She makes a delicate gagging sound. “Ladies of the court do not talk about entrails.”
Court. The Winter Feast. The king’s voice: At the Royal Winter Feast Ball. Where you’ll be presented to the court as nobility. My hands are fists and I’ve forgotten all other worries.
“This is something you’ll have to learn once the king presents you to court . . .” She’s still talking. Nobody talks more than Gillian. “Nobility has a refined way of—”
“No” comes out like a groan. Do we have to have this conversation tonight?
Leif, who hasn’t taken a seat, shuffles awkwardly near the doorway that looks a little too small for his wide frame. “I should go meet up with the other guards and set up our patrol times.”
I stare out the window at the woods, Phelia and her words and her strange dark markings sitting heavily on my mind.
“We’ll find her,” Leif says, though that’s not truly my worry.
“I trust you.” I turn back to face him.
He echoes my somber smile before nodding to Gillian. “Good day, Miss Tierney.”
Two bright spots of color touch Gillian’s cheeks.
Her mouth opens and closes. Leif usually achieves a maximum of three words in my handmaid’s presence. I haven’t noticed Gillian’s interest in my friend before. It’s somewhat of a shock—I’d have thought Gillian and all her fanciful ideas would be more interested in a stuffy lord or a haughty guard. Not Leif, who is as gentle as he is large.
If only Leif could appear at a moment’s notice. The snap of my fingers and my handmaid would go silent. That would be magic worth using regardless of the risk of being caught. I chuckle at my own thought, and Gillian’s eyes cut to me until I hide my mouth behind a fist.
“Please, call me Gillian.” She curtsies to Leif.
He repeats her name in a murmured tone. As soon as he steps out the door, she whips a deadly glare in my direction and hisses, “Not a word.”
My laughter doesn’t stop for quite some time.
You don’t need a lot of friends, just a good one, Papa had said at a time I felt the crush of loneliness. I thought he meant Cohen. But in the time since Enat was killed, while Cohen’s been away, Gillian has been my rock. A pretty painted rock, but someone to lean on nonetheless.
I would’ve never handpicked her as a friend. But we’ve shared more laughter in the last month than I’ve had most of my life.
When she exits the room, my humor fades. What will she think of me when she finds out Phelia is my mother?
Gillian. Leif. Cohen. I remember the time before them, when I almost starved after Papa’s death. Now I have three people to depend on.
When they know the truth, will I be alone again?
Chapter
10
Cohen
THE WOODSMAN RIDES EAST, PRESUMABLY TO gather men. We head northeast, hoping we’ll get there before the others arrive.
Like the woodsman said, ravines cut through the land, fissures divide the green hills and scattered clumps of wooded groves. The drop and rise of the landscape slows our travel, but we stick to the old and weathered roads because that’s where we’ll find a carriage.
The farther north we travel, the more I wonder if the man had merely drunk too much ale. Though I’ve been scanning the countryside for other travelers, I’ve yet to see evidence of a carriage or horses. If there really is another group of travelers out here, they could be farther west. If that’s the case, we could miss them all together.
When we start to near the denser woods, the small back road diverges. Despite the winter building in Malam, here the trees have enough limbs and leaves to block some of the afternoon sun, shading most of the dirt and gravel road. Though it’s warmer in Shaerdan than Malam, it’s chilly in the shade.
Lirra drags a cloak out of her horse’s saddlebags and pulls it over her shoulders. I haven’t said anything to her about the kiss. Not sure there’s anything to say. It was a necessity to support our ruse. Even thinking this, I feel guilty. I promised Britta she’d have all of me, and it tears me inside to know I gave that one kiss away.
We hit another hill. The horses slow their steps on the rocks and roots jutting out of the ground as we follow the overgrown road east. When we come off a rise, the forest thins and the road looks more formed.
A quarter league past the ravine, I stop Siron at some fresh ruts where the soil’s been softened by the Shaerdanian rain. A carriage passed this way recently.
I point them out to Finn and his eyes widen. He holds up a finger, indicating these tracks were made in the last day. I shoot him a look of approval.
“Why isn’t anyone talking?” Lirra’s voice is a shock in the silence.
I spin around and turn a frown on her.
“You don’t talk when you’re close to your prey,” Finn fills in, a lesson he learned from me years ago.
Lirra nods like she understands, but then keeps talking. “How close are they?”
“Close enough you shouldn’t talk,” I cut in.
She huffs out a breath. “How do you know it’s them?”
“I don’t,” I tell her. “But we’ll find out soon enough.”
She nods and sits straighter, her expression sharpening, like she’s preparing herself for a fight. I hope it doesn’t come to that. Though it might.
Lirra and Finn follow me for another quarter league, before I signal for them to stop. The tracks are fresh here, and judging by the steaming pile of horse manure, our quarry is close. We’d be best to go on foot so the sound of the horses doesn’t alert them to us.
Finn is quick to gear up, pulling a quiver over his shoulder and holding his bow. Then he pats the dagger at his waist and the one strapped to his ankle. I grimace watching him, wishing I’d said no when he asked to learn to be a bounty hunter. It’s too dangerous for my little brother. When I look at him, I don’t see the man he’s becoming, but the toddler I once saved from our pecking chickens. The gangly boy who cried on my shoulder when our pa died.
“Follow,” I mouth, gesturing to the woods that line the road. “But keep at a distance.”
Finn and Lirra run behind me as I dart through the trees, staying parallel to the road. I run for a quarter league before I pick up the eeek eeek of their carriage’s wheels and the clop of their horses’ hooves. I cut slightly east, continuing until I lope alongside them, but far enough away, hidden by the trunks and ferns and underbrush, that they won’t notice me.
Two riders on horseback flank a carriage with no visible markings to show ownership. It’s driven by a third man. Though I cannot tell how many people are inside the compartment, I can count a number of weapons on the three men. Arrows, bows, daggers, and long swords—these men are armed for a fight.
Behind the group, the sun dips, bathing the forest in a dusky haze. The carriage slows to a stop.
The men on horseback quickly move to the carriage door and dismount. Their motions seem practiced, like they've done this a few times before. The door opens, and a fourth man emerges.