blue – but a question he'd been chewing over for some hours.
"It was a long time ago," Crow said.
"How long?"
"Too much to remember."
Rowan sighed with frustration. "Right."
"You seek a lot of answers," the mage said. "For a man with few to give."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Rowan, you have yet to tell me why you are going to Greyside. Why you are really looking for this Quayle. Why you are not putting the whole business behind you and moving on with your life."
"I can't. I can't do that."
"How come?"
He thought of his wife. Dead. He thought of his children, burned alive in what had been their family home. He thought of the farm where he'd toiled to give them an honest life. And he thought of the bastard responsible: Quayle. He thought, as he often did, of what he would do to Quayle when he found him. How he would kill him as slowly as possible. How he would make Quayle suffer an agonising death.
"What I have to do . . . it's all that's kept me going these years. It's why I joined Larch West and his men. It's why I've done everything I've done. Because at the end of it, I knew I'd catch up with him."
"For pride."
"No!" Rowan snapped. "For what's right. That piece of shit murdered my family in cold blood. I must avenge them. I must see that what needs to happen does so, and by my own hand."
I want to feel his neck in my hands as I squeeze.
"Have you ever considered letting it go? Being the bigger man and letting him live with the knowledge of what he has done?"
I want to stab him in the heart, then twist the blade. Slowly.
"Never."
I want to deliver one punch after the other, keep on hitting until my hands are raw stumps.
"And what will you do after, Rowan? Where will your vengeance lead you then?" Crowstone asked. "When all is said and done."
I want to stand over his mutilated corpse. I want to see him in the dirt. I want his skull under my boot as I stamp down.
"Who knows? I can only think so far," Rowan said. He looked up at the pale white sky. It offered little in the way of revelatory inspiration. Nothing that might help him answer Crowstone's question. What would he do after? When he'd killed who needed to be killed, what then? "I guess I'll move on if I can. What else is there?"
Crow smiled. "A fine answer, Rowan. I believe there's hope for you yet."
* * *
"You a good shot with a bow then?" Rowan asked as they watched several pigeons, huddled together in the top of a tree.
"No," Crowstone said. "Don't own one either."
"How d'you suggest we get them, then? Send him up?" Rowan asked. "They'll spook before he gets to the top."
"I'm sure he means no offense," Crow said to Kip. He got down off his horse. "I have other means."
The mage removed his staff from where it had been tucked among his gear at the pony's side. He walked to the base of the tree, looked up at their prospective dinner, then pressed the top of the staff against the icy bark. He closed his eyes and for a brief moment it looked as though nothing would happen. But then a loud crack rang out, the pigeons fell dead from the top of the tree and landed in the snow at his feet. He gathered them up.
"I don't believe it. What was that? Magic?"
Crowstone shrugged. "Of a sort."
"But it's just a wooden staff."
"This is no ordinary wood, my friend. And these staffs are not easily replaced when lost or damaged. One must travel far to do so. Thankfully I have never had to do so," Crowstone said as he tied the pigeons together and hung them from Rowan's saddle.
"Can I have a look?"
Crowstone laughed and held the staff out to him. "Go ahead! Don't worry, in your hands it is but simple wood!"
Rowan looked it over. It was remarkably light for its size. It tapered down to a blunt point at the bottom. At the top , it was much wider, and carved into a hexagon – perfectly so. The wood itself had a dense, fine grain, unlike any he'd seen before. He handed it back. "Peculiar."
" That it is," Crowstone said, looking at the staff
"It was a long time ago," Crow said.
"How long?"
"Too much to remember."
Rowan sighed with frustration. "Right."
"You seek a lot of answers," the mage said. "For a man with few to give."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Rowan, you have yet to tell me why you are going to Greyside. Why you are really looking for this Quayle. Why you are not putting the whole business behind you and moving on with your life."
"I can't. I can't do that."
"How come?"
He thought of his wife. Dead. He thought of his children, burned alive in what had been their family home. He thought of the farm where he'd toiled to give them an honest life. And he thought of the bastard responsible: Quayle. He thought, as he often did, of what he would do to Quayle when he found him. How he would kill him as slowly as possible. How he would make Quayle suffer an agonising death.
"What I have to do . . . it's all that's kept me going these years. It's why I joined Larch West and his men. It's why I've done everything I've done. Because at the end of it, I knew I'd catch up with him."
"For pride."
"No!" Rowan snapped. "For what's right. That piece of shit murdered my family in cold blood. I must avenge them. I must see that what needs to happen does so, and by my own hand."
I want to feel his neck in my hands as I squeeze.
"Have you ever considered letting it go? Being the bigger man and letting him live with the knowledge of what he has done?"
I want to stab him in the heart, then twist the blade. Slowly.
"Never."
I want to deliver one punch after the other, keep on hitting until my hands are raw stumps.
"And what will you do after, Rowan? Where will your vengeance lead you then?" Crowstone asked. "When all is said and done."
I want to stand over his mutilated corpse. I want to see him in the dirt. I want his skull under my boot as I stamp down.
"Who knows? I can only think so far," Rowan said. He looked up at the pale white sky. It offered little in the way of revelatory inspiration. Nothing that might help him answer Crowstone's question. What would he do after? When he'd killed who needed to be killed, what then? "I guess I'll move on if I can. What else is there?"
Crow smiled. "A fine answer, Rowan. I believe there's hope for you yet."
* * *
"You a good shot with a bow then?" Rowan asked as they watched several pigeons, huddled together in the top of a tree.
"No," Crowstone said. "Don't own one either."
"How d'you suggest we get them, then? Send him up?" Rowan asked. "They'll spook before he gets to the top."
"I'm sure he means no offense," Crow said to Kip. He got down off his horse. "I have other means."
The mage removed his staff from where it had been tucked among his gear at the pony's side. He walked to the base of the tree, looked up at their prospective dinner, then pressed the top of the staff against the icy bark. He closed his eyes and for a brief moment it looked as though nothing would happen. But then a loud crack rang out, the pigeons fell dead from the top of the tree and landed in the snow at his feet. He gathered them up.
"I don't believe it. What was that? Magic?"
Crowstone shrugged. "Of a sort."
"But it's just a wooden staff."
"This is no ordinary wood, my friend. And these staffs are not easily replaced when lost or damaged. One must travel far to do so. Thankfully I have never had to do so," Crowstone said as he tied the pigeons together and hung them from Rowan's saddle.
"Can I have a look?"
Crowstone laughed and held the staff out to him. "Go ahead! Don't worry, in your hands it is but simple wood!"
Rowan looked it over. It was remarkably light for its size. It tapered down to a blunt point at the bottom. At the top , it was much wider, and carved into a hexagon – perfectly so. The wood itself had a dense, fine grain, unlike any he'd seen before. He handed it back. "Peculiar."
" That it is," Crowstone said, looking at the staff
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