Starborn. Katie MacAlister

like a hundred rotting corpses. And this cow did not die naturally. Just look at its expression.”

      Hallow glanced down as we skirted the dead animal. He said nothing, but pulled the staff from his back and rested it on the toe of his booted foot as we entered the town of Aldmarsh proper. A couple of women stood together with baskets on their arms, watching us with a despairing sense of acceptance that made the fine hairs on my arms rise.

      “Blessings of the goddesses,” Hallow greeted the ladies politely.

      They didn’t respond, but watched us dismount with flat, hopeless eyes.

      “We’re looking for a man named Quinn,” I told the ladies and sketched a couple of general protection runes on them, a normal practice for a priest, but one that felt oddly out of place here. I could feel Kiriah’s presence, but it seemed distant, as if the sun was swaddled. “Could you tell us where he lives?”

      “There is no one of that name here,” one of the women said. Her voice was as lifeless as her eyes.

      “Are you sure? Sometimes he’s called Quinn the Mad.” Both ladies shook their heads. “Ah. Well, may Kiriah’s benevolence shine upon you.” I drew another rune on them, feeling they needed it.

      Hallow said nothing as we turned and led our mounts down the rutted muddy track that was the main street in Aldmarsh. Faint movement of pale faces in glassless windows dissolved into darkness as the inhabitants, having seen us, returned to their cheerless lives. There were no children playing or running around, no animals save for a few scraggly chickens huddled in uncomfortable-looking lumps, and no sound but that of the sea.

      “What are we going to do?” I asked Hallow when he stopped in front of one of the shacks. This one had a fishing net swaying gently from the craggy line of broken tile on the roof, pegged out along the side of the house, no doubt to dry. The breeze from the water did little to dissipate the horrible stench that seemed to come from the ground itself.

      He nodded toward the house. “We’re going to find out who lives here.”

      “Why here?” I asked, my back itchy with the sensation of unseen watchers.

      “Look at the net. Do you see the knife tacking it to the wall of the house?”

      “Yes. So?”

      “Look closer.” I let him take the reins from me so he could tie up his horse and Buttercup, eyeing the knife. It was small, almost as small as an eating knife, the blade scarred, but not rusted. The handle bore a golden tree on a background of white…the symbol of Lord Israel.

      “You think this is the man we want?” I asked when Hallow knocked on the door.

      “The captain said Quinn the Mad had seen more battles than I could conceive of—clearly, the owner of that knife has served under or with Lord Israel, and just as clearly, he is someone with whom we should speak.” He took my hand, his fingers curling around mine in a way that had me wishing we were back home, cuddled up together in bed, with no demands on us but the need to drive each other wild with touches and kisses, and the particular way his whiskers tickled my inner thighs when he—

      “Allegria?”

      “Hmm?” With an effort, I pulled my mind to the present. While I had been distracted, Hallow had led me around the shack to the back, where we found three chairs positioned next to a small stack of barrels and a couple of broken crates. On one of the chairs a man was seated with a net that spilled out across his lap and down onto the brown sand. Next to him, perched on one of the crates, a girl of about six sat cross legged, a dirty red cloth doll sitting next to her. “Oh. Er…greetings and blessings to you both.”