“Thank you, Skent.”
Aleth blurts out, “I know Nym is a Returner. Last few weeks I seen her on the side of the street peddling her flowers, she was starting to get a bit spooky.”
A Returner is an offshoot of the Truehearts. Exactly what it sounds like: someone who has returned to the faith.
“Spooky how, lass?” Antones asks.
Aleth’s bony shoulders rise and fall. “Talking of doomsday this, omen that. Started pairing the bouquets she sells with her favorite scriptures from the Book of the True.”
That’s odd,I think. “A whelp like that, so bent on converting people?”
Aleth wrinkles her nose. “She’s got to be sixteen summers, easy. Not everyone’s a whelp just ‘cause you’re old, Sister Sephania.”
I roll my eyes. Sometimes the younglings have no idea how much their words sting. I can’t be more than twenty-five myself, though I’ve stopped counting.The little guttergirl brat.
Antones hums something under his breath. He looks up suddenly, eyes narrowing through the haze of dusk settling upon Nuhav.
“What is it, Ant? Figured something out?” I ask.
“Let’s get back to the Firehold, children,” he murmurs grimly. “I have some questions to ask the fold.”
“Who here attends mass at the Temple of the True with any regularity?” Antones calls out. He stands at the front of the eating hall—the unofficial meeting space when we need to gather large crowds.
Over a hundred underground-dwellers are in attendance. Nearly half the hold. Everyone looks antsy. Two of our own flock have gone missing, we’ve since learned after returning for the evening.
About twenty hands go up when Ant asks his question. He moves to each person in turn, asking pointed inquiries, and I start to see where he’s going with his line of questioning while speaking to the third rebel.
“. . . And you saw the butcher’s daughter there, son? Physalia, not the other butcher’s girl.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy in question nods profusely. “Sure as I know my own face.”
Antones pats him on the cheek and moves onto the next girl who raised her hand. “What days do you attend the temple, lass?”
She answers diligently, speaking in a clear voice devoid of the distinct accents many younglings here use.Must be a newcomer,I think. “Always on the fourth and sixth days, Master Antones. I have seen Burrington and his wife there, always on the sixth day.”
Antones spins to a small group of people off to the side, including me—scouts who have been roaming the streets and putting all this together. “Do we know if Burrington’s wife is missing?”
We exchange notes, come to a conclusion, and shake our heads. “Don’t think so, boss,” says Skent.
Ant grumbles. Turns back to the girl, thanks her, and moves onto the next two in line.
Strange for the tailor to be missing but not his family, when they go to the same places together.“We’d best be talking to her, then.”
“I don’t think it will be necessary, Lady Lock, unless we are talking to her to tell her Burrington’s been found.”
“Why do you say that? She can tell us any time they might have parted ways. Burrington going to the taverns at night after his shop closes, for instance.”
Antones shakes his head sternly. “Not necessary because I think I’ve solved the riddle. At least of where these people are going missing.” He steps back, taking his place in front of the large audience, and sweeps his hand out at them. His gravelly voice booms. “My questions have made it clear what connects every person missing, despite their age or vocation. The Temple of the True, Grimsons. Everyone on our list has been attending service there.”
Gasps flutter through the audience. Eyes go wide. People start talking among themselves.
I grimace. It might have been best to talk this over with leadership before spouting it off and worrying all the rebels. Antones has forgotten a few steps of protocol in his advancing age.
He turns back to our group, pulling me aside. My mates are near me, listening. “What itmeans, or what it tells us, is a different story. Any ideas?” His eyes search the faces of me and the men behind me.
No one has a clue. I rack my brain while Garroway fumbles with an unconvincing answer. Skar sighs at his former thrall. Vallan grunts. Lukain says, “I’d rather not make assumptions. The True are not my wheelhouse.”
A clawing sensation rips up my spine. I straighten, a small sound escaping my throat, and everyone looks to me. “Rirth.” I blink wildly, trying to grasp the thread in my mind before itfloats away. “Rirth told me of something strange he’s noticed on the eastern flank of Olhav. The Faith Ward has been growing in numbers.”