Songweaver's Awakening

Chapter 9 - Farahd

“Read me the last report again,” Farahd said, pulling himself into a sitting position.  He winced at the pain in his shoulder, and covered it up just as quickly with a frown.  He wanted to be up and about as soon as humanly possible.

Anestan perched on the edge of the bed, legs folded beneath her and long black hair falling to her lower back.  She looked like a painting, the light from the window striking her from the left, her blue and gold dress pooled at her heels.  The light accented her prominent cheekbones and small, pointed chin.  She turned her head at his voice, and large black eyes regarded him with a stern expression.  “Rest easy, Raj,” she said, “and you will be on your feet faster.  The healer recommended bed rest.”

Farahd rubbed the bandage that was wrapped about his chest and shoulder.  He scowled.  “The physician also recommended that the bandage be kept on for a month.  A wound needs to breathe, Anestan.”  He waved his arm irritably.  “When we fought against the northerners, a bandage stayed on for a day or two until the bleeding stopped.  This thing,” he moved his shoulder experimentally, “it restricts my movement.”

“That’s probably the point,” Anestan said.  She shifted the papers in her lap and reached for a cup of tea on the folded table next to her.  She sipped and set the cup back down.

Farahd rubbed again at the bandage.  “In Sendasi it was different,” he said, his voice low.  “When we were wounded, the only thing we had for a bandage were the scraps of our own clothing.  Even then, most wounds would fester in the heat and the damp air, and the flies would bite and suck at our blood.  I lost several friends because they weren’t strong enough to survive.”  He looked up at Anestan.  She sat absolutely still, her eyes fixing his with an inscrutable gaze.  He had never spoken to her about what he had endured in Sendasi.  Farahd cleared his throat to break the silence.  “The last report?”

Anestan lowered her eyes back to the parchment.  “Yes.”  She held up the piece that lay on top.  “This month, thirty-five children were reported missing.  That’s ten more than last month.  We let the commoners into court, as you asked, after careful screening.  They’re panicked, Raj.  They don’t know where to turn.  Everyone is afraid that their children will be next.”

Farahd shifted to make his shoulder more comfortable.  “Did you get a detailed report about how exactly these children are disappearing?”

“Yes.”  She sighed and put the stack of parchment aside.  “You’re not going to like it, Raj.”

Farahd grimaced.  She, like Tuco, insisted on calling him ‘Raj’, the landowner honorific, instead of by his name.  He wondered how long it would take before he forgot his name and answered only to ‘Raj’.

“We had a few people give testimony as to what happened.  Each of them described the same thing.  They all woke up to find their children had gone.  Just vanished in the middle of the night.  All of them said something about a funny smell around their children’s beds or cots.  Sweet and pungent, like flowers.”  Anestan shook her head.  “I’ve never heard anything like it.  No blood, no signs of a struggle, just gone.  Maybe one or two, but thirty-five in one month?  It’s unheard of.  Except,” her voice lowered, “your Talian adviser, Lythas.  You should have seen him, Raj.  When the commoners talked about the smell, he went white as a freshly bloomed rose.”  She hesitated.  “Raj, he says that Fair Folk are causing the disappearances.”

Farahd could feel her eyes on him, gauging his reaction.  “Fair Folk?” he repeated.

“I said that it was a mad idea, Raj, that the Fair Folk, if they truly are real and not stories, would not brave our deserts.  For them to find their way from Talia to Javhineel is absurd.”