The House of Gaian ta-3

by Anne Bishop

  "You think my threat was excessive."

  Nuala hesitated. "You frightened a powerful Fae Lord. What he will do with that fear is something we can't know. Did you act rashly? Yes. Did you act honestly?" She reached over and rested a hand against Breanna's face for a moment—and smiled. "I would have been surprised if you'd said anything more . . . tactful."

  Breanna snorted softly, then reluctantly returned Nuala's smile.

  "As for Jean," Nuala said, returning to her folding, "I'm not blind to the girl's faults. I can tell when sweetness is a deep well and when it's nothing more than surface water. So I'm troubled by Fiona's suspicions. More troubled by the fact that Jean was hunting for plants and didn't want any of us to know." She sighed quietly. "Her mother was a hedge witch, and that kind of magic is connected to plants and charms rather than the branches of the Great Mother. Like any gift, it can be used for good or ill. In Jean's case, she has enough connection with earth to draw some power from that branch of the Mother. That's a dangerous combination in someone who believes her every wish and whim should be indulged and becomes resentful when it isn't. Fiona's always been able to see people clearly, so her suspicions that Jean has used magic to cause mischievous harm can't be dismissed."

  "Does she see me clearly?" Breanna asked, not sure if she wanted the answer.

  Nuala folded clothes for a minute, saying nothing. Finally, she said, "We are not all the same, Breanna. We do not all have the same skills, the same abilities, the same strength. For some, the power we can draw from our branches of the Great Mother is no more than a trickle. For others, it is a small brook, or a deep stream, or a strong river. I am a deep stream, but you and Jenny . . . you are rivers, fast and strong. So, yes, you are different from our kin from the east—but you are not so different from many who live in the Mother's Hills. Power runs deep there, and it runs strong."

  Thinking of Jenny, Breanna asked, "If Jenny and I are rivers, are there any witches who are the sea?"

  Nuala hesitated. "If there are witches that strong, they would be very dangerous if provoked." She made a visible effort to push that thought aside. "Enough talk with me. Go on now and find out what's troubling Falco."

  "The threat I made frightened him. That's what's troubling Falco."

  "That is not the only thing."

  "What else could be troubling him?"

  Breanna squirmed as Nuala turned and gave her That Look.

  "That," Nuala said, "is what you need to find out."

  He was still sitting on the bench under the tree, looking lost and lonely.

  As she walked toward him, Breanna wondered just how much he had given up in order to give whatever help and protection he could against the Inquisitors. She knew he'd been shunned by the Clan whose territory was anchored to Old Willowsbrook, but had he just forfeited his family as well?

  When she sat down beside him, Falco said, "Liam returned. He said he needed to soak his hands in water."

  Breanna sighed. "He needs more work in learning to ground the power."

  "The women in the washhouse were glad to see him."

  She let out a huff of laughter. "I'm sure they were. They'll have plenty of hot water for laundry without having to stoke fires and sweat. Still, it will be easier on him when he learns to ground his power in a more traditional way."

  Falco smiled, but the smile faded quickly.

  "What troubles you, Falco?" Breanna asked. "Do you miss your home?"

  He shook his head. "It isn't a happy place. Hasn't been since. . ." He sighed. "Dianna resents having to live at Brightwood to anchor the magic."

  "Dianna?"

  "Lucian's sister."

  "I see," Breanna said. But she didn't see, didn't understand. "She's from that Clan?"

  Falco nodded. "There's something about her that allows her to anchor the magic in the Old Place to keep the shining road open—as long as enough Fae stay in the Old Place with her."

  "So that Clan doesn't really need a witch."

  He made a frustrated sound. "She's the Lady of the Moon, Breanna. The Lady of the Moon. The Huntress. She wants to live in Tir Alainn. She doesn't want to be burdened with staying in the human world."

  "But she's doing this for her family."

  He studied her, an odd expression on his face. "If it were your family, and you had to give up something special in order for the rest to have it, you would do it, wouldn't you?"

  "Of course," Breanna said, puzzled. "They're family. I'm not saying it would be easy, or that there wouldn't be times when I would wish it could be otherwise, but, yes, I would do it."

  "That's what makes you different from the Fae. One of the things, anyway."

  "Falco—"

  He shot to his feet, paced a few steps away from her, then returned to the bench. "I don't understand your ways." Frustration shimmered in his voice. "If this was a Clan, I would know what was expected of me, but I don't understand your ways."

  "What don't you understand?"

  "I don't know if you expect me . . . if your female kin expect me . . ." He slumped back down on the bench. "I don't like Jean. I don't want to bed Jean."

  Breanna felt her jaw start to drop. "Whoever said you had to?"

  "Since I'm visiting your . . . family . . . and you haven't said you want me for yourself, I'm obliged to. . . to . . ."

  He was on his feet again, pacing in front of her.

  "It's not that your female kin aren't fine women—most of them—but I—"

  "Don't want to bed them."

  "Yes!"

  "You want to bed me."

  "Yes!"

  "Why?"

  He stopped pacing and looked at her as if she'd just asked him to count every leaf on every tree in the Old Place.

  "Because . . . you're you."

  Breanna blew out a breath. What was she supposed to say to that?

  "Breanna?"

  She patted the bench. "Sit down, Falco."

  He sat. Perched was a better word, since he looked like he was going to jump up again at any moment.

  "When I was nineteen," Breanna said, "I visited my kin in the Mother's Hills during the celebration of the Summer Moon. A full moon, wine, lots of laughter and dancing. There was a young man there, older than me by a few years, who was staying with friends. We danced and talked and laughed. . . and when he asked me to go walking with him, I went. It was romantic and exciting, and he was experienced enough with women that I didn't regret him being my first lover. But in the morning . . . Well, he didn't seem quite so wonderful without the moonlight and the wine. I decided after that visit that I needed to like a man in the daylight before I gave in to the lure of moonlight."

  "I see," Falco said thoughtfully. "Do you like me?"

  "Yes, I like you," Breanna replied. "I like you very much. But I don't know you well enough yet to invite you to my bed."

  Falco nodded. "What about kisses?"

  He was persistent. "Kisses?"

  "Do you like kisses?"

  "Well. . . I. . . Yes."

  Something about the way his gaze focused on her mouth before he raised his eyes to look into hers made her palms go suddenly damp. Watching her, he leaned forward slowly.

  Just before his lips touched hers, she felt a prickle along her neck. She pulled back, turned her head.

  Liam was leaning against the washhouse doorway, watching her.

  Clay had his arms over the back of a gelding. He had a grooming brush in one hand, but he wasn't making any pretense of grooming the horse.

  Looking around to see what had distracted her, Falco cleared his throat and eased back.

  "Ah. . ." Breanna wasn't sure what to do. Go back in the house? Pretend nothing happened? Pick up her quiver of arrows, march over to the washhouse, and smack Liam over the head with it?

  Quiver. Arrows. The bow leaning against the bench where Falco had set it after her confrontation with the Lightbringer.

  "Target practice," she said, bouncing to her feet.

  "What?" Fa
lco blinked.

  "You were supposed to help me with target practice." She brushed past him, picked up the quiver and bow. "Come along."

  "You want target practice now?"

  "The bales of hay are stacked as tall as I am," Breanna said patiently.

  "So?" His puzzled expression turned to understanding. "Oh." He took the quiver from her and smiled.

  As she and Falco started walking toward the kitchen garden and the bales of hay, Breanna glanced back at Liam. Which part of him would win the inner struggle—brother or man? She suspected she already knew, but she hoped the man would struggle long enough for her to try a kiss or two before the brother joined her and Falco for target practice.

  Chapter 4

  waning moon

  Standing in the doorway of the Clan house, Ashk hesitated, wanting some excuse to delay. But everything was ready; the huntsmen who were going with her had already gone up the shining road to Tir Alainn, and her companions were waiting for her.

  She studied them as they talked quietly among themselves, all of them carefully avoiding glances at the Clan house to allow her a private good-bye.

  Aiden and Lyrra, the Bard and the Muse, were coming with her to record the events that would alter their world in one way or another and to use their gift of words to help her in whatever way they could. Sheridan, Bretonwood's Lord of the Hawks, was coming as one of her huntsmen—chosen from others because he was also Morphia's lover. As the Sleep Sister and Lady of Dreams, Morphia's ability to use sleep as a defensive weapon had proved useful when hunting down the nighthunters and when she had stopped two Inquisitors from hurting a family during the Black Coats' attack on Bretonwood, but there was no way to tell how effective that gift would be on a battlefield. Morphia was mainly coming with them in order to stay close to her sister, Morag.

  And Morag . . .

  The Gatherer had looked so pale and shaken when she'd joined them for the morning meal, Ashk hadn't dared ask what was wrong. They needed Morag, not just as mercy for the mortally wounded but as a warrior. Would she falter when she was needed most because of her passion for life?

  No. Morag would do what needed to be done. And so would she.

  "You're going now."

  Ashk turned around. Padrick stood back from the doorway, not quite within arm's reach. "Yes. It's time."

  Then she was in his arms, taking and giving a kiss that was as fierce as it was loving. She didn't want to leave him, didn't want to leave their children, didn't want to leave the Clan that had become her people. But they couldn't wait for the battle to come to them. Not if they wanted to survive.

  Padrick broke the kiss, then buried his face against her neck. "Come back to me, Ashk. Just. . . come back to me."

  Tears stung her eyes. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't promise him that. Instead, she whispered, "I will hold you in my heart. Always."

  He stepped back slowly until they were no longer touching. "They're waiting for you."

  She took a moment more to look at him before she walked out of the Clan house. When the others saw her, they mounted their horses. She swung into the saddle and turned her horse toward the forest trail that led to the shining road, her companions following behind her.

  She didn't look back. Sylvalan didn't need Ashk, the Lady of the Woods and wife of the Baron of Breton. Sylvalan needed the Hunter. So she let them go—husband, children, family, and friends. By the time they rode up the shining road and were joined by the huntsmen waiting for them in Tir Alainn, all she was was the Hunter. It was all she allowed herself to be.

  Chapter 5

  waning moon

  Jenny closed the iron grill gate of her new home and walked toward the sea. She could see it from some of the windows, could hear its song while she worked day after day cleaning more of the neglected rooms in the old house and getting them ready for her family. But standing at a window wasn't the same as standing on the cliff, where she could feel the warmth of the sun on her skin and taste the sea in the air—where she could look to the south, hoping to see the sails of a vessel large enough to be Sweet Selkie, her brother Mihail's ship.

  Had he been gone long enough to have reached Seahaven? Surely, he'd been gone long enough. With a good wind, it didn't take that many days to sail the coastline of Sylvalan.

  He'd stayed with her an extra day to help her get herself and their nephews, Guy and Kyle, settled into their new home—and to unload his ship and store the cargo in some of the empty first-floor rooms. Then he'd sailed away, intending to go to Seahaven and wait for Craig and any cargo their cousin could send by wagon from the family warehouses in Durham. And to wait for any other family members who had chosen to flee to a harbor town in the south rather than go to their kin near the Mother's Hills.

  There wouldn't be many fleeing south. Mihail had gambled that he would be able to find a safe harbor in the western part of Sylvalan, had taken that gamble based on a conversation with Padrick, the Baron of Breton, whom he'd met when he'd gone to fetch Guy and Kyle at the western boarding school where they'd spent the past year. Because of that conversation, and because her branch of the Mother's power was water and her love was the sea, they had found a safe harbor here in the village of Sealand.

  But there hadn't been any way to contact the family and tell them. They didn't dare send a letter that named a specific place.

  If it was confiscated by any of the barons who had turned against witches or, worse, fell into the hands of one of the Inquisitors, they would forfeit the safety they had found. All Mihail could do was return to the port town that had been the agreed-upon meeting place and wait as long as he could.

  What if he waited too long? What if his ship was confiscated? What if he and his men were imprisoned until they could be tested by the Inquisitors to see if they served the so-called Evil One? What if. . .

  Jenny shook her head. No. Letting those thoughts grow only gave them power. She would focus her thoughts on this place, this safe harbor. She would focus on the house and the family who would live there with her soon. Soon.

  As she turned away from the sea, she saw the ponycart coming up the road, heading for her house. She saw the woman beside the driver and guessed it was Cordell, the witch who lived on Ronat Isle. And she saw the two small, slumped figures sitting in the cart.

  Guy and Kyle must have disobeyed her, again, and snuck down to the harbor to play with the young selkies. She didn't blame them for their fascination with the Fae, but she didn't like their confidence that they could disobey her whenever it suited them. She was their aunt, and their only kin here.

  And might always be their only kin here. And they might be the only family I have left. Please, Great Mother, please don't let them be all that is left of the family.

  Annoyed with herself, Jenny walked back to the house. How could she expect obedience from the boys when she couldn't obey herself? The Great Mother was the land, the air, the water. Ask for a sweet wind, and if you had the power and the will, you might get it. But compassion, kindness, tolerance . . . those things lived within people or they didn't. Magic couldn't change what was inside the heart.

  But thinking of a sweet wind made her wonder if it might be possible to send a message after all. Not to Durham or Seahaven, but to Willowsbrook. Even if it was too risky to send a letter overland by human means, might one of the Fae be willing to travel through Tir Alainn and deliver a message?

  She would have to ask Cordell. The Crone would know if such a thing were possible. She hoped so. Just the thought of writing a brief letter to Breanna—and, perhaps, getting a message back— lifted her spirits.

  Chapter 6

  waning moon

  Adolfo, the Master Inquisitor, watched two of his Assistant Inquisitors tie the old witch to the chair, then dismissed them with a sharp wave of his right hand. As soon as they left the room, he locked the door, something he'd never done before while softening a witch to confess. It wasn't that he doubted his ability to contain her, despite his dead left arm,
but he didn't want anyone walking in and disrupting his concentration at a critical moment. Besides, the trembling crone was dependent on his mercy now and wouldn't dare try to summon her power and use it against him.

  He'd already taken her eyes, her ears, her tongue. He'd taken her hands and feet.

  And still he heard whispers among the Inquisitors that Master Adolfo, the Witch's Hammer, had become soft, had become diminished since he'd begun the extermination of the witches in Sylvalan. He drank too much. He'd ordered the witches recently captured to be brought to Wolfram, soiling the home country's land with the presence of those foul creatures.

  Fools.

  Even Ubel thought he'd grown soft, and that betrayal of unquestioning loyalty enraged him more than the whispers of the lesser Inquisitors. Ubel had been his finest warrior, his most trusted assistant in this war against magic and female power. He'd nurtured the hungry, beaten boy he'd found in a stinking alley one summer and had shaped him into an educated man with a great destiny.

  Ubel could no longer be completely trusted, but there was no one else strong enough to lead, to do the things that must be done in order to win the coming war against Sylvalan.

  Perhaps he did drink too much wine, but that hadn't clouded his thinking or softened his determination to rid the world of witches and the power they wielded. It hadn't softened his determination to rid the world of magic in all its forms. When the witches were finally destroyed, the Fae and the Small Folk would be destroyed with them. Then men would rule the world as was their right—and the Inquisitors would rule the men.

  Hearing a soft scrabbling coming from the wooden cage in the center of the room, Adolfo walked over to it and lifted a corner of the cloth that covered the cage. The squirrel froze for a moment before dashing for another corner in an attempt to hide.