Outcast
Page 7
His dark eyes flash with challenge, and my stomach lurches as I realize he knows I’m trying to protect Willow. He knows I’m willing to do anything I have to do to keep her from becoming like him. He knows, and he’s recovered from his shock at my defiance last night and is ready to answer me with the kind of violence that has kept Willow and me doing his bidding without question our entire lives.
Mom picks up a glass jar filled with pale-yellow corn liquor and walks out of the room without looking at us. I do the one thing that will pacify my father and put me on the road to being in his good graces again, where I can watch out for Willow.
“If you want me to scout, I’ll do it.” My voice is calm and controlled—at odds with the frantic pounding of my heart and the fury that blazes through me with almost unbearable ferocity.
For one moment, I imagine striking him back—using the skills he’s taught me to hurt him, disable him, and then hurt him some more. Watching his face as he realizes that the monster he’s created has turned against its master.
Then I take a slow breath, ignore the anger that pounds through me, and walk out the door. The morning sky is winter gray as I climb onto the walkway that circles our home and stretches tree to tree, connecting our home to the buildings around us. The village occupies five hundred yards in the center of the southern forest. Every home, council, and community building is built high up in the trees, centered around thick trunks and then branching out with the use of walkways, rope stairs, and support beams.
Below us, a thin crust of snow remains on the forest floor, though spots of dark earth are peeking through in places. Snow never lasts long in the southern forest. I don’t know which direction Sorra and Matthias went this morning, and I’m not going to hunt down the elder in charge of scouting to ask.
Not when it means trying to explain why my father is displeased with me. And why I’m struggling to obey him.
I head south, running silently along the walkways, past the council building, the butcher shop, and the schoolhouse until I come to the edge of the village. A thick forest of oak, cypress, and elm surrounds us. Most of the people who enter our borders are either highwaymen traveling to pillage or trade or couriers from other city-states looking for a shortcut to Rowansmark, a three-day’s journey south.
None of the strangers who enter our borders uninvited make it out alive.
Grabbing a sturdy elm branch, I swing off the walkway that borders the village and into the forest beyond. Moving lightly along that branch, I scan the surrounding trees, pick another branch that can hold me, and leap from one tree to the next only to do it all over again. In moments, I’ve left the quiet noises of the village behind and am embraced by the occasional call of the birds above me, the creak of the branches below me, and the reverent hush that holds the woods captive.
When I’m far enough away that I feel comfortable stopping, I climb into the cradle of a cypress and pull out the book.
The last book I found was a collection of short stories full of magic and make-believe—so different from the life that I knew—and they fed my soul in a way that nothing ever had. I’d read them to Willow in the quiet early morning hours after a hunt when Dad was already asleep. The words felt like a treasure. Something that was untouched by anyone but us.
But one day I wasn’t careful enough, and Dad overheard me reading. Furious that I’d kept the book out of a night’s haul, he’d confiscated it.
We never saw it again.
Now, I hold the book of poems carefully and slide a finger over the thin, yellowed pages while I read. The words are lyrical, like the river’s steady cadence as it rushes over the rocks in spring. I read poems about battles, beautiful streams, and the loss of a girl named Claribel. Images of noble soldiers, lonely journeys, and love that is strong enough to endure every separation fill my mind. I feel a sense of peace for the first time in years.
Then I turn a page and read a poem whose last lines stop me cold. Drawing in a breath of chilly air, I speak the words aloud while my heart picks up speed.
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
My throat closes as the memory of slashing the unarmed highwayman’s throat fills me. What are my echoes? What mark am I leaving on this world to roll soul to soul, growing forever?
The questions, the doubts that I’ve struggled with snap into focus with one clear thought: I will not become the man my father wants me to be. I will choose my own path. My own echoes.
And if I have anything to say about the matter, Willow will get to choose her echoes too.
Chapter Six
“Where have you been?” I whisper as Willow glides into her room just minutes before dawn on what will be my fourth day in a row of scout duty.
She shoots me a quick glare and whispers back, “Get out of here before Dad hears you.” With deft movements, she shrugs her bow and quiver off her back and then reaches for the knife strapped to her waist.
“He won’t hear anything if we keep our voices down.” I step closer as I see the dark gleam of blood on the serrated edge of her knife. “Your knife is bloody.”
“That’s what happens when you stick it in somebody.” Her voice is as quietly controlled as mine, but her fingers grip the hilt with white-knuckled ferocity. She grabs a rawhide cloth from her dresser and carefully wipes the blade clean, while I cross my arms and stare her down.
I’ve spent my days scouting, and all has been quiet. No highwaymen. No lone thieves prowling for an easy victim. No travelers looking for a shortcut to Rowansmark.
Mom picks up a glass jar filled with pale-yellow corn liquor and walks out of the room without looking at us. I do the one thing that will pacify my father and put me on the road to being in his good graces again, where I can watch out for Willow.
“If you want me to scout, I’ll do it.” My voice is calm and controlled—at odds with the frantic pounding of my heart and the fury that blazes through me with almost unbearable ferocity.
For one moment, I imagine striking him back—using the skills he’s taught me to hurt him, disable him, and then hurt him some more. Watching his face as he realizes that the monster he’s created has turned against its master.
Then I take a slow breath, ignore the anger that pounds through me, and walk out the door. The morning sky is winter gray as I climb onto the walkway that circles our home and stretches tree to tree, connecting our home to the buildings around us. The village occupies five hundred yards in the center of the southern forest. Every home, council, and community building is built high up in the trees, centered around thick trunks and then branching out with the use of walkways, rope stairs, and support beams.
Below us, a thin crust of snow remains on the forest floor, though spots of dark earth are peeking through in places. Snow never lasts long in the southern forest. I don’t know which direction Sorra and Matthias went this morning, and I’m not going to hunt down the elder in charge of scouting to ask.
Not when it means trying to explain why my father is displeased with me. And why I’m struggling to obey him.
I head south, running silently along the walkways, past the council building, the butcher shop, and the schoolhouse until I come to the edge of the village. A thick forest of oak, cypress, and elm surrounds us. Most of the people who enter our borders are either highwaymen traveling to pillage or trade or couriers from other city-states looking for a shortcut to Rowansmark, a three-day’s journey south.
None of the strangers who enter our borders uninvited make it out alive.
Grabbing a sturdy elm branch, I swing off the walkway that borders the village and into the forest beyond. Moving lightly along that branch, I scan the surrounding trees, pick another branch that can hold me, and leap from one tree to the next only to do it all over again. In moments, I’ve left the quiet noises of the village behind and am embraced by the occasional call of the birds above me, the creak of the branches below me, and the reverent hush that holds the woods captive.
When I’m far enough away that I feel comfortable stopping, I climb into the cradle of a cypress and pull out the book.
The last book I found was a collection of short stories full of magic and make-believe—so different from the life that I knew—and they fed my soul in a way that nothing ever had. I’d read them to Willow in the quiet early morning hours after a hunt when Dad was already asleep. The words felt like a treasure. Something that was untouched by anyone but us.
But one day I wasn’t careful enough, and Dad overheard me reading. Furious that I’d kept the book out of a night’s haul, he’d confiscated it.
We never saw it again.
Now, I hold the book of poems carefully and slide a finger over the thin, yellowed pages while I read. The words are lyrical, like the river’s steady cadence as it rushes over the rocks in spring. I read poems about battles, beautiful streams, and the loss of a girl named Claribel. Images of noble soldiers, lonely journeys, and love that is strong enough to endure every separation fill my mind. I feel a sense of peace for the first time in years.
Then I turn a page and read a poem whose last lines stop me cold. Drawing in a breath of chilly air, I speak the words aloud while my heart picks up speed.
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
My throat closes as the memory of slashing the unarmed highwayman’s throat fills me. What are my echoes? What mark am I leaving on this world to roll soul to soul, growing forever?
The questions, the doubts that I’ve struggled with snap into focus with one clear thought: I will not become the man my father wants me to be. I will choose my own path. My own echoes.
And if I have anything to say about the matter, Willow will get to choose her echoes too.
Chapter Six
“Where have you been?” I whisper as Willow glides into her room just minutes before dawn on what will be my fourth day in a row of scout duty.
She shoots me a quick glare and whispers back, “Get out of here before Dad hears you.” With deft movements, she shrugs her bow and quiver off her back and then reaches for the knife strapped to her waist.
“He won’t hear anything if we keep our voices down.” I step closer as I see the dark gleam of blood on the serrated edge of her knife. “Your knife is bloody.”
“That’s what happens when you stick it in somebody.” Her voice is as quietly controlled as mine, but her fingers grip the hilt with white-knuckled ferocity. She grabs a rawhide cloth from her dresser and carefully wipes the blade clean, while I cross my arms and stare her down.
I’ve spent my days scouting, and all has been quiet. No highwaymen. No lone thieves prowling for an easy victim. No travelers looking for a shortcut to Rowansmark.
