The House Of Gaian (6 page)

“Breanna?”

She patted the bench. “Sit down, Falco.”

He sat. Perched was a better word, since he looked like he was going to jump up again at any moment.

“When I was nineteen,” Breanna said, “I visited my kin in the Mother’s Hills during the celebration of the Summer Moon. A full moon, wine, lots of laughter and dancing. There was a young man there, older than me by a few years, who was staying with friends. We danced and talked and laughed... and when he asked me to go walking with him, I went. It was romantic and exciting, and he was experienced enough with women that I didn’t regret him being my first lover. But in the morning ... Well, he didn’t seem quite so wonderful without the moonlight and the wine. I decided after that visit that I needed to like a man in the daylight before I gave in to the lure of moonlight.”

“I see,” Falco said thoughtfully. “Do you like me?”

“Yes, I like you,” Breanna replied. “I like you very much. But I don’t know you well enough yet to invite you to my bed.”

Falco nodded. “What about kisses?”

He was persistent. “Kisses?”

“Do you like kisses?”

“Well... I... Yes.”

Something about the way his gaze focused on her mouth before he raised his eyes to look into hers made her palms go suddenly damp. Watching her, he leaned forward slowly.

Just before his lips touched hers, she felt a prickle along her neck. She pulled back, turned her head.

Liam was leaning against the washhouse doorway, watching her.

Clay had his arms over the back of a gelding. He had a grooming brush in one hand, but he wasn’t making any pretense of grooming the horse.

Looking around to see what had distracted her, Falco cleared his throat and eased back.

“Ah...” Breanna wasn’t sure what to do. Go back in the house? Pretend nothing happened? Pick up her quiver of arrows, march over to the washhouse, and smack Liam over the head with it?

Quiver. Arrows. The bow leaning against the bench where Falco had set it after her confrontation with the Lightbringer.

‘Target practice,“ she said, bouncing to her feet.

“What?” Falco blinked.

“You were supposed to help me with target practice.” She brushed past him, picked up the quiver and bow. “Come along.”

“You want target practice now?”

“The bales of hay are stacked as tall as I am,” Breanna said patiently.

“So?” His puzzled expression turned to understanding. “
Oh
.” He took the quiver from her and smiled.

As she and Falco started walking toward the kitchen garden and the bales of hay, Breanna glanced back at Liam. Which part of him would win the inner struggle—brother or man? She suspected she already knew, but she hoped the man would struggle long enough for her to try a kiss or two before the brother joined her and Falco for target practice.

Standing in the doorway of the Clan house, Ashk hesitated, wanting some excuse to delay. But everything was ready; the huntsmen who were going with her had already gone up the shining road to Tir Alainn, and her companions were waiting for her.

She studied them as they talked quietly among themselves, all of them carefully avoiding glances at the Clan house to allow her a private good-bye.

Aiden and Lyrra, the Bard and the Muse, were coming with her to record the events that would alter their world in one way or another and to use their gift of words to help her in whatever way they could.

Sheridan, Bretonwood’s Lord of the Hawks, was coming as one of her huntsmen—chosen from others because he was also Morphia’s lover. As the Sleep Sister and Lady of Dreams, Morphia’s ability to use sleep as a defensive weapon had proved useful when hunting down the nighthunters and when she had stopped two Inquisitors from hurting a family during the Black Coats’ attack on Bretonwood, but there was no way to tell how effective that gift would be on a battlefield. Morphia was mainly coming with them in order to stay close to her sister, Morag.

And Morag ...

The Gatherer had looked so pale and shaken when she’d joined them for the morning meal, Ashk hadn’t dared ask what was wrong. They needed Morag, not just as mercy for the mortally wounded but as a warrior. Would she falter when she was needed most because of her passion for life?

No. Morag would do what needed to be done. And so would she.

“You’re going now.”

Ashk turned around. Padrick stood back from the doorway, not quite within arm’s reach. “Yes. It’s time.”

Then she was in his arms, taking and giving a kiss that was as fierce as it was loving. She didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to leave their children, didn’t want to leave the Clan that had become her people.

But they couldn’t wait for the battle to come to them. Not if they wanted to survive.

Padrick broke the kiss, then buried his face against her neck. “Come back to me, Ashk. Just... come back to me.”

Tears stung her eyes. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t promise him that. Instead, she whispered,

“I will hold you in my heart. Always.”

He stepped back slowly until they were no longer touching. “They’re waiting for you.”

She took a moment more to look at him before she walked out of the Clan house. When the others saw her, they mounted their horses. She swung into the saddle and turned her horse toward the forest trail that led to the shining road, her companions following behind her.

She didn’t look back. Sylvalan didn’t need Ashk, the Lady of the Woods and wife of the Baron of Breton. Sylvalan needed the Hunter. So she let them go—husband, children, family, and friends. By the time they rode up the shining road and were joined by the huntsmen waiting for them in Tir Alainn, all she was was the Hunter. It was all she allowed herself to be.

Jenny closed the iron grill gate of her new home and walked toward the sea. She could see it from some of the windows, could hear its song while she worked day after day cleaning more of the neglected rooms in the old house and getting them ready for her family. But standing at a window wasn’t the same as standing on the cliff, where she could feel the warmth of the sun on her skin and taste the sea in the air

—where she could look to the south, hoping to see the sails of a vessel large enough to be
Sweet Selkie
, her brother Mihail’s ship.

Had he been gone long enough to have reached Seahaven? Surely, he’d been gone long enough. With a good wind, it didn’t take that many days to sail the coastline of Sylvalan.

He’d stayed with her an extra day to help her get herself and their nephews, Guy and Kyle, settled into their new home—and to unload his ship and store the cargo in some of the empty first-floor rooms. Then he’d sailed away, intending to go to Seahaven and wait for Craig and any cargo their cousin could send by wagon from the family warehouses in Durham. And to wait for any other family members who had chosen to flee to a harbor town in the south rather than go to their kin near the Mother’s Hills.

There wouldn’t be many fleeing south. Mihail had gambled that he would be able to find a safe harbor in the western part of Sylvalan, had taken that gamble based on a conversation with Padrick, the Baron of Breton, whom he’d met when he’d gone to fetch Guy and Kyle at the western boarding school where they’d spent the past year. Because of that conversation, and because her branch of the Mother’s power was water and her love was the sea, they
had
found a safe harbor here in the village of Sealand.

But there hadn’t been any way to contact the family and tell them. They didn’t dare send a letter that named a specific place.

If it was confiscated by any of the barons who had turned against witches or, worse, fell into the hands of one of the Inquisitors, they would forfeit the safety they had found. All Mihail could do was return to the port town that had been the agreed-upon meeting place and wait as long as he could.

What if he waited too long? What if his ship was confiscated? What if he and his men were imprisoned until they could be tested by the Inquisitors to see if they served the so-called Evil One? What if...

Jenny shook her head. No. Letting those thoughts grow only gave them power. She would focus her thoughts on this place, this safe harbor. She would focus on the house and the family who would live there with her soon. Soon.

As she turned away from the sea, she saw the ponycart coming up the road, heading for her house. She saw the woman beside the driver and guessed it was Cordell, the witch who lived on Ronat Isle. And she saw the two small, slumped figures sitting in the cart.

Guy and Kyle must have disobeyed her, again, and snuck down to the harbor to play with the young selkies. She didn’t blame them for their fascination with the Fae, but she didn’t like their confidence that they could disobey her whenever it suited them. She was their aunt, and their only kin here.

And might always be their only kin here. And they might be the only family I have left. Please,
Great Mother, please don’t let them be all that is left of the family.

Annoyed with herself, Jenny walked back to the house. How could she expect obedience from the boys when she couldn’t obey herself? The Great Mother was the land, the air, the water. Ask for a sweet wind, and if you had the power and the will, you might get it. But compassion, kindness, tolerance ...

those things lived within people or they didn’t. Magic couldn’t change what was inside the heart.

But thinking of a sweet wind made her wonder if it might be possible to send a message after all. Not to Durham or Seahaven, but to Willowsbrook. Even if it was too risky to send a letter overland by human means, might one of the Fae be willing to travel through Tir Alainn and deliver a message?

She would have to ask Cordell. The Crone would know if such a thing were possible. She hoped so.

Just the thought of writing a brief letter to Breanna—and, perhaps, getting a message back— lifted her spirits.

Adolfo, the Master Inquisitor, watched two of his Assistant Inquisitors tie the old witch to the chair, then dismissed them with a sharp wave of his right hand. As soon as they left the room, he locked the door, something he’d never done before while softening a witch to confess. It wasn’t that he doubted his ability to contain her, despite his dead left arm, but he didn’t want anyone walking in and disrupting his concentration at a critical moment. Besides, the trembling crone was dependent on his mercy now and wouldn’t dare try to summon her power and use it against him.

He’d already taken her eyes, her ears, her tongue. He’d taken her hands and feet.

And still he heard whispers among the Inquisitors that Master Adolfo, the Witch’s Hammer, had become soft, had become diminished since he’d begun the extermination of the witches in Sylvalan. He drank too much. He’d ordered the witches recently captured to be brought to Wolfram, soiling the home country’s land with the presence of those foul creatures.

Fools.

Even Ubel thought he’d grown soft, and that betrayal of unquestioning loyalty enraged him more than the whispers of the lesser Inquisitors. Ubel had been his finest warrior, his most trusted assistant in this war against magic and female power. He’d nurtured the hungry, beaten boy he’d found in a stinking alley one summer and had shaped him into an educated man with a great destiny.

Ubel could no longer be completely trusted, but there was no one else strong enough to lead, to do the things that must be done in order to win the coming war against Sylvalan.

Perhaps he did drink too much wine, but that hadn’t clouded his thinking or softened his determination to rid the world of witches and the power they wielded. It hadn’t softened his determination to rid the world of magic in all its forms. When the witches were finally destroyed, the Fae and the Small Folk would be destroyed with them. Then men would rule the world as was their right—and the Inquisitors would rule the men.

Hearing a soft scrabbling coming from the wooden cage in the center of the room, Adolfo walked over to it and lifted a corner of the cloth that covered the cage. The squirrel froze for a moment before dashing for another corner in an attempt to hide.

Dropping the cloth, he turned to study the old woman.

Despite what Ubel and the other Inquisitors thought, he had not grown soft and he had not been idle last winter. He had thought, he had studied, he had prepared. But he hadn’t had the one thing he’d needed to try his experiments. He hadn’t had a witch.

He walked a circle around the cage, murmuring the words of the spell he’d created for just this purpose.

The protective circle wasn’t meant to keep anything out, it was meant to contain what went in.

When he was done, he positioned himself slightly behind and to the right of the woman’s chair, then placed his right hand on her shoulder. It gave him an almost erotic pleasure to feel her shudder at his touch.

He closed his eyes. Breathed slowly, deeply, evenly. And began to draw power out of her, just as he’d drawn power out of the Old Places. He felt her resist, felt her pulling the power back into herself. Calmly, he slapped the side of her head, where the wound from the missing ear was still raw. While she gasped from the pain, he clamped his hand on her shoulder again and sucked her power into himself. Sucked it up and sucked it up ... until he sucked her dry.

He raised his hand, pointing it at the covered cage. As he released the power, sending it toward the cage like an arrow shot from a bow, he said, “Twist and change. Change and twist. Become what I would make of thee. As I will, so mote it be.“

The squirrel inside the cage shrieked as the power he unleashed struck it. Shrieked and shrieked ... and then went silent.

Adolfo lowered his hand. His throat felt parched, his bones felt hollow. He wanted to close the circle and pull the cover off the wooden cage. But power still swirled, trapped within the protective circle. He could wait.

He looked at the woman. Her head lolled to one side. Drool dribbled from one corner of her mouth.

With proper care and proper nourishment, she might recover enough to regain some of her power. But not enough to be useful to him. He would give her to the apprentices. One could not learn to use an Inquisitor’s tools without practice.

Two hours later, Adolfo returned to the room.

There was no sound from the wooden cage.

He spent several minutes trying to sense any lingering power from the spell he’d cast. There was none.

Even the power he’d used to create the protective circle had been absorbed.

Gingerly taking hold of a corner of the cloth, he stepped back as he pulled the cloth away. Then he studied what was inside the cage.

When his men used the Inquisitor’s Gift to draw magic from an Old Place and release it again to twist the things it touched, there was no control over what was changed. It might cause a new well to go dry, or a cow might birth a two-headed calf, or a field of grain might whither and die overnight... or something living might be changed into something out of a nightmare. A flesh eater. A soul eater. A nighthunter. But there had been no way to control that twisted magic, no way to use it for a specific purpose.

Until now.

Even though he was certain the creature was dead, he approached the cage cautiously.

The squirrel had changed into a nighthunter. Almost. One hind leg, or what was left of it, was still furred.

Unable to escape from the cage to hunt for other prey, the nighthunter had turned on the unchanged part of itself, ripping through flesh, snapping bone .. . devouring while it bled to death.

Excitement shivered through Adolfo. There hadn’t been enough power left in the old witch to complete the change. He would have to soften the next one faster so that her body was still ripe enough with power to provide what he needed.

Despite the creature’s incomplete transformation, the experiment had worked. Before, it had been chance and the strength and number of Inquisitors drawing power from an Old Place that determined the creation of nighthunters.

Now he could create them whenever he chose.

The remains would have to be burned. He wasn’t ready to share this with his Inquisitors yet. Which meant giving the task to someone he could trust to remain silent for the time being.

Ubel.

Yes. He’d have Ubel take care of it.

“And then, my fine Inquisitor,” Adolfo said quietly, “once you’ve seen what’s in this room, look me in the eyes and tell me I’ve gone soft.”