The Pillars of the World Read online

  “She gave it to a horse.”

  “She made the bargain with you,” Dianna insisted. “And if you want—” She choked for a moment. How could Lucian want one of those females enough to be distressed like this? “If you want the bargain fulfilled, that is your right.”

  “What happened to all the feminine anger toward men who offer nothing but their rods?”

  That was different. They hadn’t been talking about her brother then. But that did explain why the talk had disturbed him.

  “If there was love magic involved, some man was going to have the use of her, isn’t that so?” Seeing him flinch, she regretted saying it that way, but kept pushing. “So why shouldn’t it be you?”

  She felt his anger rising, and knew from past experience he would become completely stubborn and not give in no matter what he wanted.

  “Why are you denying yourself this pleasure?” she demanded.

  “Because she has no choice!” he shouted.

  “Can’t you give her one?” she shouted back.

  Lucian stared at her.

  “Can’t you give her one?” she asked again quietly. She gave him a mischievous smile. “Perhaps she would find the man as interesting as the horse if she had the chance to decide. But if she doesn’t . . . if she truly doesn’t want a lover, you could walk away, couldn’t you?”

  “I—” His body relaxed a bit. “Yes, I could. But I can’t just knock on the door . . .”

  That’s exactly what you want to do. “A traveler, needing shelter, wouldn’t be refused hospitality. And nothing says you have to come empty-handed.”

  Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I be needing shelter?”

  “From the rain, of course.”

  “I’m going to get wet?”

  Dianna smiled sweetly. “Soaked. I suggest you bring an extra set of clothes in your saddlebags.”

  His smile came slowly, but it was warm and real. He kissed her cheek, then left her.

  Alone, Dianna wandered back to the table that held the fruit and cakes, but had no appetite for any of it.

  More of the roads through the Veil had closed. More of the Clans had disappeared because of whatever was devouring Tir Alainn. And they were no closer to finding a way to stop it. No other information had been passed on to Lyrra or Aiden about the wiccanfae and their dark magic, and the only scrap of information that a bard had recently passed on to Aiden about the Pillars of the World implied that, at some time, they had been connected somehow to the House of Gaian. Which didn’t help at all since the House of Gaian had disappeared so long ago and neither Lyrra nor Aiden had any clue about what the Pillars of the World were, let alone where to find them.

  There was nothing she could do about Tir Alainn right now, but there was something she could do to help her brother get the pleasure he sought.

  Dianna left the room. The Fae had long ago lost the ability to command the elements, but with some effort, she thought they could produce a brief storm around a certain cottage.

  Chapter Eight

  Ari winced as heavy thunder rolled over the cottage and the first fat drops of rain hit the windows. Hurrying into her bedroom, she finished latching the inside shutters and drawing the winter drapes across them. Normally she enjoyed watching a storm roll in from the sea, but this one seemed ominous, somehow.

  “You’re getting daft, Ari,” she muttered as she stripped off her clothes and pulled on her heaviest nightgown. “First you talk to horses, and now you think storms have moods.”

  But storms did have moods, and this one made her uneasy.

  A gust of wind struck the cottage hard enough to make the windows rattle.

  Ari froze for a moment, then shook her head. Only a fool would ride out on a night like this.

  She put on clean socks, stuffed her feet into slippers, then put the snug on over her nightgown. Running her hand down the heavy wool, she smiled sadly.

  The snug was her mother’s idea. Tired of shawls that never seemed to stay put, Meredith had taken one of her shawls and sewed up the sides to make loose sleeves. Ari had woven fasteners that could keep it closed with a button. The result was a cross between a shawl and a coat that Meredith, laughing when she tried on the result of their efforts, had said would keep them warm and snug even in the stiffest breeze.

  Another gust of wind had Ari moving into the cottage’s main room. She stood in front of the hearth, breathing steadily as she focused on the wood. The power of fire swelled inside her, making her right hand tingle a little. She banked that power, gently. Raising her hand, she fed the rest of it into the wood. A bit of smoke rose from the kindling. Then a tiny flame flickered, caught more kindling, and grew stronger. She continued to feed that tiny fire until the last log began to burn easily.

  Moving into the kitchen, she sniffed the aroma of rabbit stew and pressed her hand against her growling stomach. She started to smile, but it faded when she looked at the kitchen door with its shiny new bolts and locks.

  How had old Ahern known that her kitchen door had been broken last night? Surely he hadn’t come around last night because it was the Summer Moon? Surely not. He’d never looked at her that way. But in his own gruff way, he’d always been kind.

  He’d said he’d come looking for the gray stallion, and she knew that one came around in the evenings from time to time to graze in the meadow—had been doing so for as long as she could remember.

  But Ahern had never come looking for the gray horse before. In fact, one time when she’d asked him if the horse had strayed, there had been a twinkle in his eyes, shadowed by sadness, when he told her that the gray had strayed a bit too far in its younger years but that time was long past, and that she needn’t worry about the horse. Then he’d given her a searching look and asked if it troubled her to have the gray around. It didn’t trouble her, and she’d told him so. So why had Ahern come looking for the gray last night?

  “Don’t borrow trouble,” Ari told herself firmly, dishing out a bowl of stew. “He was here for the reason he said he was, and because he was, he noticed the door and came back this morning to fix it. If you keep thinking this way, you’ll end up with the headache as well as a stomachache.” She cut two slices of sharp cheese from the wheel, then cut a thick slice of bread from the loaf she’d baked that morning. As an indulgence, she spread what she considered to be an extravagant amount of butter over the bread.

  Bringing her dishes to the table in the main room, she lit a couple of candles. Satisfied with the look of things, she hurried back to the kitchen, took the stew pot off the stove, put the teakettle on, then filled a glass with water to have with her meal.

  Returning to the table, she gave thanks to the Mother for her bounty, then bit into the bread and almost groaned with pleasure. As she chewed slowly, she looked around the room.

  After dinner, she could bring the small loom in from the workroom and sit by the fire and weave for a little while. Or she could sit in the rocking chair that someone had given her grandmother so many years ago and just dream by the fire. Or she could snuggle into bed and get the sleep she needed to deal with whatever tomorrow would bring.

  Like whatever damage the storm may do to the young lettuce and the seedlings you planted in the past couple of days. Or having the root cellar flood because you still haven’t gotten the spell for keeping out water quite right.

  Ari shook her head and picked up her spoon. Borrowing trouble again. She’d never thought about those kinds of spells when her mother was alive because Meredith’s strength had been water. When she’d commanded, water had obeyed. But water spells didn’t work for a witch whose strengths were earth and fire, so Ari had had to learn earth-based spells to keep water out of places it wasn’t supposed to be. Or, more truthfully, was still working on finding the right spell since her efforts so far had achieved limited success. Of course, even her mother might have been challenged by a storm like this.

  A careful nibble confirmed that the stew was cool enough to eat. She dug her spoon
into the bowl and was about to take a mouthful when someone knocked on the door.

  The spoon slipped out of her fingers. She stared at the door, her heart pounding.

  Mother’s mercy! Royce!

  Another knock, more impatient this time.

  With effort, she regained enough self-control to think instead of panic. Even if it was Royce, the warding spells would keep him out unless she welcomed him in. And she had no intention of letting him cross her threshold. But what if it was Ahern, coming to ask for a simple because one of his men was sick?

  “You won’t know by just standing here,” Ari muttered, moving toward the door.

  A third knock made her freeze, her eyes fixed on the latch. The fact that whoever it was hadn’t tried to force his way in gave her courage to open the door.

  It wasn’t Royce, and it wasn’t Ahern. It was a well-dressed, thoroughly wet stranger who was hunched under the roof as far as he could get.

  “Good evening,” Ari said.

  Thunder rolled. Lightning flashed. The stranger glared balefully at the sky, then gave her a small, woeful smile. “Is it?”

  Something about him made Ari hesitate. Despite the rain and the chill wind, seeing him made the cottage feel a bit too warm.

  Well, you can’t leave him standing there. And he’s obviously gentry, so suggesting he bed down in the cow shed wouldn’t be something he’d forgive.

  “Come in and be welcome,” Ari said, using the phrase that quieted the warding spells. She stepped back to give him room to enter.

  He hesitated on the threshold, and she wondered if he could feel the warding spells draw back like a curtain that would close again the moment he stepped into the room. Then he entered the room, moving to one side so that Ari could close the door.

  “I’m . . . grateful . . . for the shelter, mistress,” he said, pushing his black hair away from his face. “It’s a hard night.”

  She could tell gratitude wasn’t a common feeling for him. Not surprising. It wasn’t a common emotion for any of the gentry as far as she could tell. At least he had manners enough to say the word, which was more than anyone in Ridgeley would have said.

  Noticing the saddlebags he carried in one hand, she said, “What about your horse?”

  Surprise—and a hint of amusement—filled his gray eyes. “My horse?”

  “Did you put it in the cow shed?” Ari bit her lower lip worriedly. “There’s straw for bedding, but I don’t keep hay or any feed.”

  “The horse is fine where he is,” the man said, something a little odd in his voice.

  Ari nodded. The man seemed filled with a waiting tension she didn’t understand. His quick glance at the table was explanation enough.

  He’s hungry. The thought made her shiver. Suddenly, she didn’t want to be in the same room with him—at least for a few minutes. Which brought to mind other problems.

  “You should get out of those wet clothes,” she said, then pressed her lips tightly shut. She had nothing to offer him, and she didn’t think it would be wise to have a man sitting around wearing nothing but a blanket and his small clothes—assuming those weren’t wet, too.

  “I have a change of clothes,” he said, raising the saddlebags slightly. He looked at her expectantly.

  There wasn’t much choice. Squaring her shoulders, she gestured toward the half-open door of her bedroom. “You can change in there.”

  Inclining his head slightly, he went into the bedroom and closed the door.

  Pressing her hands against her nervous stomach, Ari glanced down. She groaned quietly, then shrugged in resignation. The ankle-length nightgown was heavy enough to cover her, and the shrug came down to her thighs. There was nothing immodest about her dress, and if a gentry male assumed that barging in on a woman dressed for bed was the same as an invitation, then he could just go back out into the rain and be welcome to it.

  Grabbing her dish of stew, she hurried into the kitchen. Moving the teakettle to the back of the stove, she put the stew pot back on the heat, dumped the contents of her bowl into it, and gave it a stir. She sliced more bread and buttered it, cut more cheese from the wheel. Then she braced her hands against the worktable and closed her eyes.

  Where was she supposed to put him tonight? The upstairs rooms hadn’t been cleaned since last summer. Not even a quick dust and sweep. She didn’t use those rooms, and there were always too many other chores that needed to be done. Even if she made up one of the beds, a fire would be needed to take the chill out of the room, and she didn’t have enough firewood chopped to feed another fire until morning. So she’d have to give him her bed and make up a pallet of blankets by the fire in the main room for herself.

  Dishing out two generous bowls of stew made her hesitate again. She hoped he wasn’t too hungry. She’d counted on that stew providing her with meals for a few days, and the coppers she’d gotten from Granny Gwynn for the simples wouldn’t go very far if she had to buy supplies in Ridgeley. She eyed the sweet bread sitting on the worktable, carefully wrapped in a towel. She’d made it as a “thank you” to Ahern for fixing her door, but maybe she could also get a few eggs in exchange for it?

  She shook her head as she ferried dishes from the kitchen to the table.

  Whatever you do comes back to you threefold. That was part of the witch’s creed. Bounty was given, bounty was received, and the Mother was the most bountiful giver of all.

  She would give the food and shelter she could give tonight with an easy heart, and let tomorrow take care of itself.

  She was putting the dishes of stew on the table when he came out of the bedroom, dressed in nothing more than dark trousers and a white shirt. He carried a bottle in one hand and a small sack in the other.

  “I can offer a little something for the table,” he said, handing her the sack.

  Setting the sack on the table, she took out a small, covered pot and a woven box. Opening both, she studied the contents for a long moment before deciding that they must be some kind of biscuits and a creamed cheese.

  When she looked up to thank him, she noticed the way he frowned at what he’d brought, as if he’d just realized that it was the kind of thing someone might pack if he was taking a leisurely afternoon ride . . . or if he knew he didn’t have to travel far. He could have bought it at an inn where he’d stopped for a midday meal . . . but she didn’t think so. Which made her wonder exactly where he had come from. He could be one of the gentry from another part of Sylvalan who came to Ahern’s to look at the horses he was willing to sell. But Ahern’s farm wasn’t that far from her cottage, so why hadn’t he gone back there?

  “Shall I open the wine?” he asked, watching her with a touch of wariness.

  Nodding, Ari retreated to the kitchen to find some glasses.

  Anyone crossing the road and climbing the first rise beyond it would be able to see Ahern’s place. And anyone caught in a storm could reach it easily enough. Unless he’d lost his direction in the dark and the storm, or was just looking for shelter until the storm passed and he could return to the farm. Or continue on to Ridgeley. Perhaps he was one of Baron Felston’s guests—or a friend of Royce’s.

  Ari shivered.

  She knew quite well what the people in Ridgeley would say if they found out a strange man had stayed the night. As far as they were concerned, witch was just another word for whore. If the stranger mentioned where he’d spent the night, she could well imagine men in Ridgeley, married or not, who would come knocking on the door expecting the same kind of “hospitality.”

  After rummaging in the cupboard for a bit, she found the two remaining crystal wineglasses that had belonged to her great-grandmother. The last time they’d been used was when she and her mother had sat before the fire, drinking a bottle of wine Ahern had given them as a gift for the Winter Solstice. Meredith had died not long after that.

  Ari wiped the dust off the wineglasses and returned to the main room.

  The wine was on the table, open. He was standing next to one of the
chairs.

  “I ask your pardon, mistress,” he said, sounding as if he’d been mentally rehearsing the phrasing. “I should have introduced myself sooner. I am . . . Lucian.”

  A tremor went through her at the sound of his name, and she knew how a trout must feel when it fights the hook but gets reeled in anyway.

  “I am Ari,” she said reluctantly. Names had power, and she hadn’t wanted to give him hers, but his offering his own hadn’t given her much choice.

  Fool, she thought as she set the glasses down and took her place at the table. He doesn’t know you. You could have given him any name but your own. For that matter, how can you be sure that he didn’t do exactly that?

  Now that she thought of it, there had been a moment’s hesitation before he’d given his name—as if it wasn’t the way he usually introduced himself.

  She glanced at him. His fingers rested lightly on the spoon, and he looked at her expectantly. It took her a moment to realize he was waiting for her to begin so that he could eat. Suppressing a sigh, Ari picked up her spoon. More gentry manners she didn’t know about. Although . . . old Ahern wasn’t gentry, and the few times she’d had so much as a cup of tea with him, he’d waited in the same way.

  The stew was too hot for her, so she broke off a piece of cheese to nibble. As soon as she bit into the cheese, he dug into his meal. There wasn’t time to warn him that the stew was hot before he had his mouth full. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t grab the wine to cool off his burning mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled at her. “This is delicious.” It was the only thing he said for several minutes.

  He wolfed down half the bowl of stew, most of the cheese, and a couple slices of buttered bread before she took her first spoonful of stew.

  She bit into a piece of potato, then sucked in little puffs of air to cool off the hot center of it. She thought she was being fairly quiet about it, but he lifted his head instantly to observe her. When she managed to swallow, she said, “How did you eat that without burning yourself?”