Falnight 11 (of 14)

[mother_herbivore]

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Hearth wards are not uncommon, especially in homes that lay outside of cities or towns, but they are usually simple enchantments meant to deter intruders and alert homeowners to ready more dramatic defenses. Anti-scrying measures are much more complex, and like all complex magic, they leave a trace, a feeling. My second husband, Mooreve Toorac of the Silverglen Lodge, spent months on the topic with our daughter Fairlark, often continuing his lectures at the dinner table while I listened patiently and smiled at his passion. I was not the student, but still I remember what he taught her of looking out for magical wards. What might this caster have felt when they hid their house from curious eyes? Deceit, I thought. Fear of being caught. I even hoped that there was guilt. I struggled to imagine someone who would steal a child from their family and not feel some measure of wrongfulness.

 

 

It was not difficult to find the house that the Dog had imprinted for us, not when we knew that we were looking for it. A passing traveler would have missed it completely, unconcerned by the prickling tingle of a ward and blind to the tiny path that branched away from the main trail and wound its way through the trees to the front gate of a neatly kept garden. The ward could have been stronger, more carefully woven, but the forest was as much a guard as the magic was. Our horses would have been a tight fit down the path, so we left them in a shady clearing nearby and approached the house on foot.

I hesitated at the gate, and again at the front door with my hand raised to knock. I was afraid of being disappointed. The Dog had found traces of Falnight here, but she had not seen him in her divination. He could have only been here a few days, already gone by the time she did her magic. He could have moved on in the time it took us to travel here. It could have been a trick, meant to mislead the Dog and feed her false information—difficult to do and highly unlikely, but still I worried.

 

Harlan stood at the edge of the porch, just behind me.

 

“We came all this way,” he reminded me. I took a deep breath to steel myself, and knocked three times.

 

A little moon elf answered the door, so young that she still needed to reach up with two hands to pull open the door. She patted smooth the front of her dress and looked quite proud of herself.

 

“Hello,” she said, beaming up at me. Whose child was this? It made my gut twist to think of the parents she might have been stolen from, just like Falnight, just like Odida.

 

“Hello, little star,” I replied. I knelt to her level and smiled at her. I played at pleasant calmness—I did not want to frighten her. “What is your name?”

 

Her smile faltered, her face pinching for a split second like she had to think hard before she said, “Verbloom.”

 

“My name is Soldove,” I said, “and this is my son, Harlan. We’re from Sheaside. Do you know where that is?”

 

Verbloom shook her head. “I just moved here,” she said.

 

“Really? From where?”

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

I was careful not to furrow my brow or cast a concerned look at Harlan. There were children in this house—I needed to be cordial for their sake, no matter what their circumstances were. If I could earn their trust and avoid violence with whoever their captor was, it would be better for all of us.

 

I asked Verbloom, “Are there any grown-ups home that I might speak to?”

 

“He’s busy,” Verbloom said promptly.

 

“Oh, I don’t mind waiting,” I said. She gave me a long, searching look, sizing up the tattoos on my face and arms and the trail-dust on my boots. Then she looked past me, at Harlan, and I said quickly, “We’ve come quite a long way to speak with the owner of this lovely house, you see.”

 

That brought her attention back to me. I worried that Harlan’s war-torn face and hands would frighten her, and I did not want to lose her trust. For a moment, I thought I already had, but then she stepped aside, opening the door wider for us. I gave her an earnest smile and thanked her.

The house was of a simple build, but someone had gone to a lot of trouble to dress it up with fine ornaments and paintings, heavy purple velvet curtains gathered with gold cords, a plush woven rug… the decor was too opulent for such a small space. The porcelain trinkets in the small glass-front cabinet standing by the wall were crammed onto the shelves, too close together because they were meant to be displayed in more than one cabinet, but there was not room for it. A set of portraits hung on the wall, the edges of their frames touching so that they would all fit between the front door and the nearest closed door. They showed a family of four wood elves, dressed neatly in fine clothes.

 

Verbloom led us to the dining room. It was not as elegant as the foyer, with only plain plank walls and straight curtains, but everything was of fine make and it was well-kept. I was less interested in things this time, anyway—I was looking at the five children who had all suddenly stopped what they were doing to stare at me. They were all about Falnight’s age or younger, but Falnight was not one of them.

 

“Hello,” I said, carefully pleasant. Three of the children were holding dishes of food, and the table was already set for a meal. “Are you getting ready for dinner?”

 

None of them answered, only stared with big eyes. I recognized one of the older ones: Malda, the sixth son of Sheaside’s fletcher. If he recognized me, he made no indication of it. Verbloom stood on her tiptoes, reaching for a biscuit out of the ceramic bowl that he carried, apparently unconcerned by any of this.

 

“Are you alone here?” I asked. It felt a strange question, I would have asked where are your parents? but I knew the answer to that. Malda shook his head slowly. He was looking at me, but he was almost looking through me, his golden eyes oddly dull.

 

A wood elf girl came in, carrying a large soup tureen, and stopped short at the sight of Harlan and me. She was a little older than the rest, probably Winedawn’s age. The other children looked at her like they expected answers. She looked at me like I might have them for her.

 

“Verbloom,” she said then, barely contained, “what have we said about answering the door for strangers?”

 

Verbloom slowed her chewing of a mouthful of biscuit, looking at the older girl with big, sorry eyes.

 

“I forgot,” she said in a small voice.

 

“You forgot Griffon’s most important rule?”

 

Verbloom’s bottom lip was starting to quiver. I raised a placating hand.

 

“We mean no harm,” I said. “Just to talk. We came here looking for someone.”

 

The older girl looked me over, then Harlan behind me, then at the gathered children. She seemed to be calculating something, glancing repeatedly between us and them.

 

Then came footsteps, and the older girl’s eyes widened. She set down the soup tureen as a much older wood elf entered the dining room, dressed in rich purple and gold like the rest of the house. I recognized him from one of the paintings in the foyer, although it had clearly been done when he was much younger. His brow furrowed at the sight of the children standing still before he noticed Harlan and I, and then his face went through a very rapid shift of expressions. He couldn’t seem to settle on one, and turned to the older girl. She stood up very straight and grabbed Verbloom’s arm, pulling her over to make her stand in front of him.

 

“Verbloom let these strangers in,” she said. “I turned my back for just a minute to finish the cooking, and I must have missed the knock at the door—”

 

“Now, Indra, take a moment,” said the man. “You mustn’t let yourself become overwhelmed. It isn’t becoming of a young lady.”

 

Indra closed her mouth and took a steadying breath. The man looked at me again, a brief look of uncertainty, then turned to Verbloom.

 

“I have told you never to open the front door without asking me, haven’t I?” he asked, with all the manner of a stern father, the same way my own father had started many of his lectures. But Verbloom’s lips began to quiver, and the man quickly knelt to hug her, patting her head kindly.

 

“Oh, my dear, you’re not in trouble,” he said. “I just want you to be careful. Do you promise to follow the rules from now on?”

 

“Yes,” Verbloom said, quite shakily. Her doe eyes were swimming with tears. The man kissed her forehead, then stood up and turned to face me. His smile was pleasant, placating. The back of my neck prickled.

 

“I apologize for that,” he said. “I am Griffon, and I welcome you to my home. To whom do I owe this pleasure?”

 

I could have played his game, I could have been nice and gained some trust first but I could feel that Falnight was only just out of my reach and my patience was wearing so thin.

 

“My name is Soldove Heiric,” I said. “I come from Sheaside.”

 

The smile faltered, whether at my tone or a name, I can’t be sure. Or perhaps it was because Harlan stepped up closer behind me. Griffon quickly gestured to the dining table.

 

“Why don’t you join us for dinner, and we can talk about—”

 

“No,” I said. “I think you know why I am here.”

 

Griffon stared at me. “I—”

 

“You took a boy from Sheaside this spring,” I cut him off again. “Slate gray skin, dark hair, pale eyes, starlight freckles. There is no one else like him in this whole valley. You know who I speak of. Where is he?”

 

“Goodwife, I do not—”

 

“Choose your words carefully,” said Harlan. “You think we’ll believe that all these children are yours?”

 

Griffon looked around at the assortment of children, then at Harlan. His charming host persona was slipping, he was turning inward, his hands drawing closer to his chest and his shoulders stiffening. The children looked back at him, waiting for his guidance.

 

“Of course they are not all of my blood,” he said, “but I am a father to them still.” He looked at the children again, his earnest expression tinged by a creeping desperation that worried me. “Aren’t I? Haven’t I been a good father to you?”

 

The children hesitated, still staring at him, then one by one began to nod slowly. My spine prickled unpleasantly again.

 

“Surely you understand that you’ve committed a crime,” I said. Griffon clutched at the collar of his mantle, his eyes darting around the room, to every face that was turned towards him. His lips moved erratically, any sound that might have come out of them would have just been gibberish. He was like a caged animal, terrified of what his audience could or would do to him. I held out a hand to him, and he flinched. This was not some criminal mastermind, I realized, but a lonely and delusional man. There was no malice in him—he was truly confused.

 

“No, no,” he said weakly, “no, I love my children. I’ve never hurt them, I never would.”

 

“I believe you,” I said, “but these are not your children. I know some of them, I know their parents. You took them away from their families, Griffon. That is your crime.”

 

“Their family is here,” Griffon insisted. “They’re happy and healthy here.” He turned to Indra, put his hand on her shoulder. She reached up and clasped his hand in her own, her eyes filled with tears. “Aren’t you, Indra? You’re happy here?”

 

Indra’s lips quivered as she glanced between him and me. “Griffon,” she said, in a small, wobbly voice, “I am not… I am not unhappy, but…” Her tears spilled over, and she could not continue. Griffon made a soft noise of concern and stroked her head with his free hand, just like Ishgod would always do for our children when they cried.

 

“Please,” he said, a little more calmly than he had been, “you’re upsetting my children. Please go.”

 

My anger had fallen to a simmer, cooled by sympathy for this confused creature. I looked to Harlan, less for answers and more to share my uncertainty with someone that might understand. His arms were crossed, his face impassive. He only met my gaze and made no other movements.

 

It was Indra who finally spoke again, after a deep breath to steady her wavering voice.

 

“Goodwife,” she said, and I supplied her my name again, “Goodwife Heiric, your son is here. Falnight, isn’t it?”

 

“Indra,” Griffon began, and Indra turned sharply to look at him.

 

“You said that they are better off here,” she said. “You said, it was better for them to be with you. But this mother came looking. That does not sound like someone who doesn’t care or can’t provide.”

 

She was being remarkably brave, I thought. If not for her, I truly do not know what we would have done.

Griffon’s long hesitation was enough. Indra looked at Malda and said, “Go fetch the others.”