by Anne Bishop
Connor gathered his reins. "Good luck to you, then." Giving his horse the signal to move on, he cantered off, passing the other escorts, who glanced back at her before urging their horses forward to catch up to him.
Dianna stared at them. They wouldn't leave her. Not really. Connor was just trying to make her do what he wanted. And who was he, anyway? The Lord of the Deer. The leader of the Clan's huntsmen. Someone nowhere near as important as a Lady of the Moon. . . who would have no status at all if her own Clan wouldn't acknowledge her.
She waited for them to stop, to come back for her, to cajole her into going back to Brightwood.
She waited—and then kicked her mare into a gallop to catch up to them. They'd stop at the Clan house for a bit of a rest and a bite to eat. Surely they would. That would give them the chance to tell her how important she was to the Clan. That would give Connor a chance to apologize for the harsh things he'd said. Surely they would stop.
She was still too far away to catch up to them when she saw Connor lift a hand in greeting as he passed the stableyard and continued on to the bridge that would take him and the other escorts to the next Clan territory.
She slowed the mare to a walk, letting the animal make its own way to the stableyard. She couldn't see well enough to guide it since her eyes kept filling with tears.
The mare stopped. A hand lightly touched hers.
"Lady Dianna?"
Sniffling, she looked at that Clan's Lord of the Horse—and suddenly remembered that no one had ascended to become the Lord of the Horse after Ahern died.
"Your escorts rode by a little while ago," he said, studying her.
"I couldn't ride anymore today. My arm." She lifted the heavily bandaged arm—and thought she still saw doubt in his eyes. "I told them to go on since the Brightwood Clan will be eager for the news."
"The news has traveled fast," he said with a hint of grimness. "I expect they already know."
What could they possibly know without hearing her side of it?
He held up both hands. "Here. I'll help you dismount and take you over to the Clan house. Things are a bit. . . scrambled . . . right now, but someone will see that you have a meal and a place to rest."
Dianna waited until he was leading her to the Clan house before asking, "Scrambled? Why are things scrambled?"
"As I said, news travels fast. The men who have the skill and training to defend the Old Place are preparing to do so. And the elders are selecting gifts to bring to the witches."
Bitterness filled Dianna's throat. "So you're going to dance to the Huntress's tune, is that it?"
"Yes, that's it. We don't want to be closed off from the human world—and if the Black Coats defeat the humans in Sylvalan, there might not be any place for us in the world. So we're going down to defend the Old Place and the witches who live there."
"I'll only be staying tonight, so I won't inconvenience you for too long," Dianna said, holding on to her battered pride.
"That's fine."
It wasn't the reply she wanted, but, she discovered as she stayed in her room and felt the hours drag by, it had been the only reply she'd received from any of them.
If that's the way they wanted it, so be it. Let them scramble to please the new Huntress. Let them see what it was like to live day after day in the human world.
Let that bitch Huntress deal with the Black Coats. They deserved one another.
Chapter 21
waxing moon
It hungered. It hunted. The man had been a fine meal, but the feast was still up ahead. Running. Trying to escape, trying to hide. The woman couldn't hide the feast, but it was amusing to let her try.
It looked down at the man, at the torn flesh and the blood seeping into the forest trail. His spirit had been strong, delicious. Had whetted Its appetite for more.
The woman would eventually stop running and fight to protect. No matter. It would have the woman—flesh, blood, and spirit—and then enjoy the feast of sweet young flesh and a spirit still so new in the world.
It hungered.
With a last look at the man who had been a young Lord of the Woods, It ran up the forest trail, following the path of the witch . . . and the feast.
Pulled out of her own hazy dreams, Ashk rolled out of bed, approached the bed where Morag thrashed and moaned, and placed a hand on her friend's shoulder.
Morag screamed, dove off the bed, and came up in a crouch, her teeth bared. Her dark eyes looked wild and held no recognition of the person standing before her.
Ashk slowly raised her hands in a placating gesture, and said firmly, "Morag. It's Ashk. You were dreaming. Morag."
Slowly—too slowly—understanding seeped into Morag's eyes.
Ashk stayed perfectly still. The Gatherer wasn't a woman to startle when she wasn't quite in her right mind.
A second later, Ashk's heart jumped when someone pounded on the door, and a male voice yelled, "Hunter! Hunter! Are you all right?"
A quick glance at Morag, who was now staring at the door with deadly intent.
"We're all right!" Ashk yelled. "We're all right," she said quietly, looking at Morag, hoping the woman understood.
Her sharp hearing made out a low, intense argument on the other side of the door. Not the words, but the tone.
Stay out, she thought fiercely as the door opened enough for Morphia to start to slip into the room.
Ashk shook her head. Morphia looked at Morag, then at Ashk before withdrawing and closing the door behind her.
Ashk stepped back until her knees bumped against her bed. She sat down and studied Morag, who was slumped over the other bed.
"Bad dream?" Ashk asked quietly.
Morag nodded.
"The same dream?"
Pushing her hair away from her face, Morag shifted until she sat back on her heels. "Not quite the same. Worse in some ways."
"Is that why you wanted to share a room with me? So you wouldn't be alone at night?"
Morag nodded. "And because you . . . understand the shadows."
She didn't like these dreams Morag kept having. She didn't like knowing the Gatherer of Souls was walking a knife edge of self-control. She didn't like seeing a friend suffer night after night. Morag wouldn't talk about the dreams, and without knowing even a little of the content, even Morphia, the Sleep Sister, couldn't understand what was haunting her sister.
"Perhaps you should turn back," Ashk said gently. "Perhaps you should go back to Bretonwood."
"No," Morag said, her voice rough. "I have to go on. It's deadly, Ashk. I have to find it before it kills everyone I—" Her teeth clicked together as she bit off the words. "I have to go on."
"All right." Ashk rose. "Come on, then. Best to meet the joys of the day." When Morag just looked at her, she smiled grimly. "I spent yesterday afternoon in the women's room, so the fact that I'm female is no longer a secret from the Fae beyond the west. And there's been enough time for that news to travel, so I expect any Lord of the Woods within a few hours' ride of this Clan house will have arrived by now."
Morag frowned. "You think someone will challenge you because you're a woman?"
"A challenge can be issued anytime two people with the same gift are in the same place. It doesn't usually happen unless the power is waning in the one who rules the gift since the challenger can lose a great deal more than the challenge." Ashk shrugged. "But I expect there will be a young Lord among those gathered outside the Clan house who will be foolish enough to issue a challenge. A tool for the lesson, I suppose."
Morag rose, her eyes now filled with uneasiness and concern. "Ashk?"
Ashk shook her head. She wanted a quick bath to start the day clean. It wasn't likely it would end clean. "As you said, Morag. I understand the shadows."
The dreams haunted her. Ashk scared her.
As she followed Ashk to the grassy, open ground near the Clan house where dozens of the Fae had gathered around a handful of young men, Morag decided it was good for the Gatherer of Souls to f
eel wary of the power of another Fae. The Gatherer's gift could overshadow anything the Hunter commanded—after all, Death embraced everything sooner or later—but there was something about Ashk herself that made it easier to face the dreams.
She would lean on that strength, using her own to pursue a deadly enemy that hunted in her dreams.
As they reached the open ground, Aiden, Lyrra, Morphia, and Sheridan joined them. The huntsmen riding with Ashk formed a broken half circle behind them, leaving an open path directly behind where Ashk stood.
A way to escape? Morag wondered. A step to the side, and the men in the front row would block the path. As she glanced back, she caught a glimpse of arrows loosely nocked in bows among the men in the second row of the half circle. One step to the side, and the front row of men would give their comrades the opening needed to fire on the enemy.
Except the only other people here were also Fae.
She opened herself to her gift—and heard Death whisper.
Ashk?
She thought she'd spoken out loud, but she couldn't be sure. She was certain Ashk hadn't heard her, since the Hunter kept moving forward to stand alone and face the young Lords of the Woods, who were backed by their own half circle of Fae from the residing Clan.
As one of the Lords of the Woods stepped forward in challenge, Morphia gasped, "Cullan."
Morag clamped down on her temper. Cullan had been Morphia's lover last summer. Her lover, but he didn't love her. She would have been his excuse to leave his home Clan, who disapproved of going down to the human world more than was necessary. Not an easy Clan for a Lord of the Woods, since there were no woods in Tir Alainn.
Not that it mattered anymore. She'd been there when the shining road had closed, and she, Morphia, Cullan, and a few other Fae she'd been able to force down the road with her had escaped before the road closed completely, trapping the rest of the Fae in the mist that had rolled in to shroud that Clan's piece of Tir Alainn.
Because of Cullan, Sheridan had worked hard to convince Morphia that he wanted to be more than a mere bed-warmer.
Now she looked at Cullan's angry face. A tool for the lesson? Mother's mercy, Ashk. What kind of lesson?
Death whispered.
"I am the Hunter." Ashk's voice rang clearly in the morning air.
"A deceiver!" Cullan spat out the words.
Ashk smiled.
Morag shivered.
"Did I deceive the Lords of the Woods into believing I was male?" Ashk said mildly. "Yes, I did. But the time for that deception is over. Did I deceive you into believing I'm the Hunter?" She shook her head. "Oh, no, young Lord. I am the Hunter. The gift is mine, and I command the woods and all that lives there. Wherever the woods resides."
"Perhaps you were able to wrest the power from the old Lord of the Woods all those years ago, but you should have offered a time for challenge after that so that a man worthy of commanding the gift could ascend."
"Like you?" Ashk said softly. "There are Ladies of the Woods. They command the gift just as well as the Lords."
"But none of them had the audacity to pretend to be the Lord of the Woods."
"I pretend nothing. My sex doesn't matter. Whether I'm the Green Lord or the Green Lady doesn't matter. What matters is I am the Hunter."
"A title gained through deception!"
Ashk shook her head slowly. "Kernos knew who I was, and what I was, and what I am. That is why he trained me."
A ripple of uneasiness went through the Fae who stood behind the Lords of the Woods—and among the Lords as well. Except Cullan, who was now red-faced with anger.
Ashk asked quietly, "Do you understand who the Hunter is, young Lord? What the Hunter is? Do you understand what I can do?"
Cullan stared at her defiantly. "What can you do?"
"Destroy the Fae."
Silence.
"I am the Green Lord and the Hunter. I command, I rule, I harvest. . . wherever the woods resides." Ashk smiled gently. "You still don't understand." She removed the hunting horn from its place on her belt, raised it to her lips, and blew one soft, long note.
Morag felt a queer tickle in her chest.
Ashk blew another note, louder this time, more commanding.
The tickle became a fluttering. A desperate fluttering of wings, as if the raven, which was her other form, was trying to break free of her to answer the command in that one note.
Looking around to see if she was the only one who felt it, she saw Aiden with his fists pressed against his chest as if he were trying to hold something in, a look of understanding and horror on his face. Lyrra was curled up on the ground, weeping.
Morag stared at Ashk. Wherever the woods resides. Mother's mercy!
Morphia was hunched over, her arms crossed over her chest, panting. Sheridan supported her, looking grim.
Morag looked to her left, at the western huntsmen. Hard eyes. Grim faces. Every one of them standing tall with a weapon ready in his hands.
They know. They've always known what she is and what she can do.
"Ashk." Her voice broke on the plea, but it was enough.
Ashk lowered the horn and turned slightly to look at her.
An enraged cry. Shouts of warning.
Ashk dove for the ground as Cullan's hunting knife flew toward her. But it was paws, not hands, that touched the ground. Before the knife impaled the earth behind her, the shadow hound pivoted and raced toward her prey.
Cullan froze for a second before changing into a stag and trying to leap away from the shadow hound.
That lost second was all Ashk needed to close the distance between them.
Jaws closed on a hind leg. Fangs ripped through flesh and tendons.
Cullan staggered, still tried to run on three legs. Ashk danced around him, nipping his flanks, forcing him to keep trying to run. When he finally turned at bay, she sprang—and changed again in midair.
Her left hand caught an antler below the points and jerked his head back. Her right hand reached for her boot as she came down hard on his back, straddling him. His hind legs buckled. The hunting knife in her right hand slashed deep across his throat.
Blood pumped from the wound. His forelegs scrabbled desperately as his eyes began to glaze.
Death howled.
Still holding his head back, Ashk leaned forward, and said, "This is why I am the Hunter."
She released the antler. Cullan collapsed, blood still pouring from the wound, but not for much longer. Stepping behind him, she cleaned her knife on his still-trembling flank, sheathed it, and walked toward her men.
Morag stared at her, afraid to move. She didn't know this hard-eyed woman who walked toward her. Wasn't sure she wanted to.
Ashk picked up the hunting horn and turned to face the Clan who now stared at her with terror in their eyes.
"I am the Hunter. Each Clan will send no less than twenty fighters down to Sylvalan. They will go to the southern end of the Mother's Hills or the northern end, the midland coast, or to a place called Willowsbrook on the eastern side of the hills. The Clans closest to those places will be expected to defend those places. We are the Fae, and it is the Fae who are the protectors of the Old Places and the woods—and everything that lives within them. Either you are Fae or you are not. If you do not defend the land from an enemy who will wipe it clean of magic, then I will take back the gift that came from the spirit of the woods. That is your choice. If you do not make it soon, I will make it for you. I do not have to be here. I don't even have to be in Tir Alainn. I am the Hunter. I command the woods . . . wherever it resides."
Ashk turned toward her men. "Get ready to ride. We have some ground to cover today." Then she looked at Aiden. "Will you write a song about this, Bard?"
Seeing the flash of pain in Aiden's eyes broke the chains of fear that had kept Morag silent. "Ashk, that was cruel."
Ashk turned to look at her. "Cruelty resides in the shadows. Didn't you know that, Morag?" She looked at the ground. "But, sometimes, so does mercy."
Taking a deep breath, she turned back to Aiden. "My apologies, Bard."
"Accepted, Hunter."
Just as Morag breathed a sigh of relief, a huntsman, deathly pale and trembling, approached them.
"Hunter?" he said.
What now? Morag thought wearily. The day had barely begun, and she suspected Ashk would set a grueling pace the rest of the day.
Ashk studied him. "You're one of Gwynith's escorts."
"I am, Hunter. She entrusted me to find you and deliver this." He reached into his leather, thigh-length vest, withdrew a folded piece of paper, and held it out to her.
Ashk took it, then asked, "Will you be returning to Gwynith?"
He shook his head. "She has other messages for me to deliver."
Aiden stepped forward. "If you meet up with a bard or minstrel who is coming east with messages, perhaps you could exchange them. That way each of you would have less of a journey."
The huntsman tipped his head. "I thank you for the suggestion, Bard. I would like to return to Lady Gwynith as soon as possible."
"She is well?" Ashk asked.
"She is well, Hunter." He hesitated. "She rides with the Lady of the Moon."
"I see. Safe journey, huntsman."
As the huntsman followed Ashk's men to the stables, the Hunter walked away from all of them, then broke the seal on the letter and began to read.
With shaking hands, Aiden helped Lyrra to her feet.
"Mother's mercy, Aiden," she said, clinging to him. "Did you know any of this when you decided to find the Hunter?"
"No."
"Would you have still searched if you knew?"
"I don't know." Aiden led her to a bench near the edge of the open ground. "It wouldn't have mattered. The Black Coats attacked her Clan, her family. She would have come east to gather the Fae whether we'd found her or not."
But we wouldn't have been riding with her, probably wouldn't have been at this Clan house on this day to experience what she could do. The Inquisitors were a vicious threat to all of Sylvalan, but for the Fae personally, the Hunter was more terrifying.
Sinking down on the bench beside Lyrra, he rubbed his chest. He'd always felt embarrassed that his other form was a tiny whoo-it owl, and he seldom changed to that form to enjoy the gliding flight through woods and over fields except when he was alone—or with Lyrra, who ran beneath him, her red fox coat shining in moonlight. Knowing how easily it could be taken away from him, he didn't think he'd ever feel embarrassed about his other form again. He didn't want to lose it, didn't want to lose a vital part of what made him Fae.