Shadows and Light

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 bundle 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.

As soon as the cart was out of sight, Ashk stood up, pushing the bench hard enough to knock it over. “What’s wrong with you?” The queer fury in Morag’s dark eyes made her uneasy.

“There are shadows on his face,” Morag snapped. “They weren’t there when he arrived. They weren’t there until he ate the bread.”

A chill brushed over Ashk. She looked at the covered loaf of bread.

“He knows who I am,” Morag continued. “He knows what I am. That’s why he ate it. So I would see what only I would see. And warn you.”

The chill was still there, but it had turned into calm ice. Ashk recognized the feeling. Accepted it. Understood she was about to walk in the darker shadows of the woods. “He’ll die?”

Morag didn’t answer the question. “And that other man? I doubt he’s any kin. He, too, recognized what I was—and he has reason to fear me. I think he’s one of the Black Coats.”

Ashk didn’t ask why Morag thought that—especially when Morag half turned, and whispered, “Ari.”

“Go,” Ashk said. “You take care of Ari and Neall. I’ll take care of Barry’s ‘kinsman.’ ”

Morag changed into her raven form and flew away, heading toward Ari and Neall’s cottage. Her dark horse galloped after her.

Once more, the Fae had dropped their work and hurried toward her. She wondered if they saw the same queer fury in her eyes that she’d seen in Morag’s. She picked up the bread, shoved it into a woman’s hands. “Lock that up for the moment. Don’t allow anyone to eat it, not so much as a crumb.” She pointed at two other women. “Gather the children and get them into the Clan house. None of them go out until I give consent. Get the elders inside, too.” She pointed to others, giving orders. “Take some men. One group goes to Ari’s cottage to help Morag; the other goes to the manor house. Warn them there may be Black Coats among us. Two of you go on to the village. Tell the magistrate so he can call out his guards. Some of the youths can go out to the tenant farms and give the warning.”

“Will you sound the horn?” one of the men asked.

If she did, it would be heard far beyond the boundaries of the Clan house. But would the Inquisitors know what it meant? “Bring it.”

A youth ran to the Clan house while some of the men and women changed into their other shapes and ran or flew to Barry’s farm or headed out for the other farms to give the warning about the Inquisitors’ presence. Others quickly saddled horses, gathered up bows and crossbows.

Ashk mounted her horse, took her bow and the quiver full of arrows from one of her huntsmen. The youth returned from the Clan house, held up the horn.

In anyone else’s hands, it was just a hunting horn. In the hands of a Lord or Lady of the Woods, its notes could command anything and everything that belonged to the woods.

Ashk took a deep breath to steady herself. Grandfather, stay away. Don’t answer the horn. A futile wish, but she made it anyway as she drew upon the gift that was hers and put the horn to her lips.

Flocks of birds exploded from the trees, taking wild flight, obeying commands as old as the woods. Some circled the Clan house. Others headed for Barry’s farm.

As she blew the horn again, summoning, commanding, she felt the pulse of life responding to it. The woods had come alive. And the woods were angry.

She attached the horn to a ring on her saddle, pressed her heels into her horse’s sides, and galloped toward Barry’s farm. She didn’t know if there was any way to save the man, but she wouldn’t let the Black Coats have his family.

When they reached the farm, she saw two horses circling fearfully in the small paddock next to the barn. She heard the pony’s terrified neighs. And she saw the saddled Fae horse dancing and rearing just outside the barn, holding three wolves at bay.

Her huntsmen circled the cottage on their silent horses. She reined in her horse a few feet away from the partially opened front door. A man’s foot, shod in an old work boot, lay across the threshold. Barry hadn’t even been able to get all the way inside the cottage before whatever was in the bread—or something else—brought him down.

Ashk dismounted, nocked an arrow in her bow. As she approached the door, she heard a woman’s tearful voice saying, “Stop. Please stop.”

She kicked the door, ready to leap into the room. It opened halfway before hitting something that stopped it. She stepped on Barry’s legs to get through the opening, twisting around toward the voice as soon as she got past the door. She pulled the bowstring back.

Her arms shook with the effort. Her eyes refused to stay open and focused.

She bit her lip until it bled, using the pain to force herself to remain clear-sighted.

The woman, who was on her knees, twisted around to look at Ashk. “Please. Can you make them stop?”

The bow weighed as much as a tree. Her legs wanted to buckle. Mother’s tits! What was wrong with her?

“Please?” the woman said.

Ashk fought to study the woman, despite the fatigue that was blurring her vision. She looked at the black hair, the dark eyes, the face that was softer and fuller than the one she knew but enough alike. “You’re Morphia.”

“Yes.” The word came out in a relieved rush of air.

Her arms straining, Ashk raised the bow high enough so that if her fingers slipped on the bowstring she wouldn’t shoot Morag’s sister. As soon as the arrow was once again loosely nocked in the bow, she felt the fatigue lift. And she noticed all the bodies in the room. There were foxes and ferrets, wolves and hawks, crows and ravens, owls and falcons. A young stag lay across the legs of one of Barry’s sons. There were rabbits and, Mother’s tits, even a pile of field mice. The room was full of bodies tumbled over bodies. Some were Fae in their other form, but most were animals her hunting horn had summoned and directed toward this place.

“Mother’s mercy!” One of her huntsmen thrust his upper body through an open window, his crossbow ready to fire.

Morphia whipped her head around to face him.

“No!” Ashk shouted, not sure to whom she was giving the command. She pointed to her huntsman. “Out. Tell the others to stay out. And have someone call off the wolves.”

The huntsman disappeared.

Ashk and Morphia stared at each other.

“What did you do to them?” Ashk asked quietly.

“They kept trying to attack me, so I put them to sleep.”

“You put them to sleep.” Morag had told her Morphia was the Lady of Dreams, the Sleep Sister. Looking at all the bodies, Ashk didn’t know if she should laugh or weep. She’d never thought of sleep as a weapon, but dropping someone into an instant, deep sleep was an effective way of stopping an attacker.

She looked down, saw Barry’s legs, and shouted for one of her huntsmen. “Fetch one of our healers. Tell her she’s needed here now.”

“Jana is here. Came riding in behind us.”

“Then tell her—” Ashk looked around. There was no place to work in this room, no place for another person to stand. By luck or instinct she’d managed to plant her feet on either side of a fox without crushing any furred or feathered bodies beneath her boots. But she couldn’t turn around to get back out the door. “Pull Barry out the door. Carefully. Take him to the barn and do what you can for him.”

As her men pulled Barry out the door, she saw the crow, sparrow, young ferret, and tiny whoo-it owl sleeping on his back. And as she turned back to look at Morphia, she noticed the Sleep Sister was cradling a falcon in her hands, her fingers nervously stroking his breast feathers.

Ashk was fairly certain that Sheridan, who was Bretonwood’s Lord of the Hawks, would have been delighted to have Morphia stroke his chest—especially if he’d been in his human form and had been awake to enjoy it.

“Can you wake them a few at a time, or do you have to wake them all at once?”

“I can wake them a few at a time,” Morphia said quickly.

Ashk licked lips that had suddenly gone dry. “Can you wake Barry? The old man?”

Morphia closed her eyes. When she opened them, tears filled them, spilled over. “If I wake him, he’ll suffer.”

“Then there’s nothing we can do for him?”

“I don’t know. I sense the suffering beneath the sleep, but that’s all I can tell you. Morag would know, if she were here.”

And Morag didn’t answer when I asked. Which may have been an answer after all. “Wake him. Just for a minute or two. I’d like him to know his warning was understood.”

Morphia nodded.

“Can you wake the ones who are between me and the door? But not the Black Coat,” she added, seeing another male body almost hidden under feathers and fur.

Morphia nodded again.

The fox between Ashk’s feet stirred, opened its eyes, snarled at Morphia.

“No,” Ashk said firmly, giving the animal a nudge with her boot. “Go home now. Go back to the fields and the woods.”

The fox turned and nimbly leaped for the open door.

Birds woke, fluffed their feathers, and flew off.

As soon as Ashk could move without hurting anyone, she dashed out the door and ran to the barn. She heard the harsh breathing, stumbled toward a stall. She fell on her knees beside Barry and took one of his hands in both of hers.

“L-lady Ashk,” he said. “The Gatherer...”

“She understood the warning. We didn’t eat the bread.”

“Good. Good. Didn’t want to bring it. But they said they’d ... they’d...”

“It’s all right,” Ashk said. “Your family is safe, and they’ll be looked after. And those men will never bring harm to anyone again. This I promise you.”

Barry’s only answer was a gasp of pain.

Ashk laid his hand on his chest and walked out of the barn. Then she ran to the cottage, shouting, “Morphia!”

Animals streamed out of the doorway, so she pushed open a window’s shutters, ducked to avoid the crow that flew through the opening, and climbed into the cottage’s main room.

“He sleeps,” Morphia said softly.

Ashk sniffed. Brushed tears off her cheeks. When had she started crying?

Then she looked at the two Inquisitors, and her tears dried up.

Morphia looked at the women. The mother was tied to a chair. The daughter was on the floor, her skirts pushed up to her thighs.

“I was looking for the Clan house,” Morphia said. “I saw the cottage, and I heard someone scream.”

“So you rode in, not knowing what you were up against.”

Morphia’s dark eyes stared through her, and Ashk thought she understood why Morphia and Morag, the Sleep Sister and the Gatherer, had remained close.

“I knew what I could do,” Morphia said. “And I knew that I would do it—even if it meant they never woke.”

Ashk looked pointedly at the women. “Will you wake them, Sleep Sister? Or is there a reason why they should never wake?”

“I thought it best if there was someone they knew here when they woke.” She gently set the falcon on the floor, then stiffly got to her feet.

“Let’s get the rest of the animals out of the house,” Ashk said. There were three wolves and the falcon left. One was a real wolf. The other two were Fae. Of the three of them, only the real wolf wasn’t annoyed by the unexpected nap. He just shook himself and trotted away. The other two glared balefully at Morphia until Ashk grabbed them by their scruffs and hauled them out the door.

Morphia studied the sleeping falcon. “He’s a Fae Lord, isn’t he?”

“He’s our Clan’s Lord of the Hawks.”

“He’s not going to be happy.”

Ashk slanted a glance at Morphia. “I won’t tell him you fondled his feathers if you don’t.”

Morphia blushed. Ashk liked her because of it.

“Just wake him up and let him preen his ruffled feathers,” Ashk said.

Stepping away from the door to give him a clear exit, Morphia obeyed.

The Fae Lord stared at Morphia for a long moment before flying out the door.

Well, well, Ashk thought. Maybe he wasn’t as unaware of being fondled as I’d thought. But she decided not to share that with Morphia just yet.

They woke Barry’s son. He had a bump on his head but was otherwise unharmed. Looking at the knife beside the Inquisitor’s body, Ashk suspected he would have come to great harm if it hadn’t been for Morphia’s arrival.

Barry’s wife had bruises. So did the daughter. But there was no blood on the girl’s thighs.

Another reason to be grateful to Morphia.

While a couple of her huntsmen led Barry’s family to the barn, others saddled the Inquisitors’ horses and tied the still-sleeping men over the saddles.

“Come,” Ashk said, leading Morphia out of the cottage. “We’ll take you up to the Clan house where you can eat and rest. I’ll send someone to tell Morag you’re here, but I think she’ll stay at the cottage tonight.”

Morphia stopped walking. “Morag is here? She’s staying with your Clan?”

“No, she’s not actually staying with us.”

A skim of ice came over Morphia’s eyes. “Because she’s shunned by the Clans. If you don’t want her, you don’t want me. Just tell me where to find her.”

So much anger and bitterness in those words. Because of that, Ashk swallowed the urge to snap to her Clan’s defense. “Morag is welcome to stay with us, but when Neall and Ari asked her to live with them, that was her choice.”

The ice in Morphia’s eyes thawed. “Ari? Neall? She’s all right? They’re all right?”

“They’re fine, and she’s round with their first babe.”

Morphia looked at the ground. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

“Don’t be sorry. You had no reason to think otherwise. But”—Ashk gave Morphia an odd smile—“as the rest of the Fae have so often remarked, we’re different here in the west.”

One of the huntsmen stayed with Jana, the healer—and to keep watch over Barry’s family. Another rode off to tell the other son what had happened. The rest of them rode back to the Clan house.

Ashk reined in beside a narrow forest trail. “How close do you have to be to wake them?” she asked, tipping her head toward the Inquisitors.

“Not that close,” Morphia replied.

Ashk nodded. “My men will take you up to the Clan house. When you get there, wake these two.”

“What are you going to do?”

Ashk looked Morphia in the eyes and said softly, “Don’t ask questions.”

When Morphia rode off, Ashk held up a hand to hold back the last escort. “You know where we’ll be?”

“I know.”

“Then meet us there. And bring the bread.”

She turned her horse to the narrow forest trail, the men leading the Inquisitors’ horses riding behind her. She was aware of the old stag following them and had a moment’s regret that he would see her this way. There was nothing clean or honorable in what she was about to do—but she was going to do it. Not even her grandfather’s opinion, or her Clan’s— or Padrick’s, if it came to that—would stop her.

Death called her.

Morag flew as fast as she could, already knowing she was too late to stop whatever she would find at the cottage. Death had come.

As she flew over the trees and reached the open land around the cottage, she saw Ari on her knees in her kitchen garden, her arms around a blood-spattered Merle. She saw the savaged body of a man, his fire-blackened hand still clutching a knife. She didn’t think Ari could see the ghost shaking a clenched fist and silently shouting at her, but the fact that the shadow hound kept snarling convinced her that Merle knew something was still there.

She saw Neall running toward the kitchen garden, shouting Ari’s name. His left sleeve was soaked with blood, and he held it tight to his body as he ran.

Glenn stood near the stables, holding a pitchfork, the dark mare and her new foal behind him. Nearby, Shadow, the dark horse she had given to Neall, kept bugling angrily as his hooves came down again and again on the man he’d already lolled.

She called to the horse, a caw that was more a command than comfort. He broke off the attack, but continued trotting around the body in a wide circle, ready to attack again. He wouldn’t fear the ghost beside the body. He’d been her companion for too long and had seen too many ghosts to fear one.

She felt a bittersweet pang at his response to her command, but that was the way with the dark horses. He remembered her, but his loyalty belonged to Neall now, and only Neall’s assurance that they were safe would calm him.

She circled back to the kitchen garden. Neall had scrambled over the garden wall and was on his knees, holding Ari with his good arm. Merle stood in front of them, still snarling and focused on the ghost.

She landed on the garden wall, changed to her human form, and lightly jumped down into the garden. She winced at the sight of the trampled plants—and wondered if Ari would be able to eat the food that would grow in the blood-soaked earth.

Morag shook her head. Flesh was just flesh. Meat that returned to the Great Mother. And she would take care of removing the rest.

She knelt beside Neall. Rested a hand on Ari’s shoulder.

“Do no harm,” Ari said, sobbing quietly. “It is not our way to do harm. But I was frightened, and angry—and I let fire act as anger’s voice.”

“He would have hurt Merle,” Neall said firmly. “He was going to kill you and the babe. You had to protect yourself.”

“I told you once before that your creed serves you well most of the time,” Morag said. “But it would be foolish not to use your power to protect what you love when someone intends harm. You can’t deny these men came for any reason except to hurt you and Neall.”

Neall mouthed the question, “Black Coats?”

Morag nodded, watched his expression turn hard.

“Neall! Is Ari hurt?”

Morag looked over her shoulder as Glenn ran up to the garden wall. A hawk landed on the wall behind Neall and Ari. A young stag bounded toward the garden, followed by several Fae on horseback. Within moments, the kitchen garden was surrounded by armed men.

Merle snarled a warning.

No one tried to go over the garden wall.

“Lady Morag?” one of the older huntsmen said.

“They both need a healer,” Morag said.

Ari brushed tears from her face, smearing her cheeks with dirt. “I’m not hurt.”

“Neall is.”

Ari pushed away from Neall. She paled when she saw the blood on his shirt.

“It’s shallow,” Neall said quickly, “and it’s already stopped bleeding.”

“He needs a healer,” Morag said firmly.

The young stag bounded away, racing up the forest trail that led to the Clan house.

“Come,” Morag said, getting to her feet. “You should both go into the cottage and rest.”

“I need—”

“Young Lord,” the huntsman said. “I think you need to stop arguing with Lady Morag.”

Morag saw a muscle jump in Neall’s jaw as he clenched his teeth. Mother’s tits! Couldn’t he realize Ari would be calmer with him nearby?

He didn’t argue, just used his good arm to help Ari get to her feet.

Glenn cleared his throat. “Neall, if you could give Shadow a whistle, it would ease things.”

Neall let out a piercing whistle. The dark horse broke off circling the Inquisitor’s body and trotted toward the cottage. So did the dark mare and her foal. By the time Neall and Morag led Ari to the cottage’s kitchen door, the horses were waiting for them. Morag gave them a minute to reassure the animals, then hustled them into the cottage, ordering Merle to stay outside until he’d had a bath. Ari didn’t need to see bloody pawprints on her floors.

Neall was right. The knife slice on his upper arm was long but shallow enough that even a novice healer could deal with it. Morag let Ari tend it, fetching the things that were needed. There really wasn’t anything to do for Ari, but she worried about what the strain of the attack might do to the young witch and the babe she carried.

She made tea, using the mixture Ari had made from herbs she’d gathered and had labeled soothing.

While the water heated, she tried not to pace continually between the table where Ari and Neall were sitting and the kitchen door where Merle whined because he wasn’t allowed inside. In another minute, he’d start howling to let everyone know he wasn’t happy about being so far away from Ari. Which wasn’t going to soothe any of them.

She made the tea, set the mugs in front of Ari and Neall— and went back to the kitchen door. How long did it take for the healer to arrive?

This time she saw the young stag—and the horse and rider following it. She opened the bottom half of the kitchen door. Merle streaked past her, but she felt too stunned to grab him. She stepped outside as the black-haired woman flung herself out of the saddle and ran toward the cottage.

“Morphia,” Morag whispered.

“Morag!” Morphia shouted.

So good to hold this woman who was a sister of the heart as well as the flesh. “Merry meet, Morphia.”

Morphia leaned back, her eyes full of tears, her smile brilliant with joy. “You’re well?”

“I’m well. But I could use your help.”

Morphia’s smile faded. “What do you need?”

Morag leaned close and whispered, “The kind of restful sleep you can give.” She took Morphia’s hand and led her into the cottage, saying, “Come in and be welcome.”

Neall jumped to his feet, his whole body tense.

Morag smiled. “Neall. Ari. Do you remember my sister, Morphia?”

Ari said, “Blessings of the day to you.” Neall remained wary—until his eyes dropped to the lacings on Morphia’s bodice.

“Why do you have a feather in your lacings?” Neall asked.

Morphia glanced down—and blushed an interesting shade of crimson. She plucked the feather out of the lacings, and muttered, “I hope it wasn’t one he needed.”

Neall’s lips twitched. “He?”

Morphia nervously smoothed the feather, then stuck it back in the lacings. “It’s a long story.”

“Which my sister will be glad to share—”

“No, I won’t.”

“—after the two of you have gotten a little rest,” Morag said.

Morphia muttered. But she went over to the table and got a good grip on Ari’s arm to persuade her to get up.

Morag walked up to Neall and smiled. She could tell by his expression that he remembered quite well the last time he’d tried—unsuccessfully—to deal with the two sisters. So it wasn’t so hard as it might have been to coax Neall and Ari to lie down for a little while. Especially since Neall, at least, realized he was going to sleep and his choices were the bed or the floor.

A light brush of Morphia’s fingers once they were settled on the bed was all it took for the two of them to fall sound asleep.

Morag grabbed Merle by the scruff and dragged the whining shadow hound outside. “No,” she said firmly. “You are not climbing up on that bed with them until you’ve had a bath.”

The whines increased.

“Hush!” Not that his whines were going to wake Ari or Neall, but there was no reason for the rest of them to have to listen to Merle’s opinions and complaints. She closed the bottom of the kitchen door and watched Merle lope over to Glenn, probably hoping the man might have a different opinion.

Glenn looked at Morag. Morag looked at Glenn.

“Come along, laddy-boy,” Glenn said. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”

Merle hung his head, but he followed Glenn back to the stables.

Morag turned back to the cottage. Morphia stood inside, watching her.

“What brought you to Bretonwood?” Morag asked.

“I came looking for you,” Morphia replied. “I’d rather be with my sister than with the rest of the Fae.”

Had it come to that? “Morphia ...”

Morphia shook her head. “Ashk says the Fae in the west are different.”

“Yes,” Morag said softly, “they are.”

“I’m guesting at the Clan house, but when word came that a healer was needed here ... The healer was already occupied, so I came instead.”

“You were what they needed.” Morag hesitated. “Can you stay with them for a little while? There’s something I need to do.”

“I can stay.”

Morag walked to the kitchen garden, where her dark horse waited. She stopped when the older huntsman approached her.

“We’ll take care of the bodies,” he said.

“I don’t want them on her land. I don’t want them near her. Not even as corpses.”

He hesitated. “There is a place, deep in the woods, some distance from the Clan house. There are several places in the woods where we give our dead back to the Mother, but this place ... There is good and bad in every people, Lady Morag. Wishing it wasn’t so doesn’t change that it is. So there is a place in the woods where we sometimes bury one of our own. Nothing will grow there but thorns and thistles. It’s a cold place, even in bright sunlight.”

“That will do.” A place where even daylight was shadowed. Yes, that would do for the Black Coats.

Shadows.

“Something else,” Morag said, resting her hand on the huntsman’s arm. “Warn Ashk. Warn the Clan to be wary of the shadows in the woods. If the Inquisitors were here long enough, they could have drawn on the power in the Old Place and twisted it to create nighthunters.”

“Nighthunters?”

“Creatures the Mother never would have created. They devour flesh and spirit.”

The huntsman gave her a long look. “I’ll tell Ashk. If these creatures are here, we’ll rid our land of them.”

Morag nodded. Having seen nighthunters, she didn’t think it would be that easy to destroy them, but she wasn’t skilled with a bow, so perhaps he had good reason to be confident of the Fae’s ability to cleanse the creatures from Bretonwood.

She mounted her dark horse, gathered the Inquisitors’ ghosts, and rode away. She felt uneasy about traveling along the deeper trails in the woods, but was unwilling to take the road up to the Shadowed Veil until she was away from the land that belonged to Neall and Ari.

When she left the Inquisitors at the Shadowed Veil, she said, “May you find the Fiery Pit you Black Coats seem so fond of,” then galloped back down the road. She let the dark horse set the pace when they were once more following the forest trails, but didn’t breathe easy until they cantered into daylight.

Death called her.

She turned away from the cottage and followed the summons to the old farmer’s barn. She didn’t go inside, didn’t intrude on the grief she felt there. She simply gathered him gently and went back up the road to the Shadowed Veil. The Inquisitors were gone, and she was glad. The old man didn’t need to see them.

He raised a hand in farewell before he stepped through the Shadowed Veil to follow the path to the Summerland.

“Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again,” Morag whispered.

She was exhausted by the time she returned to the cottage. Even her dark horse was stumbling with fatigue. Glenn took her horse. Morphia heated enough water so that she could take a sponge bath. She wasn’t as clean as she wanted, but it was the best she could do.

While she ate a bowl of soup, Morphia told her that Neall and Ari had woken up long enough to eat; then, after being reassured that the animals had been cared for and there was nothing that needed to be done, they’d returned to bed.

Glenn insisted on sleeping in the stables. The Fae Lords insisted that she bolt the doors. She didn’t argue with them. She didn’t argue when Morphia led her upstairs to her room and settled in beside her. She listened while Morphia told her what happened at the farm, but, somehow, fell asleep before her sister got around to explaining the feather that had gotten stuck in the lacings.