by Anne Bishop
You did just make a bargain, Neall, although it’s one you’re not aware of. One I hope you’ll never be aware of.
When Neall hurried back to them, Morphia used the water to wash the wound in Ari’s side and the graze in her thigh. Morag rummaged through the saddlebags until she found the rolled cloths and the small jar of healing ointment.
“But those are—” Neall started to protest.
“Clean and made to absorb blood,” Morag replied. She and Morphia smeared the ointment on the wounds and dealt with the makeshift bandages. Neall protested again when they tore up Ari’s long nightgown to make strips long enough to wrap around Ari and hold the dressings. They ignored him.
“Now,” Morag said as she put the supplies back in Ari’s saddlebags, “lift her carefully and take her out of the way. We’ll try to shift the gelding enough to get your saddlebags free.”
“No,” Neall said. “I don’t need—”
Morag gave him a look that silenced him. “If you didn’t need what you’d brought, you wouldn’t have brought it.”
It took effort, but between them, she and Morphia managed to pull the saddlebags free.
Morag rested one hand on the gelding’s flank in a silent farewell. This one had had the courage of his breed, and she knew he would be sorely missed.
That reminded her of another problem. Neall and Ari couldn’t travel however far they would have to go riding double on the mare. They needed another horse.
Handing the saddlebags to Morphia, she walked over to where the dark horse waited for her. She pressed her hand against his cheek and looked into his dark, trusting eyes.
“I want you to go with Neall and Ari. I know you like her, and I think you’ll like him, too.” When he started to take a step back, she shook her head. “They need you. They need your strength and your speed and your courage. They need you to look after them and take care of them. They’re going to need that for a long time. So we’ll say goodbye now, my friend. You’ll have a good life with them. This much I know.”
Giving him a last caress, she walked the dark horse over to where Neall stood, holding Ari in his arms.
“He’ll go with you,” she said quietly. “You’ll need to ride double until Ari is strong enough to ride by herself. The mare couldn’t do that. He can.”
Neall stared at her. “I—I can’t take your horse.”
“Yes, you can. For Ari’s sake.” And for the sake of a good horse who now fears what I would have to ask of him.
“I’ll wake her enough that she can help you get her mounted,” Morphia said. “I won’t send her back into a deep sleep since that will make it harder for you both to ride, but she’ll doze enough to dull the pain.”
Taking the saddlebags from her sister, Morag tied them to the dark horse’s saddle. While Neall and Morphia helped Ari mount, she secured Ari’s saddlebags and canteen to the mare’s saddle.
When they were ready to go, Morag gave Ari one more long, searching look—and felt relieved. There were still no shadows in the girl’s face. Ari would heal—and she would have the life Astra and Ahern had wanted for her.
“May the Mother bless both of you for all of your days,” Neall said.
“Blessings of the day to you,” Morag said.
Neall smiled oddly. “ ‘Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.’ That’s another saying among witches.” He murmured to the dark horse, who pricked his ears, considered the trail before them, then turned into the trees to find another path.
Morag smiled at the way Neall’s eyes widened at having the decision made for him, but Neall was used to dealing with an animal that sometimes held an opinion that was different from his own. He and the dark horse would get along well together—once they got to know each other.
Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.
A warm feeling filled Morag. Did that saying express a hope that she would visit them in their new home?
The warm feeling froze, began to shrivel. Or did that saying have more than one meaning, especially when it was said to the Gatherer? Was Neall trying to tell her he hoped they would meet again in this world—or that he hoped they wouldn’t see her again until they were all in the Summerland, after their spirits had left their bodies to the Mother’s keeping?
Foolish to want acceptance from anyone who lived in the human world, foolish to yearn to be welcomed as a friend when even her own kind drew back from her. She was Death’s Mistress. That was her gift—and her burden. What did she truly know of life?
She pushed away her feelings before they could bruise her heart. Turning, she saw Morphia watching her.
“What do we do about them?” Morphia asked softly.
Morag looked at the ghosts who all glared at her— especially the Inquisitors. They would have to be dealt with, taken away from Brightwood. Whether she would guide them all the way to the Shadowed Veil was something she hadn’t decided yet.
“Leave them,” she said. “The Small Folk can do what they choose with the bodies.”
Morphia looked at the Inquisitors’ ghosts and shuddered. “In that case, let’s get away from here.”
They mounted Morphia’s horse, Morag riding behind her sister, then headed in the direction of the cottage.
As they crossed the meadow, they saw the black smoke, could smell the burning.
“It would appear the Lightbringer has passed judgment on the people there,” Morphia said.
“Yes,” Morag said softly. “They shouldn’t have forgotten he is the Lord of Fire.”
Morphia hesitated. “You’re tired, Morag. Can’t you rest a little while before you gather the people there?”
I’ll rest a long while before I ride into that village, Morag thought. “Let another of Death’s Servants guide them to the Shadowed Veil. I am tired, and—”
Death called.
Morag listened carefully, looked in the direction from which that call had come.
“And there’s someplace else I have to be,” she finished, her voice full of regret.
Abandoning the wounded guard, Adolfo ran toward the group of people clustered around the stable. Reaching them, he stared at the mound of debris-filled earth that filled the place where Baron Felston’s manor house had stood a short while ago.
“What happened here?” he gasped.
One of the grooms gave him a hostile look. “The earth swallowed it, then spewed up enough of itself to cover it. I guess that was the Mother’s way of saying you Inquisitors should have let the witches be.”
Adolfo looked at them, saw the same grim expression and hard eyes in all their faces. “But she was the one who did this. The witch did this!”
“She never did any harm until you came!” one of the female servants shouted.
The groom nodded his head in agreement. “The ladies of Brightwood always had a lot more courtesy for the common folk than the gentry did. Even the villagers looked down on those who worked the land.” He looked in the direction of the black smoke filling the sky. “Guess they’re not going to be looking down on anyone for a long time to come.”
“The witch—”
The groom shook his head, then gestured toward another man. “Russell said he saw a black horse racing toward Ridgeley. A black horse with flames in his mane and tail. Anything he passed that a man had made . . . burned. Guess the Lord of Fire was letting us all know his opinion about you taking the witch.”
They were all against him. That, too, was the witch’s fault. She should have accepted her fate, should have yielded to the need to have her spirit cleansed of its foulness. She had brought about this disdain for authority in servants who, a day ago, had been sufficiently meek.
“Where is Baron Felston? There are things I must discuss with him.”
The groom tipped his head toward the mound of earth. “You can dig for him then. He never came out. There was plenty of time before the house started to cave in, but he never came out. Neither did the baroness nor Odella.”
&nb
sp; Adolfo’s legs trembled. He forced himself to stand tall and show no weakness. These people were like a pack of feral dogs now. If he showed any weakness, they would attack.
“If you want answers,” the groom said, “you could always try to ask the Small Folk. I saw a few of them heading away from the manor house just before it all caved in. I reckon they could tell you what happened to the baron and the others.”
The Small Folk. The Fae. The witch. There was too much power here—power that should have been approached carefully instead of with haste. That had been his error. Felston had lured him here with the conviction that there was only one young witch to deal with. He should have proceeded with his usual caution instead of listening to the baron’s reassurances. And there was still the not-insignificant matter of his fee.
“Where is Royce?” Adolfo asked.
The groom shrugged. “He left earlier today to ride out with some of his friends. Haven’t seen him since.”
He didn’t want to know what happened to Royce, but it was possible the young man was still alive. It was possible.
“Saddle a horse for me. I’ll find Royce. He needs to be informed that he is the baron now.”
No one moved.
Then a shadow passed over them.
The groom looked up, watched the hawk for a moment, then turned to another man. “Winn, saddle a horse for him. The sooner he’s gone, the better. No point having the Fae or the Small Folk angry with us because he’s standing here.”
Adolfo watched the hawk slowly circle, as if it were taking a good look at the destruction. Suppressing a shiver, he said, “It’s just a hawk.”
The groom made a harsh sound. “And that black horse that burned Ridgeley was just a horse. Get away from us, Master Inquisitor. You brought nothing but ill with you.”
Winn came out of the stables, leading a saddled horse.
Not the best horse Felston had, Adolfo thought as he eyed the animal. An adequate beast and nothing more. But he mounted without comment, and rode away.
Once he was out of sight, he turned the horse away from the direction of the main road and cut across the fields so that he could pick up the road again on the other side of Ridgeley. He didn’t want to ride through the village. He didn’t want to be the scapegoat people accused of causing their pain and suffering.
He could reach the next village by late evening, even riding this inadequate animal. Once there, he would summon the other Inquisitors he’d brought with him to Sylvalan. Then he would return here and deal with the Fae.
Morag stood beside Ahern’s bed, watching the shadows deepen in his face. His housekeeper and one of his men kept the bedside vigil.
“Ahern,” Morag said softly. The Mother only knew how he’d made it back to the farm wounded as he was. She wanted to release him from the suffering, but wouldn’t gather him without his consent.
“Go outside, Morag,” Ahern said, his gruff voice now weak and gasping. “Go outside for a bit.”
She did as he asked. As she walked toward the stables, she realized the place already felt empty and there was no sign of the men and horses.
Another of Ahern’s men met her halfway.
“Where is everyone?” she asked.
“Going . . . or already gone,” he replied. “Ahern had told us he was leaving, going back to the Clan he’d come from.” Tears filled his eyes. He blinked them away. “He said he wanted to remember Brightwood as it was. He’d settled our wages and given us our pick of the horses. Except the special horses. He said they would find the place where they belonged.” He hesitated. “I guess Ahern will be staying after all.”
“His body will rest here within the Mother, but his spirit will go to the Summerland,” Morag said gently. “That I can promise you.”
The man nodded, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “He said you would need a horse and gear. He chose them, early this morning, before . . .”
Morag stared at the man. How had Ahern known she would need another dark horse? He couldn’t have known what would happen today.
But as the Lord of the Horse, he would have sensed the dark horse’s fear of the shining roads through the Veil, and he must have guessed that she would look for a way to let the animal go rather than continue to endure that fear.
“If you need help saddling him, I’ll be nearby,” the man said, brushing his fingers against the brim of his cap before he walked away.
Morag continued toward the stables. As if that was the awaited signal, a dark horse stepped out of the shadows, his ears pricked.
“You are a fine lad, aren’t you?” she said softly, holding out her hand.
He came forward to get acquainted.
Yes, he was a fine horse, she decided as she petted him. Fine and strong, with the courage of his breed. Since Ahern had chosen him for her—and had chosen her for him—she had no doubt they would forge a strong partnership.
“Let’s see how your saddle fits,” Morag said.
As she stepped into the stables, she heard the whimpering. Following the sound, she opened a stall door.
“Ah, Merle,” she said softly.
The puppy looked at her with heartbroken eyes.
Morag held out her hand for him to sniff. He crept toward her. The tip of his tail began to wag as he sniffed her.
He smells Ari, she thought sadly, petting the puppy. She picked him up and cuddled him, not sure which of them found it the most comforting.
“I don’t know where she’s going, Merle. I don’t know where to find her. And it’s better that way—for now.” She set him down, then slipped out of the stall, closing the door behind her.
He immediately began whimpering again.
She looked at him over the stall door. “Quiet, little one. There’s a journey I have to make, and it’s on a road that you can’t travel. But I’ll come back for you. You won’t be left behind. You won’t be alone. That I promise.”
She saddled the dark horse, then checked to see that Merle had food and water. She would come back for him in the morning. It would be better not to take him to the cottage and then take him away again.
This time, when she returned to the bedroom, Ahern was ready. She gathered him gently. His body took its last breath as his spirit stepped away from it.
The housekeeper, sitting beside the bed, covered her face with her hands and wept. The man on the other side of the bed bowed his head to hide his own tears.
Ahern’s ghost frowned.
You were cared for, Ahern, Morag thought. Let them grieve.
She guided him out of the house.
“You approve?” he asked as they walked toward the dark horse.
“I approve,” she replied quietly. After she mounted, Ahern floated up to sit behind her.
She didn’t immediately seek the road to the Shadowed Veil. Instead, she went back to Brightwood, back to the hill where the wind always blew, and Astra, as well as Ahern, made the journey with her.
She left them standing before the Shadowed Veil. When she looked back, she saw Ahern hold out his hand . . . and she saw Astra take it. Together, they walked through the Shadowed Veil to the Summerland beyond.
Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.
She wasn’t sure about the partings, but she hoped that, when their spirits had rested and were reborn in the world, Astra and Ahern would find each other again. Perhaps, the next time, they would be able to build a life together.
It was growing dark by the time she returned to Ari’s cottage, where Morphia waited for her.
Chapter Thirty-two
In the early dawn light, Dianna’s pale mare trotted wearily beside Lucian, heading for Brightwood.
It was pointless trying to talk to him yet. He hadn’t changed back to his human form once since those men showed up yesterday, intending to burn down Ari’s cottage.
Perhaps it was better that she couldn’t talk to him. She wasn’t sure she would want to hear what he had to say—not after she’d seen what he’d
done to the village of Ridgeley. The Lightbringer had been a vengeful Lord of Fire, and nothing had been spared. If humans had built it, he had burned it—and anyone who hadn’t had the sense to flee.
Of course, the fact that he wouldn’t talk to her right now meant she didn’t have to tell him how many of those he’d allowed to flee had died anyway when they were confronted by the Huntress and her shadow hounds.
And she didn’t have to ask if he knew for certain that Ari hadn’t been in the village, held prisoner, before he burned it down.
So she urged the mare to keep pace with her brother, all the while hoping that what they would find at Brightwood would justify what they had done.
Lucian snorted, pricked his ears, and lengthened his pace.
Dianna let the mare fall behind—until she saw the two horses grazing in the meadow. “A little farther,” she told the mare, urging her on. “Then you can rest.”
The mare tried, but when her pace faltered, Dianna dismounted and ran the rest of the way to the cottage. Ari was back. Ari was safe. And so was the Clan and their home territory in Tir Alainn.
Lucian changed form and strode toward the cottage. He looked at the half-open kitchen door and stopped suddenly, giving Dianna time to catch up to him.
Oh, Lucian, try to act like a joyous lover instead of an angry man. We won and—
Morag opened the other half of the kitchen door and stepped out of the cottage.
Dianna felt as if she were falling off a steep cliff, waiting for the pain of hitting the ground.
“Where is Ari?” Lucian demanded, looking past Morag to see inside the kitchen.
“She’s gone, Lucian,” Morag said quietly.
“Gone?” Dianna echoed. “How could she be gone when she’d been captured by—” She felt the blood drain from her head, making her dizzy.
“The Black Coats,” Morag said, finishing the sentence Dianna had started. “And now she’s gone.”
“Bring her back,” Lucian said, his voice calm and deadly. “The Gatherer can summon a spirit back from the Summerland if it hasn’t been there very long.” The calm broke, turning to fury. “How could you have taken her without consulting us first?”
