by Anne Bishop
“I promised to stay a few days while you went back to Tir Alainn to pack the things you wanted to bring down to Brightwood. You promised to be back in a few days, Dianna. That was in the autumn. Now it’s spring. And now I’m leaving.”
“You’re needed here!”
Lyrra pointed toward the window that looked out onto the road. “I’m needed out there. My work is out there. Most of the Clans still don’t believe they need to do anything to keep Tir Alainn safe. I have to tell them. I have to convince them. Aiden’s doing everything he can, but he can’t do it alone.”
“Your work,” Dianna sneered. “Your work. You don’t need to be wandering around in the human world to do your work. This isn’t about your work, it’s about Aiden. You just can’t stand knowing he’s spending his time between other women’s thighs and not giving you a second thought.”
Lyrra’s eyes were blank and cold. “What he does is his own business. But he’s the Bard, and I’m the Muse. We have to get the Fae to understand that they can’t expect the House of Gaian to continue to shoulder the burden of Tir Alainn’s existence while they do nothing.”
“They’re only witches!” Dianna shouted.
Lyrra’s eyes turned colder. “Yes,” she said softly. “I imagine that’s how we justified it all those generations ago. They were Fae, but they weren’t really Fae. They weren’t like the rest of us. And they weren’t. They were the Daughters, the wellsprings through which the Mother’s power flowed, the Pillars of the World.” She closed her eyes, turned away. “They owe us nothing. But we owe them. It’s time we paid that debt with something more than trinkets and stud service to breed the next generation.”
Lyrra took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then continued her packing. “I read the journals.”
“You had no right to look at them,” Dianna snapped. “Those were private journals that belong to Ari’s family.”
“Ari and her family are gone. There’s no one left to read them. Except us.” She fastened her saddlebags, then turned to look at Dianna. “A couple of journals seem to be missing. There were gaps in her family’s story.”
Why should I care about the journals? Dianna thought. They’re not important now. If Lyrra doesn’t stay . . .
“If you’re so determined to leave,” Dianna said, “wait another day or two so that I—”
“Can make another promise you have no intention of keeping?” Lyrra shook her head. “Whether you leave or stay is up to you.” She started to say something else, then stopped and picked up her saddlebags. “Aiden has the horses saddled by now. He’s waiting for me.”
“Oh, yes,” Dianna said bitterly. “When Aiden snaps his fingers, you dance to his tune.”
Lyrra stared at her for a moment, then brushed past her, opened the door, and left the room.
Dianna waited until she heard the front door open and close before she walked out of the bedroom.
The main room was filled with Fae. Friends. Family. All looking at her with eyes that silently pleaded.
She walked back into the bedroom and shut the door. She stood there for a few minutes, doing nothing, seeing nothing. Then she walked into the dressing room and stared out the window.
A hawk flew low across the meadow, a rabbit in his talons. Falco, bringing meat for the evening meal.
Tears filled Dianna’s eyes. She pressed a hand against her mouth to keep from sobbing.
If she left now and the shining road closed, her Clan wouldn’t remember that it was really Lyrra’s fault. They would blame her.
So she was trapped here. She would live here in the cottage, confined to the boundaries of the Old Place, while she watched the families of her Clan come and go to a place she would never see again.
She swallowed against the bitterness that welled up inside her. And she wondered, briefly, if this was how the witches had felt when the Fae had gone to Tir Alainn and had left them to anchor the world they had created and never got to see.
Chapter Thirty-five
Early summer. Morag looked at the generous dish of stew and the thick slices of bread smeared with honey butter and could have wept with gratitude. The past months had been bitter ones for her. The Huntress and the Lightbringer had made good on their threat. She was shunned by all the Clans, including her own, for her “betrayal” of the Fae. No one prevented her from traveling up one of the shining roads or entering a Clan house, but they all acted as if she didn’t exist. She had endured it over the winter months, traveling from one Clan to another, because the season had been fiercer than previous years and finding adequate shelter in the human world for herself and her companions had proved too precarious. But as soon as she could, she had returned to the human world, traveling west, always west.
“Why do you not eat?” Ashk said, taking a seat across from Morag at the outdoor table.
Morag hesitated. When she had ridden into this Old Place earlier in the day and met Ashk walking through the woods, the woman had invited her to return to the Clan house for a meal. Ashk claimed to be merely a Lady of the Woods, but there had been sharp amusement in her eyes when she’d said it. And seeing how swiftly the other Fae reacted to her orders to make their guests comfortable, Morag suspected that Ashk was far more than “merely” anything.
“You know who I am?” Morag asked.
Ashk looked Morag in the eyes, her lips curving in a gentle, but feral, smile. “You are the Gatherer. Have you come here for a reason?”
Morag shook her head. “I’m just traveling. But you should know . . . I’ve been shunned by the Clans.”
Ashk twiddled her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “The Clans in the west of Sylvalan have always been thought to be inferior because we chose to maintain our connection with the Mother and not live entirely in Tir Alainn. Our males are looked down upon as inadequate sires for the children of other Clans, and the males from those other Clans have little desire, or ability, to be adequate mates for our females.” The smile now held a dangerous quality. “It is their loss. They have no idea what bloodlines run through our veins.”
A shiver ran through Morag, though she couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was the feeling of more magic here, more power here, than she’d felt in any other Clan.
“If the Lightbringer or the Huntress find out you’ve offered me hospitality, they won’t be pleased,” Morag said.
“There is no reason for them to find out, and even if they did, it is of no matter. The Lightbringer and the Huntress are children who have had their noses bloodied for the first time and are howling to all who will listen about being treated unfairly. We do not listen to the poutings of children.”
Morag stared at Ashk, stunned by such a scathing assessment, even if it was cuttingly accurate.
“So,” Ashk said. “Now that you know how this Clan feels about the things that are being said, eat while the food is still warm.”
This Clan? Morag wondered, obediently giving her attention to her meal. Or Ashk? Or was that the same thing?
“Besides,” Ashk said, helping herself to a slice of bread, “there is plenty and more to share. The Mother shows her joy with her bounty.”
“I’m glad to hear someone has a reason to celebrate.”
Ashk nodded. Her eyes shone. “The young Lord of the Woods finally came home late last summer. He brought some fine horses with him, including two stallions. But best of all, he brought a wife.”
Morag set her spoon carefully in her dish. “A wife?”
“A young woman as fine and strong as his mother, who had been a dear friend of mine . . . as well as a distant cousin. Oh, yes, that’s why the Mother celebrates.” Ashk opened her arms and looked up at the trees above them. “A Daughter of the House of Gaian once more walks this land.”
“What?” Morag said faintly, not daring to hope . . . and not able to stop herself from hoping.
Ashk smiled at her. “A witch. The young Lord’s wife is a witch.”
The raven watched the man from her perch in a nearby tree. Beneath her, her c
ompanion whined softly but remained hidden.
The man stripped off his shirt, laying it over the low stone wall that formed the boundary for the large kitchen garden. He retrieved the narrow hoe to weed the next row of vegetables. He looked fit and well. . . and content.
So did the dark stallion grazing in the meadow alongside a dark mare. In a pasture beyond the home yard, she caught a glint of golden skin among the other horses and wondered if the sun stallion had found his own way here. Perhaps he’d had help, she decided as another man emerged from a fine-looking stable—the groom who had waited for her the day she’d taken Ahern to the Shadowed Veil.
It warmed her to know that all the males had found a good life. Still, she ruffled her feathers restlessly, waiting to see one other person.
Her wait was rewarded a short time later when the woman walked out of the cottage and headed for the kitchen garden.
“Neall,” Ari scolded. “You’ve your own work to do. I can weed the garden.”
Neall mopped his face with his shirt and gave her a stern look. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’ve rested. Now I can hoe. I’ll stop if I get tired.”
“You always say that, and you never do.”
The raven watched their brief tug-of-war for the hoe end in a kiss that she thought should lead to more interesting things than deciding who would weed the garden.
Her companion whined again.
She fluttered to the ground, landing where the trees would hide her as she changed to her human form.
“Stay here,” Morag said quietly.
She hesitated, not wanting to spoil their peace or their pleasure.
Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.
She hoped so.
She stepped out of the trees and walked toward them.
Ari’s eyes widened. Neall spun around, defensive. He vaulted over the garden wall and strode to meet her, much as he’d done once before.
“Morag,” he said warily.
“Neall,” she replied quietly. She knew what she’d hoped for. His expression told her it could never be.
Then Ari stepped up beside Neall, her eyes questioning but her smile warm. “Blessings of the day to you, Morag.”
Morag returned the smile, even though it felt bittersweet.
“What brings you here?” Neall asked, still wary . . . and defensive.
Ari glanced at Neall, then gave Morag a worried look. “Morag . . . Do you see something?” Her hands moved protectively to cover her rounded belly.
Following that movement, Morag stared for a moment. Then she looked at both of them, delighted. “A babe?” And suddenly understood Ari’s question. “May I?” When Ari nodded, she held her hand above Ari’s still-protective ones. This time, there was nothing but warmth in her smile. “Life. Strong, healthy life.” Then she added softly, “I see no shadows here.”
They both relaxed . . . and it hurt her.
She looked into Ari’s woodland eyes and saw too much understanding, as well as knowledge that hadn’t been there the year before.
She knows who she is now. She knows she is a Daughter of the House of Gaian. She is no longer the girl Lucian and Dianna tried to hold onto for their own reasons.
“I was hoping we would meet again,” Morag said. “I brought someone who has been waiting to see you.”
She saw the apprehension in Ari’s face and the tension in Neall’s before she turned toward the woods and gestured.
Neall let out a strangled cry as a shadow hound burst out of the woods, racing straight for Ari. But Ari opened her arms and shouted, “Merle!”
Neall shouted, “Don’t jump!”
Merle slid to a stop, tucked his tail between his legs, and cowered next to Morag, looking at the man with eyes that had never lost their sadness.
Neall dropped to one knee and held out his hand for Merle to sniff.
“Neall,” Ari said, “don’t scold him so. He’s still a puppy.”
“He’s not a puppy,” Neall said, petting Merle until the hound relaxed and began to wag his tail. “You’ve grown into a fine, strong, big lad, haven’t you? And you’re not really a puppy anymore. You’re a young hound.” The tail wagged harder. “And that’s why you can’t jump on Ari.”
Merle looked at Ari and whined.
Ari knelt beside Neall and wrapped her arms around Merle.
Neall looked up at Morag, and said quietly, “Thank you. We had wondered what happened to him after Ahern . . .” He cleared his throat. “Glenn did remember him and went back after leaving the farm, but the pup was already gone.”
When Merle calmed down enough to let Ari get to her feet, Morag said, “I also brought three of the journals that belonged to your family. Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken them, but I thought you would like to have your grandmother’s journal and a couple of the others that would trace some of your family’s history.”
“Thank you, Morag. I would like to have them.”
“Where are you staying?” Neall asked, some change in his eyes making Morag wonder just what the young Lord of the Woods was seeing.
“Oh . . . I’m staying with Ashk for a few days.”
“You could stay with us,” Ari said quietly.
“But if you do,” Neall added, “you’ll have to hoe your share of the garden.”
“Neall,” Ari hissed. “You don’t make a guest work for her supper.”
“She’s not a guest,” he replied. “She’s Clan.”
Something jolted through Morag, as if something painful inside her had broken and had to hurt before it could heal.
Will you walk away from this, Morag? The Clans shun you now, and you’ve made enemies among your own kind. And this was why you made those choices. So that they could be here in this place, with the rich life ahead of them. And now they’re offering to share that life. They’re offering to be family in a way your own ceased to be since you became the Gatherer. Will you walk away?
“I don’t know how to weed a garden,” Morag said.
Neall grinned. “Not to worry. I’ll teach you.”
Ari poked Neall in the ribs. “Behave.” She held out her hand.
Morag hesitated a moment before slipping her hand into Ari’s.
Ari smiled at her. “Come in and be welcome, Morag.”
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