by Kekla Magoon
Key’s quiet approach became less quiet when he bumped into a parked lawn mower.
The young woman flinched, interrupting the music. “Oh, you startled me,” she said, clutching the clothes to her chest.
“You’re singing,” Key said. “It was a familiar song. That’s all.”
“A song of the resistance,” the young woman said. “It keeps me calm, and it helps him sleep.”
Key followed her gaze to the laundry basket at her feet. A chubby baby was curled up napping among the folded sheets.
“He’s cute,” Key said. Moms liked to hear things like that, he thought.
“The music was always important,” she said. “I grew up hearing it.”
“Me, too,” Key said.
“They can put walls around us, but they can’t erase our voices,” the young woman said. She clipped articles of small clothing to the line. Little shirts and little undies all in a row, looking clean and damp. “Not many people sing anymore,” she said. “But I still remember all the words.”
“Let’s teach everyone the words,” Key said. “Make them remember.”
“They’ve stolen what?” Mallet repeated. This was not good. Crown’s seventy-two-hour timetable seemed more and more foolish as the hours ticked past. The hoodlum was still working her magic around Sherwood.
“The discarded weapons from the scrap metal facility,” her aide reported.
Mallet fumed quietly. Discarding the weapons had been Shiffley’s idea. She would have rather kept them for the upcoming ranks of trainees. Replacing them had been worth the expense in the long run, but the old guns were functional. Roll the new ones out in waves, as the old guns wore out, she’d suggested. But no. The new guns were bigger, sleeker, fancier, and certainly more imposing to anyone who might find him or herself on the business end of one. And Shiffley and Crown cared a great deal about appearances.
She pulled her own service weapon from her hip and studied it. They had perfectly good weapons for the senior MPs.
“We’re still not sure how she got them out of the building,” the aide said. “You’d need a forklift to budge that crate, and it’s still here.”
“Carried them out, perhaps?” Mallet mused. “The guns themselves are small, never mind the crate they were in.”
“Oh,” said the aide. “I suppose.”
“Our weapons are upgraded,” Mallet said. “We haven’t lost much. Thank you for the report.” She disconnected.
Mallet’s fingertips tapped the desk. Her next call should be to the governor, or Shiffley. They would want to know that the hoodlum was arming herself. But the weapons were stolen from Sherwood. Instead of seeing it as a threat, Crown would no doubt see it as another failure by Mallet.
She did not pick up the phone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Context Clues
As soon as it was close to dark, Robyn found Bridger waiting in the shadows beneath the statue in Sherwood Park, as they had planned. The plan was for her to lead him to the place where she’d hidden his belongings. Then they would both continue painting walls into the night. But now Robyn had an additional agenda—to find out what else he knew about the moon shrines.
“This would’ve been easier in the daylight,” she told him, as they picked their way carefully through the alleys toward the hiding place.
“Can’t show my face around Sherwood like that,” Bridger grunted. “I’m a wanted fugitive, remember?”
“Well, if I could lift this thing on my own, I’d have brought it to you,” Robyn said. The pack was so huge, it had taken both her and Laurel together to hide it successfully.
“Not a problem, girlie. I’m indebted to you for holding it.”
Robyn grinned. “Good. I know how you’re going to repay me.”
Bridger didn’t need any further prompting. “Look, you wanna have a conversation about the moon lore? There’s not too much I can tell ya.”
They arrived at the spot. Robyn pointed at the sewer grate, with the rope tied to its bars. “Here it is.”
Bridger made a face. “You think I’m going down there? You must be crazy.”
Robyn used a pipe to lever up the sewer grate far enough for Bridger to grasp it with his hands. “Grab and pull,” she told him. He looked skeptical, but he took hold of the lip of the grate and eased it upward.
“Heavy,” he grunted.
“Don’t complain to me.” Robyn laughed. “It’s your own stuff.”
As the grate came up, the rope came with it, bringing up the large backpack that had been dangling from it.
Bridger chuckled. “That’s clever. I’m gonna remember that.” He grabbed the rope with one strong hand and hauled the bag up to the surface. Robyn helped ease it out of the hole and onto the street.
“Now, let’s see what we can do here.” Bridger dug into the pack and extracted a few objects.
“We ate the food,” Robyn admitted. “Call it a finder’s fee.”
Bridger shrugged. “It’d be bad by now, anyway. Good it got to some use.” He pulled out a small circular box. Robyn remembered seeing it before, when they had hidden the pack. Bridger extracted a larger scrap of silver cloth from beneath the container. And a short dark wooden stick, from another side pouch. He handed them all to her. “Here. I’ve been chasing these down for years. Nothing come of it so far. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
“What does it all mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Bridger said. “I can’t make sense of it. I’m smart enough, I guess, but maybe I don’t have that kind of mind, for puzzle solving.”
“Thanks.” Robyn took the items, and tried to conceal her disappointment. More clues. No answers.
The stick was strangely rough to the touch, though it appeared smooth and round to her eye. The cloth, she stuck in her pocket. The round box was as tough to open as ever.
“No,” Bridger said, “to open it you have to—”
“You there!” came a shout from the end of the alley.
“Fool,” Bridger scolded himself. Robyn knew what he was thinking. They’d stayed out in the open too long. They should’ve returned to the cathedral immediately.
She leaped to her feet as a pair of MPs charged into the alley toward them.
“Get out of here,” Bridger said. His pack listed to the side as he stood to face the MPs.
Robyn fumbled with the pack, trying to right it.
“You’ve got the goods. Run!” Bridger ordered. He took up the long pipe she’d used to pry the grate open. Wielding it like a bo, he advanced on the cops.
“Run,” Bridger cried. He dodged and danced in front of the MPs. Robyn clutched the moon lore scraps and fled.
She stopped and looked back. Bridger flailed the pipe at the MPs, who now had guns drawn. He struck at one, but the other ducked around and took him in a choke hold from behind. Bridger wrestled as he went down.
Robyn stared in horror as the MPs bent over him. Bridger caught her eye. “Go!”
She hesitated, though she knew she shouldn’t. Sacrifice was always going to be necessary.
“I’ve given you all I have,” Bridger shouted. “The arrow is the key!”
If he said anything after that, she didn’t hear it. She simply ran, breathless, in a zigzag formation back toward the safety of Nottingham Cathedral.
The arrow is the key. The map? She knew that much already. But there had to be more.
Robyn ran as fast as she could, ignoring the tightness in her chest and the twinge behind her eyes. How much longer did it have to be like this? How much more sacrifice did they all have to endure? The clock tower chimed ten p.m. Fifty-six hours until Crown’s deadline.
Time to paint the town.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Resigned
Merryan Crown paced her bedroom suite. She could crawl out a window and make for Sherwood.
On foot.
In the dark.
By herself.
She ran a hand through her bobb
ed hair.
No, it was probably something she’d have to wait to do come morning. There were guards outside her door. There were guards beneath her window. Your safety is paramount, her uncle had said. But was it really her safety he was worried about?
Merryan knew that he didn’t quite believe she was as innocent as she had pretended to be. Yes, she had let Robyn and her friends into the governor’s mansion. Yes, she had helped the rebellion that was trying to take her uncle down.
Yes, she was a traitor … technically. And yet …
Merryan went to the window. She leaned against the edge of the sill and gazed out into the night. Her window faced the general direction of Sherwood. In the shadows she could see the treetops of the Notting Wood, and beyond that, the dark sky that hung over Sherwood.
She had betrayed her uncle. The only family she had left. And yet, somehow, it didn’t feel wrong.
Could she continue to help Robyn’s movement from within these walls?
She was safe here, as Uncle Iggy kept saying.
But this protected place, high on the hill, now felt like a prison of sorts. Within these walls, anything could happen. If her uncle made it such that she could never leave again, no one would miss her. No one would ever know.
Robyn deposited the round box, stick, and curtain scraps on Tucker’s study table. Then she went and leaned against the door to the moon shrine. She reminded herself that it didn’t matter that she couldn’t get in. She recited the moon curtain verse to herself, like a lullaby.
She tried to remember that she wasn’t as alone as she felt. Wherever they were in body, her friends were with her in spirit. Merryan, Tucker, Laurel. Robyn hoped hard for their safety. Key and Scarlet were already boldly proceeding with tonight’s plan. Robyn needed to get moving, too.
She didn’t know what to make of the new pieces that Bridger had given her, just that she had to take the cloth scraps out into the moonlight to try to read them. And that it was probably all he would ever give her. Another sacrifice. Another person who gave himself up so that she could keep going. What kind of world was this? What if she wasn’t able to handle the responsibility when the next big moment came?
Robyn wondered again about Merryan, trapped in the governor’s mansion. Possibly in more trouble than any of them knew. Merryan knew what it meant to make sacrifices. She had chosen the community over her own family, more than once. Why couldn’t Robyn bring herself to do the same?
Was it as simple as the fact that Merryan’s uncle was bad, and her own parents were good? Or was it more like Merryan was stronger than Robyn could ever hope to be?
There were six scraps of cloth now. She laid them out before her. They didn’t appear to fit together in any particular pattern. Whatever fit in between them was still missing. An incomplete puzzle.
It was not even a high moon night. She’d have to wait until much later, after midnight to try to get a clear patch of moonlight. And by then, she’d be busy painting arrows all over town. If only she could get into the shrine, she’d be able to see the cloths in the moonlight without risking being seen.
Problems on top of problems. Robyn pushed away from the door and sighed. She shoved the scraps into her pocket and headed for the office to fill a satchel with paint.
I’ve given you all I have, Bridger had said.
But not all I need.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Over the Airwaves
The imprisoned men huddled in their tents after the work lights came down for the night.
Tucker peered out the open flap at the darkened compound. Everything was still. Beyond the mounds of gravel stood the high barbed-wire fence. “Did you ever think about trying to get away?”
“It’s too well guarded,” Robert assured him. “We’ve looked into it.”
Tucker knew a thing or two about scaling barbed-wire fences. It was possible. Robyn did it pretty regularly.
“Come back in here,” Robert warned him. “You could be beaten for even the appearance of what you’re talking about.”
“I suppose,” Tucker agreed. He let the tent flap fall back into place. Of course they would have tried. For him it had been hours behind the fence, but for them it was months.
Tucker was by nature a cautious and studious young man. The depth of his desire to buck the mold and escape from this enclosure surprised him. He was supposed to be a man of faith. Someone who took the hits life sent at him with determination, with patience. But that fence seemed so close, and so thin. For that to be the only barrier between these men and freedom—that hurt worse than brick walls and cell bars. An impenetrable dungeon.
Tucker shook his head. Clearly he had been spending too much time with the young hoodlums of his acquaintance.
And clearly Crown knew what he was doing, messing with the minds of his prisoners.
Tucker sat among the small group of men.
“Talk to us about what’s going on out there,” another man said. “We don’t hear much.”
“Yeah, the guards are tight lipped, even for cops.”
“Well, the MPs …,” Tucker began.
“MPs?”
Tucker rewound his mind to the Night of Shadows, three months ago. The night they were taken prisoner. These men knew nothing about the state of the rebellion. It had been a fledgling thing at the time, with wings made of whispers. Now the movement had taken flight.
Tucker glanced at Robert. Robert, who had dropped his shovel upon learning the name of the leader of the rebellion. They had not been able to speak further at that moment. A guard had appeared and urged them to hurry. After that, the scrape of the shovels and the skitter of poured gravel filled the air, instead of words.
Tucker had sensed the conversation would continue overnight. He was right.
As the conversation among the men split and settled, Robert leaned toward Tucker. “Tell me about the girl. Robyn?”
Robert’s face was drawn and pale. His hands lay slack at his sides.
“Yes,” Tucker whispered. “The figurehead of the Crescendo is a twelve-year-old girl.”
“How did this happen?” Robert mused, almost to himself.
“Perhaps it is written,” Tucker answered carefully. “Perhaps only the shadows know. Why?” he added, curious as to the man’s strong reaction.
Robert glanced at the others, who were engaged in their own conversations and did not appear to be listening. “Nothing. No reason.”
Tucker could guess the reason, but he didn’t. He sat alongside Robert, allowing silence to settle over them. Some things might be dangerous to speak aloud.
Tucker chose his words carefully. “Crown replaced the police force with a ramped-up version of security. Everything is locked down.” He looked toward the tent flap, as if he could see the barbed-wire fence beyond it. “Even outside of prison, it feels kinda like prison, you know?”
“Is it …?” The men began peppering Tucker with questions about the new world order. He answered them all as best he could. Robert remained mostly quiet during the discussion, until the very end, when everyone was getting tired, and preparing for sleep.
“It sounds pretty bad out there,” one of the men said.
“The world can be exceedingly cold,” Robert responded. “And Crown wants everyone to know it.”
In the dim quiet of the cathedral Nessa Croft set up her radio broadcast equipment. She watched the fingers on her analog watch tick toward the appointed hour. She tuned to the particular frequency and leaned into the mic.
“Good evening, Sherwood rebels. Coming out to you tonight from the deep deep reaches of our fair county.”
She tipped her voice to someplace near a whisper. Quiet but steady, breathy but strong. Soothing as a bedtime story.
“I stand with Robyn. Will you stand with her, too? If you’re listening tonight, you already know the world is not as it should be.
“Robyn’s vision is of a Sherwood that is safe and livable for all. I’ve been fortunate enough to meet this rem
arkable young woman. I’ve looked into those eyes, and seen the strength there. She has come for us, and she will lead us toward the Sherwood we all deserve.
“No single person deserves the power Crown holds right now. Not power grasped through violence, wrenched from the hands of those elected by the people. Robyn’s power comes from the people. A power that is rightful. That is earned. A power that never stands alone.
“Make no mistake, friends, Robyn’s eyes hold the weight of the world. Our world. We cannot let her down. We cannot let her stand alone.
“I stand with Robyn. Will you stand with her, too? Crown will know our wrath. Crown will feel our rain. The storm is coming.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Static
“The storm is coming,” said the woman’s sultry voice. It felt like the kind of promise anyone listening would want kept.
Bill Pillsbury clicked the recording off, and looked toward his boss. Governor Crown stroked his thin mustache and glared at the device as though the woman speaking was actually inside it.
“From where do they broadcast? Surely you can follow the signal,” the governor said.
“Well, not really. The broadcasts are short. We’ve intercepted a few, but not in time to trace the signal before it’s gone.”
The governor’s brows folded into a V. “I’m given to understand that anything sent over the WebNet is traceable, even after the fact. There are signatures.”
“Unfortunately, they’re not using the WebNet. They’re using actual radio. Not digital broadcasting. These are not replayable podcasts. It is much lower tech. One and done.”
Crown looked thoughtful.
“We might be able to track a live signal, but they change frequencies and timing of broadcasts. They’re even operating in code.”
“Crack their code.”
“We’re working on it,” Pillsbury assured him. Still, the governor did not look satisfied. “I could have the tech staff come up and explain it a bit better,” he offered. “As your press secretary, I’m mostly concerned with the likely impact—”
