by Anne Bishop
Leaving the woods, they let the horses stretch into a gallop, flying over the open land. No sign of Neall or Glenn out in the fields, for which Ashk was grateful. There wasn’t time to stop, and nothing she could tell either of them even if she did.
Then they passed through another short stretch of woods that formed the boundary separating Neall’s land from the land worked by Padrick’s tenant farmers.
Not so far in terms of distance between the Clan house and Padrick’s estate, but the distance between human and Fae had felt vast — until she fell in love with a man who was both gentry and Fae, a man who had shown her it was possible to take the best from each and create something better than either could be alone.
They eased back to a canter when they were close enough to the manor to be noticed. Ashk used the glamour to create a human mask. The people who worked for Padrick knew what she was, but there was no reason to let these unexpected visitors know more than was needed.
Morag, however, made no attempt to hide what she was, and Ashk didn’t ask her to. Why waste the breath? Besides, it would give her time to study these men and decide what to do about them. Who would be paying attention to her when Morag was standing in front of them?
They rode into the stable yard and dismounted. Ashk murmured, “Walk,” to her horse and heard Morag murmur the same. Two grooms came out, touched two fingers to their foreheads in a salute, then stood back. They knew better than to try to take the reins of a Fae horse. When the horses were cooled down, the grooms would offer water and wait for further orders.
She paused, noting the small wagon, the two horses in the paddock for visitors that Padrick had built next to the stable — and the two men leaning against the paddock rails where the shade tree outside the paddock offered relief from the sun.
Turning away, Ashk strode to the manor with Morag easily matching her stride. How must they look to a stranger? One dressed in the brown-and-green trousers and tunic that were favored by the Fae of her Clan and the other dressed in slim black trousers and a split overdress that floated around her.
The front door opened before she reached it. Finlay, Padrick’s butler, said, “Lady Ashk, this gentleman asked to speak with you.” Nothing in his voice implied that she’d been anywhere except for a long ride from which she was just returning.
The man, who had been sitting on a bench next to six boxes, rose quickly to his feet. Whatever greeting he’d intended to give died when Morag walked through the door. His eyes widened. His breath seemed to catch in his chest. The healthy color in his face drained away.
“Blessings of the day to you,” he said — then winced a little when he realized what he’d said.
“Blessings of the day,” Ashk replied, studying his face more intently. Not the greeting he’d intended, but the one that came more naturally to him. He had woodland eyes, that brown-flecked green like her own. And she suspected that, like her, there had been a witch somewhere in his lineage. Perhaps fairly close, considering that it was a witch’s greeting that flowed from his lips when he was too startled to think.
“I beg you’ll forgive the intrusion, Lady, but —”
“I might,” Ashk interrupted, “if I knew who you are.”
His face flushed. With effort, he focused his attention on her. “I’m Mihail, the captain of a merchant vessel. I’m here to deliver these boxes to Baron Padrick.”
“Why? The baron didn’t mention he was expecting anything.”
Mihail looked uncomfortable. “He’s not. That’s why I wanted to talk to him.”
Ashk smiled. “Since he isn’t here, you’ll have to talk to me.”
He shifted uneasily, as if recognizing there was a threat in those words but not knowing why it was so.
“What’s in the boxes?” Ashk asked.
“Books,” he replied promptly.
Books? That could be good. Padrick always brought back a book or two when he had to go to Durham for the barons’ council. He had a fine library, the best in the county and probably beyond. He’d even brought some books for her, which she’d puzzled over, both fascinated and appalled by the actions and behavior of the people until he’d explained that these were stories that had been written down and were to be taken in the same way as the stories and story-songs that were told or sung by the Fae. Once she understood that, she was still fascinated and appalled — and grateful that the humans who lived near the Old Place had never done anything like the people in the stories — but she’d also come to appreciate that the books were a fine entertainment on a winter’s night. Sometimes she’d end up howling with laughter when Fae were mentioned in a story, because it was obvious the person who wrote it had never set foot in an Old Place let alone met any of the Fair Folk.
“Why did you bring them here?” Morag asked.
Ashk jolted, suddenly aware that she’d dropped her guard when Mihail mentioned books. Fool. Stop acting like a gentry woman who doesn’t know how swiftly a predator can strike.
“There’s a bookseller in Durham,” Mihail said. “He and I have had an arrangement for the past few years. I take some of his books and sell them to shopkeepers in the ports where I transport goods that come into Durham. Neither of us makes much profit, but it’s a tidy little business, since it’s easier to take the books along the coast than sending them overland.” He shifted his feet, cleared his throat. “When I was there recently, he had the regular order waiting — but he also asked me to take these books and find a safe place for them. The barons had declared that these books were no longer suitable reading and were to be destroyed, and the magistrate’s guards would be along any day to take all the copies he and the other booksellers had. He wanted to save what he could. Otherwise, when the barons finally came to their senses, these books, these stories, would be lost.
“I brought a cart late that night and drove it to the alleyway door. I took the books and promised I would find a safe place for them.”
“Why are these books no longer suitable for reading?” Ashk asked.
His eyes filled with restrained anger. “Because they were written by women, Lady Ashk. And the eastern barons have decided that women aren’t capable of writing anything that is worthy of being published or read.”
Ashk felt Morag stiffen — and she wondered what Padrick would say about this when he returned home.
“Why bring them to Padrick?” Ashk said. “He, too, is a baron.”
Mihail hesitated. “I met Baron Padrick when I went to fetch my nephews home from school, and he struck me as a decent man. One who would understand.”
“The merchant boys,” Ashk said, feeling another jolt run through her. “You’re their uncle.” The uncle who stands at the bow of his ship in a storm and asks the sea for safe passage. The uncle with woodland eyes. The man who talked to Padrick about finding a safe harbor in the west for his family’s ships — and his family.
“Yes, Lady.”
“Where are the boys?” She knew her tone was too sharp, but she couldn’t help it.
There was something wrong with Mihail’s smile. The affection was real, but the smile itself was a lie. “They’re still with me. They’re on the ship.”
You meant to take them home, but you kept them with you. Why?
“And where is your ship?”
Now he looked worried. “We put in at a harbor about a day’s ride from here. I’m not sure of the name of the village. The people there …” He shrugged. “If you’re willing to take the books, my men and I will be on our way. We’re only a few days past the Summer Moon, so there’s still plenty of moonlight. We should be able to travel well enough and get back to the ship by dawn.”
“He stays here tonight,” Morag said abruptly.
Mihail glanced at Morag, but he addressed Ashk. “I’m grateful for the offer, but I need to get back to my ship.”
Morag turned to Ashk. “He stays here tonight.” Then she was out the door before Ashk could say anything.
“Lady Ashk,” Mihail said.
>
Ashk had turned toward the door when Morag left. As she turned back to face her reluctant guest, she dropped the glamour that hid her true face.
He stared at her. “I thought you were —”
“Padrick’s wife. I am. I’m also Fae.”
He held out a hand, a silent plea. “I have to return to my ship.”
Ashk shook her head. “If she says you stay, then you stay.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s the Gatherer, and she wouldn’t insist that you stay for no reason.”
He paled again, and there was fear in his eyes now. It was one thing to wonder if the woman standing before you was the Gatherer; it was another thing to know it. “My ship…”
“Will be safe enough.”
“The villagers weren’t pleased to have a strange ship come into their harbor.”
No, they wouldn’t be. “Your ship and your people will be safe enough.”
“How can you be sure?” Mihail demanded, his concern overriding his fear.
“Because you have woodland eyes,” Ashk replied quietly. “Those eyes mark you as witches’ kin. So the harbor folk will wait and see what comes when you return.”
Mihail nodded reluctantly. “Then I thank you for your hospitality.” He hesitated. “Why does she want me to stay here?”
“I don’t know,” Ashk said. But I intend to find out.
“Why do you want him to stay?”
Morag turned from the flower bed she’d been staring at to find Ashk standing a few feet away from her. She hadn’t heard the other woman approach, but Ashk always moved silently. “He seems like a decent man.”
Ashk nodded. “He seems to be.”
“When he mentioned going back to his ship, I saw a flicker of a shadow on his face, and when I went out to look at the men who came with him, I saw the same flicker.
But Death isn’t whispering here. Death isn’t waiting for him but still might find him.”
Ashk studied Morag. “An accident on the road?”
“I don’t know.” She smiled, but there was no humor in it. “I can see only what I can see, Ashk. Only hear the messages Death sends.”
Ashk walked over to a bench and sat down. After a moment, Morag joined her. They said nothing for a while. Odd how a silence between them never seemed too long or too short. It was simply a resting place.
Finally, Morag said, “I’ll go with him tomorrow. Perhaps Death is waiting for him along the road and there’s nothing that can be done. But if he dies, I’ll always wonder if my being there would have made a difference.”
“We’ll both go with him,” Ashk said. “I think it best that I talk to the folk in that village — just in case the merchant captain finds himself needing a safe harbor.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Mother’s Hills were the most beautiful piece of Sylvalan Aiden had ever seen — and he wished with all his heart that he didn’t have to take one more step forward, that trying to find the Hunter was a foolish idea, that they could turn around and go back to Willowsbrook.
He was sure he could have convinced Lyrra to turn back and take the long northern roads around the hills. He might even have convinced himself if it wasn’t for the very last thing Breanna had said to them before they left the Old Place and entered the Mother’s Hills.
Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again. The same words that had been in the story of how the current Hunter had ascended to his power. The only story the Fae told that had those words. Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again. Those words made it far more likely that the Hunter had known witches, or, at the very least, had heard of the wiccanfae and might be willing to help him and Lyrra convince the rest of the Fae to do something before it was too late to do anything.
But the power in the hills staggered him. It felt as if every leaf, every blade of grass, every pebble under his boots breathed in that power then breathed it out again.
Perhaps they did. Nuala had said this was the Old Place, the home of the House of Gaian.
A year ago, the Fae had thought the House of Gaian had been lost long ago. And it had been — to us. We didn’t know who the wiccanfae were or why their disappearance from an Old Place caused a shining road to close and a piece of Tir Alainn to vanish in the mist. A year ago, when we searched to find information about the Pillars of the World, we didn’t know any of those things. If we’d ever set foot in these hills, we would have understood all of them.
He brushed his fingers over the wooden disk Nuala had given to him. There was no magic in it, no protective spell he was aware of. It wasn’t any different from a family crest, the kind the human gentry seemed to take such stock in. But touching it made him feel easier. A family of witches had befriended two of the Fae. Surely that would mean something to those who lived here — if they actually met any of them.
Nuala had also warned them not to use the glamour while they were in the Mother’s Hills because the people here would be able to sense the magic in them and would not feel kindly toward the deception of a human mask.
He felt naked without that mask. It was safer to look like the people around you. Especially when you were in a place where your kind weren’t usually welcomed.
He looked up at Lyrra, who was riding her mare and leading the packhorse. “Do you want to rest for a while?”
Lyrra shook her head. They were in another stretch of woodland, and her focus was on the trees and bushes on her side of the road.
There was plenty of open land in the hills — meadows and pastureland where they’d seen animals in the distance, grazing. But when they came to another piece of the road where the trees formed a canopy overhead and they stepped from the light of a summer day into the shadows of the woods .
Eyes watched them from those shadows. He saw no one, and he suspected if any of the Small Folk lived here, their magic was too pale for him to sense over the power in the land. But he felt those eyes watching the two of them.
Up ahead the road returned to open land and the bright dazzle of summer light.
Aiden quickened his pace, his reluctance to go forward warring with the desire to get into the open again. But he’d gone only a few steps when the mare pricked her ears and whinnied a soft greeting.
He froze, his eyes scanning the woods to find what had caught the mare’s attention, and he knew Lyrra was doing the same.
“Are you lost?” an amused voice asked.
Aiden didn’t see the man until he stepped away from the tree he’d been leaning against. Dressed in brown and summer green, he’d blended into the woods.
“You were expected a while ago, so we began to wonder if you’d gotten lost.” The man glanced at Lyrra, but the smile that followed that glance was directed at Aiden. “Then again, there are some pretty spots between here and Willowsbrook that are fine places to linger on a summer’s day.”
Aiden’s fingers brushed the wooden disk. “You were expecting us?”
“Cousin Breanna sent a message this morning. A man, a woman, and two horses coming our way from Willowsbrook.”
Since Lyrra had turned mute, Aiden had no choice but to be their spokesman. Besides, his curiosity was now a dreadful itch. “How could she send a message after we left and have it reach you before we did?” Could there have been a faster way? No, Breanna had escorted them to this road herself and said it was the clearest way and the easiest to follow.
The man smiled. “A whisper on the wind. A scent in the air. Not as precise as words on paper, but easy enough to read if you know how.” He whistled softly. A horse trotted out of the trees, its hooves making no sound on the road.
A Fae horse? Aiden wondered. What was a Fae horse doing here?
“There’s only a couple of miles to go before we reach the village,” the man said as he mounted his horse. “If you ride behind your lady, we’ll cover the distance faster, and you’ll have some time to rest before the evening meal.” That male smile flickered again.
When Aiden mo
unted behind Lyrra, she turned her head and whispered, “He thinks we’re late because we stopped to make love instead of traveling.”
Resting his mouth near her ear, he whispered back, “It’s a reasonable assumption.” And at a different time and in a different place, they might have done just that.
“How can we be late when we didn’t know we were expected?”
“Lyrra.” Aiden squeezed her waist lightly, well aware that the man who was now their escort might not be close enough to hear the words but was intelligent enough to guess at the conversation.
Their escort guided his horse over to them and gently tugged the packhorse’s lead out of Lyrra’s hand. “Why don’t I lead the packhorse,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “It looks like you two have your hands full as it is.”
“I — I — I —”Since that was the only sound Lyrra seemed capable of making, she subsided into silent fuming, her cheeks brilliantly colored by embarrassment or temper.
Aiden just closed his eyes, considered what the Muse could do when she finally regained her ability with words, and decided he didn’t want to think about it.
Their escort set his horse into an easy trot with the packhorse trotting with him, leaving Lyrra and Aiden no choice but to follow.
After a few minutes, when their escort looked back to see what was keeping them, Aiden murmured to Lyrra, “I think it would be wise to be a bit more friendly.” Her only response was to urge the mare forward until they were riding beside the man.
There was one simple, common way of bringing a stranger one step closer to possibly being a friend. “I’m Aiden. And this is Lyrra, my wife.”
“Skelly,” the man replied.
Aiden waited for Lyrra to say something. Anything.
“I’m …in a mood,” she finally said through gritted teeth.