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she now perched. “Later that night, Jawar said he heard something outside and went to investigate. I had fallen back to sleep when I heard Byroth scream. I was scared, so I waited for Jawar to handle it. But when the screaming continued, I sneaked down to see. She swallowed hard, and tears obscured her eyes. “I saw . . . I saw . . . oh, Byroth—” She folded her face into her hands, the rest of her description muffled. “I heard a scuffle, a shout. By the time I dared to tear aside the doorway covering, Jawar had chased the assassin out the window and was cradling our little boy. Both covered in blood. On the walls, the straw, the floor. More on the window ledge, and I thought I saw a man’s shadow disappearing into the night.”
    “You’re sure it was a man?” Brandon interjected, their only clue thus far to the identity of the sorcerer.
    “It could have been a large boy or woman. A trick of shadow.” The mother heaved a heavy sigh. “I was too focused on my loved ones to pay much attention.” Finally, she looked up. Moisture still blurred her eyes, but they held a deep hardness, a glint of hatred. “Whoever did this must be caught and punished.” She turned her attention to her husband, and her look softened. “I believe Jawar saw the man who tried to kill our son, maybe even wrestled with him. But he’s too distressed to talk.”
    Apparently believing himself addressed, Jawar muttered, “The bond between man and daughter is sacred; but the son, the son, is his true reflection.”
    “To talk coherently, “ she corrected.
    Gatiwan directed his gaze fully upon Byroth’s mother. “So he’s not making sense to you either?”
    She sucked in another lungful of air.“Not since the . . . incident. He just sits there, quoting the poets and philosophers from the docks.” She added, clearly to provoke her husband to anger if not reason, “I had always believed him a strong man who could handle terrible things better than me.”
    Brandon Magebane swooped to the father’s defense. “It may not be his fault. The sorcerer might have inflicted some sort of spell on him.”
    The mother stiffened. “Sorcerer,” she said weakly. “You think it might have been—?”
    “We don’t know.” Gatiwan stretched his legs out in front of him. “We’re here to try to figure that out.” He did not mention that, if not, their interest in the case would evaporate. At the least, it would free Nightfall from his obligation.
    Brandon added,“Do you know if Byroth had a talent?”
    “Many.” The mother gave her husband another glance. He had reason to know the boy better than she did. “But nothing magical. Not that I ever noticed.” She shook her head. “No. No, I’m sorry. Byroth didn’t have . . . a birth gift. Nothing a sorcerer would . . .” She trailed off, her head rocking harder, as if to convince the world of her certainty.
    The father babbled, “. . . the placid plow horse, the deadly mosquito, the crystal pond.” He glanced at Nightfall with vacant, hollow eyes. “The bond, the bond.”
    The woman waved at Byroth’s bedroom. “I haven’t gone in there since. Haven’t touched anything. The knife’s still there; he just dropped it. You’re welcome to look.”
    “Look, look,” Jawar echoed. “But why? That most obvious is hardest to see.”
    Liking this case less and less, doubting they could gather enough information to find the sorcerer if, in fact, one was even involved, Nightfall followed Gatiwan and Brandon to the bloody bedroom.
     
    The scene yielded no useful clues, at least to Nightfall. The unadorned knife, well used and sharpened many times, might belong to anyone. The bloody footprints could have come from either parent as easily as from the attacker, and the scattered straw revealed nothing but an understandable struggle. The frowns scoring his companions’ faces told Nightfall they found nothing more significant than he had. So, they returned to the healer’s cabin and