The smith nodded slowly. “She was gone!”
“She hadn’t simply followed you and gotten lost-or gone to visit the other
S’danzo?”
A deep-pitched groan forced its way out of Dubro’s throat. “No-no. T’was all
torn about. She fought, but she was gone-without her shawl. Walegrin, she goes
nowhere without her shawl.”
“She might have escaped to hide somewhere?”
“I’ve searched-else I’d have been here sooner,” the smith explained, shifting
his grip from Walegrin’s wrist to his less-protected shoulder. “I roused all the
S’danzo-and they searched with me. We found her shoe behind the farmer’s stall
by the river, but nothing else. I went home to look for signs.” Dubro shook
Walegrin for emphasis. “I found this!”
He withdrew an object from his pouch and held it so close that Walegrin couldn’t
see it. A measure of calm returned to the smith, he released Walegrin and let
him study the object. It was a metal gauntlet boss, engraved and distinctive
enough to identify its wearer, should he be found. But Walegrin did not
recognize it. He handed it to Thrusher.
“Do you recognize it?” he asked.
“No-“
Cythen took the boss from Thrusher’s hands. “Stepson-” she said with both fear
and anger. “See here, the lightning emerging from the clouds? Only they wear
such designs.”
“You have a plan?” Dubro demanded.
It wasn’t only Dubro waiting for a plan. With the mention of the Stepsons,
Cubert had re-entered the room, and Cythen was warm for blood; the hawkmasks all
had reasons for vengeance. Even Thrusher, still rubbing his sore head, acted as