Starlight's Children

by Darian Smith

  “Marrol?” Brannon stepped inside warily. “We just want to talk.”

  Marrol's voice replied from behind the boxes. “Is that why you're here with your sword out, Bloodhawk?”

  The bed was pushed up hard against the wall beside the door. A figure lay unmoving, the sheet pulled up to cover their face. Brannon tugged the fabric down. It was Draeson.

  Brannon saw the tip of his sword tremble and forced himself to hold it steady. He reached out with his other hand to take Draeson's pulse. The mage's skin was warm to the touch, rough stubble at his throat where he'd not shaved at least a day. His fingers found the spot and waited.

  The room smelled of wood and sweat and oil. At least some of these crates had the missing swords in them, he was sure, but there were far more than that would account for. He took a long slow breath, letting his focus narrow to his fingertips. There. The thump of Draeson's heartbeat, slow and steady.

  Relief surged through him and he shook the mage but got no response. Brannon felt his own pulse race. Someone had incapacitated Draeson. That meant powerful magic.

  “Hey, Marrol, where's your buddy?” Brannon called out. “Why isn't he helping you shift the crates?”

  “Aww, did you want to talk to him with your sword as well?” Marrol mocked.

  Brannon couldn't help thinking that if the mage were present, they would have known it by now—they too would likely be unconscious, if not dead. “You attacked us on the stairs.” He moved slowly in the direction of Marrol's voice and felt, more than heard, Ylani step into the room behind him. He waved her back but she ignored him. She trusted her brother not to hurt her but Brannon was not so sure. A man was capable of anything when he was cornered and desperate. Marrol must realize the building was surrounded and if he was truly here alone, he was now both those things. “We can do this the right way. No one needs to get hurt.”

  “Lies. Nilarians always get hurt when the Bloodhawk speaks.” The location of the voice shifted. Still hidden, but Marrol was moving.

  “We're not enemies anymore,” Brannon said. He circled, ears and eyes alert for any movement.

  “Tell that to the dead soldiers in your river. I'm sure they'll be very relieved.”

  Ylani reached out and touched one of the boxes. She pulled her hand back as if it had burned. “Oh, Marrol, what have you done?”

  “What is it?” Brannon asked. “What's in there?”

  She prized off the lid and stepped back, her hand over her mouth.

  Inside was a child. A girl of maybe ten or eleven. At first, Brannon thought she was dead but then he saw her chest move. Not dead then, but sleeping, like Draeson. He reached in and shook her. There was no response.

  “Nycol has a powder he uses to put people to sleep,” Ylani said. Her voice shook. “It's spelled somehow. It's how we got past the guard at the armory.”

  Brannon swallowed. The girl in the crate had only one shoe. “This is Shalyn. This is the girl we've been looking for.”

  A movement in the corner of his eye gave Brannon a split second to react. He spun and raised his sword just in time to block the left-handed blow with a long dagger.

  Marrol punched upward with his right hand, aiming toward Brannon's stomach. Three of the fingers of his glove had retracted to reveal sharp claw-like blades. Like the three claws that had wounded the victims of the frost wolf.

  Brannon danced back and his heels struck the side of Shalyn's crate. The finger blades brushed the fabric of his tunic. He thrust forward with the tip of his sword, using its superior reach to force the Nilarian back.

  “You're not taking my inventory, Bloodhawk.” Marrol sneered. “Kalanon has taken enough from me already.”

  “This is not inventory!” Ylani shouted. “It's children! You're boxing up innocent children to sell as slaves! It's wrong!”

  Marrol snorted. “You've been away from home too long, Ylani. The labor shortage is serious and we can't afford moral quibbles anymore. Slaves get the jobs done and there's nobody in Nilar who feels bad for a few Kalans. Why not make some coin out of it?”

  A hot, protective fury erupted in Brannon's chest. It burned away reason and diplomacy and filled him with berserker fire. He'd felt a form of this in the battlefield during the war, but now . . . there was something of the parent in him, the father defending his child. This must have been how Eaglin felt when they'd come for his daughter. How Magda had felt when they'd come for her orphans. So many parents murdered, so many children tormented, kidnapped, and boxed. Marrol and his mage had caused so much grief. They'd used magic to turn hearts to glass, and staged the murders to throw him off the scent. They'd spelled children who had seen their guardians murdered so their next moment of awareness would be as slaves.

  All that cruelty for something as pathetic as money.

  He lunged at Marrol, an animal growl in his throat, sword swinging upward.

  The Nilarian's eyes widened. He thrust his hand in the path of the sword to push it away from his stomach. The three blades were Nilarian steel but the glove itself was not. Brannon's sword slipped off the claws and cut into Marrol's hand. He screamed.

  Brannon yanked the sword back, scattering drops of red on the floor. “Not so tough without your mage to kill people with magic, are you? What, can you only fight children?”

  He swung again and Marrol ducked. The surprise of Brannon's attack seemed to have worn off and his soldier's instincts kicked back in. He raised the dagger to a defensive position and pressed the cut in his hand against his chest, staunching the blood.

  They circled, watching each other for the telltale signs of an attack.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall outside. Several people were running. “Sir Brannon,” Taran's voice called. “The guards are here.”

  “Give it up, Marrol,” Brannon said. “There's no way out of this for you.”

  Marrol's lips twisted into a crooked smile. He was beside the open crate now and in one swift movement he shifted the direction of the dagger to point down at Shalyn's throat. “I beg to differ,” he said. “Call your men off now, or she dies.”

  Brannon glanced at the door. Taran and the extra guardsmen were right outside, too far away to help. He looked back and the tip of Marrol's blade was almost touching the girl's skin. Brannon's physician brain was already analyzing the proximity to the jugular. How much blood would spill. How big the tear would be. He knew he couldn't get there in time.

  He ran his tongue over his suddenly dry lips. “Marrol, don't do this. You've only killed adults so far. Don't murder a child.”

  “It's only a Kalan child,” Marrol said. He nodded toward the guards through the open door. “Tell them to go away.”

  Brannon saw Ylani move closer to her brother. Saw the pain in her eyes. She had the lid to the crate in her hands. “Last chance, Marrol,” he said.

  “Last chance for her.” Marrol raised the dagger as if to strike.

  Ylani swung the wooden lid at her brother's head. It struck him in the temple with enough force to spin him around and he fell to the floor like a broken doll.

  The room was suddenly a swarm of guardsmen. Brannon pushed his way to Ylani's side. She dropped the wood and stared at her brother, shaking as they scooped him up and placed him in restraints. He moaned but showed no resistance as they dragged him out into the hallway.

  “You did the right thing,” Brannon whispered to the ambassador.

  She chewed on her lower lip and stared down at Shalyn's sleeping face. “I know. I just wish . . . you know?”

  Brannon pulled her into a hug and felt her shudder against his chest. He thought about Roydan's face as he'd left him in the cell awaiting trial by combat. “Yeah. I do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Brannon watched closely as Master Jordell moved from crate to crate, examining the children within. The experienced physician checked pulse, breathing, and temperature, then pulled back their eyelids to test response to light. He shook them and even pricked their feet with a pin. Nothing
gained a response. He clucked his tongue and shook his head at each one.

  Finally, Brannon could take no more. “Well?”

  The old man shrugged. “As far as I can tell, they're not in any immediate danger. They simply won't wake up. But I imagine you know this already. I didn't train you to have you call me for every little thing.”

  Brannon narrowed his eyes. “I wouldn't call this a little thing. I wanted a second opinion, from the best.”

  After cracking open all the crates in the hidden room plus those Marrol had managed to drag to the landing in his attempt to leave the Blue Rose, Brannon and his team had found, in addition to the stolen Nilarian swords, thirty-nine kidnapped children. Many were the ones taken from the orphanage, but many more were simply children from poor neighborhoods, or street urchins who had no one to report their absence. All had been put into a magically induced coma and packaged up to await shipment as if they were little more than crockery or sacks of grain. That anyone would treat human beings in such a way curdled Brannon's stomach.

  “Indeed,” Master Jordell murmured. “And you know nothing about what induced this state?”

  “Magus Nycol used a powder.” Ylani shrugged helplessly. “Whether it's all magical or a combination of chemistry and magic, I don't know. When I saw him use it, it only lasted a few hours, but some of these children have been here for weeks.”

  “And the one person we know who might be able to break a spell is . . . well . . .” Brannon waved a hand to where Draeson lay unconscious. Ula sat cross-legged beside him on the bed. She hadn't moved since entering the room.

  “We'll try a stimulant,” Master Jordell said at last. “And see what happens. I suggest we start with the magus since, as you say, he's the most likely to be able to help us.”

  “I overheard Nycol saying he was harder to work with than the others,” Ylani said. “So there's that.”

  Jordell opened his bag and drew out a vial.

  “Smelling salts?” Brannon said. “Really?”

  “It's all I have with me,” the old physician told him. He handed the vial to Brannon. “It's worth a try.”

  Brannon unstopped the vial and held it to Draeson's nose. Even at arm's length he could smell the pungent substance inside. For a long moment nothing happened. “I don't think it's working.”

  “A moment more,” Master Jordell advised.

  Draeson coughed. Then coughed again. He groaned and his hand came up and batted weakly at the vial. “Yuck. What is that?” He sat up and rubbed his eyes blearily. “Tell me that's not your cologne.”

  Ula clapped her hands delightedly. “Wizard! There you are! You be alive. Is good.”

  “Mage,” Draeson muttered. “Not wizard.”

  Ula's grin widened.

  “What's going on?”

  “You could have woken up earlier,” Brannon grumbled. “You missed all the fun.” He clapped Draeson on the shoulder and tried to hide his smile.

  Once Draeson was on his feet, he made short work of waking the abducted children, letting his dragon tattoo rest over the mouth of each one in turn and draw the glittering dust from their lungs. “Some spells require a reagent,” he explained. “Remove the reagent and the spell dissolves.”

  “Like your tracking moth?” said Brannon. “You needed a hair.”

  Draeson looked at him sharply. “Someone's been paying attention. Yes, a little like that. I've only seen one other mage use it in this way, though.” His gaze drifted for a moment, unfocused with memory. “But I've not seen her in centuries.”

  “It seems she passed on the trick.”

  Draeson frowned. “Perhaps.”

  One by one the children were awakened and sent across the hall to one of the vacant rooms, where a mix of city guard and Blue Rose staff assisted Master Jordell in checking them over and providing them with food while they waited for whatever family could be found to pick them up.

  “I . . . um . . . imagine the church will try to keep the orphanage running,” Taran said. He shook his head and blinked at the floor.

  “Good,” Brannon said. “It's important to keep Magda's work going.” He leaned closer to Taran and pitched his voice so the others wouldn't hear. “Hang in there. I've asked the captain to get us a report on the city lockdown. We'll have the Father of Starlight and his stardust supply for you soon.”

  “That's if he doesn't have his Djin make more Risen,” Taran said.

  Brannon turned away so the young priest wouldn't see the worry on his face. “We have Ula now. Don't worry about it.”

  Ylani placed the lid back on one of the crates that contained not a child, but the Nilarian swords. She looked up and saw Brannon watching and shrugged. “I know it's silly. I just . . .” She waved her hand around to encompass all that had gone on. “This is one Hooded mess and I don't know how I'm going to fix things between our governments. I don't know . . .” She trailed off and closed her eyes.

  Brannon shook his head. “Look around you, ambassador. You saved children's lives here today. You're going to be a hero around here when this gets out.”

  Ylani snorted. “When it was my brother who endangered them, and now all these swords? You don't know your people very well.”

  “I don't see any swords here, ambassador,” Brannon said. He looked at the others. “Do you see any Nilarian swords?”

  “None,” said Taran and Ula immediately.

  Draeson opened his mouth to protest but Brannon cut him short. “I'm sure the magus would like to show his appreciation for his rescue as well.”

  Draeson closed his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “Indeed,” he said dryly. “How fortunate that the only crates we found contained the children.”

  Ylani chuckled. “I'm not sure how that will marry up with what the palace guard have to say, but thank you. I appreciate the gesture.”

  With that, the captain of the guard approached. He had beads of sweat on his forehead and his jaw was tight. He snapped to attention. “Sir Brannon, I regret to inform you that our barricade of the city was unsuccessful.”

  Brannon's heart sank. “By the Wolf. You mean the Father of Starlight got away?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “How?”

  The Captain stared at his feet. “He was in the company of Darnec Raldene and Prince Tomidan, sir. Darnec had his uniform and the guardsmen . . . they let them through. I'm sorry. Disciplinary action has been—”

  “Disciplinary action can wait.” Brannon held up his hand. “Are you telling me the Father of Starlight is in league with the apprentice King's Champion and the two of them have kidnapped the heir to the throne of Kalanon?”

  The captain's jaw trembled. “Yes sir. I'm afraid so.”

  “Blood and Tears!” Draeson swore.

  Brannon couldn't help but agree. He turned to Ylani. “Are they working with Marrol? Surely there can't be two kidnappers in the city?” Even as the words left his mouth, his mind evaluated it. Poor children, orphans, and a prince. The pattern didn't fit. A chill ran over his body and filled his lungs.

  “This doesn't feel like Marrol,” Ylani said.

  “Ahpra's Tears.” Brannon braced himself against one of the crates. “They've taken Tommy and we have no idea where to.”

  Taran raised his hand. “Actually, I think I might know.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The desert was an undulating wasteland of sand and light. Darnec's face hurt from constant squinting in an effort to protect his eyes. The Children of Starlight wrapped gauze strips across their eyes to shield them and they seemed unaffected by the endless barrage of heat that poured down from above and reflected back up from below. They sat on their camels with a relaxed confidence, never once deferring from their path.

  Darnec had no idea how they navigated. There were no discernible landmarks in any direction, just endless, wearying sand. It muddled the senses and filled the air so even the gentlest breeze was both a blessed relief from the heat and a harsh curse of particles that scraped every part o
f him raw. The skin on his face and arms was already tight and pink. Much longer in the sun and it would blister.

  The prince fared a little better as the Father of Starlight seemed to afford him some value and had given him the same gauze coverings that his own people had. Darnec had been given no such luxury.

  He and the prince shared a camel. Once they'd reached the desert, the Djin had unbound whatever magic animated Roydan's corpse and poor Tommy had watched his grandfather die for a second time. Darnec was now the only person he knew and he clung to him every moment since. Darnec had briefly considered making a run for it, but the Children of Starlight kept him surrounded at all times and, once the safety of trees and mountains had disappeared from sight, he realized there was nothing to be gained from running in the desert but certain death.

  As they rode, one of the Children of Starlight pulled his camel close and leaned over to hold a flask up to Tomidan's lips. Darnec recognized him as one of the thugs that had attacked them in the alley after Roydan's trial. “Thirsty?” He rubbed his earlobe on his shoulder as if it itched. It was his tell.

  “Don't drink it, Tommy,” Darnec warned. “Remember what I said. Our water only.” He'd seen this man do the same movement each time he offered a drink from that flask and once when he'd offered the both of them a meal. Darnec would have bet every coin he had on a hand of cards with that man as an opponent. But this game was not for coins. It was for their lives.

  The assassin's eyes narrowed. “No one would care if I killed you,” he said.

  Darnec shrugged. “Do it then. See how cooperative the prince is after that.”

  The assassin put the flask away and moved toward him, hand on the dagger at his belt.

  Darnec tensed. His stomach and chest tightened. The hot, sandy air brushed against his exposed throat like a hundred tiny knife pricks.