Anne Bishop - The Pillars of the World

“But those are—” Neall started to protest.

“Clean and made to absorb blood,” Morag replied. She and Morphia smeared the ointment on the wounds and dealt with the makeshift bandages. Neall protested again when they tore up Ari’s long nightgown to make strips long enough to wrap around Ari and hold the dressings. They ignored him.

“Now,” Morag said as she put the supplies back in Ari’s saddlebags, “lift her carefully and take her out of the way. We’ll try to shift the gelding enough to get your saddlebags free.”

“No,” Neall said. “I don’t need—”

Morag gave him a look that silenced him. “If you didn’t need what you’d brought, you wouldn’t have brought it.”

It took effort, but between them, she and Morphia managed to pull the saddlebags free.

Morag rested one hand on the gelding’s flank in a silent farewell. This one had had the courage of his breed, and she knew he would be sorely missed.

That reminded her of another problem. Neall and Ari couldn’t travel however far they would have to go riding double on the mare. They needed another horse.

Handing the saddlebags to Morphia, she walked over to where the dark horse waited for her. She pressed her hand against his cheek and looked into his dark, trusting eyes.

“I want you to go with Neall and Ari. I know you like her, and I think you’ll like him, too.” When he started to take a step back, she shook her head. “They need you. They need your strength and your speed and your courage. They need you to look after them and take care of them. They’re going to need that for a long time. So we’ll say goodbye now, my friend. You’ll have a good life with them. This much I know.”

Giving him a last caress, she walked the dark horse over to where Neall stood, holding Ari in his arms.

“He’ll go with you,” she said quietly. “You’ll need to ride double until Ari is strong enough to ride by herself. The mare couldn’t do that. He can.”

Neall stared at her. “I—I can’t take your horse.”

“Yes, you can. For Ari’s sake.” And for the sake of a good horse who now fears what I would have to ask of him .

“I’ll wake her enough that she can help you get her mounted,” Morphia said. “I won’t send her back into a deep sleep since that will make it harder for you both to ride, but she’ll doze enough to dull the pain.”

Taking the saddlebags from her sister, Morag tied them to the dark horse’s saddle. While Neall and Morphia helped Ari mount, she secured Ari’s saddlebags and canteen to the mare’s saddle.

When they were ready to go, Morag gave Ari one more long, searching look—and felt relieved. There were still no shadows in the girl’s face. Ari would heal—and she would have the life Astra and Ahern had wanted for her.

“May the Mother bless both of you for all of your days,” Neall said.

“Blessings of the day to you,” Morag said.

Neall smiled oddly. “ ‘Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.’ That’s another saying among witches.” He murmured to the dark horse, who pricked his ears, considered the trail before them, then turned into the trees to find another path.

Morag smiled at the way Neall’s eyes widened at having the decision made for him, but Neall was used to dealing with an animal that sometimes held an opinion that was different from his own. He and the dark horse would get along well together—once they got to know each other.

Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.

A warm feeling filled Morag. Did that saying express a hope that she would visit them in their new home?

The warm feeling froze, began to shrivel. Or did that saying have more than one meaning, especially when it was said to the Gatherer? Was Neall trying to tell her he hoped they would meet again in this world—or that he hoped they wouldn’t see her again until they were all in the Summerland, after their spirits had left their bodies to the Mother’s keeping?

Foolish to want acceptance from anyone who lived in the human world, foolish to yearn to be welcomed as a friend when even her own kind drew back from her. She was Death’s Mistress. That was her gift—and her burden. What did she truly know of life?

She pushed away her feelings before they could bruise her heart. Turning, she saw Morphia watching her.

“What do we do about them?” Morphia asked softly.

Morag looked at the ghosts who all glared at her— especially the Inquisitors. They would have to be dealt with, taken away from Brightwood. Whether she would guide them all the way to the Shadowed Veil was something she hadn’t decided yet.

“Leave them,” she said. “The Small Folk can do what they choose with the bodies.”

Morphia looked at the Inquisitors’ ghosts and shuddered. “In that case, let’s get away from here.”

They mounted Morphia’s horse, Morag riding behind her sister, then headed in the direction of the cottage.

As they crossed the meadow, they saw the black smoke, could smell the burning.

“It would appear the Lightbringer has passed judgment on the people there,” Morphia said.

“Yes,” Morag said softly. “They shouldn’t have forgotten he is the Lord of Fire.”

Morphia hesitated. “You’re tired, Morag. Can’t you rest a little while before you gather the people there?”

I’ll rest a long while before I ride into that village , Morag thought. “Let another of Death’s Servants guide them to the Shadowed Veil. I am tired, and—”

Death called.

Morag listened carefully, looked in the direction from which that call had come.

“And there’s someplace else I have to be,” she finished, her voice full of regret.

Abandoning the wounded guard, Adolfo ran toward the group of people clustered around the stable. Reaching them, he stared at the mound of debris-filled earth that filled the place where Baron Felston’s manor house had stood a short while ago.

“What happened here?” he gasped.

One of the grooms gave him a hostile look. “The earth swallowed it, then spewed up enough of itself to cover it. I guess that was the Mother’s way of saying you Inquisitors should have let the witches be.”

Adolfo looked at them, saw the same grim expression and hard eyes in all their faces. “But she was the one who did this. The witch did this!”

“She never did any harm until you came!” one of the female servants shouted.

The groom nodded his head in agreement. “The ladies of Brightwood always had a lot more courtesy for the common folk than the gentry did. Even the villagers looked down on those who worked the land.” He looked in the direction of the black smoke filling the sky. “Guess they’re not going to be looking down on anyone for a long time to come.”

“The witch—”

The groom shook his head, then gestured toward another man. “Russell said he saw a black horse racing toward Ridgeley. A black horse with flames in his mane and tail. Anything he passed that a man had made . . . burned. Guess the Lord of Fire was letting us all know his opinion about you taking the witch.”

They were all against him. That, too, was the witch’s fault. She should have accepted her fate, should have yielded to the need to have her spirit cleansed of its foulness. She had brought about this disdain for authority in servants who, a day ago, had been sufficiently meek.

“Where is Baron Felston? There are things I must discuss with him.”

The groom tipped his head toward the mound of earth. “You can dig for him then. He never came out. There was plenty of time before the house started to cave in, but he never came out. Neither did the baroness nor Odella.”