by Bobby Adair
“Wait,” Phineas said from behind him, startling him. He hadn’t even been aware his grandfather had snuck so close.
Phineas gently pushed him aside and grunted as he set down his crutch. He grabbed hold of the snare, inspecting the rabbit.
“What is it, Grandpa?”
“See these wounds?” Phineas pointed at some marks around the rabbit’s neck. “It got free once already. It tangled its leg before it could escape again.”
“At least we got it,” Blackthorn said with a smile.
He looked at Phineas, expecting a smile in return, but his grandfather was still watching the rabbit. The animal stared at them with fear-stricken eyes. It kicked its legs as if it might manage a last ditch escape. Phineas turned the rabbit over in his hands, careful not to drop it.
“It’s small,” Phineas said. “Too small for eating.”
“The cooks can make soup with it, then,” Blackthorn suggested. “It’ll keep us warm when the sun disappears. Isn’t that what you always say?”
“Not this one,” Phineas said after a reflective pause.
“What do you mean?” Blackthorn asked.
“It’s young. Barely old enough to have seen a winter.”
“You always told me never to waste a fresh rabbit.”
“We’ll find another,” Phineas said assuredly, untangling the rope while the rabbit continued kicking. He held the rabbit as if it were a curious piece of silver.
Blackthorn’s brow furrowed in confusion. He’d never seen his grandfather release a rabbit before.
“What are you doing?” Blackthorn asked. “The other traps are empty. We won’t bring anything back if we let it go.”
For a moment, Blackthorn wondered if Phineas wanted to kill the animal himself. Maybe his grandfather was teaching him a lesson that he didn’t understand.
“You can borrow my knife if you want,” Blackthorn offered. He patted the sheath at his side, hoping the suggestion would bring the conversation back on track.
“We aren’t going to kill it,” Phineas said again, inspecting the rabbit’s raw neck.
“It’s injured, Grandpa. If we let it go, it’ll be killed by another predator anyway.”
“Maybe it will,” Phineas said, biting his lip. “Maybe it won’t. There’s a chance it’ll survive.”
Before Blackthorn could protest further, Phineas let go of the rabbit, allowing it to dash into the woods. Blackthorn made a move to chase it, but Phineas held him in place.
“Let it go,” he said firmly.
Phineas kept his hand on Blackthorn’s shoulder until the rabbit had disappeared. Then he began resetting the snare.
“I don’t understand why you did that,” Blackthorn said, frustration seeping into his voice. “I wanted to kill it. It will die anyway.”
Phineas scratched his chin. “The marks on its neck are proof of the fight it has. Getting its leg caught was an accident.”
“Accidents get people killed, Grandpa. You taught me that. So did Dad. The accident with your leg almost got you killed.”
Phineas frowned for a long moment. He stared at Blackthorn with a scowl on his face, then let his face soften. He gestured vaguely in the direction of the circle wall, which was far enough away that Blackthorn could only imagine it. “Out there in the wild, that might be true. But inside, we sometimes have choices. And those choices are the only things that separate us from demons.”
“But that choice means we won’t have fresh rabbit tonight.”
“Maybe not.” Phineas stood, grunting as he picked up his crutch and tucked it under his arm. “But we’ll survive. We’ll kill rabbits tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. But right now, killing that rabbit wasn’t the right thing to do. Sometimes, something has to matter.”
Watching his grandfather hobble away, Blackthorn’s face remained befuddled. He tested out those words. “Something’s got to matter,” he murmured, as he watched his grandfather walk away into the forest.
**
Blackthorn chewed his lip as he recalled that moment. As a child, he’d puzzled on it for days, coming to no conclusion. Finally, he’d let it disappear in a haze of immature memories, destined never to resurface until now. At the time, he’d wondered if the rabbit had reminded Phineas of himself. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Staring at the fire, the memory returned with such clarity that he turned his head to make sure Phineas wasn’t standing next to him. He wasn’t.
Several soldiers broke the silence, boasting about the demons they were going to kill that day. Another talked about his wife. These were the conversations Blackthorn was used to. Not memories of a dead grandfather.
Still, he couldn’t keep from puzzling over his grandfather’s words.
He knew the nineteen thousand men he’d brought into the wild had to die. But still, Phineas’s words echoed through his head.
Something’s got to matter…
Chapter 26: Tenbrook
Tenbrook swung his sword in the empty courtyard behind Blackthorn’s quarters, weaving his blade through the air in a sequence of drills. Behind each blow, he envisioned a shrieking demon, spewing blood from severed limbs, or better yet, a secret conspirator, plotting to unseat him. He’d rather be on the battlefield, slaying real enemies, but he knew that his patience would pay off.
Soon he’d have the same thrills in Brighton.
Several pairs of eyes bored into him from the fringes of the courtyard. Most were his soldiers, men he trusted; that is, trusted enough. A few were remainders of Blackthorn’s blue shirts, left behind to guard the house. He knew that most would follow him with the same fervor with which they followed the General.
But not all.
There were bound to be a few that were secretly envying his position, or questioning his abilities. His drills were a way to keep the battle-hardened edge of a cavalryman. A soft administrator would be an easy target for a strong-armed brute. A hard man with a fast sword would quash most insolent thoughts before they matured into ambitions to unseat him.
Giving one last swing, he sheathed his weapon and wiped a string of sweat from his brow. Only then did he realize the weather had warmed. The snow had retreated from Brighton’s streets, leaving only the sting of the wind against his nose and cheeks. He wondered how Blackthorn’s army was faring in the wild. He was glad not to be on a parade to his death with all those expendable men and women, but he envied them that they were marching to battle with the demons.
Looking in the distance, Tenbrook saw several of his soldiers opening the courtyard door, admitting a horse and rider. He watched with a solemn face as the man leaped from his horse, tied it to a nearby post, and crossed the courtyard. The soldier’s stride was purposeful and invigorated. Tenbrook didn’t have to ask the man to know he’d ridden straight from the army without stopping.
Tenbrook’s orders were always obeyed.
“Do you have it?” Tenbrook asked, skipping the unnecessary colloquialisms.
“I do, sir,” the rider stated.
Wiping tears from his eyes—tears not born from sadness, but from the cold wind in the man’s face on his hard ride—the rider dug a note from his blue shirt and handed it to Tenbrook. The rider waited expectantly as if Tenbrook might unfold it and read it aloud, but Tenbrook simply pocketed it.
“How’s the army faring?” Tenbrook asked.
“They’re tired, sir.”
“Have they gotten far?”
“About twelve miles past the circle wall. They’ve suffered some demon attacks.”
“Of course.” Tenbrook nodded. Nowhere outside the circle wall was safe.
“I think the farmers and women are slowing them down. They’re not used to the conditions.”
Tenbrook knew that was true, as well. Blackthorn’s army
was aware of the risk, but the reality of the situation was that they’d probably die of the inevitable cold or starvation first. Either way, the nineteen thousand would never return. Blackthorn would make sure of that.
“Are those names accounted for in the list you gave me?”
“Yes. The list contains only the deserters.”
“Thank you. That’ll be all, soldier.”
The rider glanced at Tenbrook, then at his pocket, probably hoping Tenbrook would reconsider his decision to read the note in front of him. Tenbrook waved him away.
The rider walked dejectedly back to his horse. Tenbrook waited until he’d mounted it and ridden away before he pulled out the note and stared at it.
Two hundred names were scrawled in neat handwriting. Tenbrook recognized a few names among the traitors—merchant’s sons, or well-known farmers. He bit his lip in unexpected anger, tasting blood. Like Scholar Evan, he ruled by logic. He wanted nothing more than to bring all two hundred men to him and torture them, adding their tongues to his boxes. But he knew the deserters might inflict casualties he couldn’t afford. He needed to find the scope of the plot against him.
He needed the leaders.
He’d call in Scholar Evan first.
Chapter 27: Franklin
Franklin walked the halls of the Sanctuary, his robe dragging the floor. Much like the position he’d found himself in, it was too large for him, but he was doing his best to manage. Ever since Winthrop had gone, the Sanctuary felt like a different place. Walls that once bled fear now whispered promise. For several days, Franklin had walked those corridors with trepidation, fearing the Bishop might spring from behind a closed door, waiting to accuse him. After the farewells had died, he’d grown more comfortable in his new existence.
The only thing missing was Fitz.
He’d been looking for her for several days, but had been unable to locate her. A few times, Franklin had been positive he’d heard her voice in the hallways, but when he’d turned the corner, no one had been there. He convinced himself each time it must have been his imagination. Fitzgerald must be hiding. She must hate him. Not for his beating of Oliver—she’d gotten over that—but for his burning of Father Nelson. He couldn’t blame her.
He was wrought with guilt.
All of the clergymen had treated him differently since that day. Whether it was fear of the same treatment or a newfound respect, Franklin couldn’t be sure. But he knew he had to use it to his advantage. Blackthorn’s lessons were a lingering voice in his ear.
“Burn one today or twelve tomorrow.”
The lesson was true, as terrible as it was. On top of that, he still couldn’t believe he’d allowed Oliver to leave. He tried to convince himself that it was the right thing to do.
To ease his guilt, Franklin had thrown himself into The Word, wrapping himself in his recitations. He’d already spoken with the clergy, ironing out the details of his new role. It was time to prepare his sermon.
Nearing the end of the hall, Franklin headed for his new chambers and opened the door. He expected to find his usual belongings and books scattered across the desktop, along with the notes he’d been taking.
Instead, he found Fitzgerald.
Franklin gasped. He hesitated. For a moment, he feared he had walked into the wrong chambers, and that he was about to get a scolding. The familiar bed sheets and belongings assured him he was in the right place.
“Fitz?” he managed, still not able to believe he wasn’t dreaming.
She walked toward him. Franklin held up his hands, preparing for a slap or a tirade. He was surprised when she embraced him. Franklin buried himself in Fitz’s hair, taking in smells that he thought he’d never inhale again.
“Where have you been?” he asked, tears in his eyes. “I’ve missed you so much.”
She leaned back, studying him. “I needed some time to think things over.”
Franklin paused, afraid to say something that might send her away again. “I know you must hate me. I—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Franklin.” She put her finger to his lips, silencing him. “Not that I don’t want to, but I can’t hear it. Do you understand?”
Franklin nodded gravely. “I understand.”
“We need to move past all of this. I can’t think of death and suffering anymore. Winthrop is gone. That’s what’s important. It’s the only thing that has allowed me to sleep these past few days.”
“I know. I’ve been telling myself the same thing.”
They embraced for several seconds. Franklin felt a rightness in holding her, a desire to forego his duties and devote all his time to her. Father Nelson’s screams seemed to disappear as they hugged. Composing himself, he smiled.
She pinched the folds of his robe. “Where’d you get this?”
“It was Bishop Garrett’s. It doesn’t quite fit. I was going to have it tailored.”
“You look silly,” she said, batting at the folds.
Franklin nodded and smiled. “I’m getting used to it.”
“I assume you’re getting used to a lot of things.” Fitzgerald beckoned around the room. “Like this new bed. Do you like your new quarters?”
“It’s a lot bigger than a novice’s room.”
“It seems comfortable.” Fitz smiled coyly.
“It is. I haven’t been doing much sleeping, though. I was too busy worrying about you.”
“It looks like you’ve been putting together some notes for your sermon.”
“I have mass coming,” Franklin confirmed, nodding. “I’ve been studying the reference books that Bishop Garrett left to Winthrop. I don’t think Winthrop ever touched them. I found them in his closet.”
“Winthrop can’t read, can he?”
“No. Even if he could, he wouldn’t look at them. Winthrop can’t imagine anything in a book that isn’t already in his head.”
“We won’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“I hope.” Franklin smiled, feeling a vindictive happiness at the thought of Winthrop in the wild. He motioned to his desk, which was littered with papers and notes. “I’ve picked a lot of passages from these reference books. I’m thinking of incorporating some of them in my sermon. But I’m having trouble putting all of it together. It’s a lot harder than it looks.”
“I can help, if you’ll read them to me,” Fitz said. “This will be your first mass since Winthrop left. I know it’ll be important.”
“That would be great.”
“First I have duties to attend to.”
Fitz headed for the door.
“Wait!” Franklin said, not realizing how loudly he’d spoken. “Where are you going? I haven’t seen you in days.”
“I have beds to make, floors to clean. I’m behind on all of them.”
“You don’t need to do that anymore, now that I’m Bishop.”
“Of course, I do. I can’t just relax in your quarters all day.” Fitz smiled.
“That doesn’t matter anymore, with Winthrop gone,” Franklin said. “I won’t treat you like he did.”
“Now that you’re in charge?”
Franklin blushed, still not used to that fact. “Stay with me for a while longer?”
Fitz bit her lip. “I suppose I could.”
“You can help me with my sermon.”
Fitz smiled as she walked back toward him. He took her by the waist and pulled her onto the bed.
“I think you want me to help you with other things.”
**
Franklin lay next to Fitz, staring at the ceiling. The anxiety and fear of the past few weeks seemed to have melted with his reunion with Fitz.
“It’s hard to believe so many people are gone,” Fitz said, clutching Franklin’s hand. “The streets seem just as ful
l, with so many people from other townships and villages. But I know they won’t be here forever.”
“Some of them are already sneaking back to their villages, with Blackthorn gone. Even though there is no military outside of Brighton to protect them.”
“That’s dangerous. Hopefully, they’ll survive the journey. At least we don’t have to worry about the famine. Those that remain here will be in Brighton for a while. Then they’ll return to their own villages and use their own food stores. Blackthorn’s army will feed themselves in the wild.”
“That’s true.” Franklin bit his lip, thinking about the coincidence of that fact. “It’s funny how that worked out.”
Fitz propped herself up one elbow to look at Franklin. “We should probably get dressed so you can get back to your sermon. You don’t want the clergy to think you lay with women all day, do you?”
“I could stare at you all day,” Franklin mused.
“I know you could, but you shouldn’t.”
“You’re right,” Franklin admitted. “You always are, Fitz.” He sat up next to her and located his robe on the floor.
“I still say that robe looks silly.”
“Oliver told me that, too.” Having mentioned Oliver by accident, Franklin averted his eyes.
“Where is Oliver, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a while.” Fitz looked around the room as if Oliver might be hiding somewhere.
“He’s not here.”
“What do you mean?” Fitz’s brow furrowed as she studied Franklin. “Not at the Sanctuary?”
“No. He’s not in Brighton.”
“Where is he?”
“He went out with the army.”
“The army?” Fitz gasped, covering her mouth in shock. “What is he doing with them?”
Franklin paused as he tried to figure out the best way to explain things to her. Ever since Oliver had left, Franklin had fought the desire to chase him down, to force him back to the Sanctuary. The only thing stopping him was the promise he’d made to Oliver. He needed to be his friend for once.