by Anne Bishop
Neall straightened, pulled on his shirt, and shook off feelings that could cripple him. I haven’t lost until she tells me to go without her. But there was no question of him heading west and coming back for her. Not with a Fae Lord for a rival—especially that one.
“So,” he said, holding out his hand for the puppy to sniff. “You’re not going to give him an embarrassing name, are you? Women always give dogs names that make men cringe.”
Ari narrowed her eyes. “Women aren’t the only ones who sometimes choose odd names for animals. You named the gelding Dark Sea and ended up calling him Darcy.”
“That’s how it sounds when you say it fast,” Neall muttered. Deciding not to continue a discussion he couldn’t win, he studied the puppy. “Where did you get him?”
Ari’s huff at the blatant change of subject turned into a smile. She set the puppy down. “Dianna gave him to me. I was going to name him Fleetfoot.”
The puppy spotted a butterfly and gave chase until he tripped over his feet and went rolling.
“Then I thought of calling him Hunter.”
The puppy found his tail and chased that, too.
“So what did you decide to name him?” Neall asked solemnly.
“Merle.”
Neall nodded. “A good choice. At least it’s a name he can live up to.”
They looked at each other and laughed.
Dianna cursed silently as she watched Lyrra and Aiden stride toward her, probably coming to find out what had happened at the cottage today—which was something she didn’t want to discuss with them yet. Falco would reach her first, but there wouldn’t be enough time to talk before they had unwelcome company.
She gave Aiden a cool stare, knowing it was pointless to give a subtle command to Lyrra. She was, after all, another woman—and the Muse thrown into the bargain. She would see it, understand it, and ignore it if she chose.
Aiden, however, slowed his steps and caught Lyrra’s arm, forcing her to match his pace.
“Well?” Dianna asked Falco. She’d been worried about him, although she’d never admit it, and it made her sharply impatient.
Falco shifted restlessly. “She gave me a hind leg.”
Dianna wanted to shake her head vigorously to clear up whatever was wrong with her hearing. “She what?”
“From the rabbit. When she took the rabbit into the cottage, she cut off a hind leg and brought it back out to me since I had done the work of catching it.”
Dianna’s narrowed eyes snapped with temper.
“Why were you still there? I told you to leave the rabbit and go.”
He blushed. “I wanted to see a witch. I’d seen her before, of course, but I hadn’t known at the time she was one of them. So . . .” He hunched his shoulders. “She knew I was Fae.”
Dianna sucked in a breath. “How could she know? You didn’t reveal yourself, did you?”
“No!” he said quickly—and too loudly. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed, then lowered his voice. “One of the Small Folk was with her, and they always recognize us, no matter what form we wear.”
What she muttered under her breath made Falco flinch. “What was one of those mischief-makers doing there?” If the Small Folk started causing trouble, would Ari feel any warmth for any other folk who were magic?
“She wasn’t troubled by his being there. And—” He looked puzzled. “She seemed afraid of me. If these wiccanfae are so powerful, why was she afraid of me! What could the Lord of the Hawks do to her?”
“Maybe not all of them are powerful,” Dianna said thoughtfully. “Maybe they’re like us in that way, and there are stronger and weaker among them.” If that were true, Ari might not have enough power to harm them, but she still might be able to help them understand what was happening to Tir Alainn. Noticing that Aiden and Lyrra were now only a few steps away, she smiled at Falco. “Thank you. You did well.”
He studied her carefully. “One rabbit won’t last very long, especially with a growing pup to feed. I could bring another in a day or two.”
“I’ll consider it.”
Falco greeted Aiden and Lyrra, bid Dianna farewell, and left them.
“What was Falco up to today?” Lyrra demanded as soon as Falco was out of earshot.
“Nothing foolish, I hope,” Aiden said.
“He was performing a small service for me,” Dianna replied. “Aiden, you will play your harp for us tonight, won’t you?”
Lyrra looked mutinous at the change of subject, but when Aiden unexpectedly yielded, the Muse considered him for a moment and didn’t argue.
Dianna knew she shouldn’t push them aside. They were both too aware of the dangers to Tir Alainn, and since she couldn’t talk to Lucian right now without admitting that she’d been visiting Ari, these two were her best allies.
But she couldn’t talk to them tonight. Not just yet. In a couple of days, she would go back to Brightwood and find out if the puppy was pleasing enough that she would be forgiven for not respecting privacy.
Then hopefully, she would have something to tell them.
Lucian stood at the edge of the terrace and watched the windows of the Clan house fill with lamplight, one by one, as the daylight gave way to dusk. Inside there was food and company. He wanted both and could stomach neither.
He missed her. He tried to believe that it was her body and her bed that he wanted, but the truth was, he missed her. Missed the sound of her voice, even though the things she spoke of usually bored him. Missed looking at her as she moved about the kitchen to feed the belly’s hunger after the loins had been sated. He missed the quiet strength in her, and wondered what she would be like when she truly bloomed. And he missed touching her . . . and being touched.
He shouldn’t have missed any of those things. Didn’t want to miss them. He should have been able to walk away and not look back. Except it didn’t feel finished. That’s why he still thought of her, hungered for her. He hadn’t given her the parting gift, so he didn’t feel as if they’d parted. If he’d had those last two days to enjoy her, it would have been done, and he would have been the lover who had taught her what pleasure could be found in bed and she would have become a warm memory for him—and nothing more.
Instead, he thought about her and wondered if she was well, and if her garden was blooming, since it seemed so important to her. And he wondered, if he went back to visit, if she would open her arms and take him to her bed again.
Lucian’s heart beat a little faster.
There was no reason why Ari wouldn’t welcome him. He’d been a generous lover, in bed and out. There was no reason why she should turn away from a man who excited her. And he did excite her. He knew it. He could go to her cottage tomorrow evening and—
No. Not the evening. That would look too much as if he assumed his expectations would be met. Tomorrow morning, then. Just to spend time with her, be with her. Maybe it would help him understand her a little. And when he left, he would take nothing more than a kiss so that she would know it was more than her body that he wanted, if only for a little while longer.
He drew in air and was certain it was the first deep breath he’d taken in days.
Smiling as he heard the opening notes of a tune, Lucian went inside to join his kin.
There was still enough light to stop at one more tenant farm before returning to Felston’s house.
It’s not home anymore, Neall thought, letting Darcy do the work of keeping them safe on the road while his mind wandered through all the pieces of the day. Never really was home.
Each day he spent there chafed him more than the last. He wasn’t a child anymore who was forced to feel grateful that someone in his father’s family had taken him in. He was a man who had a future waiting for him, and it was time he reached for that future.
Would Ari choose to go with him? Or would the Lightbringer’s presence be enticement enough for her to stay at Brightwood? But how long would he stay? And what would happen to Ari when the Fae Lord tired of t
he affair and disappeared?
“Dianna gave him to me.”
The pup had given him a scare until he saw the tan legs. He’d thought it was a shadow hound.
Who was Dianna? She had enough arrogance to be gentry, but she wasn’t. He’d bet the meager wages Felston grudgingly paid him on that. So who—
“You can see through the clamor?”
Suddenly dizzy, Neall dropped the reins and swayed in the saddle. The gelding did its best to help him stay in the saddle, so, rather than taking a hard spill, he slid out of the saddle and onto the ground.
Ashk.
He went into the woods to find the fox den his father had shown him a couple of days before. He wanted to see if the vixen had had her kits yet. His father was busy, so he went into the woods alone, even though he wasn’t supposed to.
As he quietly approached the den, he saw Ashk sitting on a log nearby. She didn’t realize he was there until he was almost beside her, and then . . .
Her face was the one he could glimpse through the blurriness, the face beneath the one the eye usually saw. It didn’t occur to him that there was anything strange about her ears being pointed or that the feral quality in her face was something to fear. She was Ashk, his mother’s closest friend, the friend who sometimes looked after him when his parents both had work that couldn’t be interrupted by a young child.
She stared at him for so long, he wondered if she was going to scold him for coming into the woods alone. Then she invited him to sit with her since it was almost time for the birthing.
He heard nothing, but she did. He knew by the way she smiled and squeezed his hand that the vixen had birthed her kits and all of them were well.
Then she walked him back to his home. And the only time her face had blurred again when he looked at her was the day she had taken him to the village to meet the stranger named Felston, the man who had agreed to burden himself with a family obligation.
Neall lowered his head until it rested on his raised knees. Darcy snuffled him worriedly, no doubt confused about why he was just sitting in the road.
Ashk, his mother’s friend, was Fae.
“You can see through the clamor?”
He’d asked his father what “clamor” meant but had never explained why he’d wanted to know. So the answer had made no sense to him. But that wasn’t what Ashk had said. She’d said glamour—the magic the Fae used to confuse the eye and make themselves appear to be human.
And he could see through it. That’s why his vision blurred at times. He was seeing through the mask for a moment before his eyes yielded to the magic.
“Dianna gave him to me.”
He had seen her before . . . on the night of the Summer Moon, riding a pale mare with her shadow hounds running ahead of her.
Mother’s mercy, why was the Huntress spending time at Brightwood pretending to be human?
Darcy shoved him. He raised a hand and rested it on the gelding’s muzzle—and felt another wave of dizziness sweep over him.
Ahern, who raised the finest horses in this part of Sylvalan—perhaps in all of Sylvalan. Ahern, whose face sometimes blurred for the first few seconds when Neall saw him. Ahern, the gruff old man who seemed to have a proprietary interest in the women who had lived at Brightwood—and the girl who still lived there.
Ahern, too, was Fae.
Slowly climbing to his feet, Neall leaned against Darcy for a few moments to get his balance before mounting.
It was tempting to turn around and ride to Ahern’s farm, but he needed time to think and steady himself before he confronted the old man.
The Fae had been present all along. But why were so many of them showing up now? And why had the Lightbringer and the Huntress, the two who could command all the others, suddenly becoming interested in Ari?
Chapter Twenty
Morag woke from an uneasy sleep. At first, she thought the light was so pale because it was just past dawn. Then she heard children playing outside and knew it was later than that.
There’s a storm coming.
Shivering, she quickly dressed in black trousers and black overdress. Her own clothes. For the past few days, she’d worn garments loaned to her by other women in the Clan while her “corpse clothes” were cleaned and mended. The words had been teasingly said, but the women’s eyes had conveyed something else. There was no one in their Clan who was one of Death’s Servants, and in her own clothes, she looked too much like who she was. For Morphia’s sake, she had yielded. But not today.
Picking up her brush, she turned to the mirror to work the sleep tangles out of her hair.
The brush slipped from her hand and clattered to the table beneath the mirror.
There were shadows on her face. The same shadows she’d been seeing on Morphia’s face for the past few days.
Moving quickly, she packed her saddlebags and left the room. She hurried down one flight of stairs, almost tripping in her haste, and cursed the Clan elders who had given her sister a room on a different floor from hers.
She ran through the corridors until she reached her sister’s room. She tried the door, found it locked, then pounded her fist against it.
There was annoyance on Cullan’s face when he opened the door and saw her—and there were shadows. Morphia just looked at her with amused resignation when she brushed past Cullan and entered the room.
“We were just going down for the morning meal,” Morphia said as she walked toward the door. “Will you join us?” Then she smiled, and added, “I told Cullan you wouldn’t tolerate looking like a bouquet of spring flowers for very long, even if the colors did flatter you.”
Black flatters me more, Morag thought, grabbing Morphia’s arm to prevent her from leaving.
“Morag!” Morphia protested. “Let me go!”
Not if there’s a way to prevent it.
She saw Cullan watching them, his mouth tightened in disapproval. Was he reconsidering his decision to go with Morphia now that he had met her sister? It was one thing to know the Gatherer was closely related to the Sleep Sister. It was quite another to see them together and realize they weren’t always so far apart as others might think.
“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” Cullan said, sounding a bit too sulky for Morag’s liking.
As soon as Cullan closed the door behind him, Morphia rounded on her sister. “What is the matter with you?”
“Stay close to me today,” Morag said fiercely.
Morphia let out a huff of exasperation. “Enough is enough. I have listened to your vague complaints that something is wrong because I know you’re troubled, but even I have limits.”
“Then extend your limits and listen for a little while longer. If you love me at all, promise me you’ll stay close to me today!”
Morphia studied Morag. Then she paled. “Is it my sister or the Gatherer who is asking?” She shook her head. “Don’t answer. What do you want me to do?”
“Pack what you can in your saddlebags. If you brought more than that, leave it. See what you can bring in the way of food and drink, then meet me at the stables. I’ll get the horses saddled.”
“Horses! Where are we going?”
“Down the road through the Veil. We’re leaving here. Now.”
Morphia shook her head. “No. This isn’t just a casual mating. I care about Cullan, and—”
“Then bring him with you. But don’t delay, sister.” Morag headed for the door.
“You say enough to frighten but not enough to illuminate,” Morphia said angrily. “What is it you think is going to happen?”
Morag turned to look at her sister’s shadowed face. “I don’t know. But I don’t think we have much time left.”
As she left the Clan house and hurried toward the stables, she passed three children—a boy and girl ripening toward maturity, and a little girl.
“The fog’s so thick beyond the gardens, if you hold out your arm, you can’t see your hand,” the boy said.
Morag stopped, turned, stared at
the children. Their faces were shadowed. Death could never be cheated, but there were times when Death was willing to turn aside for a while.
“I don’t believe you,” the girl said. “I think you made it up.”
The little girl tugged on the older one’s sleeve and pointed. “Look! That part of the Clan house has a white veil.”
Morag looked in that direction and shivered. One part of the Clan house did look as if it had been covered with a sheer gauze that paled the color of the stones.
“Come with me,” Morag said, grabbing the hand of the little girl. “All of you, come with me.”
She didn’t wait to see if the other two would follow. When the little girl balked, she picked her up and moved toward the stables at a speed that left her breathless by the time she set the girl down to one side of the stable doors.
“Stay here,” she ordered.
The little girl looked at her with wide eyes filled with fear.
Morag rushed into the stables. “Saddle the horses,” she snapped at the men who had stopped whatever chores they were doing to stare at her.
“They haven’t been fed yet,” one of the men protested.
“Leave it. Get them saddled. Now.”
The dark horse thrust his head over the bottom half of the stall door and watched her.
She opened the bottom half of the door, dropped her saddlebags over it, then turned to retrieve her tack. “Step out of there,” she said over her shoulder. “We have to go.”
When she came out of the tack room with her saddle and bridle, she saw the men still standing there, doing nothing.
“Saddle those horses, or it’s the last thing you’ll refuse to do,” she snarled.
Coming from her, that threat they understood.
She saddled the dark horse, then hesitated when he lowered his head to accept the bridle. She stuffed the bridle in her saddlebags, tied them to the saddle, and hurried out of the stables, knowing he would follow her.
The fog was playing with the part of the Clan house that had been veiled a few minutes ago, obscuring part it for a moment, then lifting enough to reveal it again. But each time, more of it remained to shroud the walls.