The Pillars Of The World

been looking at it without really seeing it. But all the horses’
    attention was focused on that place, even the wounded mare.
    She took a deep breath, breathed out slowly. A sweetness in the air. A richness.
    She had come to an Old Place.
    “Let’s see if there’s anyone home,” she said.
    The dark horse pricked his ears and moved forward at a fast walk.
    She turned him off the road before they reached a low-walled garden, going through the meadow to circle around to the back of the cottage.
    A young woman stood at the well, warily watching her approach.
    I should have used the glamour so she wouldn’t be afraid of being approached by one of the Fae .
    Since the woman had already seen her, Morag dismissed the thought. Besides, she wasn’t in the habit of hiding what she was.
    “Blessings of the day to you,” the woman said.
    “And to you,” Morag replied. So tired. So desperately tired. “Could you spare some water for the horses?”
    “Yes, of course.” The woman turned to fill the buckets on the ground beside the well. She paused. “Who are you?”
    Morag grunted softly as she dismounted. “I’m Morag.” Then she realized that wasn’t actually the question. “I’m the Gatherer.”
    “Oh.” The woman filled the buckets, then set them a couple of paces away from the well. Two mares hurried forward to drink. “I’m Ari.”
    No longer compelled to keep moving, Morag wanted nothing more than to he down in the meadow and let the strength in the land flow into her weary body.
    She no longer felt compelled to keep moving . She looked at the cottage, at the meadow, and, finally, at Ari. “You’re a witch.”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “I’ve—” — never met one of your kind alive . Morag shivered, clutched the saddle to stay on her feet.
    Ari hurried over to her. “Why don’t you sit on the bench and rest.” She wrapped one arm around Morag
    ’s waist and led her over to the bench. “Would you like some water?”
    “Please.” Morag leaned back against the cottage wall and closed her eyes. Some time later—seconds, minutes, hours, she couldn’t tell—Ari said, “Here,” and pressed a mug into her hands. With her eyes still closed, Morag raised the cup to her lips and drank. There was strength in the water, strength in the air, strength in the land. Strength that was still vibrant. Mother’s mercy, it had been so long since she’d felt this.
    After refilling the buckets for the next two horses, Ari stood in front of the bench, twisting interlocked fingers. “Will I have time to say goodbye to some people and find someone to take care of Merle?”
    Morag opened her eyes and studied the woman in front of her. “I see no shadows in your face,” she said quietly. When Ari only looked puzzled, she added, “I didn’t come here to gather. I stopped to ask for water—and directions.”
    Ari’s puzzlement took on a different quality. “I didn’t think the Gatherer would need directions in order to
    ... gather.”
    Morag smiled. “I have a guide for my work, and I hear the call quite well. When that’s not the reason I’m looking for someone, I depend on a map or directions just like anyone else.”
    “Oh.” Ari returned the smile. When the sun stallion bugled a demand for water, she rolled her eyes. “I’m coming.” She hurried to refill the bucket for the sun stallion and the dark horse. Then her eyes lingered for a long time on the wounded mare. “What happened to her?” she asked when she returned to the bench.
    “Nighthunters,” Morag replied wearily. “They devour life.”
    Ari studied the mare a while longer. “Poor thing. Is there nothing that can be done for her?”
    “I don’t know. That’s one of the things I want to find out once I find Ahern. And I have to find the Bard.
    ”
    “Well,” Ari said with a tartness that focused Morag’s drifting attention, “neither will be difficult to find.
    You can reach Ahern’s farm by crossing the road and going over the fields. And the road through the Veil is in the woods beyond the meadow.”
    “How do you know the Bard will be there?” Morag asked slowly.
    “I don’t know if he’s still there, but he came to Brightwood with some . . . friends ... for the Solstice.”

    “Brightwood? Yes, the name fits this place.”
    Ari went back to the well and filled the buckets again. Looking at the wounded mare, she picked up the buckets and walked over to the privy house. The wounded mare followed, each step an