Grayson placed a gloved hand on the door and nudged it open. The room was small, merely a storage space. A woman sat in the corner, two children curled in her arms, the three of them wrapped in frayed blankets that could not have actually warded off the cold night. The smallest child couldn’t have been more than three years old, the other maybe seven or eight.
Grayson’s jaw tensed. “The soldiers will find you if you stay. They’re going to burn the shop at dawn. You must go.”
The woman’s face was dirt-streaked, and pale brown hair trailed in a thin braid over her shoulder. She obviously didn’t recognize the Black Hand. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have looked at him with such desperate hope burning in her eyes. “I have nowhere to go and Garyn is sick.” Breath rattled out of her, shaking her fragile body. Clearly, the boy wasn’t the only one who was sick. Her eyes watered as she peered up at him. “Please help us.”
He hadn’t expected this. He’d thought the squatters might be Hogan’s family, but he only intended to warn them; they would flee and he’d return to camp. But this woman looked too frail to move herself, let alone two children.
The smallest boy moaned and the woman clutched him to her chest, stroking his grimacing face. The older boy was thin and small. Grayson didn’t have much of a childhood to draw on, but he knew no child should have such terror in their eyes. Fates, he knew that better than most.
His hands curled into fists. “I can carry the boy. I’ll take you to the Julne river. From there you can make your way to Kevid.” He’d already led the soldiers through there. And if they hurried, the Hogans could reach the river and he could run back to camp before sunrise.
The woman’s tearful words of gratitude slurred together, another sign of her illness. Grayson lifted the youngest child and shifted him to one arm, cringing as the hot forehead pressed against the side of his neck.
The mother scrambled to grab their blankets and the older boy shouldered a bag of their sparse belongings.
The shop’s front door creaked open.
Grayson lifted a finger to his lips, a silent order for the mother and older boy, inwardly cursing when he heard Reeve’s low voice. “. . . every corner of this place. We’ll find that thief and her brats. No one steals from the king.”
Grayson counted the footsteps; there were four men, including Reeve. They would discover them within a minute.
The toddler in his arms groaned. Grayson thrust him at his mother and reached for his sword, but before he could draw it the other boy crouched on the floor and silently pried a couple planks from the floor. He went into the hole he’d made and wordlessly took his brother into his arms before disappearing. The mother waved for Grayson to follow as she slipped into the dark cellar.
Grayson slid in behind her, scanning the cramped space below the shop. By the time he got his bearings, moonlight sliced inside from the outer cellar door the mother had pushed open. He didn’t take the time to try and replace the floorboards. He rushed after the small family as they exited the cellar and darted into the night. The mother was in the lead, cradling her sick child, with Grayson and the older boy following right behind.
Reeve’s muted shout tore through the shop. The hole in the floor had been spotted.
Grayson snagged the boy’s thin arm and hauled him toward the tree line, running across the frozen ground. When the child stumbled, Grayson swung him into his arms. If they didn’t make the trees before Reeve got outside . . .
The shouting increased. Grayson bolted behind the first thick tree in the woods and halted, gripping the boy to keep him from squirming.
Torches flared but didn’t come closer. Reeve shouted orders in the yard, organizing a search of the nearby shops and houses. He didn’t know they were in the woods, but he’d figure it out.
Grayson spotted the woman, also huddled against a nearby tree. He kept his voice low. “We need to run.”
Her chin trembled and sweat covered her brow, but she jerked out a nod. Grayson shifted the older boy to his back, ordering the child to hold on. Thin legs locked around Grayson’s waist and thinner arms looped his neck. He took the sick child from the mother, knowing she couldn’t have any extra weight if she was going to keep up.
They’d only been running a couple of minutes when footsteps pounded behind them, tearing through the dead leaves.
“I see them!” Reeve yelled. “To me! To me!”
Grayson shoved the small boy into his mother’s arms. “Keep going,” he ordered, already shrugging the older boy off his back. He itched to pull out his sword, but Reeve had seen him draw it too many times. He might recognize the long blade, even in the dark. He plucked out two knives instead, and when he glanced up he found the older boy peering at him, something like awe in his blue eyes.
“Brant!” the mother snapped, fear coating her voice.
Brant darted after his mother and Grayson lifted the cowl of his cloak to shield his face. Hopefully the night’s darkness would do the rest.
Reeve barreled through the trees, apparently alone. The other soldiers hadn’t caught up yet. Grayson ran to intercept him. For a split second, he considered killing Reeve. No one would know he’d done it, and he’d be free of the spy.
But Henri would grow suspicious, and Grayson was not a murderer. A killer, yes. But if he took Reeve’s life tonight, it would be murder.
Still several paces away, Grayson threw the first dagger. It grazed Reeve’s arm, drawing a pained hiss. Reeve’s eyes flashed and his nostrils flared as he drew his sword.
Grayson swerved and ducked. Reeve swung his sword, but it whistled harmlessly through
