The House of Gaian

by Anne Bishop

  Selena followed Ashk down the rise. Changing back into shadow hounds, they loped to the field where they had left the horses.

  Many of us will die here.

  She’d known that. Of course she had. But it had remained unspoken when she and Breanna, Fiona, Nuala, and Elinore had discussed the best places to house the wounded and how to divide the people with healing skills among those places. None of them had mentioned Death’s Servants or the Shadowed Veil.

  And that is the difference between us, she thought as she and Ashk rode back to the Old Place. As the Huntress, she would be justice…and vengeance…when it was needed. But the Hunter always saw the things that lived within Life’s shadows and wouldn’t ignore or deny them. As the Hunter, Ashk would be Death’s ally…and Death’s weapon.

  Aiden resisted the urge to shift position again, but after his hands had curled hard enough to hurt on the top stones of the pasture wall, he tucked them under his arms. His fingertips were sore from the few minutes he’d taken to work with his harp before Ashk and Selena returned, and he was still very aware of how much he might have lost if it hadn’t been for the power of Rhyann’s gifts.

  But it wasn’t Ashk’s silence that made him edgy as they leaned against one of Baron Liam’s pasture walls. It was learning that there were nighthunters out there, somewhere, that made him yearn for solid walls and thick doors and shutters. He was grateful Liam had found room for them at his house. Several of the gentry had offered accommodations to the midland barons and the Fae leaders, but knowing there were some of those creatures out there wasn’t going to let anyone rest easy—not when there were so many men living out on the land. At least a warning had been sent to the farms nearest the place where Ashk had caught the nighthunters’ scent, and all the camps would post guards to keep watch.

  Aiden found no comfort in the fact that he and Ashk were in the open, or that despite the distance the Fae and humans were giving them for privacy, they were hardly alone. Or unarmed. Ashk had her bow and a full quiver, and even in the waning light, he doubted she would miss anything within range of her arrows.

  Still, he shifted again, unable to remain calm when every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig made his heart jump.

  As if telling the Hunter what he’d learned about the Inquisitors wasn’t enough to make his heart bounce inside his chest.

  “Well,” Ashk finally said, “that explains, in some part, why the Black Coats hate witches and the Fae as much as they do.”

  “In some part? I think it explains it well enough,” Aiden replied.

  Ashk looked at the land. “No. Only in part, Aiden. When the Fae who had lived in the pieces of Tir Alainn anchored to the Old Places in Wolfram ignored the children they had sired in the human world, it would have created some hardship for those human families—and ill feelings in others. The Fae didn’t understand, or chose to ignore, the consequences of indulging their whims. It changed them, distanced them from the world. But some of the humans must have changed, too, and some of the witches as well. Maybe they were too far away from their roots to remember who they were. Maybe they saw what others had and envied it to the point where they could no longer see what they had. Maybe they tried to grasp too hard to gain the thing they desired, and by doing so, pushed it further away. The world is always changing, Bard, and we change with it—even those of us who are firmly rooted in who and what we are. So maybe everything changed in Wolfram, or nothing changed, or the wrong things changed, and a hole full of wanting was created in people’s hearts—and that wanting opened the way for a man like the Master Inquisitor to come into power. We’ll never know what happened in Wolfram. All we can do is take care of what is here.”

  “We have enough reason to regret what we haven’t done here,” Aiden said with a trace of bitterness.

  Ashk turned her head and looked into his eyes. “Do you?”

  Aiden hesitated, then shook his head. “My friends used to tease me, saying that I was too in love with music to taste the other pleasures to be had in the human world.” He smiled self-consciously. “That wasn’t quite true. There were some moonlit walks with pretty maids and sweet kisses. But that was all. When I left a village, the only thing I left with a maid was a song and a memory.” His smile faded. “I’m grateful for that now, grateful I’m not one of the men who has to wonder if he’ll meet a son on that battlefield. Even more grateful I don’t have to wonder if a daughter I sired has died under the Black Coats’ hands. When this is over, I imagine there will be some Fae men who will travel to a village or an Old Place they haven’t thought of in years. Just to see. Just to know.”

  “And, perhaps, to begin to change things for the better,” Ashk said gently. She sighed and pushed away from the wall. “Come along, Bard. It’s been a long day. Tonight we’ll eat and rest.”

  “And tomorrow?” Aiden asked reluctantly.

  The gentleness drained out of Ashk’s face, reminding him of the mask she’d worn during the Summer Solstice dance. Reminding him of the dance itself—and what it meant.

  “We will do what needs to be done,” the Hunter replied.

  Chapter 37

  waxing moon

  Morag came down the shining road into a world of smoke and flame. The dark horse squealed, then sat back on his haunches, preparing to wheel and take them back to the shining road—and safety.

  She wanted to let him turn back, wanted to escape the heat that made her feel like a dried husk and the air that fouled her lungs and made her choke as she struggled to breathe. But the path of fire was also the Lightbringer’s path, so she dug her heels into the dark horse’s sides, bent low in the saddle, and gasped, “Run.”

  He gave her his heart and his courage—and he ran. Trees exploded from the heat, showering them with bits of flaming wood. She screamed in fury, in fear, and guided him as best she could through the tunnel of fire, her eyes slitted against the smoke and heat.

  Death roared in that fire, and when the dark horse almost stumbled on something soft, she hoped it was a rabbit and not one of the Small Folk who lived in Bretonwood.

  Curse you, Lucian. May you never have a moment’s peace for the rest of your life.

  The trail split. The fire hadn’t reached the right-hand fork, leading to the Clan house. For a heartbeat, she thought of taking that trail, circling round. But images from the dream flashed in her mind—Neall, dying on the trail; Ari, fleeing from an enemy. She didn’t have time. Whatever it cost her, she didn’t have time. So she turned the dark horse onto the left-hand fork that burned, burned, burned all the way to Neall and Ari’s cottage.

  The dark horse’s breathing was harsh and labored, but he ran. He ran until they burst out of the trees into the meadow where she saw a nightmare—and hope.

  She let him turn toward the kitchen garden, toward the grass untouched by the battle taking place in the meadow. Choking, gasping for air, she watched, not daring to do more at that moment when her vision was blurred and her control too shaky to summon her power.

  The black horse and the stag circled each other, looking for an opening to strike a blow. Merle circled with them, also looking for an opening. The stag had a hoofprint branded onto his left flank, but Morag didn’t think Neall even realized he’d been struck. Flames rose wherever Lucian’s hooves touched the ground, but they were quickly extinguished, as if someone was grounding the power as fast as Lucian could summon it.

  Morag looked at Ari, who stood a few feet from the cottage. Tears ran down the young witch’s face, mixing with the sweat that soaked her hair and the bodice of her dress. Her teeth were gritted, and her hands pressed against a belly that looked ripe enough to burst.

  “No, Lucian! No!” Ari screamed. “I won’t go back with you. I made my choice. Lucian!”

  Horse, stag, and shadow hound kept circling, paying no heed to the woman they fought over.

  Ari screamed again—and Morag shivered at the rage she heard growing under the fear. “You think if you burn out my life, I’ll crawl back
and accept whatever crumbs you give me because you’ve left me with nothing else? I won’t crawl. I won’t go back. I’m not some trinket for you to play with!”

  Smoke rose from the cottage roof, but Morag saw no flames. She looked at Ari and saw determination etched in a face that would never again look as young and fresh as it had even just a few hours before. She’s grounding the fire. She’s matching his power and holding it back. But how long can she do it without harming herself or the babe?

  Morag straightened in the saddle, still fighting to take a full breath. If Neall slipped…If Lucian got in a lucky blow…She couldn’t wait for Death to tell her whom to gather.

  Then Merle dashed in, snapping at Lucian’s belly. Lucian whirled to strike back at the shadow hound—and gave Neall the opening he’d been waiting for. His antlers raked across Lucian’s side, cutting through the skin. Fire roared up in front of Neall, forcing him to leap away. But the flames died fast, and he was back, circling, circling. He moved forward, putting himself in reach of Lucian’s front hooves.

  Screaming in fury and triumph, Lucian reared—and Merle struck from behind, his jaws closing on a hind leg, his teeth ripping muscle and tendons.

  Lucian fought for balance while Neall leaped away. As his front hooves slammed into the ground and blood poured from his side and his crippled hind leg, Ari yelled, “Neall! Merle!” The power of earth rolled in her voice.

  They backed away from Lucian, moving toward her.

  Ari and Lucian stared at each other. Morag watched them, waiting. Then something else caught her attention and she turned her head to stare at the trees—at the fire disappearing from their blackened skeletons.

  She looked back at Ari, alarmed. And she felt a moment’s pity for the man who was the Lord of Fire. Lucian, you fool. There is good reason why witches are called the Mother’s Daughters.

  “You want fire, Lightbringer?” Ari said. “Then I will give you fire!”

  A column of flames roared up in the meadow, rising toward the sky. Trapped in the center of it, Lucian screamed—and Morag heard Death howl. She watched the dark shape of a horse rear, too panicked now to remember the crippled leg until it buckled under him. As he fell, as the smell of burning flesh reached her, she gathered him. Tore his spirit out of that burning body and pulled him to her.

  Ari’s legs slowly buckled. Neall changed form and ran toward her, his limp becoming more pronounced with each step as his body finally recognized the burn on his hip. He caught her as her knees hit the ground.

  “Ari? Ari!” He looked around, as if desperate to find someone to help.

  Morag saw him pale when he noticed her. She didn’t have time to tell him that Death had turned away from their cottage and was summoning her to many other places around Bretonwood because Padrick rode up at that moment.

  “Mother’s mercy, Neall! What happened?” Padrick demanded. “Did the Black Coats slip past us and attack you?”

  Neall shook his head, then looked at the column of fire that had died to a flicker around the burned corpse.

  Padrick stared at the charred lump in the meadow. As he turned his head toward Neall, he saw Morag. His eyes flicked from Ari and Neall back to her. She shook her head, brushed her heels gently against the dark horse’s sides, and rode away.

  She circled around to a place that would be an easy distance from the Clan house before she opened the road that led to the Shadowed Veil. The dark horse faltered halfway up the road, dropping back from a canter to a trot. His breathing still sounded too labored. She pressed a hand against his neck, noticing the bloody pock marks where he’d been burned. Death was close by, calling her, but not for her loyal dark horse—and not for her. Whatever harm the fire had done to them would heal.

  When she finally reached the Shadowed Veil, she released Lucian’s spirit. His ghost appeared before her in human form, and he stared at her with gray eyes full of hate.

  “At least now you’ll have to keep your bargain, Gatherer,” Lucian said.

  “I made no bargain with you, Lucian,” Morag replied.

  “Of course you didn’t,” he sneered. “But we all know you’re a liar, Morag, so there’s no reason to think you won’t lie about this, too.”

  “I didn’t lie. I told you Ari was gone. And she was gone. Neall got her away from the Inquisitors, got her away from Brightwood…and got her away from you.”

  “And now that you’ve gathered me, you’ll return Ari to her proper place at Brightwood.”

  Morag shook her head. “That wasn’t the bargain. You didn’t offer your life in exchange for hers.”

  “What man would make an offer like that?”

  “Neall did.”

  Lucian stared at her.

  Morag smiled sadly. “That is the difference between you, Lucian. You wanted her. Neall loves her.”

  “I cared about her!” Lucian clenched his fists. “And she cared about me. I know she did. She was mine until that mongrel enticed her away from me. She turned me away without giving me a chance to show her what I could give her. And even if she didn’t choose to be my lover, she still belongs at Brightwood. She would be there now if you hadn’t lied to us, made us believe she was dead. Dianna wouldn’t have been trapped there and—”

  “You,” Morag snapped. “Dianna. It’s always about you and Dianna, isn’t it? What you want, what you didn’t get, what someone else should do or give up so that nothing inconveniences you.” She bent in the saddle and leaned toward him. “Are you going to stamp your feet and throw a tantrum now, child?”

  He took a step back from her, stunned.

  “I am the Gatherer of Souls,” Morag continued. “I answer to no one, and I do not care what you want.”

  “You have to care!” Lucian shouted. “I am the Lightbringer.”

  “You were the Lightbringer.” Morag brushed the reins against the dark horse’s neck to signal him to turn and go down the road. “Now you’re a spirit who has to finish the journey to the Summerland.”

  She rode back into the human world, then reined in and sat for a moment, listening. No whispers from the direction of Neall and Ari’s cottage. But in the direction of the Bretonwood Clan house, Death was a chorus, and the woods still burned.

  As she turned the dark horse toward the Clan house, she heard the first rolls of thunder and felt the first drops of rain.

  Morag rode toward the cottage, swaying in the saddle from exhaustion and grief. The fire hadn’t reached the Clan house itself, but it had swept through the woods around the shining road so fast, the Small Folk who lived in that part of Bretonwood had had no chance to escape. Some of the Fae were missing, but the Clan tried to remain hopeful that their kin had been able to outrun the fire and were taking shelter elsewhere until morning. Since Death no longer tugged at her, she hoped they were right.

  The cottage was dark except for the kitchen. When she saw light flicker in the barn, her heart bumped against her chest. No. Too steady to be uncontained fire. A lamp most likely.

  Then Glenn stepped out of the cottage, a pitcher in his hand. “Lady Morag?”

  “How are you, Glenn? Is everything all right here?” Morag grabbed at the saddle as she felt herself slip sideways.

  “I’m fine. We’re all fine. Baron Padrick had a carriage brought over and took Ari, Neall, and Merle back to his house. Said he wanted his physician and the midwife—”

  “Physician? Midwife?”

  Glenn raised his hand in a placating gesture. “Neall’s got that burn on his hip which I think is paining him more than he’ll admit, and he and Padrick both wanted Ari looked over to make sure she and the babe came to no harm because of—Well, because. And the baron said they’d get no rest with the smell of smoke and—” He shifted uneasily as he glanced at the meadow. “Ari doesn’t need to see that. The baron will send men over in the morning to take care of things.”

  Morag lifted her chin toward the barn. “Something wrong with the animals?”

  “No,” Glenn said quickly. “I
t’s just…well…some of the Small Folk showed up. Didn’t have anywhere to go for shelter. Too dangerous to try traveling any distance in the woods tonight. Wouldn’t stay in the cottage for anything, but they were glad of the offer of a couple of stalls in the barn. Forrester came back with some blankets and a small keg of ale. Brought some bread and cheese, too, to have with the day soup Ari had simmering on the stove. So they’re snug enough for the night.”

  She wanted bread and soup, too—and enough ale to dull the memories of the bodies she’d seen.

  “Will you be staying, Morag? There’s plenty of soup left.”

  With regret, Morag shook her head. “I’ll go on to Padrick’s house.”

  Glenn nodded. “You tell Ari not to worry. Plenty of neighbors have stopped by to say they’d be back in the morning to air out the cottage and put things to right.”

  Morag lifted a hand in farewell, then signaled the dark horse to move on. Halfway to Padrick’s house, she wondered why she hadn’t stayed at the cottage. She was almost blind with exhaustion and the dark horse wasn’t in any better condition.

  She needed to see Ari. That’s why. She needed the assurance that Neall would recover. She needed to tell Merle he was a wonderful shadow hound. She needed her family.

  So she rode on until her dark horse snorted in surprise and a hand closed over her arm. Startled, she tried to pull away—and found herself staring into Padrick’s grim face.

  “I thought you wouldn’t have sense to stay at the cottage once you got done gathering,” he said, exasperation making his voice rough. He released her arm and signaled his horse to walk on. “The two of you staggering down the road, asleep on your feet—”

  “I’m not on my feet,” Morag protested.

  “And your horse is barely staying on his. Damn fool of a woman.”

  “Who’s a fool?”

  “You. Ari. All of you. You’re all too stubborn to know when you need to stop, when you’ve done all you can—more than you can. No, you’ll just keep pushing until your brain shuts down or your body quits.”