Ever the Hunted

Copyright © 2016 by Erin Summerill

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

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Map illustration © 2016 by Jennifer Thermes

Cover illustration © 2016 by Martin Schmetzer

Cover design by Lisa Vega

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Names: Summerill, Erin, 1978– author.

Title: Ever the hunted : a clash of kingdoms novel / Erin Summerill.

Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2016] | Summary: Seventeen-year-old Britta Flannery is the outcast daughter of a bounty hunter who must use her powers to track her father’s killer in a world of warring kingdoms and dangerous magic.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015039038

Subjects: | CYAC: Fantasy. | Magic—Fiction. | Revenge—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Love & Romance. | JUVENILE FICTION / Fantasy & Magic. | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General. | JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries & Detective Stories.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S853 Ev 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2015039038

ISBN 978-0-544-66445-6 hardcover

ISBN 978-1-328-76700-4 paperback

eISBN 978-0-544-86812-0

v5.1118

To my dad, who accepted my kidney and, in return, taught me about sacrifice and love and healing

Chapter

1

TO SURVIVE THESE WOODS, A MAN HAS TO BE strong as the trees, Papa had said. The memory is a whisper compared to the attention my cramping stomach demands.

I try not to think of him or my trembling legs as I dust my boot prints from the path with a broken branch. Every starved scrap of me begs to stop and hunt here on the foot trail in the Ever Woods. Only the danger of getting caught propels me onward, boots stumbling over rocks and dirt.

Weak as I am, I won’t make it through the craggy Malam Mountains to where King Aodren’s land edges the lowlands. It’s a two-day walk. Two long, grueling days. Spots dance in my vision. Seeds, I need food. Papa’s old training spot will have to do. The king’s guard, the eyes over the royal city of Brentyn, aren’t likely to catch me there. Through a pinched, rocky canyon, the remote site has only been used by Cohen, Papa’s former apprentice, and me. A spasm racks my insides, and the decision is made. To the practice clearing.

The sun’s halfway to its peak when I stumble into the glade. Heady, sweet pine scents the brisk air. The leaves on the white-barked quaky trees around the nearby lake glow like embers, fiery gold and auburn against the evergreens. The sight is a warm welcome home.

Though starved and here to hunt, I cannot stop myself from finding our tree and tracing the carved names: Britta & Cohen.

Nor can I swallow the emotions that lump in my throat.

Since Cohen left last year to work for the king and Papa was killed two months ago, I’ve kept the pressing loneliness mostly at bay, managing it in little pieces. But this morning, it’s like isolation up and walloped me in the face.

I swipe a sneaky tear away and ready an arrow to my bow.

My body resembles a freckled skeleton for how thin I’ve become. Not much will change my paleness, but catching a squirrel or grouse will satisfy my hunger. Something to strengthen me. Later, I’ll bag a larger beast. Winter’s not far off, and I desperately need a decent kill to trade for lodging. The king’s guard will soon seize my land—no, Papa’s land—now that my mourning is over.

Bludgers will be pounding on my door in a couple days, foaming at the mouth over my cozy, one-room cottage. I pull back on my bowstring, testing the pressure, needing to shoot something. Anything. To keep a Malam tradition—home isolation for two months of mourning—I nearly starved, and now must break the law, since no one brought food after Papa died. Never a kindness for me—Britta Flannery—daughter of a Shaerdanian and, therefore, an outcast.

A year before my birth, the king regent closed the border between Malam and Shaerdan. Since then it seems all of Malam contracted amnesia; nobody remembers the good that came from the neighboring country. Once, we prospered from Shaerdan’s trade and relied on Channelers’ healing salves. Now we shun them for their strange Channeler magic. We fear what they can do.

With a huff, I push down the anger and focus on the hunt.

That’s when I discover the print of an elk hoof, two half circles with pointed ends. The moisture puddling inside the tracks reveals that the elk was here recently. My pulse quickens at the promise of a good catch as I stand stiller than a tree to listen for the elk’s movement. Birds whistle; leaves swish. All normal sounds of the Ever Woods, but something is off. That something abruptly tugs inside me, and an invisible finger skitters unease up the back of my neck.

I’m not alone.

My eyes ricochet from the branches to the shrubs to the sky, seeing everything and nothing. I spin around, expecting to meet the red coats of the king’s guard, and only find pine trees. I bite my lip. Swipe ghostly blond strands of hair out of my face.

Who else could be here?

No one dares hazard a hunt in the king’s Ever Woods. Hunting is only permitted where royal land ends near Lord Devlin’s fiefdom. That’s two days west in the Bloodwood firs or three and a half days south. On a rare day, poaching will get a man whipped or tortured. Most days, death.

I clench my bow and push myself to search for signs of an intruder: broken tree limbs, prints in the soil. It’s frustrating to abandon the elk hunt, but safety ensures survival—Papa’s first lesson.

An hour of combing the underbrush passes before the strange sensation disappears. Which in a way is more unsettling, since my instincts have never led me astray. Perhaps hunting without Papa has me on edge. Perhaps being alone—

A shadow shifts a few lengths ahead.

I dash behind a rotted trunk. My fingers contract and relax around the bow’s well-worn grip. Flex. Release. Papa would clap my ear for acting like a skittish girl. Stay in control, he’d say. Focus is a weapon as much as your bow.

I draw a breath, slow and calm, and force myself to lean away from the decaying wood to get a look.

Whatever I was expecting to see, it wasn’t a six-point bull elk. A king of the forest, he struts into the glade. Proud shoulders, sturdy haunches. It takes a beat to remember this elk means my survival. From where I’m crouched, the angle makes for a tricky shot. One knuckle-width too high or low will hit bone or cartilage, seriously wounding but not killing. Torturing, if my aim is off.

I shoot. The arrow thunks deep into the bull’s chest, impaling the vitals in a killing blow. The elk starts, jerks to a run, staggering a few steps before his eyes roll white. He thuds to the needle-covered ground.

I stare blindly at the beast, my bow arm falling to my side. A touch of sadness, a trickle of unworthiness beats through me as blackbirds flap out of the branches. An absurd reaction for a hunter, I know. His husky, labored breaths echo around us, to which I whisper shapeless, calming words as the beast accepts death. The life left in the animal struggles, a ravaged soldier fighting his way off the battlefield, having no hope of survival.

My hunter’s instinct always recognizes the cusp of passing. The awareness you possess is a talent only the best hunters develop, Papa said. Except, how can it be a talent when it’s only ever felt like a curse? I give the elk a quick end, slitting his throat.

My grip tenses over the intricate etchings on Papa’s dagger, my knuckles a match to the ivory handle. I force the blade to the animal’s belly to begin gutting and quartering. Stick to the task. Cut through the fur. Slice the skin. Roll out the innards. I’m good at pressing forward, always moving onward.

While some elk is curing and drying, other pieces roast over a small fire. It’s the same way Papa prepared the meat from my first kill ten years ago. He laughed when I took a bite and grimaced from the gamy taste. Nothing better than this dinner right here, he’d said. Because you caught it. Now I know you can do it again. His praise didn’t come as often as his lessons. When it did, I treasured every word.

I chew the last sinewy bite and pull my threadbare blanket from my satchel. The cloak of night cinches around the forest. Chilly air sneaks through the blanket’s weave and nips at my arms. And still, the evening is better than any I’ve had since Papa passed. Stomach sated, I settle onto a bed of needles. If only he could see me now, surviving on my own.

Sleep steals me away in seconds.

I’m standing outside. Behind me, the coarse stones and thatched roof of my cottage are stained bluish black from the night.

Stars sprinkle the sky like salt spilled across a well-oiled table. My hair, which is usually bound in a braid, falls past my shoulders, a veil of pale blond that shines silver in the moonlight.

Where our pasture meets the Evers, something moves. It’s the shape of a young man.

My eyes narrow, and then I smile. Since the incident, he’s only come once—earlier that day he traveled the half league from Brentyn to visit our cottage. My heart gallops as I force myself to walk to where he stands in the shadows until the darkness swallows me whole. There, his whispery breath breaks the stillness.

Hair the rich color of soil after a rainstorm. Sharp hazel eyes. A face too handsome for the angry scar that mars his cheek. The guilt is overwhelming as my fingers itch to trace the shiny red mark. I want to touch him and tell him how I feel about him. How he owns my heart.

All that comes out is Cohen, I’m sorry.

The howling wind wakes me. Cohen vanishes, replaced by the gray shaded trunks and the pine limbs stretching above like specters. I curl my legs in tight and cinch the shoddy woolen blanket snug around my shoulders. The dreamt memory has left me disoriented, and it takes two inhales and two exhales to ground myself. To calm my pulse.

When I was twelve, Papa no longer took me on regular bounty hunts for King Aodren. Alone in the cottage, I felt the quietness eat at me. I pretended the creaking woods or my own breaths were other voices. Company to pass the night. Ridiculous, but it helped me fall asleep.

Those old tricks won’t work tonight. Not when Cohen’s face lingers in the darkness. Always, I see his scar first—an injury suffered weeks before he left. Starting just under his eye, it leads to the strong line of his jaw that’s covered in sparse sable scruff, because at eighteen, when we were last together, he was too boyish to grow a full beard. Perhaps that’s changed now that he’s twenty, two years and a pinch older than me.

I like the idea of an older, rugged Cohen. More than I should admit.

A year and three months have passed since Cohen completed his apprenticeship and became one of the king’s court, taking up the title only my father, my grandfather, and all Flannery men before them held. As one of the king’s two bounty hunters, Cohen is allowed to travel through Malam’s fiefdoms and cross the borders. It’s unimaginable to me. I’ll never have the chance to leave Malam.

When Cohen left without a goodbye, I hoped he would visit. Except he didn’t return; not even for Papa’s wake.

Using the heels of my hands, I try to rub him out of my mind. A useless endeavor. Cohen has taken up too much space in my heart and head for the last five years to dismiss so easily. As always, my thoughts turn to his long absence. And I wonder if he never returned because he realized there’s no future for us.

As the king’s bounty hunter, Cohen is in a league above commoners. Ten leagues above me. Like Papa, he’ll be revered for his position in the king’s court. He’ll be considered nobility and be given lands. And if he chooses, he’ll marry the daughter of a lord.

A noble marriage, let alone any union for that matter, is about as likely for me as the king himself proposing. I snort at the idea.

All that came with Papa’s honored title, home, and land returns to the king, since Papa has no living relations except me. And I’m ineligible to inherit. Though my parents married in Shaerdan, the law only recognizes unions made before a priest of Malam. Before they could do so, my mother was accused of selling secrets to Shaerdan and killed.

In the law’s eyes, I’m illegitimate. To most of Malam, I’m Shaerdanian. But to some, the gossipmongers in Brentyn, I’m a traitor’s daughter.

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.

Their kind shouldn’t be allowed here.

Gods bless the border.

A murmur of agreement then: Did you know her mother tried to follow the Archtraitor?

I roll my eyes at the outrageous rumor and the ones that follow about the Archtraitor’s blood thirst, the savages he’s gathering, his plan to take over Malam. The gossip never changes.

Malam’s built on gossip; its towns are pens of sheep. Papa’s silly saying makes me want to bleat at the ladies, since nobody really knows where Millner Barrett, the Archtraitor, is or what he’s doing now. Once he was captain of the king’s guard. Then he opposed the Purge and the border closure before he cut down his own men and fled. His disgrace will never be forgotten. At least, not till he’s caught.

Once they leave, I release my grip on the table and quickly straighten the leathers and wools as Mr. Tulach steps to my side of the tent. His attention remains on the passing patrons. He doesn’t like for others to see us trading.

You haven’t been here in a while. Mr. Tulach’s chin dips in a subtle nod.

He knows I’ve been in mourning, so I forgo this detail. I need to trade. I have bull elk for you. A six-point catch. It’s fresh—

Where’d you hunt it? He whips around to me, raven braids slicing around his broad back. Never mind. I don’t want to know. His eyes volley to the crowd. What are you asking?

The profile of his hawkish nose doesn’t alter direction as he waits for my answer.

You have a connection to a place of lodging in Fennit, I say, fighting to keep my voice from cracking with desperation. I need a place for winter.

Mr. Tulach shoots me a questioning look.

Surely he knows about the king’s inheritance law. I meet his stare, but when he doesn’t yield, I rush to explain, The king will soon be seizing my cottage.

Mr. Tulach turns away, crossing umber-brown arms. I cannot take the risk. Not when we’re on the brink of war. The guards overlook nothing these days. A bunch of bloodthirsty wolves, they are. His voice drops. You’ve known the law your whole life. You must have other options.

Panic presses on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Papa said I had a talent for knowing the honesty of a man’s word. A sort of heightened gut instinct. When someone speaks the truth, a warm sensation starts in my belly and spreads beneath my ribs. A handy trick, considering it works for lies too, except dishonesty feels like ice on my insides, chilling me top to bottom. I can feel the warmth of his words, the truth of his rejection.

The table’s edge digs into my hip as I lean closer. Please, I say, swallowing my pride. The other merchants won’t trade with me. And I didn’t plan on my father getting murdered. The words taste like ash.

He balks. If I’m caught with your poached meat, I’ll be thrown in the dungeon. Or worse. Boys as young as fourteen are being made to fight against Shaerdan. I cannot risk my family. Take your trade and go.

The closed look in Mr. Tulach’s eyes, coupled with the warm truthful sensation spreading through my core, crushes my hope. I grit my teeth, sling the bag over my shoulder, and dash from the tent. How will I get lodging now?

The other merchants will have nothing to do with me. Eyes shift away when I approach. Backs turn. It’s no different from the first time I went to market without Papa by my side. Can you not see we’re here to do business with you, sir? Cohen’s words were steely.

I’ve got no business with Shaerdanians, the vendor sneered.

Cohen stepped in front of me. If she’s a Shaerdanian, then you’re a jackass.

It took a beat for the insult to settle on the merchant. By then we were running away. The man’s rejection stung, but Cohen’s defense soothed the hurt.

If only he were here now.

I’m nearly out of the market when Old Lyman, in soiled rags huddled on the church’s steps, whispers a plea from his cracked lips. He lifts his beggar’s cup. I don’t know why I pause.

When Cohen accompanied me to town, he always stopped to give coins to the poor. If I were ever in this situation, I’d like someone to extend the same kindness, Cohen said with conviction, even though a man like him—the chosen apprentice to the king’s bounty hunter—would never fall to such misfortune. But that was Cohen, always charitable. Even to those deemed worthless.

I’ve nothing to give Old Lyman, and so I feel foolish for having stopped. I shake my head, a touch flustered for having dallied at all.

Kind of ya, anyway, to share yer smile. His words are garbled by the loss of teeth.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I swing my satchel to the side, and, after checking every face in the square, pull out some elk. The portion is small. All I can spare. I press the meat into his dirty palm while muttering an apology for not giving more.

His other hand lands atop mine, trapping me softly between trembling, mud-crusted fingers. They’re lookin’ for ya, lass. Guards are comin’. Best go quick.

It takes a beat for his warning to hit me. I jerk out of his grip, mumble thanks, and race toward home.

I’m nearly to my cottage on the outskirts of Brentyn when a whinny and nicker echo behind me. In the distance, the pebbled dirt road hums with the pounding of hooves.

Quickly, I scan for a place to toss the bag. The piles of leaves beside the road aren’t ideal, but they’re the only hiding spot. Distress snakes through me as I bury my sack, making frantic work to memorize the area before darting back to the path.

Where will I live when they seize my home? Who will take me in?

Dust dirties the air as the riders draw closer. Only then do I remember Papa’s dagger in the bundled meat. I glance at the lump of leaves, hedging on making a desperate grasp for the blade, but time is gone. Six royal guards wearing red coats with gray stripes and the king’s emblem—a circular badge with the head of a stag in the center—emerge around the bend.

I tug my skirt lower and run my fingers over my braid, drawing out twigs. When the group trots closer and divides, three riders moving to my left and three to the right, I drop into a small curtsy, as is customary around nobility and the king’s men.

A man with a staunch scowl set against weathered skin brings his mare to a stop so that the animal’s breath of heat and hay puffs across my face. I stifle a cough and keep my spine tree-trunk straight. The man must be the leader since he has the most stripes on his shoulder. Five in total.

Britta Flannery. Not a question. Where have you been?

On a walk. My eyes remain forward despite how badly I wish to check the leaves beside the road.

Is that so?

His doubt makes me ill. I never know what to say. My usual awkwardness feels like a death sentence as I fumble for a believable answer.

Perhaps you could explain what that is. His chin jerks to the side where a guard pulls my bag from hiding. No! Fear jolts through me.

I stamp the urge to grab the pack and run, and feign indifference. I—I don’t know.

The bag’s marked with your father’s emblem. The leader’s mouth purses behind a tidy graying beard.

If they see the meat, they’ll have evidence I was poaching. Are you here for my land? I ask in diversion. Better to give up my home than my life.

Watch it, scrant, a guard sneers, that’s the captain yer talking to.

Captain of the guard? The condescending tone and crusty expression make sense now. He reports directly to the king. Why didn’t they send the lower guards?

On the captain’s command, a guard dumps the bag’s contents on the road, and strips of meat tumble out with my bow and dagger. I blanch, staring in horror at the elk pieces.

We came for your father’s property. But it appears you’ve been poaching on the king’s land. The captain’s voice is cool and eerily calm. His fingers drum against the hilt of his sword for a prolonged moment before his lip curls. Seize her.

Boorish hands come at me, grasping my shirt and ripping the sleeve as I jerk away. The dagger is all I can think about through a frenzy of elbows and fists. Mine, his, all so I can get Papa’s blade. Somehow I free myself of the guards. Maneuver to the pile of meat and weapons on the ground. Push aside the wrapped strips of elk. My fingers find the familiar curve of ivory and—

I’m slammed to the ground. Dirt and rock mash against my mouth.

My arms are wrenched behind me, followed by a kick that knocks the wind from my lungs. I cough and wheeze, spitting blood and saliva and dust, until the air comes back. The captain plucks my dagger off the ground.

No!

The captain grabs