Anne Bishop - The House of Gaian

She looked at the spot the ghost pointed to and saw the Small Folk standing on the bank, watching her. "Come. I'll take you up to the Shadowed Veil."

After she crossed the bridge, she paused a moment before turning the dark horse toward the field, riding slowly as she followed Death's summons. When she reached the field that climbed to a low rise, she guided the dark horse around it, keeping behind the trees that bordered it. Then she opened the road that led to the Shadowed Veil and took the ghosts as far as she could on their journey to the Summerland.

With eyes filled with pity, the older ghost gathered up the four wisps of spirit and cradled them in one arm. Taking her daughter's hand, she walked through the Veil. The Small Folk raised their hands in farewell, then followed the witches.

Morag rode back down the road and through the trees until she reached the big field on the other side of the rise. In whispers, in pleas, in cries, Death called her.

She rode into the field and began gathering the spirits of the dead—and the spirits of the men who, wounded and suffering, wanted to leave the world of the living.

"Master Adolfo!"

Adolfo finished pouring wine into a glass and settled himself on the blanket-padded bench inside his tent before he said, "You may enter."

A young Inquisitor almost leaped through the tent's opening, his face shining with excitement. Two guards came in behind him, dragging a bound, bridled man.

"Master," the Inquisitor said. "We caught this witch-lover."

"Any man who fights against us is a witch-lover," Adolfo replied in the tone he used as a mild scold—and warning. "What makes this one special?"

"Remember the nest of witches we cleaned out from that estate along the Una River?"

Of course he remembered. He'd drained some of those old women while learning to create nighthunters at will. "What of it?"

The Inquisitor fairly danced with excitement. "We didn't know what had happened to the young ones in the nest."

"I'm aware of that." The Inquisitor's excitement stirred his interest, but Adolfo took care not to let it show.

"This is one of them. His name is Rory. One of the men who came from a village near there recognized him. We think they ran to this Old Place to escape us."

Which meant the man was known to the bitches who lived in this Old Place. Was, perhaps, even kin to them. Which made him perfect.

Draining the wine glass, Adolfo set it aside and stood. "Bring him."

The Inquisitor looked crestfallen. "Don't you want to question him about the witches, Master?"

Adolfo smiled. "I have a better use for him."

There were so many. Morag lost count of the number of spirits she had taken up the road to the Shadowed Veil, and there were still so many. She couldn't keep going. She was tired. The dark horse was tired. She'd ridden all day to reach the Old Place and had been gathering spirits for hours now. Time to stop. Time to rest. She needed to make her way back to the Old Place and find Ashk.

This would be her last trip up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She would open the road right here and let the spirits nearby follow her to the Veil.

Just as she opened the road, she saw a ghost moving toward her. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

"Merry meet, Gatherer."

Tears pricked her eyes. "Sheridan," she whispered, then held out her hand. "Come."

As he floated up to her, he said, "Tell Ashk I've gone to the Summerland, and"—regret filled his face for a moment—"tell Morphia I hope to meet her again one day."

"I'll tell them."

She couldn't talk anymore. She'd recognized some of the men she'd gathered, but Sheridan had been a friend, as well as her sister's lover. She wondered if he'd moved away from his body as a kindness to her, so she wouldn't have to see how he'd died.

"Don't grieve, Morag," Sheridan said. "The Summerland has sweet skies for a falcon to soar in."

Hearing what he didn't say, she was even more grateful that he'd spared her the sight of his body. So she didn't grieve for him or any of the others she'd taken up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She grieved for the loved ones left behind.

Adolfo wasn't pleased to have torches around the small clearing, but the fog and the cover of trees swallowed up too much of the moonlight for him to see without the extra light.

"Put the tether stake in the center and tie the prisoner to it," he said, pointing. "Keep him bound and bridled. There's no telling what abilities a man born of a witch might have."

He smiled grimly as he watched the guards obey his orders— as he thought of the witch who had been his mother, who had betrayed her son's love and trust in order to keep her own power a secret. He thought of the monster his father became when, spurred by his wife's accusations, he tried to beat the magic out of the boy to regain his wife's affection. Most likely, the man had been grateful when the boy, by then a youth, had run away to try to survive in the world on his own.

He hoped his mother's spirit spent a hundred years drowning in one of the Summerland's cesspools—if the Summerland had such places. He hoped his father's spirit was also in a cesspool—a place made from the foul thoughts and feelings the man had harbored for his own flesh and blood. But not the same one. No, he didn't want them to have the comfort of being together for any reason, even torment.

When the prisoner was in position, guards brought the witch into the clearing and bound her to the stool. Her wits hadn't returned at all, and her body, despite being so young, was starting to fail. She would be no use to him after he channeled the magic through her this time, but she might live long enough for some of the men to use her. After all, being passed around from man to man was a fitting end for a witch.

"Leave now," he ordered. "Stay away from the clearing. I am shaping a weapon to set against the enemy, and this clearing will be a dangerous place."

He waited until the guards were gone, waited until he couldn't hear even a muffled footstep. Then, using the witch as his channel, he began to draw the magic out of the land.

Morag signaled the dark horse to stop, no longer certain she was moving in the right direction. But Death was out there, ahead of her, whispering. Not the kind of whisper she was used to. This was almost wary, almost a warning. What would Death be warning her about?

She dismounted and moved forward, letting the dark horse follow on his own. Guided by Death's whisper, she walked until she saw flickers of light among the trees. As she moved closer, feelings scraped along her skin. A prickle of warning. A prickle of fear.

Still moving closer, she saw the small clearing lit by torches, saw the shape of a man at the other end of the space, heard the struggling efforts of someone on the ground between her and the man.

She moved through the trees, circling toward the man. Power swirled in the clearing, but it didn't feel right somehow.

Then the fog tore, and she saw the man clearly. She heard the voice she'd heard once before at the dock at Rivercross. In a moment of pity, and in the hope that mercy shown might produce a seed of mercy inside him, she had let the Master Inquisitor live, leaving him with a dead arm to remind him that there were powers in the world that were stronger than his.

He lifted his right hand, aiming it at the person on the ground.

"Twist and change. Change and twist."

She saw the faint glow of a circle of power. What was he—?

Children. Bad things. No. No !

"Become what I would make of thee."

Rage blinded her as she charged out of the trees, straight toward him.

"As I will—"

Little flashes of fire in the clearing. The sound of leather snapping as a man hurled himself out of the circle.