The interior of the house was shadowed and cool. He walked inside while Aryal threw open shutters, letting in more light. The furniture looked minimalist and comfortable, and a fireplace with a simple hearth had half-burned logs. He wanted to check to see if the logs were cool, but first he needed to make sure the rooms were clear.

He found a body lying in the doorway of a bedroom. It was an Elven male, lying face down, long hair spilled about his head and shoulders. He had been dead for some time.

Quentin did not know that because of any state of decay, as he would with any human or mortal body. Some alchemy of their race caused Elves to look as natural in death as they had in life for years. When they finally began to decay, or so he had heard, they smelled sweet, like crushed flowers.

He could tell the male had been dead for some time because the body had been partially eaten. Wildlife had gotten into the house. The lower half of one leg was missing entirely.

He carefully eased the body over, and several insects scuttled away. The male wore soft, loose clothing, such as what one might wear to bed, if one wore pajamas. He had been stabbed several times, and there were defense wounds on his arms.

Quentin looked beyond the body into the bedroom. The bedcovers had been thrown back on the bed. The Elf had been disturbed while he was resting.

Aryal had moved to join him. She stood staring down at the body for a long moment. Then she stepped over it and walked into the deeply shadowed bedroom. “There’s evidence of a partner,” she said. “Feminine clothes, jewelry, et cetera. I’ve looked through the other rooms. There aren’t any other bodies.”

He took a blanket off of the bed and covered the body carefully, then stood, slamming the door on his emotions again. “In Lirithriel when Gaeleval enthralled the Elves, he did it at night, when most of them were asleep. Not everyone was asleep though, and the ones who had been enthralled attacked the others. It looks like the same thing could have happened here.”

In the middle of the bedroom, she turned to consider him. “This is going to be a grim homecoming for any Numenlaurian Elves who recover enough to make it back.”

“I know.” He wiped his forehead with the back of one arm. “We should check to see if there’s any food that might still be useable.”

“Right.”

Aryal moved past him and he followed her. The dwelling was a simple one, and the kitchen was recessed back into the hill. He heard the sound of trickling water as he stepped into the room, which was in almost total darkness until Aryal struck a match. The tiny yellow flame threw enough illumination for her to locate a lamp set on a table. She lit it and stepped back. A cooking hearth was inset into one wall. The chimney would have to go through the soil of the hill itself to provide some kind of outlet for the smoke. Against another wall, an underground spring provided ample running water, which trickled out of a fountain.

Even though Numenlaur had been cut off from the outside world for so long, the house seemed thoroughly modern in concept as it used natural elements as assets. It would be warm and easy to heat in the winter, and stay cool in the summer.

While he admired the design of the house, Aryal moved around the kitchen. She walked into a deep recess that must be some kind of pantry. Then she walked out again.

“The cupboard shelves are bare,” she said. “Somebody’s been here before us.”

The blunt words sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. “You’re sure it isn’t wildlife.”

He hadn’t quite phrased it as a question, but she answered as if he had. “There’s been some wildlife in there. It’s messy and stuff has been knocked to the floor and spilled. But there’s no wayfarer bread, or anything preserved in jars that might be portable.”

Wayfarer bread was stored wrapped in leaves that were a natural repellant. The leaves masked the smell of the bread, and they tasted bad to animals and insects. “All right,” he said. “We had an instinct to be wary. Now we know for sure.”

She shrugged and walked over to the fountain to drink deeply and wash off. When she was through, he moved in to do the same. The clear, pure water was delicious and immensely refreshing.

Aryal said, “It could have been the missing Elves.”

“Could have,” he said. He ducked his head to wet his hair. The cold on the back of his neck was a shock to the system and sharply bracing. “But I don’t believe it. I don’t know two of the Elves, and I’ve only met the third so I can’t speak for them, but I find it hard to imagine that Linwe could have walked by the body and just left it alone. I think she would have covered him, like I did. She certainly would have shut the door to keep out any more scavengers.”

“So it was somebody else.” She leaned back against the table, one foot kicked over the other. “Maybe the reason why the Elves are missing? Maybe they came in after whoever crossed over.” She shook her head. “Wait a minute, does that make sense? If the Elves had found evidence of someone who came into Numenlaur, why didn’t we?”

“This all could have happened weeks ago,” he reminded her. “The evidence could have been washed away by the elements by now.”

She pushed away from the table. “Whatever the answers are, we’re not going to learn any more here. Let’s go.”

He blew out the lamp, and as they left the silent house, he shut the door firmly behind them. At least if the dead Elf had any surviving friends or family, they would have something to bury when they returned home.

They continued down the hill and stopped at a few more houses on the way. The next home didn’t have any dead bodies. It also didn’t have any food. The third home was also empty of bodies, but this time they found a few loaves of wayfarer bread. They broke open the wafers and ate them immediately.

It wasn’t enough food, but Quentin felt a pickup in his energy immediately. As he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, he said, “Whoever was scavenging got their needs met after looking into only a few pantries, and they hit the same houses we did, on the route from the passageway, so we’re looking for a small party. One, maybe two people.”

Aryal thought about it and nodded. “That’s how I would call it. Let’s hit one or two more houses and see if we can get some supplies, then move into the city.”

The next house they came upon was large, clearly the home of someone prosperous, and it had a stable and a large pasture. Quentin paused on the path to the door, staring out over the land. He couldn’t see the whole pasture.

Aryal paused too and looked in the direction of his gaze. She scowled but said, “Check out the pasture if you want. I can search for food.”

“Okay.” He handed her his backpack and walked over to the pasture. Putting one hand on the top wooden rail, he vaulted over the fence. He jogged into the field until he could see around a copse of trees to the other end. If there had been any horses in the pasture, they had leaped the fence a while ago, and he wouldn’t bother checking in the stable. He spun around and jogged back.

As he approached the section of fence nearest to the house, Aryal exploded out the front door. Already primed for possible trouble, his heart kicked. He stared as she ran several yards, stopped, and turned in a circle with one hand pressed to her flat stomach, the other over her eyes. The part of her face that was visible was clearly distressed. Was she injured?

His sword was in his hand before he realized it. He raced to the fence and leaped over without touching it. She bent at the waist, and he put on a burst of speed. As he reached her, she was making a soft noise, as if she sobbed for breath.

As if she—Aryal—sobbed.

His world bled with wrongness. He put a hand on her back, and she flinched. She hadn’t realized he had approached? He glared at the open door of the house. She had set their backpacks together just outside.

He asked harshly, “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head and straightened. Her expression was clenched, her eyes filled with horror.

What the f**k?

“What happened?” he asked more quietly. Even though she had indicated she wasn’t hurt, his gaze ran down her body anyway, instinctively checking for harm. The way she had clutched at her stomach, it was as though she had been stabbed.

She swallowed, and her mouth twisted. “Horses weren’t the only creatures that the enthralled Elves failed to look after, Quentin.”

THIRTEEN

Aryal could see that Quentin hadn’t yet pieced together what she meant. He looked sharp, fierce, still ready for battle, his sword gripped in one hand while he rubbed her back with the other. She didn’t think he was aware that he was doing it.

He started for the house, and she grabbed his arm. She told him, “It serves no purpose for you to go in there.”

He glared at her, jerked out of her hold and strode for the house.

She put a hand over her eyes with a sigh. Some people always had to take the hard road. Then, because she knew what was waiting for him in that still, silent house, she followed at a slower pace.

He moved from room to room, his movements angry and aggressive. Then he came to the doorway of one room and stopped with a jerk as if someone had punched him.

Fresh tears flooded her eyes. Gods, she hated crying. She walked up behind him and this time she was the one to put a hand on his rigid back.

It was a beautiful room, clearly the jewel of the entire house. Loving care had gone into every detail, from the bright treasures of tapestries that hung on the walls, to the handmade toys, the books, and the three gold and jeweled animals that sat on a shelf.

The most precious jewel of all lay in the beautifully carved cradle, his tiny body dressed in soft, embroidered silk. His skin glowed, bright ivory and peach. From his delicate, rosebud mouth to his miniscule, pointed ears, he was perfect in every way. Like all dead Elves, he looked as if he had fallen asleep moments ago.

Quentin’s jaw worked.

She said, her voice hoarse, “The door was shut. Not the door to the house—that was unlatched. This door. I think that’s why he’s still so perfect. None of the wildlife could get in here.”

He turned his head and looked at her. His eyes were reddened. “All of them? All of the babies are dead.”

Her mouth worked again, and two tears spilled over. Damn it. “Any child that was too young to enthrall must have been left behind, which means any child too young to fend for itself.”

She had seen horrible things in her life, but this was one of the most appalling and heartbreaking. Children were rare to the Elder Races, as if nature compensated for their long life spans, and they came most rarely to the Elves. Sometimes Elves longed for children for thousands of years, and they greeted the birth of each one with joy.

The death of any single baby or child, of any species, was a terrible tragedy. The death of all the Elven babies and young children in Numenlaur was simply unspeakable.

His chest moved, a quick, involuntary movement. He whispered, “I thought before they were crippled from everything that has happened to them. This will have cut out their heart. No wonder so many are committing suicide.”

When she had opened the door, she had been totally unprepared for what was inside, and the sight had slammed her so hard she had tried to run away from the pain. Now, she did the opposite. She walked into that beautiful room and sat on the stool beside the cradle to gaze at the baby’s face. Her face tickled. She wiped at it, and found that her cheeks were wet.

“I don’t know how to walk away from him,” she said. She picked up one of the gold animals, a frog with emerald eyes, and turned it over and over in her hands. It was small and heavy, and something in her mind told her that it meant something significant, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. “It feels wrong to leave him lying here unprotected. What if something manages to get in? And we can’t bury him. That would be stealing even more from his parents, if either one of them survived. They can’t come back to just find their baby gone.” Her voice broke. “Goddammit.”

As he had done when they had talked about the Elven horses, Quentin spun to turn his back on the room, but this time he turned around again as if he couldn’t help himself. He walked toward her, every line of his body speaking of reluctance.

She wiped at her eyes again. “It’s not that I haven’t seen bad shit before. Battlefields with thousands of dead, and thousands more injured and dying.” She barked out a dark-sounding laugh. “My gods, have I seen bad shit. I just haven’t seen this kind of bad shit before.”

He knelt beside her and looked at the occupant in the cradle. Quentin’s face was still clenched as he fought with his emotions. In a barely audible voice, he said, “I want Amras Gaeleval alive again so I can hurt him. A lot.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, gripping him tightly. His muscles were rigid. “Now you sound like me.”

He glanced at her, pain pooling in his eyes. Then in a gesture that seemed as natural as breathing, he took hold of her hand and leaned his forehead against it.

Had she really reached out to him, and had he really accepted it?

Wonders never ceased.

She looked at his bowed head and slumped, broad shoulders. This wasn’t fun pain. This was the bad kind of pain, and nothing about it was like brandy and chocolate. This was more like taking a knife to the gut and then watching yourself bleed out.

Something welled deep inside. She supposed it was compassion. Or maybe empathy. Whatever it was, it moved her to set the frog on the floor and reach out with her free hand to stroke Quentin’s soft, dark gold hair.

He looked at her over their clasped hands, a raw, direct look. When she met his gaze it was with a shock of connection that shifted something important inside.

Then he squeezed her fingers and let her go. “I can seal the door,” he said. “If there’s anyone with magic sense in the area, that’ll pretty much tell them we’re here.”