The Pillars of the World

by Anne Bishop

  Cullan looked around. “Is . . . this all of us? All that is left?”

  “This is all who came through the Veil,” Morag said, slowly getting to her feet. She gripped the dark horse’s saddle for support.

  “Why did this happen?” Cullan said. “Why was this done to us?”

  “I don’t know,” Morag replied. “But the answer is here.” This road had ended in a glade. She scanned the surrounding trees, drawing on her diminished power to find another spark of magic. She found one in a tree set a little apart from the others. “I think there’s a dryad living in that tree. She might know something.”

  Near the trees was a mound of barren earth. The ghosts of a woman and a newborn babe sat on the mound, watching them sadly.

  Cold filled Morag as she stared at the grave. She wasn’t sure she wanted her questions answered, but she walked toward the tree, keeping her hand on the saddle for balance. The other Fae followed behind her.

  “I am the Gatherer,” she said when she reached the tree. “I wish to speak to you. Please.”

  Nothing stirred.

  Cullan stepped forward and said in a commanding voice, “I am a Lord of the Woods. You will attend and speak.”

  Silence.

  Then the dryad appeared from behind the tree. There was hatred in her smile.

  “The Lord commands us to attend and speak,” she said. “How grateful we are that the Lord notices us at all.”

  Cullan pointed toward where the road had been. “The road between the Veil has closed. Do you know why?”

  “I know why,” the dryad taunted. “All the Small Folk know why. Don’t the powerful Fae know why?”

  “You will remember to whom you speak and answer respectfully the questions put to you,” Cullan said.

  “Take care, Lordling,” the dryad said. “I’ve killed one man, I can kill another.” Before anyone could respond, she continued, “Why should we tell you anything? You never listen to us. They were the only ones who listened. They cared for someone and something besides themselves. And now they’re gone.” The dryad took a step back. “That’s your answer, Lordling. We have nothing more to say to you.”

  “Then talk to me,” Morag said quietly. “Tell me what happened to the witches.” She heard Morphia’s quiet gasp, and several Fae muttering.

  The dryad studied her. “You’re not from this Clan.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Are you truly the Gatherer?”

  “I am the Gatherer.”

  The dryad hesitated. “If I answer your questions, will you promise to show them the way to the Summerland?”

  “No.” Morag watched hatred flood back into the dryad’s eyes. “I will not use souls as markers on the bargaining table. I will guide them to the Shadowed Veil whether you speak to me or not. But I’ve guided too many witches lately, and I want to know why.”

  The dryad bowed her head. When she raised it, tears filled her eyes. “The Black Coats came. The . . . Inquisitors. They’re witch killers. That’s all they do. Warnings were whispered on the wind, and we all told the witches they should flee. And they were going to, but—” She looked at the grave. “Her time came early. They had to wait for the birthing. The other two, the Crone and the Elder, wouldn’t leave her. The Black Coats came with other men while she labored in the childbed.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “They burned the Elder. They dragged her from the childbed and buried her alive, with her legs tied together. We could hear her screaming, but there was nothing the Small Folk could do to help her. Not against so many humans.”

  “And the Crone?” Morag asked softly. “What did they do to her?”

  “They—” The dryad pressed her lips together and shook her head. After a long pause, she said, “We couldn’t save the witches, but we made sure those Black Coats will never harm another.” She looked up. “One of them stood under my tree after they buried the witch. I asked the tree for a sacrifice, and it gave it willingly. See where the branch had been? It was big . . . and heavy. The tree sacrificed the branch so fast he didn’t even have time to look up before it fell and crushed his head.”

  “And the other one?” Morag asked.

  The dryad smiled. “Streams are dangerous. It’s so easy to slip and hit your head on a stone and drown. Especially when a stone leaves the sling with enough force to stun and the water sprites hold you under the water. They’re quite strong for their size.”

  “While we sympathize with you for the loss of your friends,” Morphia said, “what does that have to do with the road closing?”

  Morag ground her teeth and wished Morphia had held her tongue. These Small Folk had no liking for the Fae.

  The hate-filled smile was back. “Everything,” the dryad said. A chittering sound in a nearby dead tree caught her attention. “The Black Coats have some magic, too. They have the power to create those.”

  Something black spread its wings and flew toward them.

  Morag shuddered with revulsion. It looked like a nightmarish cross between a squirrel and a bat. When it opened its mouth, she saw needle-sharp teeth.

  The dryad raised her hand, made a hissing sound.

  The creature screeched and returned to its tree.

  “What is that?” Morphia said.

  “We call them nighthunters,” the dryad replied, watching the dead tree. “That tree was alive not so many days ago. But the nighthunters suck life out of things. And they devour souls.” She looked at Morag and smiled. “It must be painful, having your soul torn into pieces and chewed. The Black Coat’s ghost remained near my tree—and they found it. We heard him scream, too.”

  “Can they be destroyed?” Morag asked.

  “They can die like anything else.”

  Hearing the message—that Fae could die as well—Morag thought it best to go back to something the dryad didn’t hate. “So the witches know the key to using the power in the land, the power that anchors the roads to this world.”

  “The witches are the key.” The dryad looked thoughtful. “The Fae can anchor the roads, too,” she added grudgingly, “but it takes so many of you to do what one of them can do. You may be the Mother’s Children, but they are the Daughters.” She looked uneasy, as if she’d said too much. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” She pressed her hand against the tree and disappeared.

  “That didn’t tell us much,” Cullan said.

  “Didn’t it?” Morag replied softly. “There are riddles within riddles here, but one thing is clear: The roads are closing because the witches are being killed.”

  “You only have the dryad’s word for that,” Cullan said.

  Morphia gave Cullan a troubled look. She turned and hugged Morag, then whispered in her sister’s ear, “I know he didn’t stay because of me, even though I wished it for a moment. I also know who did stay in order to find me.” She stepped back. “What do we do?”

  “You’re going to take these children to our Clan. Find the nearest road that looks safe and travel through Tir Alainn. Don’t linger with any of the nearby Clans. If these Inquisitors are moving from place to place, there may be other roads closing soon. But warn those Clans about the fog. If they see it, they should go down the road as quickly as they can. And if there are witches still living in the Old Place that anchors their road, they should do what they can to protect them.”

  Morphia looked at her. They both knew the Fae might heed the warning about the fog, especially coming from someone who had seen it, but they wouldn’t spend time in the human world protecting the witches. Not until someone like the Huntress or the Lightbringer commanded them to.

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to take the witches to the Shadowed Veil so that they can go on to the Summerland. Then I’m going to find the Bard to see what he can make of these riddles.”

  “I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”

  Morag didn’t ask Morphia if Cullan would be traveling with her. A sister didn’t ask such things—espec
ially when she was fairly sure of the answer.

  Morag watched them sort out riders and horses. So few of them. She didn’t know if the others were dead or lost in the fog, living but trapped. If they still lived, how long could they survive that way?

  When they rode away from the glade, the sun stallion and a handful of mares were still there, grazing. She saw Morphia look back once, but none of the others did.

  “Are you thirsty?” a quiet voice asked. The dryad’s head appeared out of the trunk of her tree. “There’s a stream nearby, and the water is clean.”

  “Yes, I am. Thank you.”

  The dryad stepped out of her tree. “I’ll show you.”

  Morag glanced at the dead tree nearby. “Can you leave your tree unprotected?”

  “For a little while.”

  The dryad headed into the woods. Morag and the dark horse followed.

  When they reached the stream, she let the dark horse drink its fill before she knelt and drank. She sat back on her heels. “What will happen to the Old Place now that the witches are gone?”

  The dryad smiled sadly. “The same thing that has happened in the other Old Places. The Small Folk aren’t strong enough to hold it, so the magic will die.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Hello, Ari,” Lucian said. It was barely midmorning, and she already looked sweaty and bedraggled. He liked seeing her that way when they were through with each other in bed, but it was less appealing when it was caused by work.

  “Blessings of the day to you, Lucian,” Ari replied, stepping out of the cow shed. She set two empty buckets beside it, a gesture that clearly indicated she was putting aside necessary work to entertain a guest.

  There was uncertainty in her eyes, and a little wariness, but not the warm welcome he had hoped for, even expected.

  “What brings you here?” Ari asked.

  “I came to see you.” When she seemed more troubled than pleased, he added with a suggestive smile, “I thought we might go for a ride.”

  She blushed, and he wondered if she was remembering the night she had ridden him as a stallion or one of the nights she had ridden him as a man. He’d been thinking of his other form and how one kind of ride could lead to another. He’d told himself he would act with restraint, but now that he was with her again, that wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought.

  “Did you send the Fae Lord?” Ari asked abruptly.

  His eyebrows rose. “The Fae Lord?”

  “The hawk who brought the rabbit.”

  He gave himself the pleasure of considering what fire could do to wings, but he decided he’d let Falco try to explain before reacting. It couldn’t have been anyone else from the Clan. Not in that form. But it did no harm to let her think he’d had a part in it, so he shrugged, and said negligently, “It was nothing.” Especially since he hadn’t known about it. Then he thought of a reason for her wariness and the less-than-enthusiastic welcome. “Did he upset you?”

  “He startled me a little, but the rabbit was most welcome.” Ari smiled, humor lighting her eyes. “Especially since Merle doesn’t eat vegetables.”

  “Merle.” Jealousy burned in him along with lust.

  Ari gestured toward the empty bench behind the cottage.

  Wondering what game she played, it took him a moment to notice the puppy sleeping under the bench—not because the puppy was hidden but because it looked so at home his eyes had passed over it, as if it was something that had always been there. He’d seen that mongrel pup in Tir Alainn only a few days before and knew without a doubt how it had ended up with Ari. What he didn’t know was why.

  Falco he could deal with easily. He would have to take more care when confronting his sister. But both those discussions could wait.

  Stepping up to Ari, he cupped her face in his hands, and bent to kiss her. “I’ve missed you.” He’d intended it to be a friendly kiss, but hunger snuck in, and the kiss turned possessive, demanding, and hot. He felt her weaken and yield.

  Then she pulled away, stumbling as she backed away from him.

  “No,” she said.

  “Why not?” he demanded, the heat in his loins sparking his temper. “You want me. You can’t deny that. And I want you. So why should we turn away from the pleasure we can give each other?”

  She didn’t argue, and she didn’t yield. She just watched him too closely.

  Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Men get angry when they’re denied.” Before he could add that it was bluster edged by frustration and was nothing more than another form of persuasion, Ari said, “The Fae also get angry when they’re denied. When the man is Fae, does it become twice as dangerous to refuse him?”

  He shifted, ready to take a step toward her.

  She tensed, prepared to flee.

  That shocked him enough to make him step back and regain some control—and to remember that she had little experience in the games between men and women. “If you’re going to refuse me, at least tell me why.”

  “It’s not the same now, Lucian, and I—”

  “You didn’t welcome me to your bed only out of obligation,” he snapped. “You enjoyed what we did there are much as I did.”

  “I don’t deny that, but there are other things that have to be considered.”

  “What things?” Then he knew. “You mean there’s someone else who has to be considered. Who is he?”

  She shook her head. “The point is, it wouldn’t be right for me to dally with you while he’s waiting for my answer.”

  Dally. Dally. It was one thing for him to consider this nothing more than a dalliance. It didn’t sit well for her to call it so—especially when there was a rival waiting to take his place.

  “You’re considering having an affair with him?”

  “I’m considering marrying him.”

  If she’d struck him, it wouldn’t have stunned him more. “You’d actually give yourself to one of these . . . humans . . . instead of being with me?” It wouldn’t do. It simply wouldn’t do. “Ari, think about what you’re doing, think about what you’re turning away from.” When she didn’t seem convinced, he added, “I care about you,” knowing it was the sharpest weapon that could be used against a woman’s heart.

  “I—I care about you, too, Lucian, but . . .” She looked troubled, torn. “I need to work.” She hurried to the front of the cottage, disappeared around the corner.

  Lucian walked over to the well and leaned against it.

  When he’d come down the road through the Veil a short while ago, it had been with the intention of persuading Ari to continue a pleasant affair for a while longer. Now that he knew another man wanted to claim her in a way that would take her completely out of his life, he wanted more.

  But how much more? Not marriage. The Fae didn’t have such chains between men and women. There were some who remained with the same partners for years, but they never promised not to accept pleasure if it was offered elsewhere. Why should they?

  He had to think carefully about what he wanted—and what he was willing to offer. Right now, though, he had to overcome any reluctance she might have about him.

  He went to find Ari. Just as he reached the corner of the cottage, he heard Ari talking to someone. He stopped, staying out of sight.

  “You must know something to deal with this,” a woman said, her voice rising sharply.

  “I’m sorry, Odella,” Ari said, “but I know of no spell or potion that would help you.”

  “You must,” the woman insisted. “Your kind know about these things.”

  “There may be witches who know how to do that kind of cleansing, but I don’t.” Ari hesitated. “Perhaps Granny Gwynn would know something?”

  “That one.” The woman sounded furious—and frightened. “Bonnie got a draught from her to take care of things and she’s still in a sickbed. There’s even talk that she might end up barren because of it. That’s not going to happen to me. Because you’re going to help me.”

 
; “I can’t.” Ari sounded frustrated. “There is nothing I know that would help you with this. Besides,” she added quickly, “you may only be a bit late.”

  “I’m never late.” A pause. Then the voice turned ugly. “You’d find a cure fast enough if you were facing this.”

  Spurred by the ugliness in the woman’s voice, Lucian swung around the corner. The woman had her whip raised, ready to lash Ari.

  Seeing the movement, the woman glanced over at him. Her eyes widened. Her mouth fell open. She lowered the whip and stared at him.

  He’d forgotten the glamour. He hadn’t bothered with the magic that would create a human mask since the first night he’d come to the cottage. Ari knew who, and what, he was, so there was no reason to pretend he was human.

  The woman recovered quickly enough from the shock, gave him a simpering smile that repulsed him, and said, “Good morning to you, Lord.”

  “Mistress,” he replied curtly.

  He noticed the alarm in Ari’s eyes as she realized her guest was seeing one of the Fae. He would do whatever was necessary to placate her once this . . . creature . . . was gone. And he wanted her gone. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that offended him so much, but he did find her presence offensive.

  The woman gave Ari a razor smile. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Ari?”

  “No, she is not,” Lucian said before Ari could make any reply.

  Embarrassment and a seed of hate filled the woman’s face. She slashed a look at Ari. “You’ll regret this.” Wheeling her horse around, she galloped off down the road.

  Lucian strode over to where Ari stood, watching the road. Grabbing her arms, he turned her to face him—and immediately gentled his touch.

  She was worried . . . and frightened.

  “Who is she?” Lucian asked. “What did she want?”

  “It’s private business between women,” Ari said, trying to step back.

  Her words almost made him yield, but since it wasn’t Ari’s private business, courtesy crumbled under concern. “What did she want?” he repeated.