Pillars of the World

by Anne Bishop

  Chapter Fourteen

  Adolfo tied his weary horse securely to a tree before moving a little deeper into the Old Place. It would have been better if he could have hobbled the horse and let it graze in the meadow bordering the Old Place, but his nephew’s ghost kept beckoning to him from the other side of the meadow. He was certain the ghost couldn’t leave the meadow since the body was buried there, but he wasn’t certain about how much of the meadow the ghost could walk — and he wasn’t certain how much power Konrad’s ghost might have. So the animal would have to wait until he was done with what he had come to do.

  The witch who had lived here was dead — Konrad had achieved that much — and Adolfo could feel the magic bleeding out of the Old Place. But power still thrummed in the land, in the trees, in the very air of this place. It grated against his bones even as it filled him with exultation.

  As he walked, he brushed his fingers against the trees until he touched one and felt a dryad’s shriek of anger as a tingling in his fingertips. He smiled. Before she could gather her small magic to strike at him, he pressed his hand against the tree and poured his own power into it, binding her inside the trunk. Taking a step away from the tree, he sank to his knees. Placing his hands firmly on the ground, he used the witch magic that was his mother’s legacy to make the connection between himself and the Old Place. Then he began drawing the power out of the land, filling himself with it until his heart pounded and his body ached with the effort to contain it. And still he took in more and more, all the while murmuring the words that would change benign power into something malicious.

  When he felt full to bursting, he released it all, letting it flood out of him as twisted ropes of magic that flew toward the village and nearby farms.

  He heard the dryad scream as one of those twisted ropes struck her tree and consumed her.

  He felt the land shudder as he took in more of its magic and released it, changed.

  Finally unable to do any more, he broke his connection with the Old Place and slumped to the ground, trembling with exhaustion.

  Power no longer thrummed in the land. It was still there. Nothing could destroy it completely in an Old Place. But it was a pale shadow of what it had been an hour before, and it would never again be more than a pale shadow — unless another witch came to live in the Old Place. Or the Fae. But that would never happen. The Fae only amused themselves in this world before returning to their precious Fair Land, and by the time he was done, no female would be able to set foot on this land without being condemned as a witch, whether she had any magic or not.

  “And no man shall suffer a witch to live,” Adolfo whispered, rolling onto his back. “No man shall be at the mercy of any kind of female magic. We shall be the masters, the rulers, and what little power we grant we can also strip away. So shall it be.”

  With effort, he climbed to his feet and slowly returned to his horse. Opening a saddlebag, he pulled out a flask of brandy and drank deeply. He followed that with hunks of bread and cheese. His strength returned, slowly — far more slowly than it once did. But he was older now, and it took more out of him to strip power from the land.

  Finishing the bread and cheese, he drank his fill from the water canteen, then poured water into his cupped hand for the horse.

  “That’s enough,” Adolfo said, shaking the last drops of water from his hand and tying the canteen to the saddle.

  He walked the horse out of the woods.

  His nephew’s ghost now stood halfway between its grave and the border of the Old Place.

  Adolfo suppressed a shudder, viciously controlling himself so that nothing would show on his face.

  A twist of released magic must have struck the ghost, turning it into a nightmarish image, all the more dreadful because it could still be recognized as the young man it had been. In time, the villagers might have become used to a handsome ghost prowling the meadow. No one would be able to look on this without fear.

  “They will pay for your death,” Adolfo told the ghost. “That I promise you.”

  He turned away, aware that Konrad trailed after him. He didn’t breathe easily until he was well beyond the meadow and Konrad could no longer follow him. Mounting, he settled the horse into an easy trot. He’d ridden hard to reach this place at the right time. Now he would stop at the first available inn to give the horse and himself a well-earned rest.

  He couldn’t control what the twisted ropes of magic would do. He’d never been able to control it to that extent. He simply released it and let each rope find its mark. Over the next few days, the villagers would suffer unexplainable troubles. Wells would collapse, cows would suddenly go dry, chickens would cease to lay, a dog would turn vicious and savage a child, a healthy woman would be taken to childbed before her time and die in agony birthing a corpse.

  And those ropes of magic caused transformations, taking something from the natural world and twisting it into something else. The nighthunters were formed that way. A few were always created when he or one of his Inquisitors drained an Old Place of its magic. That didn’t trouble him since they mostly preyed on the Small Folk — or people who were foolish enough to walk through deep woods at night.

  The villagers would still be reeling from Harro’s grisly death so soon after Konrad’s, and all the other troubles that would suddenly plague them would shatter any doubts they may have had about the existence of the Evil One and leave them at the mercy of what he had to teach them.

  And he would teach them. In a few days, the other Inquisitors he had summoned would arrive at this village, as well as a couple of minstrels who found their purses well filled now that they played to his tune. He would return here as the Master Inquisitor, the Witch’s Hammer, and by the time he was done purging these people of all the Evil One’s servants, those who survived would spread a story that would leave no doubt about how thoroughly the Evil One could devour people wherever an Inquisitor died.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The road through the Veil shone in the deepening twilight.

  Morag hesitated. It looked safe; it felt strong. It was the first shining road she’d found in the handful of days since she’d killed the young man in the black coat and taken the witch up the road that led to the Shadowed Veil. And yet …

  The dark horse stamped one foot, mouthed the bit impatiently.

  “There’s a storm coming,” Morag said quietly. “The sky is clear and there’s no wind, but this place feels hushed, the way a place does when everything has sought shelter to hide from whatever is going to happen.”

  She stretched her senses and the magic that was her gift. Death didn’t whisper to her, didn’t stir. Almost as if Death also waited.

  Morag looked around, still uneasy.

  The road through the Veil beckoned.

  “Let’s go to the Fair Land,” she said.

  The dark horse needed no urging.

  They cantered along that shining road walled by mist.

  Little tendrils of mist drifted across the road.

  She’d never seen that before.

  Was it taking longer than usual to reach the Veil that separated the human world from Tir Alainn? Shouldn’t she have reached it by now?

  A storm was coming. She could feel it.

  Mist drifted across the road.

  Where was the Veil?

  There!

  Morag looked at the dark gray wall of mist they were swiftly approaching and clenched the reins. She couldn’t see beyond it. That wasn’t right. The Veil was usually translucent, not opaque. What if it was like that when they were passing through it? Would the dark horse be able to stay on the road if he couldn’t see it? If he misstepped and took them into the walls of mist on either side of the road, they would never find their way back. No one ever had.

  The dark horse hesitated. Morag leaned forward, her eyes intent on the Veil. “Go.”

  He surged forward. And they were nowhere, surrounded by heavy, thick mist.

  No one gathers the souls of th
ose who have slipped into the mist, Morag thought, fighting against a growing fear as second after second passed and they were still riding through mist. No one gathers the souls … because no one can find them. If I’m lost here, would I be able to find the other lost ones but not be able to guide them to the road that leads to the Shadowed Veil? Or could I find that particular road no matter where I am?

  The dark horse snorted, gathered himself for another burst of speed.

  They exploded out of the mist. Gently rolling land bordered the road now. Ahead of her, she saw the Clan house rising up out of the land. Unlike the great houses the humans built, boxy and predictable, the Clan houses consisted of many buildings of various shapes and sizes connected by gardens and courtyards, a tumble of living areas for the families that made up a Clan.

  Breathing easier, and suddenly exhausted, Morag reined the dark horse back to an easy canter. A minute later, they rode into the first large courtyard, where the stables were.

  Dismounting, she looked around. Why had no one come out of the stables to meet her? The stable doors were open, so someone must have heard her arrive. Where were all the Fae?

  There’s a storm coming.

  Shivering, despite it being a warm summer evening, Morag led the horse toward the open stable doors.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting him rubbed down and fed.” The surly voice came from the shadows inside the stable.

  “Yes, I do want him rubbed down and fed,” Morag replied.

  A Fae male stepped out of the stables. He eyed her with dislike. ” ‘Tis suppertime, and I’ve a fine meal cooling on my plate.”

  “The quicker you attend to your duties, the sooner you can get back to it.”

  “A horse can’t be expected to wait,” he said. ” ‘Tis rude to be coming through the Veil when there’s a fine meal cooling.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Morag said softly. He finally looked at the horse. His eyes widened. “That’s a dark horse.” He wasn’t referring to just its color.

  “Yes.”

  He looked at her again, all the color washed from his face. “You’re —” “The Gatherer.”

  He just stared at her for a moment, growing paler. “I’ll take good care of him,” he whispered.

  “I know you will. He’s not just a horse, he’s a friend.” Turning away from the man, Morag untied the saddlebags and pulled them off the dark horse’s back. There wasn’t much in them — a change of clothes, a few gold coins, a comb and brush that she hadn’t used in days.

  She patted the dark horse’s neck. “Rest well.”

  He turned his head and lipped her sleeve.

  She stepped back, but waited until the Fae male came forward and led the dark horse into the stables. She smiled, and knew if the male had seen that smile he would have been terrified by the bitterness and fury it held.

  With manners like that, you could be human, Morag thought as she walked to the steps that led to the first tier of the Clan house. There was another courtyard there, this one splashed with flowers.

  What would she do if the matriarchs of the Clan greeted her the same way, forgetting Clan courtesy because she had inconvenienced them during a meal?

  Anger grew until it was powerful enough to sweep away anything in its path.

  She took a step toward the door leading into the Clan house. A voice, filled with delight, stopped her from taking another.

  “Morag! Well met, sister!”

  “Morphia!” Morag dropped the saddlebags and rushed toward her sister. They hugged with less restraint than the Fae usually showed in public.

  They stepped back at the same time. Morag looked at her sister, younger by two years. The same black hair and dark eyes, almost the same height. But Morphia’s face was softer, fuller, just as her body was rounder and more blatantly female.

  She looks like who she is, Morag thought. The Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams. If I asked, would she grant me a gentle night’s sleep?

  “Well met, Morphia,” Morag said.

  Her eyes twinkling, Morphia wrinkled her nose. “You need a bath.”

  “That isn’t all I need,” Morag said wearily.

  The twinkle in Morphia’s eyes disappeared so fast it might never have been there. She glanced around. “Morag, you’re Fae and, therefore, welcome. But, lately, everyone who has visited here has brought nothing but tales of woe and trouble.”

  “Then I’ll tell no tales since I have no better fare to offer. But then, I never do.”

  “I do not envy you your gift, Morag,” Morphia said quietly. She took her sister’s hand. “Come. We’ll get you settled into a guest room — and into a bath. Then I’ll bring up some plates and we’ll have dinner. Cullan will have to do without me for an evening.” The twinkle was back in her eyes, somewhat muted but still present.

  “Cullan?” Morag grabbed her saddlebags as she and Morphia passed them. You’re home. This may not be your Clan house or your family, but you’re back in Tir Alainn. Drop the burden for a little while. With effort, she pushed away the uneasiness that wanted to settle its heavy weight on her shoulders and made her voice light and teasing. “So this visit has a purpose? Who is this Cullan?”

  “He’s a Lord of the Woods. Not the Hunter, although he’s finely built as stag or man.” Morphia’s voice was much too casual.

  You bait me, inviting me to laugh. May the Mother bless you, sister.

  “He visited our Clan a few months back, and I decided to repay the visit.”

  “That was kind of you. Or is he really that finely built?”

  “You may judge for yourself. Tomorrow. After you’ve had a bath.”

  Laughing, Morag followed Morphia into the Clan house.

  “Did you sleep well?” Morphia asked the next morning while they strolled through one of the gardens.

  Morag slanted a look at her sister. “You made sure I would.”

  Laughing, Morphia linked her arm with Morag’s. “It was the least I could do for my favorite sister.”

  “Your only sister.”

  “Which is why you’re my favorite.”

  Pleased with each other, they walked in silence for several minutes.

  “Your Cullan seems like a fine man.”

  “Yes, he is,” Morphia said, sounding a little troubled.

  Picking up on the change in mood, Morag continued, “He also seems out of place here, not quite part of his Clan.” She winced the moment the words were out. “I apologize. I had no right to speak of a man I met an hour ago.”

  “But you’re right. You usually are in your judgment of people.”

  “I don’t judge —”

  “You do.” Morphia looked straight ahead. “But it’s not really a judgment the way someone else might use the word. It’s just that you look into a person’s eyes, even when those are already clouded by death, and you can see who they are, what’s inside them. I’ve wondered if that’s why you tend to keep your distance from most people. I’ve wondered if, sometimes, you see too much.”

  Morag said nothing. What was there to say? Morphia was the Sleep Sister, and her gift was welcomed. But the Gatherer’s presence usually reminded people of mortality and an ending they didn’t want to greet in the present. Only those who were ready to journey to the Summerland welcomed her. And Morphia was right: sometimes she did see too much of what dwelled beneath the mask of flesh.

  “Cullan is thinking of coming with me when I return to my Clan.”

  “For an extended visit?” Morag asked, wondering if Morphia was thinking about having a child with this lover and wanted him to return with her for that reason.

  Morphia shook her head. “To stay. He’s a Lord of the Woods. He doesn’t feel he has a place here.” When Morag frowned, she huffed out a breath in frustration. “Tir Alainn is the Fair Land, beautiful and perfect. But we have no forests. Why don’t we have forests, Morag? Have you ever wondered?”

  “No, I’ve never wondered,” Morag replied softly. “Forests have shadows. Death
and Life walk hand in hand there. Forests are beautiful, but they are not perfect. They’re too alive to be perfect.”

  “Everyone else in this Clan has all they need right here,” Morphia said, looking at the luxurious garden and the green, rolling land beyond it. “They can use their gifts among themselves or when they visit nearby Clans. They have no need to go through the Veil and touch the human world. But Cullan can’t use his gifts unless he walks in the Old Place, and every time he goes to the human world he feels less welcome when he returns.”

  Having a visitor who arrived by coming through the Veil didn’t please the Fae here either, Morag thought. Are they afraid I’ve been contaminated somehow from my contact with humans? That somehow I’m no longer truly Fae?

  “At least in our Clan, there are many of us who visit the human world and use our gifts as we can, so Cullan could spend time in the forests of the Old Place where our Clan’s shining road is anchored and not feel like an outcast when he returns to Tir Alainn.” Morphia smiled ruefully. “It seems we have been a bit too free in our mating with the western Clans of Sylvalan and we’re a bit sullied because of it.”

  Morag stared at her sister for too long. “I hope,” she finally said with deadly gentleness, “that no one will require the Gatherer’s help while I’m here.”

  “Oh, Morag, no,” Morphia said worriedly. “You take the words as a personal insult.”

  “Why shouldn’t I, since that’s how the words were meant?” Morag snapped. “What gives them the right to judge who among the Fae we mate with? If other Clans are considered inferior, who does this Clan mate with? Themselves?”

  “Let’s speak of something else,” Morphia pleaded. “Let’s not spoil the morning. Please.”

  They walked in silence again, but this time it was neither easy nor comfortable.

  “You’re different,” Morphia said quietly.

  “I’ve been Death’s Mistress too many times lately. Too many deaths. Too much pain. Too many unanswered questions. And here are these fools, with their razor smiles, sitting here passing judgment on who is or isn’t Fae by their exacting standards while Tir Alainn itself —”