by Anne Bishop
Neall stepped away from the mare. “Blessings of the day to you, Mistress.”
He wasn’t sure why he used his mother’s—and Ari’s—usual greeting. Maybe just to see if she recognized it as a witch’s salute rather than a gentry one.
Her light brown eyes narrowed. The look she gave him was thoughtful—and a little puzzled. She tipped her head in acknowledgment, then commanded the mare to walk on.
He watched her, moving enough to keep her in sight while she crossed the road and rode across the fields to Ahern’s farm.
Ashk, why does your face look blurry when you first come to our house?
She stared at him for so long and in such a way that, for the first time, he felt afraid to be alone with her.
“You can see through the clamor?” she asked.
Later, he had asked his father what “clamor” meant. When told it meant “noise,” he’d puzzled for a while over why he could see through noise, then decided Ashk had been teasing him. Since it only happened when he saw her, he never mentioned it again.
So what was it about this stranger who was interested in Ari that made him think of Ashk after so many years?
Too edgy to sit, Dianna paced one of the smaller rooms in the Clan house until Lyrra and Aiden hurried to join her.
“Have you seen Lucian?” she asked.
“I’m surprised you didn’t pass each other going through the Veil,” Aiden said. “I guess he was feeling randy enough that he didn’t want to wait until sunset.”
Dianna stopped pacing. Couldn’t move at all now. “He’s already gone? How could he just leave?”
“He’s been doing exactly that since the Summer Moon,” Lyrra said, puzzled. She shifted her voice to a soothing tone. “I know you’ve been concerned about him becoming too . . . attached . . . to this female, but I’m sure it’s nothing more than an indulgence in carnal pleasure. Besides, it will be the dark of the moon in a few more days, and then the affair will be over.”
“It’s what happens when it’s over that concerns me,” Dianna said.
“Why?” Aiden asked sharply.
Dianna took a deep breath to steady herself. “Because the woman who lives in the cottage, the woman Lucian has taken as a lover, is one of the wiccanfae. She is a witch.”
Silence.
Aiden shook his head and began to swear, quietly and viciously.
“How—Are you sure, Dianna?” Lyrra asked, sinking down on the nearest bench.
“She told me. When I was there today, I saw a pendant she wears. A pentagram. A witch’s symbol.”
“Lucian has said nothing,” Aiden said savagely. “Nothing.”
“I don’t think he knows,” Dianna said. “I’m sure of it.”
“That doesn’t make it any better, does it?” Aiden snapped.
“Why would the wiccanfae want to hurt us?” Lyrra asked.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to hurt a lover who had tired of you?” Aiden said so bitterly Dianna and Lyrra stared at him. “What better way to hurt a Fae lover than to destroy a piece of Tir Alainn and all the Fae within it.”
“We don’t know the Clans who are lost have been destroyed,” Lyrra protested.
“We don’t know anything about them. There’s no word from them, no way to reach them.” Aiden paced the room. “There are enough Fae males who indulge themselves in the human world, and if a pendant is the only way to distinguish a witch from any other human female, they wouldn’t have known the difference. What if what’s happening to Tir Alainn is nothing more than the vengeance of spurned lovers?”
“That’s enough,” Dianna said firmly. “The only thing we know about the witches is what is being sung or told in stories.”
“And none of that is good,” Aiden said.
“I recall that you found those songs so offensive you used your gift as the Bard to strip away the musical skills of anyone who played them.”
Aiden glared at her but kept silent.
“I agree that the witches might have a kind of magic that could close a road through the Veil, and they may be the reason Tir Alainn is in danger.” Dianna sat on the bench beside Lyrra, but kept her eyes on Aiden. “We’ve lost more Clans since the Summer Moon, and we’re no closer to finding out why. Now we have a chance to get some answers.”
“From a witch?” Lyrra asked, sounding skeptical.
“Yes, from a witch,” Dianna replied, ignoring Aiden’s succinct comments. “She’s alone and she’s young . . . and I think she’s lonely. If we were to befriend her, she would have no reason to harm us, and might even be willing to help us.”
“If we befriend her and then discover she is a danger to Tir Alainn, what do we do then, Huntress?” Aiden said.
Dianna felt her throat tighten. She knew what Aiden expected her to say. She knew what she had to say, what she would have said without a second thought even a day ago . . . before she had been told she was called the Queen of the Witches and was considered their protector.
It makes no difference. It can’t.
“If she is a danger to us,” Dianna said quietly, “then the Huntress will take care of it—and she won’t be a danger anymore.”
Chapter Fourteen
Adolfo tied his weary horse securely to a tree before moving a little deeper into the Old Place. It would have been better if he could have hobbled the horse and let it graze in the meadow bordering the Old Place, but his nephew’s ghost kept beckoning to him from the other side of the meadow. He was certain the ghost couldn’t leave the meadow since the body was buried there, but he wasn’t certain about how much of the meadow the ghost could walk—and he wasn’t certain how much power Konrad’s ghost might have. So the animal would have to wait until he was done with what he had come to do.
The witch who had lived here was dead—Konrad had achieved that much—and Adolfo could feel the magic bleeding out of the Old Place. But power still thrummed in the land, in the trees, in the very air of this place. It grated against his bones even as it filled him with exultation.
As he walked, he brushed his fingers against the trees until he touched one and felt a dryad’s shriek of anger as a tingling in his fingertips. He smiled. Before she could gather her small magic to strike at him, he pressed his hand against the tree and poured his own power into it, binding her inside the trunk. Taking a step away from the tree, he sank to his knees. Placing his hands firmly on the ground, he used the witch magic that was his mother’s legacy to make the connection between himself and the Old Place. Then he began drawing the power out of the land, filling himself with it until his heart pounded and his body ached with the effort to contain it. And still he took in more and more, all the while murmuring the words that would change benign power into something malicious.
When he felt full to bursting, he released it all, letting it flood out of him as twisted ropes of magic that flew toward the village and nearby farms.
He heard the dryad scream as one of those twisted ropes struck her tree and consumed her.
He felt the land shudder as he took in more of its magic and released it, changed.
Finally unable to do any more, he broke his connection with the Old Place and slumped to the ground, trembling with exhaustion.
Power no longer thrummed in the land. It was still there. Nothing could destroy it completely in an Old Place. But it was a pale shadow of what it had been an hour before, and it would never again be more than a pale shadow—unless another witch came to live in the Old Place. Or the Fae. But that would never happen. The Fae only amused themselves in this world before returning to their precious Fair Land, and by the time he was done, no female would be able to set foot on this land without being condemned as a witch, whether she had any magic or not.
“And no man shall suffer a witch to live,” Adolfo whispered, rolling onto his back. “No man shall be at the mercy of any kind of female magic. We shall be the masters, the rulers, and what little power we grant we can also strip away. So shall it be.”
W
ith effort, he climbed to his feet and slowly returned to his horse. Opening a saddlebag, he pulled out a flask of brandy and drank deeply. He followed that with hunks of bread and cheese. His strength returned, slowly—far more slowly than it once did. But he was older now, and it took more out of him to strip power from the land.
Finishing the bread and cheese, he drank his fill from the water canteen, then poured water into his cupped hand for the horse.
“That’s enough,” Adolfo said, shaking the last drops of water from his hand and tying the canteen to the saddle.
He walked the horse out of the woods.
His nephew’s ghost now stood halfway between its grave and the border of the Old Place.
Adolfo suppressed a shudder, viciously controlling himself so that nothing would show on his face.
A twist of released magic must have struck the ghost, turning it into a nightmarish image, all the more dreadful because it could still be recognized as the young man it had been. In time, the villagers might have become used to a handsome ghost prowling the meadow. No one would be able to look on this without fear.
“They will pay for your death,” Adolfo told the ghost. “That I promise you.”
He turned away, aware that Konrad trailed after him. He didn’t breathe easily until he was well beyond the meadow and Konrad could no longer follow him. Mounting, he settled the horse into an easy trot. He’d ridden hard to reach this place at the right time. Now he would stop at the first available inn to give the horse and himself a well-earned rest.
He couldn’t control what the twisted ropes of magic would do. He’d never been able to control it to that extent. He simply released it and let each rope find its mark. Over the next few days, the villagers would suffer unexplainable troubles. Wells would collapse, cows would suddenly go dry, chickens would cease to lay, a dog would turn vicious and savage a child, a healthy woman would be taken to childbed before her time and die in agony birthing a corpse.
And those ropes of magic caused transformations, taking something from the natural world and twisting it into something else. The nighthunters were formed that way. A few were always created when he or one of his Inquisitors drained an Old Place of its magic. That didn’t trouble him since they mostly preyed on the Small Folk—or people who were foolish enough to walk through deep woods at night.
The villagers would still be reeling from Harro’s grisly death so soon after Konrad’s, and all the other troubles that would suddenly plague them would shatter any doubts they may have had about the existence of the Evil One and leave them at the mercy of what he had to teach them.
And he would teach them. In a few days, the other Inquisitors he had summoned would arrive at this village, as well as a couple of minstrels who found their purses well filled now that they played to his tune. He would return here as the Master Inquisitor, the Witch’s Hammer, and by the time he was done purging these people of all the Evil One’s servants, those who survived would spread a story that would leave no doubt about how thoroughly the Evil One could devour people wherever an Inquisitor died.
Chapter Fifteen
The road through the Veil shone in the deepening twilight.
Morag hesitated. It looked safe; it felt strong. It was the first shining road she’d found in the handful of days since she’d killed the young man in the black coat and taken the witch up the road that led to the Shadowed Veil. And yet . . .
The dark horse stamped one foot, mouthed the bit impatiently.
“There’s a storm coming,” Morag said quietly. “The sky is clear and there’s no wind, but this place feels hushed, the way a place does when everything has sought shelter to hide from whatever is going to happen.”
She stretched her senses and the magic that was her gift. Death didn’t whisper to her, didn’t stir. Almost as if Death also waited.
Morag looked around, still uneasy.
The road through the Veil beckoned.
“Let’s go to the Fair Land,” she said.
The dark horse needed no urging.
They cantered along that shining road walled by mist.
Little tendrils of mist drifted across the road.
She’d never seen that before.
Was it taking longer than usual to reach the Veil that separated the human world from Tir Alainn? Shouldn’t she have reached it by now?
A storm was coming. She could feel it.
Mist drifted across the road.
Where was the Veil?
There!
Morag looked at the dark gray wall of mist they were swiftly approaching and clenched the reins. She couldn’t see beyond it. That wasn’t right. The Veil was usually translucent, not opaque. What if it was like that when they were passing through it? Would the dark horse be able to stay on the road if he couldn’t see it? If he misstepped and took them into the walls of mist on either side of the road, they would never find their way back. No one ever had.
The dark horse hesitated. Morag leaned forward, her eyes intent on the Veil. “Go.”
He surged forward. And they were nowhere, surrounded by heavy, thick mist.
No one gathers the souls of those who have slipped into the mist, Morag thought, fighting against a growing fear as second after second passed and they were still riding through mist. No one gathers the souls . . . because no one can find them. If I’m lost here, would I be able to find the other lost ones but not be able to guide them to the road that leads to the Shadowed Veil? Or could I find that particular road no matter where I am?
The dark horse snorted, gathered himself for another burst of speed.
They exploded out of the mist. Gently rolling land bordered the road now. Ahead of her, she saw the Clan house rising up out of the land. Unlike the great houses the humans built, boxy and predictable, the Clan houses consisted of many buildings of various shapes and sizes connected by gardens and courtyards, a tumble of living areas for the families that made up a Clan.
Breathing easier, and suddenly exhausted, Morag reined the dark horse back to an easy canter. A minute later, they rode into the first large courtyard, where the stables were.
Dismounting, she looked around. Why had no one come out of the stables to meet her? The stable doors were open, so someone must have heard her arrive. Where were all the Fae?
There’s a storm coming.
Shivering, despite it being a warm summer evening, Morag led the horse toward the open stable doors.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting him rubbed down and fed.” The surly voice came from the shadows inside the stable.
“Yes, I do want him rubbed down and fed,” Morag replied.
A Fae male stepped out of the stables. He eyed her with dislike. “ ’Tis suppertime, and I’ve a fine meal cooling on my plate.”
“The quicker you attend to your duties, the sooner you can get back to it.”
“A horse can’t be expected to wait,” he said. “ ’Tis rude to be coming through the Veil when there’s a fine meal cooling.”
“I’ll remember that,” Morag said softly.
He finally looked at the horse. His eyes widened. “That’s a dark horse.” He wasn’t referring to just its color.
“Yes.”
He looked at her again, all the color washed from his face. “You’re—”
“The Gatherer.”
He just stared at her for a moment, growing paler. “I’ll take good care of him,” he whispered.
“I know you will. He’s not just a horse, he’s a friend.” Turning away from the man, Morag untied the saddlebags and pulled them off the dark horse’s back. There wasn’t much in them—a change of clothes, a few gold coins, a comb and brush that she hadn’t used in days.
She patted the dark horse’s neck. “Rest well.”
He turned his head and lipped her sleeve.
She stepped back, but waited until the Fae male came forward and led the dark horse into the stables. She smiled, and knew if the male had seen that smile he would have been terrif
ied by the bitterness and fury it held.
With manners like that, you could be human, Morag thought as she walked to the steps that led to the first tier of the Clan house. There was another courtyard there, this one splashed with flowers.
What would she do if the matriarchs of the Clan greeted her the same way, forgetting Clan courtesy because she had inconvenienced them during a meal?
Anger grew until it was powerful enough to sweep away anything in its path.
She took a step toward the door leading into the Clan house. A voice, filled with delight, stopped her from taking another.
“Morag! Well met, sister!”
“Morphia!” Morag dropped the saddlebags and rushed toward her sister. They hugged with less restraint than the Fae usually showed in public.
They stepped back at the same time. Morag looked at her sister, younger by two years. The same black hair and dark eyes, almost the same height. But Morphia’s face was softer, fuller, just as her body was rounder and more blatantly female.
She looks like who she is, Morag thought. The Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams. If I asked, would she grant me a gentle night’s sleep?
“Well met, Morphia,” Morag said.
Her eyes twinkling, Morphia wrinkled her nose. “You need a bath.”
“That isn’t all I need,” Morag said wearily.
The twinkle in Morphia’s eyes disappeared so fast it might never have been there. She glanced around. “Morag, you’re Fae and, therefore, welcome. But, lately, everyone who has visited here has brought nothing but tales of woe and trouble.”
“Then I’ll tell no tales since I have no better fare to offer. But then, I never do.”
“I do not envy you your gift, Morag,” Morphia said quietly. She took her sister’s hand. “Come. We’ll get you settled into a guest room—and into a bath. Then I’ll bring up some plates and we’ll have dinner. Cullan will have to do without me for an evening.” The twinkle was back in her eyes, somewhat muted but still present.