Outcast
Page 9
Slowly, Willow nods. “That could work. One problem, though. How are you going to force Dad into revealing his true self in front of the elders? It’s not like they’re going to agree to come on a hunt with us. And if they did, Dad would just be on extra-good behavior and then punish us—punish you—afterward.”
“We don’t need a hunt,” I say as the plan that’s been taking shape inside my head for the past three days clicks into place. “All we need is for one threat to make it past our borders and be imprisoned instead of killed. Dad won’t be able to leave that alone.”
“Dad won’t let a threat get past our borders.”
“No, but I will.”
Before she can argue, I head out for the day’s scouting mission with one goal in mind: find someone worth taking as a prisoner. Someone Dad won’t be able to resist trying to kill no matter who’s watching.
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.”
“We don’t need a hunt,” I say as the plan that’s been taking shape inside my head for the past three days clicks into place. “All we need is for one threat to make it past our borders and be imprisoned instead of killed. Dad won’t be able to leave that alone.”
“Dad won’t let a threat get past our borders.”
“No, but I will.”
Before she can argue, I head out for the day’s scouting mission with one goal in mind: find someone worth taking as a prisoner. Someone Dad won’t be able to resist trying to kill no matter who’s watching.
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.”
