Anne Bishop - The Pillars of the World

By the time she got back to the bedroom, Morag had one saddlebag filled to bulging.

“Give me those,” Morag said. Unfolding the tunic, she had just folded, she wrapped the jars and book.

Ari jammed the rolled cloths in the bottom of the second saddlebag. The jars and book went in next. While Ari folded another tunic and a pair of trousers, Morag opened the dressing table drawers. She pulled out the jewelry box.

“You’ll want to take this.”

Ari shook her head. “They’re just trinkets.” If Lucian had truly cared, would she be leaving Brightwood today?

Yes, I would. He just made it easier for me to decide. Lucian was like a powerful storm, intense and overwhelming, impressive in its moment. But Neall is soft rain, the kind of quiet rain that sinks deep into the earth. Storms may be exciting for a while, but it’s the soft rain that I love and want to embrace for a lifetime.

Morag opened the jewelry box. “These may be trinkets in one respect, but they do have value. Keep a couple of pieces for sentimental reasons and sell the rest.” She held up one piece. “A pin like this will buy you the best room at an inn, a good meal, stabling and feed for the horses, and a hot bath. After a few days on the road, you’ll welcome all of those things.”

“Why should I feel sentimental about any of those things?” Ari said a little defiantly. She was surprised to see Morag wince.

“I was thinking of your mother and grandmother,” Morag said gently. “If they had a favorite piece or two, you might want to keep those.”

“Oh. Yes, there are a couple of pieces like that.”

Bringing the jewelry box over to the bed, Morag wrapped it in a wool vest, then worked it into the saddlebag, shoving it down the side as far as she could. She fastened the buckles on the saddlebags and stepped back. “That’s it, then.” She brushed her hair back from her face. “What are you going to do now?”

Ari blinked back tears. Leaving Brightwood would have been easier if they’d been able to wait until the harvest. It would have been easier if she could have packed her own things, spent a little time picking and choosing the yarns and the looms she wanted to take with her, the bedding, the pots and pans, her collection of drawings that she used to inspire the weaving. It felt too much like she was being torn away instead of leaving on her own. But she understood why the cottage had to be empty when these Inquisitor men arrived in Ridgeley. If they were going to arrive at all.

Let it go. Don’t look back. Someone else will feel the way the land here sings and will call it home. Maybe they’ll need all the things you leave behind. Maybe they’ll stay, and another family will write about Brightwood in their journals.

Ari gasped. The journals. She couldn’t leave them here in an empty cottage.

“Ari?” Morag asked sharply. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh.” Wanting to ease the concern in Morag’s eyes, Ari made an effort to smile. “I just remembered something else. When I take the sun stallion and the mares over to Ahern’s, I want to ask him if he would bring the journals over to his house. I don’t want them left here.”

Morag frowned. “Journals?”

“My family’s history. Brightwood’s history, really.”

Morag nodded. “What are you going to do now?”

“Finish making the list of things I’d like to take in the wagon so I can bring that to Ahern too.” Ari made a face. “In case I have to explain what any of the things are. I doubt Ahern has paid much attention to anything that deals with spinning and weaving.”

Morag smiled. “I’d guess that if a horse doesn’t need it or can’t do it, he hasn’t paid any attention to it. So you might want to draw rough sketches of things while you finish that list. It’ll save you both frustration.”

Ari laughed. “That’s a good thought.” She paused, and asked shyly, “What are you going to do now?”

Some subtle shift of expression altered Morag’s face, making Ari shiver. This was not the Gatherer who would gently release a spirit from a suffering, dying body. This was the face Ari imagined men would see when Morag rode for vengeance. “I have to go to Tir Alainn for a little while.”

Adolfo finished his cup of tea and dabbed his lips with a napkin that had Felston’s family crest embroidered in one corner. He looked at the teapot, as if debating having another cup. In truth, he was simply enjoying the way Baron Felston squirmed with impatience—a captive host chained to his own breakfast table by a show of good manners.

And he also wanted a little more time to consider what he’d been told yesterday.

Felston’s daughter, Odella, had needed no persuasion to spew her story about the witch who had stolen the Fae lover who had gotten her with child. He didn’t believe for one moment that a Fae Lord had pleasured himself with a girl as repulsive as Odella. Oh, she was pretty enough, but the moment she opened her mouth, any man with sense would have realized the pretty face and comely body weren’t worth enduring the girl herself.

But the story about the Fae Lord had been a sharp reminder that the Fae were in evidence around here. If one of them had been enjoying himself with the witch, he might cause some trouble. If he found out what happened to her. But it would be simple enough to focus his attention elsewhere.

Out of the corner of his eye, Adolfo studied Royce, the baron’s son. A thwarted lover, perhaps? Whatever the reason for Royce’s sullen anger, the young man could be easily persuaded to create a diversion while the witch was brought back to the baron’s estate to be dealt with. Not that he would explain it that way to Royce.

“You say this man, Ahern, takes an interest in the witch?” Adolfo asked.

“He tends to know what’s happening at Brightwood,” Felston replied sourly.

Adolfo pushed his chair back and rose. “In that case, I think it would be wise to take a look at this man and determine how much trouble he might be.”

“And how are you planning to do that?”

Adolfo smiled gently. “I’m going to buy a horse.”

Dianna looked at Morag expectantly. “It’s done?”

“No,” Morag said quietly. “Nor will it be done. Neall is a young man with a full life ahead of him. I will not gather his spirit before his time.”

Anger rushed through Dianna, swelling until it filled her. “Ari has to stay. He has to be eliminated. For the good of Tir Alainn—and for the good of the Fae.”

“The Fae can hold the shining road through the Veil.”

“We’ve never tried. You don’t know that for sure.” Dianna paced, turned back to face Morag. “Even if we can, how many of us will it take? How many would have to stay in the . . . human . . . world, sacrificing themselves?”

“You won’t give anything but you’re willing to sacrifice two young people’s lives?”

“They’re not Fae! Besides, we wouldn’t be sacrificing Ari. We’ll take care of her.”

Morag stared at her until Dianna had to resist the urge to squirm.

“As what?” Morag asked softly. “A favorite pet? Someone whose life is contained so that it fits what we want? Is that what it comes down to, Dianna? We are the Fae, and the humans, the witches, the Small Folk, the world are there for our amusement and our pleasure?”

“We are the Fae,” Dianna insisted. “We are the Mother’s Children.”

She wasn’t sure what to think when Morag suddenly shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

“Where is your loyalty, Morag?”

Oh, the change in that face, in those eyes.

“That is not a question you should ask me, Huntress,” Morag said.