Passion's Exile by Glynnis Campbell

let go of his weapon.
    He heard another shiver of leaves—a wren this time, flitting among the branches.
    But a larger movement drew his eye, and he slipped behind a fat sycamore trunk to observe. Through the maze of saplings, he spied Guillot. The timid youth, with his woven satchel slung over one bony shoulder, was groping along the bole of an oak. A finch flew past the lad’s head, and the boy ducked in panic. His gaze darted nervously around the forest, and fear drained the color from his face.
    As Blade watched, the lad reached into the hollow bole, wincing distastefully at whatever skittering creatures lurked there, then withdrew his arm. Into the hollow went the satchel. Then the boy picked up a stone and scratched an X into the trunk above the bole. When he was done, he dropped the rock, wiped his hands on his breeches, hastily scanning the woods, then scurried toward the spot where Blade waited.
    Blade stepped out from his hiding place to intercept the lad. But when he caught the youth by the shoulders, the poor lad instantly went as limp as a dead dove. Indeed, Blade didn’t so much restrain the lad as hold him upright. If Guillot was part of a murder plot, Blade thought, he must be someone else’s instrument, for the boy’s heart was clearly too weak for intrigue.
    “Please do not kill me.” His voice was as thin as thread, colored by a faint French accent, and tears welled in his wide eyes. “Do not kill me. You can have it. You can have it all.”
    “Shh. I won’t kill ye. I just want to know what mischief ye’re up to.”
    “I meant to give it back. I swear I did. Only do not…do not tell him. Do not tell him it was me.” Then he began sniffling like a child, and ‘twas all Blade could do to calm the pitiful lad.
    “What did ye take?” he asked gently. “What did ye leave in that tree?”
    “S-s-silver, my master’s silver.” He clutched at Blade’s shirt, pleading with him. “I wouldn’t have taken it, but I had no coin of my own.”
    He frowned. “Ye wish me to have pity on a thief?”
    The boy clamped his lips together, stifling his sobs. “I’m no thief. I know that now. That’s why I left the silver there. I mean to send word to him where it is hidden.”
    “So, a remorseful thief.”
    The boy sank his head onto his chest in shame.
    Blade sighed and glanced at the oak where he’d cached the silver. There must be more to the story. “This man is your master?”
    He swallowed hard and nodded.
    “And ye are his…”
    “His apprentice, a locksmith.”
    He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “Why would ye have need o’ his silver? A master provides for his apprentices.”
    Guillot’s chin trembled, and tears welled anew. He whispered something, but Blade couldn’t hear it.
    “What? Speak up.”
    But the lad buried his face in his hands to hide his weeping. Blade reached into his pouch, whipping out a cloth to dry the boy’s tears, but to his surprise, the gesture made Guillot recoil in terror, throwing his arms in front of his face.
    “‘Tis only a cloth,” he murmured, showing the youth. Then Blade glanced at the boy’s upraised wrists. They were purple with recent bruises. More mottling he hadn’t noticed before ringed the lad’s throat in shades of sickly yellow and green.
    He swallowed hard. ‘Twasn’t the first time he’d seen signs of abuse. Images of Julian, his brother’s wife, flashed through his mind unbidden—a blackened eye, a bruised cheek, a burned hand. His fury rose like a roused wolf, the way it always had with Julian. But he was older now, and wiser, and instead of lashing out against the injustice, he leashed the beast and let the anger growl inside him.
    “Your master beats ye,” he murmured with far more calm than he felt.
    His blunt statement surprised the lad. He lowered his arms and self-consciously tugged his sleeves down over the bruises.
    “And ye ran away,” Blade guessed.
    Despite his shaking limbs and spindly frame, Guillot’s words