by Anne Bishop
“Tomorrow?” Ari’s mouth fell open. “We can’t possibly leave tomorrow. There are all the things to pack—”
“You need to get as far away from here as fast as you can,” Ahern said bluntly. “The two of you can travel fastest on horseback, so that’s the way you’ll go. You can make a list of what you want from the cottage. Neall can tell me where to find you. I’ll see that a wagon is packed, and I’ll have a couple of my men bring it to your new place.”
“But—” Ari stammered. “But there’s the harvest—”
“May the Mother blight the harvest,” Morag said fiercely.
Neall felt the shock run through Ari that anyone would say anything that . . . obscene.
“The men who created the creatures that harmed that mare may be coming here soon,” Morag said. “You have to be gone before they arrive.”
Ari stared at Morag. “If they’re coming to harm Brightwood, then I should stay to protect the land.”
“They aren’t coming here for the land. They’re coming to kill you. Just like they’ve killed the others who are like you.”
Ari paled, and Neall wondered what Morag had told her. It didn’t matter. Morag had just said enough to convince him not to delay.
“Ari—”
Ari shook her head.
Mother’s mercy, Neall thought. This was no time for her to get stubborn.
“Your grandmother wants you to go,” Morag said.
Ari’s knees gave out so suddenly Neall grabbed her to keep her from falling.
“But—But you said she was gone,” Ari whispered.
“I lied. She didn’t want me to tell you she was still here.”
“My . . . mother?”
“She has gone on to the Summerland.” Morag gentled her voice. “Your grandmother wanted to wait until you and Neall left Brightwood. She wanted you to go, Ari. She still wants you to go. And . . . the Inquisitors aren’t the only reason you should leave Brightwood as soon as you can.” She flicked a glance at Neall.
Ari stiffened as if she were braced to fight—or defend. Then she sagged again, and asked hesitantly, “What about Merle?”
“The pup can stay with me for a few weeks,” Ahern said impatiently. “He’ll come along with the wagon—and the harvest.”
“Ari . . .” Morag took a step toward them, her eyes so full of emotion Neall had to look away. “Ari, please go. Death is coming. I want you gone before it arrives.”
Ari closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were filled with bleak resignation.
Neall’s heart ached for her. This wasn’t the way she wanted to leave Brightwood. This wasn’t the way he wanted her to leave. “Ari . . .”
Her hand closed over his arm, held on tight. “I need tomorrow to take care of things. Then, if Ahern doesn’t mind, I could stay there tomorrow night and we could leave first thing in the morning the day after.”
Looking at Morag and Ahern, Neall held his breath. Ahern appeared to be doing the same thing, his attention focused on the black-haired woman beside him. She seemed to be listening to something only she could hear.
“All right,” Morag finally said. “The day after tomorrow should be soon enough.”
Chapter Thirty
Ari looked doubtfully at the pile of clothing on her bed, then at the saddlebags Morag had given her. “I’ve never been anywhere before. Except to Seahaven once, but I was only gone for a couple of days. How can I know what I’ll need?”
Morag picked up the comb, brush, and handmirror from the dressing table and brought them over to the bed. After wrapping a camisole around the mirror, she put it in the still-empty saddlebags. “You pack clothing, since that’s what you’ll need immediately, toiletries—and whatever you use for personal needs.”
Ari puzzled over that last part until Morag added pointedly, “a woman’s needs.” She dashed to the bathing room, opened the small chest that held those supplies, then hesitated.
“You’re going to be living with the man,” she told herself sternly. “And it’s not like he doesn’t already know what these cloths are for.” Still, she felt her cheeks heat as she took some of the rolled cloths. Well, she would just have to get used to it. But looking at the cloths reminded her of something else.
Dashing for the kitchen, she took out the jar of herbs she used during her fertile days. That reminded her to take the “recipe” book that contained the notes for the various simples and teas that she and the other witches in her family had made. Of course, she couldn’t be certain she would find the same plants in the western part of Sylvalan, but these were things she couldn’t leave behind. And the small jar of healing ointment would be handy to have as well.
By the time she got back to the bedroom, Morag had one saddlebag filled to bulging.
“Give me those,” Morag said. Unfolding the tunic, she had just folded, she wrapped the jars and book.
Ari jammed the rolled cloths in the bottom of the second saddlebag. The jars and book went in next. While Ari folded another tunic and a pair of trousers, Morag opened the dressing table drawers. She pulled out the jewelry box.
“You’ll want to take this.”
Ari shook her head. “They’re just trinkets.” If Lucian had truly cared, would she be leaving Brightwood today?
Yes, I would. He just made it easier for me to decide. Lucian was like a powerful storm, intense and overwhelming, impressive in its moment. But Neall is soft rain, the kind of quiet rain that sinks deep into the earth. Storms may be exciting for a while, but it’s the soft rain that I love and want to embrace for a lifetime.
Morag opened the jewelry box. “These may be trinkets in one respect, but they do have value. Keep a couple of pieces for sentimental reasons and sell the rest.” She held up one piece. “A pin like this will buy you the best room at an inn, a good meal, stabling and feed for the horses, and a hot bath. After a few days on the road, you’ll welcome all of those things.”
“Why should I feel sentimental about any of those things?” Ari said a little defiantly. She was surprised to see Morag wince.
“I was thinking of your mother and grandmother,” Morag said gently. “If they had a favorite piece or two, you might want to keep those.”
“Oh. Yes, there are a couple of pieces like that.”
Bringing the jewelry box over to the bed, Morag wrapped it in a wool vest, then worked it into the saddlebag, shoving it down the side as far as she could. She fastened the buckles on the saddlebags and stepped back. “That’s it, then.” She brushed her hair back from her face. “What are you going to do now?”
Ari blinked back tears. Leaving Brightwood would have been easier if they’d been able to wait until the harvest. It would have been easier if she could have packed her own things, spent a little time picking and choosing the yarns and the looms she wanted to take with her, the bedding, the pots and pans, her collection of drawings that she used to inspire the weaving. It felt too much like she was being torn away instead of leaving on her own. But she understood why the cottage had to be empty when these Inquisitor men arrived in Ridgeley. If they were going to arrive at all.
Let it go. Don’t look back. Someone else will feel the way the land here sings and will call it home. Maybe they’ll need all the things you leave behind. Maybe they’ll stay, and another family will write about Brightwood in their journals.
Ari gasped. The journals. She couldn’t leave them here in an empty cottage.
“Ari?” Morag asked sharply. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh.” Wanting to ease the concern in Morag’s eyes, Ari made an effort to smile. “I just remembered something else. When I take the sun stallion and the mares over to Ahern’s, I want to ask him if he would bring the journals over to his house. I don’t want them left here.”
Morag frowned. “Journals?”
“My family’s history. Brightwood’s history, really.”
Morag nodded. “What are you going to do now?”
“Finish making the list of
things I’d like to take in the wagon so I can bring that to Ahern too.” Ari made a face. “In case I have to explain what any of the things are. I doubt Ahern has paid much attention to anything that deals with spinning and weaving.”
Morag smiled. “I’d guess that if a horse doesn’t need it or can’t do it, he hasn’t paid any attention to it. So you might want to draw rough sketches of things while you finish that list. It’ll save you both frustration.”
Ari laughed. “That’s a good thought.” She paused, and asked shyly, “What are you going to do now?”
Some subtle shift of expression altered Morag’s face, making Ari shiver. This was not the Gatherer who would gently release a spirit from a suffering, dying body. This was the face Ari imagined men would see when Morag rode for vengeance.
“I have to go to Tir Alainn for a little while.”
Adolfo finished his cup of tea and dabbed his lips with a napkin that had Felston’s family crest embroidered in one corner. He looked at the teapot, as if debating having another cup. In truth, he was simply enjoying the way Baron Felston squirmed with impatience—a captive host chained to his own breakfast table by a show of good manners.
And he also wanted a little more time to consider what he’d been told yesterday.
Felston’s daughter, Odella, had needed no persuasion to spew her story about the witch who had stolen the Fae lover who had gotten her with child. He didn’t believe for one moment that a Fae Lord had pleasured himself with a girl as repulsive as Odella. Oh, she was pretty enough, but the moment she opened her mouth, any man with sense would have realized the pretty face and comely body weren’t worth enduring the girl herself.
But the story about the Fae Lord had been a sharp reminder that the Fae were in evidence around here. If one of them had been enjoying himself with the witch, he might cause some trouble. If he found out what happened to her. But it would be simple enough to focus his attention elsewhere.
Out of the corner of his eye, Adolfo studied Royce, the baron’s son. A thwarted lover, perhaps? Whatever the reason for Royce’s sullen anger, the young man could be easily persuaded to create a diversion while the witch was brought back to the baron’s estate to be dealt with. Not that he would explain it that way to Royce.
“You say this man, Ahern, takes an interest in the witch?” Adolfo asked.
“He tends to know what’s happening at Brightwood,” Felston replied sourly.
Adolfo pushed his chair back and rose. “In that case, I think it would be wise to take a look at this man and determine how much trouble he might be.”
“And how are you planning to do that?”
Adolfo smiled gently. “I’m going to buy a horse.”
Dianna looked at Morag expectantly. “It’s done?”
“No,” Morag said quietly. “Nor will it be done. Neall is a young man with a full life ahead of him. I will not gather his spirit before his time.”
Anger rushed through Dianna, swelling until it filled her. “Ari has to stay. He has to be eliminated. For the good of Tir Alainn—and for the good of the Fae.”
“The Fae can hold the shining road through the Veil.”
“We’ve never tried. You don’t know that for sure.” Dianna paced, turned back to face Morag. “Even if we can, how many of us will it take? How many would have to stay in the . . . human . . . world, sacrificing themselves?”
“You won’t give anything but you’re willing to sacrifice two young people’s lives?”
“They’re not Fae! Besides, we wouldn’t be sacrificing Ari. We’ll take care of her.”
Morag stared at her until Dianna had to resist the urge to squirm.
“As what?” Morag asked softly. “A favorite pet? Someone whose life is contained so that it fits what we want? Is that what it comes down to, Dianna? We are the Fae, and the humans, the witches, the Small Folk, the world are there for our amusement and our pleasure?”
“We are the Fae,” Dianna insisted. “We are the Mother’s Children.”
She wasn’t sure what to think when Morag suddenly shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.
“Where is your loyalty, Morag?”
Oh, the change in that face, in those eyes.
“That is not a question you should ask me, Huntress,” Morag said.
“He has to be eliminated.”
“The Fae can hold the roads.”
“How many of us?” Dianna demanded. “Do you know?”
“No, I don’t. So you would be wise to pack food and whatever else you value the most and bring it down to the human world. You would be wise to have the Clan come down to Brightwood in case the road does close. Then the Clan will be safe, and you’ll have time to find out how many are needed.”
“And if you’re wrong and it doesn’t work, we lose this part of Tir Alainn.”
“But not the Clan. Not your family.”
“It’s not your Clan who’s being forced out of their home,” Dianna said bitterly. “It’s not your family who is at risk.”
“Even if this was my Clan, my answer would be the same.”
“That’s so easy to say when it isn’t.”
Dianna clenched her fists, seething with frustration. For Morag to ignore the needs of the Fae because of one insignificant human . . .
“I command you to gather this . . . Neall’s . . . spirit.”
“I refuse.”
Dianna pounded her fist on the table. “You forget who I am.”
Morag’s eyes flashed. “And you forget who I am. I don’t just gather human spirits, Dianna.”
Dianna’s breath whooshed out of her. “Y-you’re threatening me, the Lady of the Moon, in order to spare a human?”
Morag’s smile was sharp and mocking. “Would you accept it easier if I was warning you in order to spare another of the Fae?”
“We’re not talking about another of the Fae. We are the Mother’s Children. We have no equals.”
Morag’s smile faded. “That’s what we’ve chosen to believe. I wonder if it’s true.” She walked out of the room.
Dianna stumbled over to a bench, sank down on it.
Morag couldn’t be trusted. That much was clear. Which meant there was only one thing to do if they were going to save their piece of Tir Alainn.
Dianna stood up, waited a moment to be sure her shaking legs would support her, then went to find Lucian.
“Morag!” a tired voice called. “Well met, sister.”
Morag slipped her foot out of the stirrup and turned toward the voice.
Looking unbearably weary, Morphia rode up to her.
Morag knew her smile didn’t reflect the warmth in her heart. There was still too much anger stirring from her meeting with Dianna. And something else that was just out of reach but kept sending a shiver through her.
So she did the only thing she could think of. She opened her arms in welcome.
“You’re tired,” Morag said, hugging her sister.
“In body and heart,” Morphia replied, returning the hug before stepping back.
“The Bard has heard the warning you sent,” Morag said, wanting to offer some comfort. “He’ll make sure the bards carry the message to all the Clans.”
Morphia looked at her sadly. “Yes, the bards I met listened and promised to send on the warning. A few of the Clans I talked to are angry about what is happening in the human world and intend to make themselves known to the witches who live in the Old Places so that they can be present and keep watch for these Inquisitors. But more of the Clans are blaming the witches for fleeing the Old Places and causing the roads to close before there’s any danger.” She sighed. “Were we always such fools, Morag? You don’t need to answer. I already know. I’ve had to learn in these past weeks what you’ve known for so long because of who you are. Sometimes I used to send sleep and gentle dreams to someone in the human world who was troubled or hurting in order to give them rest from the pain. But just as often I would snatch sleep from someone simply because I
could. I never thought about how that person would feel after a restless night or what difference it would make the next day. I used my gift to indulge my whims. I feel ashamed of that now. We are the Mother’s Children. The children. I think, perhaps, we were aptly named.”
“Perhaps,” Morag agreed. “But now that you see things differently, you can choose to act differently.” She gave Morphia’s arm a comforting squeeze. “Have you just ridden in? You should make your duty call to the matriarchs of the Clan and then get some rest.”
“What are you going to do?”
Morag mounted the dark horse. “I’m going back to Brightwood to keep watch—and to do what I can to protect.”
“Neall,” Ahern said quietly. “We’re about to have company. Get out of sight. And take the mare and gelding with you.”
Glancing over toward the lane that led to Ahern’s farm, Neall spotted the riders. He didn’t recognize most of them—or the horses they rode—but he recognized Royce and Baron Felston. Quickly turning his back and hoping Royce especially didn’t spot him, he murmured, “Come on,” to Darcy while he led the dark mare to the stables.
When they got inside, the mare calmly walked to her stall and went in. Darcy, however, immediately turned, crowding up against Neall.
“Step back,” Neall hissed as he shut the stables door, leaving just enough of an opening to peer through. “And keep quiet. We don’t want Ahern to have trouble with the baron. Especially now.”
Darcy snorted but stopped shoving against him.
Neall watched the riders approach. Some were obviously guards. They carried themselves like men who had been trained to fight. Two younger men wore black coats. But it was the older man riding beside Felston who made Neall’s belly twist. A lean-faced, balding, strong-bodied man whose dark-gray clothing made him look severe.
No, Neall decided. It wasn’t just the clothes that made the man look severe. It was the face, the way he carried himself. Just seeing him made Neall shiver.