The Pillars Of The World

Darcy, however, immediately turned, crowding up against Neall.
    “Step back,” Neall hissed as he shut the stables door, leaving just enough of an opening to peer through.
    “And keep quiet. We don’t want Ahern to have trouble with the baron. Especially now.”
    Darcy snorted but stopped shoving against him.
    Neall watched the riders approach. Some were obviously guards. They carried themselves like men who had been trained to fight. Two younger men wore black coats. But it was the older man riding beside Felston who made Neall’s belly twist. A lean-faced, balding, strong-bodied man whose dark-gray clothing made him look severe.
    No, Neall decided. It wasn’t just the clothes that made the man look severe. It was the face, the way he carried himself. Just seeing him made Neall shiver.
    Take care, Ahern. Whoever he is, take care.
    Adolfo gave the farm a casual, sweeping look before he dismounted. The place stank of magic so strong it almost overwhelmed his ability to sense the men who now gathered to meet his group of riders. All the men working here were Fae—or at least had some Fae or witch blood in them. He knew the feel of those kind of men well, had trained himself to sense them. It was what he looked for in his apprentice Inquisitors. Magic had to be fought with magic, and those who had been forsaken were always the keenest to even the scales.
    But having so many here who had the potential for magic meant the older man who stood waiting for them knew what they were and had let them stay. Which meant he was probably just like them, probably the strongest among them. And that meant he had to be dealt with carefully—until he could be dealt with completely.
    “A good morning to you,” Adolfo said pleasantly. “I am addressing Master Ahern, am I not?”
    “What do you want?” Ahern replied.
    “I understand you have some of the finest horses in this part of Sylvalan. I have a need for good mounts for myself and my men.”
    “There’s nothing here that would suit you.”
    “Now see here,” Baron Felston sputtered. “Master Adolfo is an important man.”
    “If he’s with you, I know exactly how important he must be. So let me rephrase what I said: There’s nothing here for the likes of you.”
    “I don’t believe you understand who I am,” Adolfo said, his voice quietly menacing. Then he stopped. As much as he would like to give the man a reason to fear him, it was better to wait for the right moment. It would come soon enough.
    Ahern smiled, giving his face a feral quality. An icy fist curled around Adolfo’s spine—and squeezed.
    “I understand well enough what you are,” Ahern said.
     
    “And what is that?”
    “The face of evil.”
    Adolfo felt the blood drain from his face. “How dare you say that to me?”
    Ahern took a step forward, leaned toward Adolfo. “You’re a killer. A butcher. A destroyer of all that is good in the world. Oh, yes, I understand well enough what you are.”
    Hearing the uneasy shifting of feet of the men who had come with him, Adolfo stiffened. “You will regret those words.”
    Ahern smiled grimly. “Go while you can.”
    As Adolfo mounted his horse, he began to summon his power. He would twist some of the magic here into a few nighthunters. Let that bastard see how well he could deal—
    “Go!” Ahern shouted.
    The horses wheeled and galloped down the lane, refusing to yield to spur or bit until they were back on the main road. During that ride, Adolfo hung on grimly. So did the other men.
    When the horses finally slowed of their own accord, Adolfo reined in.
    “What happened?” Felston said, puffing as if he’d been the one galloping.
    What had happened? That shouted order could have startled the horses, but it shouldn’t have made them unmanageable for all the time it had taken to get off Ahern’s land. Magic didn’t work on animals unless . .
    .
    “Of course,” Adolfo said softly.
    “What?” Felston snapped. “Do you have an explanation for why well-trained animals would suddenly go mad?”
    “He’s a horse Lord,” Adolfo said.
    “What are you talking about?” Felston sputtered. “That surly bastard has been living at that farm for years, and there has never been a whisper that he’d come from any kind of gentry family.”
    “He isn’t gentry,” Adolfo said impatiently. “He’s Fae. A horse Lord. That’s the only explanation for the way he controlled these animals. For all these years, you’ve had a Fae Lord living