The Pillars of the World ta-1 Page 22

  She picked up the little girl and set her on the dark horse’s back.

  “My sister,” the girl whimpered.

  “You stay here with him,” Morag said. “I’ll find your sister.” And mine.

  As Morag ran toward the Clan house, the fog retreated, then swept in again. The most distant part of the Clan house disappeared—and didn’t return.

  “Mother’s mercy,” Morag whispered. “Morphia.”

  A thin layer of fog swiftly covered half of the Clan house.

  Morag ran faster.

  When she reached a terrace, she skidded to a stop. She couldn’t see into the fog that formed a wall, cutting her off from the house. She hesitated, then thrust her arm inside the fog. The boy had been right. She could barely see her hand.

  “Morphia!”

  She thought she heard a muffled sound nearby. She swept her arm in that direction, hit something, grabbed it, and pulled.

  The boy stumbled out of the fog, bringing the girl with him. They looked at her with terrified eyes.

  “Y-you can’t see in there,” the girl stammered. “You can’t see anything!”

  “Go down to the stables.” Morag gave them a push. “Hurry. Go!”

  Thrusting her arm back into the fog, she walked the length of the terrace, grabbing at anyone who brushed against her.

  “Morphia! Morphia!”

  By the time she paced the terrace twice, she’d had to retreat until her leg was brushing against the terrace wall.

  “Morphia!”

  Morphia would have come out this way—unless she’d gone back to find Cullan and try to persuade him to come with them.

  “Morphia!”

  “Morag?”

  Fog drifted over her. She could barely see her black sleeve—and couldn’t see her hand. Keeping her leg pressed against the terrace wall, she turned far enough to see behind her. And saw nothing at all.

  “Morag!”

  “Morphia!”

  Clamping one hand on the wall, Morag stretched as far as she could, shouting for her sister.

  When she’d almost given up hope, a hand brushed against her outstretched one. She lunged, losing her grip on the wall but finding that hand again. Her heart pounded as she groped for the wall—and her breath came out in a sob when she found it.

  “Stay close to me,” she said, inching her hand along the wall as fast as she dared.

  “I promised that I would, didn’t I?” Morphia replied, but she sounded like she was weeping.

  One moment there was stone under her hand. The next, nothing. She moved her hand back, felt the comfort of stone.

  “We must be at the terrace stairs,” she said, shuffling her foot and wondering if there would be anything beneath her feet when she took the next step.

  “Can you see?” Morphia asked.

  “No, but—” Her foot dropped, pitching her forward. “I did find the stairs.” But there was no stone railing, nothing to guide her hand. She tugged and guided until Morphia was standing beside her. “We get down these stairs and walk straight ahead.”

  Morphia said nothing, just squeezed her sister’s hand.

  They felt their way down the stairs.

  “That’s the last of them—I think,” Morphia said. “Ahead of us is grass, then a garden with a fountain.”

  “Then we go forward,” Morag replied. She counted the paces. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. How much farther? How much time had she spent looking for Morphia? Were they already too late to escape?

  The fog thinned suddenly, enough for her to make out shapes. To her left she could hear the fountain.

  “I know the path through this garden,” Morphia said. “I’ll lead.” She moved forward, guiding Morag.

  Halfway through the garden, they stepped out of the fog and ran down the path until they reached another terrace.

  Morphia turned back. “Mother’s mercy.”

  Morag pulled on Morphia’s arm. “We have to get to the stables. We have to get down the road through the Veil while we can.”

  Morphia pulled away. A couple of pieces of the Clan house were still visible, but the ground around them was thick with fog. “Cullan is still in there.”

  “You don’t know that. If he has any sense at all, he’ll have run.”

  Morphia shook her head. “He cares about me, Morag. He would have tried to find me when he realized the danger. I can’t leave him—”

  “You promised me.”

  “Morphia!”

  They looked up, saw Cullan leaning out of a tower window.

  “Cullan!”

  “Go!” he shouted. “Get away from here! I’ll meet you.”

  Morphia hesitated, looked at the fog.

  Morag gripped her sister’s arm. “You can’t go back into that.”

  “I’ll meet you!” Cullan shouted, waving at them to move.

  Fog danced at their feet.

  “We’re going through the Veil!” Morag shouted back.

  Before Morphia could resist or do something foolish, Morag pulled her toward the stables. By the time they’d taken a dozen strides, they were running.

  “I dropped the saddlebags and food sacks somewhere,” Morphia panted, bracing one hand against a wall when they finally reached the stables.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Morag replied, looking around. The dark horse stood outside the stables. The little girl was on his back, and the boy and girl she’d pulled out of the fog were standing beside him.

  There were no other horses.

  She burst into the stables. A handful of horses were saddled. “What have you been doing?”

  The men eyed her with dislike.

  “What’s the hurry?” one of them said. “Is the world about to end?”

  “Yes,” Morag snapped. “It is.”

  Their mouths fell open. One rushed outside, the others followed.

  Morag slapped the rump of the first saddled horse. “Outside. Go!” Not waiting to see if the horse obeyed, she ran to the rest of the stalls, flinging the doors open, and shouting, “Outside! Go!”

  At the far end of the stable, a horse trumpeted a challenge.

  She ran to that stall, looked inside.

  The stallion pawed the straw. It was a sun stallion, called that because of the golden hide and white mane and tail.

  “We have to get down the road through the Veil before it’s too late,” Morag said. She flung the door open and stepped aside.

  The stallion charged past her. The rest of the horses followed him.

  She ran outside. The Clan house had completely disappeared. A few of the Fae were running toward the stables, but not many.

  The girl was now mounted on the dark horse behind her little sister. The boy was mounted on another horse. Morphia was helping a couple more children mount the horses that were saddled. The grooms were simply staring at the fog in disbelief.

  Morag turned her back on the Clan house. She had tried to talk to the elders, had tried to talk to anyone who would listen. Now there was nothing more to say—and no time to do anything but save what she could.

  She went to the dark horse, pressed one hand against his cheek.

  “I want you to go down the road through the Veil. I want you to lead the others. You know the way better than the rest of them. Take them down to the human world.”

  He laid his ears back, planted his feet.

  “Lead the way,” she said. “I’ll follow behind you. I promise.”

  She felt him relax a little. And she knew that, if he reached the human world and she didn’t appear quickly, he would go back up the road to find her. She just hoped, if she couldn’t keep her promise, the road would close fast enough to keep him in the human world.

  “Go,” she whispered, stepping aside.

  He moved out at a fast walk. She wanted to shout at him to hurry, but the only horse that followed him was the one the boy was riding.

  “Go!” she shouted.

  The horses milled around until the sun stallion nipped on
e and sent it trotting after the dark horse. He nipped another, sending it on its way.

  While the stallion got his mares and the geldings moving, Morag and Morphia helped anyone they could to mount the remaining horses. Mostly it was children too young or frightened to argue. The adults wouldn’t listen to her.

  Morag grabbed one of the younger grooms while Morphia lifted a small boy onto a mare’s bare back.

  “He’s too small to ride by himself,” Morag said. “Get up behind him and take him down the road through the Veil.”

  The groom looked at her with terrified eyes. “I’ve never been down the road. I don’t know how.”

  “The dark horse knows the way. The others will follow. Now go!”

  He mounted behind the boy and sent the horse galloping after the others.

  The only horse left was the sun stallion. He took a step toward them.

  Morag shook her head. She and Morphia changed shape at the same time.

  The stallion whirled, racing after the last horse while a raven and an owl flew above him.

  As they reached the beginning of the road, she heard shouts behind them, frightened cries. Too late, the Fae were finally understanding the danger and were trying to flee.

  Great Mother, let my wings fly straight and true.

  She could barely see the road, and what she could see had shrunk to a narrow corridor. One misplaced hoof and someone would be lost.

  Morphia no longer flew beside her.

  “Morphia!” The word came out in a caw.

  An owl hooted behind her.

  When they reached the Veil, she couldn’t see anything, not even the sun stallion’s golden hide.

  She flew—and wondered if the road was still beneath her or if she had slipped to one side just enough that she would fly through this mist and fog forever.

  Somewhere ahead of her, a horse neighed again and again. She followed the sound.

  The mist thinned. She saw the sun stallion beneath her and a dark shape up ahead.

  Stay there, she thought fiercely. Stay there.

  The sun stallion disappeared.

  Another wingstroke, two.

  She flew over the dark horse’s head close enough for her wings to brush his ears. She glided a few feet before landing and changing shape.

  The road was fading.

  She ran back to it, throwing herself to the ground as Morphia flew out of the mist. She placed her right hand on the road and her left on the ground, digging her fingers into the earth. There was power beneath her left hand, magic enough to hold the road open a little while longer. But she couldn’t find the key to unlock that magic, so she poured what power she had of her own into the road. It gulped down her strength, sucking her dry.

  “Cullan!” Morphia cried. She threw herself on the other side of the road, following Morag’s example.

  She heard some the Fae who were still on the road shouting, screaming. A hawk flew past her. Then a swan. She caught a glimpse of a stag leaping into the human world. And she heard Morphia cry out.

  Then something clamped on her right arm, pulling her hand away from the road, cutting off the drain of her power.

  Her chest cramped. She curled into the pain, fighting to breathe. That made it cramp more, so she rolled onto her back, forcing her muscles to stretch. That hurt, but at least she could breathe.

  She opened her eyes—and stared at the dark face hovering over hers.

  “I’m all right,” she said weakly.

  The dark horse raised his head and snorted.

  “Morphia.” Morag turned her head.

  Morphia was on her feet, staggering toward Cullan, who stared at the road with shocked eyes. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. His arms came around her, but limply.

  Morag struggled to sit up. She looked behind her.

  The road was nothing more than a sparkle in the air, and even that was fading.

  “Oh, Cullan,” Morphia said. “You shouldn’t have looked for me for so long. You could have been trapped there.”

  “I—”

  Morphia had her face pressed against Cullan’s chest, but Morag saw his eyes.

  She is the Sleep Sister, Morag thought sadly. The Lady of Dreams. But some dreams are found in the heart and not in sleep, and even some of the Fae are vulnerable when it comes to those kinds of dreams. He wasn’t looking for you, Morphia. He waited because he didn’t want to believe that what had happened to other Clans was happening to his own. He was leaving his Clan and going with you for his own reasons. Yes, he cared enough to tell you to go, but he wouldn’t have risked himself. If you had been lost, he would have found another lover soon and not looked back. That is our way. She wondered why the truth of that tasted so bitter.

  Cullan looked around. “Is . . . this all of us? All that is left?”

  “This is all who came through the Veil,” Morag said, slowly getting to her feet. She gripped the dark horse’s saddle for support.

  “Why did this happen?” Cullan said. “Why was this done to us?”

  “I don’t know,” Morag replied. “But the answer is here.” This road had ended in a glade. She scanned the surrounding trees, drawing on her diminished power to find another spark of magic. She found one in a tree set a little apart from the others. “I think there’s a dryad living in that tree. She might know something.”

  Near the trees was a mound of barren earth. The ghosts of a woman and a newborn babe sat on the mound, watching them sadly.

  Cold filled Morag as she stared at the grave. She wasn’t sure she wanted her questions answered, but she walked toward the tree, keeping her hand on the saddle for balance. The other Fae followed behind her.

  “I am the Gatherer,” she said when she reached the tree. “I wish to speak to you. Please.”

  Nothing stirred.

  Cullan stepped forward and said in a commanding voice, “I am a Lord of the Woods. You will attend and speak.”

  Silence.

  Then the dryad appeared from behind the tree. There was hatred in her smile.

  “The Lord commands us to attend and speak,” she said. “How grateful we are that the Lord notices us at all.”

  Cullan pointed toward where the road had been. “The road between the Veil has closed. Do you know why?”

  “I know why,” the dryad taunted. “All the Small Folk know why. Don’t the powerful Fae know why?”

  “You will remember to whom you speak and answer respectfully the questions put to you,” Cullan said.

  “Take care, Lordling,” the dryad said. “I’ve killed one man, I can kill another.” Before anyone could respond, she continued, “Why should we tell you anything? You never listen to us. They were the only ones who listened. They cared for someone and something besides themselves. And now they’re gone.” The dryad took a step back. “That’s your answer, Lordling. We have nothing more to say to you.”

  “Then talk to me,” Morag said quietly. “Tell me what happened to the witches.” She heard Morphia’s quiet gasp, and several Fae muttering.

  The dryad studied her. “You’re not from this Clan.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Are you truly the Gatherer?”

  “I am the Gatherer.”

  The dryad hesitated. “If I answer your questions, will you promise to show them the way to the Summerland?”

  “No.” Morag watched hatred flood back into the dryad’s eyes. “I will not use souls as markers on the bargaining table. I will guide them to the Shadowed Veil whether you speak to me or not. But I’ve guided too many witches lately, and I want to know why.”

  The dryad bowed her head. When she raised it, tears filled her eyes. “The Black Coats came. The . . . Inquisitors. They’re witch killers. That’s all they do. Warnings were whispered on the wind, and we all told the witches they should flee. And they were going to, but—” She looked at the grave. “Her time came early. They had to wait for the birthing. The other two, the Crone and the Elder, wouldn’t leave he
r. The Black Coats came with other men while she labored in the childbed.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “They burned the Elder. They dragged her from the childbed and buried her alive, with her legs tied together. We could hear her screaming, but there was nothing the Small Folk could do to help her. Not against so many humans.”

  “And the Crone?” Morag asked softly. “What did they do to her?”

  “They—” The dryad pressed her lips together and shook her head. After a long pause, she said, “We couldn’t save the witches, but we made sure those Black Coats will never harm another.” She looked up.

  “One of them stood under my tree after they buried the witch. I asked the tree for a sacrifice, and it gave it willingly. See where the branch had been? It was big . . . and heavy. The tree sacrificed the branch so fast he didn’t even have time to look up before it fell and crushed his head.”

  “And the other one?” Morag asked.

  The dryad smiled. “Streams are dangerous. It’s so easy to slip and hit your head on a stone and drown. Especially when a stone leaves the sling with enough force to stun and the water sprites hold you under the water. They’re quite strong for their size.”

  “While we sympathize with you for the loss of your friends,” Morphia said, “what does that have to do with the road closing?”

  Morag ground her teeth and wished Morphia had held her tongue. These Small Folk had no liking for the Fae.

  The hate-filled smile was back. “Everything,” the dryad said. A chittering sound in a nearby dead tree caught her attention. “The Black Coats have some magic, too. They have the power to create those.”

  Something black spread its wings and flew toward them.

  Morag shuddered with revulsion. It looked like a nightmarish cross between a squirrel and a bat. When it opened its mouth, she saw needle-sharp teeth.

  The dryad raised her hand, made a hissing sound.

  The creature screeched and returned to its tree.

  “What is that?” Morphia said.

  “We call them nighthunters,” the dryad replied, watching the dead tree. “That tree was alive not so many days ago. But the nighthunters suck life out of things. And they devour souls.” She looked at Morag and smiled. “It must be painful, having your soul torn into pieces and chewed. The Black Coat’s ghost remained near my tree—and they found it. We heard him scream, too.”