by Anne Bishop
She was out the door, running for the stables before Liam could grab her.
"Breanna!"
The wind staggered him. Saved him as he stumbled forward and the arrow that would have pierced his heart suddenly shot upward to hit the top of the door.
Bent over, he ran as fast as he could. Arrows swirled around him, tumbled like sticks in a storm. He saw Breanna behind the watering trough. Heard her yell of anger and surprise. Saw her pop up, a target begging to be killed. He knocked her down. Felt an arrow slice through the left sleeve of his coat.
"You fool!" he yelled.
"No! Let me up. Liam!" She struggled to get out from under him. As her head smacked his chin, he looked up—and saw the ball of fire arching toward the barn.
Wind roared around him, but it was too late. The flaming ball smashed through the barn roof. The hay would go up instantly, and the men inside—
He looked up and saw one of the Fae in the hayloft. Saw him change into an owl and take flight. Saw him fall, impaled by three arrows.
He shifted enough to let Breanna get to her hands and knees. "We've got to get away from here. The barn's going to go up."
Spitting out dirt, she twisted around enough to look at him. "I know—" Her face paled. Her eyes widened. "Mother's mercy!" She grabbed his shirt and pulled him back down.
He looked over his shoulder—and felt his heart clog his throat as the spinning funnel of dirt that towered over his home raced past the manor house and drove right into the center of the enemy's men.
They had no chance, Liam thought as that funnel captured the living, the wounded, and the dead, captured earth and stone, spinning it up, up, up.
Arrows flew at it. Became more debris to impale those who had been alive when it caught them.
It raced down the drive, a straight path of destruction. Men who scrambled out of its path met the Fae's arrows. They couldn't turn fast enough, couldn't run fast enough. And when it reached the catapult with another ball of flame ready to be released, he heard the savage snap of wood, heard the roar of fire—and covered Breanna's eyes and closed his own when he heard the screams of those who were still alive in that spinning fury.
"We surrender!" several voices yelled. "Please! We surrender!"
Breanna jerked. "The ground's hot."
Liam scrambled to his knees. The ground around them smoked gently. The grass near the barn was withered, as if it had been burned by an unrelenting sun. When he glanced up, he saw smoke rising from the barn roof but no flames.
He pulled Breanna to her feet and led her back toward the manor house, keeping himself between her and the drive.
"We surrender!"
Men, holding their empty hands above their heads, looked toward the trees. Slowly, cautiously, the Fae appeared and herded the prisoners toward the manor house.
And at the end of the drive, now moving slowly back toward them, was that funnel. Flames still flared at the top of it like captured lightning. Charred wood and bodies began falling from it.
"Mother's mercy, Liam. What is that?"
Liam looked over, relief flooding through him as he saw Donovan—dirty and with a bloody scrape along his jaw—guiding Gwenn toward the manor house. She was limping a little, and her face had no color.
As they got closer to each other, he heard Gwenn muttering, "I can do this. I can. This is what I stayed to do. Mother's mercy. Calm calm calm. I can do this."
Donovan's eyes held worry and fear. Breanna was a quivering mass of tension beside him. The prisoners hurried toward them, terrified. And Varden and the rest of the Fae who gathered on the edges of the drive looked equally pale and frightened.
And still that funnel moved slowly toward them, losing height now, losing its prey.
He swallowed hard as he watched the bodies fall. More and more of them until there was nothing left but a thin veil of dirt.
Three hundred men—and they'd had no chance.
"I can do this. Let go of me, Donovan." Gwenn pulled away from her husband, shook out her skirt, and brushed at the dirt on her shirt. "I can do this."
"Do what, Gwenn?" Breanna asked, her eyes narrowing as she watched the funnel.
Liam stared. Was he seeing what he thought he was seeing?
The last of the dirt fell away as the funnel faded into a gentle swirl of air around the black-haired, cold-eyed woman riding a gray stallion. A beautiful woman. The kind of woman who could take a man's breath away.
The realization that his heart wasn't just pounding in fear scared him to the bone.
The horse stopped. The woman just stared at them.
Gwenn took one step forward. Her smile was as wobbling as the curtsy she tried to perform. "Blessings of the day, Selena."
After a painful moment of silence, the woman said, "Blessings of the day, Gwenn."
Breanna stared at the tea and thin sandwiches on the table in front of her. She wasn't sure if she was queasy because she was hungry or because it didn't seem right to be hungry after what she'd seen. At least her hands had stopped shaking. Sneaking a healthy nip of whiskey before Sloane brought in the tea things had coated her nerves with the illusion of calm.
There was no reason not to be calm. It was over. They'd won this battle. Liam and Donovan were questioning the prisoners. And the guest she was waiting to offer tea and sandwiches to was just a witch, just another Daughter of the House of Gaian.
She lowered her face into her hands. Felt her breathing hitch as she struggled to remain calm. It would be ill-mannered to show fear, but. . .
Selena wasn't just another witch, wasn't just another Daughter of the House of Gaian. Mother's mercy. How was she supposed to act around a woman who could create a funnel of wind so powerful it could have ripped grown trees out of the ground and flung them aside like a child throwing a toy with gleeful abandon. And the speed of it, racing down the drive at a fast gallop. A few seconds, a few ticks of the clock. That's all it had taken for that twisting fury to destroy three hundred men.
Feeling her hands tremble, Breanna sat up and pushed her hair back. Offering Selena a guest room and a chance to wash off the dust had been the polite thing to do. And it gave them all a chance to let their nerves settle a bit before facing her again. Gwenn's doing. If she hadn't played lady of the manor, they might all still be standing out there, uncertain of what to say or do.
Mother's tits. Where was Gwenn? She promised to be down as soon as she washed up a bit and changed into something borrowed from Elinore's wardrobe.
Breanna brushed her fingers over the skirt and tunic she'd borrowed, certain Elinore would have been more offended if she'd sat in the parlor looking dusty and bedraggled while offering tea to an important guest than helping herself to the other woman's clothes.
Sloane opened the door. As Selena walked into the room, Breanna decided a false, sick smile would be more insulting than a serious expression. Besides, she didn't think her parlor skills were sufficient under these circumstances to produce even a sick smile.
Where was Gwenn?
"There's tea and sandwiches," Breanna said.
Selena barely glanced at the tray on the table. "It looks lovely." She walked over to the windows half-covered by the heavy draperies that were usually pulled closed over the sheers at night. She stared out the window but didn't push aside the sheers to get a clear view.
"Do no harm," Selena said quietly. "That's the creed. That's the scale on which we balance all we do when we channel the power from the Great Mother. The Lady of the Moon is a wonderful dance, a celebration of the Mother's sister. But I'm also the Huntress, the protector of witches. I am justice . . . and I am vengeance. Because of that, I can no longer balance what I do on the scale of our creed."
And it hurts you, Breanna thought, studying the lovely woman who now wore a simple green gown. It hurts you that you can't live by the creed. The quiet pain under Selena's words tugged at her and she said the first thing that popped into her head. "You made a mess of Liam's drive. It will take his me
n days to rake it smooth again." She didn't mention the men who were out there now, searching for any wounded, gathering up the dead.
Selena turned away from the window, her expression slightly puzzled.
Good. That was good.
"I thought Gwenn said Baron Liam was your brother. Isn't it your drive, too?"
Breanna shook her head and poured tea into two cups. "Oh, no. This is Liam's house. I don't live here."
"I see."
It was like feeling the sharp blade of a winter wind cutting through a summer day.
"No," Breanna said firmly, "I don't think you do." Since her hands were trembling again, she didn't try to pick up her tea. "I live in the Old Place with my family. Liam and I only got to know each other a few weeks ago. His mother, Elinore, is kin to us, and his gift from the Mother comes down through her. He didn't know it was in him until the need to save me from the nighthunters broke the barriers inside him. And now. . ." She trailed off, remembering the mortified expression on Liam's face.
"It's a natural function," Selena said.
"So is farting, and he'd probably have preferred to embarrass himself that way in mixed company than setting a pile of arrows on fire," Breanna replied tartly. She picked up her cup and saucer. Selena's sudden, rich laughter surprised her enough to bobble the cup, slopping tea into the saucer.
"You're younger than he is, aren't you?" Selena's gray-green eyes danced with humor.
"What makes you think that?" Breanna asked warily.
"Younger sisters have no mercy."
Breanna tipped her head. "You have a younger sister?"
Selena walked over to the table, took her tea and a thin sandwich. "I do."
"Would she like a dog?"
It was the caution in Selena's expression, overlaid with humor, that confirmed for Breanna that, however powerful Selena might be, she was still one of the Mother's Daughters at heart.
"I don't think so," Selena said just as Gwenn limped into the room.
"Is the tea still hot?" Gwenn asked, sounding grumpy.
"Hot enough," Breanna replied, setting her own down to pour some for Gwenn. "What took you so long?"
"Donovan." Gwenn flopped on the couch with no grace whatsoever. "First he tries to convince me to stay upstairs, in bed, to rest my ankle, which wouldn't have gotten twisted in the first place if he hadn't shoved me to the ground and thrown himself on top of me. Then, when I tell him I'm going to come down and have tea with the two of you, he wants me to have a bowl of chicken soup. I don't want chicken soup. I don't like chicken soup."
Breanna glanced at Selena, relieved to see the same puzzled expression she was sure was on her own face. "Chicken soup for a twisted ankle?"
"I swear gentry fathers take their sons aside on the night before the wedding and tell them that chicken soup is the secret to a happy marriage, that it is the cure for anything that ails a wife," Gwenn grumbled.
"I never would have guessed chicken soup as the subject to discuss on the night before a wedding," Breanna said blandly.
Selena leaned forward, her expression innocent. "Do you eat a lot of chicken soup, Gwenn?"
Gwenn just grunted. "Then, when I tell him to go on since Liam's waiting for him, he waits for me and carries me down the stairs."
"It would have been difficult to get down the stairs otherwise," Selena said.
"No, it wouldn't. I could have slid down the banister most of the way."
Selena made a strangled, gurgly sound. "Oh . . . Gwenn. You're not still doing that, are you? You're a baron's wife. When the Grandmothers caught you at it, you used to tell them you were checking for dust."
"Which is exactly what I tell the servants if they catch me at it," Gwenn said. She sniffed primly. "Besides, how am I going to teach my daughters how to do it if I don't practice once in a while?"
Breanna choked on her tea.
Selena's face was turning red with the effort not to laugh.
Gwenn gave Breanna a helping swat on the back that almost shoved her nose into the teacup, then said, "Breathe, Selena. You're starting to look like a holly bush."
Maybe it wasn't right to fill the room with laughter when there was so much death just beyond the door.
And maybe, Breanna thought as she wiped her streaming eyes with the napkin Gwenn handed her, laughter was exactly what she needed to see Selena as a woman who could be a friend instead of a power to be feared.
Liam noticed the tremor in Donovan's hand as his friend raised the glass of whiskey and downed its contents in one swallow.
"Do not wake the Mother's Hills," Donovan said softly, staring into his glass. "Well, they're awake now, aren't they? Mother's mercy, Liam. Gwenny said Selena was powerful, and I hadn't doubted her word, especially after seeing the storm that passed over Willowsbrook, but I'd never imagined a witch could do . . . that. And I've met some of the women who come from the Mother's Hills."
"Nobody imagined they could do that," Liam said wearily. But he looked toward the closed study door and shivered, remembering the whirl of wind Breanna had created when he met her. She'd captured the earth Keely was flinging at him in a misguided effort to protect Breanna from the baron. If she could create a small whirling of wind and earth, could Breanna create something larger, something more destructive? If she needed to protect her family, would she create a funnel of earth and air that could be used as a weapon?
Would he have used the fire at his command to burn men as he'd burned the nighthunters? Yes, he would have. He didn't like knowing that about himself, especially after seeing the bodies that had been caught in that rage of wind and fire, and understood now why the creed to do no harm was constantly reinforced every time Breanna or Nuala gave him another lesson in using and controlling the power that lived inside him.
"Liam? Where have you gone?"
Liam looked at Donovan and shook his head. A knock on the study door saved him from a discussion he didn't want to have.
Varden walked in, and said bluntly, "We need to talk."
Before he could say anything more, two Fae led a prisoner into the room.
Liam studied the man dressed in the homespun tunic and trousers that were commonly worn by farmers. A pleasant-looking man in his mid-twenties, who appeared more relieved than fearful.
"Sit down," Liam said, indicating the chair in front of the desk.
"Yes, sir," the man said. "Thank you, sir."
He'd never dealt with prisoners before, but it baffled him that the man was acting more like a tenant farmer talking to his landlord than a man who'd just been captured in battle.
"You do understand that you're a prisoner," Liam said.
"Yes, sir, and grateful to be so."
"Why?"
The man shifted in the chair. "You stand against the eastern barons." Not quite a statement; more a request for confirmation.
Liam nodded. "I stand against everything the Inquisitors brought to our land—and I stand against any baron who supports them."
The man nodded. "That's why the lads and I were grateful for the chance to surrender. We didn't want to fight you. The Black Coat kept stirring up the men by saying you were a servant of the Evil One and had to be destroyed to keep our homes and families safe." Bitterness filled his face. "We've seen what the baron and the Black Coats did to our families, and if that's keeping them safe—" He swallowed hard.
"If that's how you feel, why did you come to fight at all?" Donovan asked.
"No choice. Any man who refused was condemned on the spot and hung for being ensnared by the Evil One. A man isn't much good to his family once he's dead. And it wouldn't have done any good to try to slip away at night because the rest of the army is just a few days behind us, and the Black Coat said the Witch's Hammer himself is leading them."
"If that's true, why did your troops attack us now?" Liam asked.
The man shrugged. "Don't know. They weren't for telling us much. But the lads and I talked it over last night and decided that if you were against the B
lack Coats you had to be a good man, and it wasn't right to be fighting against you. So we decided we wouldn't raise a hand against your people and we'd surrender as quick as we could." He shuddered. "Nobody expected that lady witch to . . ." His voice trailed off.
Liam rubbed his forehead, trying to soothe the headache building behind his eyes. "I've never had prisoners before. I'm not sure what to do with you."
The man leaned forward. "There's work to be done, isn't there? Your people can't do all the work and get ready for the fight."
Liam frowned. "You want to work for me?"
"We're farmers, most of us. We can chop wood, take care of livestock. Baron . . . Baron, you have to win. You have to. You can't give us back what our baron and the Black Coats took from us, but we want Sylvalan to be what it used to be. We don't want to be afraid of what might happen to our wives or our sisters or our mothers anytime a guard rides by. We don't want to be afraid anymore. If you win, you can force the barons to change things back to the way they were before the Black Coats came."
"I'll think about it," Liam said. "That's all for now."
The man nodded and walked to the door, the Fae guards behind him. When he reached the door, he looked back. "Baron? We didn't raise a hand against your people. But if you give us back our weapons, we'll fight alongside them when the Witch's Hammer comes."
The door closed behind the prisoner and guards. Liam leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"I'll send out messengers to warn the Clans east of here," Varden said. "Won't be enough Fae to stand against an army, not alone, but if they can get down the shining road in time, they may be able to save the witches in the Old Places and make sure a few less men arrive at Willowsbrook."
"What makes you think they'll listen now when they never did before?" Liam asked.
"Your sister is entertaining the Huntress and you ask me that?" Varden smiled grimly. "I doubt there's a Clan in Sylvalan that wants Lady Selena looking in their direction—even more so when they find out what happened here today." The smile faded. He shifted uneasily. "Besides . . . we're to blame for the Black Coats."
Liam straightened up and stared at Varden.