place, the sling already swinging, even though Colin couldn’t remember reloading. A sheet of white rage fell over him, blinded him to everything but Walter, writhing on the ground, everything but the sound of the cords of the sling as he whirled it at his side, everything but the remembered taste of bitter blood in his mouth and the stench of his own urine soaking his breeches.
“That was for my father!” he yelled, moving forward slowly, his voice wild, cracking with emotion. He let the second stone fly, the rock catching Walter hard in the chest. “And that was for my mother!” Walter groaned and rolled away, hands between his legs, body curled into a tight ball, his fine clothes covered with dust and dirt from the street.
Colin had moved too close to use the sling. He circled the Proprietor’s son, blood pounding in his ears as he glared down at him. “And this is for me.”
He kicked Walter in the stomach, hard, as hard as he could. He wanted to see him piss his pants, wanted him to taste blood, but the arms that protected Walter’s balls also protected his gut. The kick landed awkwardly, and with it, all of the intensity of Colin’s rage and terror fled. He stood over Walter’s body, breathing hard, body flushed, the prickling sensation in his skin feverish now, sticky. He wiped at his nose with one hand, realized that tears streaked his face, hot tears, but he didn’t care. The urge—the need —to beat Walter unconscious died.
He turned, glanced at Brunt’s prone form, at Gregor’s, shame mingling with the heat of anger. He’d imagined running away from the encounter triumphant, laughing like a maniac, grinning like a madman.
Instead, he scrubbed the tears and snot from his face with one arm, cast one last glance at Walter where he lay, moaning and rocking back and forth in the dirt—
Then he turned and walked away, head down.
His mother knew something was wrong the moment he pushed through the entrance to the hut. He hadn’t expected her to be there, had thought she’d be out to the north of Lean-to, where the refugees had claimed and dug up their own section of land, had planted and now tended their own crops. A plot of ground small enough for Sartori to ignore but enough to provide Lean-to with some fresh vegetables.
“Colin?” she asked, setting the cloth she was stitching down in her lap. “Colin, what’s wrong?”
He couldn’t look at her. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he stalked over to his pallet, tossed his satchel and sling to one side, and collapsed onto the blanket, lying with his back to the rest of the hut, his arms crossed over his chest, hands hugging his shoulders. He still felt overheated, the skin of his face tight, and his chest ached. So much that it was difficult to breathe.
He stared at the back wall of the hut, at the planks his father had bought when they’d first arrived in Portstown. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. He felt lost. He didn’t know what to think, didn’t know how to feel. He knew he shouldn’t have led Walter to that back street. He knew it.
Yet part of him thrilled at the idea that it had worked . Part of him reveled in the bewildered expression on Brunt’s face before he collapsed, in the terror on Gregor’s when he’d seen the sling.
And he couldn’t keep his mouth from twitching into a tight smile when he heard Walter’s scream of pain as the first stone caught him in the balls.
Colin shuddered, trapped between the smile and the feverish guilt, then stilled as he heard the rustle of shifting clothes behind him, his mother moving closer, then kneeling at his back.
He flinched when she laid her hand over his.
“Colin, what happened?”
He drew breath to answer . . . but couldn’t. Because he knew she’d be angry, after everything she’d taught him about the Codex of Diermani, after everything he’d learned.
But her disappointment in him would be worse.
“Nothing.” His voice sounded thick and hoarse, deeper
“That was for my father!” he yelled, moving forward slowly, his voice wild, cracking with emotion. He let the second stone fly, the rock catching Walter hard in the chest. “And that was for my mother!” Walter groaned and rolled away, hands between his legs, body curled into a tight ball, his fine clothes covered with dust and dirt from the street.
Colin had moved too close to use the sling. He circled the Proprietor’s son, blood pounding in his ears as he glared down at him. “And this is for me.”
He kicked Walter in the stomach, hard, as hard as he could. He wanted to see him piss his pants, wanted him to taste blood, but the arms that protected Walter’s balls also protected his gut. The kick landed awkwardly, and with it, all of the intensity of Colin’s rage and terror fled. He stood over Walter’s body, breathing hard, body flushed, the prickling sensation in his skin feverish now, sticky. He wiped at his nose with one hand, realized that tears streaked his face, hot tears, but he didn’t care. The urge—the need —to beat Walter unconscious died.
He turned, glanced at Brunt’s prone form, at Gregor’s, shame mingling with the heat of anger. He’d imagined running away from the encounter triumphant, laughing like a maniac, grinning like a madman.
Instead, he scrubbed the tears and snot from his face with one arm, cast one last glance at Walter where he lay, moaning and rocking back and forth in the dirt—
Then he turned and walked away, head down.
His mother knew something was wrong the moment he pushed through the entrance to the hut. He hadn’t expected her to be there, had thought she’d be out to the north of Lean-to, where the refugees had claimed and dug up their own section of land, had planted and now tended their own crops. A plot of ground small enough for Sartori to ignore but enough to provide Lean-to with some fresh vegetables.
“Colin?” she asked, setting the cloth she was stitching down in her lap. “Colin, what’s wrong?”
He couldn’t look at her. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he stalked over to his pallet, tossed his satchel and sling to one side, and collapsed onto the blanket, lying with his back to the rest of the hut, his arms crossed over his chest, hands hugging his shoulders. He still felt overheated, the skin of his face tight, and his chest ached. So much that it was difficult to breathe.
He stared at the back wall of the hut, at the planks his father had bought when they’d first arrived in Portstown. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. He felt lost. He didn’t know what to think, didn’t know how to feel. He knew he shouldn’t have led Walter to that back street. He knew it.
Yet part of him thrilled at the idea that it had worked . Part of him reveled in the bewildered expression on Brunt’s face before he collapsed, in the terror on Gregor’s when he’d seen the sling.
And he couldn’t keep his mouth from twitching into a tight smile when he heard Walter’s scream of pain as the first stone caught him in the balls.
Colin shuddered, trapped between the smile and the feverish guilt, then stilled as he heard the rustle of shifting clothes behind him, his mother moving closer, then kneeling at his back.
He flinched when she laid her hand over his.
“Colin, what happened?”
He drew breath to answer . . . but couldn’t. Because he knew she’d be angry, after everything she’d taught him about the Codex of Diermani, after everything he’d learned.
But her disappointment in him would be worse.
“Nothing.” His voice sounded thick and hoarse, deeper
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