The Pillars Of The World (19 page)

The road through the Veil shone in the deepening twilight.

Morag hesitated. It looked safe; it
felt
strong. It was the first shining road she’d found in the handful of days since she’d killed the young man in the black coat and taken the witch up the road that led to the Shadowed Veil. And yet . . .

The dark horse stamped one foot, mouthed the bit impatiently.

“There’s a storm coming,” Morag said quietly. “The sky is clear and there’s no wind, but this place feels hushed, the way a place does when everything has sought shelter to hide from whatever is going to happen.”

She stretched her senses and the magic that was her gift. Death didn’t whisper to her, didn’t stir. Almost as if Death also waited.

Morag looked around, still uneasy.

The road through the Veil beckoned.

“Let’s go to the Fair Land,” she said.

The dark horse needed no urging.

They cantered along that shining road walled by mist.

Little tendrils of mist drifted across the road.

She’d never seen that before.

Was it taking longer than usual to reach the Veil that separated the human world from Tir Alainn?

Shouldn’t she have reached it by now?

A storm was coming. She could feel it.

Mist drifted across the road.

Where was the Veil?

There!

Morag looked at the dark gray wall of mist they were swiftly approaching and clenched the reins. She couldn’t see beyond it. That wasn’t right. The Veil was usually translucent, not opaque. What if it was like that when they were passing through it? Would the dark horse be able to stay on the road if he couldn’t see it? If he misstepped and took them into the walls of mist on either side of the road, they would never find their way back. No one ever had.

The dark horse hesitated. Morag leaned forward, her eyes intent on the Veil. “Go.”

He surged forward. And they were nowhere, surrounded by heavy, thick mist.

No one gathers the souls of those who have slipped into the mist
, Morag thought, fighting against a growing fear as second after second passed and they were still riding through mist.
No one gathers the
souls
. . .
because no one can find them. If I’m lost here, would I be able to find the other lost ones
but not be able to guide them to the road that leads to the Shadowed Veil? Or could I find that
particular road no matter where I am
?

The dark horse snorted, gathered himself for another burst of speed.

They exploded out of the mist. Gently rolling land bordered the road now. Ahead of her, she saw the Clan house rising up out of the land. Unlike the great houses the humans built, boxy and predictable, the Clan houses consisted of many buildings of various shapes and sizes connected by gardens and courtyards, a tumble of living areas for the families that made up a Clan.

Breathing easier, and suddenly exhausted, Morag reined the dark horse back to an easy canter. A minute later, they rode into the first large courtyard, where the stables were.

Dismounting, she looked around. Why had no one come out of the stables to meet her? The stable doors were open, so someone must have heard her arrive. Where
were
all the Fae?

There’s a storm coming.

Shivering, despite it being a warm summer evening, Morag led the horse toward the open stable doors.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting him rubbed down and fed.” The surly voice came from the shadows inside the stable.

“Yes, I do want him rubbed down and fed,” Morag replied.

A Fae male stepped out of the stables. He eyed her with dislike. “Tis suppertime, and I’ve a fine meal cooling on my plate.”

“The quicker you attend to your duties, the sooner you can get back to it.”

“A horse can’t be expected to wait,” he said. “ ‘Tis rude to be coming through the Veil when there’s a fine meal cooling.”

“I'll remember that,” Morag said softly.

He finally looked at the horse. His eyes widened. “That’s a dark horse.” He wasn’t referring to just its color.

“Yes.”

He looked at her again, all the color washed from his face. “You’re—”

“The Gatherer.”

He just stared at her for a moment, growing paler. “I’ll take good care of him,” he whispered.

“I know you will. He’s not just a horse, he’s a friend.” Turning away from the man, Morag untied the saddlebags and pulled them off the dark horse’s back. There wasn’t much in them—a change of clothes, a few gold coins, a comb and brush that she hadn't used in days.

She patted the dark horse’s neck. “Rest well.”

He turned his head and lipped her sleeve.

She stepped back, but waited until the Fae male came forward and led the dark horse into the stables.

She smiled, and knew if the male had seen that smile he would have been terrified by the bitterness and fury it held.

With manners like that, you could be human
, Morag thought as she walked to the steps that led to the first tier of the Clan house. There was another courtyard there, this one splashed with flowers.

What would she do if the matriarchs of the Clan greeted her the same way, forgetting Clan courtesy because she had inconvenienced them during a meal?

Anger grew until it was powerful enough to sweep away anything in its path.

She took a step toward the door leading into the Clan house. A voice, filled with delight, stopped her from taking another.

“Morag! Well met, sister!”

“Morphia!” Morag dropped the saddlebags and rushed toward her sister. They hugged with less restraint than the Fae usually showed in public.

They stepped back at the same time. Morag looked at her sister, younger by two years. The same black hair and dark eyes, almost the same height. But Morphia’s face was softer, fuller, just as her body was rounder and more blatantly female.

She looks like who she is
, Morag thought.
The Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams. If I asked, would
she grant me a gentle night’s sleep
?

“Well met, Morphia,” Morag said.

Her eyes twinkling, Morphia wrinkled her nose. “You need a bath.”

“That isn’t all I need,” Morag said wearily.

The twinkle in Morphia’s eyes disappeared so fast it might never have been there. She glanced around. “

Morag, you’re Fae and, therefore, welcome. But, lately, everyone who has visited here has brought nothing but tales of woe and trouble.”

“Then I’ll tell no tales since I have no better fare to offer. But then, I never do.”

“I do not envy you your gift, Morag,” Morphia said quietly. She took her sister’s hand. “Come. We’ll get you settled into a guest room—and into a bath. Then I’ll bring up some plates and we’ll have dinner.

Cullan will have to do without me for an evening.‘” The twinkle was back in her eyes, somewhat muted but still present.

“Cullan?” Morag grabbed her saddlebags as she and Morphia passed them.
You’re home. This may
not be your Clan house or your family, but you’re back in Tir Alainn. Drop the burden for a little
while
. With effort, she pushed away the uneasiness that wanted to settle its heavy weight on her shoulders and made her voice light and teasing. “So this visit has a purpose? Who is this Cullan?”

“He’s a Lord of the Woods. Not the Hunter, although he’s finely built as stag or man.” Morphia’s voice was much too casual.

You bait me, inviting me to laugh. May the Mother bless you, sister.

“He visited our Clan a few months back, and I decided to repay the visit.”

“That was kind of you. Or is he really that finely built?”

“You may judge for yourself. Tomorrow. After you’ve had a bath.”

Laughing, Morag followed Morphia into the Clan house.

“Did you sleep well?” Morphia asked the next morning while they strolled through one of the gardens.

Morag slanted a look at her sister. “You made sure I would.”

Laughing, Morphia linked her arm with Morag’s. “It was the least I could do for my favorite sister.”

“Your
only
sister.”

“Which is why you’re my favorite.”

Pleased with each other, they walked in silence for several minutes.

“Your Cullan seems like a fine man.”

“Yes, he is,” Morphia said, sounding a little troubled.

Picking up on the change in mood, Morag continued, “He also seems out of place here, not quite part of his Clan.” She winced the moment the words were out. “I apologize. I had no right to speak of a man I met an hour ago.”

“But you’re right. You usually are in your judgment of people.”

“I don’t judge—”

“You do.” Morphia looked straight ahead. “But it’s not really a judgment the way someone else might use the word. It’s just that you look into a person’s eyes, even when those are already clouded by death, and you can
see
who they are, what’s inside them. I’ve wondered if that’s why you tend to keep your distance from most people. I’ve wondered if, sometimes, you see too much.”

Morag said nothing. What was there to say? Morphia was the Sleep Sister, and her gift was welcomed.

But the Gatherer’s presence usually reminded people of mortality and an ending they didn’t want to greet in the present. Only those who were ready to journey to the Summerland welcomed her. And Morphia was right: sometimes she did see too much of what dwelled beneath the mask of flesh.

“Cullan is thinking of coming with me when I return to my Clan.”

“For an extended visit?” Morag asked, wondering if Morphia was thinking about having a child with this lover and wanted him to return with her for that reason.

Morphia shook her head. “To stay. He’s a Lord of the Woods. He doesn’t feel he has a place here.”

When Morag frowned, she huffed out a breath in frustration. “Tir Alainn is the Fair Land, beautiful and perfect. But we have no forests. Why don’t we have forests. Morag? Have you ever wondered?”

“No, I’ve never wondered,” Morag replied softly. “Forests have shadows. Death and Life walk hand in hand there. Forests are beautiful, but they are not perfect. They’re too alive to be perfect.”

“Everyone else in this Clan has all they need right here,” Morphia said, looking at the luxurious garden and the green, rolling land beyond it. “They can use their gifts among themselves or when they visit nearby Clans. They have no need to go through the Veil and touch the human world. But Cullan can’t use his gifts unless he walks in the Old Place, and every time he goes to the human world he feels less welcome when he returns.”

Having a visitor who arrived by coming through the Veil didn‘t please the Fae here either
, Morag thought.
Are they afraid I’ve been contaminated somehow from my contact with humans? That
somehow I’m no longer truly Fae
?

“At least in our Clan, there are many of us who visit the human world and use our gifts as we can, so Cullan could spend time in the forests of the Old Place where our Clan's shining road is anchored and not feel like an outcast when he returns to Tir Alainn.“ Morphia smiled ruefully. ”It seems we have been a bit too free in our mating with the western Clans of Sylvalan and we’re a bit sullied because of it.“

Morag stared at her sister for too long. “I hope,” she finally said with deadly gentleness, “that no one will require the Gatherer’s help while I’m here.”

“Oh, Morag, no,” Morphia said worriedly. “You take the words as a personal insult.”

“Why shouldn’t I, since that’s how the words were meant?” Morag snapped. “What gives them the right to judge who among the Fae we mate with? If other Clans are considered inferior, who
does
this Clan mate with? Themselves?”

“Let’s speak of something else,” Morphia pleaded. “Let’s not spoil the morning. Please.”

They walked in silence again, but this time it was neither easy nor comfortable.

“You’re different,” Morphia said quietly.

“I’ve been Death’s Mistress too many times lately. Too many deaths. Too much pain. Too many unanswered questions. And here are these fools, with their razor smiles, sitting here passing judgment on who is or isn’t Fae by their exacting standards while Tir Alainn itself—”

Morag stopped, squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. She took a slow breath to calm herself, to keep the uneasiness that swirled around her at bay. “Have you ever looked at a pond or a small lake when the water was perfectly still and seen the land reflected in the water? Sometimes the reflection is so clear and so perfect, you can’t see any difference between the reflection and what is being reflected. But there are other times when the reflection is slightly smudged. The lines are soft, a little hazy. Not so much that you would notice it unless you took the time to really look, but enough for you to know that what you’re seeing isn’t real.”

“Is that how you see the human world?” Morphia asked, puzzled.

“No,” Morag said, dread making her heart pound too hard, too fast. “That’s what I’m seeing now. Here.