Anne Bishop: The Pillars of the World

“Minstrels have to eat,” Dianna said cautiously.

“There is warm gold and cold gold, and I know which has been taken by the end of the first turn. These minstrels play songs that create an ugliness in the hearts of those who hear them. And they’ve put new words to old tunes—tunes we created—that once spoke gently of magic and the gifts that magic gives. That is too deep an insult, Dianna, because that is an offense against us . The decision to take back the gift of music is mine, and only mine, to make.”

“Has Lyrra decided to take back the Muse’s gift as well?”

His eyes darkened until they were almost black.

Oh, yes , Dianna thought. The Bard heard far more than he has said .

“I have asked her to take back her gift from any minstrel who sings those songs,” he said quietly. “But that is her choice.”

Which meant that, unless she had a strong reason to oppose him, the Muse would honor his request. She and the Bard weren’t exclusive lovers, but they were lovers nonetheless and often gave—or withheld—their gifts in tandem.

“And there is another reason to silence the music that would smear all magic with the offal of the witches’ deeds.” Aiden crossed his arms, leaned against the wall next to the window. “We travel through the Veil and use our gifts to hinder or help the humans.”

“We do that because it amuses us, not because we need to,” Dianna said impatiently.

“We do that because it amuses us,” Aiden agreed, “and because it’s . . . invigorating.”

Dianna let out a delicate snort. She knew quite well what “invigoration” Fae men found in the human world. Fae women seldom found a similar kind of “invigoration.”

Aiden’s blue eyes twinkled, a sure sign that he knew exactly what she was thinking. Then the twinkle faded, leaving him serious again. “That isn’t exactly what I meant. Living in Tir Alainn is like floating in the sun-warmed water of a quiet pond. Dealing with humans and their world is like riding the rapids of a fast river. One brings peace, the other stirs the blood.”

“There’s nothing wrong with peace,” Dianna insisted. Especially when it might be taken away at any moment .

“Tell me something, Dianna,” Aiden said. “When you ride with your shadow hounds for the Wild Hunt, do you gallop over the perfect, rolling hills of Tir Alainn or the rough imperfection of the human world?”

She didn’t want to answer that, didn’t want to acknowledge the truth in what he was saying—that the Fae traveled to the human world because the peace and perfection of Tir Alainn became boring after a while—so she said nothing.

After a moment, Aiden said, “I’ll see if I can find any other references to the Pillars of the World. It may have been nothing more than a bard’s way of referring to the roads at one time or other, but even knowing that much is more than we know now.”

She nodded in agreement. Then there was nothing more to say.

“Dianna,” Aiden said, bowing slightly.

“Aiden,” she replied.

After he left, she remained at the window. If they didn’t find the reason behind the roads closing, the day would come when she would look out and see . . . what? What had any of the lost Fae seen before their piece of Tir Alainn disappeared?

Wiccanfae.

Her mouth shaped the word without giving it voice.

If they were the reason her beloved Tir Alainn was dying, they would soon discover what it was like to have the Lady of the Moon, who was also called the Huntress, for an enemy.

Adolfo, the Master Inquisitor, stood near the wide, open grave, his hands lightly clasped at his waist. A spring wind, too cold for this late in the season, tugged at his long, fur-lined, austerely cut brown coat. He paid no more heed to the wind than he did to the baron, Hirstun, standing beside him, or the common men who had gathered at this place to watch; his attention was focused on the men dragging the bound, struggling woman from the cart.

“Take care,” he said in that quietly stern voice that the countries of Arktos and Wolfram had already learned to fear. “Do let her wickedness incite you to less than honorable behavior. Her remaining time should be spent in reflection and repentance on the harm she has done the good people of Kylwode and not on any harsh treatment that may come from your hands.”

The men holding the woman hesitated, then nodded.

She fought against their hands, making it impossible to lead her forward without dragging her.

Adolfo fixed his brown eyes on her. “Do not make this more difficult. Accept the fate your own actions have brought you to.” He paused, then added very gently, “Unless you have other things to confess?”

The woman stiffened, her eyes wide and fearful. A moment later, she sagged in her captors’ hands.

They led her to the open grave, keeping their steps small as she shuffled between them as well as the hobbles permitted. When they turned her to face Baron Hirstun and Adolfo, her eyes were filled with loathing for the men who had condemned her. She straightened, a last gesture of defiance that made her look like one of the gentry instead of a frightened, bedraggled woman who was about to die.

Adolfo felt fear creep down his spine, felt it collide with the hatred that had shaped his life until it settled into a dull ache in his lower back. That war within himself didn’t show on his face or in the eyes that always remained as soft and gentle-looking as a doe’s.

But the other men shifted uneasily as they felt the power rising in her.

It’s the last time it will rise , Adolfo reassured himself. And it can’t help her now. I’ve made sure of that . “Do you have any last words?” he asked her.

She said nothing.

One of the men holding her glanced at the metal device around her head. “Begging your pardon, Master Adolfo, but I don’t think she can be saying much with that thing around her head.”

“Get on with it,” Hirstun growled.

Adolfo ignored the baron and addressed the man. “I would know her words no matter how garbled. But the metal tongue on the scold’s bridle prevents her from clear speech, and, therefore, prevents her from casting a last spell to harm those who bring her to justice.”

The other man grinned at the first. “You should get one of those for your Jenny, Sax. Give you a bit of peace.”

Sax ducked his head. “Her tongue’s got a sharp side to it, and that’s the truth, but I couldn’t see putting one of those things on my Jenny.”

“The scold’s bridle is a good man’s tool,” Adolfo said. “A caring husband and father does not allow his females to stray into unseemly behavior, nor does he allow his females to create discord at home. And it is well known that a woman’s sharp words can blight a man’s rod and weaken his seed until all he can fill her with are girl babes instead of strong sons.”

Sax’s face turned bright red. He stared at the ground. “Still, it looks like a harsh thing to do to a woman.”

Adolfo smiled indulgently. “Metal is used for witches. For other women, the scold’s bridle is made of leather, and a man tends it with the same care he gives the bridle of his favorite mare. It does her no harm. The shame of wearing it is sufficient to teach her modesty and pleasing behavior. Even my own cherished wife must, from time to time, wear the bridle. At first she resented and resisted being disciplined. Now she is grateful for that sign of my deep affection and concern for her well-being.” He waited a moment, then added, “But perhaps you do not care quite as much for your Jenny.”

After a long pause, Sax mumbled, “Where could I find one of these bridles?”