Falnight 12 (of 14)

[mother_herbivore]

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Malda ran off and returned minutes later with three more children: one that I recognized by sight but not name, Odida, and Falnight. They all looked clean and well-fed, even wearing fine clothes, and they appeared quite calm, if a little confused by the urgency. They looked at Harlan and me, and the confusion grew. I was scared for a moment, when Falnight did not immediately rush to my side. Then I saw something in his expression flicker, like he was remembering something that he had been struggling to grasp for some time, and then he pushed past the others and ran to me.

 

These journals are my records for posterity, and I try to write things exactly I as I remember them, but I don’t remember what I said then, if I said anything at all. It is more likely that I just held Falnight and cried.

 

A little voice—Verbloom, probably—asked what was going on or something of the sort, and it must have been Indra who responded. I remember a brief bustling around me, and when I finally drew back from Falnight to wipe my eyes and get a better look at him, the other children were gone, leaving just me, Falnight, Harlan, Indra, and Griffon.

 

I pushed Falnight’s hair back from his face and looked intently at him. Perhaps a small part of me worried that I had missed some major development in those six months, that he had somehow grown into a man suddenly, but he looked much the same. His hair was a little longer, and there was still that somewhat hazy look in his eyes, a touch of uncertainty even as he smiled at me. It was unnatural. I had my suspicions, but I also had to take things one step at a time. As long as Falnight was there in my arms, he was safe. I kissed him on the forehead.

 

Then I turned my attention to Griffon, who was delicately wiping tears from his own eyes with a handkerchief.

 

“Against my better judgment,” I began, and Griffon stiffened, like he was expecting to be hit. I frowned deeply at him and said, “Against my better judgment, I must ask you why. You took three children from my town. Why?”

 

“You call it a town?” asked Griffon, tucking his handkerchief away. He seemed genuinely surprised, and that annoyed me. “It is scarcely more than a village, isn’t it? A bleak place to raise a child, especially ones so special as these. I wanted them to have education, opportunity.”

 

I don’t often find myself reflecting on the person I used to be, but now I think, had I been a thousand or so years younger, I would have attacked Griffon right there. As much as I thought he was a pathetic, sad man, I would have strangled him in front of my children and done it completely. But I am older and wiser, and I have already taken more lives than I ever should have. All I did was shake my head, my jaw tight.

 

“You took them away in the night and charmed them so they would not question it,” I said. “There are many ways to make a family, but that is not one of them. To say that you should be ashamed of yourself is an understatement—an insult, even.”

 

Griffon patted aimlessly at the front of his mantle, smoothing wrinkles that were not there as he stared at me.

 

“I wanted them to have opportunity,” he said again. “They’re special. Too special for common mage colleges.”

 

“So you kidnapped them,” Harlan said. Griffon flinched at the words. “Do you even know who we are?”

 

“I follow the feeling,” said Griffon, “I can sense them when they are near, like a coming storm… my instincts have never been wrong.”

 

“Your instincts led you to the family of the Thirty-First Honored Bastion, Fairlark Heiric,” Harlan said sharply, emphasizing our name. I had never heard that tone from him before, the heavy timbre and intent of a captain to his men in a time of war. I had not taken him for someone to invoke a powerful name, either, especially not that of the sister he had not spoken to in centuries. I raised my eyebrows at him. He did not acknowledge the look, and went on, “You can’t be so stupid that you don’t know the Heiric name. Do you still believe that your instincts would not steer you wrong? That you were saving this boy from a sad little life?”

 

Griffon looked between us, eyes wide like a cornered mouse.

 

“This can be resolved peacefully,” I said, “as long as you are peaceful. Sit, please. I will write to Ovelia, and hopefully, we will be spared each other before nightfall.”

 

For a moment, no one moved, no one made a sound. I watched Griffon carefully, afraid that he might make a poor decision, but then he sank into his seat at the head of the table, clutching again at the collar of his mantle. Harlan stepped up behind him, pushing the chair in with some force. Griffon did not dare to look at him, his grip only tightening on his mantle.

 

“Are you going to hurt him?” asked Indra, apparently alarmed. Harlan looked at me, and I shook my head.

 

“My mother is unusually forgiving,” he told Indra. “Anyone else would have beaten this man to a pulp on sight.”

 

Indra clearly did not know what to make of that. I kissed Falnight’s forehead one more time and let go of him as I said, “I only want to make sure all of you get home safely. Will you bring me something to write with?”

 

Indra brought me paper and an inkwell and cleared a space on the dining table for me to write. She had stopped crying, her face still flushed but carefully composed. A lock of her black hair had come loose from its braid, but I was not her mother and I resisted the urge to tuck it behind her ear for her. She did it herself a moment later.

 

“The little ones still need to eat,” she said. “I will give them their dinner in the parlor—would you like something, too?” She cast a furtive glance at Harlan, who was still standing over Griffon, his arms crossed. “And your… friend?”

 

“No, thank you,” I said. I had no appetite anyway. “Once the authorities arrive, you will all be very busy. Make sure to eat and pack some of your things. I do not know if you will be allowed to come back here.”

 

Indra’s eyes began to water anew, and she nodded shortly and hurried off. Griffon watched her go, his expression just wretched. Then he put his head down on the table, hiding his face in his arms. As much as I found him pathetic, my heart hurt for Indra. She was trying so hard to be brave. I could hear her talking indistinctly to the other children in the parlor across the hall, her tone firm and sisterly. I blinked away new tears and turned my attention to the paper.

 

I was tired already and did my best to keep the message short: my name, where I was writing from, Griffon’s name and what he had done.

 

“How many children are you keeping here?” I asked. Griffon did not speak or raise his head. Harlan grabbed the back of his collar roughly and made him sit up.

 

“Answer the question,” he said. “How many?”

 

“Nine,” Griffon said, and began to weep again. “You saw them all already.”

 

Harlan let go of him and he slumped over onto the table, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed into the tablecloth. It was a sorry sight to see, even as much as I hated him for stealing the children. He was not dangerous, just misguided, I think. A little bit stupid, perhaps. I made sure to emphasize in my message that we were not in any danger.

 

Harlan stood back, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed while I finished the message and sent it. As my writing faded from the paper, my energy went with it, and I leaned back in my seat with a heavy sigh. I was tired enough to sleep, but I stayed anxiously awake, watching Falnight, Harlan, and the weeping Griffon in equal parts. In the parlor across the hall, I could still hear the other children, talking over their dinner.

 

Falnight looked far away, like he was still waking from a deep sleep. There was some magic at work on him and the other children, I was sure of it—some kind of charm or subtle trance that made them meek. He looked at me when I reached over and ran my hand through his hair, blinked, then looked at Harlan. His brows knit slightly.

 

“This is Harlan,” I said. “He’s your brother.”

 

Harlan opened his mouth and I braced myself for his brusque correction, but then he closed it again and just grunted. My shoulders felt lighter.

 

Falnight sat up a little straighter and looked at Harlan curiously, his eyes more focused now. He glanced between him and me several times, looking for a resemblance between us or even himself and Harlan. Harlan shared my arched nose and his black hair had a blue sheen to it in the sun, but otherwise he looked like his father, more human than elf, dark-eyed and warmly-toned; while Falnight was unmistakably Qerastan, slate-skinned and slender, with only his green eyes and midnight-blue hair to mark my moon elf blood in him. They look nothing like each other. To Falnight, Harlan could have been a random stranger I hired off of the street.

 

Harlan offered his hand, the one with all its fingers.

 

“I supposed I’d be suspicious, too,” he said, when Falnight hesitated.

 

“No, it isn’t that,” Falnight said hastily. I was relieved that he finally spoke, and with such clarity. He wiped his hands on the front of his shirt. “My palms are just very damp and I don’t want to make you sticky.”

 

Harlan shrugged, still holding out his hand. Falnight finally shook it.

 

“I like your tattoo,” he said. Automatically, Harlan’s free hand went to his head, rubbing the shaved side of his scalp like he could feel the horseshoe tattooed there. “What is it for?”

 

After a moment’s hesitation, still blindly tracing the arch of the horseshoe, Harlan said, “It’s just a tattoo.”

 

Falnight looked at me. In truth, I did not, still don’t know the story of Harlan’s tattoos. I could only guess at the obvious: “Harlan was a cavalry captain,” I told Falnight. “One of the best.”

 

“So you ride horses?” Falnight asked, his face brightening.

 

“Every day,” said Harlan.

 

“I’ve only ridden them with someone else leading,” Falnight said. “I’ve always wanted to take one out by myself.”

 

Harlan looked at me, and I shook my head just slightly, regretting my words. I’d lost my oldest son from my fourth marriage to a riding accident, years and years ago, and I was—I still am—loathe to let Winedawn or Falnight go unsupervised with even the gentlest horses. It was in sharp contrast to how I’d raised Harlan, but horses were one of the few things he showed genuine interest in after his father’s death… of course I’d let him do whatever he liked. But it was not a conversation that I wanted to have in that moment, sitting in this stranger’s house, and Harlan took my cue.

 

“Whatever Mama’s reason, I’m sure it’s a good one,” he said.

 

Griffon was watching us again, peering over his arms at us. He sat up slightly once I noticed him, his lips parting as though to say something, and I told him, “Please, be quiet. You have done enough damage.”

 

He laid his head back down and stayed silent.

 

The response to my message came from Scribe Ashwine Fellor a half hour later, appearing in magescribe’s uniform script: Sergeant Nuressa Porthill of the Ovelia City Second Police has received your message and requested: “Remain where you are. Officers will be transported to the area shortly by way of the Western Chapter of the Stallion’s Lodge. Thank you for your cooperation.”