Anne Bishop - The Pillars of the World

“Yes,” Neall said, hastily checking things one last time. Then he realized what the small man had said. “You’ve always known about him?”

“We’ve known. Just as we’ve always known about you, young Lord. Just as we’ve always known about the Daughters,” he added quietly. “But some things are not meant to be spoken.”

Neall shook his head. There wasn’t time to ask what the small man meant.

“There are the five of us who were nearby when we felt something evil touch the land.” He gestured to the other four small men who slipped out of the cow shed. “If you’ll take up two of us, the mare can carry the other three. We’ll do what we can to help.”

“I’ll take what help you can give.”

After lifting three of the men onto the mare’s saddle, he set another on Darcy’s saddle, mounted, then lifted the last man up behind him.

As they galloped toward the baron’s estate, he fretted about the minutes that had passed. But surely nothing terrible could happen to Ari in so short a time.

Surely not.

When Morag burst into the room where she’d last met Dianna, the Huntress wasn’t there. But Aiden, Lyrra, and Morphia were.

She rushed toward them, stumbling in her haste.

Aiden grabbed her arms to steady her at the same time Morphia and Lyrra hurried to stand beside her.

“What’s wrong?” Morphia said.

“Where . . . the Huntress? The Lightbringer?” A dam inside her had burst during the ride back to Tir Alainn. Now too many feelings were clamoring to be heard. The fierce need to speak made her mute for several seconds.

“What is it, Morag?” Aiden asked gently. “What has happened?”

Morag looked into his eyes and saw passion that had not been diluted from living in Tir Alainn because he, too, often walked in the human world. His gift had demanded that from him. If there was anyone who could understand—and make others understand—it was the Bard.

“The witches. The wiccanfae.”

Aiden nodded encouragingly while Lyrra and Morphia made soothing noises.

“Wiccanfae is an old name for the witches,” Aiden said.

Morag shook her head. “They’re the wiccanfae. The wise Fae. The Daughters. We forgot them.”

“Morag . . .” Aiden said worriedly.

The words rose from her in a keen. “They’re the Mother’s Daughters. They weren’t lost. They were never lost. We chose to forget them. We did that.”

“Morag.”

“They’re the Pillars of the World. They created Tir Alainn. That’s why pieces of it disappear when they leave the Old Places. ‘As we will it, so mote it be.’”

“How could the witches have created Tir Alainn?” Aiden demanded.

She looked into stormy blue eyes that appeared so dark in his now-pale face. Painful knowledge filled those eyes as he began to put together bits and pieces. Seeing pain that matched her own filled her with strength. She wasn’t alone now. At least in this, she wasn’t alone.

“The witches . . . are the House of Gaian.”

She felt the words shudder through him, felt his body tense from the emotional blow.

Lyrra made a keening sound, then clamped one hand over her mouth and turned away.

Morphia sagged against her for a moment before she, too, turned away.

Aiden faced her, his hand still holding her arms.

“The House of Gaian?” he whispered.

Morag nodded. “The witch killers will be coming to Brightwood soon. If we stand aside now, if we do nothing here, we have no one but ourselves to blame when Tir Alainn is completely lost.” She stepped back. Something began to fill her, flow through her. She had never stepped onto a battlefield, but she instinctively knew this was what it felt like to be the Gatherer when she rode among screaming, fighting men, sparing some and taking others. When the Gatherer rode in this way, she was not always merciful— and she was not always kind.

“I’m going back to Brightwood. The witch killers aren’t going to take Ari.”

“We’ll come with you,” Lyrra said.

Morag shook her head. “You and Aiden find the Huntress and the Lightbringer. Tell them what you know. And rouse anyone else among the Fae who has the courage to stand and fight.”

“I’m coming with you,” Morphia said.

“There’s—”

“Don’t argue, Morag. I don’t know what I can do, but I’m coming with you.”

Lyrra looked at the two sisters. “If the witch killers do come to Brightwood, there won’t be much the two of you can do to stop them.”

The power hummed through Morag, making her smile. “Yes, there is. I have a weapon even the witch killers can’t defy. I have Death.”

Ari couldn’t stop shivering. It wasn’t caused just by being in a small, cool, dark room in Baron Felston’s cellar. Mostly, it was fear trembling through her as she stared at the tall man who watched her.

“Why are your kind so resistant?” he asked sadly. “Why can’t you admit to your crimes? You’ve committed no crimes. I know. You all say that. And yet. . .” He picked up a piece of paper from the long, stained table that dominated the room. He held it out in front of her. “Quite a list of grievances against someone who claims to have done no harm.”

Her head hurt, and trying to focus on the words in the dim light of a single oil lamp made her stomach churn.

Mistress Brigston claiming that she had been bewitched into paying several gold coins for a piece of tapestry that Ari had delivered and then magicked away again. Granny Gwynn claiming that Ari had added something foul to a good, wholesome simple that Granny had sold to Squire Kenton to strengthen his wife’s fragile health, making the woman more ill. Odella claiming that Ari had tricked her into taking the fancy she had then been forced to give a man in order to avoid the dire consequences of a thwarted love spell.

Poor crops, a lack of game, a dry well. Anything and everything that had gone wrong in Ridgeley had been blamed on her.

I’ve done none of that!

The Master Inquisitor sighed as if she’d actually spoken, then placed the paper on the table. Bending over, he pressed his hand gently against Ari’s cheek.

“You have no choice. You must confess. You must admit to what you have done to the good people of Ridgeley. Don’t force me to hurt you. Don’t force me to make you suffer. I will hurt you if that is the only way, but I hope you won’t require pain to help you do what you must.”

He straightened up, went over to a chest that was pushed against the wall and removed something. He set the object on the table, next to the paper filled with her crimes. It was a metal device that looked a bit like a bridle that would fit tightly over a person’s head—except there were three spikes attached to the inside of it that would pierce the tongue and cheeks when the bridle was strapped on.

Adolfo brushed his fingers over the spiked bridle. “I will give you a little time to decide if you will allow me to make this as quick and merciful as possible, or if you’ll force me to be the instrument of your suffering.”

He lowered the wick in the oil lamp until there was barely enough light to see by. Then he walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.

Ari stared at the spiked bridle—and shivered.

Adolfo walked up the stairs, glad to be away from the damp cellar for a while. He would have liked more time to work with this one. Younger witches could become quite malleable given enough assistance, and their confessions were always so tearfully dramatic. And he would have liked more time to question her about the Fae and their noticeable interest in this Old Place.

But it was the Fae and their interest that made it imperative to wring a confession out of this witch and dispose of her quickly. However, if the diversion Royce created was successful, the Fae would have no reason to look for the girl.