Redemption of Thieves (Book 4)

by C. Greenwood

  The thought of joining either villagers or Fists didn’t tempt me. I was in the heart of the woods and solitude beckoned. So I slipped off on my own—but not too far, lest Terrac have need of me.

  I climbed to the top of RedRock and sat on a ledge jutting out over the falls. The water gushed past with a roar that blotted out the more distant noise of the folk below. A fine veil of mist sleeked my skin but I didn’t move back. Perhaps a little cold would help shock me back to my senses. They were certainly in sore need of wakening at this point.

  What was I going to do about Terrac? In a perfect world, once he recovered, all our troubles would be over. He would abandon his new life, voluntarily leaving the Praetor’s service, and the two of us could go away someplace where our enemies would never find us. Someplace where we didn’t have to worry about recurring Skeltai raids, or the Praetor’s personal battles, or secrets of the past coming back to haunt us. Was there such a place for a one-time outlaw and a would-be priest boy?

  I snorted. It was all foolishness. A ridiculous dream, no less, and one I would have to get over. Sometimes dreams had to take second place in the face of cold reality. Terrac would go on being what he was and I… What would become of me? After a year and a day I would be honor bound by my word to return to a lifetime of following the Praetor’s bidding.

  There was a scraping sound on the rocks nearby.

  “Hope this ledge doesn’t give way.” Dradac had to raise his voice to be heard over the rush of the waters as he settled on the rock beside me.

  “It will with a giant like you plunking his weight down on it,” I said. I scooped up a handful of loose pebbles and tossed them over the edge into the rushing falls. We shared a companionable silence for awhile.

  “How’d you get here?” I asked at last.

  “Same way you did. I climbed.”

  I smiled slightly. “You know what I mean.”

  He said, “A better question might be how did the Praetor and his fancy soldiers get here?”

  “So it was you who led them to us,” I realized. “I wondered whatever became of that messenger I sent.”

  “Nothing good if we hadn’t found him. We discovered the fellow wandering like a lost lamb in the heart of the wood. Just going in circles he was. It was pitiful to see. Considering how he was one of the Fists we knew had been with you, we figured whatever he was about might be important enough for us to step in and give a hand. He was that grateful when we led him to the camp the Praetor set up along Beaver Creek. And of course when the fellow described where he’d come from and how swift help was needed, we led them all back over our old grounds.”

  I nodded. “Feels strange to be back here, doesn’t it? Almost like we never left. All we need is Rideon and the rest of the band and it’d be just like the old days. Except the extra company.”

  “And unlikely company the Praetor and a contingent of Fists would be if the Hand were around,” he said.

  “What do you hear of him these days?”

  “I still have friends among the band. I think they get on all right.” He studied the palms of his hands. “But you didn’t really come up here to think over old times, did you?”

  When I kept silent, he asked, “You need to be alone now?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “I think I do.”

  When he was gone, I slipped the bow from my back. As if sensing some hint of my intentions, it warmed, humming to life in my hands. And there it was again, that sibilant whisper tickling at the back of my consciousness.

  You cannot rid yourself of me. All we have gained was accomplished together. You are nothing without me. Nothing.

  With an effort, I unclenched my jaw enough to say, “Maybe nothing is what I prefer to be. When I was nothing, I was free and my will was my own. The decisions I made might be right or wrong but at least they were mine.”

  The bow fell silent but it glowed still hotter in my hands, becoming uncomfortable to hold onto. That was all right. It only made what I had in mind that much easier.

  Closing my eyes, I cast the bow out from me, flinging it as far over the stone’s edge as it could fly. I had no idea which direction it went, nor did I want to know. There was a tingling sensation in the back of my mind as the weapon slipped away.

  And then it was gone.

  Suddenly, I was alone inside my head, the isolation sharply unfamiliar. I realized then how completely under the power of the bow I had been. I hadn’t known the extent of its intrusion until it was absent.

  I collapsed to my knees and drew a quivering breath. Relief washed over me but there were other emotions mixed in as well. Hope and doubt warred with one another. Had I done the right thing? And if so, why did I feel empty? Why did this newfound sense of freedom come with an echo of regret?

  I bit my lip.

  It will pass. I will forget you, bow. In time.

  I opened my eyes and looked out into the night. Faint streaks of grey were beginning to lighten the sky. Below me the shadowed forms of the forest trees swayed gently in the wind and Dimmingwood stretched its green mantle as far as the eye could see.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was just one other thing I had to do before departing with Hadrian for the mystical hills of Camdon.

  The sky was streaked with the semi-light of early dawn, the air crisp with the kind of chill that leaves a tingle in the lungs. A stiff winter wind cut through the market square and I lifted my hood as I entered the gathered throng around the east end, less as a shield against the wind than for the purpose of hiding myself from curious eyes. I could scarcely walk anywhere in the city since the day of the Praetor’s pardon without being recognized and hailed by the citizens. Their gratitude seemed genuine, but I was uncomfortable under the attention of so many. Their praise made me ill at ease because I wondered how many of them would willingly have cheered at my hanging only a few days ago when I was still an acknowledged outlaw. Besides, today wasn’t a day for congratulations.

  I turned a shoulder and slid through the crowd as silently as a fish slipping through dark waters. There was a strange restlessness about the audience but no one pushed or shoved and every voice was hushed. I felt a ripple move through the gathering as I made my way forward. Beyond the crowd I glimpsed snatches of color, the crimson and midnight of the Fists uniforms as they passed by. The chink of metal armor and the ring of heavy boots echoed across the cobblestone pavement. As one, the crowd strained forward, craning their necks for a view of the escort and their prisoner.

  I hung back, clinging to the shadows along the edge of a market stall, inwardly continuing the battle I had thought already decided when I first donned my cloak and slipped outdoors before dawn. How long had I paced the confines of Hadrian and Seephinia’s tiny hut on the river barge, railing at the fate that had brought this story to such an inevitable end? How long had I questioned my intentions in coming here? Was it satisfaction at my victory, a desire to look into his eyes and let him see that just once it was I who would walk away in triumph? Did a cold part of me want to gloat at such a moment?

  I hated to think anything that low could drive me, but my feelings were a confused mass even I couldn’t untangle. All I could be certain of was that whatever initially carried me forward, I took no pleasure now in putting one foot in front of the other, moving deeper into the throng. Roughly, I forced my way through the tightly packed spectators, causing a few exclamations and muttered oaths until the offended parties caught a glimpse of my face. Then they fell utterly silent and stood aside. I saw one person turn to another and, like wild flames, a whisper spread through the crowd.

  It’s her! She is here! Of course she would be…

  I closed my ears to the murmurs and tried not to feel their stares settle over me. Toward the forefront of the crowd I caught sight of my object.

  He was being led up a set of long wooden stairs onto a high platform just above the heads of the crowd. A brawny Fist flanked him on either side with iron gauntleted fists clamped firmly on both hi
s arms. Their presence was unnecessary. He neither struggled nor sagged in defeat between his escorts, but carried himself easily, defiance gleaming from jewel-green eyes shot with glints of fire. For a lifetime those eyes had hypnotized everyone who looked into them, compelling a loyalty kings might have envied. They’d drawn me to the very brink of destruction more than once in my overwhelming eagerness to win one look of approval.

  And I never had.

  It was with a sinking stomach that I watched him ascend the steps to the scaffold. A man in long robes opened a thick scroll to read the listed crimes of the condemned man to the crowd. As if there were any need to do that. As if there was so much as a child in our midst who had not heard of Rideon the Red Hand and couldn’t recite his misdeeds from memory.

  I ignored the words of the official and focused my attention on the prisoner. He showed no hint of fear as a loop of rope was placed around his neck and the rough braid tightened around his throat. His eyes roved over the crowd with a chilling confidence as if it was he who waited to witness our execution instead of the reverse. The hint of a smile hovered around his lips as if he laughed at some private joke. As if he and only he were aware this entire plot was unfolding exactly as he had written it and we were the real dupes of the scene. I felt the crowd’s unconscious response of mingled surprise and anger.

  We waited in utter silence as the robed official fell silent, his last words ringing out over the stillness.

  “…sentenced by the greatly merciful but ever just Praetor Tarius to immediate death by hanging. Let no man pity the scoundrel or recount his past misdeeds. From this day forward, by the decree of the Praetor, to mention the very name of Rideon the Red Hand shall constitute an act of treason against the province and be punished as such.”

  Even the crowd seemed to think this a bit much. A few startled gasps erupted as, for a moment, their indignation turned from the convicted man to his oppressor. I wondered if they were remembering an earlier time when some had thought the Red Hand a hero of the common folk for daring to challenge their heavy-fisted ruler.

  The executioners hurried with their task as if they could sense the opinion of the people swinging against them. The robed official, looking out at the stony faces turned upward, paled and proclaimed hastily, “If the condemned has any final words, the gracious Praetor will allow him to speak them.”

  The Praetor wasn’t even present, but perhaps the nervous official hoped the prisoner would say something to persuade the crowd to accept his fate without a riot. He might better have feared a rousing speech calculated to incite violence. But neither came. Rideon the Red Hand was too good a player to an audience to ruin a tragic moment or a somber mood with mere words.

  I felt sympathies rise higher in the face of his proud silence and arrogant gaze. Even in death it seemed the outlaw mocked his old enemy. He would be a martyr to these people I realized suddenly, his death a rallying point for future revolt. And that was doubtless exactly how he had planned it.

  After a prolonged hush, his executioners evidently decided they had been more than generous. Now they acted with rude haste to secure the prisoner’s hands tightly behind his back before removing their own feet from the vicinity of the trapdoor. A uniformed Fist moved to the lever that would drop the floor. I sensed his eagerness at the task and knew with a flash of insight the Fists had fought over which of them would receive the coveted pleasure of drawing the lever that would plunge the outlaw to his death. Had Terrac been among them? Surely not. I didn’t see him here today.

  The question was blasted from my mind by a sudden bolt of emotion shooting through me like a hot arrow. Pride. Fear. Fury. Regret.

  They weren’t my emotions—they came from the man at the end of the rope. But for a moment they had been made mine. I hadn’t sought Rideon out this final time, but somehow his life essence had touched mine, and despite the unpleasantness of the contact, I couldn’t find it in me to shake it loose. On the surface Rideon remained aloof, head held high, feet planted wide, as if they stood confidently on firm forest ground, rather than hovering over a chasm of death.

  But for a brief instant, my magic was stronger than it had ever been. I was one with him. Somehow, miraculously, his eyes dropped to find me unerringly in the crowd. Our gazes met and held. I discovered then what I had come for. I felt his flicker of surprise as he realized I was the last one standing after all the others had fallen, felt a grudging respect from him that warmed me at my very core. I was again the hungry hound who had waited so long to win my captain’s recognition.

  I sensed rather than saw the Fist’s hand hovering over the lever.

  Rideon’s eyes left mine, lifting to gaze above the heads of the crowd and into the distance. Toward Dimmingwood. I watched his face take on a faraway look, saw his chest rise in a final intake of breath. And then, suddenly, he was gone. The platform dropped from beneath him with a sharp cracking noise. The rope went taunt, the crowd held their breaths. And then it was all over.

  I didn’t linger after but turned abruptly and shoved my way through the crowd to exit the market square. I needed to get into the open air, needed to find someplace where I could breathe again. I felt the rolling waves of the crowd’s resentment breaking, heard the confused cries and threats from the Fists as the newly angry mob closed in. Too late the people realized their enemy had also been their champion. I didn’t pause to look back as the fighting erupted. Violence hovered in the air of this city and perhaps it would for a long time. But I wouldn’t be a part of it today.

  Today my captain was dead.

  * * *

  The following morning I left Selbius and all its bitter memories behind me. Hadrian, always the wanderer, had decided it was time to return to his travels. When invited, I leapt at my first opportunity to see something of the world beyond the province. So Hadrian and I said our farewells to the river folk—Seephinia took Hadrian’s departure with the stoicism typical of her people, although I fancied her eyes were unusually bright. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought she even seemed a little sorry to see the last of me. Strangely, I found that I returned the sentiment.

  I felt a very real regret upon saying good-bye to Fleet, who was also present as we left the river barges. The fact that he had braved his sickness on the waters long enough to cross over and help us move our things off the river barge said much of how close our friendship had grown over our adventures together. We didn’t speak of seeing one another again, but I thought as he gripped my shoulders in a friendly embrace and looked knowingly into my eyes that no words needed to be said. We would meet again. I was as certain of that as I could be of anything in this world.

  Fleet had procured by some mysterious means an elderly and emaciated donkey to aid us on our trip by carrying the bulk of our traveling gear. And so we set out northward along the Selbius Road, embarking on the many weeks’ journey that would eventually lead us to the province of Camdon.

  I didn’t feel any sense of loss at putting the Praetor or his city at my back. If only it were so easy to banish the memories of someone else I was leaving behind…

  * * *

  “What is it? Trouble?” Hadrian asked as I stiffened at his side and slowed my steps.

  “No. It’s nothing.”

  But my hands crept of their own accord toward the knives tucked up my sleeves.

  “Is this ‘nothing’ anything to do with the dark stranger up ahead?”

  Hadrian nodded toward a tall figure loitering beneath the signpost that marked the first branch in the Selbius Road. The stranger’s hood was pulled up against the wind, the hem of his black cloak swirling around his boots. There was something secretive about him. He appeared to be waiting for something or someone.

  “He’s just another traveler,” I said to reassure myself as much as Hadrian. “He’s nothing to do with us.”

  I’d spent too much time running and fighting for my life lately. That was all. Paranoia made me jump at shadows, made me fearful of plots and betrayal at ever
y innocent encounter. Even now as I looked at this hooded stranger, I remembered the Praetor had executed innocent people in the past, people who were on his side. Who was to say he couldn’t do it again?

  As we drew nearer the fork in the road, the stranger turned his head away, concealing his features. The casual gesture made me think of a Praetor’s spy. Or an assassin sent to ensure I didn’t live long enough to enjoy the year of freedom the Praetor had promised. Had he had second thoughts about our deal? Decided he had no use for me after all? No one knew better than I that the man who was both my enemy and my uncle was capable of anything.

  My mouth went dry. Without the bow, I felt suddenly helpless. With my weak knives alone was I capable of protecting myself and Hadrian? With sweaty palms, I gripped the handles of my knives.

  Hadrian must have sensed my jumbled emotions because he cleared his throat.

  “In the interests of saving this poor fellow’s life, I should probably mention he’s no footpad, but an acquaintance of mine.”

  Relief washed over me. “You could have said as much.”

  “A thousand apologies. I met the fellow yesterday, and upon learning he intended to travel our way, I invited him to meet us outside the city and join our party.”

  I snorted. “Just what we need. I suppose your new friend is too frightened to travel alone? Concerned about thieves, is he?”

  “Something like that.” Hadrian’s lips twitched. “Perhaps we should hasten to assure him he’ll encounter no such scum while in our company.”

  I didn’t respond to his banter. We were closer to the stranger now and it struck me forcefully that there was something familiar in his height and bearing, in the shape of his shoulders, and the glint of a sword revealed each time the wind tugged open his cloak. If his hood fell down, I wondered, would I recognize the familiar, stubborn set of his chin too?