Shadows and Light (38 page)

“That is correct. We’ve plenty of people who need to be fed,” Nuala said. “Two more won’t make any difference. You’re staying, as well, Liam. Spare yourself the trouble of arguing. The decision has been made.”

For the first time since yesterday, when Elinore and Brooke had come racing up to the house, Breanna had to fight a smile as Padrick sank back into his chair and sipped the now cold tea.

“I daresay you are not accustomed to being spoken to that way,” Nuala said.

Padrick choked a little as he swallowed the tea. “You wouldn’t say that if you met my wife.”

Nuala smiled. “I hope to have the pleasure one day.”

I
an? Ian, where are you?”

Ignoring the old woman’s confused, almost tearful call, Ubel slipped through the crowd of people on the docks and headed briskly for the posting station to see if there were any horses available for hire. Or, if the mail coach was ready to leave, perhaps he could obtain a seat instead of waiting for one of the passenger coaches. No. A horse. He’d had enough of being crammed in with this Sylvalan filth. And he didn’t want to take the chance that the old bitch who was looking for him might be escorted to the posting house before he could leave and try to latch on to him now that she was no longer useful.

Ian. A filthy Sylvalan name. But it had served its purpose, just as the woman had. Just tools to discard now that he was through with them.

He found the posting station. The horses available for hire looked like barely adequate, rough-gaited animals, but he settled for what he thought was the best of them, tied his saddlebags behind the saddle, and made his way through Wellingsford until he reached the road that would take him east to Durham — and to Master Adolfo.

As he kicked the horse into an easy canter, Ubel smiled coldly. He had gotten out of the west, had gotten away from the Fae. Master Adolfo wouldn’t be pleased that he’d lost the Inquisitors he’d brought with him, but he thought his report on the Fae’s active presence in the west would mollify the Master Inquisitor’s displeasure over the loss of the men. After all, even Adolfo hadn’t been successful in his confrontation with one of the Fae.

S
nort.

Stamp
.

Aiden looked at the dark horse standing several feet away from him. Sighed. Put the saddle on the ground. Tried to ignore Lyrra’s muffled giggles as she saddled her mare.

“All right, Minstrel,” he said. “One song — a
short
song — and then we have to go.”

Minstrel, the dark horse, tossed his head.

Aiden took a breath.

Minstrel pricked his ears.

Aiden sang the fifth and sixth verses of the tavern song he’d been singing as “a short song” for the past two mornings. When he got to the chorus, he remembered to give it the same hearty enthusiasm as he would have in a crowded tavern to encourage people to sing along.

Minstrel bobbed his head and made odd little sounds, as if he were trying to find a way to sing along.

Aiden finished the last note, gave Lyrra an irritated look when she grinned at him and applauded, and picked up the saddle.

Minstrel walked over to him, a sure indication there would be no sulking this morning. But as Aiden got Minstrel saddled, he also noticed the horse mouthing the bit a little too thoughtfully, and he decided to do the last four verses of the song tomorrow. If Minstrel somehow figured out he’d been given
pieces
of a song every morning instead of a whole song .

You couldn’t catch a dark horse that didn’t want to be caught. You couldn’t ride a dark horse that didn’t want to
be ridden. And a dark horse that was sulking could rattle a man’s bones instead of giving a smooth, sweet ride.

But, Mother’s mercy, the horse had more passion for music than any wide-eyed apprentice he’d ever worked with. Which was why he’d started calling the horse Minstrel, even though the Fae weren’t in the habit of naming animals. At least with an apprentice, he could smile and decline to indulge the child with a song. He rarely declined, but he
could
. Minstrel simply kept trotting out of reach, refusing to be saddled until he got his morning song. In a battle of wills, Aiden was quickly learning he was no match for a stubborn dark horse.

Ah, well. As Lyrra had pointed out yesterday, he was used to singing for his supper. Now he just had to sing for the saddling, too.

After checking the girth once more, Aiden mounted. Gathered the reins. Noticed that Minstrel was still mouthing the bit far too thoughtfully.

Then he looked at Lyrra and saw the smile on her lips, the laughter in her eyes. The little comedy he and Minstrel played out every morning had done her more good than decent meals and restful sleep, and for that he felt grateful. By tomorrow, they would reach the western Clans. Once they crossed the boundary that divided those Clans from the rest of the Fae, he didn’t think they’d get much rest.

M
orag and Ashk studied the two dead trees and the partially eaten bodies around them. Birds. Squirrels. Even a young fox. “You’ve seen this before?” Ashk asked quietly. She looked at the surrounding trees — and kept her fingers on the bowstring, ready to draw back the loosely nocked arrow.

“I’ve seen this before,” Morag replied. “Where there were nighthunters.”

“So the Black Coats did leave some of their foul magic behind.” Ashk went back to studying the dead trees. “Those trees weren’t dead a couple of days ago. The Clan has stayed watchful. The hunters have ridden out every day, checking the trails, looking for signs of these creatures. None of them noticed two trees that were suddenly dying or animals killed and then left to rot.”

“I think they consume the blood first. That’s what they prefer to devour — and the spirit once the body dies. They eat the flesh last, if they’re still hungry.” But even if the victim managed to escape, the bites would fester and rot the flesh around them. A slower death, but death nonetheless. Remembering the nighthunter attacks she had managed to evade, Morag shuddered. Her gift as Death’s Mistress could do little against the creatures since there was nothing in them for her to gather. Releasing her gift would only stun the nighthunters, but it would kill any other living creature that was around them.

“None of those kills are fresh,” Ashk said. “But they didn’t happen that long ago, either.”

“They’ve moved on,” Morag said, turning in a slow circle, listening. Listening. “Once they kill the tree they’re nesting in and can’t draw anything more from it, they move on, find another tree for the nest. There are a lot of them. Somewhere in the Old Place, there are a lot of them.”

Ashk gave her a considering look. “Why do you say that?”

“They killed too much too fast. There was no sign of them yesterday. At least, nothing we could see and recognize. Now, today, there are dead trees and devoured animals. There has to be a lot of nighthunters to consume so much so fast.”

“This is close to Ari and Neall’s part of the Old Place.” Ashk let out a huff of air. “Which direction did they go? Is it possible that enough of them were created that they’ve formed more than one nest?”

Shivering at the thought, Morag shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“We’re going to have to find out. Let’s get back to the Clan house and warn —”

Aflutter of wings made Ashk whip around. Before she finished turning, her bow was drawn back, the arrow ready to fly.

The raven that had just perched on a tree branch let out a startled caw.

Ashk lowered the bow and carefully eased the tension on the bowstring. “Report.”

The raven fluttered to the ground and changed to a flustered adolescent girl. “I thought you should know that Evan and Caitlin went out riding. Evan said there were a couple of things he wanted to get from the manor house, and Caitlin said she needed some things, too.”

Temper blazed in Ashk’s eyes. “I didn’t give them permission to go out riding, let alone ride to the manor house.”

“That’s what we told them, but they were mounted and
ready to ride out before any of us noticed that they hadn’t just gone into the stables to groom their horses. We
told
them not to go, but Evan insisted that they couldn’t come to any harm since it was daylight and you’d defeated the Black Coats.”

Ashk bared her teeth and snarled.

The sound, coming from a human throat, startled Morag enough to stop thinking. In that moment, when her mind was blank and open, she heard Death’s whisper.

“Owen went with them. They said they didn’t need an escort, but he rode out with them anyway.”

Morag pictured the young Fae male. Death crooned a warning.

“We have to go,” she said, pushing past Ashk to reach the place on the trail where her dark horse waited for her. “We have to find them.”

They’d left the horses at a place where a game trail crossed the forest trail the Fae rode. Had left them there because the horses had picked up the scent of death even before Ashk, with her keen sense of smell, had.

Now Morag flung herself into the saddle, hearing Ashk, behind her, telling the girl to warn the Clan that signs of the nighthunters had been found. The dark horse turned on his own and trotted up the game trail, waiting for Morag to gather the reins and shove her feet into the stirrups before changing to a canter.

This way
, Morag thought.
Yes, this way
. It wasn’t the same path the children would have taken, but it was going in the right direction.

She heard the pounding of hooves behind her. Knew that Ashk had caught up.

Foolish children. What made them think they were beyond Death’s attention? They
knew
there were dangers in the woods, even at the safest times.

But they were children, and they still believed there were no shadows in the light, just as they probably
believed there was no light in the shadows. It would take a few more years before they understood you didn’t have one without the other.

Great Mother, let them have those years
.

A break in the trees. A narrow clearing.

The dark horse stretched into a gallop.

She heard a male voice scream, broken by fear and pain. She heard other voices scream, young and high pitched.

And Death summoned.

Too late. Too late
.

“This way!” Ashk yelled.

They rode hard, weaving through the trees with reckless speed until they burst out into daylight. And saw.

“No!” Ashk screamed.

A moment caught by the eye, frozen by memory. Morag knew she would see it for a long time whenever she closed her eyes.

A small horse galloping away from the edge of the woods, the rider clinging desperately to the saddle, the horse running for the place it still remembered as
home
, the place that meant safety. Running back to Neall.

Two riderless horses galloping after the small horse.

Owen, still thrashing weakly, covered with winged, black bodies tearing at his flesh, gulping down his blood.

Evan on the ground, the small knife in one hand raised in an effort to defend himself from the swarm of nighthunters that were almost on him.

And the stag, with nighthunters already covering its haunches, leaping into the swarm, drawing the creatures’ attention away from the boy by offering them that big, powerful body.

Then Ashk was gone, her saddle empty, the bow and quiver of arrows on the ground beside her trembling horse.

And a snarling shadow hound raced for the boy.

Morag reined in hard. Tumbled out of the saddle. Ran back a few steps and grabbed the quiver of arrows. The bow wouldn’t do her any good, but the arrows …

The stag, almost completely covered by nighthunters, tossed its great head, catching two nighthunters on the tines of its antlers as it tried to dislodge the creatures closest to its eyes and throat. It went down, rolling to crush some of the nighthunters under its weight. Got back up on its feet and kept struggling, fighting.

The shadow hound reached Evan. He yelped when her teeth sank into his shoulder, nipping flesh along with the shirt and coat. She pulled him back a few feet, away from the nighthunters still flying around trying to get a piece of the stag who kept pivoting, kept swinging its head, using the antlers as a many-pronged knife. Then the shadow hound changed back to her human form and pulled the large hunting knife out of the sheath in her boot.

There was nothing Morag could do for Ashk and the boy, but there
was
something she could do for Owen. Pulling an arrow from the quiver, she ran toward him. Sensing the moment when his body gratefully yielded to Death’s caress, she gathered his spirit and pulled it away from the dead flesh before the nighthunters could begin to feast on it.

Narrowing the focus of her gift, she released it straight at the dead body. The nighthunters rose up, squeaking — and headed right for her.

They were bigger, stronger. Twice the size of others she’d seen. Mother’s mercy!

She released her power again.

Two nighthunters veered off, flying erratically for the shadows of the woods. The others fell to the ground, squeaking and flopping around.

Not much time, Morag thought as she ran toward them. She drove the arrow through the body of the first one she came to, pinning it to the ground. Pulling out another arrow, she drove it into the next body, jumping back when it tried
to lunge and sink its sharp teeth into her foot. Again and again, she drove an arrow through a black, winged body until all those nighthunters were pinned to the ground.

Glancing at the woods, she quickly moved away from the trees. The nighthunters didn’t like daylight, but if prey was close enough, they’d dart out of the shadows to feast.

She turned toward Ashk, not sure what she could do — and saw the remaining nighthunters abandon their prey and fly back toward the safety of the trees; saw the stag stumble for a couple of steps before it bounded away, blood flowing from wounds that were already turning dark and rotten; saw Ashk, her face stark with a kind of brutal beauty, splattered with gore from the nighthunters that had come within reach of her knife, standing over her son; and, with some surprise, saw Neall, mounted bareback on Shadow, releasing an arrow and bringing down another nighthunter before it reached the trees.