by Anne Bishop
“The House of Gaian?”he whispered.
Morag nodded. “The witch killers will be coming to Brightwood soon. If we stand aside now, if we do nothing here, we have no one but ourselves to blame when Tir Alainn is completely lost.” She stepped back. Something began to fill her, flow through her. She had never stepped onto a battlefield, but she instinctively knew this was what it felt like to be the Gatherer when she rode among screaming, fighting men, sparing some and taking others. When the Gatherer rode in this way, she was not always merciful—and she was not always kind.
“I’m going back to Brightwood. The witch killers aren’t going to take Ari.”
“We’ll come with you,” Lyrra said.
Morag shook her head. “You and Aiden find the Huntress and the Lightbringer. Tell them what you know. And rouse anyone else among the Fae who has the courage to stand and fight.”
“I’m coming with you,” Morphia said.
“There’s—”
“Don’t argue, Morag. I don’t know what I can do, but I’m coming with you.”
Lyrra looked at the two sisters. “If the witch killers do come to Brightwood, there won’t be much the two of you can do to stop them.”
The power hummed through Morag, making her smile. “Yes, there is. I have a weapon even the witch killers can’t defy. I have Death.”
Ari couldn’t stop shivering. It wasn’t caused just by being in a small, cool, dark room in Baron Felston’s cellar. Mostly, it was fear trembling through her as she stared at the tall man who watched her.
“Why are your kind so resistant?” he asked sadly. “Why can’t you admit to your crimes? You’ve committed no crimes. I know. You all say that. And yet . . .” He picked up a piece of paper from the long, stained table that dominated the room. He held it out in front of her. “Quite a list of grievances against someone who claims to have done no harm.”
Her head hurt, and trying to focus on the words in the dim light of a single oil lamp made her stomach churn.
Mistress Brigston claiming that she had been bewitched into paying several gold coins for a piece of tapestry that Ari had delivered and then magicked away again. Granny Gwynn claiming that Ari had added something foul to a good, wholesome simple that Granny had sold to Squire Kenton to strengthen his wife’s fragile health, making the woman more ill. Odella claiming that Ari had tricked her into taking the fancy she had then been forced to give a man in order to avoid the dire consequences of a thwarted love spell.
Poor crops, a lack of game, a dry well. Anything and everything that had gone wrong in Ridgeley had been blamed on her.
I’ve done none of that!
The Master Inquisitor sighed as if she’d actually spoken, then placed the paper on the table. Bending over, he pressed his hand gently against Ari’s cheek.
“You have no choice. You must confess. You must admit to what you have done to the good people of Ridgeley. Don’t force me to hurt you. Don’t force me to make you suffer. I will hurt you if that is the only way, but I hope you won’t require pain to help you do what you must.”
He straightened up, went over to a chest that was pushed against the wall and removed something. He set the object on the table, next to the paper filled with her crimes. It was a metal device that looked a bit like a bridle that would fit tightly over a person’s head—except there were three spikes attached to the inside of it that would pierce the tongue and cheeks when the bridle was strapped on.
Adolfo brushed his fingers over the spiked bridle. “I will give you a little time to decide if you will allow me to make this as quick and merciful as possible, or if you’ll force me to be the instrument of your suffering.”
He lowered the wick in the oil lamp until there was barely enough light to see by. Then he walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.
Ari stared at the spiked bridle—and shivered.
Adolfo walked up the stairs, glad to be away from the damp cellar for a while. He would have liked more time to work with this one. Younger witches could become quite malleable given enough assistance, and their confessions were always so tearfully dramatic. And he would have liked more time to question her about the Fae and their noticeable interest in this Old Place.
But it was the Fae and their interest that made it imperative to wring a confession out of this witch and dispose of her quickly. However, if the diversion Royce created was successful, the Fae would have no reason to look for the girl.
Still there was that Fae Lord at the horse farm to consider. He might think to look beyond the borders of the Old Place.
Adolfo sighed. No, he couldn’t take the time required to soften the girl to the humility that was proper and becoming in a female. But she would give him the opportunity to work with the two younger Inquisitors and teach them how to refine their skills.
Dianna gave the dead mare in the meadow a wide berth. The shadow hounds sniffed the carcass, then backed away, growling softly.
Lucian, in his other form, laid his ears back and galloped to the cottage. Dianna followed, feeling her heart thump against her chest when she noticed the open kitchen door.
Lucian reached the cottage, changed to his human form, and went inside before Dianna and her hounds crossed the meadow. By the time she stepped into the kitchen, he was striding out of the bedroom.
“She’s gone,” he said, his voice filled with fury and bitterness. “She’s already slunk away with that lout.”
Dianna looked at the soup kettle on the worktable and the biscuits beside it. She gingerly touched the kettle. Still a bit of warmth. And the biscuits were fresh.
“I don’t think she left with him,” Dianna said softly. She remembered what Morag had said about the Black Coats, and a chill went through her.
“What are you talking about?” Lucian snapped. “There’s signs of packing in every room.”
Dianna walked to the kitchen door, stared at the dead mare in the meadow, then turned back to her brother. “Oh, she intended to leave with him, but I don’t think that’s the reason she isn’t here.” When he started to argue, her own temper sharpened. “If she was leaving for good, she wouldn’t have left food out to spoil.”
“Someone else would have taken care of it,” Lucian said, pacing the main room. Then he stopped abruptly at the same time Dianna asked, “Who?”
They looked at each other.
Dianna licked her lips, which were suddenly, painfully dry. “Maybe she’s just gone to Ahern’s to ask what to do about the mare.”
“Maybe.” Lucian hesitated. “We’ll wait here a while. If she doesn’t return soon, I’ll go to Ahern’s to find out if he’s seen her.”
Relief flowed through Dianna. Whatever had happened to that mare looked bad, but it had nothing to do with Ari.
“While we’re waiting, we might as well have some of the soup,” she said. “There’s no sense letting it go to waste.”
As she dished out the soup, she suddenly wondered why Morag had returned to Tir Alainn in such a hurry.
“Was the mare dead when you left?” Morphia asked.
“No,” Morag replied. Hidden in the shadows of the woods, she studied the meadow—and shivered. There’s a storm coming.
She had been gone less than an hour. She had been gone far, far too long. I shouldn’t have left her. If I’d been thinking, I wouldn’t have left her.
“The Huntress is obviously here,” Morphia said, lifting her chin in the direction of the shadow hounds, who were gathered near the kitchen door. “Perhaps the Lightbringer as well. So at least we’ll have some help.”
Morag’s heart had gone numb. That was the only way to explain this odd sensation of her mind seeing things with painful clarity while she felt nothing.
“No,” she said. “We’ll get no help from them.”
“But isn’t that why you came back to Tir Alainn?”
Morag shook her head slowly. “I went back to tell them about the witches, so that they would understand that Ari wasn’t someone
to manipulate for the Fae’s pleasure. And to tell them why it was so important to protect her kind.”
“All the more reason for them to help us now.”
“Oh, they would help us protect Ari. But they’re also interested in eliminating Neall because she wants to marry him and leave Brightwood. So we’ll get help from someone who wants to protect both of them. We’ll go to Ahern.”
Something shivered through the air. Adolfo set his wineglass on the table, walked over to the window, and pulled the curtain aside. Nothing looked different, but something was different.
Maybe it was nothing. Even locked in the cellar, the witch made this whole place stink of magic. It wouldn’t feel right again until she was dead.
He turned to retrieve his wine, then stopped.
It was magic he was sensing, but there was too much of it to be coming from just her.
He opened the drawing room. The guard standing on duty immediately straightened.
“Get the horses saddled,” Adolfo said. “Then wait for further orders.” He closed the door, retrieved his wine, and drained the glass.
His hand shook. It hadn’t done that in a long, long time. He always feared the witches, never felt easy until they—and their magic—died. That fear was his mother’s legacy. Keeping them alive long enough to break them down was a test of his own strength.
This one was hardly more than a girl—and still his hands shook. Because of the Fae. Before now, he’d been able to dismiss them. They came and went, paying little attention to the human world beyond their immediate pleasures, and he’d never had to be concerned about them becoming adversaries. But there was the Gatherer to consider. She was already aware of the Inquisitors, already seemed to be taking an interest in the witches in this land. She could not be dismissed. Neither could the Fae Lord who had hidden his true nature from the people of this village for so many years.
There hadn’t been time to get the feel of this witch, to know which branches of the Mother were her strength. No matter. They would take her somewhere on the estate far enough away that the ladies of the house wouldn’t be distressed. And they would hang her from a tree and open up her belly. A crude method, but effective.
“I shall not suffer a witch to live,” he whispered. He would make sure nothing and no one spared this one.
He walked out of the room and gave his orders.
The dark horse slid to a stop, his hooves bare inches from Ahern’s boots.
“Where’s Ari?” Morag demanded.
Ahern crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “Gone by now. She and Neall. The Black Coats came here today. When she came a little later to bring the horses that had come with you, I told her she and the boy had to go.”
“Neall went with her?”
Ahern shook his head, his expression turning grim. “She ran back to make her peace with Brightwood. He followed as soon as he got the horses saddled. Couldn’t have been more than a quarter hour behind her, half at the most.”
Morag closed her eyes. “He didn’t reach her in time. The Black Coats must have her. If Neall isn’t careful, they’ll have him too.”
“How can you be so sure?” Ahern demanded.
Morag opened her eyes. “Death is whispering. Death is nearby.”
Ahern lowered his arms, clenched his fists. “They’ll have taken her to Baron Felston’s estate. That’s the only place the Black Coats could go to do . . . what you said they do.”
“How do I get there?”
“I’ll take you.” Ahern turned, summoned one of the men who had been lingering nearby. “Glenn. You remember what I told you? All of it?” He waited for the man to nod. “No matter what happens today, you do what I told you.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few moments later, Morag and Morphia followed a gray stallion over the fields, racing toward Baron Felston’s estate.
Neall rode close enough to the estate to see the house and stables. Too much activity. Why were so many horses being saddled?
“Best to leave us here,” the small man said. “We’ll make our own way to the house.” He paused. “Do you know where they’d likely be keeping the witch?”
“There’s a small room in the cellar. A cold, dark room.” He knew it well. He’d spent enough time there in his childhood as punishment for things Royce had done but for which he’d been blamed.
The small man nodded. “You give us a few minutes, then you ride up easy.”
“I’m not welcome here.”
The small man made an odd sound and gestured toward the dark mare. “You’re bringing a gift, aren’t you? Never seen a human who would turn down a gift.” He turned his head and studied some nearby bushes. Then he smiled. “May the Mother watch over you, young Lord.”
After Neall helped the Small Fork dismount, the small man studied him, then said, “The Fae have lived outside the world for too long, and they’ve forgotten much. You have as much power as they do. The real difference between you is that you have one face, and it’s a honest one. Remember that when next you deal with the Fair Folk . . . young Lord of the Woods.”
The small man turned and walked toward the house, his companions spreading out and following.
As Neall mounted Darcy, he saw a flash of red burst out from beneath the bushes.
The fox ran across the field, paused when it reached the small men, then continued toward the kennels where Baron Felston kept his hounds.
“Well,” Neall said, gathering Darcy’s reins. “Once those hounds get a whiff of fox, that should create enough noise to clear some of the men from the yard.”
He scanned the field. There was no sign of the Small Folk. He counted to one hundred, clenching his teeth until his jaw ached. Then he gave Darcy the signal to move forward, holding the horse to an easy trot as if he had all the time in the world.
Ari stared at the spiked bridle and kept shivering, shivering. The one encasing her head hurt badly enough. She could imagine what that other one would feel like. But, somehow, the face she kept seeing being pierced by those spikes wasn’t hers. It was Neall’s.
Neall.
He would know where they’d taken her. He would be coming here. And they would be waiting for him.
Morag, if I knew what to do, I would use whatever power the Mother granted me to do whatever was needed to help him. But if they do catch him, if they do harm him, please, Morag, please be kind to him when you show him the road to the Summerland.
Her hands and feet were so cold. If only there was a little fire in this room to take away the chill.
Fire warmed. And fire burned.
She looked at the rope binding her hands together. If it was done carefully . . .
She slowly drew the branch of fire into herself, feeling its warmth flow through her. She channeled it down her arms to her wrists, let the heat build. She focused on the rope, drawing the heat to one spot until it was ready to burn. She twisted her wrists a little. A tiny puff of smoke rose from the rope.
A small flame inside the rope, burning upward.
More smoke. And heat. Then flame burst from the center of the rope, still small, still controlled. Must control it.
She watched the flame, kept twisting her wrists to help fray the rope, even though it rubbed her skin raw.
She winced as the flame brushed against her hand. One more pull and the rope snapped. Moving awkwardly, but as quickly as she could, she freed her hands and tossed the rope on the dirt floor.
She reached up to free herself from the metal bridle, then paused. Having her feet free was more important.
It was easier this time. She knew how to guide the fire into the rope, and she could use her hands to tug at it to make it break faster.
Once her feet were free, she fumbled with the straps that held the bridle. When she finally got it off, she studied it for a moment. It was a slightly more benign version of the spiked bridle sitting on the table, but that didn’t make it any less cruel. Only someone with a withered soul would use this on another
person.
Setting the bridle on the floor, she rubbed her legs, gritting her teeth against the fierce tingling as blood began flowing through her limbs again. When the tingling changed from unbearable to tolerable, she used the wall to help her stand up.
She stumbled over to the table and braced her hands against it. She was sure she didn’t want to know what had produced the fresh stains on its surface, and she was suddenly grateful for the dim light.
She picked up the confession, held it out. Fire flowed from her fingers. The paper burst into flames. She dropped it, watched it burn.
She was free, and she could move. Now all she had to do was figure out how to get out of this room and away from these awful men.
One of the shadow hounds snarled a soft warning.
“Someone’s coming,” Dianna said.
A queer light came into Lucian’s eyes as he unlocked the front door and stepped outside to meet their visitor.
Dianna went out the kitchen door, intending to come around the side of the cottage. She paused long enough to order the pack of shadow hounds to stay, then snuck to a spot where she could peer around a corner.
Several young men dismounted, handed their horses’ reins to other companions, then strode toward the cottage. Four of those men paused long enough to light torches.
One man, who seemed to be their leader, stepped forward. He looked at Lucian and sneered. “If it isn’t the witch’s fancy Lord. You’d best be on your way. We have business here. And the witch won’t be back to lift her skirts for you anymore.”
“Where is she?” Lucian growled.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” the man said. “The Master Inquisitor is questioning her about the terrible crimes she’s committed against the good people of Ridgeley.” He let out a nasty laugh. “They call him the Witch’s Hammer. By the time he’s done persuading her to confess, I don’t think any man will be interested in lifting her skirts. Even a fancy Lord like you.”