by Anne Bishop
Ashk stared at Morag. Was the woman still drunk? Had she been in the sun too long today on the journey back from the harbor? Was she having some kind of brain seizure, too, that she couldn’t remember who she’d just spent the day with?
A little stunned, Ashk looked at the men in the pony cart—and saw the way Barry’s kinsman, wide-eyed and pale, looked at Morag before slapping the reins across the pony’s back and returning to Barry’s farm with more speed than prudence.
As soon as the cart was out of sight, Ashk stood up, pushing the bench hard enough to knock it over. “What’s wrong with you?” The queer fury in Morag’s dark eyes made her uneasy.
“There are shadows on his face,” Morag snapped. “They weren’t there when he arrived. They weren’t there until he ate the bread.”
A chill brushed over Ashk. She looked at the covered loaf of bread.
“He knows who I am,” Morag continued. “He knows what I am. That’s why he ate it. So I would see what only I would see. And warn you.”
The chill was still there, but it had turned into calm ice. Ashk recognized the feeling. Accepted it. Understood she was about to walk in the darker shadows of the woods. “He’ll die?”
Morag didn’t answer the question. “And that other man? I doubt he’s any kin. He, too, recognized what I was—and he has reason to fear me. I think he’s one of the Black Coats.”
Ashk didn’t ask why Morag thought that—especially when Morag half turned, and whispered, “Ari.”
“Go,” Ashk said. “You take care of Ari and Neall. I’ll take care of Barry’s ‘kinsman.’ ”
Morag changed into her raven form and flew away, heading toward Ari and Neall’s cottage. Her dark horse galloped after her.
Once more, the Fae had dropped their work and hurried toward her. She wondered if they saw the same queer fury in her eyes that she’d seen in Morag’s. She picked up the bread, shoved it into a woman’s hands. “Lock that up for the moment. Don’t allow anyone to eat it, not so much as a crumb.” She pointed at two other women. “Gather the children and get them into the Clan house. None of them go out until I give consent. Get the elders inside, too.” She pointed to others, giving orders. “Take some men. One group goes to Ari’s cottage to help Morag; the other goes to the manor house. Warn them there may be Black Coats among us. Two of you go on to the village. Tell the magistrate so he can call out his guards. Some of the youths can go out to the tenant farms and give the warning.”
“Will you sound the horn?” one of the men asked.
If she did, it would be heard far beyond the boundaries of the Clan house. But would the Inquisitors know what it meant? “Bring it.”
A youth ran to the Clan house while some of the men and women changed into their other shapes and ran or flew to Barry’s farm or headed out for the other farms to give the warning about the Inquisitors’ presence. Others quickly saddled horses, gathered up bows and crossbows.
Ashk mounted her horse, took her bow and the quiver full of arrows from one of her huntsmen. The youth returned from the Clan house, held up the horn.
In anyone else’s hands, it was just a hunting horn. In the hands of a Lord or Lady of the Woods, its notes could command anything and everything that belonged to the woods.
Ashk took a deep breath to steady herself. Grandfather, stay away. Don’t answer the horn. A futile wish, but she made it anyway as she drew upon the gift that was hers and put the horn to her lips.
Flocks of birds exploded from the trees, taking wild flight, obeying commands as old as the woods. Some circled the Clan house. Others headed for Barry’s farm.
As she blew the horn again, summoning, commanding, she felt the pulse of life responding to it. The woods had come alive. And the woods were angry.
She attached the horn to a ring on her saddle, pressed her heels into her horse’s sides, and galloped toward Barry’s farm. She didn’t know if there was any way to save the man, but she wouldn’t let the Black Coats have his family.
When they reached the farm, she saw two horses circling fearfully in the small paddock next to the barn. She heard the pony’s terrified neighs. And she saw the saddled Fae horse dancing and rearing just outside the barn, holding three wolves at bay.
Her huntsmen circled the cottage on their silent horses. She reined in her horse a few feet away from the partially opened front door. A man’s foot, shod in an old work boot, lay across the threshold. Barry hadn’t even been able to get all the way inside the cottage before whatever was in the bread—or something else—brought him down.
Ashk dismounted, nocked an arrow in her bow. As she approached the door, she heard a woman’s tearful voice saying, “Stop. Please stop.”
She kicked the door, ready to leap into the room. It opened halfway before hitting something that stopped it. She stepped on Barry’s legs to get through the opening, twisting around toward the voice as soon as she got past the door. She pulled the bowstring back.
Her arms shook with the effort. Her eyes refused to stay open and focused.
She bit her lip until it bled, using the pain to force herself to remain clear-sighted.
The woman, who was on her knees, twisted around to look at Ashk. “Please. Can you make them stop?”
The bow weighed as much as a tree. Her legs wanted to buckle. Mother’s tits! What was wrong with her?
“Please?” the woman said.
Ashk fought to study the woman, despite the fatigue that was blurring her vision. She looked at the black hair, the dark eyes, the face that was softer and fuller than the one she knew but enough alike. “You’re Morphia.”
“Yes.” The word came out in a relieved rush of air.
Her arms straining, Ashk raised the bow high enough so that if her fingers slipped on the bowstring she wouldn’t shoot Morag’s sister. As soon as the arrow was once again loosely nocked in the bow, she felt the fatigue lift. And she noticed all the bodies in the room. There were foxes and ferrets, wolves and hawks, crows and ravens, owls and falcons. A young stag lay across the legs of one of Barry’s sons. There were rabbits and, Mother’s tits, even a pile of field mice. The room was full of bodies tumbled over bodies. Some were Fae in their other form, but most were animals her hunting horn had summoned and directed toward this place.
“Mother’s mercy!” One of her huntsmen thrust his upper body through an open window, his crossbow ready to fire.
Morphia whipped her head around to face him.
“No!” Ashk shouted, not sure to whom she was giving the command. She pointed to her huntsman. “Out. Tell the others to stay out. And have someone call off the wolves.”
The huntsman disappeared.
Ashk and Morphia stared at each other.
“What did you do to them?” Ashk asked quietly.
“They kept trying to attack me, so I put them to sleep.”
“You put them to sleep.” Morag had told her Morphia was the Lady of Dreams, the Sleep Sister. Looking at all the bodies, Ashk didn’t know if she should laugh or weep. She’d never thought of sleep as a weapon, but dropping someone into an instant, deep sleep was an effective way of stopping an attacker.
She looked down, saw Barry’s legs, and shouted for one of her huntsmen. “Fetch one of our healers. Tell her she’s needed here now.”
“Jana is here. Came riding in behind us.”
“Then tell her—” Ashk looked around. There was no place to work in this room, no place for another person to stand. By luck or instinct she’d managed to plant her feet on either side of a fox without crushing any furred or feathered bodies beneath her boots. But she couldn’t turn around to get back out the door. “Pull Barry out the door. Carefully. Take him to the barn and do what you can for him.”
As her men pulled Barry out the door, she saw the crow, sparrow, young ferret, and tiny whoo-it owl sleeping on his back. And as she turned back to look at Morphia, she noticed the Sleep Sister was cradling a falcon in her hands, her fingers nervously stroking his breast feathers.<
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Ashk was fairly certain that Sheridan, who was Bretonwood’s Lord of the Hawks, would have been delighted to have Morphia stroke his chest—especially if he’d been in his human form and had been awake to enjoy it.
“Can you wake them a few at a time, or do you have to wake them all at once?”
“I can wake them a few at a time,” Morphia said quickly.
Ashk licked lips that had suddenly gone dry. “Can you wake Barry? The old man?”
Morphia closed her eyes. When she opened them, tears filled them, spilled over. “If I wake him, he’ll suffer.”
“Then there’s nothing we can do for him?”
“I don’t know. I sense the suffering beneath the sleep, but that’s all I can tell you. Morag would know, if she were here.”
And Morag didn’t answer when I asked. Which may have been an answer after all. “Wake him. Just for a minute or two. I’d like him to know his warning was understood.”
Morphia nodded.
“Can you wake the ones who are between me and the door? But not the Black Coat,” she added, seeing another male body almost hidden under feathers and fur.
Morphia nodded again.
The fox between Ashk’s feet stirred, opened its eyes, snarled at Morphia.
“No,” Ashk said firmly, giving the animal a nudge with her boot. “Go home now. Go back to the fields and the woods.”
The fox turned and nimbly leaped for the open door.
Birds woke, fluffed their feathers, and flew off.
As soon as Ashk could move without hurting anyone, she dashed out the door and ran to the barn. She heard the harsh breathing, stumbled toward a stall. She fell on her knees beside Barry and took one of his hands in both of hers.
“L-lady Ashk,” he said. “The Gatherer...”
“She understood the warning. We didn’t eat the bread.”
“Good. Good. Didn’t want to bring it. But they said they’d ... they’d...”
“It’s all right,” Ashk said. “Your family is safe, and they’ll be looked after. And those men will never bring harm to anyone again. This I promise you.”
Barry’s only answer was a gasp of pain.
Ashk laid his hand on his chest and walked out of the barn. Then she ran to the cottage, shouting, “Morphia!”
Animals streamed out of the doorway, so she pushed open a window’s shutters, ducked to avoid the crow that flew through the opening, and climbed into the cottage’s main room.
“He sleeps,” Morphia said softly.
Ashk sniffed. Brushed tears off her cheeks. When had she started crying?
Then she looked at the two Inquisitors, and her tears dried up.
Morphia looked at the women. The mother was tied to a chair. The daughter was on the floor, her skirts pushed up to her thighs.
“I was looking for the Clan house,” Morphia said. “I saw the cottage, and I heard someone scream.”
“So you rode in, not knowing what you were up against.”
Morphia’s dark eyes stared through her, and Ashk thought she understood why Morphia and Morag, the Sleep Sister and the Gatherer, had remained close.
“I knew what I could do,” Morphia said. “And I knew that I would do it—even if it meant they never woke.”
Ashk looked pointedly at the women. “Will you wake them, Sleep Sister? Or is there a reason why they should never wake?”
“I thought it best if there was someone they knew here when they woke.” She gently set the falcon on the floor, then stiffly got to her feet.
“Let’s get the rest of the animals out of the house,” Ashk said. There were three wolves and the falcon left. One was a real wolf. The other two were Fae. Of the three of them, only the real wolf wasn’t annoyed by the unexpected nap. He just shook himself and trotted away. The other two glared balefully at Morphia until Ashk grabbed them by their scruffs and hauled them out the door.
Morphia studied the sleeping falcon. “He’s a Fae Lord, isn’t he?”
“He’s our Clan’s Lord of the Hawks.”
“He’s not going to be happy.”
Ashk slanted a glance at Morphia. “I won’t tell him you fondled his feathers if you don’t.”
Morphia blushed. Ashk liked her because of it.
“Just wake him up and let him preen his ruffled feathers,” Ashk said.
Stepping away from the door to give him a clear exit, Morphia obeyed.
The Fae Lord stared at Morphia for a long moment before flying out the door.
Well, well, Ashk thought. Maybe he wasn’t as unaware of being fondled as I’d thought. But she decided not to share that with Morphia just yet.
They woke Barry’s son. He had a bump on his head but was otherwise unharmed. Looking at the knife beside the Inquisitor’s body, Ashk suspected he would have come to great harm if it hadn’t been for Morphia’s arrival.
Barry’s wife had bruises. So did the daughter. But there was no blood on the girl’s thighs.
Another reason to be grateful to Morphia.
While a couple of her huntsmen led Barry’s family to the barn, others saddled the Inquisitors’ horses and tied the still-sleeping men over the saddles.
“Come,” Ashk said, leading Morphia out of the cottage. “We’ll take you up to the Clan house where you can eat and rest. I’ll send someone to tell Morag you’re here, but I think she’ll stay at the cottage tonight.”
Morphia stopped walking. “Morag is here? She’s staying with your Clan?”
“No, she’s not actually staying with us.”
A skim of ice came over Morphia’s eyes. “Because she’s shunned by the Clans. If you don’t want her, you don’t want me. Just tell me where to find her.”
So much anger and bitterness in those words. Because of that, Ashk swallowed the urge to snap to her Clan’s defense. “Morag is welcome to stay with us, but when Neall and Ari asked her to live with them, that was her choice.”
The ice in Morphia’s eyes thawed. “Ari? Neall? She’s all right? They’re all right?”
“They’re fine, and she’s round with their first babe.”
Morphia looked at the ground. “I’m sorry. I thought—”
“Don’t be sorry. You had no reason to think otherwise. But”—Ashk gave Morphia an odd smile—“as the rest of the Fae have so often remarked, we’re different here in the west.”
One of the huntsmen stayed with Jana, the healer—and to keep watch over Barry’s family. Another rode off to tell the other son what had happened. The rest of them rode back to the Clan house.
Ashk reined in beside a narrow forest trail. “How close do you have to be to wake them?” she asked, tipping her head toward the Inquisitors.
“Not that close,” Morphia replied.
Ashk nodded. “My men will take you up to the Clan house. When you get there, wake these two.”
“What are you going to do?”
Ashk looked Morphia in the eyes and said softly, “Don’t ask questions.”
When Morphia rode off, Ashk held up a hand to hold back the last escort. “You know where we’ll be?”
“I know.”
“Then meet us there. And bring the bread.”
She turned her horse to the narrow forest trail, the men leading the Inquisitors’ horses riding behind her. She was aware of the old stag following them and had a moment’s regret that he would see her this way. There was nothing clean or honorable in what she was about to do—but she was going to do it. Not even her grandfather’s opinion, or her Clan’s— or Padrick’s, if it came to that—would stop her.
Death called her.
Morag flew as fast as she could, already knowing she was too late to stop whatever she would find at the cottage. Death had come.
As she flew over the trees and reached the open land around the cottage, she saw Ari on her knees in her kitchen garden, her arms around a blood-spattered Merle. She saw the savaged body of a man, his fire-blackened hand still clutching a knife. She didn’t think Ari c
ould see the ghost shaking a clenched fist and silently shouting at her, but the fact that the shadow hound kept snarling convinced her that Merle knew something was still there.
She saw Neall running toward the kitchen garden, shouting Ari’s name. His left sleeve was soaked with blood, and he held it tight to his body as he ran.
Glenn stood near the stables, holding a pitchfork, the dark mare and her new foal behind him. Nearby, Shadow, the dark horse she had given to Neall, kept bugling angrily as his hooves came down again and again on the man he’d already lolled.
She called to the horse, a caw that was more a command than comfort. He broke off the attack, but continued trotting around the body in a wide circle, ready to attack again. He wouldn’t fear the ghost beside the body. He’d been her companion for too long and had seen too many ghosts to fear one.
She felt a bittersweet pang at his response to her command, but that was the way with the dark horses. He remembered her, but his loyalty belonged to Neall now, and only Neall’s assurance that they were safe would calm him.
She circled back to the kitchen garden. Neall had scrambled over the garden wall and was on his knees, holding Ari with his good arm. Merle stood in front of them, still snarling and focused on the ghost.
She landed on the garden wall, changed to her human form, and lightly jumped down into the garden. She winced at the sight of the trampled plants—and wondered if Ari would be able to eat the food that would grow in the blood-soaked earth.
Morag shook her head. Flesh was just flesh. Meat that returned to the Great Mother. And she would take care of removing the rest.
She knelt beside Neall. Rested a hand on Ari’s shoulder.
“Do no harm,” Ari said, sobbing quietly. “It is not our way to do harm. But I was frightened, and angry—and I let fire act as anger’s voice.”
“He would have hurt Merle,” Neall said firmly. “He was going to kill you and the babe. You had to protect yourself.”
“I told you once before that your creed serves you well most of the time,” Morag said. “But it would be foolish not to use your power to protect what you love when someone intends harm. You can’t deny these men came for any reason except to hurt you and Neall.”
