Anne Bishop - The Pillars of the World

Adolfo took a few steps to the side, bent to pick up one of the crossbows.

Then the guard pointed. “Look! Smoke! Something’s burning.”

Adolfo sighed, as another man might after being satisfied by a woman. “It’s the witch’s cottage. Royce and his friends went to burn it down so there would be no trace of her left to foul the land.”

The guard slowly shook his head. “There’s too much smoke to be one cottage, master. And that’s coming from the direction of—” The guard turned and stared at him. “Ridgeley. It’s the village that’s burning.”

Morag reined the dark horse to a stop.

“Mother’s mercy, Neall,” she muttered as she scanned the woods. “How could you disappear so fast?”

“Will we find them?” Morphia asked.

“We’ll find them,” Morag replied grimly.

They had to find Neall and Ari.

Because Death was no longer whispering. Now, Death howled.

Neall followed the broadest trail through the woods. They needed to go deeper into Brightwood, away from the trails where someone could easily track them. But he was worried about Ari. She knew these woods better than anyone, but she wasn’t a skilled rider and could be swept out of the saddle if she misjudged a low-hanging branch. Distance. Distance. They needed to put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers to catch their breath and decide where the best place would be to lay low for a little while.

He cursed silently as he went down into a slight dip and saw the tree that had fallen across the trail. Not much room on the other side of it for a horse to land before the trail climbed again. He could have done it on Darcy, but he didn’t know the mare well enough to have that kind of confidence in her—and Ari certainly couldn’t make that jump.

As he reined in and turned the mare, he heard Darcy’s angry challenge—and realized Ari was no longer right behind him.

The mare charged back up to level ground just in time for Neall to see the men wearing black coats step onto the trail, blocking the gelding’s retreat.

Movement just beyond the edge of the trail. Guards raising their crossbows. Aiming at Ari!

“Look out!” Neall shouted.

Darcy pivoted on his hind legs, half rearing as he turned. Most of the crossbow quarrels hit him in the chest and neck, but two of them found their intended target.

Ari and Darcy both screamed as the gelding fell, throwing Ari out of the saddle. Blood reddened her tunic and trousers. When she tried to move, she cried out in pain.

Neall threw himself off the mare’s back and ran toward Ari. “Leave her alone, you bastards!”

Two guards took aim at him. Before they could fire, a look of stunned surprise came over their faces. They fell to the ground. So did the rest of the guards. And the black-coated Inquisitors.

Neall stared at them for a moment, not sure that he believed what he saw.

He stumbled over to Ari, knelt beside her.

She raised her head, her eyes filled with pain. “Neall . . .”

He pressed a hand gently to her shoulder to keep her from moving. The quarrels had gone through her, so at least he wouldn’t have to try to remove them here or have her endure riding with them still in her until he could get her to some kind of safety.

Darcy’s labored breathing suddenly stopped.

In that silence, Neall heard the quiet sound of a hoof against earth. He looked beyond the fallen men to the two women who watched him.

“Morag,” he breathed. Watching them dismount, he thought about snatching up one of the crossbows, but he knew he couldn’t move fast enough to stop her. The dead men around him were proof of that.

Leaping to his feet, he took a few steps forward, then planted himself in the middle of the trail, standing between her and Ari.

“Morag,” Ari said. Her voice sounded so terribly weak.

Neall tensed as the Gatherer approached him, but his eyes never left hers.

“Step aside, Neall,” she said.

He shook his head. “Death can’t be cheated, but sometimes a bargain can be struck.” He saw her surprise before she could mask it. “The others who are Death’s Servants have no choice about who they guide to the Shadowed Veil, but the Gatherer does . She can transfer one person’s strength to another. At least, that’s what the stories say.”

“And if the stories are true?” Morag asked quietly.

“Then take me. Give my life strength to Ari, and take me.”

She gave him a queer look. “You would do that?”

“No, Neall,” Ari pleaded. “Don’t give up your life.”

He turned slowly and looked at her. “You are my life.” When he turned back to face Morag, she was watching Ari intently. Fear spiked through him, roughening his voice. “Will you trade? My life for hers.”

She gave him another queer look, then held out her hand.

He grabbed it, curled his fingers around it so she couldn’t let go.

She gave him a tug that pulled him to one side of the path at the same moment the other woman slipped around him and hurried toward Ari.

He tried to pull away from her—and discovered she was stronger than he’d thought. So he just stood there, watching helplessly, as the other woman knelt beside Ari and gently brushed one hand over Ari’s head.

Ari’s eyes closed. Her head sank to the ground.

“You agreed to trade!” Neall said, feeling grief mingle with fury.

“I made no bargain, Neall,” Morag said quietly. “Nor would I have. I see no shadows in her face. Let my sister do what she can.”

“Sister?” He stared at the other black-haired woman, who was carefully lifting Ari’s tunic.

“Morphia is the Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams.”

How fitting that the Gatherer and the Sleep Sister were actually sisters.

Morag released his hand and walked toward Ari. “She is hurt, and she is in pain, but Death is not waiting here for her, Neall.”

“If Death had been waiting, would you have agreed to the bargain?” Neall asked, keeping pace with her.

Morag was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t know. No one has asked that of me until now.”

“Then what’s happened to Ari?”

Morphia looked up at him. “I gave her sleep so she would feel no pain.”

Sinking to his knees, Neall forced himself to look at the wounds.

“She bleeds, but the quarrels cut through nothing more than flesh.” She looked questioningly at Morag, who held one hand over Ari’s body.

Morag nodded. “I don’t sense any damage inside her. Did you bring her saddlebags before the two of you ran?”

“Yes,” Neall said.

“Then bring them here, and some water as well.”

As Neall stood up to do her bidding, he glanced at the dead men. Right now, it was better not to think too much about who Morag was.

He would have traded , Morag thought as she waited for Neall to bring the saddlebags. Even without knowing whether it was truly needed, he would have traded his life for hers .

Would any Fae male have cared so much that he would have tried to make that bargain? If necessary, he would fight for Clan and kin—and, perhaps, die in the fighting. But he wouldn’t go into that fight expecting to die. He would expect to live and benefit from his courage in the fight. But for a man to hand over his life, knowing he wouldn’t share in whatever would come after?

You did just make a bargain, Neall, although it’s one you’re not aware of. One I hope you’ll never be aware of.

When Neall hurried back to them, Morphia used the water to wash the wound in Ari’s side and the graze in her thigh. Morag rummaged through the saddlebags until she found the rolled cloths and the small jar of healing ointment.