She ran along the fence, past the village’s main gate. On reflex, she looked for the guard on duty. Of course there wasn’t one. She could see his empty post. No trace of him. Not even blood. Just . . .

Empty.

She ran around the livestock enclosure. The heavy gate was closed. Ronan helped her push it open, all the while muttering, “She’s not here, Ashyn. You know she’s not.”

Ashyn squeezed through. Behind her, Tova whined. She turned to see him trying to push his massive head through the narrow opening. Ronan heaved the gate a little more.

When Ashyn tried to run again, Ronan caught her. He motioned for silence as they looked and listened. Nothing. Then, as they were about to move, a whisper came from the barn. Ashyn smiled at Ronan, but his expression stayed grim, and his grip on her cloak only tightened.

“Slowly,” he whispered. “Get behind me and stay there.”

She didn’t appreciate being given orders, but he did have the sword.

They crept along the fence until they reached the barn. The sounds from within became clearer: first rustles and whispers, then finally voices.

“I heard something,” a young girl murmured. Someone shushed her quickly, but Ashyn smiled. She’d been right. The children were here. Moria was here.

Ronan nudged her into the lead, whispering, “They ought to see you first. I’ll wait here until you can explain.”

Before she could argue, he slid off into the night. Ashyn opened the barn door. An excited cry. A scrabble of shoes. Tova tensed. A small figure shot out from the darkness as someone whispered to stop, to come back. The figure launched herself at Ashyn. It was Wenda, the girl who’d walked with Ashyn to the temple.

Ashyn hugged her and motioned her back farther into the barn, where a woman leaned out. Someone closed the door behind Ashyn, making her jump. A lantern swung up. A guard stepped forward. Ashyn didn’t recognize him—he looked like many of the others, around thirty summers, brown-skinned, dark braids, no tattoos. A warrior, but not from the highest families.

Ashyn did recognize the woman. One of the farmer’s wives. Beatrix. She was older—her children had grown and left Edgewood for something better, as many did.

“Where’s my sister?” Ashyn asked. “Did she leave to look for me?”

Silence. Another figure shuffled from the shadows. An elderly man, past his days of working. Quintin was his name, as he reminded her. The guard was Gregor.

“My sister,” Ashyn repeated after the introductions. “She was here, was she not?”

“No, miss,” Beatrix said. “I haven’t seen her.”

“But the children. They’re here?”

Ashyn already knew the answer. If there were children here, they would not be so silent.