The House of Gaian ta-3

by Anne Bishop

  "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 other 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.

  "It was like a sickness inside him, because once he managed to get the words down on paper, he was fine for the rest of the day. But it was destroying him, and his family feared for his sanity. It was speculated that the lady he'd met had been the Muse, or one of the ladies who shared that gift of words, and she had cursed him by forcing this need upon a man whose joy came from the land and who had no gift for words.

  "One autumn, he disappeared. The family didn't see him again until spring, when he returned. He wouldn't say where he had been, but the family could tell he was different. He had a slender wand made of oak that he carried with him. He was still compelled to write a poem every day, but he no longer wrote on paper. He used that wand to write words in the grass, in the creek, in the air. The compulsion no longer tortured him. He would simply write some little poem, then, with the compulsion satisfied for the day, he would go on with his work.

  "The one thing he did when he came home was to urge his brother, who was the baron, to pay his respects to the Ladies who lived in the Old Place. He was quite insistent that the baron had to make sure their basic needs were met, that they had wood for the fires, fabric for clothes, enough food to eat, that their home was kept in good repair. When the baron asked why, he promised to tell his brother in one year's time if his brother helped look after the witches.

  "So the baron kept his promise, and found it no hardship to do so. His wife invited them to small dinner parties or musical evenings, and slowly the witches, who had kept to themselves because they'd believed they wouldn't be accepted, became part of the community, and they repaid the friendship they'd found by using their gifts to help the farmers and villagers.

  "During that year, whenever the baron asked his brother about why the man had insisted on helping the witches, the only answer was, 'We must never forget who calls them kin.'

  "One year after the baron paid his First courtesy call to the Ladies in the Old Place, his brother handed him a sheet of paper with a poem written on it. It was the only poem he had written on paper since he'd returned home. It was the last one he ever put to paper."

  Donovan refilled his glass with whiskey, then sighed. "That poem has been handed down to the heirs in my family since that day. The or
iginal paper has been carefully preserved, and is brought out long enough for the heir to make a careful copy in his own hand, which the ruling baron checks against the original to be sure no word is lost or changed." He hesitated. "I married Gwenn because I fell in love with her and wanted to be her husband. Before her family consented to the marriage, we made a journey, and I learned what my great-great-uncle meant about never forgetting who calls my lady wife kin."

  As he sipped his whiskey, Liam noticed the slight tremble in Donovan's hand.

  "Gentlemen," Donovan said in a hushed voice, "I tell you plainly, the eastern barons are fools to have allowed the Inquisitors into our land. They are fools to have done so much harm. Even if they gather an army and defeat us, they will lose. Because the day will come when they kill the wrong witch, and then . . . And then may the Great Mother have mercy on us all."

  No one spoke while whiskey glasses were refilled again.

  Perhaps it was because he was no longer quite sober that Liam asked, "What does the poem say?"

  Donovan stared at some distant point the rest of them couldn't see. Finally, he recited:

  "Do not wake the Mother's Hills.

  Do not break the quiet dreaming of The ones who walk there.

  If roused, their wrath can Shake the world,

  And men will not see the Light of day again."

  "Mother's mercy," Liam whispered just as someone rapped softly on the dining room door.

  Breanna entered, followed by Gwenn.

  "Please pardon the intrusion, gentlemen," Breanna said, "but I—"

  "You said it was a pissing contest," Liam said. "But are there witches in the Mother's Hills who really could summon a wind like that or bring the sea so far inland?" You're drunk, laddy-boy. But he sobered up second by second as he saw both women go absolutely still.

  "Not among my kin, no," Breanna said carefully. "At least. . . I don't think so."

  "There are some questions it is best not to ask about the House of Gaian," Gwenn whispered.

  Donovan slowly rose to his feet. "Gwenn?"

  She shook her head, then began rubbing her hands over her upper arms, as if suddenly chilled.

  "There are Crones," Gwenn said reluctantly, "who know the old magic. Things the rest of us never learn. They are very powerful. You didn't meet any of them."

  Liam glanced over at Donovan and saw him swallow hard. Mother's mercy. Donovan had obviously been awed by those he had met—and now Gwenn was telling him there were others even more powerful?

  "Mostly they teach," Gwenn continued. "They teach the strongest and the best, the ones whose hearts embrace our creed. The ones who also have the temper to use that power if it's needed."

  "We need allies, Gwenn," Donovan said softly. "I don't think my people can stop the Inquisitors. Not alone."

  "That's why Gwenn needs to come to the Old Place this evening," Breanna said. She held up a small piece of paper. "Rory brought this a short while ago. It's from my cousin Skelly. He says something is happening tonight, and we need to stay aware for whatever might be written on water, whispered on the wind."

  "What's tonight?" Liam asked.

  "The new moon rises," Gwenn replied, still rubbing her arms.

  "Whatever it is, the House of Gaian is paying heed," Breanna added. "So whatever happens tonight could change everything."

  Liam rose, then walked slowly to the door. "Let me see if the cook has the means of providing a meal for all of us. Then we can ride out to the Old Place."

  Breanna nodded.

  As he stepped into the hallway, he heard Gwenn say quietly, "I met two of them a few years ago, when I studied for a while in the Mother's Hills. Two who were being instructed by the Crones. They are too strongly trained in the creed, as the most powerful of us must be, to ever strike first, but may the Mother have mercy on anyone foolish enough to provoke Selena or Rhyann into striking back."

  Chapter 10

  new moon

  Selena stopped fiddling with the saddlebags already tied to Mistrunner's saddle, took a deep breath, then turned to face the people watching her. Their hopeful smiles scraped her raw nerves. Ella and Mildred had spent the day fussing over her; washing and pressing the slim white trousers and the split overdress; preparing a bath for her; helping her wash and dry her long black hair; urging her to rest and eat and rest some more. Chad and Parker had cleaned all her tack and then brushed Mistrunner until his coat gleamed. And all through the day were the excited murmurs spoken not quite out of her hearing about how there would finally be a Huntress who was one of them, who would stand by the witches and be the protector she was meant to be— and had been once a long time ago.

  But nothing she heard indicated that Ella or Mildred understood why the Huntress was the protector. If witches who lived beyond the Mother's Hills no longer remembered why the Ladies of the Moon were connected to the Mother's Daughters, had the Fae forgotten as well?

  And what will they say when I tell them why they're standing in that clearing tonight? Should I tell them? If they had known before, would they have stood back and watched a part of Sylvalan die under pain and fear and hatred? How will they react to an outsider telling them a truth I doubt they want to hear? How can they deny it when the truth is in their own blood and bones?

  Rhyann stepped forward and placed her hands on Selena's shoulders. As she kissed her sister's cheek, she whispered, "You're thinking too much. Just go to the dance. Celebrate the gift that wants to rise in you."

  "I don't know if I'll be able to come back here afterward," Selena whispered, her arms going around Rhyann and holding her close.

  "You won't be coming back. You'll have to deal with the Fae—and give them a chance to understand what it means to deal with you."

  Selena leaned back. "What does that mean?"

  Rhyann just grinned.

  She tried, but she couldn't return Rhyann's grin. "Where will you go tomorrow? Will you try to find the source of your dream?"

  Rhyann shook her head. "South . . . and west. It's pulling me now. I feel like I'm a key. If I can find the door. . ."

  "Remember your promise to father—and to me. Don't travel alone south or east of the midlands."

  "I'll remember if you will."

  Selena hugged Rhyann, reluctant to let go.

  "The dance waits," Rhyann said softly.

  "I know." Selena drew back until they were no longer touching. "Merry meet. . ."

  ". . . and merry part. . ."

  ". . . and merry meet again." Selena looked at Ella and her family. "Thank you . . . for everything."

  Ella linked arms with her husband and mother. "Blessings of the day to you, Lady Selena."

  Mistrunner stamped his foot, jingled the bridle.

  Selena mounted. Her white overdress, split at the waist to make riding easy, flowed down Mistrunner's sides. Since the horse had been impatient about her delay, she felt annoyed at the way the gray stallion stood still while Rhyann twitched folds of the overdress into place until she was satisfied with the way it looked.

  When Rhyann stepped back, Mistrunner turned in the direction of the clearing where the Ladies of the Moon would gather. As he cantered across the meadow to the forest trail that would take her to the clearing, Selena put aside her worries and fears and surrendered to the power that was calling her to the dance.

  Dianna rode her pale mare to the edge of the circle of women. Dozens of women, Ladies of the Moon, had come to witness this challenge to her authority, to her power. She'd spent the day studying her potential rivals and had seen no one who could meet her in a test of power. But someone had challenged. Someone's gift was ascending in a way that required challenge. She'd wondered about the five women who had come from the western Clans, then had dismissed them. Except Gwynith. That one had power. Not enough to defeat her, but enough power that, if it grew any stronger, she might be a serious rival. Perhaps, after she'd reestablished her dominance over all the other Ladies of the Moon, she would strip the gift from Gwynit
h, just to avoid another challenge in a year or two. After all, it was her right to do so.

  If there was no challenger, why had they been drawn here by the feel of power ready to ascend? And why here? She should have chosen the Old Place where the challenger would meet her. The place was always decided by the one who ruled a particular gift. If she hadn't made the choice, who had?

  She dismounted, handing her pale mare over to one of her escorts to lead back to the edge of the clearing. She strode past the other women, who hurriedly stepped aside. She took two steps into the circle before she stopped, frozen by a rush of jagged fear.

  Power filled the very center of the clearing, pulsing with the need to be released. So much power. But there was something . . . not quite right. . . about it. It was almost as if the power was the challenger, daring any of them to find a way to take it without being consumed by it.

  But that wasn't right. Couldn't be right. The challenge to ascend and rule a gift always came from another Fae, not the gift itself.

  She took six more steps toward the center of the clearing and what waited there, then stopped, unable to force herself to go any closer.

  "Who challenges me?" she shouted. As she turned slowly to look at all the women gathered in the circle, they averted their eyes. Or, like the ones from the western Clans, they stared apprehensively at the center of the clearing.

  "Who challenges the Lady of the Moon for the right to lead the Fae?"

  No answer. No one stepped forward to test their power against hers.

  Then she saw a glow among the trees, coming toward the clearing. As it came out of the trees, it took shape as a woman riding a gray horse.

  Two Fae males stepped forward to intercept the intruder, took a long look at the woman's face, then hastily stepped back, bowing respectfully.