there’s a bug in your drawers.”
“I was not.”
He shrugs, a simple up-and-down of his shoulders that mocks my comment. “Now’s a good time to stop. Siron’s been carrying us for three days, and he needs the break. So I say we’re done for today.”
“We should go on foot, then.”
“Only a sliver of the moon’s gonna rise tonight. It’ll get dark fast. We need to use this time to survey the area.” Cohen gives me his usual unreadable look. “And we crossed a stream not far back. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to wash up before night falls.”
My gaze briefly drops to the sweat mark on his shirt and then to his full lips framed by rugged facial hair. The sight does something strange and liquidy to my insides. “I’ll, um, find the stream.”
“Take your time,” he says with a soft chuckle.
Does he need a break from my incessant staring? Oh, I’m such a fool. I hurry toward the water.
The undergrowth is thicker here than in Malam, covered in crawling vines and ferns and tiny yellow and purple flowers. I leave rock markers along my way until reaching the stream, which is more of a small river, wide and deep enough for bathing.