by Anne Bishop
When they left the tavern, the men followed them outside, watched them mount their horses.
Aiden pressed his heels into the dark horse’s sides. “Come on, Minstrel, let’s go.”
Minstrel just planted his feet and shifted his weight in a way that warned Aiden the horse had no intention of going anywhere.
Aiden leaned down, bringing his face closer to the horse’s ears. “Not now, Minstrel. We have to go.”
Minstrel wig-wagged his ears. His feet didn’t move at all.
Aiden felt the weight of all those hard eyes watching him. He sat up and handed the packhorse’s lead rope to Lyrra, who looked at him with wide-eyed apprehension. Twisting around, he unbuckled one of the buckles on a saddlebag and pulled out the whistle he’d taken to carrying there.
Giving the men a weak smile, he said, “He expects a song before we start out.” Fitting his fingers over the whistle’s holes, he began to play a sprightly tune.
And Minstrel started trotting. In place.
Aiden had no idea why the horse had learned to do that — or why anyone would teach the horse to do that, but there they were, with him playing the tune and Minstrel trotting — and going nowhere.
He glanced at Lyrra, who had one hand clamped over her mouth to stifle the laughter. He glanced at the men, who were scratching their heads or rubbing their hands over their mouths. Their mirth filled the air, but they held the laughter in — probably, Aiden thought sourly, so they wouldn’t distract the horse.
He reached the last note of the song.
Minstrel planted his feet firmly in the street.
Lyrra was laughing so hard, her face had turned a bright red that was not a complement for her dark red hair.
The men watched him expectantly.
Feeling the heat rising in his face, Aiden stuffed the whistle inside his shirt and cleared his throat. “Uh … “ I guess that was the wrong tune.”
Minstrel bobbed his head as if in agreement.
It could have been worse, Aiden thought as he gathered up the reins. He could have done this at a Clan house and destroyed what little reputation I have left. Taking a deep breath, he began singing the traveling song.
He got through the first verse and the chorus.
Minstrel refused to move.
When he got through the second verse, he made a “help me” gesture with one hand. The men were laughing so hard, none of them could hit the right notes, but they sang the chorus with him.
Minstrel bobbed his head and trotted down the street.
Aiden was an embarrassed bard.
Minstrel was a happy horse.
If he hadn’t needed a Fae horse, he would have traded the music-obsessed animal for anything that could be saddled and carry a grown man.
But as they trotted down the street, with Lyrra and the packhorse following, he heard two the men call out, “Good luck to you, Bard!” “Hope you run out of road before you run out of songs!”
Aiden just raised one hand and waved to acknowledge he’d heard them — and he kept singing.
They’d gone a couple of miles past the village before Lyrra stopped giggling every time she glanced at him. He’d sung the traveling song — all ten verses with a chorus after every one of them — and a few other songs before he dared quit. Fortunately, by then Minstrel had settled into an easy trot and seemed content to keep going.
While he was singing, he’d had time to think. If they’d left the village easily, they would have left people who were still suspicious of them. Instead, they’d left people laughing — and the village would talk about the Bard and his music-loving horse for weeks to come. And if they had to ride back that way again, they might be greeted with smiles instead of anger.
But he wasn’t going to admit to anyone, even Lyrra, that his horse had been the better performer today.
Chapter Twenty-eight
So,” Adolfo said heavily after hearing Ubel’s report. “It is unfortunate that the men who went with you were lost.”
Stiff-backed, Ubel stared straight ahead. “It was a sound plan, Master, and the men should have been able to carry out their orders —”
“And still they were lost.”
You lost all the men you brought with you last summer, Ubel thought resentfully. But nothing would be said about that. “The Fae —”He pressed his lips together to keep the words back. The Master Inquisitor wasn’t interested in excuses.
“Yes. The Fae.” Adolfo drank deeply from the glass of wine that was never far from his hand. “We have dealt with the witches, as we dealt with them in Wolfram and Arktos. They are no match for our righteous anger against female power that keeps men chained, keeps men from being the masters of the own lives and the world that is rightfully theirs. But the Fae … The Fae are foul creatures that will devour good men and spit out the bones.” His hand shook a little as he raised the wineglass to his mouth. “Good men, turned into nothing more than meat for the maggots and the worms. Because of them. Because of her.”
Finally aware of how gray and ill Adolfo looked, Ubel wondered if it had been wise to imply a narrow escape with the Gatherer in pursuit. But he’d had enough time on the journey back to Durham to consider how Adolfo would react to the loss of the men, and he’d gambled that mentioning the Gatherer’s presence would soften whatever discipline the Witch’s Hammer might decide to inflict. He just hadn’t realized how deeply Adolfo’s fear of her went.
“I am glad that you were able to escape and return to me unharmed, Ubel,” Adolfo said.
Are you?
“Losing those men is a blow to all of us, but losing an Inquisitor with your abilities would have been a harder blow to recover from. Especially now, when we must stand against the vilest enemy we’ve ever faced.”
Adolfo gestured to the chair on the other side of the table. “Sit, Ubel. Sit. You have had a long, hard journey.”
The captain’s quarters in the borrowed yacht were small but held sufficient luxuries, including the gleaming wooden table where Adolfo usually took his meals alone. Ubel wondered who had been assigned to cut up the Master Inquisitor’s meat and butter the bread while he’d been absent. There weren’t many Adolfo trusted enough to let them see even that much weakness.
Or had there been some other reason for Adolfo having one of his best Inquisitors doing tasks that were suitable for a woman? Before he’d left on the journey to the west, he’d considered it an honor to help the Master Inquisitor do the things a man with one dead arm couldn’t easily do for himself. Now he wondered if it had been a subtle way of reminding him that he wasn’t, and never would be, the Master’s equal.
Silence thickened around them. Finally, Adolfo said, “You are sure of this? The Fae are actually living in the Old Places? They are always present in the world?”
“I am sure, Master,” Ubel replied.
Adolfo took a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh. “This is a cursed land, Ubel. The Fae were never so present in Wolfram or Arktos. That’s why we underestimated them as an enemy. Everything I had learned about them has proved false here. We’ve been able to eliminate many witches in the eastern part of Sylvalan in the past few weeks — and the Fae have disappeared from those places, as well. That much we have done. But that village of bitches choosing to die instead of submit to their proper place in the world has shaken too many of the barons. The news of what happened traveled too far, spread too fast. Subtlety will not win those men now. Even those who would be willing to do what was right are afraid of having the people they rule turn against them if they issue even the smallest decree. Bah. They are not men. They’re fools, cowards, little boys still sucking on the teat instead of men who know with certainty that they own the teat and it cannot be denied to them.”
Adolfo stared into his empty wineglass for a long time. “We cannot walk away, Ubel. We cannot leave this unfinished. The eastern barons are too weak to bring about the changes needed to make Sylvalan a good place for good men. If the other barons are allowed to cont
inue to oppose the right way to live, there will be uprisings. The eastern barons will be overthrown. Even in Wolfram, there continue to be small uprisings. Magic springs up in a place, seducing the common people away, turning females into creatures that can’t be trusted. Not that they ever can be trusted. Here, if the other barons continue to defy the good we brought to their land, the eastern barons will fall.”
Ubel said nothing, just watched the Master Inquisitor’s hand tremble slightly as Adolfo refilled the wineglass.
“I have given it great thought,” Adolfo said softly. “Great thought. Witches are the vessels of magic. They are the key. When they are destroyed, magic dies, and the Small Folk and the Fae are driven away from the land. But here, in this accursed country, magic dies as is right and proper — and then it comes back. Pools of it have reappeared in Old Places that were cleansed of magic. Pockets of it have appeared in places where magic hadn’t been before. We keep cutting down the weed that blights the garden, but until we dig out the tap root, it will keep coming back. Keep coming back.”
Adolfo drank deeply, draining his glass. “I am convinced there is a great wellspring of magic in Sylvalan, a great, filthy nest of witches hidden somewhere in this land, and their power flows underground like hidden springs, rising to the surface when some thing or some place acts as a channel. We must find that nest. Find it…and destroy it. We must eliminate the barons who oppose our great work, and we must eliminate the Fae in the west.”
Ubel stared at Adolfo. “But…all the Inquisitors in Wolfram and Arktos combined wouldn’t be enough to do that. It would take an army.”
“Yes.” Adolfo nodded. “It will take an army. And we’ll have an army. From Arktos. From Wolfram. From the eastern barons here. A great army that will roll across this land and wipe out the stain of magic once and for all — everywhere. And you, Ubel. You will take the ships and men to the west, and you will exact a fitting punishment on all those who opposed us, who shed Inquisitors’ blood.”
“Thank you, Master. I will not fail you.”
“I know you will not fail me.” Again.
Ubel felt the sting of the unspoken word.
“Go now,” Adolfo said. “Get some rest. We’ll sail back to Wolfram in the morning. There is much to do.”
Ubel stood, bowed, and left the yacht.
As he walked to the hotel where he had taken a room, he suddenly wondered if being given command of the part of the army that would attack the west was a reward or a punishment.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The village of Breton was just ahead of them. Almost the end of the journey.
Or the beginning of another, Aiden thought wearily. But he wasn’t going to think beyond this next task — finding Lady Ashk and trying to convince her the witches were more, far more, than servants for the Fae’s convenience.
“Almost there, love,” Aiden said. When Lyrra smiled at him, his heart clenched. She wasn’t pregnant, and he was grateful for her sake, but the strain of the journey and the lack of quiet privacy she was used to during her moon cycle had made today’s traveling difficult for her. He wished he could have stopped at the last traveling post they had passed and let her rest for the day. But his purse was empty, and the only place he could hope to find her a decent meal and a comfortable bed was at the Clan house in Bretonwood.
They were met at the edge of the village by four armed guards who maneuvered their horses to block the road.
“What’s your business here?” one of the guards asked harshly.
“Hold your tongue,” the guard captain snapped. “You can see just by looking at them that they’re two of the Fair Folk.” He drew in a breath, blew it out again. “But we still need to be asking who you are and what your business is here.”
“You’ve had trouble?” Aiden asked, pleased that his voice remained calm while his heart pounded wildly.
“Black Coats — and those nighthunter creatures they created.”
Lyrra made an small, alarmed sound that had the guard captain slashing a look at her.
“How could they be here? How?” She sounded so frightened and turned so pale Aiden dropped Minstrel’s reins and reached out to steady her.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve seen these creatures?”
Aiden shuddered. “Yes. And we’ve … seen what they do.” At that moment, he wasn’t clear in his own mind if he was talking about the Inquisitors or the nighthunters. Maybe it didn’t matter. In some ways, they were the same thing. “Was anyone harmed?”
The captain nodded. “Some people have died because of them.”
Reason enough to have guards meeting anyone coming into the village. At least these humans didn’t seem uncomfortable about dealing with the Fae. “I’m the Bard. My lady is the Muse. We’ve traveled a long way to talk to Lady Ashk.”
“Ashk, is it? Then we’ll take you part of the way to Bretonwood.” The captain turned his horse. “Sedge, you’re with me. You two stay at your post here.”
The captain and Sedge led the way through town. As soon as they passed Breton and were traveling through open country, Minstrel started mouthing the bit and snorting softly in a way that made Aiden’s stomach sink.
“Not now,” he whispered.
Minstrel wig-wagged his ears and continued snorting. His smooth trot suddenly became less smooth, and Aiden felt the jolt of each silent step all the way up his spine.
The captain looked back, frowning. “What’s wrong with the horse?”
Aiden unclenched his teeth enough to answer. “He’s disappointed that he didn’t get a song when we stopped at the village.”
Sedge turned in his saddle. “You’re the bard with the dancing horse! We heard about you.”
“Mother’s tits,” Aiden muttered as Lyrra started to giggle. “How could you have heard about that?”
The captain pointed skyward. Aiden spotted the two ravens flying toward Bretonwood.
“Roads curve, but news can still travel straight and fast,” the captain said, grinning.
“Mother’s tits,” Aiden muttered again. He could hope Lady Ashk hadn’t heard about it. That wasn’t likely, but he could still hope.
They rode for a few more minutes. Then the captain said, “There’s your Clan escort.” He rode ahead to meet the two Fae men who waited near a narrower road that branched off the main one. A falcon perched on the forearm of one of the men. As they approached, the man raised his arm, and the falcon flew away.
No doubt Lady Ashk would know of their arrival long before they reached the Clan house.
The village guards gave him and Lyrra a jaunty salute before riding back to Breton. The Fae escort was uncomfortably silent. They simply turned their horses and led the way up the road that branched off the main road.
Well, Aiden thought, the rest of the Fae had always said those in the west were lacking in some … civilities. Or, perhaps, if they knew what was said about them, they saw no reason to be civil to Fae who came in from outside the west.
Their destination was another Clan house in an Old Place. Unlike the other one they visited, this Clan house wasn’t in open country surrounded by woods. This one was in the woods, a part of the woods.
It made him uneasy, although he wasn’t sure why. A glance at Lyrra was sufficient to tell him she wasn’t comfortable either.
They’re Fae, he told himself. They may be different from the rest of us, but we’ve no reason to fear our own kind.
He didn’t believe that, knew from experience it wasn’t true. He suddenly wanted open land, fierce sunlight. The old trees were far enough apart that it wasn’t dark around the Clan house. There was plenty of dappled sunlight and open ground under the trees, but he wasn’t sure anymore that he wanted to meet Ashk. The only reason he rode toward the group of people standing near a large wooden table was that Ashk was the only person who might be able to lead him to the Hunter.
As soon as they dismounted, the Fae men who had escorted them took their horses. A woman with
long, ashbrown hair stepped away from the others. She studied him for a long moment. Studied Lyrra’s face even longer.
She had woodland eyes. But there was something in those eyes that he hadn’t seen in Breanna’s eyes, or Nuala’s, or any of the wiccanfae he’d met in the Mother’s Hills. Something … other. Something dangerous.
Then it was gone, making him wonder if it was a trick of the light or if fatigue was making him imagine things.
“Blessings of the day to you,” Aiden said, deliberately using a witch’s greeting.
She looked mildly surprised, but replied, “Blessings of the day.”
“I’m Aiden, the Bard.” He reached out, clasped Lyrra’s hand. “This is Lyrra, the Muse. We’ve come to speak to Lady Ashk.”
“Have you?” Her smile was slightly feral — and amused. “First you should eat and recover a little from your journey. Then we’ll talk.”
“You’re Ashk?” Aiden couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. He’d expected someone older, considering how wary everyone seemed to be when her name was mentioned.
Ashk just turned her head to look back at the group of Fae still gathered near the table. A couple of younger males immediately headed for the Clan house.
“Sit,” Ashk said, making a gesture toward the benches on either side of the large table.
He would have preferred to stand and stretch his back and legs, but he took a place beside Lyrra. Ashk sat on the opposite bench, across from them, her feet on the bench, her arms loosely clasped around her knees.
The youngsters returned with two wooden serving trays. Plates of sliced bread and cheese, a small bowl of fresh butter, and a plate for each of them that had a generous portion of some kind of white meat. Last, they set down two small cloths and a steaming bowl of water.
Since there was only a dull knife to spread the butter, Aiden decided the cloths and water were to be used to clean fingers that had gotten messy. He swirled his hands in the water, reluctant to pick up food with hands soiled from traveling. He dried his hands on one of the cloths, then buttered a piece of bread for Lyrra while she washed her hands.
