Tyriel dismounted and stroked her hand down Kilidare’s neck and gestured to the hitching post. “On with you, my boy. Wait for me.”
He whickered and did as asked.
Tyriel heard the surprised murmurs from the curious villagers as her elvish mount followed orders, but she paid little heed, drawn to that picture.
Aryn finished tying Bel off and moved to join her, the two of them studying the girl’s face as a breeze tugged at Tyriel’s hair.
It stirred the worn pages pinned to the board and Tyriel glanced at Aryn before moving closer, carefully peeling up the notice for Elsabit.
Beneath it, there was another notice, this one for a boy, a year older, gone missing the night of the winter solstice.
There was another under that one, a girl, fifteen, disappeared near the summer solstice.
Then another…and another.
Chapter 8
The constable studied the woman in front of him.
“Why should a Wildling and a hired sword care about our troubles?” he asked wearily, rubbing his grizzled face.
Aryn opened his mouth, but Tyriel laid her hand on his arm. Aryn lapsed into silence and let Tyriel speak.
She stepped closer to the desk. “I see the blood of the Wildling in you, Constable Chatre.”
“Blood calls to blood?” He snorted. “Don’t bother with that tripe. Yes, there’s Wildling up the family tree some generations back, but that’s not why you’re here.”
“Don’t be so dismissive of blood loyalties,” Tyriel said softly. “Have you heard of a geas?”
His lids flickered, eyes widening slightly as he looked form her to Aryn, then back.
“Which one of you?” he asked.
Tyriel saw the flicker of hope in his dark eyes.
“I am.” Aryn had heard of the magical compulsions before, but was only coming to understand them now, thanks to his odd half-elvish, half-Wildling friend. “But even without a geas compelling me, the thought of lost children would drive me to act, Constable.”
“Why?” Chatre looked unimpressed.
“Are you saying you wouldn’t act to help a child in need?” Aryn asked. The look on his face said he already knew the answer.
Chatre flushed and looked away. “It’s my job. ‘Tis what I was hired to do.”
“And if you were a baker or a miller…you’d ignore a child in need.”
“Fuck me,” the constable muttered under his breath before looking at them both dead on. “Aye, I’d help. I became a deputy of the previous constable when I was still a green youth, because I wanted to help.” A thin smile curved his lips as he glanced at Tyriel. “Perhaps that is in the blood.”
Before either could respond, though, Chatre continued. “But I was raised here. It’s not the same for me. A family’s home catches fire, the village helps rebuild. A mother dies in childbirth, we help the father until he’s through the worst of the grief. But this is our home and you are strangers. Why would you care about our missing children?”
“Because they are children—they could be my children, the children of my cousins, or a friend’s…had the Nameless God not been merciful, it could have been any of us. So, because we are able to help, we do that, in hopes that when the time comes and those we love are in need, there will be one there to offer them in aid.”
Long moments passed while Chatre sat in silence and studied them.
“Very well, my lady,” he said quietly. “Sit, please, and I will tell you what I can. For a while, the disappearances only happened on a solstice—twice a year. But another street child went missing just a few weeks back and my gut tells me her disappearance is connected to the others. And that leaves me cold, deep inside.”
* * * * *
“It’s as though something swooped down out of the sky and made off with them.”
Hours later, the constable’s words still lingered with her, the awful mystery a pulse in her brain.
It was someone in the village or someone familiar enough with the villagers to go unnoticed when he’s here to select, then steal his prey.
The children were likely close, she thought. If it wasn’t a local, then whoever it was would have been noticed by now, if he came only at the Solstices. No, this would be a traveling merchant or a wandering priest in and out a few times each moon. Often enough he could watch the children, even get to know them so he could select his mark.
And they might not even be dead.
There had been at least six taken. Perhaps a few more. This was a small village—their last census had their numbers at just under fifteen hundred, but even with those small numbers, the constable admitted there were always a couple of youth who ran wild in the streets, either after their parents passed or because they ran away from a father with a heavy hand and cruel belt.
“There were three alley brats I haven’t seen in a while…two brothers and a girl they kept an eye on. Treated her like a sister. I tried placing her with a family after her mum died, but she wouldn’t stay. The Tipali boys were little heathens but had good hearts—they thought I didn’t know they’d bed down in the constable stables on bad nights, but…well. I didn’t leave extra blankets in there for the horses to use, now did I? But one day I realized I hadn’t seen either boy or Demetra in near two weeks. Could be they left, but my gut tells me otherwise. It took me a year, though, to see the pattern—they’d disappeared on Winter Solstice, six months before Leeni Halder.”
After one or two children went missing, and always near a solstice, the guards would be vigilant. Wagons would be inspected. It was possible a guard had been bought off, but her gut insisted they start the search here.
“Do you think we should search here?” Aryn’s voice was tight with strain. “He…Irian thinks the children are here. But this isn’t a large village. Where could they be hidden?”
“I don’t know. But I think he’s right.” She eyed his face, jawline taut. “He’s pushing you hard now, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He says the voices are too loud, screaming for help.” His mouth twisted in a scowl and a dark, awful rage filled his gaze. “I can almost hear them myself. We have to do something.”
“I know.” She brushed his arm with her fingers, withdrawing almost the second she made contact. “We’ll help them. Come. Let’s find somewhere to stable our mounts and find a place to stay ourselves. We won’t find an easy answer here, so we need to stow our gear.”
The village wasn’t large enough to support a standalone inn—the only regular visitors were a couple of wandering priests who came through twice each season and two merchants.
However, the constable had given them the name of a pub—a large one near the village center, Spindle and Shrew. The pub had a couple of rooms on the second floor the owner let out to travelers for a coin or two. One was already taken, but there were several others still available.
The pub owner was a wise man and furnished all but two of the rooms with beds built as slabs jutting out from the wall, supported by ropes and sturdy pillars. There were four beds total, each one long enough that neither Tyriel or Aryn would have to worry about their feet hanging over the end. Each bunk sported thick mattresses stuffed fat and full.