by Anne Bishop
So many wounded. So many dead. She was grateful to Gwenn and Lyrra for making a record of the men arriving, writing down names and Clans or a human’s home village. It had helped to see the names of those who had come back to them, even if they were wounded. And it helped to receive copies that had been sent from the other gentry houses who were taking in wounded.
But it squeezed her heart to see how many names were missing. Clay had lost an eye but had managed to get back to the village on his own. But Rory was missing. Squire Thurston had lost his right leg below the knee and was being nursed in his own home. But no one remembered the last time they’d seen Donovan. Varden had come through the battle unharmed, but Sheridan was missing.
And no one had seen Falco. Or Aiden.
She tensed when she heard the door open, then forced herself to relax. There were no enemies here. She didn’t have to guard her back.
Morphia stepped up beside her. “I wish they hadn’t made the fog.”
“It was needed,” Ashk said quietly.
“I know, but…” Morphia wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “I didn’t tell you everything about the dream I had last night. I couldn’t. I still can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I told you something terrible was coming, and it is. I know it. I can feel the echo of it from the dream. But I can’t tell you what it is because my mind won’t let me see it.”
A fist of dread settled in Ashk’s stomach. “Is there anything you can tell me?”
“Only that it will come among us shrouded by fog. And it hunts.”
“It was a damned fool thing to do,” Donovan said in a low voice roughened by exhaustion and pain.
“You’ve mentioned that already,” Aiden replied, keeping his own voice low in the hopes the sound wouldn’t carry.
“But I’m grateful. Have I mentioned that, too?”
“Several times.”
“Will you write a song about it? The Bard’s Rescue of the Baron?”
Aiden snorted softly. “That’ll be good for two verses and a chorus, if that.”
Donovan was quiet for a moment. “They were close. I could hear them moving around in the fog, searching for survivors. For prisoners, they said. If you hadn’t found me, I’d be in the hands of the Black Coats now.”
“I didn’t find you, I tripped over you. If I hadn’t, I would have walked right into them. So we both have reason to be grateful.” He would never forget those tense minutes when he lay sprawled in the road next to Donovan, who was desperately trying to stifle moans of pain, realizing they both might have the misfortune of meeting the Master Inquisitor. And he would always be grateful for Minstrel’s uncanny sense of direction. Twice the horse had balked when he’d tried to turn him, so he’d finally given Minstrel his head and let the horse choose where they were going. What Minstrel couldn’t see, he could smell and hear, and he seemed to know if the sounds or smells belonged to friend or foe.
He had been a damned fool to go out once the fog started rolling in. He’d gone anyway to help lead the wounded back to Squire Thurston’s estate or the village proper. And he’d been a twice-damned fool for going out again when he couldn’t see the road or the land around him beyond his stretched hand. He’d gone out anyway because there were two people he knew who had been fighting on that part of the battlefield. He’d found one. He hadn’t found the other.
“Aiden—”
“Hush,” Aiden said at the same time Minstrel snorted. “I think I see lights up ahead.”
He felt a lightness in Minstrel’s stride, an eagerness that gave him hope. As they got closer, the horse bugled.
Dark shapes moved in the fog, and a hard voice said, “Who’s there?”
Aiden drew back on the reins enough to slow Minstrel to a walk. “Aiden, the Bard, and Baron Donovan.”
Excited voices now. Relieved voices.
“Donovan’s hurt,” Aiden said.
“Here, sir.” A man moved toward him, holding up an oil lamp. “You just follow me to the house. It’ll relieve the Squire’s mind that Baron Donovan’s been found.”
Aiden followed the man up to the front door of the house. When he dismounted, he got a good look at Donovan’s side—and wished he hadn’t.
Donovan gave Aiden a pained smile. “I couldn’t leave Gwenny. That’s reason enough to fight to live—and keep on fighting. You’ll send her a message in the morning, won’t you, Aiden?”
“I will.”
Donovan closed his eyes and slumped in the saddle. Men caught him and carried him into the house while Aiden, leading Minstrel, followed the man with the oil lamp back to the stables.
“We’ll take good care of him, Bard,” one of the men said. “That we will. You’d best go back to the house before your legs give out on you.”
Pausing long enough to promise Minstrel an extra song in the morning, Aiden left the stables. But he didn’t go back to the house. Instead he walked toward the pasture fence—or where it should have been if he could see it. He wasn’t ready to enter a house full of wounded. There would be pain there and loss there, and some of those men wouldn’t see the sun rise. He hoped with all his heart Donovan wasn’t one of them.
The fog parted suddenly, giving him a clear view of the pasture fence—and the hawk perched on the top rail.
Aiden moved quickly, before the fog obscured his vision again. His hand touched the fence. He stopped, worried now because the bird hadn’t even turned its head to look at him when he approached. “Falco?”
The fog veiled the world. Keeping one hand on the rail to guide him, Aiden moved closer. “Falco? It’s Aiden.”
The hawk didn’t move when he touched it gingerly, fearing a mortal wound was the explanation for its lack of response. It didn’t move when he lifted it off the pasture rail and set it on the ground.
“Falco. Please.”
The hawk shuddered. Aiden took one step back. A few moments later, Falco stood before him in human form, still shuddering.
“Falco?” Aiden stepped forward and cautiously put one hand on Falco’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
“Lost a couple of tail feathers,” Falco murmured.
“They’ll grow back.” Aiden kept his voice soothing as worry lanced through him. Something was wrong with Falco, but he didn’t know what to say or do to help him.
“I’ve—” Falco swallowed hard. “I’ve never seen men fight like that. I’ve never seen men die like that.”
“None of us have.”
“It was bad, Aiden. It was bad.”
And Falco, who had been a brash young Lord last summer, put his head on Aiden’s shoulder and wept.
Chapter 49
waning moon
Morag rode through swirls of fog, her heart pounding, her body clenched. Had she come too late? Had the Black Coats won? Were all the witches gone? Would the human world be swallowed by mist just as the pieces of Tir Alainn had been swallowed when the magic that had anchored them died?
“Odd time of the year for fog,” one of her escorts murmured.
And that is why I fear it, Morag thought.
Then she rode out of the trees and saw slivers of light coming from shuttered windows not too far ahead of her, heard the sleepy stirring of animals.
And heard Death’s summons.
But not quite here. Death passed over that house with the slivers of light, pausing for a moment before moving on. There was no one here who needed her, but up ahead…
“Go up to the house,” she said quietly. “See if the people there know where the Hunter can be found. This is the end of the journey. She has to be nearby.”
“Are you going up to the house?”
“No. I’m required elsewhere.”
“Then we should come with you.”
“You can’t. You’re still among the living.”
She rode away before they could argue, letting the dark horse pick his way over unfamiliar ground.
A man’s voice to her left. “I tho
ught I heard voices. I think someone is out there.”
She said nothing to the men who stepped away from the stables. She just rode through a stone arch and kept going. If they saw anything at all, it was a black-gowned woman appearing and disappearing in the fog, riding a dark horse with silent hooves like something out of a dream.
She rode on toward a steady glow that defied the fog. When she neared the place, she stopped. It looked as if moonlight had gilded the grass to form a circle. Death waited for her there, but she also felt the summons behind some bushes she glimpsed in a moment when the waning moon freed itself from its veil of clouds. Dismounting, she followed the dark shape of the bushes until she reached the end and could see what was on the other side.
Another circle of moonlight. The ghost of a short-haired woman sat in the center of that light, her arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees. One of her thighs and both her arms were tattered, as if something had slashed her spirit. And there were four strange wisps of spirit moving around in that circle of light. There wasn’t enough left of any of them to take on a ghostly shape. There was barely enough for her to sense them as spirits that should be gathered. She didn’t know if they would ever be able to return to the world, but perhaps they would find some peace in the Summerland.
She held out her hand to the ghost. “I am the Gatherer of Souls. Come.”
The ghost floated over to her. “Are you going to take Mama, too?”
“Is she in the other circle of light?”
The ghost nodded.
Morag smiled gently. “Yes. I’ll guide you both to the Shadowed Veil so that you can go on to the Summerland.”
The ghost stared at the four wisps of spirit now clinging to Morag’s dress. “I heard a child crying. But they weren’t children anymore. They were the bad things.” She sighed. “They didn’t get my girl, my Breanna. I didn’t let them get my girl.”
As she led the ghost to the other circle of light, Morag fought against revulsion, fought against the desire to fling those four wisps of spirit as far away from her as she could. Children. Bad things. Something that could tatter a spirit after the body died. Something that had consumed almost all of the spirit within itself.
She’d known since her first encounter with them that there was nothing inside a nighthunter for her to gather, which was why her gift did nothing more than stun them. But she hadn’t realized there had been a spirit residing in that flesh once—a spirit the creature had consumed as it changed.
Children. The Inquisitors had done this to children. Mother’s mercy.
“Mama!”
The ghost of an older woman stepped out of the other circle of light and opened her arms. The short-haired ghost ran to her, held on to her.
Morag mounted the dark horse, who had followed behind her, then held out her hand. “Come.”
The ghosts floated over to her, floated up behind her. The fog cleared for a moment, showing her a stone bridge that spanned the brook she could hear but not see. As she turned the dark horse toward it, the older ghost said, “Can you take them, too?”
She looked at the spot the ghost pointed to and saw the Small Folk standing on the bank, watching her. “Come. I’ll take you up to the Shadowed Veil.”
After she crossed the bridge, she paused a moment before turning the dark horse toward the field, riding slowly as she followed Death’s summons. When she reached the field that climbed to a low rise, she guided the dark horse around it, keeping behind the trees that bordered it. Then she opened the road that led to the Shadowed Veil and took the ghosts as far as she could on their journey to the Summerland.
With eyes filled with pity, the older ghost gathered up the four wisps of spirit and cradled them in one arm. Taking her daughter’s hand, she walked through the Veil. The Small Folk raised their hands in farewell, then followed the witches.
Morag rode back down the road and through the trees until she reached the big field on the other side of the rise. In whispers, in pleas, in cries, Death called her.
She rode into the field and began gathering the spirits of the dead—and the spirits of the men who, wounded and suffering, wanted to leave the world of the living.
“Master Adolfo!”
Adolfo finished pouring wine into a glass and settled himself on the blanket-padded bench inside his tent before he said, “You may enter.”
A young Inquisitor almost leaped through the tent’s opening, his face shining with excitement. Two guards came in behind him, dragging a bound, bridled man.
“Master,” the Inquisitor said. “We caught this witch-lover.”
“Any man who fights against us is a witch-lover,” Adolfo replied in the tone he used as a mild scold—and warning. “What makes this one special?”
“Remember the nest of witches we cleaned out from that estate along the Una River?”
Of course he remembered. He’d drained some of those old women while learning to create nighthunters at will. “What of it?”
The Inquisitor fairly danced with excitement. “We didn’t know what had happened to the young ones in the nest.”
“I’m aware of that.” The Inquisitor’s excitement stirred his interest, but Adolfo took care not to let it show.
“This is one of them. His name is Rory. One of the men who came from a village near there recognized him. We think they ran to this Old Place to escape us.”
Which meant the man was known to the bitches who lived in this Old Place. Was, perhaps, even kin to them. Which made him perfect.
Draining the wine glass, Adolfo set it aside and stood. “Bring him.”
The Inquisitor looked crestfallen. “Don’t you want to question him about the witches, Master?”
Adolfo smiled. “I have a better use for him.”
There were so many. Morag lost count of the number of spirits she had taken up the road to the Shadowed Veil, and there were still so many. She couldn’t keep going. She was tired. The dark horse was tired. She’d ridden all day to reach the Old Place and had been gathering spirits for hours now. Time to stop. Time to rest. She needed to make her way back to the Old Place and find Ashk.
This would be her last trip up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She would open the road right here and let the spirits nearby follow her to the Veil.
Just as she opened the road, she saw a ghost moving toward her. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
“Merry meet, Gatherer.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “Sheridan,” she whispered, then held out her hand. “Come.”
As he floated up to her, he said, “Tell Ashk I’ve gone to the Summerland, and”—regret filled his face for a moment—“tell Morphia I hope to meet her again one day.”
“I’ll tell them.”
She couldn’t talk anymore. She’d recognized some of the men she’d gathered, but Sheridan had been a friend, as well as her sister’s lover. She wondered if he’d moved away from his body as a kindness to her, so she wouldn’t have to see how he’d died.
“Don’t grieve, Morag,” Sheridan said. “The Summerland has sweet skies for a falcon to soar in.”
Hearing what he didn’t say, she was even more grateful that he’d spared her the sight of his body. So she didn’t grieve for him or any of the others she’d taken up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She grieved for the loved ones left behind.
Adolfo wasn’t pleased to have torches around the small clearing, but the fog and the cover of trees swallowed up too much of the moonlight for him to see without the extra light.
“Put the tether stake in the center and tie the prisoner to it,” he said, pointing. “Keep him bound and bridled. There’s no telling what abilities a man born of a witch might have.”
He smiled grimly as he watched the guards obey his orders—as he thought of the witch who had been his mother, who had betrayed her son’s love and trust in order to keep her own power a secret. He thought of the monster his father became when, spurred by his wife’s accusations, he tried to beat the magic out o
f the boy to regain his wife’s affection. Most likely, the man had been grateful when the boy, by then a youth, had run away to try to survive in the world on his own.
He hoped his mother’s spirit spent a hundred years drowning in one of the Summerland’s cesspools—if the Summerland had such places. He hoped his father’s spirit was also in a cesspool—a place made from the foul thoughts and feelings the man had harbored for his own flesh and blood. But not the same one. No, he didn’t want them to have the comfort of being together for any reason, even torment.
When the prisoner was in position, guards brought the witch into the clearing and bound her to the stool. Her wits hadn’t returned at all, and her body, despite being so young, was starting to fail. She would be no use to him after he channeled the magic through her this time, but she might live long enough for some of the men to use her. After all, being passed around from man to man was a fitting end for a witch.
“Leave now,” he ordered. “Stay away from the clearing. I am shaping a weapon to set against the enemy, and this clearing will be a dangerous place.”
He waited until the guards were gone, waited until he couldn’t hear even a muffled footstep. Then, using the witch as his channel, he began to draw the magic out of the land.
Morag signaled the dark horse to stop, no longer certain she was moving in the right direction. But Death was out there, ahead of her, whispering. Not the kind of whisper she was used to. This was almost wary, almost a warning. What would Death be warning her about?
She dismounted and moved forward, letting the dark horse follow on his own. Guided by Death’s whisper, she walked until she saw flickers of light among the trees. As she moved closer, feelings scraped along her skin. A prickle of warning. A prickle of fear.
