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shifted from foot to foot. “Found her wedged in a ravine covered with bruises and surrounded by rocks.”
    “Brutal,” Nightfall said. In all his days as the demon, he had never murdered a child and no one in such a cruel fashion. “But there’s only one way to know whether these killings might be related.”
    When the other two men just stared, Nightfall finished.
    “Find out if Byroth has a talent. If at least two of the children did, that’s a pretty clear sign.”
    “He won’t tell us,” Gatiwan reminded.
    “Then,” Nightfall said, “we might want to start with his parents.”
     
    Though tidy and sparsely furnished, the main room of Byroth’s family cottage felt dangerously closed in to Nightfall. He had let Brandon take the most secure position, a stool pressed against one wall that granted him a full view of the fireplace, both windows, and the door. Nightfall understood the Magebane’s need to see any danger before it struck and did not want to seem similarly hunted. Consequently, he found himself peering out the window at his back at intervals, unable to grant the parents his full attention. Gatiwan had chosen to sit on a storage chest between one of the windows and the door, while the mother hunkered on a rickety stepladder leading to an overhead loft. In two places, the main room opened onto children’s bedrooms. Byroth’s five sisters slept in one. The other still held the bloody straw pallet that had served as his bed.
    Byroth’s father had chosen a seat on the floor where he rocked himself like a fearful toddler. A large man with work-callused hands and strong arms, he now looked more like a lost child. His wiry hair lay wildly snarled, and he had not shaved in several days.
    The mother had clearly made more of an effort to appear presentable in front of important company. Her black hair was neatly pressed, braided, and twisted on top of her head; and she wore a clean, if simple, shift. Her hands twisted in her lap, never still. “What can I tell you?” she asked expectantly. Though she had relived the terror more than once, she obviously hoped these professionals might find answers where others had failed.
    Gatiwan’s usually gruff manner softened. “We know this is hard for you, madam. We’re just wondering if you could tell us what happened three nights ago.”
    The woman looked at her husband, who continued to weave back and forth, eyes unfocused. “Jawar’s not handling this well,” she explained. “Five daughters and only one stillborn son till Byroth came.”
    Nightfall nodded encouragingly. To a manual laborer, having strong assistants was important, and none came cheaper than one’s own male offspring.
    “He doted on the boy. Best friends, they did almost everything but sleep together.”
    Jawar murmured to no one in particular. “Nothing, nothing on this fair earth is precisely as it seems . . .”
    All eyes jerked to the father.
    Byroth’s mother apologized. “He’s been babbling since the attack.”
    “. . . the placid plow horse, the deadly mosquito growing on a crystal pond . . .”
    Politely, the visitors ignored the father’s ramblings while the mother returned to the unanswered question. “We had gone out that night, as we often do, to the docks. That’s where would-be storytellers, poets, and philosophers try out their ideas.”
    It was a long-standing tradition, Nightfall knew. As Frihiat, he had come there often, and the bartenders frequently attended, hoping to discover new talent. Occasionally, they did find someone worth paying, in coin or board, to entertain their customers. Frihiat had never made the cut, though Nightfall had used the persona to tell good enough stories to earn drinks from fellow patrons.
    “The children were all fine on our return. All peacefully asleep.” The mother gestured at the two rooms leading off from the one they now occupied. We went up to bed.” She made a sweeping upward motion to indicate climbing the ladder on which