Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(15)

And yet, I know her claim is true. Hang the truthful heat of her words.

I cannot think straight. What I should be focusing on is the woman’s ulterior motives. Why, after eighteen years, would she return now?

“Britta!”

An arrow slices through my side vision. It hits the tree to my right. The fleeting sight of another rider, a man, isn’t enough to provide information about whom the Spiriter is working with.

Bludger. I heel Snowfire to go faster.

Aodren groans—a good sign. He’s still awake. Another arrow narrowly misses my ear, but cuts close enough that the little hairs on the side of my face tingle. I duck and simultaneously shove the king forward. He goes down with an oomph, falling against Snowfire’s neck. The trees add a minor layer of protection as we dart away. But it still seems like we’re mice, trying to outrun a cat in a field of grass. I yell at Snowfire to sprint faster. I pray her energy will last.

My shooting hand grips Aodren’s waist, keeping him down for a beat before I draw another arrow and, leaning into him for support, aim behind us. The king mumbles, only it’s unintelligible, getting lost in the chase.

I see a couple of riders in the trees, but they’re not visible long enough to get off a solid shot. Eventually the sound of galloping diminishes. I no longer glimpse others. But I stay ready, weapon up, keeping an eye over my shoulder until we reach the royal hunting grounds where the king’s men catch prey to stock the castle. I figure we’ve lost them, or they’ve fallen back for whatever reason. Still, my nerves are in stitches.

The king groans a few times. At one point it comes out like “Your ma?”

Sounds muddled, but I’m pretty certain he’s asking if Phelia is my mother. I was hoping he hadn’t heard that part of the conversation. I’m not sure what to say or how to defend myself. I need time to process what I just learned.

Instead of trying to explain, I urge the horse onward, pretending I don’t understand.

The farther we travel, the more his head bobs, until he’s slouched, leaning against me, and emitting light snores. Placing my bow on the saddle holder, I keep one arm around Aodren. I relax a little, grateful I don’t have to talk. If Phelia’s chilling confession isn’t plaguing me, it’s what Aodren will do with the news. It’s difficult to focus on the gravel road ahead or the trees as they thin out the closer we get to Castle Neart.

I rub my forearm across my eyes.

Aodren’s head flops to the side, weighing his body down to the right. I nearly lose my grip. Since I cannot have him breaking his neck on royal grounds, I hold him firmly to me, allowing his head to tip against my shoulder.

I check his head for lumps to perhaps uncover how he was knocked out. His silky hair glides over my fingers, surprising me with its softness. Despite the events of the day, a smile cracks across my mouth at how easily his fair perfection messes up. After a moment or two, it’s clear he doesn’t have a head injury, so I pull my fingers away, but not before running them through his strands of gold once more. For good measure.

An hour later Snowfire’s steps echo off the wood beams and stone supports of the bridge that arcs over the steep valley surrounding the stone beast, Castle Neart. A slight touch of fear gets me to nudge the king in the side. Once I came here unconscious. The time before that, I was shackled. Last thing I want is for the castle guards to think I’ve harmed the country’s leader and done away with his men.

I’m tempted to withdraw my bow from the saddle holder. “Hey, wake up.”

Aodren moans and mutters garbled nothings.

I tug away the rest of the cut rope that’s been hanging on his legs.

Aodren’s sleepy jade eyes turn to me. He lets out a behemoth of a yawn. “Thanks. It . . . was chafing . . . me.”

I stare at him for a minute, not sure what I was expecting from His Royal Highness. “You doing all right?” I ask, after a beat.

He squints, golden brows lowering. “Yes . . . thanks to . . . your help.” It’s a scratched crackle of a sound. He clears his throat. And his expression turns more somber. “You . . . you said my men didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry.”

Perhaps it’s the tired haze mixing with a frown, but the seeming sadness and vulnerability looking back at me softens my attitude toward the man. “I should’ve died . . . died with them.”

“No,” I say, and then stop, unsure where to go from here.

“Regardless. It . . . appears I’m in your debt . . . again.”

Now that he’s found his tongue, I’m surprised by his candidness. His reaction makes me see Aodren in a different light. He’s not the detached ruler I always believed him to be. I don’t know what I was expecting; perhaps that he’d ask again if Phelia is my mother. But I’m grateful he didn’t. I’ve always thought him presumptuous and pompous. I like this King Aodren more than the king who usually visits my home.

I dip my chin, not sure what to say. Anytime seems like the natural response, only I don’t really want to sign up for that, and considering it’s a bit lighthearted for the situation, I settle for “You’re welcome.”

The royal guards tend to strike first, question later. Two men approach Snowfire as we stop at the outer gate. I fear what conclusion they’ve formed upon noticing their king, sans guards, riding with me. My heart shifts into a rickety state.