The Pillars of the World ta-1

by Anne Bishop

  “Why should I feel sentimental about any of those things?” Ari said a little defiantly. She was surprised to see Morag wince.

  “I was thinking of your mother and grandmother,” Morag said gently. “If they had a favorite piece or two, you might want to keep those.”

  “Oh. Yes, there are a couple of pieces like that.”

  Bringing the jewelry box over to the bed, Morag wrapped it in a wool vest, then worked it into the saddlebag, shoving it down the side as far as she could. She fastened the buckles on the saddlebags and stepped back. “That’s it, then.” She brushed her hair back from her face. “What are you going to do now?”

  Ari blinked back tears. Leaving Brightwood would have been easier if they’d been able to wait until the harvest. It would have been easier if she could have packed her own things, spent a little time picking and choosing the yarns and the looms she wanted to take with her, the bedding, the pots and pans, her collection of drawings that she used to inspire the weaving. It felt too much like she was being torn away instead of leaving on her own. But she understood why the cottage had to be empty when these Inquisitor men arrived in Ridgeley. If they were going to arrive at all.

  Let it go. Don’t look back. Someone else will feel the way the land here sings and will call it home. Maybe they’ll need all the things you leave behind. Maybe they’ll stay, and another family will write about Brightwood in their journals.

  Ari gasped. The journals. She couldn’t leave them here in an empty cottage.

  “Ari?” Morag asked sharply. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh.” Wanting to ease the concern in Morag’s eyes, Ari made an effort to smile. “I just remembered something else. When I take the sun stallion and the mares over to Ahern’s, I want to ask him if he would bring the journals over to his house. I don’t want them left here.”

  Morag frowned. “Journals?”

  “My family’s history. Brightwood’s history, really.”

  Morag nodded. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Finish making the list of things I’d like to take in the wagon so I can bring that to Ahern too.” Ari made a face. “In case I have to explain what any of the things are. I doubt Ahern has paid much attention to anything that deals with spinning and weaving.”

  Morag smiled. “I’d guess that if a horse doesn’t need it or can’t do it, he hasn’t paid any attention to it. So you might want to draw rough sketches of things while you finish that list. It’ll save you both frustration.”

  Ari laughed. “That’s a good thought.” She paused, and asked shyly, “What are you going to do now?”

  Some subtle shift of expression altered Morag’s face, making Ari shiver. This was not the Gatherer who would gently release a spirit from a suffering, dying body. This was the face Ari imagined men would see when Morag rode for vengeance. “I have to go to Tir Alainn for a little while.”

  Adolfo finished his cup of tea and dabbed his lips with a napkin that had Felston’s family crest embroidered in one corner. He looked at the teapot, as if debating having another cup. In truth, he was simply enjoying the way Baron Felston squirmed with impatience—a captive host chained to his own breakfast table by a show of good manners.

  And he also wanted a little more time to consider what he’d been told yesterday.

  Felston’s daughter, Odella, had needed no persuasion to spew her story about the witch who had stolen the Fae lover who had gotten her with child. He didn’t believe for one moment that a Fae Lord had pleasured himself with a girl as repulsive as Odella. Oh, she was pretty enough, but the moment she opened her mouth, any man with sense would have realized the pretty face and comely body weren’t worth enduring the girl herself.

  But the story about the Fae Lord had been a sharp reminder that the Fae were in evidence around here. If one of them had been enjoying himself with the witch, he might cause some trouble. If he found out what happened to her. But it would be simple enough to focus his attention elsewhere.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Adolfo studied Royce, the baron’s son. A thwarted lover, perhaps? Whatever the reason for Royce’s sullen anger, the young man could be easily persuaded to create a diversion while the witch was brought back to the baron’s estate to be dealt with. Not that he would explain it that way to Royce.

  “You say this man, Ahern, takes an interest in the witch?” Adolfo asked.

  “He tends to know what’s happening at Brightwood,” Felston replied sourly.

  Adolfo pushed his chair back and rose. “In that case, I think it would be wise to take a look at this man and determine how much trouble he might be.”

  “And how are you planning to do that?”

  Adolfo smiled gently. “I’m going to buy a horse.”

  Dianna looked at Morag expectantly. “It’s done?”

  “No,” Morag said quietly. “Nor will it be done. Neall is a young man with a full life ahead of him. I will not gather his spirit before his time.”

  Anger rushed through Dianna, swelling until it filled her. “Ari has to stay. He has to be eliminated. For the good of Tir Alainn—and for the good of the Fae.”

  “The Fae can hold the shining road through the Veil.”

  “We’ve never tried. You don’t know that for sure.” Dianna paced, turned back to face Morag. “Even if we can, how many of us will it take? How many would have to stay in the . . . human . . . world, sacrificing themselves?”

  “You won’t give anything but you’re willing to sacrifice two young people’s lives?”

  “They’re not Fae! Besides, we wouldn’t be sacrificing Ari. We’ll take care of her.”

  Morag stared at her until Dianna had to resist the urge to squirm.

  “As what?” Morag asked softly. “A favorite pet? Someone whose life is contained so that it fits what we want? Is that what it comes down to, Dianna? We are the Fae, and the humans, the witches, the Small Folk, the world are there for our amusement and our pleasure?”

  “We are the Fae,” Dianna insisted. “We are the Mother’s Children.”

  She wasn’t sure what to think when Morag suddenly shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Where is your loyalty, Morag?”

  Oh, the change in that face, in those eyes.

  “That is not a question you should ask me, Huntress,” Morag said.

  “He has to be eliminated.”

  “The Fae can hold the roads.”

  “How many of us?” Dianna demanded. “Do you know?”

  “No, I don’t. So you would be wise to pack food and whatever else you value the most and bring it down to the human world. You would be wise to have the Clan come down to Brightwood in case the road does close. Then the Clan will be safe, and you’ll have time to find out how many are needed.”

  “And if you’re wrong and it doesn’t work, we lose this part of Tir Alainn.”

  “But not the Clan. Not your family.”

  “It’s not your Clan who’s being forced out of their home,” Dianna said bitterly. “It’s not your family who is at risk.”

  “Even if this was my Clan, my answer would be the same.”

  “That’s so easy to say when it isn’t.”

  Dianna clenched her fists, seething with frustration. For Morag to ignore the needs of the Fae because of one insignificant human . . .

  “I command you to gather this . . . Neall’s . . . spirit.”

  “I refuse.”

  Dianna pounded her fist on the table. “You forget who I am.”

  Morag’s eyes flashed. “And you forget who I am. I don’t just gather human spirits, Dianna.”

  Dianna’s breath whooshed out of her. “Y-you’re threatening me, the Lady of the Moon, in order to spare a human!”

  Morag’s smile was sharp and mocking. “Would you accept it easier if I was warning you in order to spare another of the Fae?”

  “We’re not talking about another of the Fae. We are the Mother’s Children. We have no equals.”

 
; Morag’s smile faded. “That’s what we’ve chosen to believe. I wonder if it’s true.” She walked out of the room.

  Dianna stumbled over to a bench, sank down on it.

  Morag couldn’t be trusted. That much was clear. Which meant there was only one thing to do if they were going to save their piece of Tir Alainn.

  Dianna stood up, waited a moment to be sure her shaking legs would support her, then went to find Lucian.

  “Morag!” a tired voice called. “Well met, sister.”

  Morag slipped her foot out of the stirrup and turned toward the voice.

  Looking unbearably weary, Morphia rode up to her.

  Morag knew her smile didn’t reflect the warmth in her heart. There was still too much anger stirring from her meeting with Dianna. And something else that was just out of reach but kept sending a shiver through her.

  So she did the only thing she could think of. She opened her arms in welcome.

  “You’re tired,” Morag said, hugging her sister.

  “In body and heart,” Morphia replied, returning the hug before stepping back.

  “The Bard has heard the warning you sent,” Morag said, wanting to offer some comfort. “He’ll make sure the bards carry the message to all the Clans.”

  Morphia looked at her sadly. “Yes, the bards I met listened and promised to send on the warning. A few of the Clans I talked to are angry about what is happening in the human world and intend to make themselves known to the witches who live in the Old Places so that they can be present and keep watch for these Inquisitors. But more of the Clans are blaming the witches for fleeing the Old Places and causing the roads to close before there’s any danger.” She sighed. “Were we always such fools, Morag? You don’t need to answer. I already know. I’ve had to learn in these past weeks what you’ve known for so long because of who you are. Sometimes I used to send sleep and gentle dreams to someone in the human world who was troubled or hurting in order to give them rest from the pain. But just as often I would snatch sleep from someone simply because I could. I never thought about how that person would feel after a restless night or what difference it would make the next day. I used my gift to indulge my whims. I feel ashamed of that now. We are the Mother’s Children. The children. I think, perhaps, we were aptly named.”

  “Perhaps,” Morag agreed. “But now that you see things differently, you can choose to act differently.” She gave Morphia’s arm a comforting squeeze. “Have you just ridden in? You should make your duty call to the matriarchs of the Clan and then get some rest.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Morag mounted the dark horse. “I’m going back to Brightwood to keep watch—and to do what I can to protect.”

  “Neall,” Ahern said quietly. “We’re about to have company. Get out of sight. And take the mare and gelding with you.”

  Glancing over toward the lane that led to Ahern’s farm, Neall spotted the riders. He didn’t recognize most of them—or the horses they rode—but he recognized Royce and Baron Felston. Quickly turning his back and hoping Royce especially didn’t spot him, he murmured, “Come on,” to Darcy while he led the dark mare to the stables.

  When they got inside, the mare calmly walked to her stall and went in. Darcy, however, immediately turned, crowding up against Neall.

  “Step back,” Neall hissed as he shut the stables door, leaving just enough of an opening to peer through. “And keep quiet. We don’t want Ahern to have trouble with the baron. Especially now.”

  Darcy snorted but stopped shoving against him.

  Neall watched the riders approach. Some were obviously guards. They carried themselves like men who had been trained to fight. Two younger men wore black coats. But it was the older man riding beside Felston who made Neall’s belly twist. A lean-faced, balding, strong-bodied man whose dark-gray clothing made him look severe.

  No, Neall decided. It wasn’t just the clothes that made the man look severe. It was the face, the way he carried himself. Just seeing him made Neall shiver.

  Take care, Ahern. Whoever he is, take care.

  Adolfo gave the farm a casual, sweeping look before he dismounted. The place stank of magic so strong it almost overwhelmed his ability to sense the men who now gathered to meet his group of riders. All the men working here were Fae—or at least had some Fae or witch blood in them. He knew the feel of those kind of men well, had trained himself to sense them. It was what he looked for in his apprentice Inquisitors. Magic had to be fought with magic, and those who had been forsaken were always the keenest to even the scales.

  But having so many here who had the potential for magic meant the older man who stood waiting for them knew what they were and had let them stay. Which meant he was probably just like them, probably the strongest among them. And that meant he had to be dealt with carefully—until he could be dealt with completely.

  “A good morning to you,” Adolfo said pleasantly. “I am addressing Master Ahern, am I not?”

  “What do you want?” Ahern replied.

  “I understand you have some of the finest horses in this part of Sylvalan. I have a need for good mounts for myself and my men.”

  “There’s nothing here that would suit you.”

  “Now see here,” Baron Felston sputtered. “Master Adolfo is an important man.”

  “If he’s with you, I know exactly how important he must be. So let me rephrase what I said: There’s nothing here for the likes of you.”

  “I don’t believe you understand who I am,” Adolfo said, his voice quietly menacing. Then he stopped. As much as he would like to give the man a reason to fear him, it was better to wait for the right moment. It would come soon enough.

  Ahern smiled, giving his face a feral quality. An icy fist curled around Adolfo’s spine—and squeezed.

  “I understand well enough what you are,” Ahern said.

  “And what is that?”

  “The face of evil.”

  Adolfo felt the blood drain from his face. “How dare you say that to me?”

  Ahern took a step forward, leaned toward Adolfo. “You’re a killer. A butcher. A destroyer of all that is good in the world. Oh, yes, I understand well enough what you are.”

  Hearing the uneasy shifting of feet of the men who had come with him, Adolfo stiffened. “You will regret those words.”

  Ahern smiled grimly. “Go while you can.”

  As Adolfo mounted his horse, he began to summon his power. He would twist some of the magic here into a few nighthunters. Let that bastard see how well he could deal—

  “Go!” Ahern shouted.

  The horses wheeled and galloped down the lane, refusing to yield to spur or bit until they were back on the main road. During that ride, Adolfo hung on grimly. So did the other men.

  When the horses finally slowed of their own accord, Adolfo reined in.

  “What happened?” Felston said, puffing as if he’d been the one galloping.

  What had happened? That shouted order could have startled the horses, but it shouldn’t have made them unmanageable for all the time it had taken to get off Ahern’s land. Magic didn’t work on animals unless . . .

  “Of course,” Adolfo said softly.

  “What?” Felston snapped. “Do you have an explanation for why well-trained animals would suddenly go mad?”

  “He’s a horse Lord,” Adolfo said.

  “What are you talking about?” Felston sputtered. “That surly bastard has been living at that farm for years, and there has never been a whisper that he’d come from any kind of gentry family.”

  “He isn’t gentry,” Adolfo said impatiently. “He’s Fae. A horse Lord. That’s the only explanation for the way he controlled these animals. For all these years, you’ve had a Fae Lord living among you, pretending to be human.”

  “Fae?” Felston paled. “Ahern is one of the Fae!”

  “Oh, yes,” Adolfo said. “I am certain your horse farmer is one of the Fae.”

  “Then what do we do?”<
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  “First we ride to Ridgeley to have a restorative glass of something potent and a light meal. Then we’ll take care of the witch before the Fae Lord decides to interfere.”

  “In that case, shouldn’t we go to Brightwood now?” Felston said.

  Adolfo shook his head. “There’s time. He’s Fae. No matter what he thinks, he won’t believe there’s really that much urgency. They never do.”

  Neall slipped out of the barn and joined Ahern.

  “Who were those men?” he asked.

  Ahern didn’t answer. He watched the lane long after the men had disappeared. Finally, “I think they were the Black Coats Morag told me about. The Inquisitors. The witch killers.”

  “Ari.” Neall spun around until he was staring in the direction of Brightwood.

  Ahern nodded grimly. “Yes. Ari.” He took a deep breath, let it out in an explosive huff. “She’ll be here soon with the horses. Then, young Neall, I think we need to discuss a change of plans.”

  Ari took the biscuits out of the oven. Bread would have been better, but there wasn’t time to bake bread today. Besides, the biscuits would be easier to carry.

  She’d have to ask Morag if there was a practical way to carry a bit of food when riding on horseback. And she needed to remember her canteens.

  Right now, she had to take the sun stallion and the mares over to Ahern’s.

  Giving the soup simmering on the back of the stove one last stir, she stepped to the kitchen doorway and pressed her hands against the frame. She felt the tingle of the warding spells.

  “Those who have been welcomed before are welcome again. As I will it, so mote it be.”

  The warding spells shifted, formed a new pattern. If Morag got back before she did, the warding spells would allow the Fae woman to enter the house. After all, what was the point of leaving the soup simmering if Morag couldn’t get inside to have something to eat?

  “Come on, Merle,” Ari called, stepping outside and closing the kitchen door.

  When the puppy bounced over to her, she picked him up and hugged him.

  “I hope you’re not so young that you’ll forget me in a few weeks’ time. And that’s all it will be. Then we’ll both have a new home. And you’ll have Neall to play with, too.”