Redemption Page 11

slow down your mind, allows a person to see clearly. And, if things are meant to be between you and...?'

  'Alyssa.'

  'Between you and Alyssa, then they may yet have a way of working themselves out in the end.'

  Winterburne turned back to the window. A skein of geese in perfect formation crossed the sky, free and without care. The irony was not lost on him and he longed to be able to capture the feeling that those creatures no doubt felt.

  'I'll leave you to settle in, now,' Amanda said.

  Winterburne turned to the woman. 'I would like to see Robert.'

  'Of course,' she replied. 'He has been told that you are here.'

  'What did he say?'

  Amanda shook her head, and a sad look crossed her face. 'Robert never says anything.'

  Winterburne frowned.

  'Settle yourself, and then find me in my chambers. We can see him together.' Lady Amanda walked across to the door and opened it, turning just before she left the room. 'But, Thomas,' she said, 'do not expect too much.' Then, she walked out into the corridor and closed the door behind her.

  Winterburne turned and made his way back to the bed. He sat on the edge and looked around the room. It really was the same. His memories of this place were so mixed; it had been his home for such a long time, and yet, despite the kindness and generosity that he had always received from this family, it was not home in his heart. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands.

  oOo

  As Winterburne entered, the room had an air of sadness that was almost palpable, or at least it seemed so to him. It was dark too, as if all the brightness and warmth had been sucked out of the world and a wall built around it to prevent what remained from re-entering. Across the chamber, a small fire burned in the hearth, crackling as it tried to make itself known, and a large bed made up with furs and heavy drapes hanging from the frame, stood on the opposite wall. A high-backed chair had been positioned in front of the fireplace in which Robert sat, a heavy woven rug spread over his legs. He grasped tightly onto the arms of his chair and stared into the flames, but there was no acknowledgement from him that anyone had entered his chamber.

  'Is he always like this?' Winterburne asked

  'Always,' Lady Amanda replied.

  'And he never says anything?'

  Amanda shook her head. 'He rarely lifts his head to look into the eyes of his carers.' She looked over at her son, a look of despair on her face. 'It is as if he has lost all hope.'

  'Perhaps he has.' Winterburne walked across to where his step-brother sat and knelt at the side of the chair, taking his hand and squeezing it tight. He looked up at Lady Amanda. 'He is so cold.'

  She nodded. 'Truly, I do not know what else to do.'

  Winterburne looked at the man's face, but his eyes were still focussed on the flickering flames and had not moved to look at him.

  'Robert?' he said.

  His brother blinked, but showed no outward signs of having heard him.

  'Robert,' Winterburne said, again. 'It's me, Robert. It's Thomas.'

  Robert's eyes moved to the side, looking up at Winterburne, and just for a moment he thought he could see a glimpse of recognition, as if his words had penetrated deep inside the man to reach wherever it was his soul had fled.

  'It's me,' he said, 'I've come back to see you.'

  Winterburne could feel Robert's grip tighten on his hand, but it was weak and there was no strength in the man's fingers as he grasped his own. With a slow deliberate movement that seemed to take a great deal of effort, Robert lifted his head and looked deep into his eyes.

  'Thomas?' Robert said, his voice weak.

  'Yes, my brother.' Winterburne replied, smiling at him, searching his face. 'I'm back,' he said. 'I'm home.'

  7

  The Twenty-fourth Day of Midspring,

  Imperial Year 2332

  Compared with those of the rest of his men, Conn's tent was large and relatively comfortable although still not so extravagant that they could say he was taking too much advantage of his position. Not that they would dare. A raised cot kept him off the cold floor, and therefore the damp, and the heavy dirty-white canvas covering him provided a sense of security against the elements. A small ironwork brazier, close to a foot square, took its place between his bed and a battered well-used wooden table that had seen better days. But, he thought, as he sat back in his comfortable chair, it would do, and certainly for the time being, this was as good a home as any he had ever had.

  The half-secured door pane of his tent flapped in the breeze that had picked up without warning, something that he had needed to get used to in these hills where the weather often turned faster than a weather vane on a blustery day. At certain times, it was not unusual to see the whole range of rain, sun, sleet, and even hail within a single twenty-four hours. There was also the dreaded winter snow to contend with but he certainly didn't plan on being here for that long.

  He stood and walked across to the door of his tent, stepping outside. The same incessant light drizzle, so typical of this place, fell from the slate-grey skies and he squinted his eyes as the cold rain hit his face. The tented village was strangely quiet today, the men had kept themselves to themselves and had mostly retreated to their own canvas caves. It was something that he had noticed on days following an attack, that the men became withdrawn, and he had learned that it was better to let them be and to allow the experience to fade away in its own good time. And it would, it always did.

  Turning and stepping back inside his tent, he walked over to his table, where he had already placed his chart. It had been rolled tightly but unfurled easily enough and he reached down to his belt, pulling out his dagger, raising it to stab through a corner of the chart and into the desk to hold it in place. He leaned down and picked up the black-iron candle holder, placing it on the other corner to hold the sheet securely.

  Ever since he was a young child he had loved maps. The way that they pretended to be the world in a picture had always fascinated him. They could reveal so much about a town, a province or even the whole country in such a small space, and that had always given him so much food for thought. They could even lie too, tell you things that were not true, or even hint at unspoken secrets deep within lands no longer travelled by mortal men.

  He looked down at the ink-drawn lines. The landscape represented by the chart was instantly recognisable as that in which he was currently camped and he ran his finger down the area that stood for the borderlands. About two-thirds of the way down the range of hills he had marked an "X", to represent the camp's current location. It was time to move, and he knew it. Before much longer these hills would most likely be crawling with Commonwealth troops searching for the men of the Empire that committed the atrocity against their fellow countrymen. He'd planned to be long gone before that day, but it was no small matter to move over fifty people, tents, horses and carts, let alone without being discovered. Still, he thought, they had done it before and they would be able to do it again.

  'Dieter?'

  Spen's voice drifted into the tent and a hand reached in to lift the edge of the canvas flap.

  'Come in, Joachem.'

  Conn continued to pore over the map, although at this point he did not know exactly what it was that he was looking for. When he saw it, though, he would know.

  'Have you decided yet?' Spen pushed his way into the tent and joined Conn at the table.

  'In truth, no.' Conn's finger ran over the chart, down the hills and then across the plains beyond, to the forests south of White Haven City. He looked up at his second. 'If the Hood is truly gone,' he said, 'then we have to find our own employment from now on.'

  'For all these men?'

  Conn nodded. 'It will be difficult.'

  He looked back at the chart.

  'Perhaps,' Spen said, 'it is time that we thought about ditching most of them and setting up business with a much smaller team.'

  Conn liked Spen. He was quick, and h
ad latched on to exactly the same conclusion that he had reached himself, several days earlier. He smiled and looked up at his second again, nodding.

  'But where, though?' Spen asked.

  Conn's finger stopped over the forests and he tapped the chart.

  'I was thinking here.'

  'The Avonfforest?' Spen raised an eyebrow. 'Are you serious? I don't like the thought of that. There are dark places in there, Dieter.' The man looked uncomfortable. 'There are old tales, telling of folk going missing, taken by those fey creatures that live within that dark place. For all we know they could be turned into nightmare things, all twisted and horrible.'

  'Nonsense!' Conn laughed. 'You don't believe those old wives tales too, do you? They're just stories to frighten the children.'

  'And grown-ups. They frighten me, that's for sure.'

  Conn shook his head. Superstition was still widespread outside of the cities, he knew, and the number of people that still believed in the faerievolk never ceased to astonish him.

  'I was thinking about the forests over towards Hereward's Prayer,' he said. 'There should be good pickings around those parts. Plenty of people making their way along the forest trails, and loads of deep glades large enough to set up camp well away from the main highways.'

  Spen's face was pale and serious.

  Conn laughed. 'No doubt you could add to the tales you have heard with some of the gruesome details of your own dark deeds, Joachem.'

  A begrudging smile of his own crossed Spen's face. 'There might be plenty of