The Pillars of the World

Chapter Twenty

Morag woke from an uneasy sleep. At first, she thought the light was so pale because it was just past dawn. Then she heard children playing outside and knew it was later than that.

There’s a storm coming.

Shivering, she quickly dressed in black trousers and black overdress. Her own clothes. For the past few days, she’d worn garments loaned to her by other women in the Clan while her “corpse clothes” were cleaned and mended. The words had been teasingly said, but the women’s eyes had conveyed something else. There was no one in their Clan who was one of Death’s Servants, and in her own clothes, she looked too much like who she was. For Morphia’s sake, she had yielded. But not today.

Picking up her brush, she turned to the mirror to work the sleep tangles out of her hair.

The brush slipped from her hand and clattered to the table beneath the mirror.

There were shadows on her face. The same shadows she’d been seeing on Morphia’s face for the past few days.

Moving quickly, she packed her saddlebags and left the room. She hurried down one flight of stairs, almost tripping in her haste, and cursed the Clan elders who had given her sister a room on a different floor from hers.

She ran through the corridors until she reached her sister’s room. She tried the door, found it locked, then pounded her fist against it.

There was annoyance on Cullan’s face when he opened the door and saw her—and there were shadows. Morphia just looked at her with amused resignation when she brushed past Cullan and entered the room.

“We were just going down for the morning meal,” Morphia said as she walked toward the door. “Will you join us?” Then she smiled, and added, “I told Cullan you wouldn’t tolerate looking like a bouquet of spring flowers for very long, even if the colors did flatter you.”

Black flatters me more, Morag thought, grabbing Morphia’s arm to prevent her from leaving.

“Morag!” Morphia protested. “Let me go!”

Not if there’s a way to prevent it.

She saw Cullan watching them, his mouth tightened in disapproval. Was he reconsidering his decision to go with Morphia now that he had met her sister? It was one thing to know the Gatherer was closely related to the Sleep Sister. It was quite another to see them together and realize they weren’t always so far apart as others might think.

“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” Cullan said, sounding a bit too sulky for Morag’s liking.

As soon as Cullan closed the door behind him, Morphia rounded on her sister. “What is the matter with you?”

“Stay close to me today,” Morag said fiercely.

Morphia let out a huff of exasperation. “Enough is enough. I have listened to your vague complaints that something is wrong because I know you’re troubled, but even I have limits.”

“Then extend your limits and listen for a little while longer. If you love me at all, promise me you’ll stay close to me today!”

Morphia studied Morag. Then she paled. “Is it my sister or the Gatherer who is asking?” She shook her head. “Don’t answer. What do you want me to do?”

“Pack what you can in your saddlebags. If you brought more than that, leave it. See what you can bring in the way of food and drink, then meet me at the stables. I’ll get the horses saddled.”

“Horses! Where are we going?”

“Down the road through the Veil. We’re leaving here. Now.”

Morphia shook her head. “No. This isn’t just a casual mating. I care about Cullan, and—”

“Then bring him with you. But don’t delay, sister.” Morag headed for the door.

“You say enough to frighten but not enough to illuminate,” Morphia said angrily. “What is it you think is going to happen?”

Morag turned to look at her sister’s shadowed face. “I don’t know. But I don’t think we have much time left.”

As she left the Clan house and hurried toward the stables, she passed three children—a boy and girl ripening toward maturity, and a little girl.

“The fog’s so thick beyond the gardens, if you hold out your arm, you can’t see your hand,” the boy said.

Morag stopped, turned, stared at the children. Their faces were shadowed. Death could never be cheated, but there were times when Death was willing to turn aside for a while.

“I don’t believe you,” the girl said. “I think you made it up.”

The little girl tugged on the older one’s sleeve and pointed. “Look! That part of the Clan house has a white veil.”

Morag looked in that direction and shivered. One part of the Clan house did look as if it had been covered with a sheer gauze that paled the color of the stones.

“Come with me,” Morag said, grabbing the hand of the little girl. “All of you, come with me.”

She didn’t wait to see if the other two would follow. When the little girl balked, she picked her up and moved toward the stables at a speed that left her breathless by the time she set the girl down to one side of the stable doors.

“Stay here,” she ordered.

The little girl looked at her with wide eyes filled with fear.

Morag rushed into the stables. “Saddle the horses,” she snapped at the men who had stopped whatever chores they were doing to stare at her.

“They haven’t been fed yet,” one of the men protested.

“Leave it. Get them saddled. Now.”

The dark horse thrust his head over the bottom half of the stall door and watched her.

She opened the bottom half of the door, dropped her saddlebags over it, then turned to retrieve her tack. “Step out of there,” she said over her shoulder. “We have to go.”

When she came out of the tack room with her saddle and bridle, she saw the men still standing there, doing nothing.

“Saddle those horses, or it’s the last thing you’ll refuse to do,” she snarled.

Coming from her, that threat they understood.

She saddled the dark horse, then hesitated when he lowered his head to accept the bridle. She stuffed the bridle in her saddlebags, tied them to the saddle, and hurried out of the stables, knowing he would follow her.

The fog was playing with the part of the Clan house that had been veiled a few minutes ago, obscuring part it for a moment, then lifting enough to reveal it again. But each time, more of it remained to shroud the walls.

She picked up the little girl and set her on the dark horse’s back.

“My sister,” the girl whimpered.

“You stay here with him,” Morag said. “I’ll find your sister.” And mine.

As Morag ran toward the Clan house, the fog retreated, then swept in again. The most distant part of the Clan house disappeared—and didn’t return.

“Mother’s mercy,” Morag whispered. “Morphia.”

A thin layer of fog swiftly covered half of the Clan house.

Morag ran faster.

When she reached a terrace, she skidded to a stop. She couldn’t see into the fog that formed a wall, cutting her off from the house. She hesitated, then thrust her arm inside the fog. The boy had been right. She could barely see her hand.

“Morphia!”

She thought she heard a muffled sound nearby. She swept her arm in that direction, hit something, grabbed it, and pulled.

The boy stumbled out of the fog, bringing the girl with him. They looked at her with terrified eyes.

“Y-you can’t see in there,” the girl stammered. “You can’t see anything!”

“Go down to the stables.” Morag gave them a push. “Hurry. Go!”

Thrusting her arm back into the fog, she walked the length of the terrace, grabbing at anyone who brushed against her.

“Morphia! Morphia!”

By the time she paced the terrace twice, she’d had to retreat until her leg was brushing against the terrace wall.

“Morphia!”

Morphia would have come out this way—unless she’d gone back to find Cullan and try to persuade him to come with them.

“Morphia!”

“Morag?”

Fog drifted over her. She could barely see her black sleeve—and couldn’t see her hand. Keeping her leg pressed against the terrace wall, she turned far enough to see behind her. And saw nothing at all.

“Morag!”

“Morphia!”

Clamping one hand on the wall, Morag stretched as far as she could, shouting for her sister.

When she’d almost given up hope, a hand brushed against her outstretched one. She lunged, losing her grip on the wall but finding that hand again. Her heart pounded as she groped for the wall—and her breath came out in a sob when she found it.

“Stay close to me,” she said, inching her hand along the wall as fast as she dared.

“I promised that I would, didn’t I?” Morphia replied, but she sounded like she was weeping.

One moment there was stone under her hand. The next, nothing. She moved her hand back, felt the comfort of stone.

“We must be at the terrace stairs,” she said, shuffling her foot and wondering if there would be anything beneath her feet when she took the next step.

“Can you see?” Morphia asked.

“No, but—” Her foot dropped, pitching her forward. “I did find the stairs.” But there was no stone railing, nothing to guide her hand. She tugged and guided until Morphia was standing beside her. “We get down these stairs and walk straight ahead.”

Morphia said nothing, just squeezed her sister’s hand.

They felt their way down the stairs.

“That’s the last of them—I think,” Morphia said. “Ahead of us is grass, then a garden with a fountain.”

“Then we go forward,” Morag replied. She counted the paces. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. How much farther? How much time had she spent looking for Morphia? Were they already too late to escape?

The fog thinned suddenly, enough for her to make out shapes. To her left she could hear the fountain.

“I know the path through this garden,” Morphia said. “I’ll lead.” She moved forward, guiding Morag.

Halfway through the garden, they stepped out of the fog and ran down the path until they reached another terrace.

Morphia turned back. “Mother’s mercy.”

Morag pulled on Morphia’s arm. “We have to get to the stables. We have to get down the road through the Veil while we can.”

Morphia pulled away. A couple of pieces of the Clan house were still visible, but the ground around them was thick with fog. “Cullan is still in there.”

“You don’t know that. If he has any sense at all, he’ll have run.”

Morphia shook her head. “He cares about me, Morag. He would have tried to find me when he realized the danger. I can’t leave him—”

“You promised me.”

“Morphia!”

They looked up, saw Cullan leaning out of a tower window.

“Cullan!”

“Go!” he shouted. “Get away from here! I’ll meet you.”

Morphia hesitated, looked at the fog.

Morag gripped her sister’s arm. “You can’t go back into that.”

“I’ll meet you!” Cullan shouted, waving at them to move.

Fog danced at their feet.

“We’re going through the Veil!” Morag shouted back.

Before Morphia could resist or do something foolish, Morag pulled her toward the stables. By the time they’d taken a dozen strides, they were running.

“I dropped the saddlebags and food sacks somewhere,” Morphia panted, bracing one hand against a wall when they finally reached the stables.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Morag replied, looking around. The dark horse stood outside the stables. The little girl was on his back, and the boy and girl she’d pulled out of the fog were standing beside him.

There were no other horses.

She burst into the stables. A handful of horses were saddled. “What have you been doing?”

The men eyed her with dislike.

“What’s the hurry?” one of them said. “Is the world about to end?”

“Yes,” Morag snapped. “It is.”

Their mouths fell open. One rushed outside, the others followed.

Morag slapped the rump of the first saddled horse. “Outside. Go!” Not waiting to see if the horse obeyed, she ran to the rest of the stalls, flinging the doors open, and shouting, “Outside! Go!”

At the far end of the stable, a horse trumpeted a challenge.

She ran to that stall, looked inside.

The stallion pawed the straw. It was a sun stallion, called that because of the golden hide and white mane and tail.

“We have to get down the road through the Veil before it’s too late,” Morag said. She flung the door open and stepped aside.

The stallion charged past her. The rest of the horses followed him.

She ran outside. The Clan house had completely disappeared. A few of the Fae were running toward the stables, but not many.

The girl was now mounted on the dark horse behind her little sister. The boy was mounted on another horse. Morphia was helping a couple more children mount the horses that were saddled. The grooms were simply staring at the fog in disbelief.

Morag turned her back on the Clan house. She had tried to talk to the elders, had tried to talk to anyone who would listen. Now there was nothing more to say—and no time to do anything but save what she could.

She went to the dark horse, pressed one hand against his cheek.

“I want you to go down the road through the Veil. I want you to lead the others. You know the way better than the rest of them. Take them down to the human world.”

He laid his ears back, planted his feet.

“Lead the way,” she said. “I’ll follow behind you. I promise.”

She felt him relax a little. And she knew that, if he reached the human world and she didn’t appear quickly, he would go back up the road to find her. She just hoped, if she couldn’t keep her promise, the road would close fast enough to keep him in the human world.

“Go,” she whispered, stepping aside.

He moved out at a fast walk. She wanted to shout at him to hurry, but the only horse that followed him was the one the boy was riding.

“Go!” she shouted.

The horses milled around until the sun stallion nipped one and sent it trotting after the dark horse. He nipped another, sending it on its way.

While the stallion got his mares and the geldings moving, Morag and Morphia helped anyone they could to mount the remaining horses. Mostly it was children too young or frightened to argue. The adults wouldn’t listen to her.

Morag grabbed one of the younger grooms while Morphia lifted a small boy onto a mare’s bare back.

“He’s too small to ride by himself,” Morag said. “Get up behind him and take him down the road through the Veil.”

The groom looked at her with terrified eyes. “I’ve never been down the road. I don’t know how.”

“The dark horse knows the way. The others will follow. Now go!”

He mounted behind the boy and sent the horse galloping after the others.

The only horse left was the sun stallion. He took a step toward them.

Morag shook her head. She and Morphia changed shape at the same time.

The stallion whirled, racing after the last horse while a raven and an owl flew above him.

As they reached the beginning of the road, she heard shouts behind them, frightened cries. Too late, the Fae were finally understanding the danger and were trying to flee.

Great Mother, let my wings fly straight and true.

She could barely see the road, and what she could see had shrunk to a narrow corridor. One misplaced hoof and someone would be lost.

Morphia no longer flew beside her.

“Morphia!” The word came out in a caw.

An owl hooted behind her.

When they reached the Veil, she couldn’t see anything, not even the sun stallion’s golden hide.

She flew—and wondered if the road was still beneath her or if she had slipped to one side just enough that she would fly through this mist and fog forever.

Somewhere ahead of her, a horse neighed again and again. She followed the sound.

The mist thinned. She saw the sun stallion beneath her and a dark shape up ahead.

Stay there, she thought fiercely. Stay there.

The sun stallion disappeared.

Another wingstroke, two.

She flew over the dark horse’s head close enough for her wings to brush his ears. She glided a few feet before landing and changing shape.

The road was fading.

She ran back to it, throwing herself to the ground as Morphia flew out of the mist. She placed her right hand on the road and her left on the ground, digging her fingers into the earth. There was power beneath her left hand, magic enough to hold the road open a little while longer. But she couldn’t find the key to unlock that magic, so she poured what power she had of her own into the road. It gulped down her strength, sucking her dry.

“Cullan!” Morphia cried. She threw herself on the other side of the road, following Morag’s example.

She heard some the Fae who were still on the road shouting, screaming. A hawk flew past her. Then a swan. She caught a glimpse of a stag leaping into the human world. And she heard Morphia cry out.

Then something clamped on her right arm, pulling her hand away from the road, cutting off the drain of her power.

Her chest cramped. She curled into the pain, fighting to breathe. That made it cramp more, so she rolled onto her back, forcing her muscles to stretch. That hurt, but at least she could breathe.

She opened her eyes—and stared at the dark face hovering over hers.

“I’m all right,” she said weakly.

The dark horse raised his head and snorted.

“Morphia.” Morag turned her head.

Morphia was on her feet, staggering toward Cullan, who stared at the road with shocked eyes. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. His arms came around her, but limply.

Morag struggled to sit up. She looked behind her.

The road was nothing more than a sparkle in the air, and even that was fading.

“Oh, Cullan,” Morphia said. “You shouldn’t have looked for me for so long. You could have been trapped there.”

“I—”

Morphia had her face pressed against Cullan’s chest, but Morag saw his eyes.

She is the Sleep Sister, Morag thought sadly. The Lady of Dreams. But some dreams are found in the heart and not in sleep, and even some of the Fae are vulnerable when it comes to those kinds of dreams. He wasn’t looking for you, Morphia. He waited because he didn’t want to believe that what had happened to other Clans was happening to his own. He was leaving his Clan and going with you for his own reasons. Yes, he cared enough to tell you to go, but he wouldn’t have risked himself. If you had been lost, he would have found another lover soon and not looked back. That is our way. She wondered why the truth of that tasted so bitter.

Cullan looked around. “Is . . . this all of us? All that is left?”

“This is all who came through the Veil,” Morag said, slowly getting to her feet. She gripped the dark horse’s saddle for support.

“Why did this happen?” Cullan said. “Why was this done to us?”

“I don’t know,” Morag replied. “But the answer is here.” This road had ended in a glade. She scanned the surrounding trees, drawing on her diminished power to find another spark of magic. She found one in a tree set a little apart from the others. “I think there’s a dryad living in that tree. She might know something.”

Near the trees was a mound of barren earth. The ghosts of a woman and a newborn babe sat on the mound, watching them sadly.

Cold filled Morag as she stared at the grave. She wasn’t sure she wanted her questions answered, but she walked toward the tree, keeping her hand on the saddle for balance. The other Fae followed behind her.

“I am the Gatherer,” she said when she reached the tree. “I wish to speak to you. Please.”

Nothing stirred.

Cullan stepped forward and said in a commanding voice, “I am a Lord of the Woods. You will attend and speak.”

Silence.

Then the dryad appeared from behind the tree. There was hatred in her smile.

“The Lord commands us to attend and speak,” she said. “How grateful we are that the Lord notices us at all.”

Cullan pointed toward where the road had been. “The road between the Veil has closed. Do you know why?”

“I know why,” the dryad taunted. “All the Small Folk know why. Don’t the powerful Fae know why?”

“You will remember to whom you speak and answer respectfully the questions put to you,” Cullan said.

“Take care, Lordling,” the dryad said. “I’ve killed one man, I can kill another.” Before anyone could respond, she continued, “Why should we tell you anything? You never listen to us. They were the only ones who listened. They cared for someone and something besides themselves. And now they’re gone.” The dryad took a step back. “That’s your answer, Lordling. We have nothing more to say to you.”

“Then talk to me,” Morag said quietly. “Tell me what happened to the witches.” She heard Morphia’s quiet gasp, and several Fae muttering.

The dryad studied her. “You’re not from this Clan.”

“No, I am not.”

“Are you truly the Gatherer?”

“I am the Gatherer.”

The dryad hesitated. “If I answer your questions, will you promise to show them the way to the Summerland?”

“No.” Morag watched hatred flood back into the dryad’s eyes. “I will not use souls as markers on the bargaining table. I will guide them to the Shadowed Veil whether you speak to me or not. But I’ve guided too many witches lately, and I want to know why.”

The dryad bowed her head. When she raised it, tears filled her eyes. “The Black Coats came. The . . . Inquisitors. They’re witch killers. That’s all they do. Warnings were whispered on the wind, and we all told the witches they should flee. And they were going to, but—” She looked at the grave. “Her time came early. They had to wait for the birthing. The other two, the Crone and the Elder, wouldn’t leave her. The Black Coats came with other men while she labored in the childbed.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “They burned the Elder. They dragged her from the childbed and buried her alive, with her legs tied together. We could hear her screaming, but there was nothing the Small Folk could do to help her. Not against so many humans.”

“And the Crone?” Morag asked softly. “What did they do to her?”

“They—” The dryad pressed her lips together and shook her head. After a long pause, she said, “We couldn’t save the witches, but we made sure those Black Coats will never harm another.” She looked up.

“One of them stood under my tree after they buried the witch. I asked the tree for a sacrifice, and it gave it willingly. See where the branch had been? It was big . . . and heavy. The tree sacrificed the branch so fast he didn’t even have time to look up before it fell and crushed his head.”

“And the other one?” Morag asked.

The dryad smiled. “Streams are dangerous. It’s so easy to slip and hit your head on a stone and drown. Especially when a stone leaves the sling with enough force to stun and the water sprites hold you under the water. They’re quite strong for their size.”

“While we sympathize with you for the loss of your friends,” Morphia said, “what does that have to do with the road closing?”

Morag ground her teeth and wished Morphia had held her tongue. These Small Folk had no liking for the Fae.

The hate-filled smile was back. “Everything,” the dryad said. A chittering sound in a nearby dead tree caught her attention. “The Black Coats have some magic, too. They have the power to create those.”

Something black spread its wings and flew toward them.

Morag shuddered with revulsion. It looked like a nightmarish cross between a squirrel and a bat. When it opened its mouth, she saw needle-sharp teeth.

The dryad raised her hand, made a hissing sound.

The creature screeched and returned to its tree.

“What is that?” Morphia said.

“We call them nighthunters,” the dryad replied, watching the dead tree. “That tree was alive not so many days ago. But the nighthunters suck life out of things. And they devour souls.” She looked at Morag and smiled. “It must be painful, having your soul torn into pieces and chewed. The Black Coat’s ghost remained near my tree—and they found it. We heard him scream, too.”

“Can they be destroyed?” Morag asked.

“They can die like anything else.”

Hearing the message—that Fae could die as well— Morag thought it best to go back to something the dryad didn’t hate. “So the witches know the key to using the power in the land, the power that anchors the roads to this world.”

“The witches are the key.” The dryad looked thoughtful. “The Fae can anchor the roads, too,” she added grudgingly, “but it takes so many of you to do what one of them can do. You may be the Mother’s Children, but they are the Daughters.” She looked uneasy, as if she’d said too much. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” She pressed her hand against the tree and disappeared.

“That didn’t tell us much,” Cullan said.

“Didn’t it?” Morag replied softly. “There are riddles within riddles here, but one thing is clear: The roads are closing because the witches are being killed.”

“You only have the dryad’s word for that,” Cullan said.

Morphia gave Cullan a troubled look. She turned and hugged Morag, then whispered in her sister’s ear, “I know he didn’t stay because of me, even though I wished it for a moment. I also know who did stay in order to find me.” She stepped back. “What do we do?”

“You’re going to take these children to our Clan. Find the nearest road that looks safe and travel through Tir Alainn. Don’t linger with any of the nearby Clans. If these Inquisitors are moving from place to place, there may be other roads closing soon. But warn those Clans about the fog. If they see it, they should go down the road as quickly as they can. And if there are witches still living in the Old Place that anchors their road, they should do what they can to protect them.”

Morphia looked at her. They both knew the Fae might heed the warning about the fog, especially coming from someone who had seen it, but they wouldn’t spend time in the human world protecting the witches.

Not until someone like the Huntress or the Lightbringer commanded them to.

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take the witches to the Shadowed Veil so that they can go on to the Summerland. Then I’m going to find the Bard to see what he can make of these riddles.”

“I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”

Morag didn’t ask Morphia if Cullan would be traveling with her. A sister didn’t ask such things—especially when she was fairly sure of the answer.

Morag watched them sort out riders and horses. So few of them. She didn’t know if the others were dead or lost in the fog, living but trapped. If they still lived, how long could they survive that way?

When they rode away from the glade, the sun stallion and a handful of mares were still there, grazing. She saw Morphia look back once, but none of the others did.

“Are you thirsty?” a quiet voice asked. The dryad’s head appeared out of the trunk of her tree. “There’s a stream nearby, and the water is clean.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you.”

The dryad stepped out of her tree. “I’ll show you.”

Morag glanced at the dead tree nearby. “Can you leave your tree unprotected?”

“For a little while.”

The dryad headed into the woods. Morag and the dark horse followed.

When they reached the stream, she let the dark horse drink its fill before she knelt and drank. She sat back on her heels. “What will happen to the Old Place now that the witches are gone?”

The dryad smiled sadly. “The same thing that has happened in the other Old Places. The Small Folk aren’t strong enough to hold it, so the magic will die.”