Shadows and Light ta-2

by Anne Bishop

  “What do you know about the Black Coats?” Padrick demanded.

  “The Bard warned the Daughters about them, and the Daughters asked us to watch, to give warning if they crossed into the Old Place. But the Black Coats did not enter, so we did no harm.”

  “The Bard?” Padrick said. “The Bard?”

  “He and the Muse crossed the bridge many days ago. But they did not leave by the bridge. You will have to ask the Daughters where they went.”

  “Thank you,” Padrick said. His horse crossed the bridge.

  Liam followed, feeling a little stunned. As soon as he could, he urged his horse forward until he rode beside Padrick.

  “That... that was one of the Small Folk,” he said.

  “Do you think the witches here will talk to me?” Padrick asked. “I’d like to know what the Bard might have told them about the Inquisitors.”

  “The Bard. You actually think the Fae Lord of Song was here?”

  “The water sprite said he was.”

  A few days ago, the Fae had been nothing more than stories. Now he’d spent several days traveling with a man who looked human but was actually a Fae Lord, had seen one of the Small Folk, and had been told that the Bard had visited here. Maybe it was all the fever dreams he’d had that made this seem... normal... in an extraordinary kind of way.

  “This is an Old Place,” Liam said.

  Padrick grinned, which only made him look more exhausted. “Laddy-boy, I knew this was an Old Place before I crossed the bridge. For one thing, I could feel the difference in the land. For another, the Small Folk don’t live anywhere else.”

  “Why did she call the witches ‘daughters’?”

  “Witches are the Mother’s Daughters. I guess you could say they are the Great Mother’s hands, heart, and eyes.”

  Before Liam could ask anything else, a hawk screamed. He looked up, saw the bird diving toward them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Padrick’s face change so that he looked like a Fae Lord.

  With another scream that sounded a bit surprised, the hawk broke off its attack, circled them twice to get a good look at Padrick’s face, then flew toward Breanna’s house.

  “What was that about?” Liam said, soothing his startled horse.

  “That was a Fae Lord who, apparently, didn’t like seeing two men riding toward the ladies’ home.”

  “A Fae Lord. I didn’t know there were any Fae around here.” And he wondered what Breanna’s reaction had been when she’d found out. He was certain she would have an opinion about Fae showing up on her doorstep. She had an opinion about everything.

  “Didn’t you?” Padrick said, something odd in the tone of his voice. His face changed so that he looked human again.

  The next obstacle was a wall of armed men standing in front of the archway that led to the outbuildings behind Breanna’s home.

  Feeling the strain of a full day’s ride, and impatient to see his mother, Liam was less than tactful. “Who are you?” he said sharply. “What’s your business here?”

  Not the best way to approach armed men, especially when two of them had bows drawn and aimed at him and Padrick and two others had crossbows.

  “Who are you?” one of them demanded.

  “That’s Baron Liam,” another man said, stepping up behind the armed men.

  “You’re Rory,” Liam said, recognizing Breanna’s cousin. “Tell these men to let us pass.”

  “You know him?” one the men asked Rory.

  “He’s the baron,” Rory said. “Don’t recognize the other one.”

  “If he’s the baron, why should we let him pass?”

  A window shot open with enough force that Liam started hoping the startled men had a good hold on the arrows pointed at him. Breanna leaned out the window.

  “Rory, you featherhead, let them in,” Breanna said testily. She ducked back inside the room.

  The men lowered their weapons and stepped aside.

  Liam’s heart pounded, but he noticed Padrick looked like he was fighting not to grin as they rode through the arch.

  “What?” Liam said.

  “My wife would like her.”

  Mother’s mercy.

  Clay took their horses, giving them both a considering look after seeing Padrick’s Fae horse.

  For a place that usually seemed to have too few people, now Liam thought there were too many. Children who had been playing catch with a cloth ball a moment before they rode in now stared at them, too watchful. Idjit, naturally, was still focused on the ball and hadn’t yet noticed the addition of two men and horses. Mother’s tits! The hawk was a better watchdog than the dog!

  Elinore burst out of the kitchen doorway and ran toward him, Breanna following more slowly.

  Liam’s arms went around his mother, holding her as tightly as she held him.

  “Liam,” Elinore said, her voice breaking. “I’m glad you’re home. So glad.”

  “Mother, what’s happened? Why—?” No, he wouldn’t ask why Elinore was at the Old Place, not with Breanna looking so strained, as if she’d been fighting against grief.

  “Was anything said at the barons’ council? Was there any news?”

  Liam brushed stray hairs away from his mother’s face. “Why did you leave our home?” he asked quietly.

  “I got a letter from Moira, and I was too frightened to stay at the estate while you were gone.”

  “From—” No. His father had trained him to have that reaction whenever Elinore mentioned her cousin Moira. It didn’t have to be—wouldn’t be—his reaction.

  “Liam, have you heard anything about her village?”

  “No, I...” Liam looked at Padrick, who shook his head.

  “Let him read the letter, Elinore,” Breanna said. “It might make sense to him then.”

  “Yes, of course. It’s in my room. I’ll get it.” Stepping away from Liam, Elinore ran back into the house.

  Liam took a step toward Breanna. “Who are all these people?”

  “Kin,” Breanna replied, brushing her dark hair away from her face. “They ran from the eastern barons and the Black Coats. The elders in the family stayed behind to cover their tracks, to hide that so many were gone. And now that we know what might have happened to them ...”

  Liam caught her arms as she swayed.

  She glanced at Padrick and stiffened.

  “This is Padrick, the Baron of Breton. He helped me get home.” Liam forced a smile, hoping to ease her tension. “He’s not a featherhead.”

  “At least not in this form,” Padrick muttered—which made Liam wonder about the hawk he’d seen at times when they’d had to rest for an hour.

  Breanna narrowed her eyes. “You’re Fae? You’re a Fae Lord and a gentry baron?”

  Padrick gave her a small bow. “At your service, Mistress ...”

  “Breanna.” Her eyes narrowed even more. “You don’t have a sudden urge to go out and catch a rabbit, do you?”

  Padrick glanced up. Following his gaze, Liam saw the hawk soaring overhead, watching everything below it.

  “No, Mistress Breanna, I have no urge to hunt rabbits at the moment. Although, to be fair, he could hardly bring you a deer.”

  “He doesn’t do too well with salmon, either,” Breanna muttered. “But he tries.”

  Padrick chuckled. Liam wished he understood what was so amusing.

  Then Breanna rested a hand against his face. “You’ve been ill,” she said.

  “I...” Liam took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I was poisoned.”

  She paled so much, Liam wondered if she was going to faint.

  “Poisoned? Why?”

  “He spoke out in the council meeting against the eastern barons and the Inquisitors,” Padrick said.

  “I would have died if it wasn’t for Padrick’s help,” Liam said.

  “Mother’s mercy,” Breanna whispered.

  “Perhaps you should sit down, Mistress Breanna,” Padrick said gently.

  She shook her head. �
��No. But the two of you should. Why don’t you sit under the tree there? I’ll bring you some ale.”

  “You don’t need to—,” Liam said, but Breanna was already turning away and walking toward the house. He took a step to stop her, but Padrick’s hand on his arm held him back.

  “She needs to do something useful,” Padrick said. “And you really do need to sit down.”

  They walked to the bench under the tree.

  “Breanna is my sister,” Liam said, settling on the bench. “My half sister. My father...”

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  Breanna returned with tankards of ale. She handed one to each of them, then held out the letter to Liam. “Elinore is resting. She’s frightened, Liam. We all are.”

  “Breanna...”

  “Read the letter. Perhaps then you’ll be able to tell her something that will ease her mind.”

  Breanna walked away.

  Padrick took a sip of his ale, then stood up. “This is a private matter. I’ll—”

  “No,” Liam said. He set his tankard on the bench. “I’d appreciate your opinion. And, obviously, this letter has been read by others, so whatever Moira wrote to my mother wasn’t private in that way.”

  When Padrick settled on the bench beside him, Liam opened the letter.

  Dearest Elinore,

  I know my last letter must have hurt you when I told you so brusquely not to write to me again because I didn’t want to hear from you anymore. I did want to hear from you, more than you can know, but I was afraid your letters might draw too much attention from the baron who rules my village and that you might suffer for it. I decided to tell you not to write because I was afraid, for both our sakes, of what you might say or the questions you might ask, and I couldn’t write to you. But this letter will be my last, so I’ll tell you all the things I haven’t been able to say.

  I have guests tonight, a young couple, recently wed, who are fleeing the eastern village where they had lived, hoping to get far enough west to escape the madness that has come over the barons here and has turned our lives, women’s lives, into a barren nightmare. I have hidden them, given them food and a place to rest for a few hours. I gave them your direction, and I’ll give them this letter in the hope that it reaches you.

  I wouldn’t send them to you if your husband still lived, but I think Liam has too much of you in him to be a man like his father. I hope with all my heart that is true.

  We are less than prisoners now, Elinore. Less than slaves. Less than the animals men use. We are domestic labor who clean men’s houses, cook their food, wash their clothes. And we are the whores they use when they want sex. That is what the baron’s decrees have turned us into. We cannot work to earn a living for ourselves. We cannot express a thought or opinion or feeling that disagrees in the slightest way with what the men who are in charge of us think or say or feel. If we do, we are punished—sometimes publicly, sometimes privately. I’ve endured both. They are equally brutal. Even when the punishment doesn’t do much harm to the body, it rapes the soul. Of course, the men call it discipline, the necessary force required to make us modest women who will not become the Evil One’s servants.

  We are forbidden to write stories and poems and plays. We are forbidden to write music, to paint, even to sketch. We can read only books men have given us permission to read, can play only the music it has been deemed acceptable for us to play.

  We cannot write anything, not even a shopping list, without a man’s approval, and that approval is indicated by his initials at the bottom of the page. That’s why I haven’t written to you. There is nothing I could say that I would want a man to see, and, because I’ve been known to be opinionated, I doubt I could write anything blandly enough to meet with approval. Trying to send a letter without that approval... One woman tried to write to family in another village farther west of here, asking if any of her male relatives would be willing to fetch her since we are no longer permitted to travel beyond the confines of our own village without the escort of a male relative. The letter was confiscated. On the orders of the baron and the magistrate, two of the woman’s fingers were cut off so that she could no longer hold a pen.

  We cannot talk to each other without a man present. If we do, we are brought before the magistrate and questioned ruthlessly about what was said—and telling the truth, that the conversation was nothing more than one woman seeking housekeeping advice from another, isn’t believed. The women are “softened” by “small disciplines” until one of them breaks, confessing to having said whatever the magistrate or the baron—or the Inquisitor, if one is in the village at that time—has told her she said. Then, because those “confessions” usually admit to being a servant of the Evil One or having had contact with a witch, one or both women are killed.

  And any man, especially if he isn’t one of the gentry, who protests having a wife, a mother, a sister questioned or, may the Mother help him, tries to stop the killing after a woman has been condemned, is also condemned because, of course, no decent man would protest so he must already be ensnared by the Evil One. So even good men who are sickened by what has happened here have become harsh out of fear for their families.

  But all these things are not the worst they’ve done to us. The baron decreed that too many incidents of “female hysteria” have disrupted the village and disturbed the community, meaning the men. A “procedure,” brought over from Wolfram, I believe, was declared necessary for people’s well-being, meaning the men. Neither the baron nor the magistrate nor the physicians who performed it explained what this “procedure” was, but men were assured they would not lose the use of their females for more than a few days, and that once it was done, we would be far less likely to be ensnared by the Evil One.

  They cut us, Elinore. They took away that small nub of flesh so that there’s no longer even the possibility of pleasure when we’re with a man. They took that away from all of us—not just the women in their prime, but the elders and the girls. Maureen ... A year ago, my daughter began looking at the young men in the village with interest. As the chains of the baron’s decrees have tightened around us, she looked at those same young men in fear. Now she looks at them with soul-deep dread. She will never know the juicy excitement of being with a man. All she will know is passive submission. That’s all any of us know anymore. It breaks my heart when I hear her crying at night.

  We’re still alive, but we’re no longer living, except in our dreams.

  How many of us, desperate and despairing, made a heartfelt plea for some solace, some escape? Perhaps many of us. Perhaps all of us.

  One night I dreamt I was in the Old Place—not as it is now, with so many of the trees cut down and the meadows ripped by plows, but as it was a year ago when the witches who had lived there still walked the land. Maureen and I stood in a meadow, and soon other women and girls joined us. There, for the first time in so long, we could hold each other to give comfort. We could laugh, cry, rage, grieve without being silenced.

  All the women from the village gathered in the meadow of dream. That first night, I noticed a woman standing at the edge of the meadow, almost hidden in the shadows of the trees. I think, somehow, we had summoned the Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams, and it was her gift that made it possible for us to be together in spirit while our bodies slept.

  The first couple of nights, we were too relieved about being together to think much about the woman standing at the edge of the meadow. Then some of us began to wonder how physically close she had to be to be able to create this dream meadow for us, and we began to fear what would happen to her if she were found.

  The third night, I approached her. She is truly lovely, Elinore, with her black hair flowing down her back and those dark eyes that see so much. I thanked her for the dream meadow—and I told her it wasn’t safe for her to stay near this village unless she was staying in Tir Alainn most of the time, and even then it wasn’t safe. Tears filled her eyes, and she told me that destroying the witches and
the Old Place had also destroyed that piece of Tir Alainn. She told me she had to leave, it was too dangerous to stay, and when she left, the dream meadow would begin to fade. Some of us would be able to find it in our dreams for a few more nights, but she didn’t think we would be able to find it in a way that we would be together.

  So I went back to the other women. We talked and talked and talked. The next night, we gathered again, but the edges of the meadow were soft, like a watercolor, instead of sharp like a painting done in oils. We made a choice that night, and we made a plan. Not all the women agreed because, they argued, we had a place to be together for a few hours. But the night after that, when only half of us were able to come together in the dream, we knew there weren’t many nights left before we would be alone again, isolated again.

  We cannot fight against the baron and his magistrate or the guards at their command, and we cannot fight against the Inquisitors. Even if we did, we wouldn’t be able to take back our village and our lives. The other eastern barons would come in and crush us if we tried. There is only one way we can see to escape, and, at the same time, send out a warning to the rest of the women and men in Sylvalan. That is the choice we have made.

  On the night of the Summer Moon, a night when the women of Sylvalan have traditionally celebrated their sexuality, we will gather at the Old Place for the last time.

  The sky will begin to lighten soon. I must wake my guests and send them on their way before too many men are stirring.

  I don’t expect you to understand the choice I’ve made. I hope the day never comes when you have reason to understand. But I also hope that, after a time, you’ll be able to think of me again with kindness.

  Blessings of the day to you, Elinore.

  Your loving cousin, Moira

  Liam’s hand fell limply into his lap. The fingers holding the letter tightened on the paper as he stared at the ground just ahead of him.

  “They’ve gone mad,” he said softly. “That’s the only explanation. The barons in the east truly have gone mad. How could they expect us to do this? To give the orders for this?”