The House of Gaian

Chapter 41

Ashk doesn't avoid being around the gentry because they're human, Morag thought sourly as Padrick escorted her off the ship. She avoids them so she doesn't have to dress like a . . . lady. "I feel—"

"Lovely?" Padrick asked innocently.

"Foolish."

"But you look lovely. And that split skirt with matching jacket and linen shirt is both practical and stylish."

Morag slanted a look at him. "You've had this argument with Ashk, haven't you?"

"Me? Never. But her lady's maid has had this . . . discussion . . . with Ashk on several occasions and then vented her frustration over my wife's stubbornness to my valet, who, of course, tells me everything. So I'm kept informed without ever becoming involved. An ideal solution for a husband when it comes to such matters."

No doubt that explained the woman's delight—and the trunk of clothes borrowed from Ashk's wardrobe—when Padrick asked Ashk's lady's maid to accompany them on the voyage. The fiend now had a captive female to play with—a female who didn't know enough about gentry ways to argue when told "this is what's done in a gentry household." Remembering the twinkle in Padrick's eyes every time she stepped out of the ship's cabin after submitting to another change of clothes and restyling of her hair, she suspected gentry ladies didn't usually change outfits four or five times a day—especially when they weren't going anywhere.

As if he could hear her thoughts, Padrick patted the arm linked through his. "You do look lovely, Morag. You could pass for a gentle gentry lady."

Morag snorted. "How many gentle gentry ladies do you know who ride a dark horse?"

"That's beside the point. With your hair coiled up like that and wearing those clothes, and with the glamour, no one would look at you and realize you were Fae, let alone the Gatherer of Souls."

"What I am is not something that should be hidden," Morag said quietly.

Padrick's teasing smile faded. "No," he replied solemnly. "Ashk can put aside the Hunter because she is also the Green Lady. But you are always the Gatherer."

"Yes." And during the voyage to this harbor town, having the borrowed attention of an attractive, intelligent man, she'd found herself regretting that being Death's Mistress was all she would be. All she could be. Padrick had been right, though. Sailing to this place had cost her nothing in time and given her the rest she'd badly needed. The greatest blessing had been the dreams. No nightmares of blood and death. No glimpses of an enemy who could destroy those she loved and disappear before she could fight back and protect them. She and the dark horse had simply cantered through green—green woods, green meadows and fields. Not going anywhere, just enjoying the green, the heady sense of life. Those dreams had been as restorative as the sleep at night and the delight during the day of watching the ship dance with the sea.

But the quiet time was over. Her dark horse and the horses of the two Fae escorts Padrick had insisted go with her were already being led to a nearby inn where they would be saddled and waiting. She'd have a light meal with Padrick because he'd also insisted on seeing her fed before she began her journey, and then she'd be heading up the nearest shining road to race through the Clan territories to reach the Mother's Hills and travel through them to Willowsbrook, where the Hunter waited.

Padrick gestured to his right. "The inn is this—"

"Baron Padrick! Baron!"

Padrick stopped, turned toward the Fae Lord striding toward him.

Morag glanced at Padrick. It was clear by the expression on his face that he didn't know the man and wasn't pleased to be interrupted before he'd completed what he considered his duty toward her. But she'd seen this Fae Lord before, so she gave Padrick's arm a quick squeeze of warning.

The Fae Lord gave her a quick, dismissive look before turning his attention fully on Padrick. "My apologies if I'm intruding at an inconvenient time, Baron, but the magistrate pointed you out to me. I don't know how the message got to you so fast, even going through Tir Alainn, but I'm glad you made it here in such good time."

"Message?" Padrick raised one hand to forestall further explanation. "If you'll tell me where to find you, I'll join you as soon as—"

The Fae Lord wasn't listening to him. He was staring at her in an almost comic doubletake. "Lady Morag?"

She smiled. "Blessings of the day to you, Lord Murtagh. Padrick, this is Murtagh, Lord of the Selkies. Murtagh, this is Padrick, the Baron of Breton."

"I didn't recognize you," Murtagh blurted out. "You look like— I thought— Mother's tits." He raked a hand through his hair. "The last time I saw you, you looked Fae and you were with the Hunter."

"I had to return to the west. Now I'm on my way back east to join the Hunter."

"A long way to travel," Murtagh said.

There was something calculating in the way he looked at her now, but she couldn't figure out what he wanted. "The Lightbringer is dead."

"You came all the way back to take his spirit to the Shadowed Veil?"

"I came back to gather him."

It only took Murtagh a moment to understand the difference. The smile he gave her was sharp and feral. "Then you might want to postpone your journey for a short while and take a look at the prisoners I want Baron Padrick to see."

"Prisoners?" Padrick said.

Murtagh nodded. "Survivors of the warships the Inquisitors had sent to deal with the west. They were attacking a convoy of ships that had fled out of Seahaven. The baron here does well by his people, but he's young and didn't feel easy about passing judgment when the attack hadn't occurred in waters that are under his rule and the people harmed weren't his people. So a message was sent to you, asking that you come here and offer your advice."

"There are other experienced barons that could have offered advice," Padrick said.

"But they aren't Fae as well as gentry. And they aren't married to the Hunter. You're respected for your own strengths, Baron Padrick, but there's not a baron in this part of Sylvalan— or a Fae Lord or Lady, for that matter—who doesn't realize you have more influence than any other man in the west."

Morag wasn't listening to the men. A cold fist settled in her belly. Seahaven. Ships fleeing from Seahaven. "Mihail," she whispered.

Murtagh studied her a moment before nodding. "If you're meaning the captain of Sweet Selkie, he doesn't need your gift. He was wounded, but he's healing well. His ship needs to be fitted with new sails, which I promised to bring back to Selkie Island once my business here is done."

"You said the prisoners are survivors," Padrick said. "What happened to the rest?"

"Mihail's sister is a witch who commands the sea," Murtagh replied. "She was staying with us to watch for her brother's ship. When she saw the attack . . . Let's just say she let the sea speak for her." He waited until Padrick nodded. "Among the prisoners are barons' sons, minor gentry, sailors, warriors—and two Inquisitors."

"I want to see them," Morag said tightly.

Murtagh gave her another quick, assessing look. "They're in the warehouse right over there. The Fae are guarding them. We aren't influenced by the Inquisitor's Gift of persuasion, as they call it, but humans can be manipulated by it in the same way they can be influenced by the Fae's gift of persuasion. So we've kept the humans away from them. To put it bluntly, you look like a gentry lady the Black Coats could twist around their little fingers."

Morag smiled. "That's perfect."

Ubel watched that bastard Fae Lord walk into the warehouse. . . with two humans. His heart sped up when he recognized the man, so he turned away, pretending disinterest.

"You there!" the Fae Lord snapped. "Baron Padrick wants to speak to you."

Moving with feigned reluctance until he stood close to the barrier of crates, Ubel studied the man these fools thought worthy of judging him. An active man, not gone soft and fat like some of the other barons he'd seen when he'd observed the barons' council in Durham. This baron's grim expression made him look hard and ruthless, but that might have been nothing more than the contrast between him and the woman he stood beside, her arm linked through his. She was too tall and thin to be appealing for sex, but the coiled black hair looked soft and enticing, and her dark eyes held nothing but vulnerability and dependence.

As she stared at him, he felt himself sinking into her eyes. When she stepped away from Padrick and came to stand on the other side of the crates, so close he could have lunged over the barrier and snapped her neck before the Fae could have reacted, he stopped thinking about Padrick and the bastard Fae Lord and the other Fae around them. There was only her, only the need to have her submissive. Drawing up every drop of his Inquisitor's Gift, he aimed his will directly at her.

"You're the one, aren't you?" she asked quietly, her voice roughened by a thrilling touch of fear. "You're the leader."

"Lady, I appeal to your sense of what is right and just," Ubel said. He knew better than to answer a question like that, but he wanted to answer. Why was it so hard to avoid giving her an answer? "We are being held unfairly. We've done nothing to harm the people here."

"Perhaps not here, but elsewhere. You harmed so many."

Her eyes looked so soft, so sad. "The ones who stand in the way of men claiming what is rightfully theirs must be punished."

"You torture them, burn them, rape them, kill them."

"I. . ." He fought against the need to answer her.

"You've been in the west before, haven't you? You came to Bretonwood."

"I. . ." He shook his head, as much to try to break the hold her dark eyes had on him as to indicate a refusal to answer. But he couldn't look away, couldn't break her hold. Why couldn't he break the hold of this soft, useless female? He struggled to impose his Inquisitor's Gift on her. "You have to let me go. I shouldn't be held in this place. I should be released."

"Yes," she whispered. "You should be released. All of you should be released."

Triumph surged through Ubel. Triumph so keen it felt like a sharp, momentary pain in his chest.

He smiled at her. When he raised his hands, he realized the shackles were gone—and also realized he could see the crates through the flesh of his hands. He heard cries of fear from the men imprisoned with him. He noticed the startled, yet satisfied, look the Fae Lord exchanged with Padrick. But his attention was still on the woman.

He watched as she pulled the pins from her coiled black hair, letting it tumble down her back and over one shoulder. He watched while her face changed from human to Fae, as the softness in her dark eyes changed to something exquisitely merciless.

"I have released you, Inquisitor," she said. "But one of Death's Servants will have to take you to the Shadowed Veil. I have to return to the east. I have a gift for the Witch's Hammer."

Ubel tried to move forward, but couldn't get past the barrier of crates. Why couldn't he get past them? He was free now.

"What have you done?" he shouted at her.

She flicked a glance at the floor, then smiled at him.

He looked down—and stared at his body, the shackles still around his wrists and ankles. He looked at the other bodies on the floor inside the barrier . . . and the ghosts standing beside them.

"What have you done?" he screamed. She just watched him. The face, the hair, the eyes. He knew who stood before him now. "You can't do this!"

"It is done. My choice. My judgment. I have given you the release you have given others." She turned and started walking away.

"You think you're strong?" Ubel screamed. "You think you can defeat the Witch's Hammer? He'll crush you, bitch! You're not strong enough to defeat the Master Inquisitor!"

She stopped walking and looked at him over her shoulder. "I'm strong enough to defeat anyone. Haven't you realized it yet, Inquisitor? The only thing stronger than Death's Mistress is Death itself." She looked at the Fae Lord. "Don't move the bodies until one of Death's Servants gathers the spirits. That will keep the ghosts leashed to the flesh and contain them in this place."

"As you command, Gatherer," the Fae Lord replied.

Ubel screamed at her as she walked away. Kept screaming at her even after she left the warehouse. Kept screaming as the Fae who had guarded him and the others silently moved away from the barrier and took positions in front of the warehouse doors.

He screamed and screamed as he stared at his dead body, but no one heard him, no one saw him. Except the other ghosts.

Morag walked over to where the dark horse waited. "I should change out of these clothes. I imagine it's one of the few outfits Ashk actually likes."

"Keep it," Padrick said quietly. "The skirt is designed for riding. Besides, your own clothes are already packed in the saddlebags. You'll need them when you reach Willowsbrook." He made an effort to smile. "If Ashk misses having that outfit, she can order another one—which will please the village seamstress and her lady's maid."

She rested one hand on the dark horse's neck. "I don't need escorts."

"You'll have them anyway."

She didn't bother to sigh. Padrick had given in when she'd insisted she didn't have the appetite for a meal, but he wasn't going to yield about the escorts.

"It wasn't enough," she said abruptly.

"What wasn't enough, Morag?"

She turned away from him and placed her hands on the saddle as if to mount. But she stayed there, staring at leather instead of the man.

"They tortured. They maimed. The witches and other women they'd taken had suffered. But the Black Coat and the others . . . They didn't even hear Death's whisper before they died. Was that justice, Padrick? Did that balance the scales for all the harm they've done?"

"Would knowing they suffered balance the scales?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

Padrick placed his hand over hers. "If you wanted them to suffer, then you succeeded, Morag. Until they pass through the Shadowed Veil, they will know something men like that would consider worse than death."

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her head to look at him. "What could be worse than death?"

"Defeat."