Outcast

Chapter Seven

Two days later, I get my wish. Once again, I’ve spent my day scouting to the south of the village. The afternoon sun softens the chill in the air, though my fingers still ache with cold as I sit in an enormous white cypress holding the book of poems in my hands while I eat the chunk of bread I packed for my lunch. I’m engrossed in a poem about a dreamlike land filled with lotuses when the woods suddenly fall silent around me.

Someone else is here.

Quietly, I lay the book aside and pull my legs beneath me so that I’m crouching high up in the center of the tree, looking down on the forest below. A whisper of sound drifts from my right, and as I turn my head I catch movement. Instantly, I run the length of a thick, twisted branch, my footsteps landing silently out of long practice, and then leap onto the back of a tall, broad-shouldered man as he passes beneath me.

He doesn’t drop to the ground as most threats do when I land on them from above. Instead, he slams a boot into the dirt for balance and twists his upper body, trying to use my own momentum against me.

I let him.

When he flings me around to face him, my knife is already at his throat, the blade catching against his skin until a thin red welt forms.

He goes still.

I look him over. Red hair, pale, freckled skin, and gray eyes watching me with steady confidence that belies the fact that I’ve got him at a disadvantage. This isn’t a highwayman who will attack with frantic force, lacking strategy and finesse. This isn’t an innocent traveler terrified to encounter someone who seems intent on robbing him at the very least.

This is a man who knows how to take care of himself and who understands that panic is his enemy.

“If I’ve blundered into somewhere I shouldn’t be, I’ll leave quietly and never come back,” he says calmly, raising his hands, palms out, to show me he means no harm.

Or to distract me from his next defensive move.

“I don’t want to kill you.” The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise him.

His brow rises. “I don’t want you to kill me either.”

“But I can’t just let you leave.”

His cloak opens as he raises his arms farther, and I see the golden talon patch on his left shoulder. He’s a courier. From the city-state of Baalboden, several weeks’ journey to the northeast. He follows the direction of my gaze, and the lines around his eyes tighten.

“Are you the courier everyone is looking for?” I ask, my muscles tensing in case he decides to attack or flee.

He studies me in silence for a moment, and then says, “You don’t look like a bounty hunter.”

“I’m not. I’m part of the protection team for my village.”

“I’m not a threat to your village.” His gaze is open.

My laugh is sharp and bitter. “Everyone who has the misfortune of wandering too near our borders is considered a threat. And if there’s a threat, I handle it.”

“By killing them?” the man asks, his voice still calm and steady.

My voice is just as calm. “Not if I don’t have to.”

His eyes meet mine, and I feel as if he’s taking my measure. Dad does the same thing when he thinks I’m in danger of not following his orders, and I always end up feeling that I’ve been found wanting. Somehow this man’s scrutiny makes me feel as if he’s decided to treat me like his equal. I’ve never been treated like an equal. It’s both gratifying and somewhat unsettling to see something other than fear or contempt on another man’s face.

“My name is Jared Adams. I mean no harm to your village.” His gaze stays locked on mine. “I usually travel to and from Rowansmark much farther east than this. I didn’t realize I was trespassing, and I’m happy to turn around and disappear from your woods forever.”

“Why are you so far from your usual path?”

He hesitates, but I get the sense that it’s because he’s figuring out how to explain something to me, not because he’s searching for a lie. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I need to fix it without being caught by Rowansmark, and they’ll be looking for me on my usual route.”

“You’re accused of being a thief.”

His speaks with absolute conviction. “I didn’t steal anything. I have a daughter in Baalboden. Rachel. It’s just the two of us. She needs my protection. She needs me to come home. I would never do anything to jeopardize her. I’m being accused of something I didn’t do, and I’m trying to figure out how to make it right so that I can go home again. I’m not a threat to you, I promise.”

I believe him. But I also believe that the courier who is wanted by Rowansmark and whose capture would result in immense wealth is exactly the kind of prisoner my father wouldn’t be able to resist. His fury that a courier made it past our borders—a wanted courier, at that—and his greed for either the reward or whatever Jared supposedly stole from Rowansmark would overcome him.

“I can’t let you go,” I say. “Yet. I can’t let you go yet. We’ve already had issues with bounty hunters in the area.” If a six-hour journey away can be called in the area. “The village elders need to question you.”

A muscle in his jaw bunches. “I won’t give them the item Rowansmark says I stole. If that’s your plan, then you and I are going to have to fight this out right here.”

His hands are still raised, but something changes in his stance, and an answering thrum of adrenaline races through me.

“I don’t want to fight you,” I say. “I don’t want to take another life, but—”

“Son, I’ve been fighting for my life longer than you’ve been alive. If we fight—”

“If we fight, you’ll die.” My voice is weary. “I’ll see your moves before you make them. I’ll counter them before you’ve figured out your own mistakes. I’ll move faster than you think I can. I’ll strike with precision and force, and you’ll be on your knees, already dying by the time you realize you should beg for the mercy I’m not allowed to show.”

A frown digs in between his brows. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

The fury I keep pent up inside of me heats my words. “Torture and bloodshed are an instinct that’s been honed in me since I could walk. I’m sure of my abilities. I’m also sure that you don’t have to die. You can go home to your daughter. You simply have to come to the village as my prisoner and meet with the elders.”

“And if they decide not to let me go?”

I hold his gaze and will him to hear the sincerity in my voice. “Then I’ll release you myself. I’ll protect you, and I’ll get you out.”

He studies me in silence for a long moment while above us, bright-red cardinals flit from branch to branch, chirruping in the wintry air. Finally, he says, “Why are you really taking me as your prisoner? You could let me go, and the elders would never even know I was here. Or you could ask me questions yourself without risking that the elders will want to keep me indefinitely, or worse, turn me over to Rowansmark.”

I find myself wanting to give him the truth. Maybe because, unlike my father, he looks at me with respect. Maybe because any violence within him is so tightly controlled, even I can’t find it. Or maybe because I’m about to use what I think is a good man as bait to take down a monster, and it feels disrespectful to keep him completely in the dark.

“I need a prisoner worthy of the elders’ attention,” I say. “Just for tonight. I have to prove to them that there’s a better way to protect our village than mindlessly slaughtering any strangers who come near.”

He holds my gaze as I slowly remove the knife from his throat. “What’s your name?”

“Quinn Runningbrook.”

“Well, Quinn Runningbrook, it seems I can either fight to the death in the middle of this forest or choose to trust that you are a boy who keeps his word.” He lowers his arms and then extends one hand toward me. “Because you could’ve killed me when you first dropped from that tree, and because I believe that you’re honestly trying to do the right thing, I’m going to trust you.”

Gingerly I take his hand and shake it, bracing for any sudden moves on his part. His trust feels like an unexpected gift, and it makes me uneasy. What if I’m wrong about the elders? About Dad?

Feeling like the freedom I want to gain for Willow and myself is balanced on the edge of a precipice, I hold my knife loosely in my hand and walk Jared toward the village.

We’re nearly to the border when Dad drops from a tree and snarls, “What do you think you’re doing?”

His eyes are locked on Jared, and his knife is already in his hands. We’re too far from the village to hope for an audience, and even if there were a few people on the outer walkway who could see us, only the elders have the power to stop my father. My plan is falling to pieces around me.

“I’m bringing in a prisoner—”

“We don’t take prisoners.” Dad tenses.

“He’s the courier Rowansmark is searching for. The elders need to decide—”

“Kill him.” Dad barks the command without looking at me and rolls to the balls of his feet as if ready to do the job himself if I hesitate.

I don’t hesitate. Lunging toward my father, I slam my elbow into his temple. He staggers and drops to his knees. His eyes roll to the back of his head, and he falls unconscious to the ground. It’s a temporary reprieve, and I don’t waste it. Snatching Jared’s arm, I propel him away from Dad, though my knees feel suddenly shaky.

I hit my father. The fact that I did so to protect someone else does little to calm the buzz of fear racing through me.

He’ll never forgive me. He’ll punish me, or if he can’t get to me, he’ll punish Willow. My plan has to work. If it doesn’t, the echoes of what I’ve just done will haunt me for the rest of my life.

It isn’t until I’m forcing Jared to climb up to the walkway that will lead us into the village that I realize I’ve left the book of poems lying in the cradle of the cypress.