The Pillars of the World

by Anne Bishop

  “Cullan?” Morag grabbed her saddlebags as she and Morphia passed them. You’re home. This may not be your Clan house or your family, but you’re back in Tir Alainn. Drop the burden for a little while. With effort, she pushed away the uneasiness that wanted to settle its heavy weight on her shoulders and made her voice light and teasing. “So this visit has a purpose? Who is this Cullan?”

  “He’s a Lord of the Woods. Not the Hunter, although he’s finely built as stag or man.” Morphia’s voice was much too casual.

  You bait me, inviting me to laugh. May the Mother bless you, sister.

  “He visited our Clan a few months back, and I decided to repay the visit.”

  “That was kind of you. Or is he really that finely built?”

  “You may judge for yourself. Tomorrow. After you’ve had a bath.”

  Laughing, Morag followed Morphia into the Clan house.

  “Did you sleep well?” Morphia asked the next morning while they strolled through one of the gardens.

  Morag slanted a look at her sister. “You made sure I would.”

  Laughing, Morphia linked her arm with Morag’s. “It was the least I could do for my favorite sister.”

  “Your only sister.”

  “Which is why you’re my favorite.”

  Pleased with each other, they walked in silence for several minutes.

  “Your Cullan seems like a fine man.”

  “Yes, he is,” Morphia said, sounding a little troubled.

  Picking up on the change in mood, Morag continued, “He also seems out of place here, not quite part of his Clan.” She winced the moment the words were out. “I apologize. I had no right to speak of a man I met an hour ago.”

  “But you’re right. You usually are in your judgment of people.”

  “I don’t judge—”

  “You do.” Morphia looked straight ahead. “But it’s not really a judgment the way someone else might use the word. It’s just that you look into a person’s eyes, even when those are already clouded by death, and you can see who they are, what’s inside them. I’ve wondered if that’s why you tend to keep your distance from most people. I’ve wondered if, sometimes, you see too much.”

  Morag said nothing. What was there to say? Morphia was the Sleep Sister, and her gift was welcomed. But the Gatherer’s presence usually reminded people of mortality and an ending they didn’t want to greet in the present. Only those who were ready to journey to the Summerland welcomed her. And Morphia was right: sometimes she did see too much of what dwelled beneath the mask of flesh.

  “Cullan is thinking of coming with me when I return to my Clan.”

  “For an extended visit?” Morag asked, wondering if Morphia was thinking about having a child with this lover and wanted him to return with her for that reason.

  Morphia shook her head. “To stay. He’s a Lord of the Woods. He doesn’t feel he has a place here.” When Morag frowned, she huffed out a breath in frustration. “Tir Alainn is the Fair Land, beautiful and perfect. But we have no forests. Why don’t we have forests, Morag? Have you ever wondered?”

  “No, I’ve never wondered,” Morag replied softly. “Forests have shadows. Death and Life walk hand in hand there. Forests are beautiful, but they are not perfect. They’re too alive to be perfect.”

  “Everyone else in this Clan has all they need right here,” Morphia said, looking at the luxurious garden and the green, rolling land beyond it. “They can use their gifts among themselves or when they visit nearby Clans. They have no need to go through the Veil and touch the human world. But Cullan can’t use his gifts unless he walks in the Old Place, and every time he goes to the human world he feels less welcome when he returns.”

  Having a visitor who arrived by coming through the Veil didn’t please the Fae here either, Morag thought. Are they afraid I’ve been contaminated somehow from my contact with humans? That somehow I’m no longer truly Fae?

  “At least in our Clan, there are many of us who visit the human world and use our gifts as we can, so Cullan could spend time in the forests of the Old Place where our Clan’s shining road is anchored and not feel like an outcast when he returns to Tir Alainn.” Morphia smiled ruefully. “It seems we have been a bit too free in our mating with the western Clans of Sylvalan and we’re a bit sullied because of it.”

  Morag stared at her sister for too long. “I hope,” she finally said with deadly gentleness, “that no one will require the Gatherer’s help while I’m here.”

  “Oh, Morag, no,” Morphia said worriedly. “You take the words as a personal insult.”

  “Why shouldn’t I, since that’s how the words were meant?” Morag snapped. “What gives them the right to judge who among the Fae we mate with? If other Clans are considered inferior, who does this Clan mate with? Themselves?”

  “Let’s speak of something else,” Morphia pleaded. “Let’s not spoil the morning. Please.”

  They walked in silence again, but this time it was neither easy nor comfortable.

  “You’re different,” Morphia said quietly.

  “I’ve been Death’s Mistress too many times lately. Too many deaths. Too much pain. Too many unanswered questions. And here are these fools, with their razor smiles, sitting here passing judgment on who is or isn’t Fae by their exacting standards while Tir Alainn itself—”

  Morag stopped, squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. She took a slow breath to calm herself, to keep the uneasiness that swirled around her at bay. “Have you ever looked at a pond or a small lake when the water was perfectly still and seen the land reflected in the water? Sometimes the reflection is so clear and so perfect, you can’t see any difference between the reflection and what is being reflected. But there are other times when the reflection is slightly smudged. The lines are soft, a little hazy. Not so much that you would notice it unless you took the time to really look, but enough for you to know that what you’re seeing isn’t real.”

  “Is that how you see the human world?” Morphia asked, puzzled.

  “No,” Morag said, dread making her heart pound too hard, too fast. “That’s what I’m seeing now. Here.”

  Alarmed, Morphia looked around the garden. “You’re wrong, Morag,” she said after a minute. “It looks exactly as it is.”

  Morag shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. The edges are becoming smudged, hazy.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Morag said. “You’ve been here for a while now. You see what you expect to see. You don’t have any reason to look closely. Neither does anyone else who lives here. But it’s been some time since I’ve been in Tir Alainn, and I’ve never visited this Clan before, so I look with no expectations of what I should see.”

  “This is foolish talk,” Morphia snapped.

  “Is it? How many years has it been since anyone has heard from any of the Clans who had used the shining roads in Arktos and Wolfram? Now the roads to Sylvalan are closing too. What if this is the warning, Morphia? What if this is how it starts?”

  Morphia shook her head. “The matriarchs say it’s the Clans that mingle too much in the human world who have disappeared, that they brought something back with them that weakened the magic and that’s why the roads closed and they were cut off from the rest of Tir Alainn.” She huffed. “You’re tired, Morag. You’ve been too long in the human world. That’s why you’re talking this way.”

  Perhaps. But there’s a storm coming. I can feel it. Death is waiting. “Do you know where the Bard is residing now?”

  Still troubled, and a little angry, Morphia said warily, “I heard he’s staying with the Huntress’s Clan.”

  “That’s to the south, along the coast, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Morphia hesitated. “That’s also the Lightbringer’s Clan.”

  Even the Huntress and the Lightbringer wouldn’t dare dismiss the Gatherer. After all, the day will come when I’ll extend my hand to them.

  “You’re going there, aren’t you?” Morph
ia asked.

  “Yes, I’m going there. To talk to them and the Bard.”

  “You’re tired, Morag,” Morphia said quietly, worriedly. “Won’t you stay a few days more and rest?”

  A shiver of something she didn’t want to name brushed down Morag’s spine as a shadow fell across her sister’s face. It was a shadow she knew well. It wasn’t so dark that it was a certainty, but it was a warning that couldn’t be ignored.

  “Yes, I’ll stay a few more days.”

  Morphia squeezed her sister’s arm. “You’ll feel better after you’ve had some rest.”

  Nothing and no one could compel her to leave while she saw that shadow on Morphia’s face. Perhaps by being here she could prevent the warning from becoming a certainty. So she would stay. But she doubted she would find any rest.

  Morphia said, “If you’d like, we can find Cullan and talk to him. I think he’s listened to more of the travelers’ tales than the others did. He might be able to tell you something.”

  “Thank you,” Morag said. She would listen to whatever Cullan had to tell her, but she was becoming more and more certain that the answers the Fae needed most would not be found in Tir Alainn.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ari sat on the bench beside the kitchen door, her back resting against the cottage wall, a cup of tea cooling beside her. Birds fluttered a few feet away, snatching small pieces of bread she had tossed out to them, then flying back to their nests.

  She would have to bake today. The garden needed watering. The bed linens needed to be changed, and washing needed to be done. There was no wind this morning, no breeze coming up from the sea to soften the heat she could already feel against her skin. Best to get the chores done early. Especially today.

  She sat on the bench, drinking her tea and watching the birds.

  There would be no child. She hadn’t wanted one, had hoped she would be spared. Still, the intensity of her relief when she discovered her bleeding time had come had surprised her. Perhaps if her mother and grandmother were still alive, she would have welcomed a child by Lucian. He made her body weak with hunger for the pleasure she knew would come when he touched her, made it sizzle with need while he prepared her for the mounting. Wasn’t that how a woman should feel when she took a lover’s seed and transformed it into life? And where would a woman find a more splendid sire for her child than the Lightbringer?

  And yet, she was relieved his seed hadn’t taken root. Lucian was a wonderful lover, but . . .

  “When that fire doesn’t burn, it gives no warmth,” she told a bold sparrow that had fluttered up to the bench, looking for more bread. “The only time he spends with me outside of bed is when I put out something to eat. He’s polite. I’ll grant him that. He asked about the garden, about the weaving he’s seen on the looms, but he’s only listening enough not to be caught out. He’s not really interested in my life, and he never talks about his own. If there’s any truth to the stories, he lives in a Clan with other Fae. But he doesn’t mention them, either. The only part of his life he wants me to know about is the part I can wrap my hand around.”

  Ari sipped her tea. The sparrow, giving up, flew off to find its breakfast elsewhere.

  “He gives me trinkets instead of any part of himself. Expensive trinkets, but they don’t mean anything to him, which is why he gives them. Perhaps that’s all Fae males ever give females who aren’t of their kind. Or, perhaps, that’s all they’re capable of giving anyone.”

  Swallowing the rest of her tea, she got up to take care of the chores.

  As she worked throughout the morning, two thoughts chased each other: How did women tell men about the bleeding time . . . and would Lucian be willing to spend time with her, just to be with her, now that he couldn’t have the bed?

  Not one of my better times, Ari thought later that afternoon while she sat on the bench and brushed her hair, which was still damp from the cool bath she’d taken. Every chore had taken her twice as long as usual; the heat had sapped her energy until she wanted to weep from fatigue, and even the special herb tea she’d made hadn’t dulled the ache in her belly. On top of that, she had a fierce craving for meat, and dinner was going to be vegetable soup and bread. No, it wasn’t one of her better days.

  And here was Lucian riding out of the woods, and she still had no idea how women told a lover about private female things.

  Her heart beat a little quicker as he approached, but her body didn’t quicken in anticipation of being under him. Still, she made an effort to smile in order to cover her nerves and rose to meet him as he reined the horse in and quickly dismounted.

  “Is he a friend?” she asked, nodding toward the horse.

  Her question stopped him in mid-stride. “A friend?” he asked, puzzled. Then he looked at the horse and laughed. “No, he’s just a horse. He needed some exercise.”

  As he reached for her, she took a small step back. “Lucian—”

  “Later.”

  His arms were around her and he was kissing her in that deep, hungry way that usually made it impossible for her to think of anything but him. This time, his tongue felt cold and alien instead of pleasant, and the hands roaming over her body felt selfish and greedy instead of exciting.

  Gripping his arms, she pushed at him, breaking the kiss. “Lucian, stop.”

  “Why?” He pulled her against him, roughly.

  She turned her head to evade the next kiss. “No!”

  His hands clamped on her waist tightly enough to hurt her. “Why not?”

  What burned in his gray eyes was anger, not passion.

  “I can’t today.” For the first time since she’d met him, he reminded her of Royce—a man who was only interested in what he wanted.

  “Why not?” Lucian demanded.

  “I—” Feeling her face heat, Ari pressed her lips together. “I don’t know how to say this without being indelicate. I’ve never had to expla—”

  “Just say it,” he snapped.

  There was a dangerous, feral quality to his voice that made her afraid. Would he actually demand the use of her body even after she’d indicated she wasn’t willing? And if he did and then discovered . . .

  “It’s my bleeding time,” she blurted out.

  He went still. Then, releasing her, he stepped back.

  Hugging herself, Ari watched him, no longer trusting what he might do next.

  “I see,” Lucian said quietly, his voice betraying nothing of what he might be feeling.

  Stinging as much from the sudden absence of emotion as from his unexpected anger, Ari mumbled, “It started this morning.”

  “I see,” he said again.

  Was that disappointment she saw in his face? Maybe . . . “There’s vegetable soup and fresh bread. You’re welcome to stay if you’d like.”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “I thank you, but no. I don’t wish to intrude upon you at such a time.” He cleared his throat quietly. “I apologize if my behavior distressed you in any way.”

  “Lucian . . .” In two days it would be the dark of the moon. The promise she had made on the Summer Moon would have been fulfilled then anyway. What was she supposed to say to him? That she had enjoyed knowing him? That she hoped he would visit again sometime? One sounded dismissive, and the other sounded like an invitation for more than she intended. Would she have welcomed him again as a lover? An hour ago, she would have said yes. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  She flinched when she saw him reach into his pocket. Another trinket. A Fae custom and obligation once again fulfilled. Well, she hadn’t earned this one, had she?

  When he lifted his hand from his pocket, it was empty. Resting his palm against her cheek, he leaned forward and gently kissed her. There was no emotion in that, either.

  “Be well, Ari,” he said softly.

  “The Mother’s blessings be with you, Lucian.”

  Turning away, he mounted the horse and galloped across the meadow, never looking back as he disappeared into the woods.

>   She went to her room and stared at her bed. Done then. He had come for the carnal pleasure she had been obliged to give him, and he had found nothing more to interest him.

  He’s a Fae Lord. What else is there here that would interest him? But it doesn’t seem fair that he can leave without a backward glance, and yet he managed to tug on my heart enough to leave it bruised. I care about him. He never shared anything with me except his body, but there was something about him that made me care. It isn’t fair.

  Stretching out on her bed, on clean linens that carried no scent of him, she began to cry.

  Leaning against the stone wall, Lucian looked up at the canopy of leaves that spread above his favorite, private place in the Clan gardens.

  It was over, and he hadn’t been ready to see it end. In two days, the promised time would have ended, but he’d thought he’d have these last two days to be with her, to sink into pleasure with her. He thought he’d have that time to delicately persuade her to continue being his lover—despite what Aiden had told him that morning.

  And then he’d spoiled all of it by not paying attention to her mood. No, that wasn’t true. He’d known there was something on her mind. He’d seen it in her face. He hadn’t wanted to hear it, and hoped that whatever it was would go away if he could cloud her mind with sex. He’d misjudged, badly.

  Fae women cloistered during the bleeding time, preferring rest and quiet and privacy in order to tend to things that were not a man’s business. Fae men respected that desire for privacy and stepped back so as not to intrude. That was the way it was done, so he had done the proper thing by retreating.

  But she had invited him to stay—and he almost had. He had no idea if she truly would have welcomed his company or if the invitation had been made out of an obligation to give him time and his presence would have made her uncomfortable. That, as well as custom, was what made him leave.

  He didn’t know her customs. It hadn’t seemed important to ask about them. But that was when he’d thought she was a human female who was just a little more appealing than most of her kind. That was before Aiden told him this morning about the symbol the wiccanfae wore.