Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(3)
None of that matters to me, though, because like my father, I’ll always be a Flannery, and I can take care of myself.
At sunrise, I walk to the crystal-clear lake and splash water on my face. Brisk morning air fills my lungs and prickles my skin. It isn’t until I’ve patted dry with my tunic that a disturbance along the muddy shore seizes my attention. Fresh boot prints. A man’s—?by the size of them.
I leap to my feet, spinning wildly to search the clearing. Like yesterday, nothing stands out. Nothing more than evergreens and the glassy blue water spread beneath the cloudless sky. Even so, there’s no question now.
I’m not alone.
Chapter
2
IT ONLY TAKES A FEW MOMENTS TO THROW together my pack and to shove strips of cloth-wrapped elk around my bow and blade. A pile of elk cuts remains on the edge of my camp, but there’s no room left in my bag. I groan and curse the leftovers. But I cannot carry it all. Nor can I risk returning.
I glance at the lake. At the boot prints.
An arrow of fear zips through me.
The lucky forest animals will get to devour the remainder. I quickly fasten a gray woolen skirt over my trousers and adjust my tunic, belting it at the waist like the style worn by most townswomen. Balancing the heavy bag on my shoulder, I dart out of the clearing, eyes peeled for any signs of movement in the trees and undergrowth.
Autumn bites the air as I hurry down the mountain.
Brentyn’s royal cathedral sits like a stone watchman, its spires snaked in green ivy and piercing the sky. A sullen viol harmony drifts through the stained glass. It clashes with the market sounds: commoner chatter, shouts from traders, creaking carts, cooing church birds. I hide in the cathedral’s shadow and smooth down my braid. I’m restless and anxious, as always when coming to town. Today, though, with boot prints on my mind and poached meat burdening my bag, the usual nerves feel more like a bout of winter ague.
Something at the far end of the square has drawn the crowd’s attention. People shuffle closer, filling in the square like pigs in a pen when the slop is served. On my tiptoes, I stretch to see what has everyone’s interest. My insides twist harder.
A woman is in the pillory, wrists and neck captured in the wood planks. Dried blood clings to her broken lip. Agony is written on her tear-stained and dust-caked face as she shifts her weight from one filthy, swollen foot to the other. A ring of dirt surrounds her—?a ritual believed to draw out a Channeler’s power.
A farce is what it is. If a woman draws water from a well thought to be dry, she’s a Channeler. If she walks through a storm and doesn’t catch a sniffle, it’s black magic. All the real Channelers fled to Shaerdan, where their magic originated, twenty years ago during the Purge.
Channeler magic is devilry in its darkest form, a scourge sent from Shaerdan . . . Those inflicted must be cut down and their powers eradicated. I read the Purge Proclamation once, found it in Papa’s books. The Proclamation didn’t start the mutual hatred between Malam and Shaerdan, but it certainly sealed it. In Shaerdan, Channelers are revered.
There’s nothing to be done for the woman. The guards will decide her fate. Still, it’s challenging to pull my eyes away and to not selfishly worry that an accusation will be made against me now that Papa’s gone.
I clutch the satchel’s straps, fingernails biting my palms, and search the crowd three times over. Leather coats, earth-colored tunics, blackened trouser cuffs, sweeping skirts. None wear the royal red. The king’s watchdogs aren’t near the pillory or in the market. For the time being, they’re letting the townspeople torment and shame the woman into submission.
While skirting the market, my bag hangs from one shoulder, as if full of feathers and not elk. The last thing I need is questions. I’ve every right to shop at the market, but no one likes to be seen consorting with the Shaerdanian girl. My trade opportunity is limited to Mr. Tulach, the only merchant who willingly did business with me when Papa wasn’t at my side.
A gaggle of children winds around a log, laughing uproariously and singing a tune of Midsummer’s Tide as they imitate the maypole dance. I sidestep their play, wondering how it would’ve been to have so many friends. You won’t trade with Britta? Then I’ll take business elsewhere, Cohen once told a merchant, and never bartered with the man again. Cohen was the only friend I needed.
Mr. Tulach’s tent is busy with patrons who are admiring winter blankets and woolens.
“Filth.”
It’s spoken softly, but the venom in the word snags my attention. I glance up to find two townswomen, woolen brown dresses, full skirts dusting the cobblestones, and arms holding baskets of tubers and carrots. One woman is old, her skin like crumpled parchment, and the other is young and well fed, if not overfed. The two months of isolated mourning come to mind, and my abdomen grumbles in remembrance. Under the women’s gaze, I self-consciously smooth a free hand over my ratty skirt.
The older one turns her nose up. “Dirt. Like her mother.”
I stiffen. Papa said not to let their words affect me. Words cannot hurt.
Besides, the same could be said of her, considering the mop of hair on her head looks like an entire flock of birds has used it for nesting. I cannot react. Ignore them. Biting the inside of my cheek, I force my feet to the side of Mr. Tulach’s tent where the leather flaps hide me from the market and those awful crows. It doesn’t block the sound, though.