Reign of Outlaws Page 12

  Mallet sat at her desk and fumed.

  He hadn’t called.

  The hoodlum’s piggybacked broadcast had aired all over Sherwood, every hour, on the hour, since dawn.

  Still, Crown hadn’t called. Apparently he was making good on his promise not to rely on Mallet anymore. That was a mistake, Ignomus. A big one.

  Crown underestimated Mallet. He underestimated Robyn. Most of all, he underestimated the people of Sherwood. Their willingness to sacrifice, to fight teemed right below the surface of their obedience. Could he not see it?

  If not, he was a fool. More so than Mallet had realized.

  She would not make the same mistakes.

  She resented the power the hoodlum held over the people of Sherwood: the power to dazzle, inspire, move them to action. In time, that power would become Mallet’s own.

  The techs in the basement were working overtime, tracking the location of the missing books. Each one, with its barcode, could be tracked within the library, the librarian had said. If each could be tracked within those walls, why not within the entire county?

  She would find those books, and the knowledge they contained would help her on her journey. The clues within—the very clues Robyn herself was likely following—would give Mallet all she needed to predict the hoodlum’s next moves and take back control.

  Soon, it would be her time. Mallet could feel the power growing inside her. She fingered the black-and-white pendant on its chain.

  Soon. And then, no one would be able to stand in her way.

  Merryan found herself back in her uncle’s suite again. Not for the first time today. Or the second. Seeing where he really lived made her feel like she could understand him better.

  This time she stood in the bathroom and studied all the fixtures. The toilet and sink were a glossy white, the shower lined with gray stone tiles. The shower was quite large, really. Merryan stepped inside. It had a part in it that was L-shaped, a little indentation in the wall.

  It had a low tile lip, grooved like an extra little soap dish, located about a quarter of the way up. She supposed for a lady, it would be the kind of place you could rest your foot while you shaved your legs.

  She raised her foot onto the lip. Yes, it was about the right height for—whoa!

  She wobbled and fell forward. She raised her arms to stop herself from falling into the wall, but the wall was moving.

  She stumbled into a small closetlike room. Like the rest of the suite, the secret space was relatively spare. It was no treasure trove of secret objects, just one small trunk, barely bigger than a microwave. And a slender, high-backed armchair.

  The trunk contained photographs. Dozens or hundreds.

  Merryan had been wrong about her uncle. He wasn’t completely cold. He was full of a sadness so intensely private, he literally hid it behind a wall and locked it away.

  Walking out of the bathroom, Merryan froze. She found herself face-to-face with Crown. “Uh, Uncle Iggy,” she stammered.

  Her uncle took her by the arm and led her from the room.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered as they walked quickly through the mansion halls. “I was just … I didn’t know—”

  “You want to know who I am.” He spoke matter-of-factly, with overwhelming calm. “Come with me.”

  “Why?” Merryan whispered.

  Crown flicked the question away with an arc of his eyebrow.

  He led her down into the dungeon. Merryan refrained from explaining that she had been down there before. That she knew what they would find there. It was not likely to help her case.

  But she was surprised.

  The women were not seated on the earth floor as they had been the previous times Merryan had been down here. Now, they were chained to the wall. There were only two of them, wrists bound up above their heads, by wrist cuffs that looped through a chain on a hook. Their heads drooped. One was Mrs. Loxley. Merryan recognized the swirling crown of hair on her head, though she did not raise her head. On the arms and legs of both women, bruises erupted. They had been abused, manhandled. Interrogated.

  “This is what happens to my enemies,” Crown informed her. “This, or worse.”

  Merryan did not know what to say. “I thought they escaped,” she said finally, averting her eyes. “I thought that’s why you’ve been angry about my friends.”

  “Some escaped,” said Crown. “Most. But we are tracking them down.” He watched her closely for a moment, then he started to head back up the hallway. “Come along.”

  “You can’t leave them there, like that,” Merryan protested. “You have to let them down. They’re not supposed to be chained.”

  “You misunderstand the way the world works,” Crown responded. “I can do anything I want.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Cracking the Code

  Come afternoon, Robyn was still sitting among Tucker’s books, trying to make sense of the puzzle pieces before her. She had Bridger’s cloth scraps, Bridger’s stick, a page on which she’d written the full curtain message.

  She had found a few passages here and there that contained the curtain-scrap words:

  “Soul of the people, speak with one voice”

  “Like the tip of an arrow, hope spears the heart”

  “Heart of the elements, flame renews life”

  But just like the original curtain, these few cryptic sentences served only to confuse her further. The map had seemingly nothing more to give. The box wouldn’t open. The stick—well, it was just a random stick, wasn’t it? She picked it up.

  It looked quite smooth, but it had some roughness on the edges. Robyn looked a little closer. The ends of the stick were not quite as sticklike as they first appeared. They were tapered, almost like a—Robyn gasped.

  Like a key!

  She grabbed the box, and stuck the end of the stick into the lock. It turned!

  Bridger had given her the answer all along. The arrow is the key … Robyn opened the box. Hinged in the middle, it fell open easily to reveal two small items. One half held a stone arrowhead. The other half, a bundle of feathers. She pulled them out.

  Suddenly it was obvious what to do. She took the stick and fixed the items to either end. This arrow symbolism was familiar. Water, earth, air …

  Robyn’s heart sped up. It was happening. She was finding the clues. Something was going to give. Somehow the answer would present itself. She held the arrow and stared at it, waiting. The answer was here. It had to be.

  Footsteps on the creaky old stairs barely registered with her. A gruff voice behind her said, “It’s looking downright scholarly in here.”

  Chazz eased up alongside Robyn and glanced at the books on the table. At the arrow in her hand.

  “What does it mean?” she asked. The question wasn’t only for him. It was for the air, the earth, the water, the elusive fire. A question for the Shadows and the Light.

  “I guess it means you are the one,” Chazz mused.

  A burst of frustration surged through her chest. “But what does it mean?”

  Chazz chuckled. “What do you think I know that you don’t?”

  Robyn shrugged. “You lied before.” She whispered the truth out loud. “I’m not sure if I am the one, or if there even IS a ‘one.’ ” She looked accusingly at Chazz. “You probably don’t know, either.”

  He gazed back at her thoughtfully. “I guess none of us really know. It’s a matter of faith.”

  Robyn shook her head. It wasn’t enough. In the moment of silence that followed, she touched each clue again. Her hand glossed over the arrow Bridger had given her. The image in her mind now had nothing to do with the moon lore, but the fear in his face as the MPs had seized him.

  The first time that happened Robyn had rushed forward to save him. Why hadn’t she done that this time? Why had she run away like a scared child, only interested in her own well-being? She was supposed to be the one who could defeat the MPs. She was supposed to be the hero.

  Chazz’s hand fo
llowed hers. He picked up the arrow. “Everything we believe is fragile,” he said. “They would have us believe it has all been destroyed. Or that it was never real to begin with.” He held the slim wooden arrow shaft in his palm and extended it toward her. “Do you know what this is?”

  Robyn shook her head. It had seemed small. Unimportant.

  “The Arrow of Truth. One of many emblems that was allegedly destroyed.”

  “Emblems?” Robyn echoed.

  Chazz shrugged. “The Arrow of Truth. The Pendant of Power. The … uh … there was a third thing, of course.”

  Robyn reached for the books again. She had the arrow. Mallet had the pendant. What could be the third thing? If she found it, could it help her?

  “Look, here’s what I do know,” Chazz said. “Someone has to step up. And maybe it is written.”

  Robyn was already busy skimming pages. “Okay, maybe I’m blessed by the moon and everything about my story is preordained, but what if it isn’t? What if there’s more to figure out?”

  “Does the story make you feel more powerful?” Chazz mused. “Believing it was written, that it’s your destiny and calling—does that make it easier to step up?”

  Robyn thought about this. “It makes it harder, I think. To know that everyone is looking at me.”

  Chazz’s face lit up with sudden recognition. “The Cradle of Hope. That was the third strand.”

  “Strand? Like the braid?”

  Chazz shook his head. “I don’t have answers, girlie.”

  Robyn felt more words coming. She didn’t want to say them to Chazz, but he was right there, and he seemed to be listening. “Where are the answers? Why can’t I see them? All I see is the work laid out in front of me. Written or not, I could run from this place. I have a bike and some paper money and I could look for the edges of Nott City and just keep on driving. Like Dad said I should. Like you said I should.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Honestly? “The thing inside me, the part of me that burns, it won’t let me. I don’t know if it’s written. I don’t know if it comes from the moon or the shadows, or if it’s just the way of my own heart. But I can’t let my parents down. I can’t let the people down.”

  “Then I guess you have your answer.”

  “I started this hoodlum thing, and now their lives are on the line. Because of me. They can’t have given up everything for me to do nothing.”

  Sacrifice. The word kept floating in and out of her mind. Sacrifice … like Laurel had done, and Tucker, and her mom. Like Bridger, too.

  “I have to be worth it,” she whispered. “Everyone is putting all their hopes in me. I have to become something better than myself, to be worth it.”

  Robyn stared at the books in desperation. In her heart of hearts, she knew there had to be more.

  Robyn ran her fingers through her shortened hair, wishing she could draw upon the strength of the absent braid.

  She had found plenty of references to the “Arrow of Truth,” the “Pendant of Power,” the “Cradle of Hope,” and so on. The curtain words were turning out to be somewhat common in the mix, but she didn’t find them coming together in any way that felt like a message to her.

  It was looking bleak.

  The one who will come as the Fire brings new light to the people in shadow.

  Sure.

  An arrow pierces the heart as surely as the light pierces the shadows.

  Okay.

  The flame that can flow as blood creates life even in the lee of the strongest boulder.

  Whatever.

  Tucked in between pages of one of the books, she found a sheet of paper with Tucker’s handwriting. An excerpt from his dissertation? A quote from another book? The notations were unclear, but the message was legible:

  You’re clinging to things of the distant past. Put your eye to the future instead.

  Further down, it read:

  The shrines have burned. You want to have faith because your father has faith. But the world is not black and white. The answers aren’t written in curtains or texts. It’s you, in the world, who finds the answers.

  Robyn slammed the book shut on the paper. This was no help.

  She had only twenty-four hours. It was a matter of life and death, which felt pretty black and white to her. If mystical energies were going to converge upon her, and transform her into some kind of hero, they had better do it soon.

  The braid shop was a dead end. And it was still dangerous to try to get back to the tree house. Too many guards, too much risk. But … it might be the only chance she had left.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Unintended Consequences

  “Nottingham Cathedral?” Mallet listened as the lab tech explained his work to locate the library books.

  “Well, that’s as close as we can estimate, yeah. They must be somewhere within a block of there, one direction or another. The barcodes are not designed to work outside the library walls. The farther the distance from the system itself, the broader the location results are bound to be.”

  “Good enough,” Mallet said. “I’ll head over there now.”

  Nottingham Cathedral had been boarded up for some years now. From the looks of the place, it was likely condemned. Mallet circled the block, studying the neighboring buildings. None looked like a desirable place to study. She had been expecting apartment buildings, a row of houses, a coffee shop or restaurant. Any place a college student might frequent. But instead, everything here was commercial and industrial. With a great deal boarded up, to boot.

  The older man appeared as if from nowhere. One moment the block was empty. The next, there he was, hunched and hurrying, his shoulders tucked forward as if he was warding off rainfall.

  “Ma’am,” he said, tapping his forehead as if to tip his hat to her. Mallet nodded, then turned to watch him as he passed. His hand stayed raised, along the side of his face, as if to conceal his scruff of beard, or the scar along his jaw, or the strange crook of his broad nose. He circled around a corner, and she began to follow after him. Instinct.

  Something was up here.

  Where had he come from? Why did he look so familiar?

  Mallet tapped her PalmTab. “Get me a secure perimeter around Nottingham Cathedral.”

  Tucker’s sweaty fingers slipped from the wheelbarrow handle. The barrow listed to the side, spilling half of its contents back onto the ground. Great. As he bent to scoop up the spilled gravel, his body complained about the motions. He was still wounded and sore all over.

  The sound of bursting voices erupted behind him. Tucker immediately regretted the impulse to turn and look. A trio of guards thumped across the gravel toward him. One had an arm outstretched, pointing in Tucker’s direction.

  “Oh no. Oh boy.” Tucker started to panic. They had seen him slip. They were coming to punish him.

  “It’s okay,” Robert said from alongside him. “One spill is not a big deal.” He leaned on his shovel handle and studied the men approaching them. He added, “This is about something else.”

  The guards stormed up to them. “Loxley?”

  Robert nodded shortly.

  “Come with us.” The guards grasped him by the arms. “Looks like it’s your turn to take the stage.”

  Everyone paused their work as Robert was taken away from the gravel camp. When he was gone, the other men clustered closer to Tucker with their shovels. Helping him clean up his wheelbarrow spill was a good excuse to get close enough to talk.

  “What did they say?”

  “Not much.” Tucker repeated the exchange. He righted the wheelbarrow and held it while the others worked to fill it back up. The cuts and bruises on his back made it painful to move his muscles. But he had no choice.

  “Another showcase?” one of the men muttered. “Already?”

  “You said it would be once every week,” Tucker said. “Why is it happening the next day?”

  No one knew the answer, but everyone grew agitated, wondering.

  C
HAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Warnings

  Key leaned back in the creaky desk chair and propped his feet on the corner of the desk. He stared at the chipped plaster ceiling. His thinking pose.

  Currently, he was thinking about drawers. All the lonely compartments within a single block of wood. All the things they contained.

  He knew without looking that the drawers in this desk had brass handles. Except for the one that was missing a handle, the one they could never get open. He wondered what was in it. Wondering what was in it made him think about secrets. And mysteries. All the drawers of the world he could not figure out how to open.

  The problem with being a thinker and a planner was that you always needed to know all the facts in order to think things through and make a good plan. He liked arithmetic and long division, not algebra. Real life was too much like algebra. There was always an unknown.

  Robyn was like a person-version of algebra, Key thought. Always a puzzle to everyone else, and always thinking she was solving something.

  She had no idea the length of the struggle that had preceded her. No sense of the history. She thought of the moment things changed for her as the beginning of everything. Her life had been perfect, up until a few months ago. Robyn didn’t talk so much about her home, but Laurel had described it. The large white house with too many rooms to count. The wide sweeping lawn. The cameras. It all told a story.

  Key tried not to be jealous of Robyn’s easy Castle District life. He reminded himself how much worse his life might have been if he had been raised there like she was. There was no use imagining. He felt guilty for even thinking about it. He had been raised in a poor but loving family, although they were gone now, and he didn’t much want to think about that, either.

  The drawers in this desk had smoothed edges after years of finger touching. They had probably been opened hundreds of times. They tended to stick. You had to give them a good tug.

  He tugged slightly on the drawer handle. Listened to the sound of sliding, rolling. The sound alone was satisfying.