The House Of Gaian (36 page)

Jean stopped again and looked around. She’d already walked a long way, hadn’t she?

Maybe they were already sorry they’d been mean to her. Back home, they’d felt sorry for her because she was the Abandoned Child, and after they’d scolded her for something, the old women would give her an extra sweet at dinner and sometimes one of the men would give her a scarf or a shawl that was supposed to be sold with the rest of the ship’s cargo.

But the younger ones, like Fiona ... and Jenny ... had never been nice after they’d been mean. And Nuala had been the only elder at this Old Place, so there had been no one else to take her side and tell her she was a darling girl but it was naughty to cause such mischief.

Just mischief. It wasn’t her fault if she’d gotten the mixtures confused. Breanna and Fiona were always watching her, just waiting for her to make a little mistake. And there wasn’t any privacy to work out the proper mixture that she half-remembered learning from her mother before her mother went away. It was
their
fault that she’d been in a hurry and hadn’t paid enough attention to which mixture she’d put in which pocket.

Maybe she wouldn’t go to any of the camps just yet. She was tired and hot and getting all sweaty.

Maybe she’d go to the village instead. Someone there would give her something to eat and a place to wash up and rest.

And when
her family
realized they were sorry for being mean to her, she wouldn’t be that hard to find.

So she walked until the dress she’d spent so much time pressing became limp and her legs quivered and burned and her shoes pinched her feet. She was close to tears when she reached the top of a rise and saw the field stretching out before her. A field with a jumbled pile of huge stones—and the road winding out of the trees beyond the field, curving around the rise she stood on.

Dress, legs, and feet momentarily forgotten, she hurried down the other side of the rise and headed for the road. Someone would be coming from the village or heading to the village. Or one of the estates. Or a farm. Surely whoever was traveling would give her a ride.

As I will, so mote it be
, Jean thought smugly as a one-horse cart came out from behind that pile of stones. The young man driving the cart seemed startled when he saw her, but he turned the horse in her direction.

“Blessings of the day to you,” Jean said when he finally got close enough, giving him her best smile—and wishing she could have smoothed her hair and dress before he’d seen her. No matter. He obviously wasn

’t gentry, so she didn’t have to impress him much. Just enough to get a ride.

“Blessings of the day, mistress,” the young man said after a brief hesitation. “Are you alone?”

A little wary, she watched him loop the reins around the brake and get out of the cart. “My family is nearby.”

“These are dangerous times, mistress. A young lady shouldn’t wander about on her own.” When he got a man’s length away from her, he stopped suddenly. His eyes widened. “Are you one of them?”

“Them?”

“A— One of the Mother’s Daughters.”

She was more hedge witch than witch, and wouldn’t have been called one of the Mother’s Daughters around
them
, but her grandmother had been a witch and that counted for something, didn’t it? “It is best not to mention such things,” she said coyly, looking up at him through her lashes. “As you pointed out, these are dangerous times.”

“Of course.” He smiled. “If being seen in such a humble cart would not offend you, may I offer you a ride?”

“You are very kind.”

He extended a hand to indicate the cart. “The daylight is waning, mistress. We should be on our way.”

“Yes. You’re right,” Jean replied, walking toward the cart. She lowered her head and smiled. He seemed nervous. And the way he kept looking around, as if to reassure himself that there was no one who could see them, he was probably hoping to coax her into giving him a kiss or two. And maybe she’d let him since he
was
nice looking.

As he placed one hand on her arm to help her into the cart, she noticed him reaching inside the leather vest he wore over an un-pressed shirt. Was he going to offer her a present in the hopes of getting more than a kiss?

Then the hand on her arm yanked her off balance. As she teetered on the edge of falling backward, his other hand whipped out of the vest, and something soft yet heavy struck her on the head.

As he lowered her to the ground and her vision dimmed, the look on his face made her very afraid.

He looked back at the bundles in his cart, then grinned as he slapped the reins over the horse’s back.

He’d done it! Succeeded beyond expectation. He’d no longer have to work at the charity house where he’d grown up, receiving nothing more than lodgings and a few copper coins each month. When he returned to Master Adolfo’s camp, he’d receive the promised reward of an apprenticeship. He’d be trained to be an Inquisitor, a man of power, a man who was
somebody
.

Never again would the squire who was his grandfather look past him if they saw each other in the village.

Never again would he have to pretend he didn’t recognize his mother when he saw her shopping with her proper children. Never again would he lie awake at night remembering the arguments between his mother and grandfather before he’d been taken to the charity house.

My son’s father is a Fae Lord!

Convenient to say that, daughter, when no man is here to say yay or nae.

He went back to Tir Alainn!

And hasn’t made even a token effort to provide for his child? No, daughter. No. I never asked
who fathered the boy, and I won’t ask now. But you have a chance to marry, and no gentry man is
going to want to raise his own sons with a groom’s or footman’s leavings.

A Fae Lord!

Enough! You can cut yourself off from a good life for yourself, and condemn the boy into the
bargain, or you can let him go now while he’s still young enough to forget and let him make a life
for himself. Make your choice, daughter
—
and live with it
.

She made her choice. And the squire made his choice. But the boy had been old enough to remember, and grieve, the life that had ended when the squire’s servants left him at the charity house. And the boy had felt the weight of being a nobody for years—until Master Adolfo had stopped and visited the charity house. Had stopped even though he had an army to command and important work to do in the world.

Master Adolfo had known the boy was special. He’d given the boy a chance to prove he was worthy of the training that would make him a powerful man one day—a man so powerful that even the old squire wouldn’t dare ignore him.

And he’d succeeded. Almost within sight of the enemy, he’d succeeded. The Inquisitors had given him the horse and a cart filled with small sacks of flour, sugar, and tea. They’d told him to take the supplies to the more isolated farms and offer them to the females as thanks for the other provisions the army was taking from the surrounding farms.

The females had accepted the supplies with delight, had offered him small glasses of ale and fresh-baked bread. They had given him time to be eyes and ears for the Witch’s Hammer. And they had given him time to obtain the special creatures Master Adolfo needed for the coming fight.

The Master had been specific. Find one or two of the special creatures, then get back to the army that was marching toward Willowsbrook. Take no chances, because discovery could destroy everything.

He’d been careful, but he’d had a rough minute or two when he spotted the female. Luckily she’d suspected nothing, had seen nothing. So now he was heading back toward the army that was no more than two or three days’ march away from this place. He was returning in triumph.

Not only had he gotten the special creatures the Master Inquisitor wanted, he’d gotten something Master Adolfo wanted even more.

A witch.

Aiden tied the sash around his waist, then tugged at the hem of his dress tunic to make sure it still hung straight. He looked at his harp, rubbed his thumbs over the pads of his still-tender fingers, and shook his head. It would have to be one of his pipes tonight.

“Maybe it’s for the best.”

Turning, he studied Lyrra’s reflection in the mirror. She, too, had worn her best outfit, and she’d left her hair loose so that it flowed down her back. Her eyes were puffy from the tears she’d shed, but it only made her look more beautiful—the Muse who not only touched the world but was touched by it. “What’

s for the best?”

“That Nuala died now.”

Aiden frowned. “How can you say that?”

Lyrra turned to face him. “She went to sleep and never woke up. Isn’t that better than dying slowly from a mortal wound, or feeling an arrow bury itself in flesh? She won’t know the fear and pain, she won’t watch anyone she loves suffer. She won’t know what happens here if... we fail.”

He walked over to her, drew her into his arms. “We won’t fail. What has gathered here is more than I’d dared hope for. The Fae have come down from Tir Alainn, the House of Gaian has come out of their hills, and the humans are standing with us. Even the Small Folk are preparing to fight. This battle won’t be shining and glorious. It will be desperate and brutal... and people will die. Neither of us can be of any use on that battlefield when the time comes, but we have the power of words, Lyrra. We can sing the songs that feed the heart, tell the stories that offer comfort. And later, we can sing of the glory of courage and tell stories about how all the peoples of Sylvalan stood together to face a common enemy. We need to remember that we stood together— and we’ll need to honor the dead.” He drew back enough to kiss her forehead. “And that’s what we need to do now.”

He released her long enough to fetch his pipe, then slipped an arm around her waist to lead her out of the room.

Liam waited for them in the front hall, along with Baron Donovan; his wife, Gwenn; and Gwynith, a western Lady of the Moon. They went out to the open carriage that was big enough for all of them since Liam was driving and invited Aiden to join him on the driver’s seat.

“Selena, Rhyann, and Ashk have already gone to the place Breanna and Keely chose,” Liam said quietly after flicking the reins over his team’s back to signal them to move on. “My mother has gone to the Old Place to drop off some dishes for the supper afterward. We’ve still got a few hours left before full dark, but I doubt anyone will want to linger after paying their respects.”

“Where is the place where Nuala will be laid to rest?” Aiden asked.

“Near the brook. There’s a place that has a ‘sitting stone’ and a curve of rose bushes close by that Nuala had planted years ago. She liked to sit there and listen to the water.” Liam sighed. “We would have given Nuala back to the Great Mother wherever Breanna chose, but I know Ashk is relieved that it’s open ground, and, frankly, so am I.”

Aiden nodded. “No chance of nighthunters attacking before they can be seen.”

“Yes.”

They made the rest of the trip in silence until they crossed the bridge over Willow’s Brook and saw all the conveyances lined up beside the road.

“I didn’t expect so many humans to come here,” Aiden said.

“My father made certain I remained ignorant of the witches who lived here,” Liam replied with a trace of bitterness. “But I’ve learned since that my ignorance wasn’t common. Nuala was a fine woman. She was respected by her neighbors, which is more than I can say about my father.” He secured the reins and got down, then nodded to the boy who came forward to lead the carriage away as soon as the others had stepped down.

Taking Lyrra’s hand, Aiden followed Liam to the spot where the mourners gathered. People stepped aside to let them through, and Aiden wondered if there had ever been a time before this when barons had stood side by side with farmers and Fae Lords, oblivious of the differences that separated them in the day-to-day world.

Nuala lay on the grass, dressed in a blue gown. No coffin, no shroud. Nothing between her and the earth.

For a long moment, Aiden stared at the gold pentagram around her neck, then glanced around. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember seeing Breanna or Nuala or any of the other witches wearing the pentagram openly. Even Selena hadn’t worn hers openly. But the witches were wearing them now, and as he looked around, he felt a jolt when he saw men—strangers to him—wearing that symbol over shirts or tunics.

“I didn’t know there were men who were witches,” Lyrra whispered to Rhyann, who had come over to stand beside them.

Rhyann smiled. “They are the Sons of the House of Gaian. They have the same power that comes from the branches of the Great Mother that the Daughters do. Why wouldn’t they wear the symbol that acknowledges the bond to the Mother?”

“You don’t usually wear it openly,” Aiden said.

Rhyann looked puzzled. “Why would we? We don’t wear it to remind anyone but ourselves of who and what we are and what we honor. Earth, air, water, fire”—she looked at Nuala—“and spirit.”

Seeing two Fae with instruments at the edge of the crowd, Aiden excused himself and made his way over to the minstrels. One carried a small harp; the other had a pipe.