by Anne Bishop
Finally, Ashk asked, "Do you still have trouble with sea thieves?"
That sharp smile flashed again. "Not in my waters."
"I would consider it a kindness if you would keep watch for one ship. It's called Sweet Selkie, and Mihail is her captain. If you see her brother safely home, I think he'll oblige you with an introduction to the new witch at Sealand. But I can't tell you about other ships."
"I understand, Hunter. I'm honored to have finally met you . . . and the Gatherer of Souls."
Morag just stared at him before turning and walking away.
"Blessings of the day to you," Ashk said quietly before she, too, walked out of the courtyard.
Aiden took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Taihg slump on the bench, as if exhausted. So, his weren't the only nerves stretched by this encounter.
Murtagh watched the courtyard entrance a moment longer before turning to Aiden. "They're a pair, aren't they?"
"Yes," Aiden said softly, "they're a pair." And he wasn't sure he'd sleep easy tonight if he started thinking about the journey he was about to make with two women who embraced Death, each in her own, but equally deadly, way. He gave himself a mental shake. They were exactly what Sylvalan needed for the fight ahead.
"Well, then," Murtagh said.
Aiden shifted his foot and nudged Taihg's boot. The other bard jerked, stared at him blankly for a moment, then jumped to his feet.
"My Clan would be pleased to have you guest with us tonight," Taihg said.
Murtagh smiled and shook his head. "You just want another target available in case either of those two become annoyed about something."
"True," Aiden said, pitching his voice over Taihg's stammered protest. "But if you decide to stay, I can promise you'll hear a new song or two."
Murtagh laughed. "You set a mean bargain, Bard, but it's not one I'll refuse."
Good, Aiden thought, picking up his harp. Of course, he fully intended to hear a few of the songs Murtagh knew, since he suspected many of those "old" songs had never been heard beyond Selkie Island, but there was no reason to mention that.
It hunted. Vicious. Almost mindless. Hungry. It hunted.
She raced through the trees at Bretonwood, desperate to find It before . . .
The rattle of a pony cart's wheels on a forest trail. A baby wailing in fear. She saw Ari looking back, terror turning the young witch's face into an almost unrecognizable mask.
Flesh. Blood. Souls. Food. It hunted.
She ran. Ran and ran and ran. . . and still couldn't find the enemy. How could she get between It and the ponycart if she couldn't find It?
Closer. Closer. It could hear the female's raspy breathing, even over the baby's cries.
She ran faster. The enemy was too close to those she loved. Too close.
A stag hidden among the trees leaped out, landing in the center of the forest trail.
For a moment, she thought he was the old stag, thought this was the memory of that terrible leap that had saved a boy from the nighthunters. But this stag was younger, blue-eyed, the build not yet as mature and powerful as it would one day be, the rack of antlers smaller than the one she remembered.
Food!
The stag charged, fought with antlers and hooves. Screamed in pain as claws sank into shoulder muscles, ripping, tearing. Screamed as sharp teeth pierced the throat, and It gulped the blood gushing from the wound. More. More. It wanted more. Its insatiable hunger always wanted more. First the blood. Then It would devour the soul.
No!
She stood on the forest trail. She couldn't see the enemy. All she could see was the stag crumpled in front of her, dying. She watched as the stag changed back into a man. As the blue eyes dimmed, Neall gasped one word: "Morag."
Gasping for air, Morag flung herself out of bed and stumbled to the window, clawing at the shutters to get them open. She sank to her knees, clinging to the windowsill as she worked to steady her breathing. Her heart pounded in her chest, racing ahead of the fear that threatened to consume her.
It was the third time she'd had this dream. The first time had been the night before she left Bretonwood with Ashk. She'd lain awake the rest of that night, too frightened of what might be waiting for her if she fell asleep again.
The next morning, as they were getting ready to leave Bretonwood, she'd almost asked Morphia if she had sent the dream.
But the Sleep Sister wouldn't have shaped a dream like that and sent it to someone she cared about, and certainly not to her own sister.
Unless it was a true dream, a warning of danger.
But how could she protect Neall and Ari when she didn't know what the enemy looked like? How could she recognize what she couldn't see?
Feeling brittle, Morag pushed herself to her feet, then staggered over to the wash basin. She poured water into the basin, dipped her hands into the soothing coolness, and splashed her face. When she felt steadier, she straightened up, letting the water drip down her face and neck.
After that first time, she had almost convinced herself that it had been nothing more than a bad dream conjured up from the depths of her mind and cobbled together with images of some of the frightful things she'd seen since the Inquisitors came to Sylvalan last summer. If it had come to her only that one night, she might have dismissed it as nothing more than that. But. . . three times. No, she couldn't dismiss a dream that returned to haunt her.
So. Danger was coming. Something that terrified Ari. Something that would kill Neall if she couldn't stop it. But there was the babe in the ponycart to consider. Ari still had several more weeks before the babe was due. There was time to continue the journey with Ashk and give the Hunter whatever help she could before she turned back and returned to Bretonwood.
Morag went back to bed and sank into restless, but dreamless, sleep.
Chapter 9
new moon
Liam rubbed his hands over his face, then leaned back in his chair to stare at the sheet of paper on his desk.
No matter how he tried to look at the situation, it always came out the same: Willowsbrook had six guards who served under the village magistrate. Six men who were trained in weapons and fighting to protect the village and surrounding farms. Six.
His father had thought it extravagant to have so many guards for a village the size of Willowsbrook. In a way, the old baron had been right. It did seem an excessive number of men to handle the occasional drunken brawl on market day and to make sure arguments between neighbors were brought before the magistrate instead of having something small escalate through acts of petty vengeance into violence. Now . . .
How could he protect his people with only six guards? If he added his gamekeeper and the two men under him, that gave him three more men who were skilled with a bow. Not enough. Not nearly enough if the Inquisitors gathered an army to crush the barons who wouldn't yield to their view of the world.
He could ask Breanna's kin to stand with his people. The men now living in the Old Place who were skilled with a bow would double the fighting force, and a couple of them even had some skill with a sword. But that would leave the Old Place, and the women there, vulnerable if the enemy had enough men to split their forces, one half keeping his fighters occupied while the other went to devastate the Old Place.
He could command the magistrates in every village in the county he ruled to send him half their compliment of guards. That would swell the ranks of fighters, but it also would leave those villages with little protection, and the additional men still wouldn't be enough, not when every baron who supported the Inquisitors could gather as many men and combine them into an army.
Great Mother, what am I supposed to do? How can I protect my people, my friends, my family? How can I—
A footman burst into the room. "There's a rider coming! Coming fast. Sloane thinks it's Squire Thurston's son."
Liam bolted from the room and rushed to the open front door, where Sloane, his butler, watched the rider galloping t
oward the manor house. Squire Thurston's oldest son was one of the gentry youths who were riding the roads these days to keep watch around the village and outlying farms. They'd all been given strict orders not to approach any strangers. If they saw anyone, they were to ride to the nearest home and give a warning before riding on to warn the magistrate.
He stepped outside, Sloane following him. If Thurston's son was heading here, that meant the manor was the closest house. And that meant. . .
The youth galloped up to them and reined in hard, setting his horse on its haunches.
"Riders coming!" he shouted, despite being almost on top of Liam.
"How many?" Liam asked, trying to ignore the heat that washed through his body.
"I counted twenty men and two coaches."
"Any idea which way they came from?"
"The village . . . I think."
Which meant the magistrate was already aware of the strangers and would summon the guards. Not that they would arrive in time to do anything but bury the dead.
"Should I tell my father?" the youth asked.
Liam hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "Ride to the Old Place. Warn them. If we're attacked here, they'll be next."
"Yes, sir." The youth applied his heels, and his horse galloped off in the direction of the bridge that crossed Willow's Brook.
Liam turned to Sloane. "Have the bucket of wood brought out. And send one of the footmen to find the gamekeeper and tell him he's needed at the house—and tell him to come armed."
"Yes, Baron."
As Sloane hurried into the house to relay orders, Liam saw Flint, his stable master, striding toward him, the man's face flushed with anger.
"Saddle as many horses as you can," Liam said as soon as Flint got close enough to hear him. "Get the horses hitched to the farm wagon as well. Make sure one of the grooms stays with the wagon to drive it."
If his servants had to run, they had a better chance to escape on horseback and reach the Old Place than they would on foot. Most of his footmen could sit a horse, even if none of them rode well. Each one could take a maid up behind him. The older servants and the young ones could go in the wagon.
Flint didn't stop and return to the stable to follow orders. Instead, he kept coming toward Liam, finally stopping when there was a man's length between them. His hands were clenched, and the look on his face was close to hatred.
"This is your doing," Flint said harshly. "The baron wouldn't have put us in danger this way."
"I am the baron."
"You've got the title, but you're not half the man your father was. You never will be. You're nothing but a witch's brat that she tricked the baron into believing was his."
Liam stared at Flint, who had been, and always would be, his father's man. The urge to strike Flint for the slurs against his mother was strong, but the heat beneath his skin was getting more intense, warning him that he'd unthinkingly drawn too much power from the branch of fire and he couldn't be sure, if he raised his hand now, that he could control what he'd summoned.
"Get off my land," Liam said quietly, fiercely. "I don't want you near my family. I don't want you near my people. Get out."
"And go where now that you've brought the enemy down on us?" Flint demanded, fear now coating his anger.
"You can obey my orders and stay until it's safe to leave, or you can leave now."
"Bastard!"
Liam nodded. "Which should prove to you that I truly am my father's son."
Flint looked stunned for a moment.
Liam saw the first riders turn off the main road onto the long drive that led to the manor house. "Make your choice, Flint. They're coming."
Flint's breathing became harsh as he watched more riders turning onto the drive. Then he ran back to the stables.
A footman came out of the house, grunting a little as he placed the large brass bucket next to Liam. Normally, the bucket sat on the drawing room hearth, filled with kindling. Now it was filled with chunks of wood and thick sticks long enough to be used as torches.
"Get back in the house," Liam said, watching the riders approach.
The footman didn't have to be told a second time.
Horses feared fire. If he threw burning pieces of wood at them, they might bolt, might even throw their riders, might buy him enough time for the servants to get away before one of the men put an arrow into him—or, he added honestly, before he set himself on fire.
Four guards rode in front of five men who wore gentry clothing. The rest of the guards rode to the side and behind the two coaches. The road dust kicked up by the horses' hooves made it difficult to identify the men until the front guards swung their horses to the side, and Liam found himself facing Baron Donovan. The baron was an acquaintance, someone whose company he had occasionally enjoyed when they'd attended the same parties or dined together at the club.
What made Liam's heart sink was that Donovan had been the only other baron besides Padrick who had given him any acknowledgment after his impassioned speech at the barons' council in Durham—the speech that set the Inquisitors against him.
Why was the other baron here?
Donovan dismounted. So did the other four gentry men and half the guards. Liam recognized the four men as barons he'd seen in the council chambers, but he couldn't remember their names or what counties they ruled.
"Baron Liam," Donovan said, his voice courteous yet wary.
"Baron Donovan," Liam replied. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"You left Durham in a hurry." Donovan watched Liam intently.
"I had reasons." None he was willing to share until he knew why Donovan was here.
The door of the first coach opened. Liam saw one of the guards hastily extend a hand as a hooded figure stepped down.
A flicker of—fear?—swept over Donovan's face as the hooded figure came forward. Then his face became hard, his expression determined.
"Answer one question so I'll know if we're wasting our time," Donovan said. "Where witches are concerned, where do you stand?"
The heat under his skin was intolerable. He wanted a few minutes to quietly focus in order to try to bank the power he had raised. Since he wasn't going to get those few minutes . . .
He raised his hand, releasing the power as he pointed at the wood.
Flames roared out of the bucket, shooting up to twice his height before settling back down to something closer to a normal fire.
While the men fought to get the horses under control, the hooded figure seemed to stare at him. Liam was trying to think of something to say when Breanna galloped around the corner of the house and reined in. Her eyes took in the men and nervous horses, then settled on the hooded figure for a moment before she flung herself out of the saddle and strode forward, her eyes now focused on the barons.
When she stopped, she pointed a finger at Donovan. "If you raise so much as a finger here to do harm, I will summon a wind that will knock you all into the sea!"
Strong female hands suddenly flung the hood back, revealing an attractive woman who glared at Breanna. "If you knock us into the sea, then I'll summon the sea and send a wave back here that will turn this place into a lake!"
Tension buzzed around the women for several seconds—seconds when no one, not even the horses, dared move. Then they grinned at each other.
"Where are you from?" Breanna asked.
"The midlands, on the northwest side of the Mother's Hills," the woman replied.
"Do you have kin in the hills?"
"I do. And you?"
"I do."
"I'm water."
"I'm air. And he's"— Breanna glanced at Liam before looking at the bucket of burning wood—"learning."
The woman's lips twitched. "So I see."
Now that his heart seemed able to get some blood back up to his brain, Liam noticed how pale the other barons were—and the stunned expression on Donovan's face.
"Since Liam's being a featherhead, I'll pretend I live here and of
fer you some refreshments."
The woman gave Liam an uneasy look. "You don't live here?"
"Why would I?" Breanna asked, surprised.
"Then, perhaps . . ."
"It will be fine. Since Liam's mother and sister—"
"Youngest sister," Liam cut in, bristling.
Breanna rolled her eyes. "Since they're staying at the Old Place with us, Sloane is quite happy to take household instructions from any sensible person."
"I'm sensible!" Liam said.
"Of course you are."
"Refreshments sound lovely," the woman said quickly.
"This way," Breanna said, leading the way into the house. "Where are your kin in the Mother's Hills?"
Liam didn't hear the answer since the door had closed behind the two women.
He and Donovan eyed each other.
"She's . . .?" Donovan asked.
"My sister," Liam replied. He gestured toward where the other woman had stood. "And she's . . .?"
"My wife."
The door opened again, and two junior footmen came out with buckets of water.
"Mistress Breanna said we should douse the fire," one of them said.
"Unless you want the ladies to summon a bit of a cloud to rain on it," the other added.
They looked so disappointed when he sighed and told them to just douse the damn fire. They all watched the water quench the fire—except for one chunk of wood at the top, which stubbornly kept burning despite being watersoaked.
"She's right, you know," Donovan said blandly.
"About what?" Liam asked.
"You are still learning."
Liam just shook his head. "Gentlemen, why don't we join the ladies for some refreshments? Then you can tell me why you're here."
Donovan looked back at the guard captain. The man said, "We'd prefer to stay out here, if it's all the same to you."
Liam nodded. "Go on to the stables. You can feed and water the horses if you like." He led the barons into the house while some of the guards took up a position in front of the house to watch the drive and the others took the horses and coaches to the stables.
The refreshments were being set on a low table when the men entered the room. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, he realized he was still scared to the bone—and he knew why. So after inviting his guests to help themselves, he hustled Breanna out of the room, closing the door behind them.
