The House of Gaian ta-3

by Anne Bishop

  There was no way past these cold-eyed Fae. They didn't speak, not even among themselves, while they stood guard. His men couldn't get close enough to fight them, and his Inquisitor's Gift of persuasion had no effect on them. Humans didn't come into the warehouse—at least, they didn't come in far enough to be useful to him. And the one time he'd managed to snare a human youth's will by raising his voice as if to offer encouragement to his fellow prisoners, the young man was pulled out of the warehouse as soon as the Fae realized the human had been ensnared—and a Fae Lord with eyes colder and more dangerous than the sea came in a little while later and told him that if he raised his voice again, they would cut out his tongue and feed it to him.

  He believed the bastard.

  So he nursed his hatred and waited, waited, waited for the enemy to come to him. Because there were barons' sons and minor gentry among the prisoners, because the baron who ruled this piece of Sylvalan was so young and inexperienced in doling out harsh punishment, a message had been sent to Padrick, the Baron of Breton, to assess the prisoners, to pass judgment.

  The enemy he had failed to punish the last time was coming within his reach. He wasn't a fool. Killing Padrick would guarantee his own death, but destroying Padrick would be a deep wound to western Sylvalan. And when the Master Inquisitor conquered this part of Sylvalan, Adolfo would hear of it and know his Assistant had served him well to the last breath.

  Chapter 40

  full moon

  Breanna walked into the kitchen and almost walked out again. Too many people. Too much heat. Too much confusion. Too much noise. Keely and Brooke were sitting at one end of the long work table, shelling peas and chattering as if they could actually hear each other. Fiona and Glynis were dealing with some crisis around the stove, which meant they'd give her snappish replies if she asked them what, if anything, was supposed to be done with the big kettles simmering on the stove in the summer kitchen. Elinore was at Liam's house that afternoon, responding to pleas from her son's housekeeper and butler that someone needed to provide the servants with some instructions for dealing with so many important guests—and Liam's response to household questions, Elinore had told her dryly, was a distracted look and a promise to look into matters soon . . . which meant never.

  She needed to tell some other passably sane adult that Idjit, living up to his name, had gobbled something he shouldn't have eaten, thrown up on the flagstones in front of the summer kitchen, and one of the boys helping Clay with the horses, too intent on sneaking into the kitchen to grab a snack, had slipped in the mess, hit his head on the edge of a work table, and was now on his way to the village physician with Clay and Falco to have his head stitched up.

  And why was Jean standing in the corner of the kitchen with that smug, I-know-something-you-don't-know smile?

  "Where's Gran?" Breanna asked, raising her voice enough to be heard.

  Her face flushed with heat, Fiona turned away from the stove. "She went upstairs about an hour ago. She was sitting here, having a cup of tea while we talked about what to serve for the evening meal. She said the tea tasted odd, poured out the rest of it, and went up to her room to lie down for a bit."

  Breanna headed for the door that led into the rest of the house. Pausing, she looked back. Jean watched her, eyes bright with something Breanna would have called malicious glee.

  Shaking her head, she left the kitchen and walked to the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. She didn't like Jean—liked the girl even less with each passing day. But they were stuck with each other, so she'd have to grit her teeth and try to be more tolerant of adolescent snits.

  Breanna tapped on her grandmother's door. When she didn't get an answer, she slipped into the room. Nuala was lying on her side, asleep, a summer quilt pulled up to her waist.

  As she moved closer to the bed, Breanna's nose twitched at the smell. Was Nuala more ill than they'd realized? Had she soiled herself in her sleep, unable to rouse enough to reach the chamberpot?

  "Gran?" Breanna said softly. The hand reaching for her grandmother's shoulder froze as she stared at Nuala's face, then at the chest that did not rise nor fall. "Gran?"

  No sound. No flutter of breath. No flicker of movement, not even a twitch of an eyelid. And cold skin. Cold, cold skin.

  Breanna backed out of the room, shaking her head. She clung to the banister as she walked down the stairs because her legs suddenly had too many joints and moved in strange, unpredictable ways.

  She would send someone for the village physician. She would send one of the Fae to find the closest healer staying in the camps with them. They would know what to do. Gran was ill. Very ill. But they would know what to do because Gran was . . . Gran was. . .

  She was standing in the kitchen, with no memory of walking from the staircase to the kitchen door. Too many people. Too much heat. Too much confusion. Too much noise.

  Then Selena, Ashk, and Liam walked through the back door, and no longer were there too many people. Strength had walked into the room. But there still wasn't quite enough air to breathe, everyone but those three people were blurs of color and movement, and voices were nothing more than sounds until Liam said sharply, "Breanna?"

  Things began to slip back into focus. She saw the chair that was pushed away from the smaller work table in front of her, as if someone had been sitting there recently and hadn't bothered to push the chair back again. Saw Fiona turn in response to the sharpness in Liam's voice—turn and look at him before looking closely at her. Saw Keely rest a hand on Brooke's arm, signaling the girl to be quiet.

  "Breanna?" Fiona said. "Is Nuala awake? Would she like a bowl of soup or another cup of tea?"

  Tea.

  Breanna looked at Jean, who still stood in the corner, wearing that smug smile and watching her.

  Clarity became knife-edged.

  "What did you put in the tea?" Breanna asked calmly, staring at Jean.

  Jean shifted her feet, the smile changing into a pout. "I didn't make any tea."

  "What did you put in the tea?"

  "Breanna?" Liam said, taking a step toward her.

  She took a step closer to the table. "Nuala said the tea tasted odd. She didn't drink all of it, but she drank enough." Another step. Close enough now to jump from chair to table to—"I'm going to rip your heart out with my bare hands, just to see if you really have one."

  "I didn't do anything!" Jean wailed.

  "Breanna." Now Fiona's voice had turned sharp. "Is something wrong with Nuala? Is she ill?"

  "Nuala is dead." Breanna's voice broke. Her control shattered. "You little bitch, you killed my grandmother!"

  Chair to table, and she was flying through the air straight at Jean. Strong arms caught her around the hips, hauling her back.

  Kicking and flailing, she screamed her grief and rage. "You killed my grandmother! You killed her!"

  Her legs buckled. The strong arms that had held her back now eased her to the floor, wrapped around her to hold her close as she howled her pain.

  "I'm sorry, Breanna," Liam murmured, his voice more a rumble in the chest she was held against than words she understood.

  Keely, yelling, "Mama! Mama!"

  Fiona, shouting, "Keely! No!"

  Someone brushing past her, someone with strength as formidable as earth.

  Ashk, implacable, saying, "Get out of here. Stay out of the house until we get her calmed down."

  Aiden's voice, and Lyrra's. Part of a swell of voices lost in the waves of pain.

  Another voice saying, "Are you sure? She needs to grieve."

  Ashk. "Yes, she does. But not like this."

  A woman's hand on her hair. Gentle. "Sleep now. Sleep."

  She tried to fight against it. "I'll die."

  "I'll keep watch over you until Falco returns," Liam said. "We won't let you die. I swear it."

  The woman's voice again. "Sleep now. Sleep."

  Nothing she could do but follow that voice. Nothing.

  Selena moved away to the window, leaving
Ashk standing at the foot of Nuala's bed.

  "Is Breanna right?" Ashk asked. "Did the girl put something in the tea, intending mischief but resulting in this?"

  "I don't know," Selena replied, moving the curtain enough to watch the people milling around on the back lawn. "I stayed away from the girl as much as possible."

  "Why?"

  She let the curtain fall and turned to face Ashk. "Because every time I saw her, I wanted to change into a shadow hound and tear her throat out."

  Ashk stared at her. No revulsion, no criticism in that look. Just assessment.

  Finally, Ashk stepped away from the bed and blew out a breath. "If your instincts were that strong, the girl's lucky to be alive."

  "And I'm wondering if I have reason to regret not following that instinct."

  Now Ashk's look sharpened. "Don't think that way. If we find proof that Nuala's death was not natural, then we'll deal with it. But you and I can't afford to be swayed by Breanna's grief. We hold too much power, Huntress. When we pass judgment, there is no turning back."

  "I know." Selena looked away.

  Ashk raked a hand through her short hair. "Besides, we have a more immediate problem. At this time of year, it's too warm to let the body remain above ground while people call to pay their respects. We have to give Nuala back to the Great Mother."

  Selena nodded. "Breanna will choose the place."

  "And we'll have to have watchfires around it at night. And guards. Fae who have good night vision in their other forms, archers who can shoot clean in the dark. And someone there with the gift of fire."

  She shook her head, puzzled.

  "There are nighthunters still out there, Selena," Ashk said with biting patience. "They don't just devour flesh and blood. They feast on the spirits of the dead. There aren't any Fae here who are Death's Servants. They've all headed north or south since that's where the fighting is. I've sent a call to have some of them return here, or have some from the midlands join us here, but until there's one of them among us who can take Nuala's spirit up the road to the Shadowed Veil, she is still prey for those creatures. So we have guards. We keep watch. We protect our dead until they are safely out of reach."

  A chill went through Selena. "The men who made the first attack on Baron Liam's estate. Their . . . ghosts . . . might still be there?"

  "Where the bodies are buried, yes."

  "But there's no way to tell?"

  "Not until one of Death's Servants—or the Gatherer—joins us." Ashk paused. "Would it ease your mind if we put guards around those graves as well?"

  Selena hesitated, then shook her head. "We can't risk too many of the living when the battle is still ahead. There will be more dead before this is done."

  "Yes," Ashk said quietly, "there will be."

  Jean ran across the bridge that spanned Willow's Brook, then stopped, no longer sure where to go. Her first thought had been to run to Baron Liam's house and tell Lady Elinore how mean Breanna had been to her. But Elinore would want to know why Breanna had gotten angry. If she lied, Elinore would know, and if she told the truth, Elinore would forget all about her and hurry to the Old Place to comfort Breanna.

  She headed for the field, refusing to even look in the direction of the baron's house.

  For a moment, there in the kitchen, she'd thought Liam was protecting her from Breanna's vicious attack. But, no, he just wanted to comfort that. . . bitch.

  It was always Breanna. Mean, nasty, spiteful Breanna. Always wanting her to do chores. As if she were some servant. And here she was, walking through these fields wearing her best dress— which she'd spent hours pressing because Nuala had refused to order one of the other women to do it. So she was ruining her best dress and hadn't even gotten the chance to let the Bard see how pretty she was and so much more interesting than that homely red-haired woman he was sleeping with. How could he want to sleep with a woman who looked like that?

  He hadn't noticed her because Breanna had to grab everyone's attention. Poor, poor Breanna. Nobody was saying poor Jean, were they?

  And it wasn't her fault. She hadn't meant to hurt Nuala, but the old woman had been so mean about the dress that she'd wanted to get even. Just a little. It had been so easy to slip into the tea a pinch of the crushed plants she'd had in a handkerchief in her dress pocket. And Nuala was supposed to have spent the day sitting on her chamberpot. She wasn't supposed to die. But. . .

  Jean stopped walking, put both hands in her dress pockets, and carefully pulled out two rounded handkerchiefs.

  Could she have gotten the handkerchiefs mixed up and put the foxglove mixture in Nuala's tea?

  She stuffed the handkerchiefs back in her pockets and walked faster.

  That mixture had been for Breanna. Or Falco. Or both.

  Breanna was so stupid. She'd had sex with Falco. He'd even taken her up to Tir Alainn to do it to her, and all she'd gotten out of it was his cock making her wet and messy. No gold necklace. No rope of pearls. Not even a bracelet. Stupid Breanna.

  Well, she wasn't stupid. And she was not going to go back and have Breanna and Fiona be mean to her. No, she was going to have everything. She'd find a baron's son, a baron's heir—a wealthy baron's heir. And he'd see how pretty she was and know she was too special to do chores like some common woman. He'd hug her and kiss her, and whenever he wanted sex, he'd give her presents. Lots of wonderful presents. She'd have carriages and beautiful gowns and jewels. And then she'd go back to the Old Place, and Breanna would be so envious of all the things she had that mean, stupid Breanna would choke. She'd just choke.

  Jean stopped again and looked around. She'd already walked a long way, hadn't she?

  Maybe they were already sorry they'd been mean to her. Back home, they'd felt sorry for her because she was the Abandoned Child, and after they'd scolded her for something, the old women would give her an extra sweet at dinner and sometimes one of the men would give her a scarf or a shawl that was supposed to be sold with the rest of the ship's cargo.

  But the younger ones, like Fiona . . . and Jenny . . . had never been nice after they'd been mean. And Nuala had been the only elder at this Old Place, so there had been no one else to take her side and tell her she was a darling girl but it was naughty to cause such mischief.

  Just mischief. It wasn't her fault if she'd gotten the mixtures confused. Breanna and Fiona were always watching her, just waiting for her to make a little mistake. And there wasn't any privacy to work out the proper mixture that she half-remembered learning from her mother before her mother went away. It was their fault that she'd been in a hurry and hadn't paid enough attention to which mixture she'd put in which pocket.

  Maybe she wouldn't go to any of the camps just yet. She was tired and hot and getting all sweaty. Maybe she'd go to the village instead. Someone there would give her something to eat and a place to wash up and rest.

  And when her family realized they were sorry for being mean to her, she wouldn't be that hard to find.

  So she walked until the dress she'd spent so much time pressing became limp and her legs quivered and burned and her shoes pinched her feet. She was close to tears when she reached the top of a rise and saw the field stretching out before her. A field with a jumbled pile of huge stones—and the road winding out of the trees beyond the field, curving around the rise she stood on.

  Dress, legs, and feet momentarily forgotten, she hurried down the other side of the rise and headed for the road. Someone would be coming from the village or heading to the village. Or one of the estates. Or a farm. Surely whoever was traveling would give her a ride.

  As I will, so mote it be, Jean thought smugly as a one-horse cart came out from behind that pile of stones. The young man driving the cart seemed startled when he saw her, but he turned the horse in her direction.

  "Blessings of the day to you," Jean said when he finally got close enough, giving him her best smile—and wishing she could have smoothed her hair and dress before he'd seen her. No matter. He obviously wasn't gentr
y, so she didn't have to impress him much. Just enough to get a ride.

  "Blessings of the day, mistress," the young man said after a brief hesitation. "Are you alone?"

  A little wary, she watched him loop the reins around the brake and get out of the cart. "My family is nearby."

  "These are dangerous times, mistress. A young lady shouldn't wander about on her own." When he got a man's length away from her, he stopped suddenly. His eyes widened. "Are you one of them?"

  "Them?"

  "A— One of the Mother's Daughters."

  She was more hedge witch than witch, and wouldn't have been called one of the Mother's Daughters around them, but her grandmother had been a witch and that counted for something, didn't it? "It is best not to mention such things," she said coyly, looking up at him through her lashes. "As you pointed out, these are dangerous times."

  "Of course." He smiled. "If being seen in such a humble cart would not offend you, may I offer you a ride?"

  "You are very kind."

  He extended a hand to indicate the cart. "The daylight is waning, mistress. We should be on our way."

  "Yes. You're right," Jean replied, walking toward the cart. She lowered her head and smiled. He seemed nervous. And the way he kept looking around, as if to reassure himself that there was no one who could see them, he was probably hoping to coax her into giving him a kiss or two. And maybe she'd let him since he was nice looking.

  As he placed one hand on her arm to help her into the cart, she noticed him reaching inside the leather vest he wore over an un-pressed shirt. Was he going to offer her a present in the hopes of getting more than a kiss?

  Then the hand on her arm yanked her off balance. As she teetered on the edge of falling backward, his other hand whipped out of the vest, and something soft yet heavy struck her on the head.