The Pillars of the World

by Anne Bishop

  Take care, Ahern. Whoever he is, take care.

  Adolfo gave the farm a casual, sweeping look before he dismounted. The place stank of magic so strong it almost overwhelmed his ability to sense the men who now gathered to meet his group of riders. All the men working here were Fae—or at least had some Fae or witch blood in them. He knew the feel of those kind of men well, had trained himself to sense them. It was what he looked for in his apprentice Inquisitors. Magic had to be fought with magic, and those who had been forsaken were always the keenest to even the scales.

  But having so many here who had the potential for magic meant the older man who stood waiting for them knew what they were and had let them stay. Which meant he was probably just like them, probably the strongest among them. And that meant he had to be dealt with carefully—until he could be dealt with completely.

  “A good morning to you,” Adolfo said pleasantly. “I am addressing Master Ahern, am I not?”

  “What do you want?” Ahern replied.

  “I understand you have some of the finest horses in this part of Sylvalan. I have a need for good mounts for myself and my men.”

  “There’s nothing here that would suit you.”

  “Now see here,” Baron Felston sputtered. “Master Adolfo is an important man.”

  “If he’s with you, I know exactly how important he must be. So let me rephrase what I said: There’s nothing here for the likes of you.”

  “I don’t believe you understand who I am,” Adolfo said, his voice quietly menacing. Then he stopped. As much as he would like to give the man a reason to fear him, it was better to wait for the right moment. It would come soon enough.

  Ahern smiled, giving his face a feral quality. An icy fist curled around Adolfo’s spine—and squeezed.

  “I understand well enough what you are,” Ahern said.

  “And what is that?”

  “The face of evil.”

  Adolfo felt the blood drain from his face. “How dare you say that to me?”

  Ahern took a step forward, leaned toward Adolfo. “You’re a killer. A butcher. A destroyer of all that is good in the world. Oh, yes, I understand well enough what you are.”

  Hearing the uneasy shifting of feet of the men who had come with him, Adolfo stiffened. “You will regret those words.”

  Ahern smiled grimly. “Go while you can.”

  As Adolfo mounted his horse, he began to summon his power. He would twist some of the magic here into a few nighthunters. Let that bastard see how well he could deal—

  “Go!” Ahern shouted.

  The horses wheeled and galloped down the lane, refusing to yield to spur or bit until they were back on the main road. During that ride, Adolfo hung on grimly. So did the other men.

  When the horses finally slowed of their own accord, Adolfo reined in.

  “What happened?” Felston said, puffing as if he’d been the one galloping.

  What had happened? That shouted order could have startled the horses, but it shouldn’t have made them unmanageable for all the time it had taken to get off Ahern’s land. Magic didn’t work on animals unless . . .

  “Of course,” Adolfo said softly.

  “What?” Felston snapped. “Do you have an explanation for why well-trained animals would suddenly go mad?”

  “He’s a horse Lord,” Adolfo said.

  “What are you talking about?” Felston sputtered. “That surly bastard has been living at that farm for years, and there has never been a whisper that he’d come from any kind of gentry family.”

  “He isn’t gentry,” Adolfo said impatiently. “He’s Fae. A horse Lord. That’s the only explanation for the way he controlled these animals. For all these years, you’ve had a Fae Lord living among you, pretending to be human.”

  “Fae?” Felston paled. “Ahern is one of the Fae?”

  “Oh, yes,” Adolfo said. “I am certain your horse farmer is one of the Fae.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “First we ride to Ridgeley to have a restorative glass of something potent and a light meal. Then we’ll take care of the witch before the Fae Lord decides to interfere.”

  “In that case, shouldn’t we go to Brightwood now?” Felston said.

  Adolfo shook his head. “There’s time. He’s Fae. No matter what he thinks, he won’t believe there’s really that much urgency. They never do.”

  Neall slipped out of the barn and joined Ahern.

  “Who were those men?” he asked.

  Ahern didn’t answer. He watched the lane long after the men had disappeared. Finally, “I think they were the Black Coats Morag told me about. The Inquisitors. The witch killers.”

  “Ari.” Neall spun around until he was staring in the direction of Brightwood.

  Ahern nodded grimly. “Yes. Ari.” He took a deep breath, let it out in an explosive huff. “She’ll be here soon with the horses. Then, young Neall, I think we need to discuss a change of plans.”

  Ari took the biscuits out of the oven. Bread would have been better, but there wasn’t time to bake bread today. Besides, the biscuits would be easier to carry. She’d have to ask Morag if there was a practical way to carry a bit of food when riding on horseback. And she needed to remember her canteens.

  Right now, she had to take the sun stallion and the mares over to Ahern’s.

  Giving the soup simmering on the back of the stove one last stir, she stepped to the kitchen doorway and pressed her hands against the frame. She felt the tingle of the warding spells.

  “Those who have been welcomed before are welcome again. As I will it, so mote it be.”

  The warding spells shifted, formed a new pattern. If Morag got back before she did, the warding spells would allow the Fae woman to enter the house. After all, what was the point of leaving the soup simmering if Morag couldn’t get inside to have something to eat?

  “Come on, Merle,” Ari called, stepping outside and closing the kitchen door.

  When the puppy bounced over to her, she picked him up and hugged him.

  “I hope you’re not so young that you’ll forget me in a few weeks’ time. And that’s all it will be. Then we’ll both have a new home. And you’ll have Neall to play with, too.”

  She put the puppy down and walked over to the sun stallion, patted his neck cautiously. “It’s time to go.”

  The stallion pawed the ground.

  “Come on, now. Come on. Ahern will look after you.”

  The sun stallion shook his head. When Ari walked away and kept going, he and his mares followed. Except the wounded mare. She remained in the meadow, near the spot where the witches of Brightwood had danced year after year.

  Ari let her stay. The mare was doing better, and it would be a shame to take her away before the magic in Brightwood had a chance to heal her.

  “I’ll let Ahern know she’s here,” Ari told Merle as they crossed the road and headed for Ahern’s farm. “He’ll keep an eye on her.” As she reached the top of the rise, she looked over her shoulder at the horses trailing behind them. “I wonder if a mother duck feels this way when all her ducklings waddle after her.”

  The image of a duck being followed by horses who thought they belonged to her made Ari smile. It was best to think of silly things today. It was best not to think at all.

  Lucian watched the canopy of leaves over his head play with the sunlight and shadows. This little spot in the garden was always a peaceful place, but today he found no peace there. He kept thinking about the version of “The Lover’s Lament” that Ari had sung on the Solstice.

  A song like that was more than folly; it was cruel. Yes, cruel, since it filled a young woman’s head with dreamy-eyed, unreasonable expectations. That wasn’t the way of the world. That wasn’t the way of men.

  Is it cruel? something inside him asked. Are those expectations really so unreasonable?

  Lucian shifted uneasily.

  Kindness? Courtesy? Well, those things weren’t so unreasonable for someone like Ari to want
. And he’d already given her those. But respect? She was barely more than a girl. If a man showed her too much deference, she would never have the incentive to improve herself and become more interesting. After all, how much respect could any woman command when the only things she could speak intelligently about were weaving and gardens?

  Loyalty? If that was so important to her, he could promise her a kind of loyalty. He could certainly pledge that he would never seek another human female’s company. What he did when he visited other Clans—and he would since he was the Lightbringer—was none of the girl’s business. And since she wouldn’t know what took place in Tir Alainn, it would never trouble her.

  Love? A bard’s word to pretty up the truth between men and women. Passion burned bright and hot, but it never burned long. Affection truly was a kinder emotion than this . . . love.

  Ari might grieve for a little while once she realized she had to give up her girlhood notion about love, but once she was over it, she would come to appreciate the companionship—and pleasure—he offered.

  Lucian headed for the entrance to that little garden.

  Soon it would be settled. Ari would stay at Brightwood—and stay with him. And Neall . . . Lucian thought about the Gatherer and smiled. And Neall would be gone.

  As soon as Neall spotted the sun stallion, he ran to meet Ari.

  “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously, pulling her into his arms and holding on tight.

  “I’m fine, Neall,” Ari said, rubbing his back to comfort him. “Truly.”

  “When it took you so long to get here, we thought—” He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t put into words what he’d feared because, somehow, that might make it come true.

  “It wasn’t long. I had to wait for the biscuits.”

  Neall stiffened. He leaned back and stared at her in disbelief. “Biscuits?”

  “I thought they would be more practical than bread and stay fresher so that we could—”

  “You baked biscuits?”

  Ari’s mouth began to set in that stubborn line he knew well. Ignoring it, he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward Ahern’s house. “Let’s just see what Ahern has to say about this.”

  “Neall!”

  The sun stallion snorted, stamped one foot in warning.

  “Back off,” Neall snapped. “If she was one of your mares, you’d nip her for this.”

  Ahern was pacing the yard, looking grim enough to subdue even the stubbornest witch.

  “She was baking biscuits,” Neall said as soon as he was close enough he didn’t have to shout. Although he was shouting loud enough to have several of the men peer around the buildings to see what was going on.

  “Neall!” Ari pulled back, digging in her heels.

  As Neall turned, the sun stallion butted him hard enough to break his hold on Ari’s wrist. He and Ari ended up sitting in the dirt, staring at each other between the legs of an angry horse.

  Another horse snorted. The sun stallion bolted a short distance, then reared.

  Neall looked over his shoulder. Not another horse, but someone no horse would disobey.

  “That one must have a bit of the dark horse bloodline in him,” Ahern said. “They aren’t cowed by anything.” He walked over to Ari and held out a hand to help her up. “Biscuits are a fine idea. With some cheese and some of that jam you make, it’ll do for a midday meal tomorrow.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” Ari grumbled, brushing herself off.

  “But the boy’s been worried about you—and he has reason. The Black Coats have arrived in Ridgeley.”

  Ari paled.

  Neall scrambled to his feet. It hurt to see her eyes so full of fear, but he couldn’t afford to make it sound like something they could dismiss.

  “Now,” Ahern said, sounding calm but implacable. “You’re going to stay here. Neall will go to Brightwood for your things. When he returns, the two of you are leaving. The horses are fresh, and that will give you hours of daylight to put some distance between you and the Black Coats.”

  “I can’t leave yet,” Ari protested. Her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t. I’m not ready. I haven’t said goodbye.”

  “Ari, there’s no time,” Neall snapped.

  She looked at both of them, her hands spread in appeal. “I’ll run back. It won’t take long. But I need to do this.”

  Neall wanted to scream. She hadn’t seen those men. She hadn’t felt those men. How could he make her understand? “By the Mother’s tits, Ari—”

  “Don’t you speak of the Mother that way!”

  “—who is there to say goodbye to?” Neall demanded. “Morag? If she’s there when I get there, I’ll tell her. If not, when you don’t return, like as not she’ll come here and Ahern can tell her.”

  Ari looked at him with eyes that were suddenly far too old. “I would like to say goodbye to Morag,” she said quietly, “but that’s not the reason I have to go back.” Ari reached for his hand. Her fingers curled around his and held on. “I have to say goodbye to Brightwood, Neall. I have to let go of the land. If I don’t, it will always feel unfinished.”

  Neall sagged, defeated. If Ari always looked back on this day with regret, what kind of future would they have? Brightwood would always stand between them. He looked at Ahern, hoping the older man would have some argument against this, but Ahern just stared at the distant hills.

  “All right,” Ahern said reluctantly. “You go back. You say your goodbyes. But you do it quick—and then you get in the cottage and stay inside until Neall comes for you. The warding spells around the cottage will protect you, but they won’t help if you go beyond the cottage walls.”

  Ari seemed about to protest, but she caught herself and simply nodded. She picked up Merle, handed him to Neall, and said, “You’d better shut him up somewhere so he doesn’t follow me ho—” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Back to Brightwood.” She gave the puppy one last caress, then turned and ran.

  “Come on,” Ahern said. “We’ll shut him up in the gelding’s stall. He’ll be fine there for now.”

  Neall hugged the squirming puppy, but it was the man he looked at. “I’ll miss you.”

  Ahern shook his head. “Don’t look back, young Neall. You go and don’t look back.”

  “That philosophy the Fae live by makes it very easy not to take responsibility for anything.”

  Ahern didn’t speak for a long time. Then, “There are times when it’s an arrogant fool’s excuse. But there are other times when it’s simply the wise thing to do.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Adolfo drained his wineglass. The tavern didn’t offer the same quality of wine as Felston’s wine cellar, but it was sufficient. “We have fortified ourselves for the difficult tasks to come.” And at the baron’s expense. “Let us go to Brightwood and capture the foul creature who lives there so that we can bring her back to the baron’s estate for questioning.”

  “Questioning?” Felston glanced around the inn and lowered his voice. “There’s no need for questioning. You have my daughter’s statement and the confession you got from the Gwynn woman yesterday.”

  “I have those confessions,” Adolfo agreed, watching the baron pale at the significance of those words. Yes, the baron was going to be most generous when it came to settling his account. “But the witch must confess to her crimes. She must admit her guilt. She must have time to regret the harm she has done. Therefore, she will be taken to the room at your estate my Inquisitors prepared for such questioning, and she will confess.” And then she will die.

  Morag paused at the edge of the meadow, watching the wounded mare graze. Ari must have taken the other horses to Ahern’s. She looked to the west, wondering if she should go to that hill where the wind always blew and tell Astra that Ari was leaving.

  Astra.

  Something had been nagging at her, trying to catch her attention. But meeting Morphia and then trying to persuade the dark horse to gather his courage and go down the shining
road again had pushed it aside. Now . . .

  Astra. What was it about Astra?

  The Fae are the Mother’s Children. But we are the Daughters. We are the Pillars of the World.

  Aiden had mentioned something about the Pillars of the World.

  The answers are in plain sight, if you choose to look for them.

  I want to ask him if he would bring the journals over to his house. I don’t want them left here. . . . My family’s history. Brightwood’s history, really.

  “Hurry,” Morag said, pressing her legs against the dark horse’s sides. He galloped across the meadow, right to the kitchen door.

  Sliding off his back, Morag threw the kitchen door open. “Ari?” When she got no answer, she closed the door and hurried to the dressing room adjoining Ari’s bedroom. She’d seen the glass-doored bookcase the other day when the sun stallion and the dark horse had played “tease the puppy,” but she hadn’t thought of it since.

  She opened the glass doors and pulled out the last journal on the right.

  I am Astra, now the Crone of the family. It is with sorrow that I have read the journals of the ones who came before me. We shouldered the burden and then were dismissed from thought—or were treated as paupers who should beg for scraps of affection. We have stayed because we loved the land, and we have stayed out of duty. But duty is a cold bedfellow, and it should no longer be enough to hold us to the land.

  Morag read a little further, but there was nothing Astra hadn’t already said to her. She replaced that journal, skipped over several, then pulled out another.

  We are the Pillars of the World. The Fae no longer remember what that means. Or else they no longer care and just expect us to continue as we have done for generations. I know why they forgot us. I am old now, but I remember my Fae lover well, the father of my daughter. I remember his charm—and I remember his arrogance. The Fae, he had said, have no equal. And that may be true. It also explains why they don’t want to remember the ones who had been more powerful—and still are, in our own way, more powerful. They do not want to remember that it was the Daughters who had the magic needed to create Tir Alainn, to shape the Otherland out of dreams and the branches of the Mother—and will. As we will it, so mote it be. And so it was. The Fair Land.