Shadows and Light (32 page)

She mounted her dark horse, gathered the Inquisitors’ ghosts, and rode away. She felt uneasy about traveling along the deeper trails in the woods, but was unwilling to take the road up to the Shadowed Veil until she was away from the land that belonged to Neall and Ari.

When she left the Inquisitors at the Shadowed Veil, she said, “May you find the Fiery Pit you Black Coats seem so fond of,” then galloped back down the road. She let the dark horse set the pace when they were once more following the forest trails, but didn’t breathe easy until they cantered into daylight.

Death called her.

She turned away from the cottage and followed the summons to the old farmer’s barn. She didn’t go inside, didn’t intrude on the grief she felt there. She simply
gathered him gently and went back up the road to the Shadowed Veil. The Inquisitors were gone, and she was glad. The old man didn’t need to see them.

He raised a hand in farewell before he stepped through the Shadowed Veil to follow the path to the Summerland.

“Merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again,” Morag whispered.

She was exhausted by the time she returned to the cottage. Even her dark horse was stumbling with fatigue. Glenn took her horse. Morphia heated enough water so that she could take a sponge bath. She wasn’t as clean as she wanted, but it was the best she could do.

While she ate a bowl of soup, Morphia told her that Neall and Ari had woken up long enough to eat; then, after being reassured that the animals had been cared for and there was nothing that needed to be done, they’d returned to bed.

Glenn insisted on sleeping in the stables. The Fae Lords insisted that she bolt the doors. She didn’t argue with them. She didn’t argue when Morphia led her upstairs to her room and settled in beside her. She listened while Morphia told her what happened at the farm, but, somehow, fell asleep before her sister got around to explaining the feather that had gotten stuck in the lacings.

I
mpatient and uneasy, Ubel followed country lanes and crossed open land until he reached a place where he would appear to be riding up from the south toward Breton. None of his men had returned to the meeting place, and he needed to find out why. He’d been firm about the need to move swiftly and slip away again. They were too far away from home, too far away from the united strength the Inquisitors could wield.

It should have been simple. Kill the witch living in the Old Place. Use the farmer and his family to kill Ashk if she was at the “Clan house.” If she returned to the manor house with the baron’s children, he and the Inquisitor with him were waiting close by to eliminate all of them.

But the four men he’d sent to the Old Place and the farmer’s cottage hadn’t returned, and when he’d heard that strange horn — the sound of it had made him shiver — he’d ordered the other Inquisitor to go to the village and listen for whatever news could be gleaned while buying supplies.

He’d waited as long as he could for the man to return, but the shadows in the woods behind the manor house had become too dark, too deep, and it was no longer safe to stay there. Besides, after that horn had sounded, people started stirring all around the manor like hornets whose nest had been disturbed.

He’d been careful. He’d thought through his plans. His men simply had recognized the difficulty of meeting him near the manor house and had already ridden south to the crossroads posting house, which was their destination after they finished their work in Breton. He’d meet up with the

Inquisitor he’d sent to the village, and the two of them would ride south and meet up with the others. Then he’d decide if they should continue traveling overland or take the road to the coast and go back to Durham by sea.

As he approached a small farm, Ubel saw a man and boy walking beside a pasture’s stone fence. The man looked at Ubel riding toward him, then gave the boy a push on the shoulder. The boy ran to the cottage.

Ubel reined in. The man stopped walking and shifted the ax he carried so that he held it with both hands.

“Good day to you,” Ubel said. “Can you tell me how much farther it is to the road that leads to the seaport town?” It pleased him to think of asking for another town so that no one would think Breton was his destination.

“You passed it a few miles back,” the man said gruffly.

Giving the man a puzzled smile, Ubel shook his head. “I was told there’s one just north of here.”

“Next seaport town is two, maybe three days’ ride from here.”

“Ah.” Ubel paused as if considering that information. “Breton is just ahead, isn’t it? Perhaps I should find lodging there for the night.”

Ubel noticed a hawk fly toward the farmer’s cottage. Circle it. Another hawk glided high in the air — toward the road. Toward him.

Sweat trickled down his back. Surely they were just ordinary hawks. Even if there
were
a few Fae in the Old Place, they’d have no reason to be flying over
this
farm. Unless the boy who had been sent back to the cottage had been told to give some kind of signal that would draw the Fae here?

“They won’t be welcoming strangers in Breton tonight,” the man said. “Nor anywhere else around here. If you’re a decent man, you’d best ride south to the posting house. It’s not so far that you won’t make it there while there’s still daylight.”

Ubel looked around as if confused. He tried not to shiver as the hawk’s shadow fell across the road. “I took this to be a main road. Surely the people around here see travelers all the time.”

“And most of the time we’re friendly enough,” the man replied, shifting his grip on the ax. “But there’s been trouble here.”

“Trouble?”

Grim fury filled the man’s face. “Some of those whoreson bastard Black Coats came to Breton. Killed a farmer and hurt his family. Killed one of Forrester’s apprentices. That’s got the baron’s people and the villagers stirred up.”

Whoreson bastard? How dare this doltish, ignorant
peasant
say such a thing about an Inquisitor?

The man glanced up at the hawk soaring above them. “Word is they also tried to kill Lady Ashk and the witch who lives in Bretonwood. That’s got the Fae riled. I wouldn’t want to be a stranger riding into Breton tonight.”

“Fae? You mean a few of them actually live around here?” Ubel tried to sound interested. Sweat soaked the armpits of his coat.

“A few?” The man stared at him. “The whole Bretonwood Clan lives in the Old Place. That’s a sizable more than a few.”

The forester boy had told the truth about there being a Clan house in the Old Place. How could he have known the boy had told the truth? He’d never heard of the Fae
living
in the human world.

“But…Even if someone, a stranger,
did
kill those people, how do you know it was a — what did you call

them? — a Black Coat?”

“The Gatherer said they were. Guess she would know.”

The reins slipped from Ubel’s suddenly numb fingers. The Gatherer was
here?
“What happened to the man?”

“I’m thinking you’d have to ask the Fae what happened to those men. Or the village magistrate.”

He wasn’t going to ride into that village and ask the magistrate anything. And he
certainly
wasn’t going to get near the Fae — especially when there was a whole Clan out there and the Gatherer was among them.

Ubel gathered the reins. “I think you’re right, good sir. I think it would be best if I went to the posting house to find lodgings tonight. And I…I don’t think I’ll continue my northern journey after all.”

“That’s probably for the best,” the man agreed. “By this time tomorrow, no stranger will be able to step a man’s length anywhere in the west without the barons and the Fae knowing about it — and he won’t be able to do so much as unbutton his trousers to take a piss without having to explain himself.”

“Thank you for your time,” Ubel said weakly. He turned his horse and set the pace at an easy trot. It wouldn’t do to run, to appear afraid. It wouldn’t do to have anyone think he had a reason to hurry.

He could keep riding. He and his men had hired horses and exchanged them at various posting stations on the journey here. He could do the same on the journey back, riding hard since he didn’t care if the animal was sound when he was through with it.

But one man, alone on the roads .

If the farmer was right and news could travel that fast here in the west … If any of his men lived and were persuaded to talk about the man who was their leader for this task .

He needed to blend in with other strangers. A seaport was a better choice for that. And a coach. Surely there were coaches at that posting house that took passengers to the coastal road and the seaports.

Yes. Better to be one among many than a lone rider easily followed.

It wouldn’t please Master Adolfo that he’d lost the men he’d brought with him. It would please the Master even less that he’d failed his task in almost every way. But the winged gifts he and his men had left in the shadows of the woods were starting to stir.

Let the baron and the Fae and all the rest of them deal with
that
.

Ubel scanned the main room of the posting station, certain that his expression conveyed nothing more than anxious concern, yet uneasy about the amount of silent attention every person entering the room was receiving. If he didn’t find —

There. That old woman sitting at a table by herself would suit his plans.

He swiftly crossed the room, shifting his expression to one of relief. Stepping up to the table, he rested one hand on the back of the chair opposite the one the old woman sat in. Seeing the proprietor approaching the table, he changed his expression from relief to confusion, and put all the strength of his Inquisitor’s Gift of persuasion behind his words as he said, “Didn’t you order a bowl of stew for me?”

“And why would I order a bowl of stew for you?” the old woman said sharply. “I don’t know —”She looked up, and as her eyes met his, his gift of persuasion ensnared her.

The proprietor was now standing near the table close enough to hear everything that was said.

Ubel filled his voice with a touch of sadness and worry. “It’s me, Grandmother. It’s Ian. Your grandson. We arranged to meet here so that I could escort you on the rest of your journey to visit relatives. I asked you to order a bowl of stew for me while I took care of the horse I’d hired. Don’t you remember?”

“I —”The old woman studied his face, working hard to remember. “Ian? I don’t … remember. You’re … traveling with me?”

Ubel smiled, looking weary but relieved. “Yes, Grandmother.”

The proprietor looked at both of them in turn, then said to Ubel, “The coaches will be leaving shortly, but there’s time for a bowl of stew and tankard of ale.”

“Half a tankard, if you please,” Ubel said. He pulled out the chair and sat down, setting his saddlebags beside the chair.

The old woman was strong-willed and independent. So much so that every time he gave a little attention to his meal, she shook off enough of the persuasion that all he could do was reinforce the thought that he was her grandson and was traveling with her instead of planting additional thoughts about the journey.

In the end, her own strength worked to his advantage. By the time he led her to the counter where the tickets were sold, she sounded confused and querulous, which made it easier to exchange the ticket she’d already purchased for a coach headed farther inland for two tickets to the seaport.

As he settled her into the coach, he realized he’d get little rest until they were actually on the ship. Once they were at sea, heading for Wellingsford, what she said would make little difference. But it angered him to have a female trying to assert her own opinions instead of being quiet and obedient, so he decided he would spend the time at sea using his gift of persuasion as a hammer against her mind until she was no longer certain of anything.

He settled back on his part of the seat, pleased that he’d found a way to amuse himself on the journey.

S
truggling to push away memories of the previous night, Ashk stared at the sunlit meadow. It was one of her favorite places, the place where her grandfather had taught her, trained her, played with her. She wanted to walk in the sunlight, feel the heat of it seep through her skin all the way to her cold bones. She wanted to follow the trail that led to the small pool where she had met Padrick on a Summer Moon night years ago. She wanted to soak in that water until she felt clean again — and she wondered if she ever
would
feel clean again. If she went there, would the blood and the pain seep into the stones around the pool? Would it settle on the bottom like some kind of emotional slime?

Have you nothing to say about what I’ve done here, Gatherer?

I’ve seen worse things done, and they were done by an Inquisitor’s hand
.

Last night, she had used their own tools against them — not with any skill, since she could only guess at the purpose of many of those pieces of metal, but she had used them while the Fae males who had brought the Black Coats to that thorny, barren place — and the Fae who had joined them — watched in silence and listened to the Black Coats spew out answers to every question she asked, listened to them beg and plead for the next caress of pain to stop.

She wondered how many witches had begged and pleaded for the suffering to end — and how many times the Black Coats had answered those pleas with more pain.

In the end, she’d used her knife because it was the
weapon that felt comfortable in her hand, and she dressed the Black Coats as she would have dressed a deer — but without the respect she felt for a deer whose flesh would feed her people and without the mercy of a swift, clean death before her knife sliced through those human bellies. Their blood splashed her. Their screams filled her ears until there was no other sound. She heard the screams even after she stood over silent corpses.

When she looked at her men, they looked back at her fearfully, even the ones who were predators in their other forms.