The Pillars of the World

Chapter Thirty-one

Adolfo drained his wineglass. The tavern didn’t offer the same quality of wine as Felston’s wine cellar, but it was sufficient. “We have fortified ourselves for the difficult tasks to come.” And at the baron’s expense. “Let us go to Brightwood and capture the foul creature who lives there so that we can bring her back to the baron’s estate for questioning.”

“Questioning?” Felston glanced around the inn and lowered his voice. “There’s no need for questioning. You have my daughter’s statement and the confession you got from the Gwynn woman yesterday.”

“I have those confessions,” Adolfo agreed, watching the baron pale at the significance of those words. Yes, the baron was going to be most generous when it came to settling his account. “But the witch must confess to her crimes. She must admit her guilt. She must have time to regret the harm she has done. Therefore, she will be taken to the room at your estate my Inquisitors prepared for such questioning, and she will confess.” And then she will die.

Morag paused at the edge of the meadow, watching the wounded mare graze. Ari must have taken the other horses to Ahern’s. She looked to the west, wondering if she should go to that hill where the wind always blew and tell Astra that Ari was leaving.

Astra.

Something had been nagging at her, trying to catch her attention. But meeting Morphia and then trying to persuade the dark horse to gather his courage and go down the shining road again had pushed it aside. Now . . .

Astra. What was it about Astra?

The Fae are the Mother’s Children. But we are the Daughters. We are the Pillars of the World.

Aiden had mentioned something about the Pillars of the World.

The answers are in plain sight, if you choose to look for them.

I want to ask him if he would bring the journals over to his house. I don’t want them left here. . . . My family’s history. Brightwood’s history, really.

“Hurry,” Morag said, pressing her legs against the dark horse’s sides. He galloped across the meadow, right to the kitchen door.

Sliding off his back, Morag threw the kitchen door open. “Ari?” When she got no answer, she closed the door and hurried to the dressing room adjoining Ari’s bedroom. She’d seen the glass-doored bookcase the other day when the sun stallion and the dark horse had played “tease the puppy,” but she hadn’t thought of it since.

She opened the glass doors and pulled out the last journal on the right.

I am Astra, now the Crone of the family. It is with sorrow that I have read the journals of the ones who came before me. We shouldered the burden and then were dismissed from thought—or were treated as paupers who should beg for scraps of affection. We have stayed because we loved the land, and we have stayed out of duty. But duty is a cold bedfellow, and it should no longer be enough to hold us to the land.

Morag read a little further, but there was nothing Astra hadn’t already said to her. She replaced that journal, skipped over several, then pulled out another.

We are the Pillars of the World. The Fae no longer remember what that means. Or else they no longer care and just expect us to continue as we have done for generations. I know why they forgot us. I am old now, but I remember my Fae lover well, the father of my daughter. I remember his charm—and I remember his arrogance. The Fae, he had said, have no equal. And that may be true. It also explains why they don’t want to remember the ones who had been more powerful— and still are, in our own way, more powerful. They do not want to remember that it was the Daughters who had the magic needed to create Tir Alainn, to shape the Otherland out of dreams and the branches of the Mother—and will. As we will it, so mote it be. And so it was. The Fair Land.

They can’t abide that, can’t admit that. If they do, they will have to give up their arrogance, their supreme belief that there is nothing to compare with them. And they do not want to see that they are fading, that they are so much less than they once had been.

Shaken, Morag replaced the journal, selected another. The witches had created Tir Alainn? If that was true, that certainly explained why their disappearance from the Old Places was causing pieces of Tir Alainn to disappear as well.

We are the wiccanfae, the wise Fae. We are the Mother’s Daughters, the living vessels of Her power. We are the wellsprings. All the magic in this world flows through us, from us. Without us, it will die.

Morag leafed through a few more pages, then closed the journal in frustration. Ari would be back soon, and she didn’t think the girl would appreciate someone reading her family’s history without permission. But the answers were here, if only there was time enough to find the right one.

“Why are you the wellsprings? Why are you the Daughters? Why? Why?”

She pulled out another journal, close to the beginning. The book was so old the binding cracked when she opened it. Trying to peer at the pages without opening the book too far, she swore in frustration. The writing was spindly, and the ink had faded so much it was barely legible.

She walked over to the window, where she would have the most light, and carefully opened the journal to the first page. She stared at the words.

I am Jillian, of the House of Gaian.

She closed her eyes, counted to ten, opened her eyes.

The words didn’t change.

I am Jillian, of the House of Gaian.

The House of Gaian. The Clan that had disappeared so long ago. The ones who had been Fae— and more than Fae. Not the Mother’s Children. The Mother’s Daughters. Her branches. The living vessels of Her strength.

“Mother’s mercy,” Morag whispered. Tears filled her eyes. She closed the journal before any could fall and ruin the ink.

The House of Gaian hadn’t been lost. They’d been forgotten because they were the Pillars of the World, and the rest of the Fae hadn’t wanted to remember that they had not created Tir Alainn.

Rubbing her face against her sleeve, Morag gently replaced the journal, then ran out of the cottage. She swung up on the dark horse’s back.

“We have to go back to Tir Alainn. We have to—” Her voice broke. “We have to tell the Lightbringer and the Huntress about the Daughters.”

The dark horse planted his feet, refusing to move.

“We have to go back one more time—for Ari’s sake.”

He hesitated, then leaped forward. She let him have his head, let him race through meadow and woods, let him charge up the shining road to Tir Alainn. She had to get there before Dianna and Lucian did something foolish. She had to make them understand.

Or stop them if there was no other choice.

“Lucian!” Dianna hurried to meet Lucian as he walked out of that private place in the gardens.

Lucian raised his head, reminding her of her shadow hounds when they scent prey. “Have you heard from Morag?”

“Yes, I heard from her.” It was easier now to feel angry when she wasn’t close enough to the Gatherer to feel afraid. “She refuses to help us!”

Lucian stared at her. “She can’t refuse. She’s Fae. And even the Gatherer yields to the Huntress and the Lightbringer.”

“Not according to the Gatherer,” Dianna said bitterly. “Not only did she refuse to help, she threatened me. Me.”

“She’ll regret that,” he said softly.

“Yes, she will.” Dianna felt something inside her slowly untwist. Not even the Gatherer would stand against both leaders of the Fae. Not even the Gatherer would dare. “What do we do about that . . . that Neall?”

“What we should have done in the first place. Take care of the problem ourselves.” He strode toward the stables. “You get your shadow hounds. I’ll get your horse. Meet me at the stables and—” He abruptly stopped speaking and pulled Dianna behind a hedge.

“What?” Dianna said impatiently.

“Morag. Riding toward the Clan house.”

“She’s the last person we want to meet right now.”

“Agreed.” Lucian looked at her, a strange excitement shining in his eyes. “So we’ll avoid her.”

They parted, Lucian slipping through the gardens to go the long way around to the stables, and she running to the kennels where her shadow hounds were kept.

Yes, Dianna thought. They would take care of that Neall, and then Ari would have no excuse to leave Brightwood.

Ari stood in the spot where the spiral dance ended— and, in ending, began another kind of dance.

She raised her arms, breathed deep as she began to draw the strength of Brightwood into herself.

The land beneath her feet rolled, spun, swirled, pushed at her as if it were trying to hold in something terrible that was fighting to burst free.

Ari staggered, her arms dropping to help her keep her balance. Stunned, she just stared at the ground that looked no different but felt so strange.

The land doesn’t want me, no longer wants to know me. Can the magic that breathes through Brightwood somehow sense that I’m going away? Is that why I can’t focus it, can’t keep it from shifting and scattering? It tingles beneath my feet the way it does when a bad storm is coming. But the sky is clear.

Shivering despite the warm day, and suddenly uneasy about standing in the meadow, Ari ran to the cottage. As soon as she stepped into the kitchen and closed the door, the fear that made her run like a deer before the hounds disappeared.

She studied the meadow. It looked no different, but something had happened there. The wounded mare had felt it, too, and she was still standing there, watchful.

Maybe the land hadn’t rejected her. Maybe, like Neall and Ahern, it had pushed her toward the place where she was the most protected.

Ari smiled.

Great Mother, I leave this place to those who will come after me. May the land I go to be as generous in its bounty to those who care for it—and are in its care.

Best to make use of the time. Neall would be here soon, and there were still some things to be done.

She took the soup off the stove and placed it on a metal trivet on the worktable. Then she banked the fire in the stove. If Morag returned soon, the soup might still be hot enough to eat. If not, it wouldn’t be difficult to rekindle the fire.

She looked at her biscuits and frowned. She needed some kind of sack. Remembering her small pack, she rummaged in the storage cupboard until she found it. She wrapped the biscuits in a towel, leaving two of them for Morag, wrapped the cheese she had left in another towel, and a jar of berry jam in another. She filled the two canteens, then slipped them back into their places on the pack.

“Saddlebags,” she muttered, hurrying to the bedroom.

As she walked back to the kitchen, she heard the mare scream.

Dropping the saddlebags on the table, she flung open the top half of the kitchen door.

The mare was lying in the meadow. She kept struggling to rise, but something was wrong with her legs and she couldn’t get to her feet. She screamed, struggled, screamed again.

Ari opened the bottom half of the kitchen door. The air thickened in front of her—the warding spells’ reaction when there was something nearby that shouldn’t be allowed to enter.

Moving from one side of the doorway to the other, she tried to see if there was anything out there.

Nothing.

But the mare kept screaming, and . . . Was that white pus pushing out of one foreleg?

She had to do something. She had to. She could run out to the mare and see what was wrong. She couldn’t just stand there and let the animal suffer. It would only take a minute. Just a minute to run out to where the mare struggled.

She took a deep breath—and ran.

She skidded to a stop a few feet away from the mare. It wasn’t pus. It was bone sticking through the skin.

Something had broken the mare’s legs. Broken them so fast the animal hadn’t had time to try to run.

“Mother’s mercy,” Ari whispered. She whirled to run back to the cottage—and saw the men coming around the sides of the cottage, saw more men vaulting over the low garden wall where they must have hidden. She saw the two who wore black coats. And she saw the tall, lean-faced man who now stood between her and the open kitchen door.

The woods. If she could make it to the woods, she might be able to hide from them. She knew every path through Brightwood. If she could just reach the woods . . .

Neall.

If she ran and all of them didn’t follow, what would happen when Neall came?

In that moment of hesitation, someone hit her from behind, landing on top of her when she fell to the ground.

“I told you not to lift your skirts for any other man,” Royce said. “Now you’re going to pay for it.”

She fought, squirming, twisting, kicking, scratching. She raked his cheek with her nails, drawing blood.

He hit her hard enough to daze her, and kept hitting her until someone pulled him away.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, couldn’t get her legs to obey so that she could run.

A rope was lashed around her wrists. A piece of metal was forced into her mouth, holding down her tongue. More metal was strapped around her head, pressing against the places where Royce had struck her, making them throb unmercifully. Hands grabbed her arms, yanking her to her feet. Dazed and frightened, she was led to the tall man who stood waiting.

“I am Adolfo,” he said in a gentle voice. “I am the Master Inquisitor, the Witch’s Hammer. You will come with me now so that you will have a chance to unburden your troubled spirit and confess to the crimes you have committed against the good people of Ridgeley.”

But I’ve done nothing! She couldn’t talk, couldn’t form words with her tongue held down like that. If they would just let her speak, she could tell them she was leaving.

Then she looked into the tall man’s eyes and knew he didn’t care about the people in Ridgeley. He only cared about being the Witch’s Hammer.

And there was only one way he was going to let her leave Brightwood.

“Tuck this in your saddlebag,” Ahern said, handing Neall a small bag.

As the contents of the bag shifted, Neall heard the clink of coins. “Ahern—”

“Don’t argue.” Ahern’s face was set in stubborn lines that made Neall wonder if Ari had inherited her stubborn streak from the old man. “You’re going to need provisions on the way, and you’ll need something to tide you over when you get to your land. I won’t be going hungry for lack of a few coins if that’s what’s bothering you.”

Neall tucked the bag of coins into his saddlebag, then busied himself with tying down the flap securely. “Thank you.”

“You take good care of the girl. That’s all the thanks I want or need.”

Neall nodded. He took a moment to steady his feelings, knowing the old man wouldn’t want any maudlin displays. He held out his hand. “May the Mother bless you all of your days, Ahern.”

Ahern grasped Neall’s hand, then stepped back. “Go on with you. You’re wasting daylight.”

Neall mounted Darcy, then watched Ahern check the girth on the dark mare’s saddle. He would have felt better if he could have taken the mare’s reins and led her, but Ahern had said she would follow and there was no reason to doubt that she would.

Raising one hand in farewell, he pressed his legs against Darcy’s sides. The gelding needed no further urging to canter toward Brightwood. The mare ran beside them, tossing her head in annoyance. He wondered if that was because she was going with them or because she was envious that the gelding had a rider.

You’ll have a rider soon, Neall thought as they crested the rise and the cottage came into sight. It looked more shut-up and abandoned than he’d expected it would. As if Ari was already gone.

As they rounded the cottage to reach the kitchen door, both horses stopped abruptly and laid their ears back.

Neall stared at the mare lying so still in the meadow. Then he glanced at the open kitchen door, vaulted out of the saddle, and ran inside.

“Ari!” He didn’t need to search. He could sense she wasn’t there.

“The Black Coats took her,” said a gruff voice.

Neall turned toward the open door and saw the small man standing just beyond the threshold. He couldn’t speak. One thought filled his head until there was nothing else: They took Ari. The witch killers took Ari.

“Nothing the Small Folk could have done,” the small man said. “There were too many men. And those Black Coats—” His face twisted up in disgust and fear. “They have some kind of magic, but it’s nothing clean, nothing like what we feel coming from the Mother. So you’d best beware, young Lord, when you go to fetch the witch and get her away from those . . . creatures.”

“Fetch her?”

“They were riding toward the baron’s estate.”

His heart began beating again. He hadn’t been aware that it had stopped. “She’s— She’s still alive?”

The small man nodded grimly. “Go fetch the witch, young Lord. Fetch her and take her far away from here to some place where the Black Coats won’t find her.”

When Neall took a step forward, the small man shifted. At another time, it would have been amusing to see one of the Small Folk trying to block a doorway. If Ari died, he didn’t think there would ever come a day when he would feel amused by anything again.

“You’d best take what the witch will need,” the small man said, nodding toward the pack on the table. “I’m thinking you won’t have time to come back this way.”

Desperate to leave, Neall glanced around, ready to deny that there was any time to waste on anything. But he saw the saddlebags and the long cape on the table in the main room, and the small pack with the canteens on the kitchen worktable. If— No, when he got her away from the Inquisitors, she would need those things. He grabbed them and ran out to the horses.

The mare was fidgeting and blowing, but she stood still while he fastened the saddlebags, rolled the cape and tied it to the back of the saddle, then tied the small pack to one of the rings on the front of the saddle. Ahern must have chosen that particular saddle because it was made for a traveler.

The small man watched him, then nodded in approval. “The mare came from the Lord of the Horse?”

“Yes,” Neall said, hastily checking things one last time. Then he realized what the small man had said. “You’ve always known about him?”

“We’ve known. Just as we’ve always known about you, young Lord. Just as we’ve always known about the Daughters,” he added quietly. “But some things are not meant to be spoken.”

Neall shook his head. There wasn’t time to ask what the small man meant.

“There are the five of us who were nearby when we felt something evil touch the land.” He gestured to the other four small men who slipped out of the cow shed. “If you’ll take up two of us, the mare can carry the other three. We’ll do what we can to help.”

“I’ll take what help you can give.”

After lifting three of the men onto the mare’s saddle, he set another on Darcy’s saddle, mounted, then lifted the last man up behind him.

As they galloped toward the baron’s estate, he fretted about the minutes that had passed. But surely nothing terrible could happen to Ari in so short a time.

Surely not.

When Morag burst into the room where she’d last met Dianna, the Huntress wasn’t there. But Aiden, Lyrra, and Morphia were.

She rushed toward them, stumbling in her haste.

Aiden grabbed her arms to steady her at the same time Morphia and Lyrra hurried to stand beside her.

“What’s wrong?” Morphia said.

“Where . . . the Huntress? The Lightbringer?” A dam inside her had burst during the ride back to Tir Alainn. Now too many feelings were clamoring to be heard. The fierce need to speak made her mute for several seconds.

“What is it, Morag?” Aiden asked gently. “What has happened?”

Morag looked into his eyes and saw passion that had not been diluted from living in Tir Alainn because he, too, often walked in the human world. His gift had demanded that from him. If there was anyone who could understand—and make others understand—it was the Bard.

“The witches. The wiccanfae.”

Aiden nodded encouragingly while Lyrra and Morphia made soothing noises.

“Wiccanfae is an old name for the witches,” Aiden said.

Morag shook her head. “They’re the wiccanfae. The wise Fae. The Daughters. We forgot them.”

“Morag . . .” Aiden said worriedly.

The words rose from her in a keen. “They’re the Mother’s Daughters. They weren’t lost. They were never lost. We chose to forget them. We did that.”

“Morag.”

“They’re the Pillars of the World. They created Tir Alainn. That’s why pieces of it disappear when they leave the Old Places. ‘As we will it, so mote it be.’”

“How could the witches have created Tir Alainn?” Aiden demanded.

She looked into stormy blue eyes that appeared so dark in his now-pale face. Painful knowledge filled those eyes as he began to put together bits and pieces. Seeing pain that matched her own filled her with strength. She wasn’t alone now. At least in this, she wasn’t alone.

“The witches . . . are the House of Gaian.”

She felt the words shudder through him, felt his body tense from the emotional blow.

Lyrra made a keening sound, then clamped one hand over her mouth and turned away.

Morphia sagged against her for a moment before she, too, turned away.

Aiden faced her, his hand still holding her arms.

“The House of Gaian?” he whispered.

Morag nodded. “The witch killers will be coming to Brightwood soon. If we stand aside now, if we do nothing here, we have no one but ourselves to blame when Tir Alainn is completely lost.” She stepped back. Something began to fill her, flow through her. She had never stepped onto a battlefield, but she instinctively knew this was what it felt like to be the Gatherer when she rode among screaming, fighting men, sparing some and taking others. When the Gatherer rode in this way, she was not always merciful— and she was not always kind.

“I’m going back to Brightwood. The witch killers aren’t going to take Ari.”

“We’ll come with you,” Lyrra said.

Morag shook her head. “You and Aiden find the Huntress and the Lightbringer. Tell them what you know. And rouse anyone else among the Fae who has the courage to stand and fight.”

“I’m coming with you,” Morphia said.

“There’s—”

“Don’t argue, Morag. I don’t know what I can do, but I’m coming with you.”

Lyrra looked at the two sisters. “If the witch killers do come to Brightwood, there won’t be much the two of you can do to stop them.”

The power hummed through Morag, making her smile. “Yes, there is. I have a weapon even the witch killers can’t defy. I have Death.”

Ari couldn’t stop shivering. It wasn’t caused just by being in a small, cool, dark room in Baron Felston’s cellar. Mostly, it was fear trembling through her as she stared at the tall man who watched her.

“Why are your kind so resistant?” he asked sadly. “Why can’t you admit to your crimes? You’ve committed no crimes. I know. You all say that. And yet. . .” He picked up a piece of paper from the long, stained table that dominated the room. He held it out in front of her. “Quite a list of grievances against someone who claims to have done no harm.”

Her head hurt, and trying to focus on the words in the dim light of a single oil lamp made her stomach churn.

Mistress Brigston claiming that she had been bewitched into paying several gold coins for a piece of tapestry that Ari had delivered and then magicked away again. Granny Gwynn claiming that Ari had added something foul to a good, wholesome simple that Granny had sold to Squire Kenton to strengthen his wife’s fragile health, making the woman more ill. Odella claiming that Ari had tricked her into taking the fancy she had then been forced to give a man in order to avoid the dire consequences of a thwarted love spell.

Poor crops, a lack of game, a dry well. Anything and everything that had gone wrong in Ridgeley had been blamed on her.

I’ve done none of that!

The Master Inquisitor sighed as if she’d actually spoken, then placed the paper on the table. Bending over, he pressed his hand gently against Ari’s cheek.

“You have no choice. You must confess. You must admit to what you have done to the good people of Ridgeley. Don’t force me to hurt you. Don’t force me to make you suffer. I will hurt you if that is the only way, but I hope you won’t require pain to help you do what you must.”

He straightened up, went over to a chest that was pushed against the wall and removed something. He set the object on the table, next to the paper filled with her crimes. It was a metal device that looked a bit like a bridle that would fit tightly over a person’s head—except there were three spikes attached to the inside of it that would pierce the tongue and cheeks when the bridle was strapped on.

Adolfo brushed his fingers over the spiked bridle. “I will give you a little time to decide if you will allow me to make this as quick and merciful as possible, or if you’ll force me to be the instrument of your suffering.”

He lowered the wick in the oil lamp until there was barely enough light to see by. Then he walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.

Ari stared at the spiked bridle—and shivered.

Adolfo walked up the stairs, glad to be away from the damp cellar for a while. He would have liked more time to work with this one. Younger witches could become quite malleable given enough assistance, and their confessions were always so tearfully dramatic. And he would have liked more time to question her about the Fae and their noticeable interest in this Old Place.

But it was the Fae and their interest that made it imperative to wring a confession out of this witch and dispose of her quickly. However, if the diversion Royce created was successful, the Fae would have no reason to look for the girl.

Still there was that Fae Lord at the horse farm to consider. He might think to look beyond the borders of the Old Place.

Adolfo sighed. No, he couldn’t take the time required to soften the girl to the humility that was proper and becoming in a female. But she would give him the opportunity to work with the two younger Inquisitors and teach them how to refine their skills.

Dianna gave the dead mare in the meadow a wide berth. The shadow hounds sniffed the carcass, then backed away, growling softly. Lucian, in his other form, laid his ears back and galloped to the cottage. Dianna followed, feeling her heart thump against her chest when she noticed the open kitchen door.

Lucian reached the cottage, changed to his human form, and went inside before Dianna and her hounds crossed the meadow. By the time she stepped into the kitchen, he was striding out of the bedroom.

“She’s gone,” he said, his voice filled with fury and bitterness. “She’s already slunk away with that lout.”

Dianna looked at the soup kettle on the worktable and the biscuits beside it. She gingerly touched the kettle. Still a bit of warmth. And the biscuits were fresh.

“I don’t think she left with him,” Dianna said softly. She remembered what Morag had said about the Black Coats, and a chill went through her.

“What are you talking about?” Lucian snapped. “There’s signs of packing in every room.”

Dianna walked to the kitchen door, stared at the dead mare in the meadow, then turned back to her brother. “Oh, she intended to leave with him, but I don’t think that’s the reason she isn’t here.” When he started to argue, her own temper sharpened. “If she was leaving for good, she wouldn’t have left food out to spoil.”

“Someone else would have taken care of it,” Lucian said, pacing the main room. Then he stopped abruptly at the same time Dianna asked, “Who?”

They looked at each other.

Dianna licked her lips, which were suddenly, painfully dry. “Maybe she’s just gone to Ahern’s to ask what to do about the mare.”

“Maybe.” Lucian hesitated. “We’ll wait here a while. If she doesn’t return soon, I’ll go to Ahern’s to find out if he’s seen her.”

Relief flowed through Dianna. Whatever had happened to that mare looked bad, but it had nothing to do with Ari.

“While we’re waiting, we might as well have some of the soup,” she said. “There’s no sense letting it go to waste.”

As she dished out the soup, she suddenly wondered why Morag had returned to Tir Alainn in such a hurry.

“Was the mare dead when you left?” Morphia asked.

“No,” Morag replied. Hidden in the shadows of the woods, she studied the meadow—and shivered. There’s a storm coming.

She had been gone less than an hour. She had been gone far, far too long. I shouldn’t have left her. If I’d been thinking, I wouldn’t have left her.

“The Huntress is obviously here,” Morphia said, lifting her chin in the direction of the shadow hounds, who were gathered near the kitchen door. “Perhaps the Lightbringer as well. So at least we’ll have some help.”

Morag’s heart had gone numb. That was the only way to explain this odd sensation of her mind seeing things with painful clarity while she felt nothing. “No,” she said. “We’ll get no help from them.”

“But isn’t that why you came back to Tir Alainn?”

Morag shook her head slowly. “I went back to tell them about the witches, so that they would understand that Ari wasn’t someone to manipulate for the Fae’s pleasure. And to tell them why it was so important to protect her kind.”

“All the more reason for them to help us now.”

“Oh, they would help us protect Ari. But they’re also interested in eliminating Neall because she wants to marry him and leave Brightwood. So we’ll get help from someone who wants to protect both of them. We’ll go to Ahern.”

Something shivered through the air. Adolfo set his wineglass on the table, walked over to the window, and pulled the curtain aside. Nothing looked different, but something was different.

Maybe it was nothing. Even locked in the cellar, the witch made this whole place stink of magic. It wouldn’t feel right again until she was dead.

He turned to retrieve his wine, then stopped.

It was magic he was sensing, but there was too much of it to be coming from just her.

He opened the drawing room. The guard standing on duty immediately straightened.

“Get the horses saddled,” Adolfo said. “Then wait for further orders.” He closed the door, retrieved his wine, and drained the glass.

His hand shook. It hadn’t done that in a long, long time. He always feared the witches, never felt easy until they—and their magic—died. That fear was his mother’s legacy. Keeping them alive long enough to break them down was a test of his own strength.

This one was hardly more than a girl—and still his hands shook. Because of the Fae. Before now, he’d been able to dismiss them. They came and went, paying little attention to the human world beyond their immediate pleasures, and he’d never had to be concerned about them becoming adversaries. But there was the Gatherer to consider. She was already aware of the Inquisitors, already seemed to be taking an interest in the witches in this land. She could not be dismissed. Neither could the Fae Lord who had hidden his true nature from the people of this village for so many years.

There hadn’t been time to get the feel of this witch, to know which branches of the Mother were her strength. No matter. They would take her somewhere on the estate far enough away that the ladies of the house wouldn’t be distressed. And they would hang her from a tree and open up her belly. A crude method, but effective.

“I shall not suffer a witch to live,” he whispered. He would make sure nothing and no one spared this one.

He walked out of the room and gave his orders.

The dark horse slid to a stop, his hooves bare inches from Ahern’s boots.

“Where’s Ari?” Morag demanded.

Ahern crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “Gone by now. She and Neall. The Black Coats came here today. When she came a little later to bring the horses that had come with you, I told her she and the boy had to go.”

“Neall went with her?”

Ahern shook his head, his expression turning grim. “She ran back to make her peace with Brightwood. He followed as soon as he got the horses saddled. Couldn’t have been more than a quarter hour behind her, half at the most.”

Morag closed her eyes. “He didn’t reach her in time. The Black Coats must have her. If Neall isn’t careful, they’ll have him too.”

“How can you be so sure?” Ahern demanded.

Morag opened her eyes. “Death is whispering. Death is nearby.”

Ahern lowered his arms, clenched his fists. “They’ll have taken her to Baron Felston’s estate. That’s the only place the Black Coats could go to do . . . what you said they do.”

“How do I get there?”

“I’ll take you.” Ahern turned, summoned one of the men who had been lingering nearby. “Glenn. You remember what I told you? All of it?” He waited for the man to nod. “No matter what happens today, you do what I told you.”

“Yes, sir.”

A few moments later, Morag and Morphia followed a gray stallion over the fields, racing toward Baron Felston’s estate.

Neall rode close enough to the estate to see the house and stables. Too much activity. Why were so many horses being saddled?

“Best to leave us here,” the small man said. “We’ll make our own way to the house.” He paused. “Do you know where they’d likely be keeping the witch?”

“There’s a small room in the cellar. A cold, dark room.” He knew it well. He’d spent enough time there in his childhood as punishment for things Royce had done but for which he’d been blamed.

The small man nodded. “You give us a few minutes, then you ride up easy.”

“I’m not welcome here.”

The small man made an odd sound and gestured toward the dark mare. “You’re bringing a gift, aren’t you? Never seen a human who would turn down a gift.” He turned his head and studied some nearby bushes. Then he smiled. “May the Mother watch over you, young Lord.”

After Neall helped the Small Fork dismount, the small man studied him, then said, “The Fae have lived outside the world for too long, and they’ve forgotten much. You have as much power as they do. The real difference between you is that you have one face, and it’s a honest one. Remember that when next you deal with the Fair Folk . . . young lord of the Woods.”

The small man turned and walked toward the house, his companions spreading out and following.

As Neall mounted Darcy, he saw a flash of red burst out from beneath the bushes.

The fox ran across the field, paused when it reached the small men, then continued toward the kennels where Baron Felston kept his hounds.

“Well,” Neall said, gathering Darcy’s reins. “Once those hounds get a whiff of fox, that should create enough noise to clear some of the men from the yard.”

He scanned the field. There was no sign of the Small Folk. He counted to one hundred, clenching his teeth until his jaw ached. Then he gave Darcy the signal to move forward, holding the horse to an easy trot as if he had all the time in the world.

Ari stared at the spiked bridle and kept shivering, shivering. The one encasing her head hurt badly enough. She could imagine what that other one would feel like. But, somehow, the face she kept seeing being pierced by those spikes wasn’t hers. It was Neall’s.

Neall.

He would know where they’d taken her. He would be coming here. And they would be waiting for him.

Morag, if I knew what to do, I would use whatever power the Mother granted me to do whatever was needed to help him. But if they do catch him, if they do harm him, please, Morag, please be kind to him when you show him the road to the Summerland.

Her hands and feet were so cold. If only there was a little fire in this room to take away the chill.

Fire warmed. And fire burned.

She looked at the rope binding her hands together. If it was done carefully . . .

She slowly drew the branch of fire into herself, feeling its warmth flow through her. She channeled it down her arms to her wrists, let the heat build. She focused on the rope, drawing the heat to one spot until it was ready to burn. She twisted her wrists a little. A tiny puff of smoke rose from the rope.

A small flame inside the rope, burning upward.

More smoke. And heat. Then flame burst from the center of the rope, still small, still controlled. Must control it.

She watched the flame, kept twisting her wrists to help fray the rope, even though it rubbed her skin raw.

She winced as the flame brushed against her hand. One more pull and the rope snapped. Moving awkwardly, but as quickly as she could, she freed her hands and tossed the rope on the dirt floor.

She reached up to free herself from the metal bridle, then paused. Having her feet free was more important.

It was easier this time. She knew how to guide the fire into the rope, and she could use her hands to tug at it to make it break faster.

Once her feet were free, she fumbled with the straps that held the bridle. When she finally got it off, she studied it for a moment. It was a slightly more benign version of the spiked bridle sitting on the table, but that didn’t make it any less cruel. Only someone with a withered soul would use this on another person.

Setting the bridle on the floor, she rubbed her legs, gritting her teeth against the fierce tingling as blood began flowing through her limbs again. When the tingling changed from unbearable to tolerable, she used the wall to help her stand up.

She stumbled over to the table and braced her hands against it. She was sure she didn’t want to know what had produced the fresh stains on its surface, and she was suddenly grateful for the dim light.

She picked up the confession, held it out. Fire flowed from her fingers. The paper burst into flames. She dropped it, watched it burn.

She was free, and she could move. Now all she had to do was figure out how to get out of this room and away from these awful men.

One of the shadow hounds snarled a soft warning.

“Someone’s coming,” Dianna said.

A queer light came into Lucian’s eyes as he unlocked the front door and stepped outside to meet their visitor.

Dianna went out the kitchen door, intending to come around the side of the cottage. She paused long enough to order the pack of shadow hounds to stay, then snuck to a spot where she could peer around a corner.

Several young men dismounted, handed their horses’ reins to other companions, then strode toward the cottage. Four of those men paused long enough to light torches.

One man, who seemed to be their leader, stepped forward. He looked at Lucian and sneered. “If it isn’t the witch’s fancy Lord. You’d best be on your way. We have business here. And the witch won’t be back to lift her skirts for you anymore.”

“Where is she?” Lucian growled.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” the man said. “The Master Inquisitor is questioning her about the terrible crimes she’s committed against the good people of Ridgeley.” He let out a nasty laugh. “They call him the Witch’s Hammer. By the time he’s done persuading her to confess, I don’t think any man will be interested in lifting her skirts. Even a fancy Lord like you.”

Mother’s mercy, Dianna thought. Ari was in the hands of the witch killers. Morag had been right. Some of the Fae should have stayed here to keep watch and to protect. But . . . Morag had been here. She was the one who should have stayed instead of tearing off to Tir Alainn to embroil them all in what was most likely another silly argument about letting Ari leave Brightwood in order to marry that Neall. Now, because of Morag, this part of Tir Alainn was more at risk than ever.

“What is your business here?” Lucian said.

The man sneered again. “It’s daylight. What do you think we need torches for?” He paused. “You do know about fire, don’t you?”

Dianna shuddered. She was glad she couldn’t see Lucian’s face.

“Yes,” Lucian said softly. He looked at the cottage. “Fire warms.” He looked back at the men. “And. It. Burns.”

At that moment, the torches became balls of fire that engulfed the men holding them.

The other men stared at their companions for a moment, then turned and ran for the horses.

Screaming, the burning men tried to run after their friends, but only managed a few steps before they fell. One of them rolled back and forth on the road, trying to smother the flames.

It will do you no good, Dianna thought with fierce satisfaction. That fire will burn as long as he commands it to burn.

The horses’ reins burst into flames, burning the hands of the men who held them. The terrified animals reared. The reins snapped, and the horses bolted before the other men could reach them.

A black stallion suddenly stood in the road where Lucian had been. Flames flickered through his mane and tail. Sparks leaped from his hooves. He charged down the road, straight toward the men who were now watching him with terrified eyes.

They threw themselves to the ground, rolling to escape his hooves.

He kept galloping down the road, heading for the village.

The men just stayed where they had fallen, watching him.

Dianna smiled viciously. It wasn’t over yet. She ran to the back of the cottage, mounted her pale mare, and signaled her shadow hounds to go around the other side of the cottage. She trotted out to the road just as the men were getting to their feet.

“You want a hunt?” she taunted. “Then we’ll hunt.”

Some of the men turned toward Brightwood, as if intending to flee into the woods. But the shadow hounds flowed around the cottage at that moment, and the men turned and ran in the other direction.

That was good. She didn’t want them touching Brightwood. And they wouldn’t. Not ever again.

She went back around the cottage so the mare wouldn’t have to walk between the burned bodies. She watched the fleeing men and smiled. Fear made feet swift. But not swift enough.

“Catch them,” she said.

The shadow hounds raced after the men. And the Huntress raced with them.

“Fetch the witch,” Adolfo told two of his guards. “It’s time to take care of Baron Felston’s problem.”

As Neall rode up to the manor house’s kitchen door, one of the men standing near the stables hurried to meet him.

“You’d best be gone, Neall,” he said. “You know you’re not welcome here.”

Neall dismounted, then looked at the man. The words had been sharp, but there was concern beneath them.

He smiled. “I’m going for good, Winn. I just wanted to leave a peace offering.” He tipped his head toward the mare.

Winn’s eyes widened. “How’d you manage to get one of Ahern’s special horses?”

“Let’s just say I bargained well.”

“She’s a beauty. I guess the baron won’t run you off until he’s got her locked in the stables.” The man looked at the saddlebags.

Neall tensed.

“The baron has guests,” Winn said slowly. “Not the sort of men you want looking in your direction, if you get my meaning.”

“I get your meaning.”

“When you leave here, you’d better ride fast.”

“I intend to.”

The man started to say something more but the frenzied barking coming from the kennels silenced him. Then, “Mother’s tits! What’s wrong with them?” He hurried away.

“Stay here,” Neall told the horses.

He opened the kitchen door.

Ari leaned against the stone wall, next to the door. In one hand she held the spiked bridle. She had looked through the Master Inquisitor’s chest and had found other things that could be used as a weapon, but she couldn’t bear to touch them. She could barely stand holding the spiked bridle. The metal was filled with the pain of the ones who had worn it.

If only she had a stone that size that she could throw at whoever opened the door. If it hit him in the face or chest, it might knock him down long enough for her to get away.

Could she use her magic to will the spiked bridle to feel like stone? She closed her eyes, picturing it clearly. A man opening the door. Stones flying to strike him. Knocking him down.

As I will it, so mote it be.

The wall she leaned against shifted slightly, making a quiet grinding sound.

Her eyes snapped open. Before she could wonder if she’d actually felt something, she heard the scrape of a key in the lock.

Her heart pounding, Ari gripped the spiked bridle, ready to swing it at whoever walked through the door.

Stones flying. Stones flying. As I will it. . .

The door started to open.

The wall beside her exploded outward, the stones striking flesh.

Stunned, Ari stared through the hole in the wall at the two guards lying on the floor, their heads buried under stone.

She tossed the spiked bridle into the room, gingerly stepped over the man nearest the door, then stopped. She wasn’t the first person who had felt fear and pain in that small, dark room. From the moment the Black Coats had dragged her into that room, she had sensed the misery that had soaked into the stones over the years.

Pressing her hands against the stone wall on the other side of the door, she called the strength of the earth into her, let it flow through her to the stones.

“Bury this place,” she whispered, focusing her will on the room as she drew more and more of the earth’s strength into herself then channeled it into the stones. “Bury it deep so that no one will feel fear and pain here again. As I will it, so mote it be.”

The stones trembled beneath her hands.

Ari turned and ran for the stairs.

The shadow hounds pulled another man down. He squealed like a rabbit as one of the bitches sank her teeth into his neck and tore out his throat.

Dianna raced after the next one. Some of the hounds were ahead of her, keeping their quarry running across open land.

The leader, the one who had dared sneer at the Lightbringer, was still up ahead. She let him stay ahead. He couldn’t outrun her hounds. But she also couldn’t let him reach the farmhouse she could see in the near distance.

He wouldn’t. But being close to safety when she brought him down would hurt him even more.

As Neall entered the kitchen, the manor house shuddered, rumbled. He felt the kitchen floor drop beneath his feet, giving him the strange sense that he was being flung into the air.

Mother’s mercy, was the whole place going to cave in?

“Ari,” he whispered. If the house was collapsing for some reason, she would be buried alive.

He ran across the kitchen, yanked open the door that led to the cellar—and caught Ari before she could fall. With one arm around her waist, he hurried her across the kitchen and outside.

He hesitated, then led her to Darcy and gave her a boost into the saddle. There wasn’t time to adjust the stirrups, so he placed her hands firmly on the saddle. “You just concentrate on staying with him. Let him do the rest. He’ll take care of you.”

“Neall . . .”

“Get her away from here.”

Darcy spun, almost tossing Ari from the saddle. She regained her balance, and the gelding cantered away from the house.

Too slow, Neall thought as he swung up on the mare. Too slow.

As he urged the mare to follow Darcy, he heard shouts from the stables, saw some of the guards who had accompanied the Master Inquisitor running toward him.

And he heard glass breaking.

The manor house shuddered again.

Adolfo stumbled into a table, his heart pounding fiercely.

That witch. He should have gone to work on her as soon as he’d brought her here instead of giving her a little time alone to let fear soften her.

Well, he could rectify that right now. Better yet, he would just slit her throat here and now and be done with it.

The window behind him shattered, spraying glass across the room.

As he stepped into the hall, Felston rushed to meet him.

“That young bastard Neall is escaping with the witch!” Felston shouted. “He’s been trouble since the first day I allowed him to live here.”

Adolfo ran to the front door, flung it open, then ran to the stables, Felston puffing along behind him.

He skidded to a stop. A wild fury filled him as he watched two dark horses running across the fields.

“Mount up,” Adolfo shouted. He pointed a finger at Felston. “If they’re riding in that direction, where are they heading?”

“That way will take them to Ahern’s farm.”

Adolfo swung around, pointed a finger at his Inquisitors. “You take half the guards and ride to the Old Place. They’re more likely to head for the woods where they can hide rather than being chased over open land. Get ahead of them. We’ll follow them. And they’ll be trapped between us. The rest of you men come with me.” He gave Felston a hard stare. “When we catch them, I’ll take care of both your problems.”

Mounting his horse, he galloped after the witch and her foolish lover.

Behind him, the manor house shook.

The man wasn’t sneering now that her hounds stood in a snarling circle around him.

“You can’t hurt me,” he said, his voice coming close to a whine. “I’m Royce, Baron Felston’s heir.”

“I don’t care who you are,” Dianna said. “Where is Ari?”

A nasty, but pouting, expression came over his face.

“The Witch’s Hammer took care of her, just like he’s going to take care of you if you don’t let me go.”

“Where is she?”

“Dead! Dead dead dead. And he’ll kill you too. You’ll see.”

“But you won’t.”

She watched impassively while her hounds tore him apart. When she finally called them to her, she looked away from what remained of Baron Felston’s heir— and saw the dark smoke of a strong fire.

“Lucian,” she whispered.

She dug her heels into her mare’s sides and galloped toward the smoke, her hounds racing beside her.

The good people of Ridgeley had been introduced to the Lightbringer’s wrath. Now let them meet the Huntress.

Neall brought the dark mare to a stop that sat her back on her haunches. He vaulted off her back and ran to Darcy.

“Neall, what are you doing?” Ari said, anxiously looking behind her. “They’re catching up.”

He adjusted the left stirrup, then shoved her foot into it. “I know,” he said, ducking under Darcy’s head to adjust the right stirrup. “But you’re not a strong rider, and you need the stirrups to stay in the saddle at the speed we need to go.”

“Neall . . . Maybe—”

“Don’t say it.” He gave her such a sharp look, she flinched. “We’re in this together.”

“Will we make it to Ahern’s?” Ari asked.

Neall mounted the mare and shook his head. “Too much open land that way. We’ll head for Brightwood. We can lose them in the deeper part of the woods.” The Small Folk will see to that, he added silently, gathering the reins. “Just hang on, Ari. We’ll make it.”

He glanced back. The riders coming from Felston’s estate were gaining too fast. “Let’s ride.”

The mare and gelding leaped forward, racing for Brightwood.

As they crested a low, rolling hill, Morag spotted the two dark horses racing back toward Brightwood. And she saw the other riders who weren’t that far behind.

The gray stallion stamped one foot and tossed his head.

The dark horse danced, too fretful about not moving to stand still.

“Can we reach them before those other riders do?” Morphia asked, curbing her own horse.

“We’ll reach them,” Morag said. She gave the dark horse his head, letting him tear down the hill in pursuit of Ari and Neall. Morphia raced beside her.

But the gray stallion veered away from them and headed straight for the other riders.

May the Mother protect you, Ahern, Morag thought. Then she thought of nothing else but the two young people she desperately wanted to stay among the living.

Adolfo clenched his hands, dragging on the reins enough to slow his horse. The guards passed him, heading straight for that gray stallion.

Two black-haired women. One riding a dark horse. He had wanted to punish her for stealing from him, for killing his men. Now, seeing her, even at a distance, was more than enough. She reeked of magic. She reeked of death.

The Gatherer.

Despite the fear that had shivered through him every time he’d thought of her, he hadn’t really believed until now that she could do to him what she’d done to his nephew and courier. He’d been certain that he was powerful enough to stand against any of the Fae and win.

But not against her. Who could stand against Death’s Mistress?

A shout from one of the guards brought his attention back to the problem standing directly in their path.

No ordinary horse would have run toward his guards instead of staying with the women and their horses. Which meant the gray was no ordinary horse. There was only one man at Ahern’s farm who was fully Fae and could shift into another shape, and that was Ahern himself.

Adolfo chided himself for allowing the sight of the Gatherer to distract him and make him doubt his own strength, even for a moment. Despite her power, she was still only a female, still only a creature that had to be taught to submit to the masters of the world. He would find her weakness and use it to crush her. In the meantime, the horse Lord standing in his way needed to be taught a lesson.

Before he could issue his orders, the gray stallion reared, bugling a challenge. Or, perhaps, a command.

The other horses turned away, fighting bit and spur. When the stallion bugled again, they reared.

Two of the guards, who were reaching for their crossbows, were thrown. One scrambled to his feet and grabbed his fallen crossbow. The other didn’t move.

As his horse’s forelegs touched the ground again, Adolfo kicked out of the stirrups and half fell out of the saddle, just managing to stagger out of reach before his horse’s back feet lashed out.

Two more of the guards managed to grab their crossbows and get free of their saddles.

“Kill him!” Adolfo shouted.

The gray stallion reared.

The guards took aim.

A horse charged one of the guards, knocking against him at the same moment the quarrel left the crossbow. That spoiled the aim enough that the quarrel hit the stallion’s shoulder instead of his chest.

But the other two guards hit the stallion’s exposed belly, and the quarrels sank deep.

Screaming, the stallion whirled and galloped back toward the hill it had raced down a short while before.

Adolfo shouted in triumph. Fae or not, no matter what his form, a belly wound was a fatal one. He watched the stallion struggle to reach the top of the hill.

It doesn’t matter if you reach your farm or not, old man. You’re still going to die.

For a moment, there was no sound but the harsh breathing of men and animals.

Then the horses went mad.

The glint of shoes in the sunlight as hooves lashed out. The thud of bodies hitting the earth.

The horses galloped up the hill, following the dying gray stallion.

Adolfo looked at the guards’ bodies. He sank to his knees. This shouldn’t have happened. He was the Witch’s Hammer. He was the powerful one. This shouldn’t have happened.

“Master Adolfo?”

One guard staggered to his feet, blood streaming from a wound in his head.

“Are you hurt, Master Adolfo?”

Adolfo started to shake. Couldn’t stop. This shouldn’t have happened. What were the Fae—any of the Fae—that they could thwart the will of men by controlling the four-legged beasts men used? But if men couldn’t command the beasts, how could they rid the world of magic and be the masters as they were meant to be?

“Master Adolfo?”

Adolfo forced himself to get to his feet. He mustn’t show weakness. If he did, they would never rid the world of the witches . . . and the Fae.

“When the witch is gone, the magic will die,” Adolfo said carefully. “The magic will die, and there will be nothing that will make us afraid. We will be the masters.”

“Yes, Master.”

Adolfo looked at the bleeding guard, and his brown eyes burned with a queer light. “Good men were lost today, but not in vain. No, not in vain. We drove the witch and her foul lover into the trap, and the other Inquisitors will see that she pays for the pain she has brought.”

The guard didn’t seem to be listening, wasn’t even looking at him. He wouldn’t allow other men to turn away from him, dismiss him. Not again. Never again. No man was going to turn away from him as his father had done. And any man who did would pay for it— as his father had done.

Adolfo took a few steps to the side, bent to pick up one of the crossbows.

Then the guard pointed. “Look! Smoke! Something’s burning.”

Adolfo sighed, as another man might after being satisfied by a woman. “It’s the witch’s cottage. Royce and his friends went to burn it down so there would be no trace of her left to foul the land.”

The guard slowly shook his head. “There’s too much smoke to be one cottage, master. And that’s coming from the direction of—” The guard turned and stared at him. “Ridgeley. It’s the village that’s burning.”

Morag reined the dark horse to a stop.

“Mother’s mercy, Neall,” she muttered as she scanned the woods. “How could you disappear so fast?”

“Will we find them?” Morphia asked.

“We’ll find them,” Morag replied grimly.

They had to find Neall and Ari.

Because Death was no longer whispering. Now, Death howled.

Neall followed the broadest trail through the woods. They needed to go deeper into Brightwood, away from the trails where someone could easily track them. But he was worried about Ari. She knew these woods better than anyone, but she wasn’t a skilled rider and could be swept out of the saddle if she misjudged a low-hanging branch. Distance. Distance. They needed to put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers to catch their breath and decide where the best place would be to lay low for a little while.

He cursed silently as he went down into a slight dip and saw the tree that had fallen across the trail. Not much room on the other side of it for a horse to land before the trail climbed again. He could have done it on Darcy, but he didn’t know the mare well enough to have that kind of confidence in her—and Ari certainly couldn’t make that jump.

As he reined in and turned the mare, he heard Darcy’s angry challenge—and realized Ari was no longer right behind him.

The mare charged back up to level ground just in time for Neall to see the men wearing black coats step onto the trail, blocking the gelding’s retreat.

Movement just beyond the edge of the trail. Guards raising their crossbows. Aiming at Ari!

“Look out!” Neall shouted.

Darcy pivoted on his hind legs, half rearing as he turned. Most of the crossbow quarrels hit him in the chest and neck, but two of them found their intended target.

Ari and Darcy both screamed as the gelding fell, throwing Ari out of the saddle. Blood reddened her tunic and trousers. When she tried to move, she cried out in pain.

Neall threw himself off the mare’s back and ran toward Ari. “Leave her alone, you bastards!”

Two guards took aim at him. Before they could fire, a look of stunned surprise came over their faces. They fell to the ground. So did the rest of the guards. And the black-coated Inquisitors.

Neall stared at them for a moment, not sure that he believed what he saw.

He stumbled over to Ari, knelt beside her.

She raised her head, her eyes filled with pain. “Neall . . .”

He pressed a hand gently to her shoulder to keep her from moving. The quarrels had gone through her, so at least he wouldn’t have to try to remove them here or have her endure riding with them still in her until he could get her to some kind of safety.

Darcy’s labored breathing suddenly stopped.

In that silence, Neall heard the quiet sound of a hoof against earth. He looked beyond the fallen men to the two women who watched him.

“Morag,” he breathed. Watching them dismount, he thought about snatching up one of the crossbows, but he knew he couldn’t move fast enough to stop her. The dead men around him were proof of that.

Leaping to his feet, he took a few steps forward, then planted himself in the middle of the trail, standing between her and Ari.

“Morag,” Ari said. Her voice sounded so terribly weak.

Neall tensed as the Gatherer approached him, but his eyes never left hers.

“Step aside, Neall,” she said.

He shook his head. “Death can’t be cheated, but sometimes a bargain can be struck.” He saw her surprise before she could mask it. “The others who are Death’s Servants have no choice about who they guide to the Shadowed Veil, but the Gatherer does. She can transfer one person’s strength to another. At least, that’s what the stories say.”

“And if the stories are true?” Morag asked quietly.

“Then take me. Give my life strength to Ari, and take me.”

She gave him a queer look. “You would do that?”

“No, Neall,” Ari pleaded. “Don’t give up your life.”

He turned slowly and looked at her. “You are my life.” When he turned back to face Morag, she was watching Ari intently. Fear spiked through him, roughening his voice. “Will you trade? My life for hers.”

She gave him another queer look, then held out her hand.

He grabbed it, curled his fingers around it so she couldn’t let go.

She gave him a tug that pulled him to one side of the path at the same moment the other woman slipped around him and hurried toward Ari.

He tried to pull away from her—and discovered she was stronger than he’d thought. So he just stood there, watching helplessly, as the other woman knelt beside Ari and gently brushed one hand over Ari’s head.

Ari’s eyes closed. Her head sank to the ground.

“You agreed to trade!” Neall said, feeling grief mingle with fury.

“I made no bargain, Neall,” Morag said quietly. “Nor would I have. I see no shadows in her face. Let my sister do what she can.”

“Sister?” He stared at the other black-haired woman, who was carefully lifting Ari’s tunic.

“Morphia is the Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams.”

How fitting that the Gatherer and the Sleep Sister were actually sisters.

Morag released his hand and walked toward Ari. “She is hurt, and she is in pain, but Death is not waiting here for her, Neall.”

“If Death had been waiting, would you have agreed to the bargain?” Neall asked, keeping pace with her.

Morag was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t know. No one has asked that of me until now.”

“Then what’s happened to Ari?”

Morphia looked up at him. “I gave her sleep so she would feel no pain.”

Sinking to his knees, Neall forced himself to look at the wounds.

“She bleeds, but the quarrels cut through nothing more than flesh.” She looked questioningly at Morag, who held one hand over Ari’s body.

Morag nodded. “I don’t sense any damage inside her. Did you bring her saddlebags before the two of you ran?”

“Yes,” Neall said.

“Then bring them here, and some water as well.”

As Neall stood up to do her bidding, he glanced at the dead men. Right now, it was better not to think too much about who Morag was.

He would have traded, Morag thought as she waited for Neall to bring the saddlebags. Even without knowing whether it was truly needed, he would have traded his life for hers.

Would any Fae male have cared so much that he would have tried to make that bargain? If necessary, he would fight for Clan and kin—and, perhaps, die in the fighting. But he wouldn’t go into that fight expecting to die. He would expect to live and benefit from his courage in the fight. But for a man to hand over his life, knowing he wouldn’t share in whatever would come after?

You did just make a bargain, Neall, although it’s one you’re not aware of. One I hope you’ll never be aware of.

When Neall hurried back to them, Morphia used the water to wash the wound in Ari’s side and the graze in her thigh. Morag rummaged through the saddlebags until she found the rolled cloths and the small jar of healing ointment.

“But those are—” Neall started to protest.

“Clean and made to absorb blood,” Morag replied. She and Morphia smeared the ointment on the wounds and dealt with the makeshift bandages. Neall protested again when they tore up Ari’s long nightgown to make strips long enough to wrap around Ari and hold the dressings. They ignored him.

“Now,” Morag said as she put the supplies back in Ari’s saddlebags, “lift her carefully and take her out of the way. We’ll try to shift the gelding enough to get your saddlebags free.”

“No,” Neall said. “I don’t need—”

Morag gave him a look that silenced him. “If you didn’t need what you’d brought, you wouldn’t have brought it.”

It took effort, but between them, she and Morphia managed to pull the saddlebags free.

Morag rested one hand on the gelding’s flank in a silent farewell. This one had had the courage of his breed, and she knew he would be sorely missed.

That reminded her of another problem. Neall and Ari couldn’t travel however far they would have to go riding double on the mare. They needed another horse.

Handing the saddlebags to Morphia, she walked over to where the dark horse waited for her. She pressed her hand against his cheek and looked into his dark, trusting eyes.

“I want you to go with Neall and Ari. I know you like her, and I think you’ll like him, too.” When he started to take a step back, she shook her head. “They need you. They need your strength and your speed and your courage. They need you to look after them and take care of them. They’re going to need that for a long time. So we’ll say goodbye now, my friend. You’ll have a good life with them. This much I know.”

Giving him a last caress, she walked the dark horse over to where Neall stood, holding Ari in his arms.

“He’ll go with you,” she said quietly. “You’ll need to ride double until Ari is strong enough to ride by herself. The mare couldn’t do that. He can.”

Neall stared at her. “I—I can’t take your horse.”

“Yes, you can. For Ari’s sake.” And for the sake of a good horse who now fears what I would have to ask of him.

“I’ll wake her enough that she can help you get her mounted,” Morphia said. “I won’t send her back into a deep sleep since that will make it harder for you both to ride, but she’ll doze enough to dull the pain.”

Taking the saddlebags from her sister, Morag tied them to the dark horse’s saddle. While Neall and Morphia helped Ari mount, she secured Ari’s saddlebags and canteen to the mare’s saddle.

When they were ready to go, Morag gave Ari one more long, searching look—and felt relieved. There were still no shadows in the girl’s face. Ari would heal—and she would have the life Astra and Ahern had wanted for her.

“May the Mother bless both of you for all of your days,” Neall said.

“Blessings of the day to you,” Morag said.

Neall smiled oddly. “ ‘Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.’ That’s another saying among witches.” He murmured to the dark horse, who pricked his ears, considered the trail before them, then turned into the trees to find another path.

Morag smiled at the way Neall’s eyes widened at having the decision made for him, but Neall was used to dealing with an animal that sometimes held an opinion that was different from his own. He and the dark horse would get along well together—once they got to know each other.

Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.

A warm feeling filled Morag. Did that saying express a hope that she would visit them in their new home?

The warm feeling froze, began to shrivel. Or did that saying have more than one meaning, especially when it was said to the Gatherer? Was Neall trying to tell her he hoped they would meet again in this world—or that he hoped they wouldn’t see her again until they were all in the Summerland, after their spirits had left their bodies to the Mother’s keeping?

Foolish to want acceptance from anyone who lived in the human world, foolish to yearn to be welcomed as a friend when even her own kind drew back from her. She was Death’s Mistress. That was her gift—and her burden. What did she truly know of life?

She pushed away her feelings before they could bruise her heart. Turning, she saw Morphia watching her.

“What do we do about them?” Morphia asked softly.

Morag looked at the ghosts who all glared at her— especially the Inquisitors. They would have to be dealt with, taken away from Brightwood. Whether she would guide them all the way to the Shadowed Veil was something she hadn’t decided yet.

“Leave them,” she said. “The Small Folk can do what they choose with the bodies.”

Morphia looked at the Inquisitors’ ghosts and shuddered. “In that case, let’s get away from here.”

They mounted Morphia’s horse, Morag riding behind her sister, then headed in the direction of the cottage.

As they crossed the meadow, they saw the black smoke, could smell the burning.

“It would appear the Lightbringer has passed judgment on the people there,” Morphia said.

“Yes,” Morag said softly. “They shouldn’t have forgotten he is the Lord of Fire.”

Morphia hesitated. “You’re tired, Morag. Can’t you rest a little while before you gather the people there?”

I’ll rest a long while before I ride into that village, Morag thought. “Let another of Death’s Servants guide them to the Shadowed Veil. I am tired, and—”

Death called.

Morag listened carefully, looked in the direction from which that call had come.

“And there’s someplace else I have to be,” she finished, her voice full of regret.

Abandoning the wounded guard, Adolfo ran toward the group of people clustered around the stable. Reaching them, he stared at the mound of debris-filled earth that filled the place where Baron Felston’s manor house had stood a short while ago.

“What happened here?” he gasped.

One of the grooms gave him a hostile look. “The earth swallowed it, then spewed up enough of itself to cover it. I guess that was the Mother’s way of saying you Inquisitors should have let the witches be.”

Adolfo looked at them, saw the same grim expression and hard eyes in all their faces. “But she was the one who did this. The witch did this!”

“She never did any harm until you came!” one of the female servants shouted.

The groom nodded his head in agreement. “The ladies of Brightwood always had a lot more courtesy for the common folk than the gentry did. Even the villagers looked down on those who worked the land.” He looked in the direction of the black smoke filling the sky. “Guess they’re not going to be looking down on anyone for a long time to come.”

“The witch—”

The groom shook his head, then gestured toward another man. “Russell said he saw a black horse racing toward Ridgeley. A black horse with flames in his mane and tail. Anything he passed that a man had made . . . burned. Guess the Lord of Fire was letting us all know his opinion about you taking the witch.”

They were all against him. That, too, was the witch’s fault. She should have accepted her fate, should have yielded to the need to have her spirit cleansed of its foulness. She had brought about this disdain for authority in servants who, a day ago, had been sufficiently meek.

“Where is Baron Felston? There are things I must discuss with him.”

The groom tipped his head toward the mound of earth. “You can dig for him then. He never came out. There was plenty of time before the house started to cave in, but he never came out. Neither did the baroness nor Odella.”

Adolfo’s legs trembled. He forced himself to stand tall and show no weakness. These people were like a pack of feral dogs now. If he showed any weakness, they would attack.

“If you want answers,” the groom said, “you could always try to ask the Small Folk. I saw a few of them heading away from the manor house just before it all caved in. I reckon they could tell you what happened to the baron and the others.”

The Small Folk. The Fae. The witch. There was too much power here—power that should have been approached carefully instead of with haste. That had been his error. Felston had lured him here with the conviction that there was only one young witch to deal with. He should have proceeded with his usual caution instead of listening to the baron’s reassurances. And there was still the not-insignificant matter of his fee.

“Where is Royce?” Adolfo asked.

The groom shrugged. “He left earlier today to ride out with some of his friends. Haven’t seen him since.”

He didn’t want to know what happened to Royce, but it was possible the young man was still alive. It was possible.

“Saddle a horse for me. I’ll find Royce. He needs to be informed that he is the baron now.”

No one moved.

Then a shadow passed over them.

The groom looked up, watched the hawk for a moment, then turned to another man. “Winn, saddle a horse for him. The sooner he’s gone, the better. No point having the Fae or the Small Folk angry with us because he’s standing here.”

Adolfo watched the hawk slowly circle, as if it were taking a good look at the destruction. Suppressing a shiver, he said, “It’s just a hawk.”

The groom made a harsh sound. “And that black horse that burned Ridgeley was just a horse. Get away from us, Master Inquisitor. You brought nothing but ill with you.”

Winn came out of the stables, leading a saddled horse.

Not the best horse Felston had, Adolfo thought as he eyed the animal. An adequate beast and nothing more. But he mounted without comment, and rode away.

Once he was out of sight, he turned the horse away from the direction of the main road and cut across the fields so that he could pick up the road again on the other side of Ridgeley. He didn’t want to ride through the village. He didn’t want to be the scapegoat people accused of causing their pain and suffering.

He could reach the next village by late evening, even riding this inadequate animal. Once there, he would summon the other Inquisitors he’d brought with him to Sylvalan. Then he would return here and deal with the Fae.

Morag stood beside Ahern’s bed, watching the shadows deepen in his face. His housekeeper and one of his men kept the bedside vigil.

“Ahern,” Morag said softly. The Mother only knew how he’d made it back to the farm wounded as he was. She wanted to release him from the suffering, but wouldn’t gather him without his consent.

“Go outside, Morag,” Ahern said, his gruff voice now weak and gasping. “Go outside for a bit.”

She did as he asked. As she walked toward the stables, she realized the place already felt empty and there was no sign of the men and horses.

Another of Ahern’s men met her halfway.

“Where is everyone?” she asked.

“Going . . . or already gone,” he replied. “Ahern had told us he was leaving, going back to the Clan he’d come from.” Tears filled his eyes. He blinked them away. “He said he wanted to remember Brightwood as it was. He’d settled our wages and given us our pick of the horses. Except the special horses. He said they would find the place where they belonged.” He hesitated. “I guess Ahern will be staying after all.”

“His body will rest here within the Mother, but his spirit will go to the Summerland,” Morag said gently. “That I can promise you.”

The man nodded, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “He said you would need a horse and gear. He chose them, early this morning, before . . .”

Morag stared at the man. How had Ahern known she would need another dark horse? He couldn’t have known what would happen today.

But as the Lord of the Horse, he would have sensed the dark horse’s fear of the shining roads through the Veil, and he must have guessed that she would look for a way to let the animal go rather than continue to endure that fear.

“If you need help saddling him, I’ll be nearby,” the man said, brushing his fingers against the brim of his cap before he walked away.

Morag continued toward the stables. As if that was the awaited signal, a dark horse stepped out of the shadows, his ears pricked.

“You are a fine lad, aren’t you?” she said softly, holding out her hand.

He came forward to get acquainted.

Yes, he was a fine horse, she decided as she petted him. Fine and strong, with the courage of his breed. Since Ahern had chosen him for her—and had chosen her for him—she had no doubt they would forge a strong partnership.

“Let’s see how your saddle fits,” Morag said.

As she stepped into the stables, she heard the whimpering. Following the sound, she opened a stall door.

“Ah, Merle,” she said softly.

The puppy looked at her with heartbroken eyes.

Morag held out her hand for him to sniff. He crept toward her. The tip of his tail began to wag as he sniffed her.

He smells Ari, she thought sadly, petting the puppy. She picked him up and cuddled him, not sure which of them found it the most comforting.

“I don’t know where she’s going, Merle. I don’t know where to find her. And it’s better that way—for now.” She set him down, then slipped out of the stall, closing the door behind her.

He immediately began whimpering again.

She looked at him over the stall door. “Quiet, little one. There’s a journey I have to make, and it’s on a road that you can’t travel. But I’ll come back for you. You won’t be left behind. You won’t be alone. That I promise.”

She saddled the dark horse, then checked to see that Merle had food and water. She would come back for him in the morning. It would be better not to take him to the cottage and then take him away again.

This time, when she returned to the bedroom, Ahern was ready. She gathered him gently. His body took its last breath as his spirit stepped away from it.

The housekeeper, sitting beside the bed, covered her face with her hands and wept. The man on the other side of the bed bowed his head to hide his own tears.

Ahern’s ghost frowned.

You were cared for, Ahern, Morag thought. Let them grieve.

She guided him out of the house.

“You approve?” he asked as they walked toward the dark horse.

“I approve,” she replied quietly. After she mounted, Ahern floated up to sit behind her.

She didn’t immediately seek the road to the Shadowed Veil. Instead, she went back to Brightwood, back to the hill where the wind always blew, and Astra, as well as Ahern, made the journey with her.

She left them standing before the Shadowed Veil. When she looked back, she saw Ahern hold out his hand . . . and she saw Astra take it. Together, they walked through the Shadowed Veil to the Summerland beyond.

Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.

She wasn’t sure about the partings, but she hoped that, when their spirits had rested and were reborn in the world, Astra and Ahern would find each other again. Perhaps, the next time, they would be able to build a life together.

It was growing dark by the time she returned to Ari’s cottage, where Morphia waited for her.