by Anne Bishop
There it was, the festering pain Morag had been waiting to lance. "You didn't kill him, Ari," she said, resting her hand over Ari's to stop the nervous plucking. "I did."
Ari shook her head. "I'm the one who used my gift from the Mother to send the fire back to him, knowing he would burn."
"And I'm the one who gathered him while he lived."
"The fire would have killed him anyway."
"He was the Lord of Fire. He might have controlled it enough to escape it. I didn't give him the chance."
Ari looked at her for a long time, then said softly, "As you will, so mote it be."
Morag leaned over and kissed Ari's forehead. "Get some rest."
As she reached the bedroom door and opened it, Ari said, "Morag?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
Morag stepped into the hallway and found Padrick leaning against the wall, waiting for her.
"Is she all right?" Padrick asked quietly.
"I'm the one who killed Lucian. I took a spirit from a body that still lived."
"From what Glenn told me, the fire would have killed him anyway. You're standing on one side of a line that's no more than a hair's width of difference."
"Perhaps," Morag agreed. "But that hair's width of difference is one Ari can live with."
She stood beside the cradle, smiling at the babe who stared at her. As she leaned over, pudgy hands waved in the air, trying to catch strands of her black hair. The babe made gleeful sounds, kicking its feet against the blanket that covered it.
She raised her hand to brush her finger down one round little cheek. . .
. . . and saw another hand reaching to do the same thing. A dark hand with leathery skin and talons at the ends of its fingers.
The enemy's hand. Right beside her.
No. No!
She threw herself to one side, intending to shove the enemy away from the cradle, to put herself between this destroyer and the babe. The hand lashed out and disappeared.
There was nobody to shove against, no enemy to fight.
However, the movement turned her toward the doorway. Ari sprawled there, her eyes Death-blind, her torn body empty of life and spirit.
Spinning around, she looked into the cradle and saw what those cruel talons could do to a small body. Empty of life. Empty of spirit.
It had taken everything. Everything!
But where was the enemy? Where?
A last exhalation, a death rattle from someone already gone as Ari said, "As you will—"
I don't want this! I don't will this!
"—so mote it be."
NO!
Morag's hands shook violently as she pulled on her clothes and boots. She had nothing else to take with her. Her tack was in the stable, along with the canteen for water.
She'd had one brief hope that the dreams would end now that Lucian was dead, that the dreams had been a nightmarish warning about his coming here. But he wasn't the only enemy after Ari and Neall. There was another one. A far more deadly one.
And she understood now that it would find its way here because of her, that it was following her, and through her would destroy what she held dear. So she had to leave, had to get away, tonight, right now. She had to lead it away from here until she found a way to fight it, destroy it.
She ran through the corridors and clattered down the stairs, too driven by the need to escape to care about the noise she made. The lock on the front door thwarted her until she almost screamed with frustration. Finally, she forced herself to slow down enough to look, to think. After that, it took mere seconds to deal with what was, after all, a simple lock.
She ran to the stables, pulled open one side of the double door. A chimney lamp with a candle burning low hung on the wall above a cot where a stablelad snored softly.
As she hurried down the aisle, the dark horse put his head over the stall's half-door and snorted an inquiry. Ointment glistened on his neck and face where cinders had burned him. Not too many. Not too bad, considering what they'd run through. When she opened the bottom half of the door, he stepped forward, and she watched his legs, his feet. No lameness. No injuries. She was almost sorry she didn't have a reason to leave him behind.
He snorted again, a bit more forcefully.
"I'm sorry, boy," she whispered, resting a hand on his muzzle. "I am sorry I can't let you rest, but we have to go now. We have to get away from here."
"Huh? Wha'?" The stablelad sat up, rubbed sleep from his eyes, and blinked at her. "What are you doing with the horse?"
Morag spun around, desperation changing to fury. "Get out of here. Get out. Now."
The lad stumbled away from the cot, his fear-widened eyes watching her as he backed toward the outer door. He tripped when his shoulder hit the edge of the door. He was up and running almost before he fell.
Morag barely had time to throw the saddle over the dark horse's back before Padrick burst into the stable.
"Morag?" he said, striding toward her. "What's happened? What's wrong?"
She turned on him, her teeth bared, her hands curled like claws. "Stay away from me. Leave me be. I have to get away from here. Now."
Padrick raised his hands and stopped moving toward her, but he didn't back away. "Why?"
"I have to leave!"
"Why?"
The whip-crack demand in his voice doused her with cold reason. She couldn't kill him because he was in her way, and he wouldn't get out of her way without an explanation.
Raking her hands through her sleep-tangled hair, she tried to explain. "I've had dreams. On the journey east and all the way back here. Not always the same dream, but the same kind of dream."
"About what?"
"Something is hunting here. Something evil. I can sense it, almost feel what it feels, know what it thinks. But I can't find it, can't stop it. It. . . kills Neall. And then hunts Ari and the babe. But this time, it was right in the cottage with them. I was standing right there, and it. . . still. . . killed them. I think it can find them through me. Somehow, it will find them through me. So I can't stay here. If it's following me, I have to lead it away. Once I'm gone, they'll be safe."
"Ashk?"
For a moment, she didn't understand him. Then she let his voice, stripped of all emotion, all heart, sink in. She shook her head. "I've only dreamed of Ari, Neall, and the babe. Ashk. . ." She stopped, felt a swell of hope. "It wouldn't go near the Hunter because Ashk could defeat it. She's strong enough to win."
Padrick slowly lowered his hands. "Then you have to head back east and join Ashk as quickly as you can."
"Yes." Morag sighed with relief before she turned to finish saddling the dark horse.
"You're not leaving tonight, Morag."
She gripped the saddle to keep from striking him as he stepped up behind her.
"Morag. You're exhausted. The horse is exhausted. How far do you think you'll get before one or both of you ends up injured or crippled? Listen to me. There's another way. It's only a few hours until sunrise. Do you know Sealand?"
She nodded warily. "I went there with Ashk."
"A day's ride from here, even by carriage. The horse can follow behind."
"A day's ride in the wrong direction."
"In the right direction," Padrick countered. "To the sea. We'll get a ship there that can take us all the way down to the bay near Selkie Island. Once we land, if you go up the closest shining road and ride through the Clan territories and cross between them on the bridges, you're a day's ride, a day and a half at most, from the Mother's Hills. If you ask them, the House of Gaian will allow you to ride through their land. You'll get to Willowsbrook just as fast, if not faster, and you'll have the sea journey in which to rest."
He had a point, especially when she wasn't sure she could finish saddling her horse by herself. "If I agree to this, will you promise not to call me a damn fool of a woman for trying to leave?"
After a pause, he asked, "Can I think it?"
Morag rested her forehead ag
ainst the saddle. "I can't stop you from thinking, Padrick."
"That's settled, then. Take the saddle off the horse. We'll all get a few hours sleep and be on our way at first light."
Morag debated for a moment, then decided the horse was worth more than her pride. "I don't think I'm strong enough to lift it off him."
Padrick shouldered her out of the way. She chose not to hear what he muttered under his breath while he put the saddle on the nearest rack, made sure the dark horse had feed and water, and led her back to the house. He was still muttering when he pushed her into her room and closed the door with a firmness that was just short of unfriendly.
Morag stared at the door for a long time before she changed her clothes and climbed into bed.
Since Ashk often wore a pleased, lazy smile after spending time alone with Padrick, Morag suspected there were compensations for putting up with the man. But she also decided that every nip Ashk gave him was a nip well deserved.
Chapter 38
waxing moon
Jenny stood on the cliffs, staring out at the gentle sea. Fishing boats rode easy swells. She shuddered at the thought of what they might bring up in their nets.
"I thought I would find you here."
She turned and watched Mihail walk toward her. "You shouldn't be up yet. You need to rest."
He smiled and shook his head. "My shoulder and back were burned, not my legs. I needed to move, needed the fresh air."
Jenny turned back to the sea, felt the warmth of his hand when he rested it on her shoulder.
"If you're going to brood and feel guilty, I can remind you of all the people who wouldn't have survived if you hadn't used the sea to defend us against the Inquisitors' warships."
"Will you also remind me of all the people who didn't survive?" Jenny asked softly. "There are empty chairs around the tables in this village, Mihail. There are empty chairs around the tables in the other Clan houses."
"That wasn't your doing, Jenny." Mihail squeezed her shoulder. "Murtagh made a point of telling me the Fae who were flying around those ships weren't killed by the sea. Arrows killed them. Or fire if they were splashed when one of those pots of liquid fire struck a ship. They fought for themselves and their land and their way of life just as much as they fought to help us. Just as we would have fought to help them."
The words washed against a different kind of pain, a different kind of grief, trying to break through and smooth the rough edges of emotion, like the sea's relentless dance with stone.
"Murtagh said he tried to tell you this, but you weren't ready to hear it, weren't ready to accept it. Will you listen now, Jenny?"
Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. "The anger and the grief that swelled the sea and created that storm . . . They were mine. They came from me."
"So did the love."
She obeyed the pressure of his hand and shifted to face him. "I know what I gave to the sea. What I chose to give to the sea. I didn't choose love."
"You didn't have to choose. It's part of who you are." He released her shoulder to rub the back of his neck, and his voice ripened with frustration. "I know the sea, and I know you—and I know how the sea feels when you channel your gift through it. Mother's mercy, we've sailed together enough times. How could I not recognize the feel of you in the water?" When she just stared at him, he swore. "Sometimes you can be as stubborn as stone. So tell me this, Jenny. If there wasn't love in that storm, how do you explain the two children? A sister and brother. They were on the ship the Inquisitors burned. The children's parents threw them off the ship while it burned and broke up around them. Threw them into the sea, doing the only thing they could to spare their children from burning.
"Those children were too young to survive in the sea. They were too far from land and any help, and they were in that storm with nothing but the sea around them. They should have drowned, Jenny. And yet, when the selkies swam out to look for survivors, they found those two children riding the swells. They said there were currents in that water like they'd never felt before—currents that constantly pushed upward, under those children, keeping them in that place where water meets air. The selkies used those currents, pushing the children to one of the boats that had come out to help. When the children were safely on board, the currents disappeared. The selkies didn't know what to call it. I do. That was love.
"And what about the rest of us? We rode through that storm, too, and we came to no harm. Because the part of you that you never have to think about kept guiding the sea around our ships. Swells that would have destroyed a ship if they'd crested, never crested. We sailed through mountains of water that didn't tumble in on themselves until the ships were past them. That wasn't luck, Jenny. That was love. You have to know that. This fight isn't over, and the day may come when you need to shape the sea into a weapon again to save those you hold dear. I'd take that burden from you if I could, and do it with a glad heart, but I don't have your strength and I can't command the sea the way you do."
Mihail put one arm around Jenny, drawing her against him. "So you have to know, sister dear, that if you give the sea your fury to fight against the enemy, love will always flow under it to protect your friends."
Jenny broke, weeping bitterly as she clung to her brother. It felt as if the sea crashed inside her, fierce waves breaking the foundation upon which she'd built her life, the security she'd always had that her creed was her protection against using her gift to harm instead of help.
"You've lost your innocence, Jenny," Mihail said when her sobs had finally eased back to sniffles. "And I'm sorry for it. It's no comfort, but you're not alone. There will be other witches who will weep bitter tears when they make the same choice and break the creed. But they'll break it because they must, and they'll weep to ease the grief in their hearts—and they'll go on with their lives."
"It will never be the same," Jenny whispered.
"No, it will never be the same."
Jenny said nothing for a while, finding comfort in the steady beat of Mihail's heart beneath her cheek. Finally, she eased back, fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, and wiped her face. She looked away, feeling a fresh stab of grief, which had been hidden under the storm but had been raging inside her. "The selkies are afraid of me. Murtagh is afraid of me."
Mihail laughed.
Jenny stared at him, insulted. "How can you laugh about it?"
"I'm sorry, Jenny. I am. But—" He winced when he moved without thinking. "Mother's tits. My shoulder is going to be tender for a while." He smiled at her and shook his head. "I am sorry, but you're thinking like a woman."
"And that's bad?"
"No, it's just"—he let out a gusty sigh, and winced again— "the selkies sometimes fear the sea, too, with good reason. But that doesn't keep them away from it. As for Murtagh . . . well, his visits to my sick bed weren't just to keep me company."
"Then why was he there?"
"He hedged a bit—and I got the impression Murtagh rarely hedges about anything—but the gist of the talk was to find out if I'd have any objections to his visiting us to become better acquainted. And before you say anything that makes you sound dim-witted, I'll tell you now he really isn't interested in becoming better acquainted with me."
Jenny turned away and frowned at the sea. "He hasn't come to his grandmother's cottage in the past two days. Not even to visit you."
"That's because he's gone to the mainland across the bay to talk to the young baron who rules there, and also to purchase a mainsail for Sweet Selkie. They've canvas enough to replace the smaller sails that were damaged, but he'll bring the mainsail back with him."
"You gave him the coins to pay for it?"
Chuckling, Mihail slipped his arm through hers and started walking back to the village. "Craig gave him the coins for it— and the commission for acting as the family's agent in the purchase."
Jenny blinked. "The Lord of the Selkies had to barter with Craig to pay for the mainsail and get a commission?" She pitied anyone
who had to barter with her cousin.
"Murtagh was ready to pull his own hair out by the time it was done, then insisted that he'd given in only because Craig was still recovering from his injuries."
Jenny frowned. "Craig didn't barter well?"
"He bartered as he always does."
"Oh, dear. Poor Murtagh." She laughed, but the laughter faded quickly. "Craig will heal, won't he?"
Mihail looked sad and grim. "He was badly burned, Jenny. His face will always be scarred. But the healers are hopeful that he'll regain the use of his hand, and there's nothing wrong with his wits. Time will heal the body, and work will heal the rest. In a few days, we'll be able to go on to Sealand, and he can set up the stock we have and start to rebuild the family business."
He didn't call it home, she noticed. Sealand wasn't home for him. Not yet. But it was safe harbor. She knew he would wait anxiously for the day when his wife and daughter would be able to leave Willowsbrook and join him there. Then Sealand would be home.
She hoped that day would come. She hoped Mihail's family and Fiona and Rory and the others had made the journey to Willowsbrook safely. And she hoped they would remain safe despite whatever battles were raging in the eastern part of Sylvalan.
Chapter 39
waxing moon
Ubel nursed his hatred until it was a living thing crawling inside him.
They had chained him—him! The Master Inquisitor's Assistant!—as if he were an animal. The shackles around his ankles and wrists jangled with every movement, dragged the straw that had been put down on the warehouse floor as rough bedding under the thin blankets they'd been given. A handful of chamberpots, emptied twice a day, kept the men who had survived the destruction of Wolfram's great warships from living in their own filth, but there was no privacy. Every time a man unbuttoned his pants to squat over one of those pots, those bastards—those cold-eyed, silent Fae—watched him.
Their prison inside the warehouse had no walls, just crates no more than waist high to mark the perimeter. Even in chains, it wouldn't take much effort to get over the crates, but any man who tried to escape was dead before he'd taken two steps, arrows bristling out of his chest and back. The Fae didn't warn or wound. They simply killed. Baron's son, minor gentry, soldier, sailor, Inquisitor. It didn't matter to them.
