The House Of Gaian

greeting.
    “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,