What?
I stare at her, horror-struck. She cannot be my mother. Not her. In the thousands of times I’ve dreamt of the woman who gave me birth, I imaged an open-armed woman who radiated warmth and love. Not this. Never this. She’s lying. It’s a manipulation tactic.
Snowfire pads back, huffing and snorting. I’ve dug my knees into her sides. I don’t have it in me to calm her. Or even to find words to react.
The gift is passed through the maternal line. Enat’s words kick through me.
I start to shake my head, threaten that I’ll shoot, but I halt when the woman’s hands lift and stir the air as though she’s moving them through water.
An invisible force pushes past me, around me, through me, and draws every hair on my body to stand. I gasp, unable to stop the quaking in my arms and legs brought on by the wave of energy—her energy. Unlike Enat’s strong steady buzz, this woman’s life force is frighteningly powerful. Fierce and free.
Snowfire whinnies. I hold tight to King Aodren to keep him from falling in case Snowfire lurches.
“My name is Rozen. And, Britta, you are my daughter.” Her voice shocks me still with the power of a mountain cat’s menacing growl. This time, because she’s somehow allowed it, the warmth of her words, like hot oil, burns through my stomach and boils beneath my skin, searing me with the truth.
Terrible, terrible truth.
Chapter
5
Cohen
LIRRA BLINKS TWICE AS IF SHE’S TAKEN ABACK by my change of mind. She grasps my hand. “Phelia’s at the oilery in town. Her parents own it.”
I yank two new tunics out of my satchel, tossing one at Finn before we reach the main part of town. We change so we don’t look the same as when we high-tailed it out of the tavern. A poor disguise, but I’m too eager to get to Phelia to come up with something better.
We hug the shadows of an alley by the main road. Skipping from one narrow way to another, we go unnoticed past a church in the heart of the town. Statuettes of four different gods watch us from each corner of the roof. At the end of the road is the tavern and the oilery.
I study the distance and count the people nearby. Near us, birds fly into the church’s rafters, cooing as they nestle down.
Doves.
At fifteen, Britta’s fingers were slender. I couldn’t rip my eyes away when she touched my arm. Couldn’t shake the image of the mountain cat. Or how unnatural she looked a speck away from death. When she spoke, “I care about you,” I burned with shame.
I’d come to say goodbye, to tell her I was going to Shaerdan to hunt—
“. . . I have feelings for you. I want to be with you.”
“Britt.” I pulled her in, my heart a winter-storm. I didn’t deserve her. Definitely didn’t deserve the life she nearly lost to save mine. But gods, she was soft. Her hair, her skin, her lips. She always had a way of scrambling my thoughts. The words I should’ve said were gone. Instead, I said, “Tomorrow, wait for me. I’ll come back.”
After she left, Saul’s warning returned to mind.
If Britta’s Channeling ability was discovered, she’d be killed. The healers had asked too many questions. The longer I was in Brentyn, the more she was in danger. I would never allow harm to come to her.
I hated myself for leaving. I rode all night. No matter how fast Siron galloped, there was no outrunning the guilt. Shouldn’t have told her I’d be back. She deserved a goodbye, but I was too weak to give it. She’d hate me. Hell, I hated myself.
The gray morning filled with squawks and coos. As I passed under the branches that overhung the road, birds darted away. Except one, a grayish puff. When I rode beneath it, the bird flew ahead, finding another branch from which to watch me. Its presence galled, like a market square pigeon begging for scraps.
“Get out of here.” I pulled Siron to a stop.
It didn’t spook.
“Haw! Go!”
It cooed. Bloody bird.
“Get!”
Don’t know what about the fowl rubbed me the wrong way, but I yanked my dagger from my belt and hurled it. A cry of rage tore from my lips. A cry I’d been holding down since leaving Britta. The dagger found its mark. A startled chirp broke the forest calm, and the feathered ball tumbled into the dust.
I slid off Siron, hands jittering. The bird was too small to bother plucking to eat. What a waste. What a stupid thing to do.
Blood sullied the white feathers around my dagger. I crouched down, yanked my blade from the bird, and stared at the mess. The dagger, ridiculously huge against the pigeon’s tiny body, had impaled the bird through the breast. Overkill.
No, not a pigeon. This bird was smaller. Rarer.
Guilt, like rats, crawled down my throat and left a trail of acid. I picked up a red-stained feather. My throat closed.
I’d killed a dove.
I rest my hand against my belt, over the pocket that holds the folded parchment where I’ve been carrying a snowy gray feather going on two years.
The clank of metal on stone alerts me to a group of drunks milling outside. I curse under my breath, recognizing two from earlier.
I gesture for Finn and Lirra to pick up their stride. But when we step out of a nook to cross the street, I lock eyes with the huge bearded man from the fight. Dammit. He’s far down the road, but recognition is clear on his face. “Hey, it’s those Malamian scrants!”
I grab Finn by the upper arm and yank him into the church’s doorway. Lirra scrambles after us. Our steps clatter against the tiled stones laid under pews, which are lined up like soldiers. The yawning ceiling juts up in a spade-shaped arch, echoing in a way that makes me shrink. I gesture for Lirra and Finn to tread softly. We move through the shadows toward a burning lantern that rests at the head of the room on top of a stone altar.
No matter whether you’re in Malam or Shaerdan, the clergymen always keep one lit.
We take a doorway left of the altar. It leads to an empty clergyman’s office, complete with brocade robes in a closet.
I grab one for myself and thrust a second at Finn. His shoulders hike up, kissing his ears, and his face lines with anxiety. Ma’s voice is probably ringing in his head about reverence and respect, but there isn’t time to worry about that. No showing anyone respect if you’re dead.
Outside, in the main part of the church, a door bangs open and someone yells. Footsteps clunk on the stones.
“Don’t think about it. Put it on.” I tug the robe over my tunic and sword.
Finn shakes his head.
A clatter of movement and voices spread through the church.
“Listen to your brother. There’s no other way out.” Lirra pulls out her sword and points it at the door.
Finn’s mouth guppies, his fingers clenching the material. He pulls the robe over his head till the material pools around his lanky form.
Nobody’s going to believe his disguise.