Shadows and Light ta-2

by Anne Bishop

  “An Old Place,” Ashk said softly. “You think his family has roots in the House of Gaian?”

  “I’m not sure if they wanted to impress me or Evan, but before he could stop them, his nephews were boasting about how their uncle had never lost a ship at sea, had never limped into port after a bad storm. They said when a storm blew up, their uncle would stand at the bow of his ship, would tie himself to the railing if need be, and call to the sea—and no matter how fierce the storm, no matter how high the waves, the sea would let his ship pass safely through.”

  “Mother’s mercy.”

  “So, yes, I think it’s safe to assume his family has roots in the House of Gaian. And that puts them all at risk.”

  “You’ll find a safe harbor for him and his,” Ashk said, not really asking a question since she realized he’d almost set his mind to doing just that.

  “I wanted to talk with you first.”

  “You’ll find a safe harbor for him and his,” she repeated.

  Padrick sighed as if he’d just been relieved of a great weight. “They have a shipping office in Durham. I have the name of the cousin who runs it. I’ll leave a message to be passed on.”

  And I’ll talk to Morag, Ashk thought.

  “While I’m gone, I’d like the children to stay with you.”

  “Of course. I can play lady of the manor for a week or two.”

  “No. I’d like them to stay here. With you.”

  Ashk sorted through the feelings she heard behind the words—and didn’t like them. “I know your people aren’t that comfortable with dealing with me, but—”

  “They’re more comfortable than you seem to think,” Padrick said sharply. “Mother’s tits, Ashk. The farm folk don’t leave trinkets or other little offerings in order to placate the Fae as they might do in other places. They do it in the hopes that whoever they’re leaving it for might show up while they’re still there, might talk with them a bit. Do you realize how many of them showed up at Neall and Ari’s door when they arrived here last summer, offering a bit of baking or a dish of food? How many of the men gave up a day of working their own land to help Neall? How many of the women came to clean the cottage because Ari was still too fragile to do the heavy work by herself? Those things weren’t done out of fear of the witch and the young Lord of the Woods. They were done because the people wanted to know Ari and Neall.”

  Ashk looked down at their joined hands. “I didn’t realize. Not completely. The truth is, I’m still not comfortable being around most humans. Many of their ways still seem strange to me.”

  Padrick put his other hand over hers. “It hasn’t been so many years that both sides have tried to know each other more openly. Before that, we were always aware of each other but, for the most part, always apart.”

  “I’ll stay at the manor house. It will be good practice for me to deal with the people when you’re not there to take care of things.”

  “No,” Padrick said firmly. He paused. “My people are servants or farmers. In the village, they’re merchants and tailors and seamstresses and bakers. They’re good people, but... they’re not the Fae. They don’t grow up with a bow in their hands. While I’m gone, it will ease my heart to know the children are safe here—with you.”

  “If I make that promise to ease your heart, what will you promise to ease mine?” Ashk asked. “Where you’re going, you’ll find no safety in the woods.”

  “I’ll take care, wife. That I promise. And I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  When he leaned forward to kiss her, she turned her face away, then put one hand on his shoulder to let him know she wasn’t refusing his touch but there was something more to say.

  “My grandfather is in the woods.”

  “I thought that’s who you had sent the children to see before the feast,” Padrick said. “I’m sorry he didn’t choose to join us. Was he feeling poorly after the journey?”

  She felt herself stepping away from the light, going deeper into the shadows of the woods, could almost hear blood dripping from her knife onto the leaves beneath her feet. Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. Soon.

  “The old Lord is in the woods,” she repeated, putting a sharper emphasis on the words. “He hasn’t come to the Clan house. He hasn’t changed to his human form at all since he arrived.”

  “I see.”

  But he didn’t see. Not really. His Fae heritage had lain dormant inside him—and might have remained dormant if they hadn’t become lovers, if it hadn’t been awakened by the continued presence of her strength and particular gift. He understood her Clan better than she understood his humans, but he didn’t understand this.

  Padrick took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I’ll talk to Forrester when I stop at the manor house to pick up my saddlebags. He and his gamekeepers will keep an eye out for your grandfather.”

  “It’s not that—but I’m grateful to you for thinking of it.”

  Ashk closed her eyes. Pieces of the past few days were swirling around in her mind, trying to form a pattern. She just couldn’t see it yet. “First Morag arrives. Why here? Why now? Did she truly choose the road at random that led her to this Clan, or was her gift guiding her here, so subtly she still doesn’t realize she was summoned? Then my grandfather, the old Lord of the Woods, arrives. There’s something he knows, something he senses. But he keeps to his stag form, stays in the woods because it’s the clearest way he has to show me whatever it is that brought him here. And you’re approached by a sea merchant whose family has ties to the House of Gaian. They’re all connected. Somehow.” She shook her head. The pattern won’t come if you try to force it. Think of something else. Her eyes snapped open. “Curse the barons’ council twice over! You won’t be back home in time for the Summer Moon.”

  Padrick studied her carefully, as if trying to decipher her change in mood. “And will you go out walking that night, darling Ashk?”

  “Oh, I’ll go out walking that night, but I won’t be wearing a form any other man would want to cuddle.”

  He grinned. “I love the feel of your fur beneath my hands. All thick and soft.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “No. It’s too hot, and I’m shedding something fierce.”

  “Ah, well, then. I’ll give you a good brushing when I get home.”

  “And if you let anything but your eyes roam that night, I’ll pluck you, my fine hawk.”

  He took her hand, pressed it against his cock. “The bird’s already plucked, but quite willing to be petted.”

  Laughing, Ashk pulled him down on top of her.

  Chapter Eight

  “I am sorry, but with the baron away and the mistress are not at home, I do not have the authority to offer you shelter.”

  Faced with the butler’s genuine concern, Aiden tried to hide some of the weariness that had plagued him for the past two days. He worked to give the man a smile. “I understand. With the troubles in the villages east of here, it is wise to be ... cautious ... of strangers.” Touching fingertips to temple in a salute, he turned away from the door and started walking back to where Lyrra waited with the horses.

  “Minstrel.”

  I am the Bard, the Lord of Song, Aiden thought bitterly as he turned back toward the butler. Such a civilized gift of magic, being the Bard—and so useless in the face of what he and Lyrra had recently seen.

  The butler took a few steps away from the house, glanced around to see if anyone else was about, then said with quiet intensity, “You are a man with an open mind?”

  “About most things,” Aiden replied. But not where the Inquisitors were concerned. Never where they were concerned. Especially not after— No, he couldn’t think about that. He had to keep his mind focused on the immediate task of finding food and shelter for Lyrra and the horses.

  “I do not believe the baron would object if you used the lanes on the estate instead of going back to the main road since that would lengthen your journey,” the butler said, giving Lyrra a worried look. “Go on past the
stables and follow the brook until you reach a stone bridge. Cross the bridge and follow the lane. The ladies who live on that land sometimes offer shelter to travelers.”

  Aiden almost asked why he needed an open mind toward anyone willing to offer shelter—and then he understood what the butler was carefully not saying. His heart lifted one moment, then began pounding anxiously the next.

  Please. Great Mother, please don’t let us be too late this time.

  When he mounted his horse, Lyrra made the effort to raise her head and look at him. She was pale from exhaustion, and the dark smudges under her eyes seemed deeper than they’d been even an hour ago.

  “Just a bit farther,” he murmured as he gently urged his horse forward. “Just a bit farther.”

  She didn’t ask where they were going or how much “a bit farther” really was. She just slumped in her saddle and let her mare follow the packhorse Aiden led.

  He didn’t dare let her see how much she worried him. She’d withdrawn from him. Withdrawn from everything. All her energy, all her focus was on staying in the saddle and going forward. Her sleep, like his, had been restless the past two nights, torn by dreams of blood and pain. He wondered if she, too, heard that young voice pleading to be allowed to die. He couldn’t ask because he didn’t want to remind her of anything that might not be preying on her mind.

  As if either of us is going to forget. He wondered if there would be a story or a poem from her that would be a cry of rage and sorrow. And he wondered what wild, grieving song would rise from him one day.

  When he reached the stone bridge, he hesitated.

  “An Old Place?”

  Hearing hope and horror in equal measure in Lyrra’s question, he looked back at her and said carefully, “The butler at the manor house said the ladies here sometimes offer shelter to travelers.”

  There was something so terrible about the way she stared at him that he turned away from her.

  The witches at the last Old Place they’d come to had also offered shelter to travelers. That’s what the Small Folk had told him bitterly. If someone asked for shelter, it was given. So there hadn’t been anything strange about four men coming to that house at dusk one day. Four men who looked like dusty, weary travelers.

  The Small Folk hadn’t become uneasy until the second day because it had rained the first day after the strangers arrived, and, noticing one man go to the barn to tend the animals, they had reckoned everyone else had chosen to stay inside out of the wet.

  But the second day, the men left late in the afternoon— and rode out in a hurry.

  That’s when some of the Small Folk went to the house and found the warding spells that usually protected the house were gone. So they went inside—and they found the witches.

  Two hours later, Aiden and Lyrra rode up to that house.

  The youngest witch was still alive, had been left in a room with the bodies of her mother, grandmother, and elder sister. The men, whom Aiden strongly suspected were Inquisitors, hadn’t been worried about leaving her. There was nothing anyone could have done to mend her poor tortured body.

  Please, let it end. Please, let me die. Please.

  If he’d known where to find Morag, he would have begged her to come to that house and take the girl’s spirit from that suffering body. Without the Gatherer, he and Lyrra and the Small Folk did what they could to make her more comfortable, which was pitifully little.

  Please, let me die. Please.

  Lyrra stayed with the girl while he and the Small Folk dug the graves for the other three women. He didn’t ask the small men if any of the Fae had bothered to make themselves known to the witches. At one point, while he was resting his back and hands, he wondered if he should ride up the shining road to Tir Alainn and warn the Fae that the road would be closing soon. Then he looked at the half-dug grave and went back to work. The Fae could take care of themselves. When had they ever done anything else?

  The girl died at dusk on the second day after they’d arrived at that Old Place. While Lyrra washed the body, he and the small men went out to dig another grave.

  They’d barely broken ground when one of the small men noticed the swarm of nighthunters flying toward them and gave a cry of warning.

  Shouting at Lyrra to close the windows, Aiden dropped his shovel and ran to the barn. The house was still sturdy enough, but the barn had been neglected, and he couldn’t leave the horses in a structure that would make them easy prey.

  It didn’t occur to him until he led the horses out of the barn that he didn’t have a chance of reaching the house before the nighthunters attacked.

  A stone shot from a sling knocked one of the nighthunters down. The small men shouted at him to make good use of his legs as they shot clods of dirt and small stones at the creatures.

  He ran to the house, got himself and the horses inside. The small men continued to hold off the nighthunters long enough to reach the house, too. They huddled together that night, listening to the nighthunters’ bodies hitting the shutters as the creatures tried to find a way into the house. Then they listened to the screams of agony from the three ghosts when the creatures finally abandoned the living and sought another kind of sustenance by devouring the spirits of the dead.

  The next morning, knowing what would happen once the sun went down, none of them could bring themselves to bury the girl. So they dug up earth and covered her with it where she lay on the bed. They put a bowl of water on the bedside table, set the stub of a candle next to it, and, for a few tense minutes, opened the bedroom window to let in fresh air.

  Earth, air, water, fire. The four branches of the Great Mother.

  He didn’t know if there were special words that should have been said, so he played his harp for a few minutes. Lyrra sang a poem about witches that she had written last winter and that he’d recently set to music.

  Then they closed up the house, saddled the horses, said good-bye to the Small Folk, and rode away.

  Now here they were with only a bridge separating them from another Old Place.

  Aiden took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Brushed his heels against his gelding’s sides to urge the animal forward.

  A small stone hit his boot.

  “Deceiver,” a voice hissed.

  Aiden looked down. Even knowing what to look for, it still took him a moment to locate the water sprite standing on a flat stone near the bank of the brook. She stared at him with such loathing, he couldn’t suppress the shiver that went through him.

  “Deceiver,” she hissed again.

  “We mean no harm,” he said quietly.

  “Then show the Daughters your true face. Let them see who stands before them before they bid you welcome.” She waited a moment. When he didn’t respond, she gave him a knife-edged smile.

  Aiden urged his horse forward, not sure what he expected, but not feeling easy until Lyrra was across the bridge. When he looked back, the sprite had climbed the bank high enough to peer over the edge. Her eyes were still filled with loathing, and her smile was still knife sharp. He wondered if she had a particular reason for disliking the Fae, or if it was simply because the Fae had always dismissed the Small Folk as insignificant, lesser beings who were expected to obey the Fair Folk’s commands.

  He almost turned back, almost tried to tell her about the Inquisitors and why it was necessary to keep watch. But if his own kind wouldn’t listen to him, there was no reason to think she would trust anything he might say. So he continued down the lane, with the packhorse and Lyrra trailing behind him.

  Strength flowed from the land, filled him with every breath he took. It made him dizzy, as if he’d drunk too much strong wine, and so thirsty for more he wanted to gulp it down. Fighting to stay alert, he looked up and saw the Mother’s Hills.

  The Fae avoided the Mother’s Hills. Perhaps it was simply because there were no shining roads there that anchored Tir Alainn to the human world, and there were no Old Places. Perhaps there was something ... strange ... about those hills. Or
perhaps the Fae said the hills were strange because they sensed that they weren’t welcome there.

  When they came in sight of a manor house, Aiden reined in, waited for Lyrra to come up beside him. She studied the well-kept house, then looked at him.

  “Perhaps I misunderstood what the butler said,” Aiden said carefully. The homes they’d seen in the other Old Places had ranged from large cottages like the one Ari had lived in to places that were little better than one-room hovels. Neither of them had seen a manor house like this in an Old Place. The signs of gentry prosperity were unnerving. They’d seen no sign before now that witches lived this well.

  “The magic is still strong here,” Lyrra said, but there was a trace of doubt in her voice.

  “And the water sprite referred to the ladies as Daughters.” Aiden sighed. “Come on, then. We won’t find out anything standing here.”

  As they rode toward the house, a dark-haired woman raced through the arch that Aiden guessed led to the stable yard. She slid to a stop when she saw them.

  “Did you see a black dog and a string of sausages?” she demanded.

  “No, Mistress,” Aiden replied. “I regret we have not.”

  The woman put her hands on her hips and yelled, “Idjit! Come back here, you feeble-minded excuse for a dog!”

  Since they were here to beg food and shelter, Aiden didn’t think it prudent to point out that a dog who could steal sausages probably wasn’t feeble-minded.

  No dog appeared. Not even a bush rustled to indicate where the thief might be hiding.

  The woman let out an exasperated sigh, then turned to study Aiden and Lyrra. There was a friendly wariness in her eyes that made Aiden uncertain if they would get much help here but also made him feel relieved that she wouldn’t assume all travelers were good people.

  “Blessings of the day to you,” she said.

  “Blessings of the day, Mistress,” Aiden replied. “I’m Aiden. This is my wife, Lyrra.”