by Anne Bishop
“We will.”
Donovan tossed the coin in the water, then he and Liam crossed the bridge. As their horses stepped onto the land that was the Old Place, the water sprite shouted, “We saw you kissing Gwenn. We like the way you kiss her. So does she.”
Liam heard several splashes as the water sprites dove into the brook.
“Mother’s tits,” Donovan muttered.
At another time, Liam would have cheerfully teased Donovan about taking care when he indulged in a romantic walk with his wife. But he didn’t feel like teasing as they galloped toward Breanna’s house.
When they reached the arch, he turned left, galloping across the lawn, swearing under his breath. Donovan was swearing, too, with good reason. Standing in front of the men armed with whatever weapons had easily come to hand were Breanna, Gwenn, and Fiona.
He reined in hard enough to set the gelding back on its haunches and was out of the saddle and pushing through the men to reach his impossibly stubborn sister, who was standing right out in the open with her hair piled up on her head and an arrow nocked in her bow. Fiona also had a bow, and Gwenn was holding a fireplace poker. All three of them were wearing nothing above their skirts except camisoles which covered skin but didn’t exactly hide anything.
After giving the woods a quick scan and detecting no movement, he allowed himself a moment to consider what Breanna wasn’t wearing.
“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked at the same moment Donovan asked, “Gwenn, why are you out here holding a poker?”
“Because it’s hot,” Breanna snapped.
“Because I still can’t hit a target with an arrow,” Gwenn said testily.
We could be fighting for our lives in another minute, and I’m embroiled in a farce, Liam thought, keeping his eyes focused on the woods. He noticed the guards, after a swift, appreciative glance, were also keeping their eyes on the woods as they moved to stand in front of the women.
One of the guards glanced back at Donovan. “The ladies should go into the house. It will be safer there.”
A hawk’s scream distracted the women before any of them gave the man her opinion. A few moments later, Falco joined them.
“Breanna—” He stopped, stared at her, then asked, “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I will shoot the next man who asks me that,” Breanna said. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
“We do,” Falco said hurriedly as the riders approached on their silent horses. “Breanna, don’t get mad at me for what I say.” He winced. “At least…don’t hurt me.”
The riders came out of the trees, spreading out in a double line. Twenty grim men armed with bows or crossbows. They stared at the armed men facing them. Then their faces changed, freed of the glamour that gave them a human mask.
Before Liam—or Falco—could stop her, Breanna pushed past the guards in front of her and drew back her bow. Falco pushed through to stand behind her, and Liam followed him, forcing the guards to step back.
“You’re trespassing,” Breanna said coldly. “I told your Lightbringer he wasn’t welcome here. I’m telling you the same thing.”
Nerves. Fear. That’s what Liam saw in these men.
One of the Fae urged his horse forward a step. “Falco?”
“Varden,” Falco replied.
“We would speak with you.”
“He has nothing to say to you,” Breanna snapped. Wind suddenly gusted around her.
Falco placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Breanna, love, it will do no harm to let Lord Varden speak.”
She lowered the bow, easing back the tension on the bowstring before giving Falco a look that would make a man break out in a cold sweat.
Liam watched the Fae. Falco’s familiarity with a witch didn’t reassure them. If anything, it made them more nervous and fearful. But why?
“Can he fly?” Breanna asked.
“No, Varden is a wolf in his other form,” Falco replied.
“Then he won’t like getting tossed up to the treetops if he’s mean to you, will he?”
“I wouldn’t like getting tossed up to the treetops, and I can fly,” Falco muttered.
“May we speak?” Varden asked.
“I’d like to hear what he has to say,” Liam said quietly.
Varden gave him an assessing look before dismounting and taking a few steps toward them. “We’ve come to help.”
“Why?” Liam asked. “You’ve never shown any concern for the people I rule or the Mother’s Daughters who live here. You shunned Lord Falco because he did want to help. Why have you come now? Won’t your Lightbringer be displeased?”
“Things have changed.” Varden gave Breanna a nervous glance. “And it hardly matters if Lucian’s displeased since he’s afraid—” He stopped, hesitated, then focused on Falco. “Perhaps you’ve heard there’s a new Lady of the Moon, a new Huntress.”
Falco shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing about the Clans since I left Tir Alainn. So, Dianna was challenged and lost.”
Varden nodded. “The new Huntress is not only a Lady of the Moon, she is a Daughter of the House of Gaian. From the Mother’s Hills. She has said that if the Fae do not help the humans defend Sylvalan, she will close the shining roads in a way that will not destroy Tir Alainn but also will not allow us to come down to the human world. Forever.”
Breanna’s arm went limp. The bow and arrow dropped to the ground.
“Mother’s mercy!” Gwenn pushed her way through the men. She and Breanna stared at each other, then turned to stare at the Fae. “So you’re what got Selena so riled up.”
Varden flinched. “Not our Clan.” His eyes flicked toward them, then away. “You know the Huntress?”
“Not well,” Gwenn said. “But well enough to know Selena will do what she says she’ll do.”
“Since you don’t want to be a part of the world, why is this so important to you?” Liam asked.
Falco made a disparaging sound. “Because the game that fills the tables in Tir Alainn comes from the human world. Because we keep few animals except our horses and the shadow hounds. Some chickens for eggs, a few cows for milk. But not enough, if that’s all there was. Perhaps enough to survive, but not live easily…or well. So it comes down to the Fae once again looking out for themselves.”
“To someone else’s benefit as well,” Varden said angrily.
“Have you—any of you—seen what the Inquisitors do to witches?” Liam asked softly.
Varden hesitated, then shook his head.
“I have. Some nights, what I saw in those Old Places comes back in dreams that are almost more than I can stand. So I don’t care why you’re here, Fae Lord. I’ll take the help. I’ll take whatever skills your people have that will help us stop the pain and the slaughter and drive the Inquisitors out of our land. Saving our world is the only way you’ll save your own.”
Varden said nothing. Then, “There’s a rumor that the Hunter has reappeared and is heading east…with the Gatherer. If that rumor is true, I tell you this, gentry Lord. I would rather face these Black Coats than the Hunter.” He hesitated before adding, “With your permission—and yours, Lady—we will ride out now to become more familiar with the land.”
Since Breanna still seemed stunned by the news that a witch could actually do what she’d bluffed the Lightbringer into believing a witch could do, Liam nodded his assent.
After the Fae rode off, Donovan whistled softly. “Mother be merciful, Liam. Even if we only get help from a few of the Clans, we stand a better chance than we did an hour ago.”
“I know.” Now that the Fae were gone, he noticed how pale Falco looked. Couldn’t blame the man. He hadn’t been sleeping easy after learning there were witches out there more powerful than Breanna and Gwenn, who he thought were quite powerful enough. Since Falco would have to work through his own feelings, Liam rested a hand on Breanna’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
She just blinked at him, as if she were trying to get the world ba
ck into focus. Then she blew out a breath and bent to pick up her bow and arrow. When she straightened, she looked at the woods. “The Huntress, the Hunter, and the Gatherer.”
“Sounds like the title of a play the Muse would create, doesn’t it?” Gwenn let out a little grunt as Donovan finally wrestled the fireplace poker out of her hand.
“Yes, it does,” Breanna replied. “If they do come together, at least we won’t be sitting in the front row.”
Chapter 18
waxing moon
Smiling, Adolfo watched through the bars of the locked door.
The largest of the three nighthunters in the cage had been trying to figure out the simple lock on the cage door for an hour now. Its incentive was close enough to make it fiercely hungry but was still out of reach. Yes, there was a feast waiting for his creatures if they could get free of the cage: the two old witches he had drained of power in order to try this experiment—and the apprentice Inquisitor he’d used to assist him. The youth had been a good choice, an open channel for power but too weak to use it himself. Useless as an Inquisitor because of it, but he’d taken the youth because it was better to control a weak vessel than to have it controlled by someone else. Besides, even the useless had their uses—and it had quieted the doubt that had plagued him since the Gatherer had left him with a dead arm to weave the Inquisitor’s Gift of persuasion around the apprentice, to chain another person so completely with nothing but that Gift flowing through his voice.
He looked at the corner of the room where the apprentice lay, staring at him with terrified, pleading eyes. While his voice had rolled over the youth, the apprentice had taken the knife Adolfo handed him and cut out his own tongue—and then opened his own belly with a deep slash of the blade. Now the apprentice lay on the floor, his face smeared with blood, a little more of his guts spilling onto the floor with every effort to move.
The witches were crawling around on the floor, sensing there was danger nearby, but unable to see it, hear it, or scream out of fear of it. No feet to walk on, no hands to guide them. They always thought they were so powerful, but they were nothing more than meat.
He heard a click, saw the cage door swing open. For a few heartbeats, the nighthunters stared at the opening. Then they spilled out, flinging themselves on the blood and fresh meat that flailed desperately to escape the sharp teeth and claws.
Adolfo watched for another minute or two before closing the wooden door over the bars and latching it.
It was a pity he had to leave the nighthunters locked in that cellar room to die, but they were too dangerous to take with him. No matter. Now that he’d mastered how to twist the magic in a specific way, he could create the nighthunters when and where he needed them.
He’d succeeded beyond his expectations—but not beyond his hopes. The successful transformation of this new host creature into a nighthunter gave him a far more terrifying, and deadly, predator than the animals in the woods. This is what he would unleash on Sylvalan as punishment for defying him, for refusing to put women in their proper place, for helping the females whose power continued to seep into the world.
He was ready. Everything was ready. Even now, the army from Arktos was marching toward the northern border of Sylvalan to join the eastern barons he’d commanded to take the roads north of the Mother’s Hills, cutting off any help from the midlands. The southern barons that he controlled, along with more of the eastern barons, were doing a forced march to cut off the roads between the southern end of the Mother’s Hills and the coastline. Their orders were clear, and there were enough Inquisitors going with both armies to make sure the orders were carried out. They would kill any baron who tried to stand against them. They would kill his wife, his children. They would kill the squires and magistrates, leaving the villagers and farmers with no leaders to follow. They would take whatever food and supplies they needed, then burn the fields. Starving people had little strength for defiance. They would lay waste to the enemy’s lands until there were no enemies.
Ubel was already on his way with a fleet of ships packed with fighting men. A quick stop at Seahaven and Wellingsford to make sure there weren’t any ships trying to hide witches among their cargo, then up the west coastline to the small harbor that was a day’s hard march away from Breton.
By tomorrow night, he, the Master Inquisitor, would cross the Una River to lead the Wolfram army and the remaining eastern barons under his control straight to Willowsbrook. He wouldn’t kill Baron Liam, not right away. He would take the time to soften Liam and his family. Liam’s last act would be to offer himself as meat to the gifts that would be left behind to haunt his people for years to come.
The Sylvalan barons who defied him had no chance. He had the strength of Wolfram and Arktos to throw into the fight, as well as the eastern barons he controlled, while his enemies would have to splinter whatever strength they could gather in order to meet the three arms of his army as well as Ubel’s attack in the west.
No, Adolfo thought as he left the cellar and went up to his room, the Sylvalan barons had no chance. And once they were eliminated, his armies would come together and crush the Mother’s Hills, destroying the wellspring of magic forever.
Chapter 19
waxing moon
The air was fresh, invigorating, rich with scents. The water tasted sweet and cool. The ground beneath Mistrunner’s hooves hummed with energy and life. She was home. Not her family’s land or the village she grew up in, but as soon as she entered the Mother’s Hills, she was home.
Almost giddy with the pleasure of being back, Selena looked over her shoulder to see her companion’s reaction to being in the land that belonged to the House of Gaian. After a moment, she returned her attention to the trail in front of her; her pleasure dimmed.
Gwynith and the escorts were obviously uneasy about traveling through the hills. They rode with their shoulders hunched, as if they expected to be attacked at any moment.
The trail forked. Selena took the wider branch, then gestured for Gwynith to come up and ride beside her.
“Why are you so uneasy?” Selena asked. “You live in an Old Place. This can’t be that much different.”
“It is,” Gwynith said, her voice just above a whisper as she glanced fearfully at the trees around them. “There is power in the Old Places. You can feel the difference in the land and the air the moment you cross the boundary and ride out on land that belongs to the humans. But this place…It’s so potent, Selena. I feel reluctant to touch the land or drink the water for fear I might offend someone—or something—here.”
Selena looked around. “I suppose it is potent,” she said after some consideration. “There are so many of us who live here, so many generations who have served as the Great Mother’s vessels, taking in that power and giving it back again. I felt the lack of it when I traveled into the midlands, but I never realized other people would fear what they felt here.”
Gwynith gave her a pale smile. “In a way, it’s not so different from standing before one of the more powerful Fae. One just gives one’s manners an extra polish.”
“You can still go back,” Selena said gently. She studied the other woman. “Or is staying with me in order to send reports to the Hunter important enough that you’ll ride your fear to the end of the road?”
“Oh, that’s not the only—” Gwynith looked away, her face losing all color. “I truly did want to help you.”
“I know. That’s why you’re still with me.” She waited until Gwynith looked at her. “It must be difficult to have your loyalty divided.”
“It would have been…if I’d had to make a choice. But you and the Hunter want the same thing, so I haven’t had to make a choice after all.”
They didn’t talk after that, simply rode until the trail came to one of the main roads. It was tempting to turn south toward friends and family. She hadn’t been gone that long, but she yearned to be a daughter again, just for a day, to regain the sense of who she was and where she came from before resu
ming the challenge of shaking the Fae out of their complacent way of life.
Instead, she turned north. The Crones had summoned her.
An hour later, she and her companions cantered down the lane that led to the sprawl of buildings and gardens where she and Rhyann had spent a summer in order to learn from the Crones, the Grandmothers of the House of Gaian.
One of them was waiting for her at the edge of the open courtyard, resting lightly on the cane Selena suspected was still carried so that it would be easily at hand if a difficult student needed a whack on the rump to understand a point that was being made.
“Blessings of the day to you, Grandmother,” Selena said.
“Blessings of the day, Granddaughter,” the Crone replied. “You’ve brought guests.”
“I have.”
The Crone studied the Fae. Then she lifted her cane and pointed to the two young men who had hurried toward them from the stableyard. “The boys will see to the horses and have your saddlebags brought up to your rooms. Come in and be welcome.”
Working to hide her relief—she hadn’t been sure the Crones would welcome the Fae here—Selena dismounted. Mistrunner snorted, sat back on his heels in a way that indicated he was going to be stubborn, and laid his ears back in warning.
“Ah, now,” one of the grooms said, holding out a hand. “We’ve got good grain and cool water, and a soft rain came by the other day to sweeten the grass. But if you’d rather stand here wearing a saddle in the hot sun…”
Selena wasn’t sure how much Mistrunner understood beyond grain, water, grass, and hot, but apparently those words were enough. His ears pricked, and the next snort sounded thoughtful.
“Go on, then,” she said, stepping forward to hand the reins to the groom. “You deserve a bit of pampering. And I’ll be with the Grandmothers, so I’ll be perfectly fine.” Unless one of them decides I deserve a whack on the rump. Now that would certainly convince the Fae I’m a power to be reckoned with, wouldn’t it?
She felt a little stab of envy that the Fae’s horses didn’t show any obstinance about being led away. She wondered, again, why she’d ended up with a horse who thought for himself too much of the time.