The House of Gaian

Chapter 32

"Morag! Lady Morag!"

"What's happened to her?"

"She's exhausted. Lady, let go of the horse."

Unable to straighten up, Morag bared her teeth. "Get away from me." Voices swirled around her. Faces drifted in and out of her blurred vision. "Get away."

The dark horse rose up in a half-hearted rear, barely able to lift his front legs above the knees of the men around him.

"Steady, lad," a strong voice said. "Steady now."

"Get away," Morag rasped, her dry throat scraped raw from the effort to speak. "I killed the last man who got in my way. I'll kill you, too."

"There now, Lady Morag," the strong voice said. "There now. You're so tired you're not thinking clearly. Come on now, darling. Let us help you off the horse so we can tend to both of you."

Darling? Tend to her? Morag struggled to see the face that went with that voice. It finally came into focus. She didn't remember his name, but she remembered his face. A Lord of the Horse. A Clan's stable master.

"I have to keep going," Morag said. "I have to reach Bretonwood before he does. I have to."

"And you will, darling. You will. But now you have to get down off the horse. You're too tired to ride, and he's too tired to carry you." A huff of exasperation. "And what is it we should tell Lady Ashk when she returns if we let you ride off without looking after you?"

Ashk. She'd seen him when she'd ridden east with Ashk.

"If I could have some water. . . and a little food."

"That's the way of it," the stable master said. "Here now. Let us give you a hand down."

She dismounted and would have crumpled to the stable floor if the stable master hadn't been ready to support her.

"Bring a stool for Lady Morag and a dipper of water. Put extra straw in that stall. Give the lad a good bed. Let him have some water and feed him by hand once you have the tack stripped off of him. There now, Lady. Just sit down here. Easy now. Here's some water. Sip it, now. Just sip. Boy, run up to the Clan house. Tell our Lady of the Hearth that the Gatherer is down here and needs something warm and easy to eat. Hurry up now."

Hands brushed her tangled hair away from her face, tucked a blanket around her.

She sipped the water and watched in a daze as men gathered around her dark horse, stripping off the saddle and bridle, bringing him water, feeding him handfuls of grain, wiping him down with a soft cloth. The soothing murmur of voices talking, reassuring, leading the horse to the stall.

"Don't shut him in," she said. "They tried to lock him in to stop me. He almost hurt himself trying to get out. That's when—" That's when she'd done to one of her own kind what she'd done to no one except Black Coats: gathered a man who was healthy and whole, ripped his spirit out of his body and left it there for another of Death's Servants to take up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She remembered loud voices, angry voices, hands grabbing at her. Dead flesh. She'd done that to a Black Coat, too—unfurled enough of her power to kill a piece of a man without taking his spirit, without killing all of him. She should have killed the Witch's Hammer that day. That moment of mercy, that moment of pity that she'd felt when she'd seen him on the wharf at Rivercross had cost so many so much. It hadn't been pity that had stopped her at the Clan house where they'd tried to keep her from pursuing the Lightbringer. Perhaps it had been nothing more than a hesitation to harm her own kind despite their clear intention to harm her. There was no pity in her anymore, no hesitation. The dreams that haunted the little sleep she'd gotten had burned those feelings out of her.

"Here, Morag." The stable master was back, holding a bowl with a thick cloth under it. "Here's soup, and some bread and cheese there. Eat now, and we'll fix you a place to sleep."

"Can't stay." Her hands shook with the effort to hold the bowl. He took it from her, knelt down, and held it for her. "Can't. He's too far ahead of me."

"He won't be far ahead of you for long. Eat up now. It won't do you any good inside the bowl."

She picked up the spoon and began to eat. The first taste made her want to gulp it down. When had she last eaten? She couldn't remember. The days had blurred. So she ate slowly, chewing the small chunks of bread and cheese when he offered them to her.

She almost wept when she put the spoon down, unable to eat any more with the bowl still two-thirds full.

"That's good," the stable master said, setting the bowl on a bale of hay. "We can warm it up again if you get hungry later. Now." He took her hands. She couldn't tell him how painful simple kindness was right now. "I know you've no time to waste, so we can put a cot in one of the stalls here. We keep a couple handy in case we need to keep a close eye on a sick horse. We can put it in the same stall with your lad if that will make you both rest easier."

"I can't."

"You can and you will." He shook her hands. With effort, she focused on him—and realized there was no longer any kindness in his face. "He'll not be as far ahead as you think."

"He can run until he tires, then use another horse—"

"And where would the Lightbringer be getting another horse? There's not a spare horse to be had, what with the huntsmen needing riding horses and pack horses to join the other Fae heading for the coast. And the rest of the horses are needed to protect the Old Place. No, Morag. Whether on four legs or two, they'll be his own. If he wants food, no one will stand in his way of going to the kitchen and getting some for himself, but there's no one who will fetch and carry for him. He'll have to travel harder and won't get as far. As for you, you'll get a few hours sleep. Tomorrow, we'll give you a horse you can ride through the next Clan territory or two. You can leave him there, and the Clan will send him back to us."

The dark horse snorted, stamped a foot.

The stable master grinned as he looked over his shoulder. "Never fear, lad. She'll not be leaving you. But you'll run easier if you're only carrying yourself, and I'm thinking she'll need you strong at the end of the journey."

Morag frowned. "You said there weren't any horses to spare."

He turned back to her, no longer amused. "We've none to spare for the likes of him. You're in the west now, Morag. Things are different here. The Lightbringer will get no help from us, and you'll get all the help we can give."

The west. She'd reached the west.

She let him lead her to the cot in the stall. Before she could collapse on it, female voices suddenly filled the stable. Women came into the stall carrying a basin of steaming water and bundles of cloth. They shooed the stable master out and closed both halves of the stall doors before she could warn them not to. The next thing she knew, she was stripped out of her clothes, given a hurried sponge bath, bundled into a clean nightgown, and tucked into bed like a weary child. The women promised they'd have her clothes washed and dried by first light. Then they were gone.

She heard the quiet creak of a door opening and struggled away from the sleep that pulled at her.

"There now, lad," murmured the strong voice. "Don't fret now. We're not shutting you in. Just keeping the bottom half closed to give your lady a bit of privacy. Rest now. Rest. You've work to do soon enough."

Morag gave up the struggle, let sleep pull her down. And for the first time in too many days, the dream didn't chase her.