Starlight's Children

by Darian Smith

  Brannon thought of the city as a living thing that moved and breathed. Here, like at the physician college hospital, he sought the hidden threat that caused injury or death. In this case, he had the diagnosis—frost wolf—and had seen some of the symptoms in the death of Eaglin and an unknown number of missing children, but he was still no closer to finding and cutting out the tumor causing it all.

  Finally, he and Draeson made their way back to the rendezvous point to debrief the other searchers. Magistrate Gawrick and the captain of the palace guard were waiting for them in a central market square. It only took a glance at their faces to see their searches had been equally fruitless.

  “Are you even sure such a creature exists?” Magistrate Gawrick grumbled.

  “I can show you the chrysalis, if you like,” Brannon told him. “In fact, you can keep the Hooded thing. For all we know the frost wolf might come back looking for it.”

  The captain of the palace guard gave a salute. “I'll have my people continue to patrol, Sir Brannon. If there's something to find, we'll find it.”

  “Thank you, Captain Torbin,” Brannon said. “I wonder, have you had any word from Darnec Raldene?”

  Torbin frowned. “No, sir. I understood he was sent out of town on a mission for you.”

  “That's right. I just . . .” Brannon shrugged. “I hoped he might have reported back by now.”

  “I'll check when I return to the palace and let you know as soon as he checks in.” The captain saluted again and strode away, barking orders to his men and Gawrick led his own people away.

  “There's a good chance Darnec's not coming back, you realize.” Draeson's voice was pitched just low enough for Brannon to hear. “We need to start investigating the possibility he was involved in stealing that gold.”

  Brannon watched as half of the guards paired up and spread out to disperse through the city once again. Torbin led the rest back toward the palace. “Yeah, I know.” He scratched at the scar on his cheek. “I can't see it being true though.”

  Draeson snorted. “You don't want to see it. He's got a history of stealing to support his gambling and you have a history of being blind to an apprentice.”

  “Fine.” Brannon sighed. “I suppose you and Natilia have discussed where to start digging?”

  “Believe it or not, I don't spend all my time with my girlfriend discussing her ex. But if he's gone back to gambling, there are obvious places to start.”

  The Den of Flames was one such place. In the basement of an old stone building in a part of the city that blended old and new, the den was a temptation for those with little to lose but their dreams. The entrance was a wide stone staircase between braziers that burned day and night. Inside, staff worked tables laid out with various games of chance, ranging from simple dice rolls to highly skilled games with cards or tiles. The light was dim and the drinks cheap. The air was warm and smelled slightly sooty from the flames that gave the venue its name, but it wasn't an unpleasant smell. Staff dropped bundles of sweet herbs into the braziers at regular intervals to mask the scent of the many gathered players.

  Brannon and Draeson paused at the foot of the stairs to let their eyes adjust to the indoor lighting and were immediately approached by a large bald man in a colorful vest and with exposed, muscular arms.

  “Sir Brannon! What a surprise. Welcome to you and your friend. I am Gandry, owner of the Den of Flames.” He gave a little bow but his eyes never left the new arrivals. “What brings the famed Bloodhawk to my humble establishment?”

  “We'd like to ask about one of your customers,” Brannon said. “Or a previous customer, rather. Darnec Raldene. Have you seen him lately?”

  Gandry gestured around the gambling floor. “As you can see, we have many customers and they are all valuable to us. But it's impolite to talk about someone behind their back. Perhaps you can have a look around and find your friend. Or join a game. There's always time for fun.” He tapped the side of his nose with a conspiratorial grin. “Just make sure you don't have a tell.”

  “Do I have a tell, Draeson?” Brannon said.

  “Oh yes, you definitely have a tell for when you're annoyed,” the mage said mildly. “It's that you draw your sword and the person ends up dead on the end of it.”

  Brannon nodded. “That's the one.” He rested his hand on his sword hilt and looked Gandry in the eye. “It's such a giveaway.”

  Gandry's grin faded. His eyes flicked around the room and then back to Brannon. “All right, all right. I don't want any trouble.”

  “Me neither,” said Brannon. “What about Darnec? Did he get into any trouble?”

  The bald man shrugged. “I think you know his debts got a little out of control a while back and he ran into some trouble because of it. But that hasn't been an issue since then. Trouble isn't what we aim for here. We like people who pay off their debts in full. Darnec did that.”

  “With stolen money,” Draeson muttered.

  Gandry shifted uncomfortably. “We don't question our customers about how they earn their money. You wouldn't expect to be questioned by your baker or your tailor. Why should we be any different?”

  Brannon shot the mage a glare before turning back to the proprietor. “And you haven't seen Darnec recently then?”

  “Not to gamble,” Gandry said. “But he came in not long ago asking about paying off a debt.”

  “I thought you said he'd paid his debt off already,” Brannon said.

  “Oh, he did.” Gandry nodded. “He was asking about someone else's debt.”

  “Whose?”

  The man shook his head. “I'm sorry, but I really can't go into more detail about customers' business. Let's just say that bill has been paid as well. The Den of Flames has no interest in being further involved in your investigation. I have to get back to work.” Before they had a chance to respond, he'd moved into the crowd of customers, making his way swiftly to the back of the venue.

  Brannon folded his arms and watched him go. “That seems like a man not easily spooked. But . . .”

  “Something spooked him,” Draeson finished. “I agree.”

  They turned to leave when a familiar face caught Brannon's eye.

  Ambassador Ylani sat at a table with an elaborate game of painted tiles. The other players at the table were rough-looking men. As Brannon approached, the ambassador laid out a collection of three tiles, all painted with colorful birds. The men at the table let out a collective moan and threw their tokens into the middle.

  Ylani leaned forward and swept all the tokens together in a pile in front of her tiles. “I win again, gentlemen.” She looked around with a smile. “So are we all in agreement, or do any of you want to go again?”

  One of the men—a burly man with a rope-burn scar around his forearm like a careless sailor—looked as if he would challenge her, but his friend slapped him on the shoulder. “We're agreed,” he said. “Send word and we'll come.” He pushed the chair back from the table and stood up. The others did the same and were leaving as Brannon took one of the vacated seats.

  Ylani looked up from her tiles and her eyes widened slightly. “Sir Brannon and Magus Draeson. I hardly expected to see you here.”

  “I was going to say the same to you, ambassador. Is court life not exciting enough these days?”

  She smiled. “We should always open ourselves up to new experiences, don't you think?”

  Brannon chuckled. “I suppose so.”

  “To be honest, I like to test my skills at the game from time to time. And if I win a little free labor, where's the harm? You know the silk trade arrangements are going through so I'll need some people to unload crates for me.” She gestured to the direction the men had gone. “One less expense to worry about.”

  “Well, if you'd like an escort back to your apartment,” Brannon offered.

  Ylani shook her head. “Thank you, but I'll be fine.” She moved to stand, then paused, chewed the corner of her lower lip, and sat back down. “Your friend, the priest.”


  “Taran?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about him?”

  Ylani picked up one of the game tiles and twisted it in her fingers. “Watch out for him,” she said at last. “When we were in his lab I sensed something about him. A hunger.”

  Draeson snorted. “So he forgot to eat.”

  “No.” Ylani shook her head. Her eyes solemn. “It was more than that.”

  Before Brannon could question her further, there was a tap on his shoulder. “Bloodhaw-uh, I mean, Sir Brannon?” A young man stood awkwardly.

  “Yes?” Brannon didn't recognize the lad. He didn't have the look of anyone from the palace or the magistrates’ guard. He was scrawny and his clothes, though clean, were worn. “What is it?”

  The lad was slightly out of breath. “Lady Magda sent word for me to find you, sir. She said to tell you there are more cases and she's gathered the families at the orphanage for you to speak with.”

  “More cases?” Brannon frowned. “You mean of missing children?”

  “Yes, sir. Several. Over the last few weeks. And some of their parents were killed as well.”

  “Blood and Tears.” So the pattern was real. The frost wolf had been hunting in Alapra for the gods knew how long without being seen, let alone captured. The thing had to be smart. Much smarter than any normal animal. “And had any of them reported it to the magistrates?”

  The young man nodded. “Yes sir. At least, that's what I heard.”

  “That smug, negligent piece of shit,” Draeson murmured.

  “Yeah.” Brannon ground his teeth. “Magus, would you go with this young man to find Magistrate Gawrick and drag his ass to Lady Magda's orphanage? I'll meet you there.”

  Draeson nodded. “With pleasure.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Magda closed the door to the upstairs playroom and pressed until she heard the latch click. The children had clear instructions to stay put and a collection of games and coloring books to keep them busy. She figured she had maybe twenty minutes before a squabble broke out that the older children couldn't handle.

  She moved quickly downstairs to the lounge where a group of adults were waiting. Three sat on the threadbare old sofa, a pallid young man and two women who held each other's hands as if to the rung of an unsteady ladder. The young man's girlfriend and their infant son were both missing. The women were all that was left of a family that had lost both parents in the war, and had been raising their two young siblings alone. Now in their early teens, those siblings had gone out to find work nine days ago and never returned. A gray-haired man with soot under his nails paced in small circles at the far end of the room. His granddaughter had been missing for three weeks and her parents killed in what the magistrates ruled a random mugging. He was not so sure. A plump woman leaned against the wall with her arms folded. Anger and despair flowed from her like waves. Her husband had supposedly killed himself, his body found floating in the river, and the magistrates believed he'd likely drowned their children first, but their bodies had not been found. She described him as a loving, cheerful man who would never cause anyone harm.

  Magda took a deep breath before stepping into the room with them. These were some of the families she'd located who'd had children go missing in the last few months. As the mistress of an orphanage, she was no stranger to sad stories of loss, but the pain in these parents was harsh, raw, and streaked with guilt. Each one of them had felt the bite of self-blame and none of them had been brave enough to push the authorities with their doubts. They were the vulnerable of Alapra. The abandoned.

  Treven Gildorn, the gray-haired man, stopped his pacing when Magda entered. “How long until the Bloodhawk arrives?”

  The news of the war hero's involvement had convinced them to join Magda and tell their stories. Alapra's poor may not trust the magistrates but they did trust the man many credited for turning the tide of the war.

  “I've sent word to Sir Brannon,” Magda said. “I'm sure he'll be here soon. Thank you for your patience. I know we all want to find out what happened to your children and stop it happening to anyone else.”

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  “Do you really think he'll speak to the king about how we're being treated?” the plump woman said.

  “The king is too busy for the likes of us, Alicia,” grumbled the young man on the couch. “Bloodhawk probably is too.”

  “Don't you believe it, lad.” Treven said. His finger stabbed holes in the air. “I saw Sir Brannon in action during the war. He never left anyone behind. Ever.”

  “Yeah, well. The war was a long time ago,” the young man said. He folded his arms and looked at the floor.

  Magda was spared the need to comment by a loud knock at the door. “That could be him now.”

  She left the gathered parents bundled with their worry and made her way down the hall. The sun was freshly set and shadows filled the unused rooms of the house like dark water pooling after a storm. She briefly considered lighting a candle but dismissed the idea. Resources were scarce and even such simple conveniences needed to be measured out carefully if she was to keep the orphanage functioning. Too many of the children suffered night terrors after losing parents, and what candles and lanterns she could afford were best used to comfort them. It might be better hospitality to answer the door with a light, but somehow she didn't think Sir Brannon would have any fear of the dark.

  She opened the door and peered out into the street. A little moonlight added to the trickle of illumination from the street lamp at the end of the alley. Neither did much to provide details, but there was more than enough to tell that her doorstep was empty.

  Magda stepped outside. “Hello?” she called. “Sir Brannon?”

  There was no response.

  She folded her arms across her chest to ward off the night's chill and squinted in either direction. A rat squeaked as it burrowed in the refuse dumped in the alley. Magda shivered and turned to go back inside.

  A shape lurched into the doorway and she squealed.

  Alicia reached out to touch her arm. “I'm so sorry, Lady Magda. I didn't mean to startle you.”

  “Ahpra's Tears, you gave me a fright.” Magda chuckled between gasps as she caught her breath. “It's fine. Did you want something?”

  The plump woman shook her head. “I just came to see if Sir Brannon had arrived. No sign of him?”

  “I'm afraid not. It must have been some urchin playing a prank.” Magda went back inside and closed the door before leading the way back down the hall. “I can't imagine he'll be much longer. Perhaps you could help me make tea for everyone while we wait?”

  Alicia did not respond.

  Magda took a few more steps before her guest's silence registered. Another before she realized the only footsteps she was hearing were her own. She turned. There was no one with her, but the shadows in the hallway were wrong. She'd negotiated this house many times in the dark, dodging furniture and abandoned toys with ease. A large, dark shape on the floor was out of place.

  “Alicia!” Magda ran to the fallen woman's side and shook her. There was no response. She touched the woman's neck and her fingers slipped on something warm and wet. Blood. The woman was dead.

  Magda's throat closed and she stumbled back, her eyes wide. The familiar shadows of the orphanage were now filled with threat. Her breath came in short, strangled gasps and her heart thudded like a trapped animal against the inside of her chest. She turned and ran for the room at the end of the hall—a refuge of light in the sudden terror of darkness.

  Every step increased the fear that something would reach out of the shadows to grab her. Who would have wanted to murder Alicia? What could have done it so quickly and silently? She'd worked hard to make the orphanage a place of safety and even the criminal elements of the city respected that. This time the threat was inside her home! She burst into the lounge with a sense of relief that there would be safety in the light with the others.

  That relief was short
-lived.

  Blood was sprayed over the walls and sofa. A dark pool of red spread slowly across the floor. The sisters were dead where they'd sat, still holding hands. Their throats were cut in stripes like claw marks, as if they'd both been swiped by the same angry bear, and they slumped, helpless prey.

  The young man was sprawled face down on the floor. His back was a mess of blood and shredded clothing, clawed over and over until the bone of his spine was exposed.

  Treven stumbled toward her, his face clawed and bleeding, but alive. He held a dagger in one hand and the leg of a broken chair in the other, brandishing it like a club. He squinted at her through the blood that was running over his eye. “Magda?”

  Magda stood frozen. Her mind refused to think. Refused to acknowledge what she was seeing. How could this have happened? She'd only left the room for a few minutes. What could have done it? How?

  Treven dropped his weapons and fell to his knees. “Run,” he said. “Protect the children. Run!”

  His words struck Magda like a hot poker in the chest. She turned and lurched back toward the hallway. She gripped the doorframe for balance as she passed, leaving a red smear of Alicia's blood before she plunged back into the darkened parts of the house.

  A shadow moved in the corner of her eye and she dodged. Pain exploded in her hip as she ricocheted off the wall but she kept going. The stairs were up ahead. Light spilled onto the landing above from the crack under the playroom door and from Marbella's cell.

  The attacker growled behind her and claws slashed down her back. She screamed and lunged forward, out of the monster's reach. She took the stairs two at a time, racing to the landing.

  The door of the playroom opened and Rettan, one of the older boys, poked his head out. “Lady Magda? Are you okay?”

  “Go back in!” Magda shouted. “Lock the door and stay there!”

  He disappeared and the door closed.

  Magda hesitated, her breath harsh and ragged in her throat. The cuts on her back throbbed in time with the slow, steady footsteps on the staircase. She looked behind, but there wasn't enough light to see clearly. The monster was stalking her. Toying with her like a bully in the playground. But this bully killed.