John Anderson - The Dungeoneers

He would have to give the money back. That he understood. It wasn’t his to take, though one could make the argument that once he had it, it might as well have been his family’s to keep. He would have to apologize. He imagined there might even be some kind of public spectacle. Maybe they would put him in the stocks. He could stomach that. As long as he could keep both of his hands. If he saw someone with a blade — like that man yesterday, with the ax across his back — Colm had already made up his mind what he would do. He just wasn’t sure where he would go.

By midafternoon, everyone was quiet, and nobody was hungry for once. Colm’s father had been gone too long. The walk into town was only a couple miles. The magistrate was a busy man, of course, but even at that, Rove Candorly should have been home by now. Colm’s mother paced the kitchen, holding a rolling pin, ready to club anyone who dared take her only son.

“Maybe they are finding out who the money belongs to and just giving it back,” she said to nobody in particular. “Maybe they don’t even need an apology from you.” But even through her airy voice, Colm could tell she didn’t believe it. He finished his chores and escaped to his room, rubbing his wrist.

He found Celia sitting on his bed.

“I thought we agreed that I was the problem child,” she said. She was very astute for a ten-year-old. Sharper than her twin sister, though not quite as pretty. Not that Colm thought of them that way. If cornered, he would tell you that none of his sisters was the least bit good-looking.

“Nice to have Dad mad at someone else for a change?” he asked.

Celia shrugged. Colm sat beside her, and she leaned over and settled her head down, the butterfly pin lighting on his shoulder. They both looked out the window at the road.

“What was it like?” she said softly. “I mean, how did it feel, when you took it?”

Colm shook his head, chin rubbing against her hair. He liked it when she leaned on him. It made him feel stronger than he really was. He thought back to yesterday afternoon in the square, the purse strings unraveling, the weight of the coin in his hands. He felt frightened, of course. And nervous. And guilty, he supposed.

But that was all before and after. At the moment, at the very moment when his fingers slipped into the satin pocket or cinched around the silk strings, Colm had felt nothing, only the smooth fabric on the pads of his fingers, only the hollow sound of his own heart beating in his ears. No fear. No guilt. Just the exhilarating rush.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking at his hands again, as he had a hundred times today. “I guess you can’t do the wrong thing, even for the right reasons.”

“Hmph,” Celia said, taking his hands in hers. “I do things just because I want to do them.”

She turned and glanced out Colm’s bedroom window again, and her face blanched. Colm looked to see two figures walking up the path to the house. His father had finally returned.

And he wasn’t alone.

There was the sound of footsteps on the porch outside. Muffled voices. Then the door opened.

Rove Candorly stepped in, his hands chapped with cold. He looked haggard; his eyes were creased with worry. Behind him stepped the second figure. It was certainly not the magistrate. It was someone Colm had never seen before. He was tall and gaunt, the antithesis of Colm’s father. Clean-shaven and hollow cheeked, wearing a long brown cloak that covered a tunic of studded leather and black pants caked in mud. Black leather gloves hugged both hands, and a hood covered the top half of his head, concealing even his eyes.

Colm’s own eyes went instinctively to the man’s belt. There was no coin purse hanging there, but there was a sword. An ivory handle polished smooth and a blade, long and thin, like its owner. That’s the sword that will take off my hand, Colm thought to himself. And this is the man who will take it.

He turned and looked at his mother’s face, her own hands cupped to her mouth to find an armed man in her house. Behind him, Colm’s seven sisters — Seysha was still bedridden for the day — formed a united front. Elmira sat on Kale’s shoulders. Colm remembered what the twins had said to him — tooth and nail — but he didn’t want any of them getting hurt. They hadn’t done anything wrong. This was all on him. He wouldn’t let them get in the way.

“Mina,” Colm’s father said, rubbing his hands together and nodding toward the stranger. “This is Mr. Finn Argos.”

The stranger pulled back his hood, revealing a nest of tangled black hair and penetrating blue eyes. A ragged white scar etched a jagged path across one cheek. He looked young, maybe halfway between the ages of Colm and his father, and save for the one mark, his face was alabaster smooth. He gave Colm a look, a flash that shot straight down the boy’s spine into his bowels, then turned to his mother. His voice purred.

“It’s just Finn,” he said. “And please excuse the intrusion, Mrs. Candorly. I apologize for bothering you at this hour.” Colm realized all his sisters were just staring at the stranger — the older ones with eyes low, lashes up. The stranger noticed as well. “And what a lovely family you have. Seven daughters?”

“Eight,” Mina Candorly corrected. “I’m afraid one isn’t feeling well.”

The stranger shook his head in admiration. “Eight daughters. And each just as beautiful as their mother.” He smiled, revealing a fence of polished teeth, most of them pearl, but punctuated by one each of silver and gold. It was the smile of a man who always gets what he asks for, often without even asking. Colm’s mother blushed, as did two of three triplets. Colm didn’t like this man already. He seemed… slippery, somehow. Rove Candorly cleared his throat.

“Mr. Argos…”

“Finn,” the stranger corrected.

“Mr. Ar — Finn has come a long way,” Colm’s father said. “I’m sure he’s thirsty.”

“Some wine would be much appreciated, if you have it,” the stranger said. “Water, if otherwise.”

Mina Candorly didn’t move, but the four oldest girls tripped over themselves to find a cup. The stranger turned abruptly. “And you must be Colm,” he said, removing his gloves. “A pleasure to meet you.”

The stranger held out his hand and Colm took it tentatively, afraid that this Finn Argos might grab it the way his father had, then reach for his sword with the other, doing the deed right there in the kitchen, making a puddle of blood on the floor. But instead he just took Colm’s hand in his own. Colm noticed the man’s hands were warm, his fingers long and callused.

All four of them.

He was missing one. The last one. The smallest one. Was missing them on both hands, in fact; though judging by the thick spiderweb of tissue, you could tell that he had had them once, unlike Colm.

“I have you beat,” the stranger said, holding up both hands and wiggling eight fingers. Nila handed the man a cup of water — Colm didn’t know the last time his parents had been able to afford wine.

“You say you’ve come a long way,” Colm’s mother pressed, making no attempt to hide her unease. The magistrate’s house was close to the town center. An hour by foot, if you walked slow and tossed stones along the way. How far did you have to go to find someone who could cut off a hand? Weren’t there at least half a dozen butchers in Felhaven? Something didn’t seem right.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is quite a trek from the castle.”

“Castle?” Cally said.

“Are you a prince?” ten-year-old Meera added. Celia slapped her twin’s shoulder.

The stranger laughed. “A prince? Hardly.”

“But you must be a prince, if you live in a castle,” Meera insisted, slapping her sister back.