The House Of Gaian (35 page)

Padrick shouldered her out of the way. She chose not to hear what he muttered under his breath while he put the saddle on the nearest rack, made sure the dark horse had feed and water, and led her back to the house. He was still muttering when he pushed her into her room and closed the door with a firmness that was just short of unfriendly.

Morag stared at the door for a long time before she changed her clothes and climbed into bed.

Since Ashk often wore a pleased, lazy smile after spending time alone with Padrick, Morag suspected there were compensations for putting up with the man. But she also decided that every nip Ashk gave him was a nip well deserved.

Jenny stood on the cliffs, staring out at the gentle sea. Fishing boats rode easy swells. She shuddered at the thought of what they might bring up in their nets.

“I thought I would find you here.”

She turned and watched Mihail walk toward her. “You shouldn’t be up yet. You need to rest.”

He smiled and shook his head. “My shoulder and back were burned, not my legs. I needed to move, needed the fresh air.”

Jenny turned back to the sea, felt the warmth of his hand when he rested it on her shoulder.

“If you’re going to brood and feel guilty, I can remind you of all the people who wouldn’t have survived if you hadn’t used the sea to defend us against the Inquisitors’ warships.”

“Will you also remind me of all the people who didn’t survive?” Jenny asked softly. “There are empty chairs around the tables in this village, Mihail. There are empty chairs around the tables in the other Clan houses.”

“That wasn’t your doing, Jenny.” Mihail squeezed her shoulder. “Murtagh made a point of telling me the Fae who were flying around those ships weren’t killed by the sea. Arrows killed them. Or fire if they were splashed when one of those pots of liquid fire struck a ship. They fought for themselves and their land and their way of life just as much as they fought to help us. Just as we would have fought to help them.”

The words washed against a different kind of pain, a different kind of grief, trying to break through and smooth the rough edges of emotion, like the sea’s relentless dance with stone.

“Murtagh said he tried to tell you this, but you weren’t ready to hear it, weren’t ready to accept it. Will you listen now, Jenny?”

Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. “The anger and the grief that swelled the sea and created that storm ... They were mine. They came from me.”

“So did the love.”

She obeyed the pressure of his hand and shifted to face him. “I know what I gave to the sea. What I chose to give to the sea. I didn’t choose love.”

“You didn’t have to choose. It’s part of who you are.” He released her shoulder to rub the back of his neck, and his voice ripened with frustration. “I know the sea, and I know you—and I know how the sea feels when you channel your gift through it. Mother’s mercy, we’ve sailed together enough times. How could I not recognize the feel of you in the water?” When she just stared at him, he swore. “Sometimes you can be as stubborn as stone. So tell me this, Jenny. If there wasn’t love in that storm, how do you explain the two children? A sister and brother. They were on the ship the Inquisitors burned. The children

’s parents threw them off the ship while it burned and broke up around them. Threw them into the sea, doing the only thing they could to spare their children from burning.

“Those children were too young to survive in the sea. They were too far from land and any help, and they were in that storm with nothing but the sea around them. They should have drowned, Jenny. And yet, when the selkies swam out to look for survivors, they found those two children riding the swells. They said there were currents in that water like they’d never felt before—currents that constantly pushed upward, under those children, keeping them in that place where water meets air. The selkies used those currents, pushing the children to one of the boats that had come out to help. When the children were safely on board, the currents disappeared. The selkies didn’t know what to call it. I do. That was love.

“And what about the rest of us? We rode through that storm, too, and we came to no harm. Because the part of you that you never have to think about kept guiding the sea around our ships. Swells that would have destroyed a ship if they’d crested, never crested. We sailed through mountains of water that didn’t tumble in on themselves until the ships were past them. That wasn’t luck, Jenny. That was love. You
have
to know that. This fight isn’t over, and the day may come when you need to shape the sea into a weapon again to save those you hold dear. I’d take that burden from you if I could, and do it with a glad heart, but I don’t have your strength and I can’t command the sea the way you do.”

Mihail put one arm around Jenny, drawing her against him. “So you have to know, sister dear, that if you give the sea your fury to fight against the enemy, love will always flow under it to protect your friends.”

Jenny broke, weeping bitterly as she clung to her brother. It felt as if the sea crashed inside her, fierce waves breaking the foundation upon which she’d built her life, the security she’d always had that her creed was her protection against using her gift to harm instead of help.

“You’ve lost your innocence, Jenny,” Mihail said when her sobs had finally eased back to sniffles. “And I

’m sorry for it. It’s no comfort, but you’re not alone. There will be other witches who will weep bitter tears when they make the same choice and break the creed. But they’ll break it because they must, and they’ll weep to ease the grief in their hearts—and they’ll go on with their lives.”

“It will never be the same,” Jenny whispered.

“No, it will never be the same.”

Jenny said nothing for a while, finding comfort in the steady beat of Mihail’s heart beneath her cheek.

Finally, she eased back, fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, and wiped her face. She looked away, feeling a fresh stab of grief, which had been hidden under the storm but had been raging inside her. “The selkies are afraid of me. Murtagh is afraid of me.”

Mihail laughed.

Jenny stared at him, insulted. “How can you laugh about it?”

“I’m sorry, Jenny. I am. But—” He winced when he moved without thinking. “Mother’s tits. My shoulder is going to be tender for a while.” He smiled at her and shook his head. “I am sorry, but you’re thinking like a woman.”

“And that’s bad?”

“No, it’s just”—he let out a gusty sigh, and winced again— “the selkies sometimes fear the sea, too, with good reason. But that doesn’t keep them away from it. As for Murtagh ... well, his visits to my sick bed weren’t just to keep me company.”

“Then why was he there?”

“He hedged a bit—and I got the impression Murtagh rarely hedges about anything—but the gist of the talk was to find out if I’d have any objections to his visiting us to become better acquainted. And before you say anything that makes you sound dim-witted, I’ll tell you now he really isn’t interested in becoming better acquainted with
me
.”

Jenny turned away and frowned at the sea. “He hasn’t come to his grandmother’s cottage in the past two days. Not even to visit you.”

“That’s because he’s gone to the mainland across the bay to talk to the young baron who rules there, and also to purchase a mainsail for
Sweet Selkie
. They’ve canvas enough to replace the smaller sails that were damaged, but he’ll bring the mainsail back with him.”

“You gave him the coins to pay for it?”

Chuckling, Mihail slipped his arm through hers and started walking back to the village. “Craig gave him the coins for it— and the commission for acting as the family’s agent in the purchase.”

Jenny blinked. “The Lord of the Selkies had to barter with
Craig
to pay for the mainsail and get a commission?” She pitied anyone who had to barter with her cousin.

“Murtagh was ready to pull his own hair out by the time it was done, then insisted that he’d given in only because Craig was still recovering from his injuries.”

Jenny frowned. “Craig didn’t barter well?”

“He bartered as he always does.”

“Oh, dear. Poor Murtagh.” She laughed, but the laughter faded quickly. “Craig will heal, won’t he?”

Mihail looked sad and grim. “He was badly burned, Jenny. His face will always be scarred. But the healers are hopeful that he’ll regain the use of his hand, and there’s nothing wrong with his wits. Time will heal the body, and work will heal the rest. In a few days, we’ll be able to go on to Sealand, and he can set up the stock we have and start to rebuild the family business.”

He didn’t call it home, she noticed. Sealand wasn’t home for him. Not yet. But it was safe harbor. She knew he would wait anxiously for the day when his wife and daughter would be able to leave Willowsbrook and join him there. Then Sealand would be home.

She hoped that day would come. She hoped Mihail’s family and Fiona and Rory and the others had made the journey to Willowsbrook safely. And she hoped they would remain safe despite whatever battles were raging in the eastern part of Sylvalan.

Ubel nursed his hatred until it was a living thing crawling inside him.

They had chained him—
him! The Master Inquisitor’s Assistant
!—as if he were an animal. The shackles around his ankles and wrists jangled with every movement, dragged the straw that had been put down on the warehouse floor as rough bedding under the thin blankets they’d been given. A handful of chamberpots, emptied twice a day, kept the men who had survived the destruction of Wolfram’s great warships from living in their own filth, but there was no privacy. Every time a man unbuttoned his pants to squat over one of those pots, those bastards—those cold-eyed, silent Fae—watched him.

Their prison inside the warehouse had no walls, just crates no more than waist high to mark the perimeter. Even in chains, it wouldn’t take much effort to get over the crates, but any man who tried to escape was dead before he’d taken two steps, arrows bristling out of his chest and back. The Fae didn’t warn or wound. They simply killed. Baron’s son, minor gentry, soldier, sailor, Inquisitor. It didn’t matter to them.

There was no way past these cold-eyed Fae. They didn’t speak, not even among themselves, while they stood guard. His men couldn’t get close enough to fight them, and his Inquisitor’s Gift of persuasion had no effect on them. Humans didn’t come into the warehouse—at least, they didn’t come in far enough to be useful to him. And the one time he’d managed to snare a human youth’s will by raising his voice as if to offer encouragement to his fellow prisoners, the young man was pulled out of the warehouse as soon as the Fae realized the human had been ensnared—and a Fae Lord with eyes colder and more dangerous than the sea came in a little while later and told him that if he raised his voice again, they would cut out his tongue and feed it to him.

He believed the bastard.

So he nursed his hatred and waited, waited, waited for the enemy to come to him. Because there were barons’ sons and minor gentry among the prisoners, because the baron who ruled this piece of Sylvalan was so young and inexperienced in doling out harsh punishment, a message had been sent to Padrick, the Baron of Breton, to assess the prisoners, to pass judgment.

The enemy he had failed to punish the last time was coming within his reach. He wasn’t a fool. Killing Padrick would guarantee his own death, but destroying Padrick would be a deep wound to western Sylvalan. And when the Master Inquisitor conquered this part of Sylvalan, Adolfo would hear of it and know his Assistant had served him well to the last breath.

Breanna walked into the kitchen and almost walked out again. Too many people. Too much heat. Too much confusion. Too much noise. Keely and Brooke were sitting at one end of the long work table, shelling peas and chattering as if they could actually hear each other. Fiona and Glynis were dealing with some crisis around the stove, which meant they’d give her snappish replies if she asked them what, if anything, was supposed to be done with the big kettles simmering on the stove in the summer kitchen.

Elinore was at Liam’s house that afternoon, responding to pleas from her son’s housekeeper and butler that someone needed to provide the servants with some instructions for dealing with so many important guests—and Liam’s response to household questions, Elinore had told her dryly, was a distracted look and a promise to look into matters soon ... which meant never.

She needed to tell some other passably sane adult that Idjit, living up to his name, had gobbled something he shouldn’t have eaten, thrown up on the flagstones in front of the summer kitchen, and one of the boys helping Clay with the horses, too intent on sneaking into the kitchen to grab a snack, had slipped in the mess, hit his head on the edge of a work table, and was now on his way to the village physician with Clay and Falco to have his head stitched up.

And why was Jean standing in the corner of the kitchen with that smug, I-know-something-you-don’

t-know smile?

“Where’s Gran?” Breanna asked, raising her voice enough to be heard.

Her face flushed with heat, Fiona turned away from the stove. “She went upstairs about an hour ago. She was sitting here, having a cup of tea while we talked about what to serve for the evening meal. She said the tea tasted odd, poured out the rest of it, and went up to her room to lie down for a bit.”

Breanna headed for the door that led into the rest of the house. Pausing, she looked back. Jean watched her, eyes bright with something Breanna would have called malicious glee.

Shaking her head, she left the kitchen and walked to the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. She didn’t like Jean—liked the girl even less with each passing day. But they were stuck with each other, so she’d have to grit her teeth and try to be more tolerant of adolescent snits.

Breanna tapped on her grandmother’s door. When she didn’t get an answer, she slipped into the room.

Nuala was lying on her side, asleep, a summer quilt pulled up to her waist.

As she moved closer to the bed, Breanna’s nose twitched at the smell. Was Nuala more ill than they’d realized? Had she soiled herself in her sleep, unable to rouse enough to reach the chamberpot?

“Gran?” Breanna said softly. The hand reaching for her grandmother’s shoulder froze as she stared at Nuala’s face, then at the chest that did not rise nor fall. “Gran?”

No sound. No flutter of breath. No flicker of movement, not even a twitch of an eyelid. And cold skin.

Cold, cold skin.

Breanna backed out of the room, shaking her head. She clung to the banister as she walked down the stairs because her legs suddenly had too many joints and moved in strange, unpredictable ways.

She would send someone for the village physician. She would send one of the Fae to find the closest healer staying in the camps with them. They would know what to do. Gran was ill. Very ill. But they would know what to do because Gran was ... Gran was...

She was standing in the kitchen, with no memory of walking from the staircase to the kitchen door. Too many people. Too much heat. Too much confusion. Too much noise.

Then Selena, Ashk, and Liam walked through the back door, and no longer were there too many people.

Strength had walked into the room. But there still wasn’t quite enough air to breathe, everyone but those three people were blurs of color and movement, and voices were nothing more than sounds until Liam said sharply, “Breanna?”

Things began to slip back into focus. She saw the chair that was pushed away from the smaller work table in front of her, as if someone had been sitting there recently and hadn’t bothered to push the chair back again. Saw Fiona turn in response to the sharpness in Liam’s voice—turn and look at him before looking closely at her. Saw Keely rest a hand on Brooke’s arm, signaling the girl to be quiet.

“Breanna?” Fiona said. “Is Nuala awake? Would she like a bowl of soup or another cup of tea?”

Tea.

Breanna looked at Jean, who still stood in the corner, wearing that smug smile and watching her.

Clarity became knife-edged.

“What did you put in the tea?” Breanna asked calmly, staring at Jean.

Jean shifted her feet, the smile changing into a pout. “I didn’t make any tea.”

“What did you put in the tea?”

“Breanna?” Liam said, taking a step toward her.

She took a step closer to the table. “Nuala said the tea tasted odd. She didn’t drink all of it, but she drank enough.” Another step. Close enough now to jump from chair to table to—“I’m going to rip your heart out with my bare hands, just to see if you really have one.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Jean wailed.

“Breanna.” Now Fiona’s voice had turned sharp. “Is something wrong with Nuala? Is she ill?”

“Nuala is dead.” Breanna’s voice broke. Her control shattered. “You little bitch,
you killed my
grandmother!
”

Chair to table, and she was flying through the air straight at Jean. Strong arms caught her around the hips, hauling her back.

Kicking and flailing, she screamed her grief and rage. “You killed my grandmother!
You killed her
!”

Her legs buckled. The strong arms that had held her back now eased her to the floor, wrapped around her to hold her close as she howled her pain.

“I’m sorry, Breanna,” Liam murmured, his voice more a rumble in the chest she was held against than words she understood.

Keely, yelling, “Mama! Mama!”

Fiona, shouting, “Keely! No!”

Someone brushing past her, someone with strength as formidable as earth.

Ashk, implacable, saying, “Get out of here. Stay out of the house until we get her calmed down.”

Aiden’s voice, and Lyrra’s. Part of a swell of voices lost in the waves of pain.

Another voice saying, “Are you sure? She needs to grieve.”

Ashk. “Yes, she does. But not like this.”

A woman’s hand on her hair. Gentle. “Sleep now. Sleep.”

She tried to fight against it. “I’ll die.”

“I’ll keep watch over you until Falco returns,” Liam said. “We won’t let you die. I swear it.”

The woman’s voice again. “Sleep now. Sleep.”

Nothing she could do but follow that voice. Nothing.

Selena moved away to the window, leaving Ashk standing at the foot of Nuala’s bed.

“Is Breanna right?” Ashk asked. “Did the girl put something in the tea, intending mischief but resulting in this?”

“I don’t know,” Selena replied, moving the curtain enough to watch the people milling around on the back lawn. “I stayed away from the girl as much as possible.”

“Why?”

She let the curtain fall and turned to face Ashk. “Because every time I saw her, I wanted to change into a shadow hound and tear her throat out.”

Ashk stared at her. No revulsion, no criticism in that look. Just assessment.

Finally, Ashk stepped away from the bed and blew out a breath. “If your instincts were that strong, the girl’s lucky to be alive.”

“And I’m wondering if I have reason to regret not following that instinct.”

Now Ashk’s look sharpened. “Don’t think that way. If we find proof that Nuala’s death was not natural, then we’ll deal with it. But you and I can’t afford to be swayed by Breanna’s grief. We hold too much power, Huntress. When
we
pass judgment, there is no turning back.”

“I know.” Selena looked away.

Ashk raked a hand through her short hair. “Besides, we have a more immediate problem. At this time of year, it’s too warm to let the body remain above ground while people call to pay their respects. We have to give Nuala back to the Great Mother.”

Selena nodded. “Breanna will choose the place.”

“And we’ll have to have watchfires around it at night. And guards. Fae who have good night vision in their other forms, archers who can shoot clean in the dark. And someone there with the gift of fire.”

She shook her head, puzzled.

“There are nighthunters still out there, Selena,” Ashk said with biting patience. “They don’t just devour flesh and blood. They feast on the spirits of the dead. There aren’t any Fae here who are Death’s Servants. They’ve all headed north or south since that’s where the fighting is. I’ve sent a call to have some of them return here, or have some from the midlands join us here, but until there’s one of them among us who can take Nuala’s spirit up the road to the Shadowed Veil, she is still prey for those creatures. So we have guards. We keep watch. We protect our dead until they are safely out of reach.”

A chill went through Selena. “The men who made the first attack on Baron Liam’s estate. Their ... ghosts

... might still be there?”

“Where the bodies are buried, yes.”

“But there’s no way to tell?”

“Not until one of Death’s Servants—or the Gatherer—joins us.” Ashk paused. “Would it ease your mind if we put guards around those graves as well?”

Selena hesitated, then shook her head. “We can’t risk too many of the living when the battle is still ahead.

There will be more dead before this is done.”

“Yes,” Ashk said quietly, “there will be.”

Jean ran across the bridge that spanned Willow’s Brook, then stopped, no longer sure where to go. Her first thought had been to run to Baron Liam’s house and tell Lady Elinore how mean Breanna had been to her. But Elinore would want to know why Breanna had gotten angry. If she lied, Elinore would know, and if she told the truth, Elinore would forget all about her and hurry to the Old Place to comfort Breanna.

She headed for the field, refusing to even look in the direction of the
baron’s
house.

For a moment, there in the kitchen, she’d thought Liam was protecting her from Breanna’s vicious attack.

But, no,
he
just wanted to comfort that...
bitch
.

It was
always
Breanna. Mean, nasty, spiteful Breanna. Always wanting her to do
chores
. As if she were some
servant
. And here she was, walking through these fields wearing her best dress— which she’d spent
hours
pressing because Nuala had refused to order one of the other women to do it. So she was
ruining
her best dress and hadn’t even gotten the chance to let the Bard see how pretty she was and
so
much more interesting than that homely red-haired woman he was sleeping with. How
could
he want to sleep with a woman who looked like that?

He hadn’t noticed her because Breanna had to grab everyone’s attention. Poor, poor Breanna. Nobody was saying poor Jean, were they?

And it
wasn’t
her fault. She hadn’t meant to hurt Nuala, but the old woman had been so
mean
about the dress that she’d wanted to get even. Just a little. It had been so easy to slip into the tea a pinch of the crushed plants she’d had in a handkerchief in her dress pocket. And Nuala was supposed to have spent the day sitting on her chamberpot. She wasn’t supposed to
die
. But...

Jean stopped walking, put both hands in her dress pockets, and carefully pulled out two rounded handkerchiefs.

Could she have gotten the handkerchiefs mixed up and put the foxglove mixture in Nuala’s tea?

She stuffed the handkerchiefs back in her pockets and walked faster.

That
mixture had been for Breanna. Or Falco. Or both.

Breanna was so stupid. She’d had sex with Falco. He’d even taken her up to Tir Alainn to do it to her, and all she’d gotten out of it was his cock making her wet and messy. No gold necklace. No rope of pearls. Not even a
bracelet
. Stupid Breanna.

Well,
she
wasn’t stupid. And she was
not
going to go back and have Breanna and Fiona be mean to her.

No,
she
was going to have
everything
. She’d find a baron’s son, a baron’s heir—a
wealthy
baron’s heir. And he’d see how pretty she was and know she was too special to do
chores
like some
common
woman. He’d hug her and kiss her, and whenever he wanted sex, he’d give her presents.
Lots
of
wonderful
presents. She’d have carriages and beautiful gowns and jewels. And
then
she’d go back to the Old Place, and Breanna would be so envious of all the things she had that mean, stupid Breanna would choke. She’d just choke.