The House of Gaian

by Anne Bishop

  Still moving closer, she saw the small clearing lit by torches, saw the shape of a man at the other end of the space, heard the struggling efforts of someone on the ground between her and the man.

  She moved through the trees, circling toward the man. Power swirled in the clearing, but it didn’t feel right somehow.

  Then the fog tore, and she saw the man clearly. She heard the voice she’d heard once before at the dock at Rivercross. In a moment of pity, and in the hope that mercy shown might produce a seed of mercy inside him, she had let the Master Inquisitor live, leaving him with a dead arm to remind him that there were powers in the world that were stronger than his.

  He lifted his right hand, aiming it at the person on the ground.

  “Twist and change. Change and twist.”

  She saw the faint glow of a circle of power. What was he—?

  Children. Bad things. No. No!

  “Become what I would make of thee.”

  Rage blinded her as she charged out of the trees, straight toward him.

  “As I will—”

  Little flashes of fire in the clearing. The sound of leather snapping as a man hurled himself out of the circle.

  “so mote it—”

  She was almost on the Master Inquisitor. His head whipped around.

  “—beeee.”

  He screamed the word as she slammed into him, knocking them both into the circle. His right hand closed on her arm. She screamed as the power he unleashed ripped through her body. He screamed as the power ripped through him as well. The circle crackled with it while they rolled over and over. She tried to gather him, but she couldn’t find his spirit in the storm of power.

  Then the power was gone. She rolled away from the Witch’s Hammer, clawed and scrabbled until she regained her feet and stumbled toward the trees. She almost fell on the man who had hurled himself out of the circle. Grabbing his arm, she helped him to his feet.

  “Come on,” she gasped, her voice scraped raw from screaming. “We have to get away from here.”

  The dark horse waited for her at the edge of the clearing. The rope that had bound the man’s feet had burned through, so he was able to mount by himself and was aware enough to kick one foot out of the stirrups to make it easier for her to swing up behind him.

  She brushed her heels against the dark horse’s sides. “Get us away from here. Go anywhere, as long as it’s away from here.”

  He turned back into the trees and cantered away from the clearing.

  She clung to the saddle as the horse wove through the trees, adding speed whenever he came to some open ground. Pain seared her. The power continued to slash through her, ripping her apart inside.

  She had to find Ashk.

  It was the last clear thought she had before she felt herself leaning sideways, felt the horse slow, felt the man try to grab her as she slid to the ground.

  Adolfo rolled over onto his side, gasping as pain lanced through him.

  Bitch. Thrice-cursed bitch. Not only had her interference deprived him of a valuable weapon, she’d hurt him. Hurt him worse than when she’d turned his arm into dead meat.

  A mewling sound at one end of the clearing caught his attention. Made his mouth water.

  Moving slowly, he managed to push himself up to his knees.

  Bitch. She’d tried to gather him. He had felt her try. But his power had been stronger than hers, and he’d won.

  More mewling noises. And an unpleasant smell. The useless witch must have soiled herself.

  He got to his feet, swaying with the effort to stand.

  He’d fought against the Gatherer…and he’d won.

  More pain lanced through him, but he embraced it now, celebrated it. He’d won.

  He shuffled toward the mewling sounds coming from the female tied to the stool.

  Now he needed rest. Needed something to drink.

  Feast!

  Something warm. No. Something hot. And something to eat. He was hungry. So very, very hungry.

  Morag jerked awake. Her body felt battered, and little shivers of pain still lanced through her, making her limbs jerk. And there was a thick, unpleasant taste in her mouth.

  She heard the dark horse snorting nearby, little fearful sounds.

  Groaning with the effort, she pushed herself up to her hands and knees.

  Mother’s mercy. Her dress pinched the skin along her arms and sides, and her body didn’t feel right. The power in the circle had made her sick. She’d seen some people who had swelled from a kind of sickness. She had to get out of this fog. If she couldn’t make it back to the Old Place, she had to find a farmer’s cottage, a barn, anyplace they could find shelter for a few hours. She had to find a place for herself, the dark horse, and—

  Where was the man who had escaped from the Witch’s Hammer? He’d come with her. She was certain he had. Where—?

  He lay near her, the wounds on his neck and chest making her stomach churn. Something vicious and terrible had killed him. A fast kill. A recent kill.

  Fear got her to her feet, got her stumbling toward the dark horse. He snorted. Took a step back as she approached, then, trembling, held his ground.

  “Easy, boy. Easy.” Why was he afraid of her?

  She raised her hand to give him a caress and pat.

  The hand that lifted out of the fog was dark, leathery, had sharp, blood-smeared talons at the ends of its fingers.

  She wept silently as she stared at the hand of the enemy from her dreams.

  Quiet conversations died in his wake as Adolfo walked through the camp and entered his tent, followed by fearful whispers.

  He was still thirsty, but the wine held no appeal. And his sides itched, irritated by the cloth rubbing against it. He raised his hand to pull open the tunic’s lacings…and stared, fascinated, at the skin that was turning darker, rougher, even as he watched. Stared at the nails folding in on themselves until they began to look like talons.

  A hesitant scratching on the tent flap.

  “What is it?” His voice sounded rough, raspy—not the smooth deep voice that had persuaded hundreds of men to help him reshape the world as he wanted it to be.

  An Inquisitor stepped into the tent. “Master Adolfo? Is there something we can do for you? Is there something you need?”

  Fresh meat. Hot blood. Everything he needed was standing within reach.

  No. Not his own men. Not when there was prey close by. “Do we have other prisoners?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Bring two of them to me. It doesn’t matter which two.” He turned around to face the Inquisitor. He smiled as he watched the man’s face turn deathly pale. Deathly pale. The thought amused him. The fool had no idea how close to deathly pale he had been.

  “Y-yes, Master,” the Inquisitor stammered.

  As the man fled from the tent, Adolfo looked at the glorious talons at the end of his right hand and laughed.

  Two ghosts standing next to bodies still locked in the embrace of the fight that had killed them.

  Morag slid off the dark horse, moved toward the ghosts, then stopped. No. She couldn’t gather them, couldn’t take them up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She was sick, hurt, exhausted. She had to find Ashk. Mother’s mercy, she had to find Ashk, had to…

  The meat was already spoiled from the heat of the day, the blood already too clotted and thick. But the best part of the feast remained.

  Where were the ghosts? Where were the spirits she’d seen a moment ago?

  She backed away from the bodies, shaking her head.

  And realized she didn’t feel quite so hungry, realized…

  The wolf with the burned hind legs tried to drag itself away from the predator, tried to run, tried to hide. Screamed as fangs and talons ripped its flesh, as a tongue lapped at the fresh blood while it died slowly, slowly.

  It didn’t like the taste of animal flesh, but It was too hungry to care. And the feast that rose from the animal flesh was a rich spirit, a strong spirit in th
e shape of the flesh It liked best.

  It devoured—and still hungered…. Morag dropped the reins, wrapped her arms around herself, and doubled over, gasping and weeping. She remembered the wolf, remembered the ghost that had risen from it. One of the western Fae who had ridden east with her and Ashk. She remembered him screaming her name. Remembered him screaming as she…as the thing inside her feasted on his spirit until nothing was left but wisps of memories.

  She’d known him and still hadn’t been able to stop It.

  “Mother have mercy,” she whispered. “Please, have mercy.”

  The dark horse trembled beneath her. Loyalty and courage. How many times could he have run away during the past few hours? He had more trust in her ability to protect him from the predator inside her than she did. Would the hour come when that loyalty would be repaid with talons slashing his throat open? Would courage be rewarded by dying in terror?

  She slowly placed one hand on his neck, careful not to let the talons prick him. “I won’t hurt you. I will fight with everything in me not to hurt you. That much I can promise.”

  She straightened up and looked around. The fog was lifting. The first, soft light of the day was pushing back the night. The dark horse had brought them close to a large stone house. The baron’s house? She could…

  Hunt!

  …find food there…

  Flesh!…and grain for the horse.

  Feast!

  The Old Place was too far away. She had to find food now—before It got too hungry.

  Chapter 50

  waning moon

  Breanna closed her eyes as the ponycart approached the circle of moonlight guarding Nuala’s grave. She couldn’t bear looking at the rose bushes—and wondered if she ever would be able to again. Best to close her eyes before the grief numbed her again. Best not to wonder if the light in the circle was really waning or if it was this soft light before dawn that made the circle look dimmer. Best not to think about what would happen to Nuala’s spirit once the light waned since they could no longer spare men to guard the grave. Best not to think at all.

  “I’m glad to have your company,” Elinore said as she guided the pony over the stone bridge and headed for the baron’s house. “And a chaperone, since I’m being escorted by four handsome men.”

  Breanna pictured one of the Fae huntsmen riding with them offering Elinore a hesitant smile, uncertain if flirting with Baron Liam’s mother would be considered acceptable in the human world. Strange how the Fae had become more wary of dealing with humans now that they’d been forced to become more aware of them.

  “Are you sure you won’t come with me to the village?” Elinore asked. “I’m told the Widow Kendall wraps her hair around strips of rags at night to produce those curls other women envy. The result is certainly beautiful, but I imagine the sight of her first thing in the morning is something that takes getting used to. Since I’ll be knocking on her door at an indecent hour, we might find out for ourselves.”

  Breanna opened her eyes and focused on the pony’s ears. A safe thing to look at. “Thank you, but I’ll just visit with Gwenn and Lyrra for a bit. I’m sure they’ll be up by now.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they will be.”

  She was grateful Elinore didn’t continue trying to make conversation. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not really. She just needed to get away from her home, from the rooms so choked with memories she couldn’t seem to breathe. She just wanted to sit with two women who weren’t kin and weren’t bent under the same weight of grief.

  But you don’t know what happened yesterday. You don’t know if they’re breaking under their own grief.

  When Elinore pulled up in front of Liam’s house, Breanna got down from the ponycart. Elinore smiled at her, but the smile couldn’t win over the worry in the older woman’s eyes.

  “If you want to go back before I return, one of the men will escort you,” Elinore said.

  Breanna just nodded and walked to the front door. She turned and raised a hand in farewell as Elinore and two of the Fae escorts headed for the village. Watched the two other escorts lead their horses to the stable, where they would wait for her. Tried not to scan the fences and roofs and trees for some sign of—

  She hadn’t thought of him. Wouldn’t allow herself to think of him. He hadn’t come back to the Old Place. There were many who hadn’t come back to the Old Place. She hadn’t been able to help Fiona, Glynis, and the other women when the wounded arrived yesterday, but she’d heard the women talking. Heard the break in Fiona’s voice when she asked if anyone had seen Rory.

  How long would it take before she didn’t look toward the clothes lines to see if the hawk was perched on one of the posts, keeping watch? Months? Years?

  She wouldn’t think of him. Or she would pretend he had gone away. Back to Tir Alainn. Back to his home Clan. Had just gone away without saying good-bye. Which, in fact, was exactly what he might have done.

  As she turned back toward the door, it opened. Sloane stepped aside to let her enter.

  “Good morning, Lady Breanna,” Sloane said.

  “Blessings of the day, Sloane. Is anyone up yet?”

  “The Hunter, the Huntress, and Baron Liam rode out toward the village at first light. The Ladies Rhyann and Gwynith went with them, along with Lord Varden. Ladies Gwenn and Lyrra left for Squire Thurston’s house a few minutes ago. The Bard sent a messenger to let them know Lord Donovan was badly wounded but had survived the night and was healing well.”

  “So Aiden and Donovan survived,” Breanna murmured. “That’s good.”

  Sloane smiled. “And Lord Falco. He made it back to the squire’s house before the fog made travel imprudent.”

  She was suddenly lightheaded, floating. A warm hand closed on her arm, grounding her.

  “Lady Breanna?” Sloane said. “Are you well? Have you eaten yet?”

  “I…don’t remember.”

  “Why don’t you go sit in Lady Elinore’s morning room? I’ll have some tea and toast brought in for you.”

  “Thank you, Sloane. That’s very kind of—”

  A scream sliced through the house. A maid rushed through the servant’s door at the back of the hall. She tripped over her skirt and went sprawling across the floor, still scrabbling wildly to reach the front door.

  Sloane hauled her up by one arm and said sternly, “What’s the matter with you, girl? There’s wounded in the house. Do you want to give everyone a fright?”

  “There’s something in the kitchen,” the maid gasped. “Something terrible.”

  Breanna moved toward the servant’s door. This was her brother’s home. These servants were her brother’s people. Since he wasn’t here to deal with this, she would. Somehow, she would find the strength to deal with this.

  When she walked into the kitchen, she saw the cook and her helpers pressed against one side of the room, staring with terrified eyes at the black-haired woman bent over one end of the work table. Her black overdress and trousers were dirty and torn, and her breathing was as rough and ragged as her clothes.

  “What do you want?” Breanna asked.

  The woman spun around, snarling.

  Not a woman, Breanna thought as her blood chilled. No longer a woman. Leathery skin. Sharp teeth. Talons at the ends of its fingers. But the dark eyes that stared at her…The woman was still in there, still aware, still fighting against what she was becoming.

  The creature raised one hand. “Hot blood. Strong spirit.” She shook her head fiercely, then turned away.

  “What do you want?” Breanna asked.

  “Food. Drink. Grain for the horse.”

  Mother’s mercy. “Sloane, ask one of the footmen to fetch a small sack of feed from the stables.”

  “At once, Lady Breanna.”

  The creature twisted around, stared at her again.

  A chilling calm settled over Breanna. “Cook, bring out a wheel of cheese—and one of the carry baskets Elinore uses.” She took a step toward the table. The c
reature moved around to the other side. Moved away from her. Which gave her enough courage to keep moving forward. There was bread on the table, along with a cold beef roast and some vegetables. The cook had started to make a beef broth for the wounded and a heartier soup for anyone who could take more solid nourishment.

  “Bring me some butter and a jar of preserves.” She sliced bread, carved the meat. The cook crept to the table, handing her things as she asked for them. By the time Sloane returned with the sack of grain, she had built two generous beef sandwiches as well as a butter and preserve sandwich, cut a thick chunk of cheese from the wheel, wrapped it all in the white napkins that were used at the servants’ table, and placed it in the basket.

  “Do we have any canteens?” she asked Sloane.

  “There are a few that are not in use,” he replied.

  “Fill one with water, the other with ale.” Breanna looked at the creature who had watched her in silence. “Is ale acceptable?”

  The creature hesitated, then nodded.

  While Sloane filled the canteens, Breanna repacked the basket to fit the bag of feed in one end. No point having those talons ripping through the cloth and having the feed spill out. If the woman inside still cared enough about her horse to ask for feed, it would hurt her to have nothing to offer because of what her body had become.

  When the canteens were placed on the table, Breanna stepped back. “If there’s something else you want, take what you can gather.”

  The creature made a hideous sound that Breanna realized was meant as laughter. Cruelty filled those dark eyes for a moment before it was battled back by a strong will. “I can gather armies.” She reached for the basket, then hesitated. “Breanna.”

  Breanna swallowed hard and wished Sloane had never spoken her name.

  “The witches in the Old Place. In the circles of light.”

  Her heart pounded, throbbed in her temples. “My m-mother and grandmother.”

  “They have gone to the Summerland.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. Keely’s and Nuala’s spirits were out of reach now. Safe.