I fill the waterskins and drink till full. In the pool’s reflection, the grime caked on my face and neck makes my pale skin look brown as bark. After peeling off my clothes and sinking into the cool water, I use the sand from the streambed to scrub away the grime.
It’s a relief to be clean once again. The water is a needed reprieve from the long, torturous hours with Cohen. I thought seeing him again would ease the ache inside. Oh no. Having him so close only makes me think of how I’d love to curl into his arms once more.
Cohen lived with Papa and me in the winters, returning to his home in the south of Malam each year for spring planting. There he led an entirely separate life, tending to his parents’ farm alongside his brother, Finn, and sister, Imogen. His family was the reason he worked tirelessly, apprenticing for Papa. He wanted to give them a better life.
I cannot fault him for his selflessness. Still, I cannot forget that I don’t fit in his plan.
When the time came, he chose a life without me. I’d do well to remember that.
Halfway back to the campsite, a tiny pin of anxiety pricks my chest. It’s nothing, really, and yet it stops me in my tracks. I press my hand to my chest, over the seed of unease, sprouting roots that twist and tangle around my lungs and tighten.
I’m suddenly certain of one thing:
Cohen’s in danger.
CHAPTER 12
I TAKE OFF RUNNING, SPRINTING DOWN THE GAME trail cut between ferns and clovers as the clang of metal echoes through the trees.
Cohen and Leif are sword to sword. Tomas is on the ground, unconscious, bloody, but not dead—a fact only obvious by the rise and fall of his torso. I don’t know what’s more surprising, that they’ve found us, the king’s two best bounty hunters, or that Leif and Cohen appear evenly matched.
And strangely, I’m frightened for both.
The scene is madness, swords clashing as I hide behind the trees, scanning for Omar. When he’s nowhere to be found, I quietly circle the area. And still find nothing. Siron is missing as well and, with him, my bow.
“Where is she?” Leif’s fierce tone freezes me in place. It sounds foreign, coming from the gentle giant of a man I’ve come to know. I press myself against a tree trunk and peer around.
Leif advances on Cohen.
Cohen swings his sword in a tight circle that hooks Leif’s and sends it back over his shoulder. “Back down, Leif. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Where is Britta?”
“Enough,” Cohen snarls. “She’s not here. Yield. I’ve no qualms killing you.”
Leif never mentioned they had a history. Granted, my purpose on this trip wasn’t to make friends with the guard.
The fight continues, weapons clash and cross and swing, until Cohen has the upper hand. Cohen’s eyes are flat and angry in a way I’ve never witnessed. Leif grunts when Cohen’s sword slices a clean line through the arm of his shirt. Blood darkens the bold blue material of Leif’s Shaerdanian commoner clothing, turning my guts inside out. Bludger.
“Stop!” I jump from hiding.
Cohen’s chin jerks in my direction. His eyes go dark and flat. He seems furious with me. It’s no more than the span of a heartbeat before Cohen’s attention returns to Leif, but Leif uses the moment to his advantage and puts space between their swords. I might feel a touch bad for distracting Cohen, if I weren’t relieved for Leif.
The point of Leif’s sword holds steady as his attention volleys from me to Cohen. Then back to me. “Britta?” Uncertainty turns the corners of his mouth down.
I’d assumed Captain Omar and the guards deduced my loyalty had switched. I start to explain when my name, sharp as an arrowhead from Cohen’s mouth, stops me.
Leif’s eyes narrow. It’s like viewing cogs click into place as confusion clears and dawning sets in. “You’ve joined with him. Your father’s murderer?”
I shake my head, worried he’ll think me to be the worst kind of traitor. “No. That’s not how it is.” Cohen mutters something, but I ignore him. “He’s innocent. Lord Jamis was wrong.”
Leif guffaws in his funny way, but it’s tinged with disappointment. “He’s lying.” His hand clenches around the hilt of his sword, forearm straining. “He’ll say anything to get what he wants.”
This isn’t the place, nor is this the time, to explain to Leif how I know Cohen is innocent, but I cannot leave it alone. “Someone made it look like Cohen did it. Planted evidence to make him look guilty.”
“Britta, please. Don’t be fooled by him.” Leif reaches out his free hand and then lowers it, and then raises it once more. It’s an awkward arm dance, like he’s not quite sure how to coax me to him.
“If you go with him, you’ll be breaking orders from Lord Jamis,” Leif says, gentler now, pleading. Hearing his concern knots my insides.
Tomas moans.
Leif’s attention diverts to the injured lump of a guard. “If you do this, I’ll have to come after you with force.”
Leif’s been kind to me when there was no cause for it. In spite of my crime. In spite of who I am.
“I know,” I tell him sadly. “But I need to find the real murderer.”
His face is pained.
During our exchange, Cohen has slipped away from me and maneuvered close to Leif. Without warning, he slams the pommel of his sword against the back of Leif’s head and the guard crumples.
“Cohen!” I gasp, and then scramble to Leif’s side to roll him off his back. Before I can set his body right, Cohen’s hand seizes my arm. “Let’s go,” he commands.