Tir Alainn - The House Of Gaian - Tir Alainn - The House of Gaian Part 82
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Tir Alainn - The House of Gaian Part 82

"Merry meet, Gatherer."

Tears pricked her eyes. "Sheridan," she whispered, then held out her hand.

"Come."

As he floated up to her, he said, "Tell Ashk I've gone to the Summerland,

and"-regret filled his face for a moment-"tell Morphia I hope to meet her again one day."

"I'll tell them."

She couldn't talk anymore. She'd recognized some of the men she'd

gathered, but Sheridan had been a friend, as well as her sister's lover. She wondered if he'd moved away from his body as a kindness to her, so she wouldn't have to see how he'd died.

"Don't grieve, Morag," Sheridan said. "The Summerland has sweet skies for

a falcon to soar in."

Hearing what he didn't say, she was even more grateful that he'd spared her the sight of his body. So she didn't grieve for him or any of the others she'd taken up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She grieved for the loved ones left behind.

Adolfo wasn't pleased to have torches around the small clearing, but the fog and the cover of trees swallowed up too much of the moonlight for him to see without the extra light.

"Put the tether stake in the center and tie the prisoner to it," he said, pointing. "Keep him bound and bridled. There's no telling what abilities a man born of a witch might have."

He smiled grimly as he watched the guards obey his orders- as he thought of the witch who had been his mother, who had betrayed her son's love and trust in order to keep her own power a secret. He thought of the monster his father became when, spurred by his wife's accusations, he tried to beat the magic out of the boy to regain his wife's affection. Most likely, the man had been grateful when the boy, by then a youth, had run away to try to survive in the world on his own.

He hoped his mother's spirit spent a hundred years drowning in one of the Summerland's cesspools-if the Summerland had such places. He hoped his father's spirit was also in a cesspool-a place made from the foul thoughts and feelings the man had harbored for his own flesh and blood. But not the

same one. No, he didn't want them to have the comfort of being together for

any reason, even torment.

When the prisoner was in position, guards brought the witch into the clearing and bound her to the stool. Her wits hadn't returned at all, and her body, despite being so young, was starting to fail. She would be no use to him after he channeled the magic through her this time, but she might live long enough for some of the men to use her. After all, being passed around from man to man was a fitting end for a witch.

"Leave now," he ordered. "Stay away from the clearing. I am shaping a weapon to set against the enemy, and this clearing will be a dangerous place."

He waited until the guards were gone, waited until he couldn't hear even a muffled footstep. Then, using the witch as his channel, he began to draw the magic out of the land.

Morag signaled the dark horse to stop, no longer certain she was moving in the right direction. But Death was out there, ahead of her, whispering. Not the kind of whisper she was used to. This was almost wary, almost a warning. What would Death be warning her about?

She dismounted and moved forward, letting the dark horse follow on his own. Guided by Death's whisper, she walked until she saw flickers of light among the trees. As she moved closer, feelings scraped along her skin. A prickle of warning. A prickle of fear.

Still moving closer, she saw the small clearing lit by torches, saw the shape of a man at the other end of the space, heard the struggling efforts of someone on the ground between her and the man.

She moved through the trees, circling toward the man. Power swirled in the

clearing, but it didn't feel right somehow.

Then the fog tore, and she saw the man clearly. She heard the voice she'd heard once before at the dock at Rivercross. In a moment of pity, and in the hope that mercy shown might produce a seed of mercy inside him, she had let the Master Inquisitor live, leaving him with a dead arm to remind him that there were powers in the world that were stronger than his.

He lifted his right hand, aiming it at the person on the ground.

"Twist and change. Change and twist."

She saw the faint glow of a circle of power. What was he-?

Children. Bad things. No. No!"Become what I would make of thee."Rage blinded her as she charged out of the trees, straight toward him."As I will-"Little flashes of fire in the clearing. The sound of leather snapping as a man hurled himself out of the circle.

"so mote it-"

She was almost on the Master Inquisitor. His head whipped around.

"-beeee."

He screamed the word as she slammed into him, knocking them both into

the circle. His right hand closed on her arm. She screamed as the power he unleashed ripped through her body. He screamed as the power ripped through him as well. The circle crackled with it while they rolled over and over. She tried to gather him, but she couldn't find his spirit in the storm of power.

Then the power was gone. She rolled away from the Witch's Hammer, clawed and scrabbled until she regained her feet and stumbled toward the trees. She almost fell on the man who had hurled himself out of the circle.

Grabbing his arm, she helped him to his feet.

"Come on," she gasped, her voice scraped raw from screaming. "We have to

get away from here."

The dark horse waited for her at the edge of the clearing. The rope that had bound the man's feet had burned through, so he was able to mount by himself and was aware enough to kick one foot out of the stirrups to make it easier for her to swing up behind him.

She brushed her heels against the dark horse's sides. "Get us away from here. Go anywhere, as long as it's away from here."

He turned back into the trees and cantered away from the clearing.

She clung to the saddle as the horse wove through the trees, adding speed whenever he came to some open ground. Pain seared her. The power continued to slash through her, ripping her apart inside.

She had to find Ashk.

It was the last clear thought she had before she felt herself leaning sideways, felt the horse slow, felt the man try to grab her as she slid to the ground.

Adolfo rolled over onto his side, gasping as pain lanced through him.

Bitch. Thrice-cursed bitch. Not only had her interference deprived him of a

valuable weapon, she'd hurt him. Hurt him worse than when she'd turned his arm into dead meat.

A mewling sound at one end of the clearing caught his attention. Made his

mouth water.

Moving slowly, he managed to push himself up to his knees.

Bitch. She'd tried to gather him. He had felt her try. But his power had been

stronger than hers, and he'd won.

More mewling noises. And an unpleasant smell. The useless witch must have soiled herself.He got to his feet, swaying with the effort to stand.He'd fought against the Gatherer ... and he'd won.More pain lanced through him, but he embraced it now, celebrated it. He'd won.

He shuffled toward the mewling sounds coming from the female tied to the stool.

Now he needed rest. Needed something to drink.

Feast!

Something warm. No. Something hot. And something to eat. He was hungry.

So very, very hungry.

Morag jerked awake. Her body felt battered, and little shivers of pain still lanced through her, making her limbs jerk. And there was a thick, unpleasant taste in her mouth.

She heard the dark horse snorting nearby, little fearful sounds.

Groaning with the effort, she pushed herself up to her hands and knees.

Mother's mercy. Her dress pinched the skin along her arms and sides, and

her body didn't feel right. The power in the circle had made her sick. She'd seen some people who had swelled from a kind of sickness. She had to get out of this fog. If she couldn't make it back to the Old Place, she had to find a farmer's cottage, a barn, anyplace they could find shelter for a few hours.