by Anne Bishop
“She can’t undo what the nighthunters’ bites did just by moving in a certain direction,” Morag protested. “If it were that simple, she would have done it before.” Even as she said it, she knew why the mare hadn’t done it before. “It’s not that she knows. She’s just instinctively following something that’s here.”
Ari looked uncomfortable. Rubbing her cheek against Merle’s head and giving him one last pat, she set him down. He sat on her foot and stared at Morag. “Yes, I think so. My family has done a lot of dances in that meadow over the years. Even when it’s quiet, the magic is strong there.”
“If you’re willing, I’d like to let the horses stay here tonight.”
“Of course.” Ari paused. “Is there something you would like to do? I have some stew cooking. It should be ready soon.”
“I’d like to answer your question about your mother and grandmother.” Morag looked at the dark horse and added a bit plaintively, “Do we have to ride?”
Ari chuckled. “No. It’s a pleasant walk. This way.”
When they reached the edge of the meadow, Morag looked back. The dark horse trotted up to her. The sun stallion was watching her, as if uncertain if he should round up his mares and follow.
Morag sighed. “We’re just going for a walk,” she said, raising her voice enough for the sun stallion to hear. “You can all stay in the meadow. You too,” she added quietly.
The dark horse shook his head. He knew why she was taking this walk.
Merle yapped once at the dark horse, then trotted ahead of Ari to see what interesting messages his nose might pick up.
Ari led the little procession to a pond. A large oak tree grew near it.
“My mother used to sit under that oak tree and watch the pond,” Ari said. “Her body is there.”
Morag looked at the tree and all the surrounding land. She shook her head. “She isn’t here. I didn’t show her the road to the Shadowed Veil, but one of the others who are Death’s Servants must have done so.”
There was something about Ari’s sigh of relief that Morag found disturbing. “How did your mother die?”
Ari stared at the pond. “Lung sickness. We have a small ice cellar to keep food cold and fresh. I had a chill that day. She told me to stay home and keep warm, and she went out to cut the ice by herself. She fell into the pond, and—” Ari stopped. Closed her eyes. “She didn’t fall in. Water was her branch of the Mother. When she commanded, water obeyed. She could walk across that pond when there was only a skin of ice and come to no harm.”
Morag felt something wash through her. Something dangerous and feral. “Do you know who pushed her in? That is what happened, isn’t it? Someone wanted the witches gone from this place and attacked her when she was alone, throwing her into the pond to drown.”
Ari shuddered. “Anyone else, weighed down by heavy winter clothes, would have drowned. But the water obeyed. And she got out of the pond and made it home. But the lung sickness took hold, and there was nothing I could do for her.”
“Did she tell you who pushed her in?”
Ari shook her head. “She kept mumbling ‘Ridgeley,’ but that’s the name of the village. She had a fever, so it’s not surprising that she made no sense.”
“What else did she say?”
Ari shrugged. “She talked about daughters, about how Gran was right—the daughters needed to go away.”
Morag stared at the pond. “Why didn’t she fight? She had magic. She had power. Why didn’t she fight?” The depth of her anger surprised her. She had no right to aim it at Ari, who had shown her nothing but courtesy. But there are things you do not ask of the dead that can be asked of the living.
Ari looked at her wanly. “It is our creed to do no harm with our magic. Besides,” she added with a bit of temper, “what could she have done? Her gifts were water and a little earth.”
“She could have broken the ice beneath the feet of whoever attacked her and drowned the bastards,” Morag said fiercely.
Ari’s eyes widened.
Struggling not to let the rage inside her escape, Morag took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Ari, on most days your creed is a commendable way to live. But there is a great difference between doing no harm and defending yourself. I have shown too many young women the road to the Shadowed Veil because they followed your creed. For them, it was already too late to say anything. But you . . .”
“I—I’m not sure I could do that. I’m not sure I could use magic to harm someone, even if—”
“Do you love Neall?” Morag demanded.
“Y-yes.”
“If someone was trying to hurt him, would you just stand by and let him suffer or would you do something?”
Ari didn’t answer.
Morag sighed. “Where is your grandmother?”
“This way,” Ari said in a subdued voice.
They didn’t speak on the way to the hill. Even the animals were subdued, picking up the changed mood.
The moment Morag set foot on the bottom of the hill, she knew. But she said nothing.
When she reached the top of the hill, a light breeze played with her hair and made the wildflowers dance.
“Even on the stillest day, there’s always a little wind on this hill. This was Gran’s favorite spot.”
“Her gift was air?” Morag asked.
Ari nodded, then looked at Morag anxiously.
The ghost of an older woman smiled at them, then pressed one finger against her lips.
“There is no one here,” Morag lied.
“Thank you.” Ari sighed in relief. Then she smiled. “We should get back to the cottage. I left the stew on the back of the stove where it would just simmer, but it will be done by now.”
Morag followed Ari. Before leaving the crest of the hill, she looked back and whispered, “I will return.”
Yes, the ghost replied. There are things to be said.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“That’s all the messages said?” Dianna asked impatiently, her eyes raking Lyrra and Aiden, then skipping past Lucian. Ever since he’d learned of Ari’s intended marriage, his brooding had taken on a surly quality.
“The bards from several Clans have all basically sent the same thing,” Aiden replied, his own patience sounding strained. “Which makes sense since the Sleep Sister is the source of all of the messages. The witches know the key to keeping the roads through the Veil open, and they need to be protected.”
“Well, it’s a little hard to protect them when they blithely decide to run off with some . . . human.”
“They aren’t Fae,” Lyrra said carefully. “They can’t be expected to think like we do. Or care about the same things we do.”
Dianna whirled around to face Lyrra. “But it’s not too much to expect them to show a little heart. If Ari leaves, this part of Tir Alainn will be lost—and the Clan with it. He doesn’t need her. We do. And one way or another, she’s going to stay here.”
“That explains what’s threatening our part of Tir Alainn,” Aiden said. “But that doesn’t explain the rest. We need to find out why the witches are leaving the Old Places, and we need to find out how they’re connected to the Pillars of the World. Because I’m sure there is some connection.”
“I can’t tell you about the Pillars of the World,” said an unfamiliar voice, “but I can tell you why the witches are leaving the Old Places.”
Dianna turned toward the intruder. “This is a private—” A chill went through her when she saw the black-haired woman standing in the doorway.
The woman entered the room, carefully closed the door, then walked toward them, her black gown fluttering around her in a way that made Dianna’s skin crawl. Stopping before she was close enough to touch any of them, her dark eyes traveled over each of them.
“Who are you?” Dianna asked, knowing already . . . and hoping she was wrong.
“I am Morag,” the stranger said. “The Gatherer.”
Silence settled around the room.
> “Why are you here?” Dianna said, not realizing that her voice had gone shrill until Lyrra gave her a sharp, warning look.
Something flashed in Morag’s eyes so fast Dianna couldn’t identify it.
“I came seeking the Bard, the Huntress, and the Lightbringer. I came seeking answers.” Her eyes pinned Aiden to his chair, then swept over Lucian and Dianna. “And I came to give a warning. The Fae have to protect the Old Places and the ones who live there. If they don’t, soon there will be nothing left of Tir Alainn.”
“At the moment, it seems you have one more answer than we do,” Aiden said. “Why are the witches leaving the Old Places?”
“Because,” Morag said softly, “they’re being slaughtered.”
Dianna sat with her hands clenched in her lap, unable to think of anything to say. What could anyone say after listening to Morag’s tale?
“Who are these Inquisitors?” Lyrra finally asked. “Where did they come from?”
“Arktos, maybe,” Aiden said thoughtfully. He narrowed his eyes. “Or Wolfram. I think the roads through the Veil started closing there first.”
“And then they spread like a plague against magic,” Lyrra added, brushing her hair back wearily. “It certainly explains the songs and stories we’ve heard lately. It’s so much easier to stand by and let someone suffer if you’ve been told they’re evil.”
Dianna sat up straight, excitement coursing through her. “But if some of the witches fled before the Inquisitors could capture them, all we would have to do is find them and bring them back to an Old Place. Then the road through the Veil would open again. There might still be Fae who survived.” She slanted a look at Morag. “You did say you weren’t sure what happened to the Clan when the mist covered that part of Tir Alainn.”
“No, I don’t know what happened to them,” Morag replied too calmly. “But you’ve given no reason why any witches who have survived in Arktos or Wolfram—or even in the eastern part of Sylvalan—would want to return to an Old Place and let anyone know they still live.”
“Why wouldn’t they be willing to return if the Fae are willing to protect them?” Dianna asked.
“I must go,” Morag said abruptly, rising from the bench. “I’ve done what I’ve come for.”
Dianna and the others exchanged a startled look as Morag walked out of the room. Seeing the way her gown fluttered like tattered black shrouds made Dianna jump up and follow.
“Morag,” Dianna called. She suppressed a shudder when the Gatherer turned to face her. I am the Huntress. I am the female leader of the Fae. There’s no reason why I should fear her. She, too, answers to me. And there is no one better suited to take care of this. “There is something you can do that will save this part of Tir Alainn.”
He fears the shining roads, Morag thought sadly, feeling the tension drain from the dark horse when he was back in the human world. Has feared them ever since we barely escaped having one close around us. Even in a place like Brightwood, where the magic is so strong, he no longer trusts that the roads will be safe. And each time we’ve taken the road to the Shadowed Veil, it’s been harder for him. The day will come when fear will rip something from his heart that can never be restored. But if I choose another dark horse and leave him, it would break his heart. There has to be a way to let him go without hurting him.
Where two trails in the woods met, the dark horse firmly headed for the one that led to Ari’s cottage.
“No,” Morag said, turning him toward the other trail. “There’s something we have to do first.”
He didn’t like it, but since they weren’t returning to the shining road through the Veil, he obeyed.
I’ll find a way to let him go. I’ll find someone to take my place for him. He’s too young to be given to Death simply because he’s inconvenient. Just like . . .
Morag’s lips thinned to a grim line. The dark horse was the least of her problems at the moment.
At least the Lightbringer and the Huntress were aware of the danger to Tir Alainn. At least they didn’t scoff and refuse to listen. At least they’d said they wanted to protect the witches. But she’d sensed the undercurrents swirling in the room. She hadn’t understood them . . . until Dianna had asked her to gather a particular spirit and show it the road to the Shadowed Veil.
Neall. The young man Ari loved. The man Dianna wanted eliminated so that Ari would stay at Brightwood. The man who had bought a dark horse from Ahern.
Very soon she would have to make a decision about Neall. But there was a visit to be made first.
When she got to the hill where the wind always blew, she left the dark horse at the bottom of the hill and climbed to the top. She walked over to the ghost, sat down beside her.
They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes. Then the ghost said, “The wind from the north carries much sorrow.”
“Yes,” Morag said softly.
“There are warnings whispered. A violent storm has come to Sylvalan, a storm that rejoices in the Daughters’ pain. They must flee the Old Places and hide before it strikes them.”
Daughters? Morag wondered. But she asked a different question. “Did none of Death’s Servants come to show you the road to the Shadowed Veil and the Summerland beyond it?”
“One rode this way,” the ghost said. “She took my daughter with her. I chose to stay for a while.”
“Why?”
“Because of Ari. I wanted to know that she was going with Neall, that she had the strength to leave duty and choose a life that would nourish her heart.”
Morag shifted uneasily. “You want her to leave with him? You approve of Neall?”
“Oh, yes.” The ghost smiled. “He’s a fine young man. With him, my granddaughter will have a richer life than she could ever have here.”
“If she leaves here,” Morag said carefully, “the road through the Veil will close and a piece of Tir Alainn will be lost. The Fae need her to stay.”
The ghost’s smile turned brittle and bitter. “The Fae are very good at knowing what they want. They’re also very good at having someone else shoulder the burden in order for them to have what they want. They may want Ari to stay, but they don’t need her to stay. The Fae can hold the shining road.”
“Then why haven’t we?”
“Because you had us to do it for you.” She paused for a long time. Then, “Tir Alainn was meant to be a sanctuary, a place to rest and renew body and spirit. But the Fae found life in a land that required little toil was more to their liking than a world where the rose and beetle both reside. They lived above the world like creatures who live in the branches of a tree and touch the ground only to play—or when they see something they want. But they forgot that without the roots the tree cannot survive.”
“And you are the roots?”
The ghost looked out over the land. “The Fae are the Mother’s Children. But we are the Daughters. We are the Pillars of the World.”
Morag shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you? The answers are in plain sight, if you choose to look for them.”
This is why I never converse with the ghosts of old women, Morag thought irritably. They no longer need plain speaking, so they adore riddles.
“What makes Neall so special that you would have Ari leave the land and home your family has held for generations?” Morag asked.
“He can give her more than trinkets,” the ghost replied sharply. She was silent for a moment. “If the Fae here did persuade Ari to stay in order to keep hold of their part of Tir Alainn, would they live here with her, day after day, from season to season? Would they accept the disappointments as well as the joys of living in this world? Or would they fawn over her until Neall finally left without her? And once he left, how long would it be before they stopped visiting because it was no longer necessary?”
Morag brushed some dirt off her boot. “You’re very bitter about us, aren’t you?”
“I have read my family’s history. I have reason to feel
bitter.” The ghost sighed. “And I know that the fault doesn’t lie just with the Fae. The women in my family chose trinkets of affection. But I want Ari to have the richer jewels of love.”
Morag stood up. “When she’s gone, I’ll come back and show you the road to the Shadowed Veil.”
“When she’s gone, I, too, will be ready to go.”
Morag walked over to the point where the hill sloped downward. Then she turned back. “What is your name?”
“I am Astra.”
Nodding to acknowledge that she’d heard, Morag walked down the hill to where the dark horse waited.
“What do you think of her?” Ahern asked, resting his arms against the top rail of the paddock.
Neall grinned as he brought the dark mare to a halt and dismounted. “She’s light on her feet, responsive to commands, and smart enough to compensate for the most inept rider. She’s a beauty, Ahern.” He stroked the mare’s neck. “I hope you won’t have to let her go to someone who won’t appreciate her.”
“The dark horses go where I will,” Ahern replied. He paused, then added, “She’s for Ari.”
Neall’s hand froze on the mare’s neck as he stared at Ahern. “For— For Ari?”
“As you said, the mare can take care of a green rider. You’ll need another horse for the journey, so I’ll see that Ari’s mounted as it suits me.”
“But—”
“You have some objection?”
One look at Ahern’s stern face had Neall turning his attention back to the mare. He needs to do this because he cares about her. He’s watched her from a distance all her life, and when we leave, he won’t have even that. But every day he’ll think of Ari and the mare and take some comfort in it.
“No, sir,” Neall said. “It’s a very generous gift— and a welcome one.”