When Moria turned to leave, Gavril was blocking her path. She thought he was going to give some explanation for what they'd found, but his gaze was fixed on the corpse. She circled past, and he made no move to stop her. Only when she reached the road did she hear his boot steps behind her.
They found more bodies. More blood where there were no bodies. Sometimes the condition of the corpses meant Moria could pretend it wasn't someone she'd known all her life. Other times, there was no doubt. Faces so familiar she knew them even in the half light. Faces fixed in looks of agony and horror, each one chipping a block from that wall, letting her feel a little more.
Most who remained were women. A deliberate choice, she was sure. That's why they found no guards. The warriors had been killed and had risen again, as had the other able-bodied men.
Building an army.
The men had risen, and their wives . . . Moria knew that the men were responsible for the corpses she'd found. They'd risen, possessed by shadow stalkers, and slaughtered their own families.
But the children . . . ? That's what she didn't understand. There were no children. She was blessedly glad not to find them horribly murdered, like their mothers. But what had happened to them? Had they died and risen again? Perhaps the older boys, even the older girls. Yet they were all gone, down to the baker's daughter, barely able to toddle.
Again, she had to brush past Gavril in the doorway. He'd been better after the first house, but now he seemed frozen in the baker's home. She pushed on. The next house was hers. When she neared it, her head started to throb. She rubbed the back of her neck. It didn't help. Nothing would help but getting past this.
As she pulled open the door, she heard a soft flutter, like the wings of a moth. She lifted the lantern and saw a note pinned to the door with a needle. A note in her sister's handwriting.
Moria grabbed it and smoothed it as she turned to sit on the front stoop, lantern perched on her lap, light leaping over the paper.
Moria,
Wenda says you're with the children, long gone, but in case she is wrong, I ought to leave a note.
Everyone is dead or missing. I do not know what has happened, only that I am certain you are safe, because I would feel it otherwise. Father is . . . You know what has happened. I will speak no more of it until I see you, which I pray will be soon.
Men took the children. Men on horseback. I do not know why. Wenda believes she saw you with them, so we follow. The horses head east. There is nowhere else to go, I suppose.
If you find this note, come, but take care. Ronan has left us, but I am with Tova and Gregor of the guards, and I have my dagger, which I am quite capable of using, however much you insist otherwise. We are safe and we are fine, and I do not wish you to kill yourself rushing to my rescue. I do not need rescue. I need my sister, alive and unharmed.
Ashyn
"They're safe," Moria whispered to Daigo, sitting beside her. "Ashyn and Tova. They're safe."
He chuffed, as if this was never in question. She looked up to tell Gavril but found herself staring into the night.
She hurried back to the baker's house and strode into the bedroom to see the baker's wife on the floor. She was turning to leave when she spotted Gavril. He stood in the corner, his back against the wall, lantern out, staring at the body.
She walked to him. She wanted to comfort him. But she didn't know the words, and even if she did, she didn't think she could speak them. In refusing to accept her account of the massacre, he'd denied her any comfort, and she could not find it in herself to offer some to him. Ashyn would.
But Ashyn isn't here. All you have is me, and I can't grant you anything that you wouldn't grant me.
"We need to--" Moria began.
"I knew her."
"You knew all of them." She heard the snap in her words and wished she regretted it. She didn't. She wanted to shout at him. To pound at him. They're dead. My village--our village--they're dead. Do you see that? Do you finally see it?
"She brought our bread," he said. "Every day. When she had honey cakes, she always kept one for me. 'In your father's memory,' she'd say. She remembered seeing my parents' wedding, when she was a child. There was a parade, and my father waved to her, and my mother tossed her a honey cake. She remembered that." He paused. "She was kind to me."
"They all were. You just didn't care to notice."
He dipped his chin, and she did feel guilt then, just a twinge.
"They've taken the children," she said.
His chin shot up, gaze
swinging to her. "What?"
She lifted the note. "It's from Ashyn. She's with a few others. They're following men on horseback who took the children. A girl saw me with them. Or saw another phantasm, I suspect."