Anne Bishop - The Pillars of the World

No matter. He knew enough for this.

Raising his right hand, he pressed it against that unseen, magical barrier that kept people out unless they were welcomed in.

“You know me,” he said softly, feeling the magic of the warding spell pushing against him as he channeled his own power into his hand. “You know me. I’ve been welcomed in this house before. Let me in. As I will it, so mote it be.”

The magic in the warding spell didn’t pull back like a curtain the way it would have if Ari had welcomed him, but it thinned from feeling like an invisible stone wall to a barrier of thick cobwebs.

As Neall crossed the threshold, he shuddered at the sensation of wispy strands brushing over his hand and face. He shook off the feeling. It was easy enough with something else pushing at his senses.

Someone had been here. Someone new, different, unknown. He could sense the lingering presence that was layered over the familiar feel of Ari’s cottage.

She wasn’t there. He could sense that too. Still, he quickly peeked into her bedroom to make sure she wasn’t there, then the workroom that held the looms and spinning wheels and baskets of yarns that Ari used for her weaving.

As he headed for the kitchen, he glanced down at a chair pulled back a little from the table . . . and froze. He wasn’t sure how long he stared at the saddlebags when Ari said, “Neall?”

She was standing in the open doorway, looking puzzled. She was wearing her oldest clothes, the ones she used when she worked in her garden, and she was holding a small, empty basket in one hand. There was color in her cheeks, and her dark, unbound hair looked like it had danced with the wind. It hurt to look at her, standing there so wild and lovely. Especially now.

Crossing the threshold, Ari looked back at the doorway and then at him.

“Your front door was open, and I was concerned,” Neall said, striving to keep his voice calm.

She frowned at the doorway, but the way her shoulders relaxed told him she probably knew why the door had been open.

“But . . . How did you get in?” Ari asked, turning back to him.

One day he would tell her about his parents and his power. But not today. Not now.

He tried to smile. “I’ve been welcomed many times over the years, Ari. I guess the warding spells recognized me.” The smile faded. The saddlebags sat on the chair between them. “Or maybe it was because I was concerned that the warding spells let me in. They didn’t feel the way they do when you’re here, though.”

She tipped her head a little to one side and looked at him thoughtfully. “How did they feel?”

“It was like walking through thick cobwebs.”

She made a face, brushed her hand across one cheek as if she could feel the cobwebs herself.

“You were out early,” Neall said. Who do the saddlebags belong to, Ari ?

She set the small basket on the table. “I took a loaf of sweet bread over to Ahern to thank him for fixing my kitchen door.”

So he couldn’t even do that for her.

His chest hurt. Was this what the songs and stories called heartache?

“You have company,” Neall said, glancing at the saddlebags.

“No,” Ari said quickly. “That is . . .” She looked away.

“You met him on the Summer Moon?”

Her shoulders went back and her chin went up. Defensive pride. He understood it well.

“And if I did?” she asked, challenging.

“Did you give him the fancy?” When she looked at him warily, hurt gave way to the first stirring of anger. “Royce didn’t keep silent about that, Ari. I knew he was coming here, and I knew why.”

“It wasn’t Royce.”

“Then who?”

She leaned against the table, looking weary. “No one you know. He’s not . . . He’s not from around here.”

Neall closed his eyes for a moment. There was mercy in that. At least he wouldn’t look at every man in Ridgeley and the surrounding estates and farms and wonder if that was the man who was using Ari.

“Answer me this. Was he . . .” Impossible to ask. Impossible not to. “Was he kind?”

She relaxed a little, but still watched him too closely. “Yes, he was kind.”

“That’s good, then. That’s good.” He was feeling too many things—jealousy and pain . . . and relief that Ari would not dread this stranger’s return. Because he would return. The saddlebags that hadn’t been taken made that clear. If he continued to return until the dark of the moon . . .

He swallowed hard to ease the constriction in his chest. “Ari, if you should find yourself with child—”

She shook her head quickly.

“If you should find yourself with child,” he repeated stubbornly, “and he won’t stand with you . . . then I will.”

She stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. Or as if something familiar had suddenly turned strange.

“You would do that? You would take a husband’s vow for another man’s child?”

“ Your child ,” he said fiercely. “ Yours . And if I was the man who was raising it with you, it would be mine as well no matter who sired it.”

“Neall . . .” she whispered.

“Don’t answer yet. Just know that I’ll stand with you. You don’t have to be alone.” Needing to escape, he strode to the open door.

“Neall,” Ari said, moving toward him. She kissed his cheek. It was the kiss of a friend, and it hurt him because he wanted it to be so much more. “Blessings of the day to you, Neall.”

His arms came around her, holding her tightly against him. Ari, Ari, my heart, my life . Could he really leave Ridgeley without her? Or would he also be leaving so much of himself that he would be little more than a ghost?

He couldn’t think about that. Not now.

He eased back, stepped away. “Blessings of the day to you, Ari.”

It took effort, but he kept his stride easy and even as he walked to where Darcy was tied. The outward calm might have fooled Ari, but it didn’t fool the gelding. Darcy danced in agitation. He held the gelding to a walk, waved at Ari, who was still standing at the front door, then eased up enough to let Darcy trot.

As soon as he was safely out of sight, Neall turned Darcy and headed back the way he’d come. But not to Brightwood. He needed another reason to be on this road in case he passed someone and the person mentioned seeing him to the baron. He wasn’t feeling steady enough to cope with the tenant farmers he had to see that morning, but there was one place he could go where the feelings he couldn’t hide yet would be noted but not commented upon.

He sent Darcy galloping over the fields to Ahern’s farm.

Death called her. Morag hesitated, then reluctantly signaled the dark horse to stop.

She didn’t want to answer. In the two days since the Summer Moon, she had continued traveling south through the eastern part of Sylvalan, even though she was no longer sure she wanted to continue. In those two days, she had led too many souls to the Shadowed Veil so that they could go on to the Summerland. It wasn’t sickness that had killed so many in the villages she recently had passed through. At least, not a sickness of the body. But something had crept through those villages to give Death such a bitter feast. Hard deaths. Cruel deaths. Burnings. Hangings. Drownings. And that young girl, that child, who had been . . .

Morag bit her lip, tried to draw a mental curtain across that memory.

There were other deaths in those places as well. Squirrels and sparrows. An owl. A fox. The rotting, partially eaten bodies surrounded clusters of dead trees. Even in warm daylight, there was something about those dead trees that made her shiver.

She had begun this journey in order to see this part of the human world and gain some understanding of the people who lived here. She had seen more than she had bargained for. She had seen too much. Now she needed a quiet place to rest and renew herself.