Magic of Thieves (17 page)

It was a finely crafted weapon, making it all the stranger that I discovered it in an abandoned barn. The pale wood looked and smelled freshly cut and took on an almost living glow beneath the firelight. It took me a moment to realize the carvings spiraling up the limb weren’t random designs, but strange runes unlike anything I’d ever seen. I had a peculiar feeling, looking at those runes, almost like the stirring of magic I felt when sensing another life nearby. Maybe I would ask Terrac later if he could decipher the unfamiliar form of writing. He was the scholar, not me.

But hard on the heels of that thought came the memory that the priest boy and I weren’t exactly on friendly terms at the moment. I glanced at the burning pyre and loneliness washed over me as I remembered the one person who cared for me most, the only friend who knew about my forbidden talents, was now gone forever. In the face of that, everything else lost significance. When I looked back to the bow, there appeared to be a forlorn sense to its unreadable runes that matched my pain.

It was a mark of the strangeness of my mood that I didn’t flinch this time when the bow began to glow orange and gold. I felt it grow warm in my hands and pulse like a stilled heartbeat throbbing suddenly to life. Inside my head, I seemed to hear its quiet moans of anguish, perhaps echoing my hurt, or maybe crying out for some loss of its own. Either way, the result was oddly comforting. I continued tracing my fingers absently up and down the runes as I watched the flickering flames.

My grief grew muted and while there was a chill loneliness in my heart, an ache of regret beyond words, I shed no more tears for my loss. It was as if, with the death of Brig, my own essence had abandoned me as well, leaving me incapable of feeling anything but emptiness. Was this how Rideon had grown so cold? I felt a sudden surge of understanding for the man, an understanding that had nothing to do with sympathy or affection.

Trying to shake this alarming change, I dug deep inside myself seeking some spark to prove who I was still hid within, but it was like reaching into an empty shell. I dipped into a chasm of nothingness, sifting blank thoughts and meaningless images through my fingers in search of something I knew should be there. Even my unease at this discovery was a quiet, distant thing as if I were merely a witness, observing myself through another’s eyes.

I felt older, emptier, and vastly changed as I sat hunched before the flames, lost in thought, until the fire burned low and a pale dawn came to chase away the stars.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I watched Terrac warily the following morning, but if he was still angry over my betraying him to the Fists, he gave no sign of it. It took us all of the following day to find our way to the place in the wood where the trees never greened. Here, the rest of our band had set up a temporary camp after evacuating Molehill and Red Rock. It was nearly dark by the time we stumbled on the outlaws a few miles upstream of the creek leading to Red Rock falls. The gathering was large, the combined number of both our camps crowded together into the temporary one.

Immediately on arrival, I felt a pervading sense of gloom hanging in the air. Until now, we thought ourselves impervious to attack, hidden as we were deep within the safety of Dimming’s shadows. But our confidence had been shaken and we were all acutely aware of the danger that might break over our heads at any time. No one knew as yet what had become of our homes at Red Rock and Molehill; the only thing we could be certain of was that it was unsafe to return. Rideon moved among the outlaws, planning with them, seeking to lift their confidence. Wherever he had been, spirits lifted, but it was obvious it would take time for us to recover our former self-assurance.

I had to give an explanation for my disappearance and as my story quickly spread through the gathering, I was hailed as a kind of hero. No one appeared to care that I had set out to save Brig and returned without him. What mattered was that one of their own had struck a blow back at the Praetor’s men. A dozen times over, my attack on the Fists was declared the most daring and bold deed anyone had ever heard of from such a youngster. Suddenly, men who hadn’t so much as given me their names before today were clapping me on the back and congratulating me around the campfire.

Terrac, unwilling to partake in the glory, wandered off and left me to deal with it alone. In a different time I would have enjoyed retelling my tale as many times as it was requested and recounting my actions in the most fantastically exaggerated manner possible. But now I couldn’t enjoy the attention because I knew, whatever the others thought, my mission was a failure.

My thoughts were dark ones that first night back, as I sat surrounded by my throng of newfound admirers. I huddled over a bowl of venison stew, not because I was hungry, but because someone had shoved it into my hands. I forced the warm liquid down my throat, reasoning that as long as I kept my mouth full, I couldn’t be expected to talk. I was quickly wearying of recounting my adventure.

When I heard the sounds of someone’s approach and silence descended over my companions, I didn’t need to look up to know Rideon stood over me. I was expecting this moment.

“Hound,” Rideon greeted me.

I knew now was the time to apologize and beg forgiveness for disobeying his orders in following Brig, but I couldn’t find enough fear inside to prod me to it. Instead, I looked up and met his gaze unflinchingly.

He didn’t react with the anger I expected.

“The men tell me you are a hero tonight, that you’ve defeated a handful of the Praetor’s Fists and survived to boast of it. They also say you’ve killed the traitor Resid.”

“I did,” I admitted, bracing myself for whatever was coming.

“Perhaps I’ve underestimated your courage and skill. You broke my orders, but in so doing, you risked your life to strike a blow for all of us. For that, it seems to be the general will we should honor you tonight. Bold deeds notwithstanding, I warn you the next time you discount a command of mine so blatantly I’ll kill you on the spot.” Here his voice hardened momentarily. “But on this singular occasion, it would be ungrateful to kill a returning hero.”

He offered the ghost of a smile or the nearest thing to one I had ever seen on his face. “And so, for this night and this night alone, I make you immune to our laws. Revel in your glory for a few hours and at dawn return to work.”

He looked around at the gathered assembly. “All of us will set to work. There are difficult days ahead, but I’m confident we will survive this setback and be the stronger for it.”

As he turned on his heel and strode away, I wished I could feel flattered, could know a thrill of joy at receiving this recognition before my comrades. But the time when I would have felt pleased was past. I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.

Despite Rideon’s advice to enjoy the moment, I sought my bed early that night. I was exhausted and the purple bruises marring my ribs still pained me. I found an out of the way spot, well distanced from the others, and curled up beneath a tall elder tree.

I woke at one point during the night, thinking I heard footsteps rustling in the leaves nearby and Terrac softly calling my name. I kept still and when his footsteps eventually receded, breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t know why he sought me, but all I wanted was to be left alone tonight. I cradled my head in one arm and rested my other hand on the finely grained wood of the bow beside me. I didn’t have any arrows for it as yet. I thought in the morning I would ask Dradac to make me some fine new ones, the best he ever fletched. I fell asleep stroking the smooth wood and vaguely wondering that it felt warm to my touch.

Despite my exhaustion, I spent a troubled night tossing and turning on the rocky ground. For the first time in a long while I dreamed of the night my mother died all those years ago and of the brooch she left me. Then I dreamed of Hadrian, the priest of Light who promised to teach me about magic if I came to him in Selbius.

I awoke early the next morning and lay awake, staring up into the scattered patches of lightening sky peeking between the leafless branches of the trees overhead. I was unused to seeing so much sky. The bare branches made it look later in the season than it was, but I knew elsewhere in the forest the trees would still be thick with greenery. Three days short of Middlefest, it seemed wrong to be surrounded by this gloom and deadness.

I rose and passed through camp, stepping carefully to avoid trampling on the sleeping forms of my comrades where they huddled on the ground. I remembered from past explorations a small spring not far from this spot, probably one of the factors Rideon had taken into account when settling on this site. Finding the gurgling stream only a little distance away, I knelt and washed the sleep from my eyes and filled my waterskin.

When I rose from the stony banks, I found Brig sitting nearby on a fallen log, watching me. His grey eyes were fixed on a point in the distance, his weathered face creased in the half-frown that always meant he was puzzling over something. He rubbed listlessly at the calluses on his rough hands and his mouth moved, as if he were muttering beneath his breath. The sight of him sent a pang through me, but I felt no shock or alarm, only comfort. I shook my head and smiled, noting how the front of his faded woolen tunic was fastened crookedly. I leaned forward to right it for him, as I had done many times before, and stopped abruptly, my hands hovering inches from him.

Cold reason reasserted itself and Brig’s image wavered. I had to stop this. Brig was gone. Unless I wished to let go of my reason entirely and live the rest of my life in a world of pathetic imaginings, a place where the dead walked and events I didn’t like could be changed, I needed to pull back from what I was doing. As much as it pained me to do it, I pushed Brig’s flickering image aside and forced myself to see the reality instead. The space opposite me was empty, occupied only by a fallen tree stump with a handful of jumper beetles crawling on its surface.

But my vision of Brig helped me form a decision I’d been contemplating for a long time.  It was as if he had appeared to remind me of things I already knew but had refused until now to accept.  Of old obligations unfulfilled and promises broken.

I returned to camp, where the outlaws were just beginning to stir in their dew-soaked blankets. Someone started to build a campfire, until Rideon ordered there be no fires lit today. We weren’t safe from discovery yet, he said.

I slipped quietly among the men, found the lonely spot where I had passed the night, and collected my bow. Then I set my back to the camp and my comrades without a word of farewell.  No one called out to me or even, I suspected, noted my departure.

I’d come to a decision and with this new-found direction a little of the strangeness of last night fell away.  I was done settling for whatever fate served up to me.  If I followed along the road life set at my feet the future was already a given.  I would be a hunted criminal, forced to skulk within the boundaries of Dimming the rest of my life, wondering daily if this would be the day a Fist’s blade or the Praetor’s noose found me.  Such an existence I had once craved but Brig’s death had opened my eyes to the waste of it.

It was time to step off that path.

NOT AN ENDING, BUT A RESTING PLACE

Golden and amber leaves crunch loudly beneath my boots, startling my thoughts back to the present, as I follow the forest trail leading away from Rideon and the others.  I have come far since the dark night so long ago when I lost my parents.  In some ways I’ve journeyed farther still since losing Brig two nights ago.  But as I leave the outlaw camp behind, anticipation stirs within me and I contemplate the distance I have yet to travel.

A sudden flair of warmth radiating from the bow slung across my back seems to echo my sense of hope.

Continue Ilan’s journey in Book II, Betrayal of Thieves.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

C. Greenwood is the fantasy pen name of author Dara England, who lives in Oklahoma with her husband, two young children, and a Yorkshire terrier. To receive updates on future books, visit
www.DaraEnglandAuthor.com
and sign up for her monthly newsletter.

WRITING AS C. GREENWOOD

Legends of Dimmingwood Series

Magic of Thieves ~ Book I

Betrayal of Thieves ~ Book II

Circle of Thieves ~ Book III

Redemption of Thieves ~ Book IV

Other Titles

Dreamer’s Journey

WRITING AS DARA ENGLAND

The Accomplished Mysteries

Accomplished in Murder ~ Book One

Accomplished in Detection ~ Book Two