by Anne Bishop
“A few days ago.” Ari stared at the puppy cowering under the bench, then at Ahern as he crouched in front of the bench and held out his hand. No. He couldn’t be. “He’s afraid of the Fae.”
“Shows he has brains. Is he afraid of horses, too? He’ll smell them on me.”
“Not afraid, exactly. Neall’s gelding likes to sneak up on him and snort on his tail.”
Ahern chuckled. “That one. His sire was a dark horse.”
“A dark horse?”
For the first time she could remember, Ahern looked disconcerted.
“A dark horse is a breed unto itself. They have brains and courage . . . and they can be fiercely loyal.”
“Are those the special horses you breed? The ones you don’t sell?”
Ahern nodded slowly. “Special horses for a special kind of person. When the right person comes along, the horse goes with her.”
Merle crept forward enough to sniff Ahern’s hand. Apparently he liked what he smelled. When he started to jump up, Ahern swiftly put his hand on the pup’s head and pushed him to the ground. The pup cringed.
“Take care, little one,” he said as he rubbed Merle’s belly. “There’s no sense in bashing your brains out before you’re old enough to use them.”
Ahern stood up. Merle rolled over, shook himself, and bumbled off to explore the meadow.
“He’ll be a good animal when he grows into himself.”
“He’s already a good animal,” Ari said defensively.
Ahern smiled in approval. “Will you accept a going-away gift?”
“You don’t have to give us anything. Neall said you already offered the loan of a wagon.”
“Not a gift for both of you. Just you.”
“I—” What was she supposed to say to that? How was she supposed to interpret the look in his eyes?
“A horse,” Ahern said. “I know you didn’t want one before, and, considering some things that happened last year, I think I understand why.”
“I don’t know. I—”
“Neall was a small boy when he came to live here. He doesn’t remember how far away the nearest village is from your land. You’ll need a horse of your own, and I want to be sure you’ve got a good animal under you.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ari.” Catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he raised her head until she looked at him. “Let me do this for you. For my own sake.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging hard. “I’ll miss you.”
He patted her back awkwardly before stepping away.
“Ahern, do you think I’m doing the right thing?”
“Do you have doubts about the boy?”
Ari shook her head. “No. Not about Neall.”
“Then go with him and don’t look back.” He paused. “Your grandmother was hoping you’d go with him one day. She told me that.”
Ari wiped her eyes before the tears could spill over. She sniffed, dabbed her nose with her sleeve. “You know the hill Gran favored?”
“I know it.”
“Sometimes, when the ground is still soft after a rain, I’ve noticed there are hoofprints on the hill. I think that’s where your gray horse goes when he goes wandering.”
Ahern stared at the land for a long time. Then, in a voice she could barely hear, “I know he does.”
Merle dove under the bench, knocking over a basket of yarn.
“You must regret having him a dozen times a day,” Dianna said, walking over to the bench where Ari sat. She wasn’t surprised by the coolness in Ari’s eyes, but she was surprised to feel stung by it.
“I don’t regret having him.” Ari righted the basket and continued her task.
“What are you doing?”
“Sorting the yarn. I can’t take all of it with me, so I want to be sure I take what I need for the weavings I have in mind.”
“Take it?” Alarm made Dianna’s heart race. “Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving Brightwood.”
“You can’t!”
“I’m not chattel, Dianna. I’m not bound to the land.”
“But you can’t leave.” Dianna paced to the well, then back to the bench. “It’s because of that . . . that Neall, isn’t it?”
“Yes. We’re getting married.”
“That’s no reason for you to leave. Let the lout live here with you if you’re so determined to have him.”
Ari shot to her feet. “He’s not a lout, and what I do is none of your business.”
“Oh, but it is my business,” Dianna said sharply. “You don’t understand.” She took a deep breath, choked down her temper. “Ari, Tir Alainn is disappearing, piece by piece. We believe it’s because the witches are leaving the Old Places. In some way, your magic anchors the road through the Veil.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Dianna, but you’ll have to find someone else to anchor your road. I’m leaving.”
“How can you be so selfish?” Dianna shouted. “If you walk away from here, my home will cease to exist, my entire Clan will die. Will you have the deaths of that many people on your shoulders?”
“You can’t lay that on me,” Ari shouted back. “I have nothing to do with Tir Alainn or the Fae. I’m a witch. My family has kept this land for generations. Now it’s time for someone else to look after it. Let the Fae look after it.”
“I thought we were friends.”
Ari just stared at her. “How convenient that you decided to become friends at this particular time. Where were you before now? Where were you during all the years before now?”
“We didn’t know—”
“That’s right! You didn’t know! You didn’t know someone besides yourself might be important, might have wants, needs, dreams. I’m going to have my own life, and I’m going to have it with Neall.”
“Why would you want someone like him when you can have a man like Lucian?”
“Because I don’t want worthless trinkets! I want my daughter to have a father. I want to have a lover who will also be a partner.”
“Ari—”
“I looked in my family’s jewelry box today. And do you know what I saw, Dianna? Trinkets. Lots of trinkets. That’s all we’ve ever been worth to anyone. Well, I’m not going to settle for trinkets.”
“You can’t leave here.”
“You can’t stop me.”
Oh, yes, I can. Furious, but not knowing what else to do for the moment, Dianna walked away.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Adolfo carefully refolded the letter. Baron Prescott had gained the land and timber he’d craved easily enough. Too easily. The witch who had owned the land had been old and weak. He had barely taken her through the first level of cleansing torture before she broke and confessed to being the cause of all the village’s ills.
Because she had confessed so quickly, the baron had not been quite as grateful as he should have been. So this new plea for assistance was most welcome—for two reasons.
His courier had disappeared and all the silver coins that the man had been charged to deliver to the other Inquisitors had disappeared as well. Two of his men, riding to their next assigned village, had found the courier’s horse at a farm. The farmer swore that he’d been given the horse by a woman who wore a strange-looking black gown and rode a dark horse.
She had left the next morning, riding south.
He shivered at the memory. He couldn’t tell if it was fear or rage that made him react so, and that infuriated him.
So he would accept Baron Felston’s invitation, rid the baron’s virtuous people of the foul stench of the witch, and refill his own purse.
And on the journey to Ridgeley, he would think of some way to deal with the Gatherer and teach her the penalty for stealing from the Master Inquisitor.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The dark horse stopped walking, snorted in surprise. Morag snapped out of a light doze. Seeing no obvious reason for the horse’s reaction, she pushed her tangled hair aw
ay from her face and grimaced as she forced her body to straighten up in the saddle.
Something had been pushing her for the past two days, a feeling that if she didn’t keep moving, she would be too late. For what, she couldn’t say. But the feeling had been strong enough to keep her on the road, only stopping for a few hours each night to let the horses rest.
Those hours had held no rest for her. The same dream washed through her uneasy sleep, over and over again. She was standing as the Gatherer in front of someone. She couldn’t see who it was because mist surrounded both of them. She held out her hand—and kept hoping the other person wouldn’t take it. She didn’t want to gather this spirit, but that decision wasn’t hers. The person standing before her would make that choice. Then a hand slowly came out of the mist, reaching for hers . . . and she would wake up, shivering.
Driven out of sleep once again—and briefly wondering if Morphia was trying to send her a message through this dream—she had saddled the dark horse and continued the journey, traveling through the early hours of the morning. The sun was barely up now, and she had no idea where she was or how much farther she had to travel. She only knew she had to keep going until . . .
There was a cottage up ahead. She’d been looking at it without really seeing it. But all the horses’ attention was focused on that place, even the wounded mare.
She took a deep breath, breathed out slowly. A sweetness in the air. A richness.
She had come to an Old Place.
“Let’s see if there’s anyone home,” she said.
The dark horse pricked his ears and moved forward at a fast walk.
She turned him off the road before they reached a low-walled garden, going through the meadow to circle around to the back of the cottage.
A young woman stood at the well, warily watching her approach.
I should have used the glamour so she wouldn’t be afraid of being approached by one of the Fae. Since the woman had already seen her, Morag dismissed the thought. Besides, she wasn’t in the habit of hiding what she was.
“Blessings of the day to you,” the woman said.
“And to you,” Morag replied. So tired. So desperately tired. “Could you spare some water for the horses?”
“Yes, of course.” The woman turned to fill the buckets on the ground beside the well. She paused. “Who are you?”
Morag grunted softly as she dismounted. “I’m Morag.” Then she realized that wasn’t actually the question. “I’m the Gatherer.”
“Oh.” The woman filled the buckets, then set them a couple of paces away from the well. Two mares hurried forward to drink. “I’m Ari.”
No longer compelled to keep moving, Morag wanted nothing more than to lie down in the meadow and let the strength in the land flow into her weary body.
She no longer felt compelled to keep moving. She looked at the cottage, at the meadow, and, finally, at Ari. “You’re a witch.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ve—” —never met one of your kind alive. Morag shivered, clutched the saddle to stay on her feet.
Ari hurried over to her. “Why don’t you sit on the bench and rest.” She wrapped one arm around Morag’s waist and led her over to the bench. “Would you like some water?”
“Please.” Morag leaned back against the cottage wall and closed her eyes. Some time later—seconds, minutes, hours, she couldn’t tell—Ari said, “Here,” and pressed a mug into her hands. With her eyes still closed, Morag raised the cup to her lips and drank. There was strength in the water, strength in the air, strength in the land. Strength that was still vibrant. Mother’s mercy, it had been so long since she’d felt this.
After refilling the buckets for the next two horses, Ari stood in front of the bench, twisting interlocked fingers. “Will I have time to say goodbye to some people and find someone to take care of Merle?”
Morag opened her eyes and studied the woman in front of her. “I see no shadows in your face,” she said quietly. When Ari only looked puzzled, she added, “I didn’t come here to gather. I stopped to ask for water—and directions.”
Ari’s puzzlement took on a different quality. “I didn’t think the Gatherer would need directions in order to . . . gather.”
Morag smiled. “I have a guide for my work, and I hear the call quite well. When that’s not the reason I’m looking for someone, I depend on a map or directions just like anyone else.”
“Oh.” Ari returned the smile. When the sun stallion bugled a demand for water, she rolled her eyes. “I’m coming.” She hurried to refill the bucket for the sun stallion and the dark horse. Then her eyes lingered for a long time on the wounded mare. “What happened to her?” she asked when she returned to the bench.
“Nighthunters,” Morag replied wearily. “They devour life.”
Ari studied the mare a while longer. “Poor thing. Is there nothing that can be done for her?”
“I don’t know. That’s one of the things I want to find out once I find Ahern. And I have to find the Bard.”
“Well,” Ari said with a tartness that focused Morag’s drifting attention, “neither will be difficult to find. You can reach Ahern’s farm by crossing the road and going over the fields. And the road through the Veil is in the woods beyond the meadow.”
“How do you know the Bard will be there?” Morag asked slowly.
“I don’t know if he’s still there, but he came to Brightwood with some . . . friends . . . for the Solstice.”
“Brightwood? Yes, the name fits this place.”
Ari went back to the well and filled the buckets again. Looking at the wounded mare, she picked up the buckets and walked over to the privy house. The wounded mare followed, each step an effort.
Her own muscles protesting, Morag rose from the bench and also followed.
Ari set one bucket down for the mare to drink. She crouched, placed her right hand in the other bucket, and closed her eyes.
Morag tensed as she felt power gather and flow. She could almost see it shining through Ari’s skin.
“The cleansing heat of fire to burn out what is not welcome,” Ari said quietly. “The strength of earth to heal.” Rising, she picked up the bucket and poured some of the water over each of the mare’s wounds.
Morag wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but she felt a stab of disappointment when nothing happened. Ari, on the other hand, studied the wounds and nodded. Then she sighed. “That might help her enough until Ahern takes a look at her. Although I’m not sure there’s anything even he can do.”
Morag kept her eyes on the mare. You know the Bard but don’t recognize the Lord of the Horse? Yet you know him, too.
“May I leave the horses here while I go to Ahern’s?” Morag asked.
Ari hesitated. “You’re tired. Why don’t you rest for a while? I can walk over to Ahern’s and ask him to come over here to see the horses.”
Morag almost agreed, then decided against it. She wanted to talk to the Lord of the Horse on his own ground, where she wouldn’t have to worry about revealing who he was. She shook her head. “Rest would be welcome, but there’s no need for you to interrupt your own work.” She tipped her head toward the horses, who were now eagerly grazing in the meadow. The dark horse looked at her longingly, waiting to be free of saddle and bridle before joining the others. “Talking to Ahern can wait for a few hours.”
Ari picked up the buckets and smiled ruefully. “I do have plenty of work, especially since I have to decide what to pack and what needs to stay here.”
Alarm surged through Morag. “Pack? You’re leaving the Old Place?”
Ari’s friendly expression turned wary. “I’m getting married. Neall and I are going to live in the west.”
“But—”
Death whispered, I’m coming to this place.
Morag shivered and bit her tongue lightly to hold back the words. Death was coming to Brightwood. Not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But Death was coming.
“In that case,” she sai
d, “that’s all the more reason for you not to take time out of your day.” No matter what it means to the Clan who lives here, the sooner you’re gone, the better. Although even the west of Sylvalan won’t be far enough away if we don’t do something to stop the Black Coats.
She walked back to the well with Ari, who again refilled the buckets and left them for the horses.
“Would you like a bath?” Ari asked.
Morag groaned. “A bath. I could kill for a bath.” Seeing the way Ari’s eyes widened, she smiled. “I should phrase that differently, shouldn’t I?”
“Definitely.”
Morag laughed. “A bath would be most welcome. But let me get my horse settled first.”
After the dark horse was unsaddled and the gear stored in the cow shed, Ari led Morag into the cottage.
“Come in and be welcome,” Ari said.
Morag wasn’t sure how Ari managed to heat so much water so quickly, nor did she care. The bathing tub was big enough for her to sink down and soak her torso in the well-heated water as long as she kept her knees bent. When the water began to cool, she washed herself, then used the two pitchers of water Ari had left beside the tub to wash and rinse her hair.
She hadn’t been this clean since she and Morphia had fled down the road through the Veil. After drying off, she wrapped the towel around herself and grimaced at her clothes, not eager to put them back on.
A knock on the door was followed by Ari cautiously poking her head into the room. She held out some clothes. “These may not fit well, but they’re clean.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll fill a washtub, and you can let your clothes soak for a bit.”
Morag smiled. “There isn’t anything I own that I would want to put on a clean body right now.”
Ari returned the smile. “I have the same feeling after working in the garden all day.”
Morag dressed quickly, then followed her nose to the kitchen.
“Would you like some soup? Or would you like to sleep for a while?” Ari asked.
Morag’s stomach rumbled, answering the question.
Ari dished out two bowls of soup. Before she could take them to the table in the main room, Morag said, “May we eat outside? I’d like to keep an eye on the horses to make sure they’re settled.”