The Fall Children

Another murdered child had been left on the altar of the Temple of the First Oak. Anselma leaned heavily against the temple's heart tree, blinking back tears. Rocco's smooth, ten-year-old face was contorted by death. The pungent scent of death overlay the scents of scorched-oat offerings and the fresh apple pies left for the upcoming holiday by grateful neighbors. One of the boy's small, curled hands had fallen over one side of the altar, and the other rested against the temple's heart tree. Only a little blood had seeped into his red robes from the knife, which was a simple thing of wood and antler that still stood in his chest. It was the sort of knife usually used to sacrifice goats for the Feast of the Winter Veil.

That little bit of blasphemy made the hurt more intentional. Anselma felt there was something there if only she could focus. She kept trying to make sense of it, but the old woman's heart was so battered now that it was almost numb.

Rocco was the third child who had been killed this way, and as much as each dead child was a gaping wound in the heart of the temple, Rocco had been special. The harshest sobs in the foyer came from Siegwin, Rocco's bloodfather, the guide Rocco's mothers had selected when they wanted children. His mothers had been close to the temple since he was born, and everyone had seen Rocco grow from a baby into a boy given to the temple as an assistant. They weren't supposed to have favorites, but Rocco had been intimately connected with the temple since before he was born, and he showed such promise as a future guide.

Had shown such promise. Anselma's gnarled fingers clutched the side of the altar, throbbing their morning ache. She tried to use the physical pain to keep her emotional pain small and tight. It didn't quite work. When she heard the soft susurrus of shoes in the rushes, she composed her face, straightened, turned.

Guide Elva approached from the foyer, stride brisk despite her advancing pregnancy. Elva had always been prone to temper, and she was nearly impossible when she was carrying a child. Her strong jaw was thrust forward and her dark eyes sparked with anger. She radiated danger like a mother bear.

"Elder Guide." Elva's formal address was clipped, the bow of her head was an attenuated jerk.

"Three days. Three dead children. What are you going to do?"

How could they protect the other assistants, she meant. Anselma took a slow breath. "The wards of the summer guides?"

"Unreliable." Elva did not hide her bitterness or contempt. "They didn't sense anything last night."

Anselma tried to hide her own grimace. Anything natural would have tripped the wards. For that matter, most unnatural things should have tripped the wards. "Ask them to set them again, as strong as they can manage, and have our strongest guides help them. Don't make that face at me, Elva. They can't hurt. And any guide not old, sick, or with child will stand watch tonight in the assistant's hall and the sanctuary."

Elva was tart. "Siegwin and Otwald didn't see anything last night. No one even realized that Rocco was out of bed until Luitwin came in to sanctify the altar."

The clipped words felt like an accusation. Anselma embraced her anger, using it to push her grief into a small tight ball, then she made herself breathe out. When she spoke, her voice was calm and smooth. "Reset the wards. Ask the summer guides to check them again before dusk. Don't include yourself in the watches."

"Elder Guide—"

"New life comes first." The Temple was small enough that Anselma rarely had to lean on her rank, but if that was what it took to keep Elva from risking her unborn child, so be it.
Elva's lips pressed into a thin white line. Anselma steadied herself for more argument, but warbling voice interrupted from near the foyer. "Elder Guide!"