Authors: C. J. Redwine
“S
urrender,” he gasps, and I freeze, inches from slicing into him.
“What?” I whisper.
“I surrender. Take me as your prisoner. I surrender.” His words are nothing but faint, pained gasps, but they land on me like physical blows.
No one has ever surrendered to us before. No one has ever been given the option. I think of the dusty jail cell in the village council house and wonder what the village elders would do with an actual prisoner.
He moans again, and reaches a hand toward the arrow in his back. I kneel on him before Dad or Willow can see him moving, cover his mouth with my gloved hand, and rip the arrow free in one swift motion.
His scream vibrates up my arm. I press my hand against his mouth until he falls silent and try to figure out what to do. My thoughts churn rapidly, and my hands shake as Dad’s training, my own instincts, and the memory of Eliah’s trusting voice calling me brave all collide inside my head.
“What you got there?” Dad asks, and I jump.
Standing, I step over the man, and lift the arrow so Dad can see it. My voice is hoarse as I say, “Thought I’d get an early start on retrieving Willow’s arrows.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Clean it off,” he says.
I nod and bend to wipe the arrow clean on the forest floor. My chaotic thoughts slowly settle as one irrefutable idea takes hold of me and feels—finally—like truth.
I can’t kill this man. It isn’t courage, and it isn’t rebellion against Dad’s rules. It’s a simple fact. I don’t have it in me to kill an unarmed man, and I’m not going to pretend I do. If Dad calls it weakness and tries to beat me for it, I’ll handle it.
I’ve had years of practice.
I glance at the man beside me and frown. I’ll have to tell Dad we have a survivor. Announce it to him in a way that twists the idea of taking a prisoner into something advantageous to him.
Maybe I can make him believe the man is a trophy guaranteed to improve our standing within the village? Someone the elders can question so we can get current news about things happening in the northern city-states—the ones we rarely hear about?
Dad might go for that.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say.
“Who gave you permission to do that?” Dad asks, yanking an arrow from the forehead of a man to my left.
I set my jaw, and continue calmly. “The elders are so used to us protecting the borders, they’ve forgotten to appreciate the service we provide.”
Dad straightens abruptly, and I feel the heat of his glare even though darkness shadows his features. “What are you talking about, boy? We’re respected.”
“We’re feared.”
“What’s the difference? The elders know that if they don’t pay us our due, we could let the next band of scavengers destroy the village.”
Actually, I think the elders are afraid that if they don’t pay us our due, we could slit their throats as they sleep. But I don’t say that.
“They don’t realize we can be valuable for more than
this
.” I gesture at the bodies scattered across the forest floor. Sensing movement from the man behind me, I speak louder. “What if we brought them a prisoner? Someone who had information about what’s going on in the northern city-states? Surely providing a prisoner for them to question would be worth more money and more respect.”
Dad doesn’t have a chance to answer. Instead, the man behind me moans, a guttural sound of pain that instantly ends the discussion.
I close my eyes and feel sick as Dad steps past me.
“We got ourselves a survivor,” he says, kicking the man in the stomach.
Willow climbs over the body of a man at the edge of the clearing and heads our way. The sickness in me spreads.
“He’s unarmed. We could bring him to the elders—”
“We don’t take prisoners, Quinn.” The note of finality in Dad’s voice warns me not to argue. “Now, I’ve had my fun for the night. Who wants him?”
Bending closer to the ground, I plunge my gloved hand into the snow so I can scrub the arrow clean.
I can’t convince Dad to take the man prisoner. Either I stand back and let this unfold in front of me, or I defy my father and give the man a quick death. Dread sinks heavily into the pit of my stomach as I consider my meager choices.
Dad hauls the man to his knees and balances him against his legs as Willow comes to stand beside me. Slowly, I get to my feet and hand her the arrow.
“Come on. Which one of you wants him?” Dad’s tone is less pleasant now. We’ve taken too long to respond to his generous offer. His eyes slide past me and rest on Willow. I’m hurtling toward the inevitable. I see it in the way he smiles at her, the way she’s already shrugged off the carnage behind her, the curiosity on her face as she assesses the injured man.
I look in her eyes, and I see my father peeking through.
How many more can she kill outside the heat of battle before she forgets to remember they’re human? Before the coldness that lurks inside of her takes over?
My pulse pounds, and my skin feels flushed. I was wrong. Those who protect their sisters even if it costs them everything aren’t brave. They’re desperate.
Willow says, “I’ll take him.”
“He’s mine.” I shoulder my way in front of her, my knife already in my hand. My heart feels like a stone carved into my chest. The truth that bloomed inside of me moments ago wilts beneath the realization that I
can
kill an unarmed man if it means my sister doesn’t have to.
“Oh, ho! Look who suddenly has a taste for blood.” Dad’s laughter clings to me like a disease.
“Hey! I claimed him!” Willow says.
I can ignore them both. But I can’t ignore the pleading in the eyes of the man on his knees. His gaze burns into me, another black mark on my soul.
I swallow, though there’s no spit left in my mouth, and raise my knife. Better my soul than Willow’s. At least mine still knows how to feel guilt.
“How do you want him?” Dad asks, and pulls the man to his feet. The man struggles briefly against Dad’s grip. “Looks like he’s got some life in him yet. Maybe we should let him run. Give him a little head start before you hunt him down. Been a while since you’ve done any decent hunting at night.”
The dread crawling through me bites the back of my throat. This isn’t a game. This is someone’s
life
.
Willow steps forward, and I block her with my body. Dad releases the man.
“Run, you worthless scavenger! Run!” Dad laughs again, and tosses one of his knives to Willow as she tries to get past me again. “Both of you can hunt him. May the best one win.”
I close the distance between myself and the highwayman in two steps and slice my blade through his throat before he can move. He stumbles back, half raises one hand to his throat, and then crumples. His blood gushes onto the ground, a fast-blooming rose consuming the snow beneath him. I turn away and struggle to breathe past the sudden tightness in my chest.
“What was that?” Dad strides forward and slams his fist into my chest. “What was
that
, Quinn? What?”
I absorb the blow like I’ve absorbed every blow he’s aimed my way the last few years, and meet Willow’s eyes instead.
“We didn’t come here to hunt an injured, unarmed man. We didn’t come to torture and kill for sport. We came to protect the village.” I look at the ground, at the river of blood creeping toward my boots, and say, “It’s finished.”
Dad grabs the front of my coat and shakes me. “I say when it’s finished, boy. We do things
my
way.”
The man’s eyes are open, staring at the silver-studded sky without blinking. I know I’ll see him in my sleep, another face joining all the others that haunt me.
Dragging my eyes from the man, I look at Dad. “Either way, he’s dead. But this way, maybe we keep a little piece of our integrity.”
Dad’s face grows ugly with rage. “You think protecting the village costs us our integrity?” His fist plows into me again. “We’re warriors! We’re respected because everyone knows what will happen to them if they don’t give us the honor we deserve.”
“Dad, don’t!” Willow tries to come between us, but he shoves her to the ground.
The dam of restraint I’ve built up over the years cracks as she sprawls at our feet, and I clench my fists. “What’s honorable about taking joy in killing? What’s honorable about torturing injured men to death just because they’re at our mercy?”
“We don’t show mercy!” He’s screaming.
I block his next punch, and catch his other fist as it swings toward my face. Crushing his hand in mine, I push him until his back is against the nearest tree. The air leaves his chest in a painful gasp as I slam him against the bark.
For a moment, he’s afraid. His eyes slide past me, looking for options, and for one terrible second, I imagine ending it. Breaking his neck. Freeing us from the disease that flows in our veins because of him.
“Quinn?” Willow is beside me, her hand on my arm, her voice worried.
My fury slowly seeps back behind the dam within me, and I shake away the thought of leaving my father dead on the forest floor.
He stares me down.
“I don’t know when you got to be so thick-skulled, boy. Lord knows I’ve tried to teach you. Lesson number one: Kill or be killed. Lesson number two: We. Do. Not. Show. Mercy,” he says, biting off each word to spit it in my face.
Meeting his eyes, I say with quiet clarity, “I do.”
I release him and step back. He shakes the hand I crushed, and glares at me. “You’re a coward and a fool. Now, clean up this mess. You no longer deserve our help.”
Wrapping his arm around Willow’s shoulders, he pulls her toward the village, leaving me with nothing but the echo of his words and the ghosts of those I’ve killed.
S
omething hard lands on my chest, jerking me out of a fitful sleep. Instantly, I lunge out of bed, landing in a crouch, fists clenched while I whip my head around to find the threat.
“If you take a swing at me, I’ll knock out your teeth.” Willow stands a few yards from my bed, her dark hair lit from behind by the morning sunlight that forces its way through the cracks in my wooden shutters.
“That’s harsh. My teeth are my one good feature.”
Willow cocks her head to study me. “You have a good feature?”
“Do you have to be so insulting this early in the morning?” I ask, forcing myself to relax, even though my heart still pounds a frantic tempo against my chest.
“I see we’re using the word ‘insulting’ when really we mean ‘incredibly smart.’” Willow smirks, but there’s a shadow behind her gaze. A shadow I know I’ll see in my own eyes when I look in the ancient, cracked mirror that hangs from the back of my door.
It’s the residue of death. Of scrubbing blood from your fingers and guilt from your soul.
A few days of peace will banish the shadow from Willow’s eyes. How long until a few days becomes a few hours? How long until, like our father, killing doesn’t bother her at all?
“You’ve got that look again,” Willow says quietly as I turn away from her and bend to pick up the object she threw against my chest.
“What look?” It’s a book—leather worn shiny and thin, spine cracked with age. I open it slowly and read the title page:
The Collected Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson
.
“The look that says you’re thinking things that are only going to get you into trouble.”
Ignoring her words, I thumb past a few pages. The paper feels slippery and frail. “This is poetry.”
Willow snorts. “You have a stunning grasp of the obvious. I figured it was something you’d like. Just don’t tell Dad. He said you didn’t deserve anything.”
“Where did this come from?” I look up from the book in time to catch the worry in her eyes before she blinks it away.
“From the loot we recovered last night.”
“The things we took from the highwaymen we killed,” I say, because I want her to remember that everything we gained had a price.
She nudges one bare toe against the braided rug that rests on my floor. “They were threatening the village, Quinn.”
“They were.” I hold her gaze. “But once they were injured and disarmed, they weren’t a threat anymore. Don’t you ever consider the possibility that we go too far? That Dad
forces
us to go too far?”
She shakes her head, a quick movement designed to cut me off before I say too much. “
Stop
it. If you keep questioning Dad, he’s going to hurt you.” Her throat seems to close over the words, and she glares at me like it’s my fault she’s having trouble speaking.
“It’s not me I’m worried about.” I run my fingers over the book’s spine, feeling the jagged ridges in the well-used leather as they catch under my skin. “It’s you. He asks more of you every day.”
“I can handle it.”
“He pushes you—”
“I said I can handle it.” Her voice snaps, a quick flash of anger that isn’t really aimed at me. “I’m doing what I have to do to survive.”
I step closer to her. “So am I.”
The worry doesn’t leave her eyes. “What you’re doing is going to get you killed.”
“I can handle it.”
“Not if I’m the one Dad orders to do the killing.” Her voice is as hard as the wooden floor beneath us, but the death-shadow on her face darkens.
I close the distance between us and bump her shoulder with mine. “Do you trust me?”
Her dark eyes meet mine, and a long look—a look full of shared horrors and years’ worth of scars—passes between us. “You know you’re the only one that I trust.”
I nod my head, willing her to believe me. “We’re going to be okay.
You’re
going to be okay. I just need a little time to think things through and figure out how to handle Dad.”
“No one handles Dad.”
“I will. I promise.”
Hope flares briefly in my sister’s eyes and then fades as the sound of our father’s angry voice cuts through the house, his tirade punctuated by drunken sobs from our mother.
“I won’t hold you to that,” Willow says as she slips over to my window, pulls the shutters away from the opening, and climbs out of my room and into the spacious oak that serves as the main pillar for our tree house.
The shutters fall against the window as she disappears, leaving me with poetry in my hands, a promise on my lips, and my father’s fury ringing in my ears.