you left him."
"A clever answer, child, but a wrong one. Your grandfather wandered off last night." His eyes flicked toward the cottage door. "But death makes for a vicious handicap. I suspect he didn't get far." He pinched Dalya's soil-stained sleeve between two fingers and ogled the veins of cakey dirt that streaked across her tunic and trousers. His lips narrowed into a tight grin. "Have you seen him?"
"No, I think—"
Stretvanger nodded toward the cottage. "Might we have a look around, then?"
Dalya stepped warily toward the house, out of the bishop's enormous shadow. "No."
"Such discourtesy!" he jested, a syrupy chuckle rumbling out from the darkness of his hood. He turned and woofed an order at the throng of soldiers locked in formation. They percolated toward the cottage; Stretvanger followed, stepping nonchalantly around the small girl in his path.
A flush of angry, panicked heat rose in Dalya's throat. "This..." she started, "this isn't right! What you're doing to these people—what you're doing to us—isn't right!"
Stretvanger called a halt. He half-turned, eyeing Dalya from over his shoulder. "Sheep need not be privy to the shepherd's motives. Just rest easy. We're cleansing this country."
The trepidation in her heart boiled over, steaming into ire and lacing her words with bitter rancor. "You're wrong."
The giant shrugged. He mumbled, "Children have no place in politics," and gave a signal to his soldiers. The air hummed with the ring of steel; soldiers crowded the cottage, swords raised and spines rigid as the front door was kicked from its hinges. "Search the wardrobes. Raid the attic. Check the outhouse. The body is here, and I want it back."
The militia charged through the doorway.
"Blood!" he hollered at their backs. "The bastard's still bleeding. Look for dark, sour blood."
From the street, Dalya heard the shattering of pottery and the sharp splintering of wood. Arms crossed, sun on his back, Stretvanger watched his men scour the cottage from his spot on the lawn as he rocked unsteadily on his heels.
Droplets of sweat dripped into Dalya's eyes. Numb with fury, she did not blink them away. The salt stung and muddied her vision, but she never lost focus on the lumbering man in the heavy robes overseeing the ravaging of her grandfather's house. Her house. She listened as they ransacked her vault of memories, the font of her solace—the only place ever worthy of being called her home. And she trembled with rage.
She pried a pointed cobble from the road. Teeth gritted and brow narrowed, she measured Stretvanger's back and, knuckles white around the rock, stalked toward him, eyes locked to the space just inches below his belt—the base of the giant's spine. She moved rapidly, betraying stealth as her footsteps smacked the street, but Stretvanger never turned. When she was within arm's length, Dalya hefted the rock, tightened her grip, and zeroed in on her target.
But before she struck, Harringer lurched through the doorway. His sword was tucked into his scabbard and his fingers were riddled with cuts and splinters. "We found blood on the old man's sheets," he said.
The bishop's lips parted slightly. "Blood?" The word rumbled from the hood like a drumroll. "Yes?"
Harringer did not match gazes with Stretvanger, opting instead to study the ground between the giant's feet. "But there's no body. We looked absolutely everywhere."
Dalya's brow furrowed. She dropped the stone and staggered backward. Stretvanger was silent for several seconds before pivoting on his heel and peering at the child. He tore into her with his cold stare for a few tense moments, his emotions concealed behind the shadows of his hood, before swallowing hard and offering a subtle nod.
"Right," the bishop mumbled, pushing past the girl and hurrying into town.
Eventually the last of the soldiers filed out, leaving Dalya mired in a mess of clothes and
"A clever answer, child, but a wrong one. Your grandfather wandered off last night." His eyes flicked toward the cottage door. "But death makes for a vicious handicap. I suspect he didn't get far." He pinched Dalya's soil-stained sleeve between two fingers and ogled the veins of cakey dirt that streaked across her tunic and trousers. His lips narrowed into a tight grin. "Have you seen him?"
"No, I think—"
Stretvanger nodded toward the cottage. "Might we have a look around, then?"
Dalya stepped warily toward the house, out of the bishop's enormous shadow. "No."
"Such discourtesy!" he jested, a syrupy chuckle rumbling out from the darkness of his hood. He turned and woofed an order at the throng of soldiers locked in formation. They percolated toward the cottage; Stretvanger followed, stepping nonchalantly around the small girl in his path.
A flush of angry, panicked heat rose in Dalya's throat. "This..." she started, "this isn't right! What you're doing to these people—what you're doing to us—isn't right!"
Stretvanger called a halt. He half-turned, eyeing Dalya from over his shoulder. "Sheep need not be privy to the shepherd's motives. Just rest easy. We're cleansing this country."
The trepidation in her heart boiled over, steaming into ire and lacing her words with bitter rancor. "You're wrong."
The giant shrugged. He mumbled, "Children have no place in politics," and gave a signal to his soldiers. The air hummed with the ring of steel; soldiers crowded the cottage, swords raised and spines rigid as the front door was kicked from its hinges. "Search the wardrobes. Raid the attic. Check the outhouse. The body is here, and I want it back."
The militia charged through the doorway.
"Blood!" he hollered at their backs. "The bastard's still bleeding. Look for dark, sour blood."
From the street, Dalya heard the shattering of pottery and the sharp splintering of wood. Arms crossed, sun on his back, Stretvanger watched his men scour the cottage from his spot on the lawn as he rocked unsteadily on his heels.
Droplets of sweat dripped into Dalya's eyes. Numb with fury, she did not blink them away. The salt stung and muddied her vision, but she never lost focus on the lumbering man in the heavy robes overseeing the ravaging of her grandfather's house. Her house. She listened as they ransacked her vault of memories, the font of her solace—the only place ever worthy of being called her home. And she trembled with rage.
She pried a pointed cobble from the road. Teeth gritted and brow narrowed, she measured Stretvanger's back and, knuckles white around the rock, stalked toward him, eyes locked to the space just inches below his belt—the base of the giant's spine. She moved rapidly, betraying stealth as her footsteps smacked the street, but Stretvanger never turned. When she was within arm's length, Dalya hefted the rock, tightened her grip, and zeroed in on her target.
But before she struck, Harringer lurched through the doorway. His sword was tucked into his scabbard and his fingers were riddled with cuts and splinters. "We found blood on the old man's sheets," he said.
The bishop's lips parted slightly. "Blood?" The word rumbled from the hood like a drumroll. "Yes?"
Harringer did not match gazes with Stretvanger, opting instead to study the ground between the giant's feet. "But there's no body. We looked absolutely everywhere."
Dalya's brow furrowed. She dropped the stone and staggered backward. Stretvanger was silent for several seconds before pivoting on his heel and peering at the child. He tore into her with his cold stare for a few tense moments, his emotions concealed behind the shadows of his hood, before swallowing hard and offering a subtle nod.
"Right," the bishop mumbled, pushing past the girl and hurrying into town.
Eventually the last of the soldiers filed out, leaving Dalya mired in a mess of clothes and
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