Shadows and Light

by Anne Bishop

  Mihail reached out, rested a hand on her arm. “I’ll bring them to safe harbor, Jenny. Those who haven’t already left to visit kin, I’ll bring them to safe harbor.”

  “Done then,” Cordell said, climbing out of the cart. “If you brought anything with you, let’s get it unloaded so your brother can be on his way.” She smiled mischievously at Mihail. “And since my other branch of the Mother is air, I can promise you fair winds and calm seas for the start of your journey.”

  While Mihail and several men headed for the ship and several women began the brisk business of deciding with Jenny what she and the boys would need, Ashk eased her horse out of the crowd. Morag followed.

  “The shadows,” Ashk said abruptly. “Do you still see them on his face?”

  “No.” She’s tired, Morag thought. This was harder for her than she allowed anyone to see. “You weren’t sure they’d be accepted.”

  “I wasn’t sure,” Ashk agreed. “Or that he could accept what he found here. And while I suspected there had been at least one witch in his family somewhere along the line, I hadn’t suspected he had quite that strong a tie to the House of Gaian. But I thought, when it came to the villagers here deciding about him, his eyes would be in his favor, and I was right about that.”

  “His eyes?”

  “He has woodland eyes, Morag. So do those boys. So does Jenny. A witch’s eyes. Anyone who has those eyes has a bit of the House of Gaian running through their veins.”

  Like you, Morag thought, looking at Ashk.

  “Come along,” Ashk said, brushing her heels against her horse’s sides. “There’s a tavern nearby. The family lives above it, but they keep a couple of rooms set aside for guests — and they serve a decent meal. We can stay there tonight and get a fresh start in the morning. Besides, once Jenny and the boys are settled, Cordell will want to speak with me.”

  “Cordell.” Morag stiffened when she finally made the connection. “She’s Neall’s grandmother.” “Yes. She’ll want news of him and Ari.” “I thought she didn’t care.”

  “I thought so, too, for a long time. But hearing her talk to Jenny … I wonder if she hadn’t been right all along. Nora had loved Bretonwood, and Cordell needed the sea. She could have taken her daughter to the Old Place here, but it wouldn’t have been the same. Not for Nora. Bretonwood was where her heart lived.”

  Morag hesitated, then said, “I wonder if Ari regrets leaving Brightwood.”

  Ashk shook her head. “She came to a place that needed her, welcomed her.”

  “Like Jenny.”

  “Like Jenny.”

  When they reached the tavern, the young man who came out to lead the horses to the stables around back barely glanced at either of them — but he beamed and cooed to the horses.

  “Well,” Ashk said as she slung her saddlebags over one shoulder and strode to the tavern door. “That puts me in my place.”

  Morag just laughed softly.

  They kept the conversation light that evening, even spent a little time listening to the village minstrel who often played in the tavern. And if they were wondering what was happening at the barons’ council or whether Mihail would get back in time to get the rest of his family safely out of the east, neither voiced the thoughts, giving each other the gift of silence.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ubel stepped away from the other five Inquisitors and the young forester they’d captured. Not much more than a boy, really. All it had taken was a little of the Inquisitor’s Gift of persuasion to coax the lad deep into the woods on Baron Padrick’s estate. He would have liked to take their captive farther away, but he’d been impatient to wring information out of the boy.

  Just as well. The boy had broken so quickly under the first level of softening, he’d spilled out disjointed answers to every question they’d asked.

  The result was frustrating, and he was still trying to sort through the boy’s words to fit them into something that made sense.

  The baron had not yet returned home from the barons’ council. That was good. The baron’s wife was also not at home, nor were the baron’s two children. The boy had been clear about that much.

  But every time Ubel had asked about the baron’s wife, the boy had babbled about a Lady Ashk, one of the Fae who lived at the Clan house in the Old Place nearby.

  The Fae didn’t have Clan houses in the Old Places. Everyone knew that. They lived in Tir Alainn and came down the shining roads for brief visits to the human world — at least, until those visits were stopped by destroying the magic in the Old Place.

  When he’d pressed further about this female living in the Old Place, the boy had babbled about a witch living there. That made sense, and the news had excited him. Master Adolfo had told him that he and his men couldn’t afford to linger at any of the Old Places they might pass on their way to Breton, so they’d been forced to allow the Evil One’s servants to continue soiling the world. But a witch who lived so close to Breton … That was different. They could take care of her at the same time they dealt with the baron’s wife and children.

  The baron’s wife. Was it possible Padrick had actually married one of the Fae and that’s why the boy babbled about Clan houses? While the thought of using one of those creatures for physical pleasure was titillating in a disgusting sort of way, acknowledging her as a person and, worse, raising the offspring that had come from such matings as if they were decent humans was obscene.

  Perhaps she did have a cottage in the Old Place where she stayed when she was tired of pretending to be human. Perhaps that was what the boy had meant by a Clan house. Perhaps there were other Fae who lived there with her. Whenever the baron was away, she probably acted the bitch in heat for any Fae male who wanted her. She couldn’t do that in the baron’s own house. Even a man lacking in decency — as Padrick surely did, since no decent man would have helped that bastard Liam escape his rightful punishment — wouldn’t tolerate being cuckolded in front of the people he ruled.

  Ubel studied the trees around him. Too many. Too close. Too alive. If there were some Fae living in the Old Place, then every bird, every deer, every rustling sound in the woods might be the enemy in animal form. Which meant they had to strike swiftly and thoroughly.

  Tomorrow. The boy had said the baron’s wife was expected back tomorrow. But there was still one thing they could do today.

  The magic in the nearby Old Place was so strong, it seeped beyond the borders, spilling out into Padrick’s land. There was more than enough here for him and the other Inquisitors to draw on, and what they would create would plague Fae and human alike.

  “Ubel?” one of the Inquisitors asked. “What should we do with this one?”

  Ubel looked back at the boy on the ground, bound hand and foot, a scold’s bridle keeping him silent. “We can’t let him go, so I see no reason why you shouldn’t test all the instruments on him to be sure they’re in good working order. After that, we’ll dispose of him.”

  Master Adolfo had trained them all too well for them to act like children who had just been given a treat. But their eyes glittered with anticipation as they opened their saddlebags to carefully set out the rest of the instruments they’d brought with them.

  As their leader, Ubel felt he couldn’t join them, so he walked far enough away so that his presence wouldn’t inhibit them. That’s what Master Adolfo would have done.

  By tomorrow at this time, the task would be completed, and Baron Padrick would come home to the lesson of what happened to men who tried to thwart the will of Adolfo, the Master Inquisitor, the Witch’s Hammer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ashk slanted a glance at Morag. Who would have thought a couple swallows of ale too many could wash away all that reserve? “Headache still bothering you?” she asked kindly.

  Morag shook her head. “I was thinking of Jenny. I hope she’ll be comfortable in the village.”

  “She and the boys will settle in just fine,” Ashk said. “And she’ll have plenty of help getting
the house ready for the rest of her family.”

  “I noticed the help,” Morag replied. “So did her brother when the young man from the dairy farm showed up this morning with milk and butter, and one of the sons from the baker’s family showed up with fresh bread and sweet buns, and a son from the butcher’s family showed up with —”

  Ashk burst out laughing. “They seemed like fine young men who won’t be looking to be more than friendly and helpful — at least until their sisters or female cousins have a chance to find out if there’s a special man Jenny’s waiting to have join her.”

  “I’m not sure her brother felt so reassured by all the helpfulness.”

  “She’s a witch, and she can command the sea. No one in that village is going to overstep any boundaries Jenny chooses to set.” Ashk hesitated. “What about Mihail?”

  “I saw no shadows on his face this morning, nor any on the faces of his crew. That doesn’t mean Death isn’t waiting for him somewhere along the journey, only that it wasn’t close.”

  Ashk nodded. “Then we’ll hope for an easy journey and a quick return to safe harbor. But I could see the worry in his eyes.”

  “Not for himself,” Morag said quietly. “For Jenny. It isn’t easy to leave a sister when all you can do is trust that she’ll remain safe and well — especially when you know it’s quite possible that she’ll be neither.”

  Ashk didn’t reply. Wasn’t certain what she could say. The ale last night had loosened Morag’s tongue enough that she’d talked about her sister, Morphia. It hadn’t taken much effort for Ashk to hear what wasn’t being said: Morag’s gift had shown long before she’d actually become the Gatherer, and her Clan, without doing it intentionally, had made her keenly aware that she was an outsider, someone whose gift made the rest of them uncomfortable. Everyone except Morphia.

  An outsider among her own. Ashk understood how that felt. She’d been one in her own Clan, which is why her grandfather had brought her to Bretonwood. His home Clan, before he’d left to live with his mate’s Clan as was the Fae custom when a man and woman made a pledge to each other that was meant to last more than a season.

  An outsider among her own, she’d found family in Neall’s parents, Nora and Kief, and, later, with Padrick and the children they’d made together. She hoped Morag would find the same with Ari and Neall … and with her. She hadn’t realized how much she and Morag had in common. Perhaps getting a little drunk and sentimental together was a fine step toward becoming good friends.

  Words have shadows, too, Ashk thought. They can hide as much as they reveal. Perhaps the first step in becoming good friends is mine to take, to tell her what I think she already senses but doesn’t yet understand. She saw the curve in the road. They had almost reached the place where this road joined the road that led to Bretonwood. Perhaps this was a good time to say the words that would bring some things into the light.

  “Morag —”

  Ashk suddenly reined in at the same moment Morag did, both of them listening, searching.

  “Something’s wrong,” Ashk said softly. “There’s something here that doesn’t belong.”

  “Death is whispering,” Morag said just as softly. “But I’m not being summoned in any particular direction.”

  Ashk hesitated for a moment, torn between loyalties. If Padrick were home, he would take care of his people and she would take care of hers. She could ride to the manor house, but if there was trouble, what could she do there? Wasn’t that the very reason Padrick had insisted the children stay with her in the Clan house?

  “Let’s go home,” she said grimly.

  The two Fae horses surged forward and galloped down the road, stride for stride. A short time later, they reached the Clan house. Seeing the way the Fae dropped whatever they were working on and hurried toward her and Morag, she knew her abrupt return had been the only disturbance. But there was something out there that didn’t belong.

  She dismounted, told her horse to walk and cool down. Heard Morag tell the dark horse the same thing.

  “Has there been any trouble here?” she asked.

  The Fae who had gathered around her shook their heads.

  “Well,” one of the men said, “that groom from the manor house rode by this morning. Seems that one of Forrester’s apprentices went missing yesterday. Forrester thought the boy might have met up with a couple of our lads and abandoned his duties in order to go fishing or have a bit of fun. When the boy hadn’t returned at dusk, Forrester started to go out to look for him, but he said there was something about the feel of the woods that made him uneasy about sending men out when the light was going. The groom showed up here soon after first light to see if the boy had taken shelter with us or with Ari and Neall.”

  “Was the boy found?” Ashk asked, feeling worry flutter in her stomach.

  The man shook his head.

  “Could he —?” You’re thinking like a worried mother. That won’t help anyone. “Could he have run away?”

  The man gave her a curious look. “To go where? From what the groom said, the boy came from one of the tenant farms and saw his family often enough that he wouldn’t be pining for home. He liked his work, and Forrester is a fair man with those who work under him. So is the baron.”

  Which meant there was some other reason for the boy not returning last night. An injury, perhaps. Something that had made it impossible for him to get back to the manor house on his own.

  Ashk looked at Morag. The Gatherer’s grim expression didn’t change.

  A crow flew toward them, landed nearby, and changed into a Fae youth. “There’s a pony cart heading this way.”

  “Everyone go back to what you were doing,” Ashk said. She saw Morag walk over to the large outdoor table where members of the Clan often ate or worked. She joined Morag, settling beside her on the bench. “Anything?”

  Morag shook her head. “Death is waiting.”

  Ashk almost asked if that was a good thing; then she realized it was wishful thinking. Whatever Morag heard or felt through her gift had become stronger. Death was now a certainty, but they still didn’t know where or who it would touch.

  The pony cart came in sight. Stopped where the road flowed into the sun-dappled space the Clan used as an outdoor living area — what Padrick, with a smile in his eyes, said was the Fae’s equivalent to the manor house’s front lawn.

  Ashk didn’t recognize the young man driving the cart, but she knew the farmer who got down and headed toward her with a cloth-wrapped bundle in his hands. Barry was one of Padrick’s tenant farmers. He and his wife had two grown sons, and an adolescent daughter who still lived at home. The sons, who lived in their own cottages with their wives and young families, worked the land with their father and took their share of the profits.

  As Barry approached the table where she and Morag sat, Ashk noticed two of her Clan’s men set aside their work and wander over. Nothing unusual about that — unless you noticed one of them held a walking stick stout enough to double as a club and the other had an arrow loosely nocked in his bow.

  “A good day to you, ladies,” Barry said.

  “A good day to you,” Ashk replied. Barry had married later in his life, after his father had died and he’d taken over the tenant farm. So he was a fair number of years older than she and had the lined, grizzled look of a man who’d spent his life outdoors. But he hadn’t looked old. Not old in the stooped, shrunken way he looked now. Before she could ask him if something was wrong, he jerked his head toward the pony cart.

  “My cousin’s boy,” he said. “Works as some kind of clerk in one of the larger towns. Needed a bit of country air, so he came here for a visit.” He shifted a little, effectively cutting off Ashk’s view of the young man — and his view of her — and just as effectively putting his young kinsman directly in Morag’s line of sight.

  “Since he’s visiting, my wife did some extra baking. Made a couple loaves of her special sweet bread.” Barry looked directly at Morag; then he set the cloth bu
ndle on the table and unwrapped it to reveal a loaf of the bread. “Lady Ashk is partial to my wife’s sweet bread. We’d heard she’s been away and was expected back today, so my wife told me to bring this on over to welcome her home. When she gets home, you be sure to give it to her.” He reached out, tore off a small corner of the bread. Popped it into his mouth, chewed a couple of times, then swallowed. And stared at Morag. “Lady Ashk sure is partial to my wife’s sweet bread.”

  Morag didn’t move, didn’t answer. Simply stared back at him.

  Ashk frowned at Barry. Why was he talking as if she wasn’t there, as if she hadn’t returned to the Clan house yet? Had he suffered some kind of brain seizure that had left him confused?

  Barry brushed a finger against the brim of his cap. “Good day to you.”

  He hurried back to the cart before Ashk had a chance to thank him for the bread. When he climbed onto the seat and looked at her, she reached out, intending to pinch off a corner of the bread and eat it so that he would know she appreciated the gift.

  Morag slapped her hand so hard she jerked back, feeling like a child who’d been caught trying to snitch something from the kitchen.

  “You know better than that,” Morag said loudly, angrily. She stood up and tossed the cloth back over the bread, covering it. “Lady Ashk is always willing to share, but it’s custom that she gets the first slice. No one is going to touch this until she gets home.”

  Ashk stared at Morag. Was the woman still drunk? Had she been in the sun too long today on the journey back from the harbor? Was she having some kind of brain seizure, too, that she couldn’t remember who she’d just spent the day with?

  A little stunned, Ashk looked at the men in the pony cart — and saw the way Barry’s kinsman, wide-eyed and pale, looked at Morag before slapping the reins across the pony’s back and returning to Barry’s farm with more speed than prudence.