Anne Bishop - The Pillars of the World

There was nothing she could do about Tir Alainn right now, but there was something she could do to help her brother get the pleasure he sought.

Dianna left the room. The Fae had long ago lost the ability to command the elements, but with some effort, she thought they could produce a brief storm around a certain cottage.

Ari winced as heavy thunder rolled over the cottage and the first fat drops of rain hit the windows. Hurrying into her bedroom, she finished latching the inside shutters and drawing the winter drapes across them. Normally she enjoyed watching a storm roll in from the sea, but this one seemed ominous, somehow.

“You’re getting daft, Ari,” she muttered as she stripped off her clothes and pulled on her heaviest nightgown. “First you talk to horses, and now you think storms have moods.”

But storms did have moods, and this one made her uneasy.

A gust of wind struck the cottage hard enough to make the windows rattle.

Ari froze for a moment, then shook her head. Only a fool would ride out on a night like this.

She put on clean socks, stuffed her feet into slippers, then put the snug on over her nightgown. Running her hand down the heavy wool, she smiled sadly.

The snug was her mother’s idea. Tired of shawls that never seemed to stay put, Meredith had taken one of her shawls and sewed up the sides to make loose sleeves. Ari had woven fasteners that could keep it closed with a button. The result was a cross between a shawl and a coat that Meredith, laughing when she tried on the result of their efforts, had said would keep them warm and snug even in the stiffest breeze.

Another gust of wind had Ari moving into the cottage’s main room. She stood in front of the hearth, breathing steadily as she focused on the wood. The power of fire swelled inside her, making her right hand tingle a little. She banked that power, gently. Raising her hand, she fed the rest of it into the wood. A bit of smoke rose from the kindling. Then a tiny flame flickered, caught more kindling, and grew stronger. She continued to feed that tiny fire until the last log began to burn easily.

Moving into the kitchen, she sniffed the aroma of rabbit stew and pressed her hand against her growling stomach. She started to smile, but it faded when she looked at the kitchen door with its shiny new bolts and locks.

How had old Ahern known that her kitchen door had been broken last night? Surely he hadn’t come around last night because it was the Summer Moon? Surely not. He’d never looked at her that way. But in his own gruff way, he’d always been kind.

He’d said he’d come looking for the gray stallion, and she knew that one came around in the evenings from time to time to graze in the meadow—had been doing so for as long as she could remember.

But Ahern had never come looking for the gray horse before. In fact, one time when she’d asked him if the horse had strayed, there had been a twinkle in his eyes, shadowed by sadness, when he told her that the gray had strayed a bit too far in its younger years but that time was long past, and that she needn’t worry about the horse. Then he’d given her a searching look and asked if it troubled her to have the gray around. It didn’t trouble her, and she’d told him so. So why had Ahern come looking for the gray last night?

“Don’t borrow trouble,” Ari told herself firmly, dishing out a bowl of stew. “He was here for the reason he said he was, and because he was, he noticed the door and came back this morning to fix it. If you keep thinking this way, you’ll end up with the headache as well as a stomachache.” She cut two slices of sharp cheese from the wheel, then cut a thick slice of bread from the loaf she’d baked that morning. As an indulgence, she spread what she considered to be an extravagant amount of butter over the bread.

Bringing her dishes to the table in the main room, she lit a couple of candles. Satisfied with the look of things, she hurried back to the kitchen, took the stew pot off the stove, put the teakettle on, then filled a glass with water to have with her meal.

Returning to the table, she gave thanks to the Mother for her bounty, then bit into the bread and almost groaned with pleasure. As she chewed slowly, she looked around the room.

After dinner, she could bring the small loom in from the workroom and sit by the fire and weave for a little while. Or she could sit in the rocking chair that someone had given her grandmother so many years ago and just dream by the fire. Or she could snuggle into bed and get the sleep she needed to deal with whatever tomorrow would bring.

Like whatever damage the storm may do to the young lettuce and the seedlings you planted in the past couple of days. Or having the root cellar flood because you still haven’t gotten the spell for keeping out water quite right.

Ari shook her head and picked up her spoon. Borrowing trouble again. She’d never thought about those kinds of spells when her mother was alive because Meredith’s strength had been water. When she’d commanded, water had obeyed. But water spells didn’t work for a witch whose strengths were earth and fire, so Ari had had to learn earth-based spells to keep water out of places it wasn’t supposed to be. Or, more truthfully, was still working on finding the right spell since her efforts so far had achieved limited success. Of course, even her mother might have been challenged by a storm like this.

A careful nibble confirmed that the stew was cool enough to eat. She dug her spoon into the bowl and was about to take a mouthful when someone knocked on the door.

The spoon slipped out of her fingers. She stared at the door, her heart pounding.

Mother’s mercy! Royce!

Another knock, more impatient this time.

With effort, she regained enough self-control to think instead of panic. Even if it was Royce, the warding spells would keep him out unless she welcomed him in. And she had no intention of letting him cross her threshold. But what if it was Ahern, coming to ask for a simple because one of his men was sick?

“You won’t know by just standing here,” Ari muttered, moving toward the door.

A third knock made her freeze , her eyes fixed on the latch. The fact that whoever it was hadn’t tried to force his way in gave her courage to open the door.

It wasn’t Royce, and it wasn’t Ahern. It was a well-dressed, thoroughly wet stranger who was hunched under the roof as far as he could get.

“Good evening,” Ari said.

Thunder rolled. Lightning flashed. The stranger glared balefully at the sky, then gave her a small, woeful smile. “Is it?”

Something about him made Ari hesitate. Despite the rain and the chill wind, seeing him made the cottage feel a bit too warm.

Well, you can’t leave him standing there. And he’s obviously gentry, so suggesting he bed down in the cow shed wouldn’t be something he’d forgive.

“Come in and be welcome,” Ari said, using the phrase that quieted the warding spells. She stepped back to give him room to enter.

He hesitated on the threshold, and she wondered if he could feel the warding spells draw back like a curtain that would close again the moment he stepped into the room. Then he entered the room, moving to one side so that Ari could close the door.

“I’m . . . grateful . . . for the shelter, mistress,” he said, pushing his black hair away from his face. “It’s a hard night.”

She could tell gratitude wasn’t a common feeling for him. Not surprising. It wasn’t a common emotion for any of the gentry as far as she could tell. At least he had manners enough to say the word, which was more than anyone in Ridgeley would have said.