The Pillars of the World

by Anne Bishop

  The guard slowly shook his head. “There’s too much smoke to be one cottage, master. And that’s coming from the direction of—” The guard turned and stared at him. “Ridgeley. It’s the village that’s burning.”

  Morag reined the dark horse to a stop.

  “Mother’s mercy, Neall,” she muttered as she scanned the woods. “How could you disappear so fast?”

  “Will we find them?” Morphia asked.

  “We’ll find them,” Morag replied grimly.

  They had to find Neall and Ari.

  Because Death was no longer whispering. Now, Death howled.

  Neall followed the broadest trail through the woods. They needed to go deeper into Brightwood, away from the trails where someone could easily track them. But he was worried about Ari. She knew these woods better than anyone, but she wasn’t a skilled rider and could be swept out of the saddle if she misjudged a low-hanging branch.

  Distance. Distance. They needed to put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers to catch their breath and decide where the best place would be to lay low for a little while.

  He cursed silently as he went down into a slight dip and saw the tree that had fallen across the trail. Not much room on the other side of it for a horse to land before the trail climbed again. He could have done it on Darcy, but he didn’t know the mare well enough to have that kind of confidence in her—and Ari certainly couldn’t make that jump.

  As he reined in and turned the mare, he heard Darcy’s angry challenge—and realized Ari was no longer right behind him.

  The mare charged back up to level ground just in time for Neall to see the men wearing black coats step onto the trail, blocking the gelding’s retreat.

  Movement just beyond the edge of the trail. Guards raising their crossbows. Aiming at Ari!

  “Look out!” Neall shouted.

  Darcy pivoted on his hind legs, half rearing as he turned. Most of the crossbow quarrels hit him in the chest and neck, but two of them found their intended target.

  Ari and Darcy both screamed as the gelding fell, throwing Ari out of the saddle. Blood reddened her tunic and trousers. When she tried to move, she cried out in pain.

  Neall threw himself off the mare’s back and ran toward Ari. “Leave her alone, you bastards!”

  Two guards took aim at him. Before they could fire, a look of stunned surprise came over their faces. They fell to the ground. So did the rest of the guards. And the black-coated Inquisitors.

  Neall stared at them for a moment, not sure that he believed what he saw.

  He stumbled over to Ari, knelt beside her.

  She raised her head, her eyes filled with pain. “Neall . . .”

  He pressed a hand gently to her shoulder to keep her from moving. The quarrels had gone through her, so at least he wouldn’t have to try to remove them here or have her endure riding with them still in her until he could get her to some kind of safety.

  Darcy’s labored breathing suddenly stopped.

  In that silence, Neall heard the quiet sound of a hoof against earth. He looked beyond the fallen men to the two women who watched him.

  “Morag,” he breathed. Watching them dismount, he thought about snatching up one of the crossbows, but he knew he couldn’t move fast enough to stop her. The dead men around him were proof of that.

  Leaping to his feet, he took a few steps forward, then planted himself in the middle of the trail, standing between her and Ari.

  “Morag,” Ari said. Her voice sounded so terribly weak.

  Neall tensed as the Gatherer approached him, but his eyes never left hers.

  “Step aside, Neall,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Death can’t be cheated, but sometimes a bargain can be struck.” He saw her surprise before she could mask it. “The others who are Death’s Servants have no choice about who they guide to the Shadowed Veil, but the Gatherer does. She can transfer one person’s strength to another. At least, that’s what the stories say.”

  “And if the stories are true?” Morag asked quietly.

  “Then take me. Give my life strength to Ari, and take me.”

  She gave him a queer look. “You would do that?”

  “No, Neall,” Ari pleaded. “Don’t give up your life.”

  He turned slowly and looked at her. “You are my life.” When he turned back to face Morag, she was watching Ari intently. Fear spiked through him, roughening his voice. “Will you trade? My life for hers.”

  She gave him another queer look, then held out her hand.

  He grabbed it, curled his fingers around it so she couldn’t let go.

  She gave him a tug that pulled him to one side of the path at the same moment the other woman slipped around him and hurried toward Ari.

  He tried to pull away from her—and discovered she was stronger than he’d thought. So he just stood there, watching helplessly, as the other woman knelt beside Ari and gently brushed one hand over Ari’s head.

  Ari’s eyes closed. Her head sank to the ground.

  “You agreed to trade!” Neall said, feeling grief mingle with fury.

  “I made no bargain, Neall,” Morag said quietly.

  “Nor would I have. I see no shadows in her face. Let my sister do what she can.”

  “Sister?” He stared at the other black-haired woman, who was carefully lifting Ari’s tunic.

  “Morphia is the Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams.”

  How fitting that the Gatherer and the Sleep Sister were actually sisters.

  Morag released his hand and walked toward Ari. “She is hurt, and she is in pain, but Death is not waiting here for her, Neall.”

  “If Death had been waiting, would you have agreed to the bargain?” Neall asked, keeping pace with her.

  Morag was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t know. No one has asked that of me until now.”

  “Then what’s happened to Ari?”

  Morphia looked up at him. “I gave her sleep so she would feel no pain.”

  Sinking to his knees, Neall forced himself to look at the wounds.

  “She bleeds, but the quarrels cut through nothing more than flesh.” She looked questioningly at Morag, who held one hand over Ari’s body.

  Morag nodded. “I don’t sense any damage inside her. Did you bring her saddlebags before the two of you ran?”

  “Yes,” Neall said.

  “Then bring them here, and some water as well.”

  As Neall stood up to do her bidding, he glanced at the dead men. Right now, it was better not to think too much about who Morag was.

  He would have traded, Morag thought as she waited for Neall to bring the saddlebags. Even without knowing whether it was truly needed, he would have traded his life for hers.

  Would any Fae male have cared so much that he would have tried to make that bargain? If necessary, he would fight for Clan and kin—and, perhaps, die in the fighting. But he wouldn’t go into that fight expecting to die. He would expect to live and benefit from his courage in the fight. But for a man to hand over his life, knowing he wouldn’t share in whatever would come after?

  You did just make a bargain, Neall, although it’s one you’re not aware of. One I hope you’ll never be aware of.

  When Neall hurried back to them, Morphia used the water to wash the wound in Ari’s side and the graze in her thigh. Morag rummaged through the saddlebags until she found the rolled cloths and the small jar of healing ointment.

  “But those are—” Neall started to protest.

  “Clean and made to absorb blood,” Morag replied. She and Morphia smeared the ointment on the wounds and dealt with the makeshift bandages. Neall protested again when they tore up Ari’s long nightgown to make strips long enough to wrap around Ari and hold the dressings. They ignored him.

  “Now,” Morag said as she put the supplies back in Ari’s saddlebags, “lift her carefully and take her out of the way. We’ll try to shift the gelding enough to get your saddlebags free.”


  “No,” Neall said. “I don’t need—”

  Morag gave him a look that silenced him. “If you didn’t need what you’d brought, you wouldn’t have brought it.”

  It took effort, but between them, she and Morphia managed to pull the saddlebags free.

  Morag rested one hand on the gelding’s flank in a silent farewell. This one had had the courage of his breed, and she knew he would be sorely missed.

  That reminded her of another problem. Neall and Ari couldn’t travel however far they would have to go riding double on the mare. They needed another horse.

  Handing the saddlebags to Morphia, she walked over to where the dark horse waited for her. She pressed her hand against his cheek and looked into his dark, trusting eyes.

  “I want you to go with Neall and Ari. I know you like her, and I think you’ll like him, too.” When he started to take a step back, she shook her head. “They need you. They need your strength and your speed and your courage. They need you to look after them and take care of them. They’re going to need that for a long time. So we’ll say goodbye now, my friend. You’ll have a good life with them. This much I know.”

  Giving him a last caress, she walked the dark horse over to where Neall stood, holding Ari in his arms.

  “He’ll go with you,” she said quietly. “You’ll need to ride double until Ari is strong enough to ride by herself. The mare couldn’t do that. He can.”

  Neall stared at her. “I—I can’t take your horse.”

  “Yes, you can. For Ari’s sake.” And for the sake of a good horse who now fears what I would have to ask of him.

  “I’ll wake her enough that she can help you get her mounted,” Morphia said. “I won’t send her back into a deep sleep since that will make it harder for you both to ride, but she’ll doze enough to dull the pain.”

  Taking the saddlebags from her sister, Morag tied them to the dark horse’s saddle. While Neall and Morphia helped Ari mount, she secured Ari’s saddlebags and canteen to the mare’s saddle.

  When they were ready to go, Morag gave Ari one more long, searching look—and felt relieved. There were still no shadows in the girl’s face. Ari would heal—and she would have the life Astra and Ahern had wanted for her.

  “May the Mother bless both of you for all of your days,” Neall said.

  “Blessings of the day to you,” Morag said.

  Neall smiled oddly. “ ‘Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.’ That’s another saying among witches.” He murmured to the dark horse, who pricked his ears, considered the trail before them, then turned into the trees to find another path.

  Morag smiled at the way Neall’s eyes widened at having the decision made for him, but Neall was used to dealing with an animal that sometimes held an opinion that was different from his own. He and the dark horse would get along well together—once they got to know each other.

  Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.

  A warm feeling filled Morag. Did that saying express a hope that she would visit them in their new home?

  The warm feeling froze, began to shrivel. Or did that saying have more than one meaning, especially when it was said to the Gatherer? Was Neall trying to tell her he hoped they would meet again in this world—or that he hoped they wouldn’t see her again until they were all in the Summerland, after their spirits had left their bodies to the Mother’s keeping?

  Foolish to want acceptance from anyone who lived in the human world, foolish to yearn to be welcomed as a friend when even her own kind drew back from her. She was Death’s Mistress. That was her gift—and her burden. What did she truly know of life?

  She pushed away her feelings before they could bruise her heart. Turning, she saw Morphia watching her.

  “What do we do about them?” Morphia asked softly.

  Morag looked at the ghosts who all glared at her—especially the Inquisitors. They would have to be dealt with, taken away from Brightwood. Whether she would guide them all the way to the Shadowed Veil was something she hadn’t decided yet.

  “Leave them,” she said. “The Small Folk can do what they choose with the bodies.”

  Morphia looked at the Inquisitors’ ghosts and shuddered. “In that case, let’s get away from here.”

  They mounted Morphia’s horse, Morag riding behind her sister, then headed in the direction of the cottage.

  As they crossed the meadow, they saw the black smoke, could smell the burning.

  “It would appear the Lightbringer has passed judgment on the people there,” Morphia said.

  “Yes,” Morag said softly. “They shouldn’t have forgotten he is the Lord of Fire.”

  Morphia hesitated. “You’re tired, Morag. Can’t you rest a little while before you gather the people there?”

  I’ll rest a long while before I ride into that village, Morag thought. “Let another of Death’s Servants guide them to the Shadowed Veil. I am tired, and—”

  Death called.

  Morag listened carefully, looked in the direction from which that call had come.

  “And there’s someplace else I have to be,” she finished, her voice full of regret.

  Abandoning the wounded guard, Adolfo ran toward the group of people clustered around the stable. Reaching them, he stared at the mound of debris-filled earth that filled the place where Baron Felston’s manor house had stood a short while ago.

  “What happened here?” he gasped.

  One of the grooms gave him a hostile look. “The earth swallowed it, then spewed up enough of itself to cover it. I guess that was the Mother’s way of saying you Inquisitors should have let the witches be.”

  Adolfo looked at them, saw the same grim expression and hard eyes in all their faces. “But she was the one who did this. The witch did this!”

  “She never did any harm until you came!” one of the female servants shouted.

  The groom nodded his head in agreement. “The ladies of Brightwood always had a lot more courtesy for the common folk than the gentry did. Even the villagers looked down on those who worked the land.” He looked in the direction of the black smoke filling the sky. “Guess they’re not going to be looking down on anyone for a long time to come.”

  “The witch—”

  The groom shook his head, then gestured toward another man. “Russell said he saw a black horse racing toward Ridgeley. A black horse with flames in his mane and tail. Anything he passed that a man had made . . . burned. Guess the Lord of Fire was letting us all know his opinion about you taking the witch.”

  They were all against him. That, too, was the witch’s fault. She should have accepted her fate, should have yielded to the need to have her spirit cleansed of its foulness. She had brought about this disdain for authority in servants who, a day ago, had been sufficiently meek.

  “Where is Baron Felston? There are things I must discuss with him.”

  The groom tipped his head toward the mound of earth. “You can dig for him then. He never came out. There was plenty of time before the house started to cave in, but he never came out. Neither did the baroness nor Odella.”

  Adolfo’s legs trembled. He forced himself to stand tall and show no weakness. These people were like a pack of feral dogs now. If he showed any weakness, they would attack.

  “If you want answers,” the groom said, “you could always try to ask the Small Folk. I saw a few of them heading away from the manor house just before it all caved in. I reckon they could tell you what happened to the baron and the others.”

  The Small Folk. The Fae. The witch. There was too much power here—power that should have been approached carefully instead of with haste. That had been his error. Felston had lured him here with the conviction that there was only one young witch to deal with. He should have proceeded with his usual caution instead of listening to the baron’s reassurances. And there was still the not-insignificant matter of his fee.

  “Where is Royce?” Adolfo asked.

  The groom shrugged. “He left ea
rlier today to ride out with some of his friends. Haven’t seen him since.”

  He didn’t want to know what happened to Royce, but it was possible the young man was still alive. It was possible.

  “Saddle a horse for me. I’ll find Royce. He needs to be informed that he is the baron now.”

  No one moved.

  Then a shadow passed over them.

  The groom looked up, watched the hawk for a moment, then turned to another man. “Winn, saddle a horse for him. The sooner he’s gone, the better. No point having the Fae or the Small Folk angry with us because he’s standing here.”

  Adolfo watched the hawk slowly circle, as if it were taking a good look at the destruction. Suppressing a shiver, he said, “It’s just a hawk.”

  The groom made a harsh sound. “And that black horse that burned Ridgeley was just a horse. Get away from us, Master Inquisitor. You brought nothing but ill with you.”

  Winn came out of the stables, leading a saddled horse.

  Not the best horse Felston had, Adolfo thought as he eyed the animal. An adequate beast and nothing more. But he mounted without comment, and rode away.

  Once he was out of sight, he turned the horse away from the direction of the main road and cut across the fields so that he could pick up the road again on the other side of Ridgeley. He didn’t want to ride through the village. He didn’t want to be the scapegoat people accused of causing their pain and suffering.

  He could reach the next village by late evening, even riding this inadequate animal. Once there, he would summon the other Inquisitors he’d brought with him to Sylvalan. Then he would return here and deal with the Fae.

  Morag stood beside Ahern’s bed, watching the shadows deepen in his face. His housekeeper and one of his men kept the bedside vigil.

  “Ahern,” Morag said softly. The Mother only knew how he’d made it back to the farm wounded as he was. She wanted to release him from the suffering, but wouldn’t gather him without his consent.

  “Go outside, Morag,” Ahern said, his gruff voice now weak and gasping. “Go outside for a bit.”