The Journal of Jaelle Thornwood (Part III)

[Carillon]

//Because once again I have way too many back entries to catch up on and I just need to keep moving!

[Carillon]

I do not know how to write this. The children have slipped through our fingers somehow. I still remember the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I learned that the half-orc had come for them, and then the quick-blossoming hope at tracking them to that boat wreck on the border of the Ulgrid Kingdom.

And now ... what is there to hope for now? I did what I could but it was nowhere near enough. I sent the rangers after them and wrote letters to all who I knew would aid us, but my condition prevented me from following in person, though my heart ached to do so.

And they bogged it up.

I want to think I would have been smarter, that I could have navigated the twisting path through the half-orc’s mind and won his game. That I could have controlled Alleina’s foolish, impetuous and costly temper tantrum ... but likely I could no more have saved them this time than the first time, when he held Liam over the cliff and snapped his neck because I could not rein in my compatriots. I now doubt my presence would have made a difference.

Connor and Anna sent for me as soon as they arrived back. Seeing Finn sleeping safely in their bed my heart began to race, and I looked around for Rhiannon and Lissa and Liam. They were not there, and I tasted bitter fear.

They told me what had happened, more or less. It is difficult to remember the precise words. I remember them asking me things, and not hearing. I remember going outside and blasting fire into the sea until I shook with the power flowing through me, but it was not enough. My rage was like a living thing, fueled by fear and, I now realize, guilt as well. Guilt for not being there. Guilt for not being able to save them.

I tried to harden myself when they told me. I used to have such a thick shell for these things. I should have been able to hear it without reacting, but I could not. Not for these children, these four, these ... I love these children. I do.

I emptied the contents of my stomach into the sea when Connor told me how the half-orc had voewed to have one of the girls abused and defiled and then drawn and quartered for Alleina’s actions. I do not remember the path that took me from the couch to the edge of the sea outside the front door. It was instinctive flight, pure and simple. I needed to run from that knowledge, for I know this creature and he keeps his word.

Connor shamed me out of that grief, out of that expression of rage and fear and guilt and pain. He apologized for it later as we stood by the scrying pool, the touch between us somehow awkward. He spoke of his son, and I understood his fear. He trusted Alleina. He should have trusted me. He should not have shamed me out of voicing my grief in whatever form it took, but in doing so he gave me a way back to my older self, the one who screams in silence. I heard the rest of it, and fed Finn soup later. I let myself be angry with Connor but other than that I pushed all emotion so deep it could not show.

Anna and Connor took some air then, while I watched the child. The [very foul expletive] poisoned him, and though they gave him the antidote he is still weak. Worse, he wakes in terror in the night, screaming and lashing out. At least he wakes, though. One of his sisters will soon not draw breath, if she has not already met the worst end that [another impressive expletive] could conceive of in his twisted mind.

I know Anna is grieving too, as is Connor. She tried to make excuses for him as I sat with Finn. Later, while they walked and Finn slept once more, I found myself wandering their house. I could find no purpose for my motion, so I let myself drift from one object to another. I touched the keys on the piano, washed a few dishes, read the titles on the spines of the books on the shelves. I ended up at the scrying pool, beneath the statue of Lucinda, Lady of Magic. I thought of how many times Connor had stood with me at that pool, directing and guiding my magic. I wondered what I would see if I tried to scry on the others.

What happens when you try to scry on the dead? Would I know from my attempt which of them he had killed? Or would I become an accidental witness to either Rhiannon’s or Lissa’s last moments on this plane, and find myself confronted with an image of a broken body as it struggled for air, struggled for escape, struggled for life? Would Lissa struggle? I do not know. She might go gently, cowed into submission by pain and horrors she should never have had to experience. Rhiannon would fight to her last instant, I want to believe. She has a strong spirit that would be hard to break. I like to think she would take her anger and outrage at what was done to her and press it into a hard little stone or a hot ember to keep at her core, hidden. I hope she would hold this secret defiance until the last beat of her young heart, and that they would have nothing from her that they did not take.

It is foolish to believe that one cannot be broken. Anyone can be broken. I broke the half-orc’s man when we first claimed the children, when I went back and tortured every last shred of information from him. There are things that a living body and a living spirit cannot endure. It is only a matter of pressing hard enough upon these points, and waiting. They would have broken her, before the end.

Even these last futile hopes quickly perish, and leave only the gaping hole inside me where the monster lives. I want to hurt them for hurting these children, and far worse than whatever torments they have inflicted on others. I want to challenge the limits of my creativity and take them to the brink of madness and death, over and over. I scare myself with the depth of my bridled rage. I do not know how to be good in a world that contains so much evil.

[Carillon]

My futile rage and despair have combined into a bitter concoction which I constantly struggle to swallow down these days. As predicted, the half-orc kept his word. One of the girls is dead.

First he nailed her hand to the door of the Rofireinite temple in Vehl. Next it was a bag of bloody bits, in Leringard on the docks. I did not see it, but many of those who claimed to would not speak of it in any detail. I do not know whether this was because their claims were exaggerated, or because the sight was so deeply disturbing they cannot put words to the memory. I suspect it is a little of each.

I went to claim the body, or what parts of it they’ve found, but there was nothing to be claimed. It took me a couple of hours to track down the constable who had handled the remains, and he told me that they had been “disposed” of, since there was nothing more that could be learned from them. Some pressure in the right spot yielded that “disposed of” meant dumped off the end of a pier to feed the fishes.

I chewed the constable out for some time over this, but if I am honest with myself I do not know why it bothers me. That magic three day window has almost certainly passed, and that little girl's soul will never inhabit her mortal body again. What does it matter if her flesh and blood feeds the fishes or the worms? After the connection is severed, what is our body but an empty shell?

I have been pondering the nature of shells lately, too. I find myself walking the shores of Krandor a lot these days, now that I am staying with Connor and Anna while Finn is under their care. Lindel and Merlin are both home too, which means the house is crowded. When the crush of people is too much for me or I need to be alone for a while, I seek solace in the ocean by walking her shorelines. It is on these solitary walks that I find myself picking up shells and considering the nature of the connection between our souls and bodies.

A shell is what? A hard white casing for a living thing? Far too often that living thing perishes when it is removed from this protective shelter, but is this always the case? The industrious hermit crabs are quick to exploit the vacated abodes of sea snails and whelks. Could this be the case with souls too? Or if not quite the same, could this at least explain why Connor’s son still lives, or why Muireann is dying? Is it possible to share our mortal shells with another soul, either for a short time or indefinitely?

I found myself asking about Merlin after I brought news of the find in Leringard to Connor and Anna. This was before Merlin and Lindel arrived, but after Anna threw a good deal of cast iron in the kitchen. Poor Anna. I know she is sensitive to these things. Connor and I have grown thicker skins, but everything she feels still shows. Merlin’s soul drifted for a year before Connor sheltered him, and Connor carried him for five more years. And Muireann’s strange bonded passenger puzzles me still, though I think he is a creature of a fundamentally different nature. Still, the possibility exists. Souls can perhaps persist beyond the moment of death, if something interrupts their passage to ... wherever it is we go when our threads to this place are severed. Of course this must be true. If it were not, where would ghosts and allips and bodaks come from? Muireann still sees her first lover in the mists on cliffs during storms. Perhaps there is some reason to hope yet.

I cannot explain my need to find the girl's soul and offer it shelter. It burns through me, a deep yearning desire that I cannot pin down. I have always been a solitary creature, and yet I am contemplating a sharing more intimate than any coupling I have ever experienced. I have not dared voice this weak hope to Connor, for fear he will consider it foolish or tell me why it cannot succeed. All I know is I would go to great lengths to offer any of these four children whatever meager comfort I can conjure for them. Three. Three living children, one gone forever.

Four. She is out there somewhere, in this place or another. We do not cease to be when our ties to life are severed. She is somewhere and she is alone, and hurting. Her parents were killed, and horrible things were done to her, but she struggles somewhere yet. She is but a child, nothing but a little girl who does not deserve her circumstances or the pain and horror she has experienced, but there must be hope for her. I need to believe this.

Lady of Storms ... am I still trying to save myself along with the child?

[Carillon]

It was Rhiannon. They found her head, on the Hempstead docks, a bloody note stuffed into her mouth.

I was at Connor’s when the word came. He, Anna and I set out for Hempstead immediately. Thank the stars that Lindel and Merlin were there to watch over Finn and Aislin, for I do not think I could have withstood being left behind after the news came.

Apparently Connor’s curious abilities with moving within the world and between worlds also extends to directing portals, for he somehow redirected the house portal from Krandor to take us directly to Port Hempstead. I had no idea he could do such a thing, but I had no time to marvel on it. We had other things on our minds.

The docks and the city were abuzz with talk of the gruesome sight that everyone had witnessed. After ascertaining that the authorities held the head and the note that he had stuffed into her mouth, we went to them to try and claim the remains and find out anything else that might help us. They were reluctant to divulge anything at first, but Connor, Anna and I can all be quite persuasive in our own ways, and once we claimed to be warding the girl’s brother and the nearest thing she had to a guardian at present, they spoke more frankly.

We were shown the note, and after some persuasion the constable, a man by the name of Tarkus, agreed to oversee the release of the remains to us. I was prepared to bribe him to obtain them, but it seems it was not necessary. Still, bureaucracy demands a great deal of paperwork and wait time, it appears, and we have been told it will be two days before we can take Rhiannon’s severed head home with us.

Having seen the evidence of the violent means of her passing, I worry more and more for her spirit. How can the soul witness such trauma and still pass gently beyond this life? Rhiannon was so full of anger after her first death that I worry she will somehow transmute the anger she feels now into something ugly and evil. Connor told me how Merlin nearly became a revenant. It is from a fate like this that I wish to spare Rhiannon.

It has occurred to me that I may not be handling this situation well. Analytically, I can determine this, though I know not how to remedy the problem. I cannot reverie without waking to horrific scenes peopled by laughing half-orcs and crying children, and grisly piles of child-sized remains. I have seen what I believe must be every variation on how Rhiannon might have met her end, more clearly than any image through a scrying pool. I am haunted by the knowledge of her suffering. Surely this means her soul yet lingers, and I might do something to aid her?

I am losing weight. I have no appetite for food, though I ply it upon Finn and gently chastise him when he does not want to eat either. I am hypocritical in my grief. More worrying though, I have noticed a dwindling appetite for life. I feel set apart from things, as if there is a veil between me and the rest of the world. I push against it, but it is like trying to swim through quicksand. Even the simplest tasks seem to involve colossal amounts of effort now. More and more often I find myself leaving Aislin with Connor or Anna or Lindel or Merlin, or even Elgon. It is as if what has happened to these children is affecting my ability to care for my own child.

I know not what to do.

[Carillon]

Time seems to be moving very slowly right now. We claimed Rhiannon’s head. Connor and I preserved it, mostly through abjuration magic. It will keep until the rest of her remains can be recovered, or until the other children are found and can attend a burial. Connor seemed happy to give it over unto my keeping, so after we had worked the preservation magics to keep it from rotting or decaying, I wrapped it in cloth.

It was so surreal, to look into those dead eyes and touch the waxen skin. It was her, and yet it was not. The shell in death does not resemble what it was in life. I have seen so many dead bodies in my lifetime … thousands at least. I looked into the unseeing eyes of my own mother as I burned her flesh on a pyre. And yet, somehow this one still touches me. Perhaps it is because she is a child. I have not yet seen thousands of dead children, I think. Or perhaps it was that I knew her, and cared for her.

After I wrapped the head in cloth I put it in a carved wooden box I bought in a market long ago. The box is very beautiful, and it will serve as a temporary resting place for this child. A magelock, coupled with more conventional means, secured it. I do not want Anna or Finn or one of the others to stumble upon it. I do not think they would be quite so cavalier about a severed head as Connor and I seem to be. The head and the box now rest beneath my bed, until a more permanent resting place can be found for Rhiannon.

I still have trouble making it through a day. I feel like I am sleepwalking, or what I imagine sleepwalking might feel like. My body goes through the motions of life but I am somehow absent from it. I sense this and wish to spare Aislin from this strange absence on her mother’s part. Ironically, my solution is to absent myself from her altogether some days, leaving her in the care of friends as I wander and try to deal with things as best I can. I practice the violin every day by the ocean. I have become very competent, technically speaking, but something is missing. Something is wrong with the music, just as something is wrong with the world. I just cannot put my finger on it.

I heard the Bird Lord, Plenarius, tell several stories outside Blackford Castle. The T’oleflor, the fall of Sinthar Bloodstone, Shadow and Selian’s tragic romance, silver dragons rescued and sent to Voltrex, and the tale he calls Eon’s betrayal of Katia. Of the last, at least, I am not certain whether I agree with his rendition. He paints Eon as unequivocally the villain, and selfish. But was it not selfish of Katia to force her own desires to create the Great Forest on all of her companions? Nature was her passion, as magic was his. How would she have felt if he’d sentenced her to mixing inks in a dusty tower for a few years so he could scribe a master scroll?

I am not condoning his actions, or his alliance with Bloodstone. Still, one has to respect his ambition and drive, doesn’t one? He wanted more than to be Katia’s seedling stomper for the rest of his life, and he took his chance when it was presented. He changed things, albeit not necessarily for the better. Still he took action. He was not passive. It’s interesting, too, to hear the tale, having been in his “dungeon” under the wizard’s tower at Thorn River. I won’t be able to mix potions or inks there without thinking of him, now.

Plenarius’s storytelling stretched over several days, and each time I went I met someone I needed to talk to. The first time I was there, I ran into Steel. I’d been meaning to consult with him. He has a level head on those blue shoulders of his, and he doesn’t let his emotions get in the way of his work most of the time. This case would be an exception, I knew, but that would work in my favor. Steel’s protectiveness when it comes to children could only help me in this. As I had expected, he had already heard of the murder and asked a few questions. Apparently when he heard I was looking into it or involved he left off nosing around and resolved to seek me out. Perhaps there is some merit to the truce between us that prevents us from sticking our noses too far into one another’s affairs without informing each other.

I think he will aid me. Actually, I am certain of it. I am merely worried he will act without realizing what kind of creature he is dealing with. I tried to impress the gravity of the situation on him, and enlighten him with regards to the nature of our foe. His immediate impulse was to scry upon him. I quickly informed him that this would be foolish, and would likely lead to bloodshed. He agreed to inform me if he found any leads, and I agreed to do likewise.

Later that night, I received a sand message from Acacea, back in Krandor. To say I was surprised would be a rather remarkable understatement. Not only did her message specifically reference the murders and my involvement in the matter and Steel’s involvement in the matter … well, it was sand. Appearing rather suddenly and resolving itself into a face and talking to me. I’ll never get used to that. I was mad when I heard the message, and not just because she blew sand all over my books and papers and mortar and pestle and a half dozen medicinal teas I was preparing. I wanted to wring her little halfling neck for scrying on me without my permission. How else could she have known I had spoken to Steel? Connor confirmed, as much as he could, that the message was from Acacea. He seemed vaguely amused at my irritation, which only infuriated me more as I had been taking pains to conceal it from him. I left him to what he had been doing with alacrity.

The very next day, listening to more of Plenarius’s stories, who should I stumble across but a little halfling bard? After the stories were done, we found a quiet spot to talk and I told her what she wanted to know of the children and their murderer. I also learned that she had not scryed upon me, which gave me great relief, nor spied upon me. She had learned that both Steel and I were following up on the trail through good old fashioned bribery and asking the right questions. Somehow that makes me feel better.

Acacea is an odd little thing. I like her, very much, but I do not understand her. We talked for hours, and I found myself opening up to her. Perhaps it is that we technically live together, though we are both gone from the treehouse so frequently that we rarely see one another. I confessed my worry about the state of Rhiannon’s spirit, and she not only agreed with me, she fully supported me. Together we have forged the beginnings of a plan to see if the girl’s soul yet lingers in this world, and if so what we might do. She has warned me, however, that there are symptoms to carrying a spirit within you. This I knew. It cannot be worse than the sicknesses I endured while living with Muireann, when the whole house was filled with negative energy and I was being poisoned every day. I still thank Mist, Lucinda, and a cleric named Sam that Aislin was born free of that taint.

Acacea and I spoke of other things, too. She counseled me a little on the nature of my music, and guided me to that missing element: freedom of emotion and, for lack of more precise and accurate language, the magic and soul of the music. I play too technically. Just as my grief for Rhiannon wells up in me until I choke on it but I cannot let it out, so too do I choke my music. When Acacea sang that strange, keening music out over the water I saw what my own music lacked: a kind of courageous willingness to be imperfect but honest, perhaps. It is very difficult to describe. She guided me as I played The Curvaceous Lady and made the violin cry instead of sing for a change. I cannot explain what she does with sound … it is so subtle, and yet profound. I felt at once better and worse after having played, for in a way it was a small release of my grief. I realized that I am afraid to mourn Rhiannon, as if my mourning will make this all real in a way it is not already. She is dead, but I am not ready to set her memory to rest and give up hope for her.

We spoke of many other things, Acacea and I. Mage-locks and rites of passage among her people. When they stand upon the precipice of adulthood, apparently one ritual among their people is to have an anonymous member of the tribe guide them through a first joining of flesh and the intricacies of physical intimacy. This usually precedes their spirit dream, which I understand to have great significance. I admit, I do not see the correlation between the two. That and I cannot picture Acacea with Sparrow any more than I can picture Lynx broken hearted over her. There is something so childlike and innocent about Acacea at times that I do not think she is meant for romantic love. I think her loves in this life were meant to be magic, Lucinda and her music. And maybe pie, and stories and trouble. Oh Strife, she loves a great deal of things … but that is not what I mean. There is still one kind of love that I think eludes her.

She asked me an odd question while we were together, too. She asked me if I’d fallen in love with Connor. What a strange question to ask. Isn’t that a strange question to ask?

Perhaps the most important thing we discussed was where to go from here. Having obtained word from Vehl of a meeting time with the mysterious “S”, I know where I am bound. Acacea is going to consult with an ally about calling spirits who might be lost. I didn’t pretend to understand the details, just nodded. Call me a fool, but I trust her to get it done. I told Steel of the meeting too, by letter. I included a warning that if he spoke rashly or screwed it up, that we would have a problem. It probably wasn’t necessary with Steel, but having already lost these children twice and Rhiannon thrice, I will take no more chances. I will do all that is within my power to see the other two brought back safely.

[Carillon]

The Krandor house is too small for such a tedious wait. Biding our time until the meeting – two more days! I can scarce believe it as truth – has made the quarters cramped. Sorting beds has been a challenge. Lindel and Merlin and Finn and Aislinn and I are too many house guests to accommodate comfortably. I think the only advantage to the excess people is that Anna's meals seem almost appropriate in scope. Or they would, had she not adjusted her cooking as well. I swear, the woman thinks she is feeding the entire Kuhl army!

Still, I think Connor and Anna are glad to have their boys near them. And I, I am glad of the company as well. Most of the time. Almost all of the time, even. And yet, there are still moments when the house seems entirely too crowded to bear and I long for solitude. Living with anyone for an extended period of time opens one's eyes to the most irksome of their habits, and I have not escaped this unfortunate consequence of cohabitation. There are times when I want to hurl objects and shout obscenities and scream the most loathsome, awful things I can think of at Connor, just to see if I could shatter that calm, cool disposition and finally find out what lies beneath. His self-control is unnatural. I swear to Mist, I have seen golems show more emotion! The only thing that prevents me from doing all this in my moments of weakness is the knowledge that he would look at me with disapproval and disappointment, like a parent scolding a misbehaving child.

And Anna ... gods above, Anna! I know the woman means well, I do. And yet if I have to hear her tell me I look tired and should rest, or that I am looking too thin these days one more time, I swear I will set a fire in her kitchen! It is as if she thinks I don't know how this has worn me down, or how hollow my reflection looks in the glass each morning. She treats me like a child, and I chafe under her stifling and cloying compassion and kindness. Why can she not realize that if I had appetite I would eat, and that if I could reverie without living through nightmares I would rest? And she moves too quietly! It is ridiculous. The woman tiptoes through her own house! I will be trying to think or read a scroll or tome or mixing a potion or practicing an illusion and like an unwanted summons she's suddenly there at my elbow, mug of tea and plate of food in hand.

Those are precisely the moments I find someone to foist Aislin off on, and disappear to walk the shoreline. It is that, or hurl Anna's crockery across the room. The ocean brings me peace, as it has for so many years now. Next to that wide, horizonless expanse of blue, I am nothing. It could swallow me up and leave no trace of me, and remain utterly unchanged by the act. Jacchri once told me he hates the openness of the ocean because there is nowhere to hide, but it may be precisely this that endears it to me. There is nowhere to hide, and nothing I could do to save myself should the sea attempt to claim me. How odd, that I should find that consoling.

[Carillon]

Neither Acacea nor Steel was at the meeting. More surprisingly, neither was the half-orc. Or rather, not the half-orc we expected. It seems “S” isn't working alone, and sent a minion--another half-orc who seems quite loyal and intelligent, though not as cunning as the other one.

He didn't bring the children. I am not certain now whether I expected this or not. I no longer know what to expect, so numb do I feel these days. The deal that he did propose frustrates me: Strike against Dorand's church, and he will watch and judge our efforts. Employ our creativity and full effort, or Lislea will suffer a far worse fate than Rhiannon. It is vague, and I have no idea what he expects of us, but I have to try. We have already begun to plan.

There is only one thing left noting about the meeting, and that is my desire to draw, quarter, dismember or otherwise murder a Rofireinite by the name of Maximilius. Not only did he accuse me of being in league with the half-orcs (I have never seen Anna want to hurt someone as much as when she heard those words from his lips!), he couldn't hold his tongue. Because of him, S's minion has promised that Liam will lose an eye. Having grown accustomed to these half-orcs and the consequences of stupidity in their presence, I have no reason to disbelieve him.

[Carillon]

I do not think any of us were surprised when the letter came from the temple, three days after the meeting. I was in the middle of feeding Aislin, and finished with alacrity. I did not want to be left behind.

Reus bid us welcome at the temple. I think he spoke more to Connor than to me, but it matters not. Rarely have I seen him look so grim. These horrors haunt him too, I think. How many more like this has he likely endured over the years? He ushered us into a private antechamber, and showed us the message.


If I don't make good on my threats, what confidence might you have with my promises?
Save your demands for when you have satisfied mine.
S


Connor's bargaining for “undamaged goods” had, as I knew it would, failed utterly. Whatever else he is, S seems to keep his word. Next to the letter was a little scrap of bloodied flesh. I did not need to look overlong to know it was Liam's eye.

Connor's visage when he saw the eye ... I have never seen his face flush and darken like that. It was like a storm cloud passing over the sun. He took two breaths, and looked steadier for them. I recall him saying something to Reus about Maximilias Pretorius, and his inability to hold his tongue, but the precise words elude me now. Anna ... I dared not even look at Anna. My memory tells me that she fled the temple quickly. If she said anything before she did so, the words left no imprint in my mind. Connor followed her, bearing the note.

And I ... I who had known this would happen and who had had time to prepare myself ... I already had the icy mask in place, and my emotions under control for once. There was no surprise for me—only a possible mistake for S.

I stayed and claimed the eye, and saw it preserved with abjuration as the head had been. When we have nothing left to lose, we will have a means to scry on the child now. And if he kills him ... well, I heard once it takes aught but a scrap of the flesh for a resurrection spell, once the soul is split from the body. I do not know if Liam could endure another raising, but I will try to find meaning in this, and something to be gained from the cruelty.

[Carillon]

It is done, or as near to done as I can make it. There is nothing to do now but wait and be judged, and show up in Leringard on the appointed day. To find what? A living, breathing child, returned to us, or another bloody sight that will haunt me all my days? That will suppose on whether the bastard half-orc is satisfied with our paltry efforts, I suppose.

I thought about going further and doing much more. Someone—I cannot now recall who—argued that a life was a life, and that if the cost of Lissa's freedom was more than one life, it was a bad bargain. I do not agree. Yes, I am hypocritical, but I value some lives far above others. My own life, the lives of my friends, children's lives ... Aislin's life. There is no limit to the number of lives I would end if Aislin's was at stake. And for these four children, I would have razed a temple, murdered priests ... stained my own soul that theirs might continue to inhabit their bodies. The connection between the flesh and the soul is so fragile. I see that now.

But it is too late for second thoughts. We have done what we have done, and I must live with it. We go on, and keep pressing forward, no matter how much it pains us to do so. I pray to Mist that he returns Lissa to us alive and unharmed, but if [strike]all we receive is another bag of bloody scr[/strike] he does not, there is still Liam. I will not throw away Liam's life if we have failed to save Lislea. And perhaps by then, we will have a better chance of success, or know something more.

Anna has uncovered a lead. She made sketches of the two half-orcs we had seen, and traveled the countryside, showing them to locals and passersby alike. It was in Vehl that someone recognized them both. A farmer, come quite a distance to sell his wares. He recognized them as brothers, and knows their mother, a somewhat reclusive woman named Rellak. Apparently there were three of them, fathered upon her when she was taken by force by an orc raider and left for dead. He made a point to note that though she raised them as best she could, she was never the same afterward.

The time until the meeting is too short. We've not time to follow this lead before claiming Lissa, but it won't be forgotten. Perhaps they aren't even the same men. Half-orcs look much alike, and his description of them—quiet, never any trouble, and smart as whips—only fits insomuch as it describes their intelligence. He didn't know their names, either, or even an initial ... though perhaps “S” means something else? The mother will be able to answer better. Perhaps she will even know where they are holding the children.

Aislin is crying to be fed, and in truth there is little else to write.

[Carillon]

We have done it. I carried her small, fragile body away from the docks and to the Twin Dragons Inn. She was quiet when I first picked her up and carried her out of the half-orc's sight, but she cried afterwards. I think it was when she finally realized that she was safe that her shoulders began to shake and the tears came. As hard as I tried, I could not make out the words that interspersed her racking sobs. I do not know that it mattered, though. I just carried her, her arms and legs wound against me, and ignored the stares of those we passed on the streets.

The woman tending the inn that day was kind to me, and found me a quiet place by a hearth to wait. She brought broth and a blanket, and I held Lissa and rocked her like she was no more than a babe Aislin's age. I do not know yet how bad it is, or how bad it will be. If there are nightmares, I do not yet know the precise triggers, or the demons that haunt her sleep, but I will. I will make it my business to know, just as I made it my business to check her over and assure she was in good health. Though ... not all scars are visible. I do not yet understand all that she has endured.

She ate a little broth, but mostly she just seemed exhausted. I thought of getting a room for her, but she did not want to be out of my presence or my arms. And so we sat together by the hearth, the warm wool of the blanket drawn around both our bodies, and waited for Connor and Anna and the others to return. I told her a tale as we waited. Strangely, it was the one that Razeriem had scribed into a book for me while I carried Aislin. It was the only story I could summon to mind. I admit, I cheated a little when I ran out of words—she seemed so tired, but too frightened to rest, so as I rocked her I murmured an incantation and stroked her hair. I soothed her to sleep with my enchantments, her golden head cradled against my shoulder.

I kept her that way, slumbering peacefully, after the others came back. Some wanted to question her, but their questions could and would wait. They told me, in fits and starts, what I had missed, and what the price for Liam was set at. When I heard it, I wanted to laugh—one of those bitter, jaded laughs. A million true. One month. He knows we will fail. He expects it, perhaps counts upon it. I just do not know his purpose. Does he merely want us to know the child's life was laid in our hands, and we let it slip away? Does he truly need the gold, and acts out of desperation? His motivations are still incomprehensible to me.

No one will pay the blood price for him; this I know. Connor sees no way to obtain so much gold, and will not even try to pay him off. Others refuse to pay him out of principle, arguing that it will teach others that this is an effective strategy. That they may merely kidnap a child whenever they want gold, and the heroes of the land will happily pay. I do not know quite what I think. If it were not so much gold and the others so unwilling, I would do it. I would find a way, even if it involved robbing a bank or begging or selling my services to those with the taste for them. It would be easier to give Liam up as a lost cause, I know, but I cannot. I do not know how to willingly fail at this. More frightening, I am unsure how far I would go to save him.

Everyone was talking at once. It is well that the inn was quiet, or we would have attracted many eyes that day. Some wanted to hunt him, and some wanted to track him backwards and retrace their steps to his campsite. Others were suspicious of the closure of the Hall of Dorand and wanted to investigate, and a small group set out for Lyn, or so I heard. I stayed at the inn, holding Lislea in my arms, and thought about the one lead that was not shared: the mother. It says something, that we have become cynical enough to keep such information to ourselves, lest others ruin that chance.

Anna took her from me before we left the inn. I did not want to let go, but I could sense that she needed to hold the child and feel the tangible evidence that she was safe. I gave her up, and went to talk to Connor and the others, detailing plans. Caerwyn wanted me to point out the site of the original camp that we found the children in, and I sketched the route for him on his map. I badly wanted to take Lissa back into my arms as we set out to leave but I did not know how to ask, so I let Anna take her all the way to the house.

When we arrived, I took Lissa to the hearth while Anna and Connor prepared Finn. We hadn't dared tell him everything, though I expect he could read the nervous energy of the household before we left. I woke her as gently as I could, assuring her that she was still safe and with friends. I asked her whether she wanted to see her brother Finn and her eyes widened as she nodded. While we waited for Connor and Anna to bring Finn I made small talk to her—did she want anything to eat, did she know I'd had a baby of my own since we had last seen one another, and did she want to meet her later, was she warm enough ... I cannot even recall it all. It was trivial stuff, meant only to fill the silence and soothe while we waited.

It is heartbreaking, the small details I found myself watching for. To touch lightly when I woke her, not knowing how she had been woken or by whom since she was taken. To specify which brother was safe and waiting, lest she think Liam was here as well. To phrase everything as choice, knowing she likely  had too little of that as of late. Still, to watch them reunite, brother and sister ... I am not a woman much given to displays of emotion, but if I was I should have needed a handkerchief. She took two steps towards him, and he stood waiting. I wonder what Anna and Connor told him? To go slowly and gently, suspecting how much she had endured, I imagine. He stood there, and one didn't need to be talented at reading the language of the body to see how he yearned to go to her. He had grown since she saw him last, and stands on the awkward precipice between childhood and manhood. No longer a boy, but not yet a man. He should have been a boy a few more years, but that was stolen from him along with so much else.

She took two steps, and then flung herself into a run, and he moved forward as well, and she made a sound or cried out like a little sigh as his arms went around her. They held one another for a time, and I slipped away to find Aislin, down for her nap. I do not know what it was about the sight of them clinging to one another that made me long to have my own child in my arms so badly, but I knew I could not deny the urge. When I returned with her, they were huddled by the fire, heads bowed together, talking like ... well, children. Everything from the most trivial—things Anna had made for dinner that Finn had not liked—to the horrific. Things no child should have to endure.

Unobtrusive, I watched them for a long time and listened. I know already that I will have to question her, and that it may not be easy. She may not want to speak of it, or recall in detail her experience, but her younger brother's life may depend on it. Still, it can wait. We are leaving now for the mountains, to question the mother. Perhaps we shall have all the answers we need from Rellak, and Lissa will be spared all inquiry and left to mend. Somehow, I do not think we will be so fortunate.