The figure, perched on the highest point of York Minster, had his eyes closed and his arms outstretched as though he was about to take a swan dive off the building. If the tiny figures below, intent on checking their texts and posting morning selfies, had looked sky-wards he would have drawn quite a crowd, but humans rarely bother to look up.
‘Where are you little brother?’ the figure said, sending the thought out far and wide in all directions.
He crouched, looking out over the city and waited for an answer. He had been searching for more than two weeks now, asking the same question over and over with only silence in return. No one knew where Ashrafel was. No one had seen him, sensed him, or even heard a rumour. The only word from above was that Ash had not returned home, but they could not tell him where he had gone instead. Could not or would not? The Watcher thought the latter. How could they not know where he was? He got the distinct impression he was being fobbed off.
Careful not to tell him an outright lie but evasive enough that he learned nothing, he had pestered them to the point that they no longer bothered to answer him at all.
Well, he could play games too, he knew better than anyone how to bend the rules and he had no intention of leaving his investigations there. There were other ways to find out what he wanted to know. He would just have to get creative.