Most folk find the Blessing worth the resultant loss—what are a few weeks or months of your life compared to your whole mind? But some, like the parents of the boy who escaped, prefer to take the risk to keep their child whole, and instead flee deep into the plains. And sometimes, if they go far enough, fast enough, the Darkness does not touch their child.
“If he could tell us anything helpful, surely we would have heard by now,” I tell Ani, not wanting to give her false hope.
“I can’t give up,” Ani says desperately. “I can’t.”
If only there were some lead, some small clue to grasp at, but we’ve turned up nothing: no one remembers anything unusual, every stranger has been accounted for, every wagon searched. There is not a track out of place, nothing.
“Baba is riding east with two other men, following the road to Lirelei,” she says. “Everyone’s heard that . . . that the children might be sent on from the eastern ports.”
“It’s good that he’s going,” I say. It’s only scraps of rumor and fireside theories that suggest the snatched end up as slaves in other lands. Who sends them, how they are to be discovered—no one knows. But it’s worth the journey if Seri can be found.
Ani turns to me, her face tight with fury. “Children disappear every day. Have you thought about that? Perhaps only every few years for us, but in the cities? Across the whole of this kingdom? It must be a few every day. How can it go on? How is it that no one manages to stop it?”
I shake my head. It had been easy enough, these past years, to pretend the snatchers were not so constant or near a threat—because they rarely strike here, in so small a town as this. But now little Seri is gone, with her laughing eyes and impish sense of humor. Niya asked if the Circle of Mages really has tried to track the snatched, and I wonder if they have. If they care, or the royal court cares, or if anyone at all knows how the snatchers are able to hide every last trace of our children.
Ani takes a deep breath. “What use are the taxes we pay? What use is our king and all his soldiers, if they can’t stop our brothers and sisters from being stolen on the streets?”
“Not much,” I admit. It might be treason to say so, but there is no one to hear us on this empty road. I run my hands over my head, tug at my braids, hating this helplessness. “What can we do, though?”
“I don’t know,” Ani says, and for the first time since she came to our cart asking after Seri, she begins to cry.
I fold her into my arms, holding her tight as she sobs into my shoulder, and promise myself I’ll keep trying. And I won’t give up either.
Chapter
4
That night, we sit around the kitchen table, looking in silence at the potatoes Bean has cooked, seasoned with salt, cumin, and a little garlic left from last fall’s harvest.
“I didn’t burn them,” she says tentatively as everyone remains still.
“No, love,” Mama says. “We’re just tired.”
Baba nods. “And tomorrow will be a long day caring for the horses. We’ve ignored them enough already, and ridden half of them harder than we should.”
He’s right, of course. I barely wiped Muddle down, let alone curried her. I know Bean made sure to pick out all the horses’ hooves as they were brought back in, and everyone’s been watered and fed and put out to graze, but we’ve over forty horses. I know the horses need more than we’ve given them. But I can’t help asking, “Isn’t there something more we can do for Seri?”
“Pray,” Mama says.
“Everyone’s praying,” I say tightly. “You’re the one who always says that as much as we ask for help, we have to help ourselves.”
“I know, Rae. But we’ve done everything we can. It’s out of our hands now.”
I hate that I don’t know how to argue with her. But Seri can’t be tracked. By tonight, her father will have reached the nearest small city where a mage might be found. I have no doubt that their attempt to track Seri will end as Niya’s did: with nothing.
Bean reaches over and slides her hand into mine, squeezing tightly. I look across the table at our parents. “What about the snatchers themselves? Can’t we find some way to stop them?”
“What can we do?” Baba asks. “We’re horse ranchers.”
I have no answer. I don’t want to believe there’s nothing we can do. I can’t. But I still have no answer.
The meal finishes in the same silence it began. I push away my plate, glad to be done. The potatoes may not have been burned, but they still tasted like ash on my tongue.
“I wasn’t going to mention this quite yet, Rae,” Mama says before I can rise, “but a letter came for you yesterday—well, for us. It’s from your cousin Ramella.”
“Melly wrote?” It’s not unusual; we keep up a regular correspondence, and I look forward to her yearly visits with her husband, Filadon. He’s an actual lord with a small holding, and they spend most of their time at court in Tarinon. “To both of us?” I clarify, because that is the odd part.
“To us,” Mama says, indicating herself and Baba.
“What about?” Bean demands. “Are they coming to visit?”
“It’s an invitation for Rae to join them at court.”
My sisters and I stare at her, and then I shake myself once. “Well, she asks that every year. I’ve no interest in the court.” The prospect of visiting the king’s court, being surrounded by the wealthiest families of our land and all the vaunted beauties of their lines . . . me, with neither a title nor riches nor beauty to my name? No, thank you.
Mama slips a fold of paper from her pocket and slides
