Shadows and Light

Chapter Twenty-one

“There’s the manor,” Liam said with weariness and relief. “That’s home.”

Padrick simply nodded.

How many days had they been running, hiding? Liam wondered. Padrick had said something about the waning quarter moon, but had that been yesterday? The day before? He didn’t know. Didn’t want to ask.

He wouldn’t have gotten home without Padrick’s help. Fear had kept him in the saddle for hours the night they’d fled from Durham, but even fear couldn’t battle against the effects of the poison that had still been inside him. He remembered the first posting station where Padrick had said they’d rest for a few hours. He vaguely remembered burning up and freezing at the same time. He didn’t know how long they stayed at that posting station before Padrick had forced him to get out of bed, had helped him dress.

A back stairway. Stumbling as quietly as possible to the stables. Padrick saddling the horses and helping him mount. Riding away before there was even a hint of dawn in the sky.

A night spent in a bed of straw in some farmer’s barn. Another posting station. Or perhaps it was a room above a tavern. Fevered dreams that left him weak and confused. Chills no amount of blankets could ease. Days and nights that bled into each other. Places that became jumbled into one place and no place. Riding into an Old Place where he saw things that had to have come from the fever dreams—except, when they’d ridden away, and ridden fast, tears had streamed down Padrick’s face.

This morning he’d finally awakened weak but clearheaded—and close to home.

Now they were here, riding toward the house that had been in his family for generations. Tonight he’d sleep in a familiar room in a familiar bed, would eat food that had been prepared and served by people he could trust. He’d been unaware of so much over these past few days. Padrick had been unaware of nothing, and it showed in the grim exhaustion that seemed to reveal more of the Fae Lord beneath the gentry face.

As they reached the house, the front door opened and Sloane, his butler, rushed out to meet them.

“Baron Liam!” Sloane said. “It’s good you’re home. There’s—” He stopped. Looked. “Have you been ill, Baron?”

“Yes,” Liam said. There was no reason to tell anyone more than that right now.

“Has something happened here?” Padrick asked sharply.

Sloane gave Padrick an uneasy look.

“What is it?” Liam said.

“It’s Lady Elinore,” Sloane said. “Two people came by yesterday, a man and his wife. They had a letter for Lady Elinore. She told me to take them to the kitchen for something to eat. Then, suddenly, she was packing a trunk for herself and Miss Brooke and giving orders to have the pony cart ready instantly. As soon as the trunk was in the cart, she took Miss Brooke and the young couple and drove away without leaving any instructions.”

Liam stared at his butler. “She left? My mother left and took Brooke with her?” Sickness twisted his belly. Hadn’t she trusted him to at least try to do what was right?

“I can only guess that there was something in the letter that upset her greatly,” Sloane said.

“Did she leave no word for me about where she was going?”

“No, Baron. But—” Sloane gave Padrick another uneasy look.

Fear sharpened Liam’s temper. He felt the heat of it under his skin. “Whatever you have to say to me can be said in front of Baron Padrick,” he snapped.

“The stallion has been fretful the last few days,” Sloane said cautiously. “Refused to enter his stall one evening, and even Arthur couldn’t control him.”

No matter how valuable Oakdancer was, right now he didn’t give a damn about the horse. He wanted to know about his mother and sister.

“The day Lady Elinore left, Arthur took Oakdancer for a run to see if he could calm the animal. He came back without the stallion, saying the horse was easier staying where he was—and he said he saw Lady Elinore and Miss Brooke there as well.”

There was only one place the stallion would feel easier— the Old Place. He suddenly appreciated Sloane’s efforts to tell him where Elinore and Brooke had gone without actually saying where they had gone.

“Don’t allow any strangers in the house,” Liam said. “No matter who they say they are or why they say they’re here, don’t let them in. Send a message to Squire Thurston to be wary of strangers, especially men. Tell him to pass that message along to the magistrate. I want to be informed of anyone coming to the village.”

“Yes, Baron. I’ll send the message right away.”

“Come on,” Liam said to Padrick. He dug his heels into his horse’s sides, urging the tired animal to canter. It didn’t occur to him until they were riding down the lane that led to the bridge that he should have offered to let Padrick stay at the manor.

When they reached the bridge, Padrick thrust out an arm that would have knocked Liam out of the saddle if he hadn’t reined in sharply.

Padrick urged his horse forward, ahead of Liam’s, and stopped just before his horse’s hooves touched the bridge. He studied the stones and tall grass on the opposite bank.

“Blessings of the day to you, lady sprite,” Padrick said.

Liam clenched his fists, impatient to find his family. Then he saw the small woman rise up out of the water and wondered if the fever dreams had returned.

“Blessings of the day,” the sprite replied warily. “Fae Lord.”

Padrick nodded. “My friend’s family is visiting the Daughters in the Old Place.”

“We know his face. He has crossed the bridge many times lately.”

A water sprite. He was actually seeing one of the Small Folk. And they’d watched him every time he’d crossed the bridge to visit with Breanna and her family? “Has anyone else crossed the bridge recently?” he asked.

“Many,” the sprite replied. “But none who do not belong here.”

“You’ve seen no one else?” Padrick asked.

The sprite looked thoughtful. “Four men. They came to the edge of the Old Place farther upstream but did not cross into it. But they drew on the power here, and those who were nearby said that when they released the power again there was a... wrongness ... to it. Then they left. We don’t know where. We don’t go beyond the boundaries of the Old Place.” She tipped her head. “Were they Black Coats?”

“What do you know about the Black Coats?” Padrick demanded.

“The Bard warned the Daughters about them, and the Daughters asked us to watch, to give warning if they crossed into the Old Place. But the Black Coats did not enter, so we did no harm.”

“The Bard?” Padrick said. “The Bard?”

“He and the Muse crossed the bridge many days ago. But they did not leave by the bridge. You will have to ask the Daughters where they went.”

“Thank you,” Padrick said. His horse crossed the bridge.

Liam followed, feeling a little stunned. As soon as he could, he urged his horse forward until he rode beside Padrick.

“That... that was one of the Small Folk,” he said.

“Do you think the witches here will talk to me?” Padrick asked. “I’d like to know what the Bard might have told them about the Inquisitors.”

“The Bard. You actually think the Fae Lord of Song was here?”

“The water sprite said he was.”

A few days ago, the Fae had been nothing more than stories. Now he’d spent several days traveling with a man who looked human but was actually a Fae Lord, had seen one of the Small Folk, and had been told that the Bard had visited here. Maybe it was all the fever dreams he’d had that made this seem... normal... in an extraordinary kind of way.

“This is an Old Place,” Liam said.

Padrick grinned, which only made him look more exhausted. “Laddy-boy, I knew this was an Old Place before I crossed the bridge. For one thing, I could feel the difference in the land. For another, the Small Folk don’t live anywhere else.”

“Why did she call the witches ‘daughters’?”

“Witches are the Mother’s Daughters. I guess you could say they are the Great Mother’s hands, heart, and eyes.”

Before Liam could ask anything else, a hawk screamed. He looked up, saw the bird diving toward them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Padrick’s face change so that he looked like a Fae Lord.

With another scream that sounded a bit surprised, the hawk broke off its attack, circled them twice to get a good look at Padrick’s face, then flew toward Breanna’s house.

“What was that about?” Liam said, soothing his startled horse.

“That was a Fae Lord who, apparently, didn’t like seeing two men riding toward the ladies’ home.”

“A Fae Lord. I didn’t know there were any Fae around here.” And he wondered what Breanna’s reaction had been when she’d found out. He was certain she would have an opinion about Fae showing up on her doorstep. She had an opinion about everything.

“Didn’t you?” Padrick said, something odd in the tone of his voice. His face changed so that he looked human again.

The next obstacle was a wall of armed men standing in front of the archway that led to the outbuildings behind Breanna’s home.

Feeling the strain of a full day’s ride, and impatient to see his mother, Liam was less than tactful. “Who are you?” he said sharply. “What’s your business here?”

Not the best way to approach armed men, especially when two of them had bows drawn and aimed at him and Padrick and two others had crossbows.

“Who are you?” one of them demanded.

“That’s Baron Liam,” another man said, stepping up behind the armed men.

“You’re Rory,” Liam said, recognizing Breanna’s cousin. “Tell these men to let us pass.”

“You know him?” one the men asked Rory.

“He’s the baron,” Rory said. “Don’t recognize the other one.”

“If he’s the baron, why should we let him pass?”

A window shot open with enough force that Liam started hoping the startled men had a good hold on the arrows pointed at him. Breanna leaned out the window.

“Rory, you featherhead, let them in,” Breanna said testily. She ducked back inside the room.

The men lowered their weapons and stepped aside.

Liam’s heart pounded, but he noticed Padrick looked like he was fighting not to grin as they rode through the arch.

“What?” Liam said.

“My wife would like her.”

Mother’s mercy.

Clay took their horses, giving them both a considering look after seeing Padrick’s Fae horse.

For a place that usually seemed to have too few people, now Liam thought there were too many. Children who had been playing catch with a cloth ball a moment before they rode in now stared at them, too watchful. Idjit, naturally, was still focused on the ball and hadn’t yet noticed the addition of two men and horses. Mother’s tits! The hawk was a better watchdog than the dog!

Elinore burst out of the kitchen doorway and ran toward him, Breanna following more slowly.

Liam’s arms went around his mother, holding her as tightly as she held him.

“Liam,” Elinore said, her voice breaking. “I’m glad you’re home. So glad.”

“Mother, what’s happened? Why—?” No, he wouldn’t ask why Elinore was at the Old Place, not with Breanna looking so strained, as if she’d been fighting against grief.

“Was anything said at the barons’ council? Was there any news?”

Liam brushed stray hairs away from his mother’s face. “Why did you leave our home?” he asked quietly.

“I got a letter from Moira, and I was too frightened to stay at the estate while you were gone.”

“From—” No. His father had trained him to have that reaction whenever Elinore mentioned her cousin Moira. It didn’t have to be—wouldn’t be—his reaction.

“Liam, have you heard anything about her village?”

“No, I...” Liam looked at Padrick, who shook his head.

“Let him read the letter, Elinore,” Breanna said. “It might make sense to him then.”

“Yes, of course. It’s in my room. I’ll get it.” Stepping away from Liam, Elinore ran back into the house.

Liam took a step toward Breanna. “Who are all these people?”

“Kin,” Breanna replied, brushing her dark hair away from her face. “They ran from the eastern barons and the Black Coats. The elders in the family stayed behind to cover their tracks, to hide that so many were gone. And now that we know what might have happened to them ...”

Liam caught her arms as she swayed.

She glanced at Padrick and stiffened.

“This is Padrick, the Baron of Breton. He helped me get home.” Liam forced a smile, hoping to ease her tension. “He’s not a featherhead.”

“At least not in this form,” Padrick muttered—which made Liam wonder about the hawk he’d seen at times when they’d had to rest for an hour.

Breanna narrowed her eyes. “You’re Fae? You’re a Fae Lord and a gentry baron?”

Padrick gave her a small bow. “At your service, Mistress ...”

“Breanna.” Her eyes narrowed even more. “You don’t have a sudden urge to go out and catch a rabbit, do you?”

Padrick glanced up. Following his gaze, Liam saw the hawk soaring overhead, watching everything below it.

“No, Mistress Breanna, I have no urge to hunt rabbits at the moment. Although, to be fair, he could hardly bring you a deer.”

“He doesn’t do too well with salmon, either,” Breanna muttered. “But he tries.”

Padrick chuckled. Liam wished he understood what was so amusing.

Then Breanna rested a hand against his face. “You’ve been ill,” she said.

“I...” Liam took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I was poisoned.”

She paled so much, Liam wondered if she was going to faint.

“Poisoned? Why?”

“He spoke out in the council meeting against the eastern barons and the Inquisitors,” Padrick said.

“I would have died if it wasn’t for Padrick’s help,” Liam said.

“Mother’s mercy,” Breanna whispered.

“Perhaps you should sit down, Mistress Breanna,” Padrick said gently.

She shook her head. “No. But the two of you should. Why don’t you sit under the tree there? I’ll bring you some ale.”

“You don’t need to—,” Liam said, but Breanna was already turning away and walking toward the house. He took a step to stop her, but Padrick’s hand on his arm held him back.

“She needs to do something useful,” Padrick said. “And you really do need to sit down.”

They walked to the bench under the tree.

“Breanna is my sister,” Liam said, settling on the bench. “My half sister. My father...”

“You don’t have to explain.”

Breanna returned with tankards of ale. She handed one to each of them, then held out the letter to Liam. “Elinore is resting. She’s frightened, Liam. We all are.”

“Breanna...”

“Read the letter. Perhaps then you’ll be able to tell her something that will ease her mind.”

Breanna walked away.

Padrick took a sip of his ale, then stood up. “This is a private matter. I’ll—”

“No,” Liam said. He set his tankard on the bench. “I’d appreciate your opinion. And, obviously, this letter has been read by others, so whatever Moira wrote to my mother wasn’t private in that way.”

When Padrick settled on the bench beside him, Liam opened the letter.

Dearest Elinore,

I know my last letter must have hurt you when I told you so brusquely not to write to me again because I didn’t want to hear from you anymore. I did want to hear from you, more than you can know, but I was afraid your letters might draw too much attention from the baron who rules my village and that you might suffer for it. I decided to tell you not to write because I was afraid, for both our sakes, of what you might say or the questions you might ask, and I couldn’t write to you. But this letter will be my last, so I’ll tell you all the things I haven’t been able to say.

I have guests tonight, a young couple, recently wed, who are fleeing the eastern village where they had lived, hoping to get far enough west to escape the madness that has come over the barons here and has turned our lives, women’s lives, into a barren nightmare. I have hidden them, given them food and a place to rest for a few hours. I gave them your direction, and I’ll give them this letter in the hope that it reaches you.

I wouldn’t send them to you if your husband still lived, but I think Liam has too much of you in him to be a man like his father. I hope with all my heart that is true.

We are less than prisoners now, Elinore. Less than slaves. Less than the animals men use. We are domestic labor who clean men’s houses, cook their food, wash their clothes. And we are the whores they use when they want sex. That is what the baron’s decrees have turned us into. We cannot work to earn a living for ourselves. We cannot express a thought or opinion or feeling that disagrees in the slightest way with what the men who are in charge of us think or say or feel. If we do, we are punished—sometimes publicly, sometimes privately. I’ve endured both. They are equally brutal. Even when the punishment doesn’t do much harm to the body, it rapes the soul. Of course, the men call it discipline, the necessary force required to make us modest women who will not become the Evil One’s servants.

We are forbidden to write stories and poems and plays. We are forbidden to write music, to paint, even to sketch. We can read only books men have given us permission to read, can play only the music it has been deemed acceptable for us to play.

We cannot write anything, not even a shopping list, without a man’s approval, and that approval is indicated by his initials at the bottom of the page. That’s why I haven’t written to you. There is nothing I could say that I would want a man to see, and, because I’ve been known to be opinionated, I doubt I could write anything blandly enough to meet with approval. Trying to send a letter without that approval... One woman tried to write to family in another village farther west of here, asking if any of her male relatives would be willing to fetch her since we are no longer permitted to travel beyond the confines of our own village without the escort of a male relative. The letter was confiscated. On the orders of the baron and the magistrate, two of the woman’s fingers were cut off so that she could no longer hold a pen.

We cannot talk to each other without a man present. If we do, we are brought before the magistrate and questioned ruthlessly about what was said—and telling the truth, that the conversation was nothing more than one woman seeking housekeeping advice from another, isn’t believed. The women are “softened” by “small disciplines” until one of them breaks, confessing to having said whatever the magistrate or the baron—or the Inquisitor, if one is in the village at that time—has told her she said. Then, because those “confessions” usually admit to being a servant of the Evil One or having had contact with a witch, one or both women are killed.

And any man, especially if he isn’t one of the gentry, who protests having a wife, a mother, a sister questioned or, may the Mother help him, tries to stop the killing after a woman has been condemned, is also condemned because, of course, no decent man would protest so he must already be ensnared by the Evil One. So even good men who are sickened by what has happened here have become harsh out of fear for their families.

But all these things are not the worst they’ve done to us. The baron decreed that too many incidents of “female hysteria” have disrupted the village and disturbed the community, meaning the men. A “procedure,” brought over from Wolfram, I believe, was declared necessary for people’s well-being, meaning the men. Neither the baron nor the magistrate nor the physicians who performed it explained what this “procedure” was, but men were assured they would not lose the use of their females for more than a few days, and that once it was done, we would be far less likely to be ensnared by the Evil One.

They cut us, Elinore. They took away that small nub of flesh so that there’s no longer even the possibility of pleasure when we’re with a man. They took that away from all of us—not just the women in their prime, but the elders and the girls. Maureen ... A year ago, my daughter began looking at the young men in the village with interest. As the chains of the baron’s decrees have tightened around us, she looked at those same young men in fear. Now she looks at them with soul-deep dread. She will never know the juicy excitement of being with a man. All she will know is passive submission. That’s all any of us know anymore. It breaks my heart when I hear her crying at night.

We’re still alive, but we’re no longer living, except in our dreams.

How many of us, desperate and despairing, made a heartfelt plea for some solace, some escape? Perhaps many of us. Perhaps all of us.

One night I dreamt I was in the Old Place—not as it is now, with so many of the trees cut down and the meadows ripped by plows, but as it was a year ago when the witches who had lived there still walked the land. Maureen and I stood in a meadow, and soon other women and girls joined us. There, for the first time in so long, we could hold each other to give comfort. We could laugh, cry, rage, grieve without being silenced.

All the women from the village gathered in the meadow of dream. That first night, I noticed a woman standing at the edge of the meadow, almost hidden in the shadows of the trees. I think, somehow, we had summoned the Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams, and it was her gift that made it possible for us to be together in spirit while our bodies slept.

The first couple of nights, we were too relieved about being together to think much about the woman standing at the edge of the meadow. Then some of us began to wonder how physically close she had to be to be able to create this dream meadow for us, and we began to fear what would happen to her if she were found.

The third night, I approached her. She is truly lovely, Elinore, with her black hair flowing down her back and those dark eyes that see so much. I thanked her for the dream meadow—and I told her it wasn’t safe for her to stay near this village unless she was staying in Tir Alainn most of the time, and even then it wasn’t safe. Tears filled her eyes, and she told me that destroying the witches and the Old Place had also destroyed that piece of Tir Alainn. She told me she had to leave, it was too dangerous to stay, and when she left, the dream meadow would begin to fade. Some of us would be able to find it in our dreams for a few more nights, but she didn’t think we would be able to find it in a way that we would be together.

So I went back to the other women. We talked and talked and talked. The next night, we gathered again, but the edges of the meadow were soft, like a watercolor, instead of sharp like a painting done in oils. We made a choice that night, and we made a plan. Not all the women agreed because, they argued, we had a place to be together for a few hours. But the night after that, when only half of us were able to come together in the dream, we knew there weren’t many nights left before we would be alone again, isolated again.

We cannot fight against the baron and his magistrate or the guards at their command, and we cannot fight against the Inquisitors. Even if we did, we wouldn’t be able to take back our village and our lives. The other eastern barons would come in and crush us if we tried. There is only one way we can see to escape, and, at the same time, send out a warning to the rest of the women and men in Sylvalan. That is the choice we have made.

On the night of the Summer Moon, a night when the women of Sylvalan have traditionally celebrated their sexuality, we will gather at the Old Place for the last time.

The sky will begin to lighten soon. I must wake my guests and send them on their way before too many men are stirring.

I don’t expect you to understand the choice I’ve made. I hope the day never comes when you have reason to understand. But I also hope that, after a time, you’ll be able to think of me again with kindness.

Blessings of the day to you, Elinore.

Your loving cousin, Moira

Liam’s hand fell limply into his lap. The fingers holding the letter tightened on the paper as he stared at the ground just ahead of him.

“They’ve gone mad,” he said softly. “That’s the only explanation. The barons in the east truly have gone mad. How could they expect us to do this? To give the orders for this?”

“They courted ambition and other barons’ purses,” Padrick said. “During all their talk in the council chamber, they were very careful not to explain what the ‘procedure’ was. And I’m not sure it’s madness that has consumed them.”

“What else could explain this?”

“The Fae aren’t present here in the east, are they?” Padrick asked, as if seeking confirmation.

Puzzled by the change of subject, Liam shook his head. “You hear things once in a while about them coming down the shining roads when they want to amuse themselves in the human world. I’ve certainly heard stories about people who have sworn they’ve seen one of the Fae. More often than not, it’s a young woman with a swollen belly claiming that she was seduced by a Fae Lord, but sometimes it’s someone who needed help and was answered by one of the Fair Folk.”

“In the west, the Fae’s presence balances the power the barons have in the counties they rule. No human touches an Old Place, or the witches who live there, without answering to the Clans. If the Fae are nothing more than visitors here in the east, there are only the witches in control of large tracts of land that the baron and the gentry can’t touch. Prime timber, prime pastureland, prime hunting. If a man is greedy enough, wants that land enough, perhaps even fears that those women have power that could rival his own if they chose to use it, would he refuse the assistance of men who can promise to get rid of the witches in a way that no one will dare protest? If the Inquisitors have the means to force women to confess to things they’ve never done, then the baron conveniently eliminates the obstacles between himself and what he covets. Would such a man actually refuse to have a family of witches killed—especially when he doesn’t have to get blood on his hands? I think not.”

Padrick looked up at the leaves over his head and sighed. “But the blood is on his hands because he brought the Black Coats to his county. I imagine the eastern barons who agreed to that bargain discovered soon after that they were... ensnared... and don’t dare refuse to carry out any other suggestions the Inquisitors now make about controlling females.”

“I can’t believe the barons who voted on the decrees would agree to have this carried out throughout Sylvalan. I won’t believe it.”

Padrick gave Liam a long, thoughtful look. “I wonder how many barons in Wolfram and Arktos said the same thing at one time. And I wonder how many of those barons who refused to follow the Inquisitors’ dictates met with accidents. If you had died and the Inquisitors came to Willowsbrook to eliminate the witches and the female power they represent, would your successor have stood against them? Would he have risked his newly acquired wealth?”

“I— I don’t even know who my successor would be,” Liam said. “Probably some cousin on my father’s side.”

“You don’t know,” Padrick said quietly. “I think they do. I think the Inquisitors control the eastern barons now, and whoever controls the Inquisitors ... If you ever see him, you will see the face of evil.”

A child laughed. Was quickly shushed by the others.

Such a normal sound, Liam thought. A child laughing.

Would his father have ordered this “procedure” done to Elinore? To Brooke?

Oh, yes. And the bastard would have smiled while giving the order. And he would have rejoiced if they’d taken Nuala and Keely and Breanna and...

No. That had been a nightmare, a fever dream while they’d ridden through that Old Place. Just a nightmare. Had to be just a nightmare.

But Padrick had cried when they’d ridden away, too late to do anything, too fearful of who might be coming after them to stay a moment longer.

“What can I say to my mother?” Liam asked. “What can I possibly say to her about this?”

“I don’t know. But I think, if they are willing, we need to talk to the Daughters.”

“Not Keely. She’s ... damaged. Nuala and Breanna... yes, I think they’ll talk to us.” Folding the letter carefully, Liam tucked it in a pocket. He stood up—and felt old, used up. “Let’s get it done.”

As Padrick rose to stand beside him, a boy raced toward them, skidding to a stop a few feet away.

“Rory and Clay say there’s a rider coming. Clay says it’s Squire Thirsty and wants to know if the men should let him come in.”

“His name is Thurston,” Liam said, “and, yes, you should let him come in.”

The boy raced back to the arch where the armed men waited. Liam and Padrick stayed where they were. Since the children had moved toward the stables, the bench under the tree was a good place for private conversations.

Squire Thurston rode through the archway, dismounted, and threw his horse’s reins to the boy standing closest, then trotted toward the tree where Liam and Padrick waited. He was a middle-aged man who doted on his wife and was a good father to his four children. His land was well tended, his tenant farmers and servants well cared for. A cheerful man who was content with what he had, his opinion about almost everything was respected by villagers and farmers alike, which had always incensed Liam’s father.

The man trotting toward them didn’t look cheerful or content. There was fear, almost panic, in his face.

“Baron Liam,” Thurston said, panting. “Thank the Mother you’re back! Is it true, sir? What did the barons say? What are they going to do?”

“Do about what?” Liam asked.

Thurston gaped at him. “About what happened in Pickworth!”

Pickworth. Moira’s village. “What happened?” Liam said sharply.

“I—I thought that’s why you were delayed,” Thurston stammered. “I thought the riders had reached Durham before the council ended and that’s why ...”

“Mother’s tits, man,” Padrick snapped. “Just tell us what happened.”

“Baron Padrick and I left Durham on the night of the Summer Moon, after I... became ill,” Liam said.

Thurston stared at them for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite understand what they’d said. Then he whispered, “That’s when it happened. On the night of the Summer Moon. The women...”

Liam’s stomach churned as he remembered Moira’s words. On the night of the Summer Moon, a night when the women of Sylvalan have traditionally celebrated their sexuality, we will gather at the Old Place for the last time. “What about the women?”

Thurston’s eyes shone with tears. “They killed themselves. They killed their daughters, even the babes. They— They’re all dead, Liam. All dead. From the oldest granny to the youngest babe. Many of them snuck out of their homes and went to the Old Place. But even the ones who were still safely at home ... They’re all dead. All of them.”

Liam stumbled back a step, sank down on the bench as his legs gave out.

Padrick muttered, “Mother’s mercy,” and wiped his hands over his face. “How did you hear of this?”

“A rider came by yesterday,” Thurston said. “Said the barons’ council had sent out messengers to warn other villages that the men should be on their guard and keep a more vigilant watch on the females in their communities. The rider said...” He looked around, suddenly nervous. “The rider said the eastern barons were claiming this was the work of the Evil One ... and that witches were the Evil One’s tools. That they caused the madness that made the women do such a terrible thing.”

Padrick swore softly, viciously.

“Liam,” Thurston said. He took a moment to steady himself. “Baron Liam. I—I have a wife and two daughters. I’m afraid for them. For all the women in Willowsbrook. What if this madness comes here?”

“It won’t,” Liam said numbly. “As long as I rule this county, the things that were done that made those women welcome death will never happen here.”

“But what about the Evil One?” Thurston looked around, lowered his voice. “And the witches?”

Liam bristled at the suspicion in Thurston’s voice, but Padrick asked calmly, “Do you know the ladies who live here? Have you ever talked to them?”

Thurston stiffened. “Course I know them. I know all my neighbors. Fine ladies. When our youngest was born and my dear wife was feeling poorly, wasn’t it Mistress Nuala who came by with a simple that she said had the strength of the earth, and didn’t my wife start getting stronger within a day? And weren’t they the ones, that year when we had a hard winter, who told me my tenants could take a deer or two from the Old Place and share the meat among them, and didn’t that make the difference in keeping them all healthy and fed? Every year I send a few of my men over for a day during planting and harvest to give Clay and Edgar a hand with the fields, and I’ll send them again this year if extra hands are needed. They’re fine ladies, and good neighbors, and I won’t stand by and let anyone say differently.”

“They’re witches,” Padrick said quietly.

“I know they’re witches,” Thurston said testily. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t fine people and good neighbors.”

“And yet, when you rode in here, you were suspicious of them, almost afraid to be here.”

“I—” Thurston frowned. “Maybe it was the messenger’s talk of the Evil One that disturbed my mind. Or maybe it was Dudley’s talk about men needing to do their duty and keep their women modest so that they won’t draw the Evil One to them.”

A chill went through Liam. “Did you get my warning? Have any strangers come to Willowsbrook over the last few days?”

“Two men rode in a few days ago. Tucked into a big meal at the tavern, and also bought a couple of the meat pies to take with them. Dudley remarked on it when I stopped in. Said he’d told them the beef in the pies would likely spoil at this time of year if they weren’t eaten soon, but the men didn’t pay him any heed. They bought a jug of ale from him, too.” Thurston paused. “It was after that he started talking about this Evil One.”

“Four men, four strangers, would have drawn more attention than two,” Padrick said thoughtfully. “They could have been buying the food for the two who stayed away from the village.”

“Why would they care if anyone noticed four travelers or two?” Thurston asked.

“Because they were Inquisitors,” Liam answered softly. Those men had been so close to Elinore and Brooke... and Breanna. If there hadn’t been so many of Breanna’s kin around here, so many armed and wary men, would he have ridden up to this house and found something very different? Something that would have haunted his dreams for the rest of his life? “They were Inquisitors. Black Coats. The Evil One’s servants.”

Thurston paled. “They were in our village. Why were they in our village?”

“To do exactly what they did,” Padrick said. “Plant a seed of fear and suspicion about witches in the people here.”

“But... why?”

“So that you would stand aside when they returned and not utter so much as a protest when they tortured the witches into confessing to things they never did in order to justify killing them,” Liam said.

“If they accuse the witches,” Thurston protested, “what’s to stop them from accusing other women and killing them?”

“Nothing,” Padrick said quietly. “Nothing at all.”

Thurston took out a handkerchief, mopped the sweat from his face. “What do we do?”

“Your opinion is respected, Squire Thurston,” Liam said. “If you refuse to give in to the fear that was planted, if you stand by what you believe to be right and good, we can stop this before it has a chance to take root.”

Thurston studied Liam thoughtfully. “You stand against these... Black Coats?”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll stand with you.” Thurston stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. “I’ll talk to the magistrate, if you like. And I’ll talk to my tenants, make sure they know to inform me about any strangers.” He turned away, then turned back. “Don’t you have kin in Pickworth?”

“My mother’s cousin and her daughter lived there.”

Thurston looked at the ground. “I am sorry, Liam.”

“So am I.”

“My condolences to your mother. If there’s anything my wife and I can do...”

Liam smiled stiffly. “Thank you. If there is anything, I’ll remember to ask.”

He watched Thurston stride across the lawn to where the boy still held his horse. He watched the squire ride through the arch.

“What am I going to tell my mother?”

Padrick sat on the bench beside him. “The truth. You weren’t hearing what was under the message the council sent out, Liam. The eastern barons aren’t going to want women to know about this. They’re sending out riders so the men will smother the truth of what happened. If the women in one village are willing to make that choice, what’s to stop others from making the same choice? And if the women who haven’t been caged hear about it, it will be far more difficult for any man, even an Inquisitor, to ride into a village and try to turn things to his advantage.” He paused. “They must have some kind of magic similar to the Fae’s gift of persuasion. That would explain how the ideas get planted.”

“And some ability to draw power from an Old Place and turn it into a... wrongness,” Liam added. “But what does that wrongness become?”

“Let’s hope that information is something the Bard passed along to the ladies here.”

Liam felt his strength waning. Would Nuala object if he stayed here for a few hours to get some sleep? Would Breanna? “Let’s talk to them.”

Sitting in the formal dining room, Breanna laid her head down on her crossed arms. She felt exhausted, numb, tangled up in too many feelings.

A whole village of women desperate enough to gather on a night that had always been about life and feeling alive and choose Death as the lover—and angry enough and courageous enough to make that choice for their daughters.

Not a choice she would want to make, and she couldn’t say with any honesty that she thought it was the right choice. But she didn’t know what it was like to live as those women had lived. She couldn’t say if having your life stripped away piece by piece until you were a mind and heart locked in a body someone else controlled could produce a rage that festered until it found the one thing a man couldn’t control.

It wouldn’t have been violent. She was certain of that. She could picture them slipping away from their houses—some of them probably slipping out of beds while the men who had used them snored contentedly—and gathering in the Old Place. There would be hugs, a few silent tears. Some of them would have had second thoughts, especially those whose husbands or lovers were good men who grieved over what had been done to their wives, their daughters, their sisters and mothers. They would have had second thoughts. And those who held a baby girl to the breast for the last time... A minute of desperate hope that, perhaps, if the child were spared, by the time she grew up things would be different, someone would find a way to fix the wrongness and the girl would grow up in the same kind of world her mother had before the Inquisitors came to Sylvalan to spread their plague of hatred against women. Then the hope would fade, and the desperation would remain.

It wouldn’t have been violent. There were plants that were deadly if picked and distilled the right way. Some of those women were bound to know enough about herbs to make a drink from those plants. Just cook it on the stove, right next to the day’s soup. Pour it into jugs and hide everything in the pantry until it was time to go. Then, in the Old Place, a cup someone had hidden in a skirt pocket. The jug passed around. Stretch out on the ground, with your arms around a daughter or a friend, and just slip away from the world, following Death’s song.

It wouldn’t have been violent. There would have been no pain. But even for the oldest of them, it had been a life that had ended too soon.

Hearing footsteps, Breanna forced herself to lift her head. She jabbed her fingers through her hair, pushing it away from her face.

The dining room door opened. Nuala came in first, followed by Padrick, who carried a tea tray. Liam came in last, shutting the door behind him.

Just the four of them now. The large room had been crammed with the adults while Padrick and Liam had talked about what had happened at the barons’ council—and had broken the news about what had happened in Pickworth, while she and Nuala had told them everything they could remember about the things Aiden and Lyrra had said about the Black Coats and the nighthunter creatures that may have been created when the Black Coats who had come to Willowsbrook had drawn power from the Old Place.

He’s exhausted, Breanna thought as she watched Liam take a seat at the table. And he’s still far from well.

“I won’t take much more of your time,” Padrick said. “There are still a couple more things I need to know.”

Breanna accepted the cup of tea Nuala poured for her, then set it on the table untouched. “What do you want to know?”

“Thank you,” Padrick said, taking the tea Nuala offered. “I need to return home as quickly as I can.”

“Yes,” Nuala said. “I suppose you’d like to know how the vote turned out, and the other barons can tell you that.”

Padrick shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how the vote turned out. The west will never accept what the eastern barons have done. I’m not as concerned about that as I am about my family.”

Breanna saw Liam jolt, saw his face become paler.

“You think the barons or the Black Coats might go after your family because you helped me?” Liam said.

“They came here, Liam,” Padrick said. “Whether they came here to finish what they’d started in Durham or to do harm to your family and your people doesn’t matter; They came here. The Inquisitors aren’t stupid men. Once they questioned the men who had been hired to kill you and make it look like a robbery—”

“Wait,” Breanna said. “How can being poisoned possibly look like robbery?”

“They sent men after him,” Padrick said. “If he’d been beaten to death, the physician who was called to confirm the death wouldn’t have looked for anything else.”

“Padrick got me away from them,” Liam said. “But I was already poisoned. At my club.”

“So it wouldn’t have taken the Inquisitors long to have someone report on which barons didn’t show up the next morning for the vote, question the men for a description of the man who got you away from them, and come to the conclusion that it was me,” Padrick said. “If they took a ship, or simply rode hard, there would have been plenty of time for them to get to the west and find my wife and children.”

“You’ve known that all along, haven’t you?” Liam said. “You knew that the first night, when you offered to help me get home instead of riding straight for the west.”

Padrick didn’t answer.

That had taken courage, Breanna decided. To help a man you barely knew, and all during the days of that journey, aware that an enemy might be approaching your own family. “What do you want to know?”

“It’s dangerous for me to ride south, and going north will take too long,” Padrick said. He hesitated. “Would the ones who rule the Mother’s Hills object to my going through their land?”

“The House of Gaian lives in the Mother’s Hills,” Breanna said, her voice a bit sharp. Did the man know so little about witches that he truly believed he’d come to harm just because he traveled the roads through the Mother’s Hills?

“I know that, Mistress Breanna,” Padrick said. “That’s why I’m asking you, one of the Mother’s Daughters, if the House of Gaian would object.”

“You’re a baron,” Liam said, rubbing his forehead as if it pained him. “The baron who rules there wouldn’t withhold his consent.”

“That’s the point, Liam,” Padrick said. “The Mother’s Hills belong to the House of Gaian. The barons don’t rule any part of it. Our decrees don’t apply there.”

“Apart of Sylvalan, yet apart from Sylvalan,” Breanna said softly.

“Yes,” Padrick agreed. “Just as the Old Places are apart from the human communities. They’re the home of the Small Folk and the witches ... and the Fae.”

“The Fae don’t make their home here.”

“But in the west they do. The Old Places are the wellsprings of the Great Mother’s power, and the home of magic. So those are the places the Clans call home. That is the land they defend and allow no humans to encroach upon.”

“They didn’t do much to defend the Old Places in the east, did they?”

“No, they didn’t—and they’ve paid for it.”

Remembering what Lyrra and Aiden had told her, Breanna held her tongue. She wanted to fight with someone because she was tired and scared and her heart hurt for the kin she was certain she had lost, but it wasn’t fair to fight with this baron who was also a Fae Lord. He, too, was tired and had family to worry about.

Nuala spoke for the first time. “You’ll be welcome in the Mother’s Hills. We can send you to kin there. They’ll help you on your journey as much as they can.”

“My thanks, ladies.” Padrick pushed away from the table. “Now I’d better—”

“You’ll stay here tonight,” Nuala said. “You’ll have a good dinner and a good night’s sleep. In the morning, Breanna and Rory will escort you to the trail that leads into the hills.”

“You’ve more than enough people to feed, Mistress Nuala,” Padrick protested. “I can—”

“That is correct. We’ve plenty of people who need to be fed,” Nuala said. ‘Two more won’t make any difference. You’re staying, as well, Liam. Spare yourself the trouble of arguing. The decision has been made.”

For the first time since yesterday, when Elinore and Brooke had come racing up to the house, Breanna had to fight a smile as Padrick sank back into his chair and sipped the now-cold tea.

“I daresay you are not accustomed to being spoken to that way,” Nuala said.

Padrick choked a little as he swallowed the tea. “You wouldn’t say that if you met my wife.”

Nuala smiled. “I hope to have the pleasure one day.”