by Anne Bishop
How could he protect his people with only six guards? If he added his gamekeeper and the two men under him, that gave him three more men who were skilled with a bow. Not enough. Not nearly enough if the Inquisitors gathered an army to crush the barons who wouldn’t yield to their view of the world.
He could ask Breanna’s kin to stand with his people. The men now living in the Old Place who were skilled with a bow would double the fighting force, and a couple of them even had some skill with a sword. But that would leave the Old Place, and the women there, vulnerable if the enemy had enough men to split their forces, one half keeping his fighters occupied while the other went to devastate the Old Place.
He could command the magistrates in every village in the county he ruled to send him half their compliment of guards. That would swell the ranks of fighters, but it also would leave those villages with little protection, and the additional men still wouldn’t be enough, not when every baron who supported the Inquisitors could gather as many men and combine them into an army.
Great Mother, what am I supposed to do? How can I protect my people, my friends, my family? How can I—
A footman burst into the room. “There’s a rider coming! Coming fast. Sloane thinks it’s Squire Thurston’s son.”
Liam bolted from the room and rushed to the open front door, where Sloane, his butler, watched the rider galloping toward the manor house. Squire Thurston’s oldest son was one of the gentry youths who were riding the roads these days to keep watch around the village and outlying farms. They’d all been given strict orders not to approach any strangers. If they saw anyone, they were to ride to the nearest home and give a warning before riding on to warn the magistrate.
He stepped outside, Sloane following him. If Thurston’s son was heading here, that meant the manor was the closest house. And that meant…
The youth galloped up to them and reined in hard, setting his horse on its haunches.
“Riders coming!” he shouted, despite being almost on top of Liam.
“How many?” Liam asked, trying to ignore the heat that washed through his body.
“I counted twenty men and two coaches.”
“Any idea which way they came from?”
“The village…I think.”
Which meant the magistrate was already aware of the strangers and would summon the guards. Not that they would arrive in time to do anything but bury the dead.
“Should I tell my father?” the youth asked.
Liam hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Ride to the Old Place. Warn them. If we’re attacked here, they’ll be next.”
“Yes, sir.” The youth applied his heels, and his horse galloped off in the direction of the bridge that crossed Willow’s Brook.
Liam turned to Sloane. “Have the bucket of wood brought out. And send one of the footmen to find the gamekeeper and tell him he’s needed at the house—and tell him to come armed.”
“Yes, Baron.”
As Sloane hurried into the house to relay orders, Liam saw Flint, his stable master, striding toward him, the man’s face flushed with anger.
“Saddle as many horses as you can,” Liam said as soon as Flint got close enough to hear him. “Get the horses hitched to the farm wagon as well. Make sure one of the grooms stays with the wagon to drive it.”
If his servants had to run, they had a better chance to escape on horseback and reach the Old Place than they would on foot. Most of his footmen could sit a horse, even if none of them rode well. Each one could take a maid up behind him. The older servants and the young ones could go in the wagon.
Flint didn’t stop and return to the stable to follow orders. Instead, he kept coming toward Liam, finally stopping when there was a man’s length between them. His hands were clenched, and the look on his face was close to hatred.
“This is your doing,” Flint said harshly. “The baron wouldn’t have put us in danger this way.”
“I am the baron.”
“You’ve got the title, but you’re not half the man your father was. You never will be. You’re nothing but a witch’s brat that she tricked the baron into believing was his.”
Liam stared at Flint, who had been, and always would be, his father’s man. The urge to strike Flint for the slurs against his mother was strong, but the heat beneath his skin was getting more intense, warning him that he’d unthinkingly drawn too much power from the branch of fire and he couldn’t be sure, if he raised his hand now, that he could control what he’d summoned.
“Get off my land,” Liam said quietly, fiercely. “I don’t want you near my family. I don’t want you near my people. Get out.”
“And go where now that you’ve brought the enemy down on us?” Flint demanded, fear now coating his anger.
“You can obey my orders and stay until it’s safe to leave, or you can leave now.”
“Bastard!”
Liam nodded. “Which should prove to you that I truly am my father’s son.”
Flint looked stunned for a moment.
Liam saw the first riders turn off the main road onto the long drive that led to the manor house. “Make your choice, Flint. They’re coming.”
Flint’s breathing became harsh as he watched more riders turning onto the drive. Then he ran back to the stables.
A footman came out of the house, grunting a little as he placed the large brass bucket next to Liam. Normally, the bucket sat on the drawing room hearth, filled with kindling. Now it was filled with chunks of wood and thick sticks long enough to be used as torches.
“Get back in the house,” Liam said, watching the riders approach.
The footman didn’t have to be told a second time.
Horses feared fire. If he threw burning pieces of wood at them, they might bolt, might even throw their riders, might buy him enough time for the servants to get away before one of the men put an arrow into him—or, he added honestly, before he set himself on fire.
Four guards rode in front of five men who wore gentry clothing. The rest of the guards rode to the side and behind the two coaches. The road dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves made it difficult to identify the men until the front guards swung their horses to the side, and Liam found himself facing Baron Donovan. The baron was an acquaintance, someone whose company he had occasionally enjoyed when they’d attended the same parties or dined together at the club.
What made Liam’s heart sink was that Donovan had been the only other baron besides Padrick who had given him any acknowledgment after his impassioned speech at the barons’ council in Durham—the speech that set the Inquisitors against him.
Why was the other baron here?
Donovan dismounted. So did the other four gentry men and half the guards. Liam recognized the four men as barons he’d seen in the council chambers, but he couldn’t remember their names or what counties they ruled.
“Baron Liam,” Donovan said, his voice courteous yet wary.
“Baron Donovan,” Liam replied. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“You left Durham in a hurry.” Donovan watched Liam intently.
“I had reasons.” None he was willing to share until he knew why Donovan was here.
The door of the first coach opened. Liam saw one of the guards hastily extend a hand as a hooded figure stepped down.
A flicker of—fear?—swept over Donovan’s face as the hooded figure came forward. Then his face became hard, his expression determined.
“Answer one question so I’ll know if we’re wasting our time,” Donovan said. “Where witches are concerned, where do you stand?”
The heat under his skin was intolerable. He wanted a few minutes to quietly focus in order to try to bank the power he had raised. Since he wasn’t going to get those few minutes…
He raised his hand, releasing the power as he pointed at the wood.
Flames roared out of the bucket, shooting up to twice his height before settling back down to something closer to a normal fire.
&n
bsp; While the men fought to get the horses under control, the hooded figure seemed to stare at him. Liam was trying to think of something to say when Breanna galloped around the corner of the house and reined in. Her eyes took in the men and nervous horses, then settled on the hooded figure for a moment before she flung herself out of the saddle and strode forward, her eyes now focused on the barons.
When she stopped, she pointed a finger at Donovan. “If you raise so much as a finger here to do harm, I will summon a wind that will knock you all into the sea!”
Strong female hands suddenly flung the hood back, revealing an attractive woman who glared at Breanna. “If you knock us into the sea, then I’ll summon the sea and send a wave back here that will turn this place into a lake!”
Tension buzzed around the women for several seconds—seconds when no one, not even the horses, dared move. Then they grinned at each other.
“Where are you from?” Breanna asked.
“The midlands, on the northwest side of the Mother’s Hills,” the woman replied.
“Do you have kin in the hills?”
“I do. And you?”
“I do.”
“I’m water.”
“I’m air. And he’s”—Breanna glanced at Liam before looking at the bucket of burning wood—“learning.”
The woman’s lips twitched. “So I see.”
Now that his heart seemed able to get some blood back up to his brain, Liam noticed how pale the other barons were—and the stunned expression on Donovan’s face.
“Since Liam’s being a featherhead, I’ll pretend I live here and offer you some refreshments.”
The woman gave Liam an uneasy look. “You don’t live here?”
“Why would I?” Breanna asked, surprised.
“Then, perhaps…”
“It will be fine. Since Liam’s mother and sister—”
“Youngest sister,” Liam cut in, bristling.
Breanna rolled her eyes. “Since they’re staying at the Old Place with us, Sloane is quite happy to take household instructions from any sensible person.”
“I’m sensible!” Liam said.
“Of course you are.”
“Refreshments sound lovely,” the woman said quickly.
“This way,” Breanna said, leading the way into the house. “Where are your kin in the Mother’s Hills?”
Liam didn’t hear the answer since the door had closed behind the two women.
He and Donovan eyed each other.
“She’s…?” Donovan asked.
“My sister,” Liam replied. He gestured toward where the other woman had stood. “And she’s…?”
“My wife.”
The door opened again, and two junior footmen came out with buckets of water.
“Mistress Breanna said we should douse the fire,” one of them said.
“Unless you want the ladies to summon a bit of a cloud to rain on it,” the other added.
They looked so disappointed when he sighed and told them to just douse the damn fire. They all watched the water quench the fire—except for one chunk of wood at the top, which stubbornly kept burning despite being watersoaked.
“She’s right, you know,” Donovan said blandly.
“About what?” Liam asked.
“You are still learning.”
Liam just shook his head. “Gentlemen, why don’t we join the ladies for some refreshments? Then you can tell me why you’re here.”
Donovan looked back at the guard captain. The man said, “We’d prefer to stay out here, if it’s all the same to you.”
Liam nodded. “Go on to the stables. You can feed and water the horses if you like.” He led the barons into the house while some of the guards took up a position in front of the house to watch the drive and the others took the horses and coaches to the stables.
The refreshments were being set on a low table when the men entered the room. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, he realized he was still scared to the bone—and he knew why. So after inviting his guests to help themselves, he hustled Breanna out of the room, closing the door behind them.
“Could you do that?” Liam asked urgently.
“Leave guests to serve themselves?” Breanna replied. “Apparently, I can.”
“No. Not that. Could you really summon a wind that could reach the sea?”
She stared at him as if he’d just stripped off his clothes and started dancing on top of the refreshments. “Are you daft? Do you know how far that is?”
Of course he did. That’s why it had scared him. “So what was that? A witch’s version of a pissing contest?”
She pondered that before nodding. “Yes.”
He closed his eyes.
“Did you get the fire put out?” Breanna asked.
“Most of it.”
“That’s fine then. Come and have some tea. You look like you could use it.”
Personally, he thought the men, at least, could all use a healthy dose of whiskey. Ah, well. He could serve that kind of refreshment later.
“You did the right thing,” Donovan said two hours later, after Liam had told the other men how he’d been poisoned at his club, and how Padrick had intervened, not only saving him from the men who had been sent to kill him once the poison made him vulnerable but also getting him out of Durham—and getting him home. After he told them the contents of the letter his mother’s cousin had sent to her, revealing the truth about the “procedure” the eastern barons wanted performed on all women, the level of whiskey in the decanter dropped considerably.
Liam shifted in his chair. The dining room didn’t have the most comfortable chairs, but it had the accommodation of the table that made it easier for the men to see each other as they talked. Besides, any other room would have made this conversation feel too informal.
“I regret not being there for the vote,” Liam said, running a finger around the rim of his glass.
Donovan shook his head. “Your absence—and Padrick’s—served better than your presence could have. Those two empty seats made too many barons nervous, especially after Hirstun said you must be too ashamed to show your face for the vote. Mother’s tits! Anyone slightly acquainted with you knew you’d show up for the vote after that speech you made, and if you didn’t, there would be a reason for it. When Padrick didn’t show up”—he shrugged, but he looked uncomfortable—“that told the rest of us how the western barons would vote, and we all knew we were no longer voting on the proposed decrees. East and west were now on opposing sides, and when the rest of us voted, we were indicating which side we were standing with.”
Liam studied the other five men. “You all voted against the decrees.”
“We wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t,” Donovan replied sharply. He raked his fingers through his hair, the gesture full of frustration. “All the midland barons voted against the decrees. So did most of the northern barons. The southern barons were almost equally divided. That isn’t the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is we’re going to war. The eastern barons are going to combine forces and gather arms and men, and it’s a good bet they’ll be supported by arms and men from Wolfram since that’s where the Inquisitors came from. The barons from Arktos might send even more men against us if the Black Coats have control of them as well. What have we got? Even if we use every guard from every village, it won’t be enough. Not if the eastern barons have Wolfram and Arktos fighting with them. Liam”—Donovan raked his fingers through his hair again—“things can be said on a journey that are confidential, and I’m not asking you to break another man’s trust. What I am asking…There has to be a reason why the other western barons defer to Padrick. If you know why, please tell us. By allying with the west, we’ve placed the welfare of our people in his hands.”
Liam refilled his glass, then took a sip of whiskey, stalling for enough time to think, to consider. There were things he knew about Padrick that he wouldn’t reveal. But there were ot
her things he could say. He just didn’t know if the other men sitting at this table would find those things reassuring.
“He knows the Fae,” Liam said quietly.
Silence filled the room before one of the other barons snorted. “There are plenty of farmers’ daughters who have known the Fae—and there are plenty of young men who have had an encounter with one of the Fair Folk, for good or ill.”
Liam shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. Padrick knows the Fae. He told me the barons weren’t the only ones who ruled in the west, and they weren’t the most powerful.”
Another long silence.
Donovan leaned back in his chair and stared at Liam. “Are you saying he can actually convince the Fae to stand with him against the Inquisitors and their army?”
“I don’t think it’s a matter of convincing them,” Liam said cautiously. “It seemed more like a matter of not getting between them and anyone they decided was an enemy.”
“Mother’s mercy,” Donovan whispered. “If we had that kind of help here…But we don’t, do we?”
Liam shook his head.
Donovan studied the whiskey inside his glass. “There’s one other place we can look for allies…if we dare.” He drained the glass, then set it on the table with deliberate care. “There’s a story in my family about the man who was my great-great-uncle. He went out riding one moonlit night and met a lady, a woman like he’d never seen before. He fell in love with her and continued to ride out to meet her for a full turn of the moon. He gave her gifts, which she sneered at, but he was a younger son and could afford nothing finer. One night they argued, and she left him, never to return. But after that night, he felt compelled to write poetry. Every morning, when he woke, he rushed to his desk for paper and pen and spent agonizing hours, sometimes weeping in frustration, as he tried to write another excruciating poem. And just as he was compelled to write them, he was equally compelled to read them to guests who came to the house—or family if there were no guests, or even the servants if he could find no one else.