The Pillars Of The World

in his childhood as punishment for things Royce had done but for which he’d been blamed.
    The small man nodded. “You give us a few minutes, then you ride up easy.”
    “I’m not welcome here.”
    The small man made an odd sound and gestured toward the dark mare. “You’re bringing a gift, aren’t you? Never seen a human who would turn down a gift.” He turned his head and studied some nearby bushes. Then he smiled. “May the Mother watch over you, young Lord.”
    After Neall helped the Small Fork dismount, the small man studied him, then said, “The Fae have lived outside the world for too long, and they’ve forgotten much. You have as much power as they do. The real difference between you is that you have one face, and it’s a honest one. Remember that when next you deal with the Fair Folk . . . young lord of the Woods.”
    The small man turned and walked toward the house, his companions spreading out and following.
    As Neall mounted Darcy, he saw a flash of red burst out from beneath the bushes.
    The fox ran across the field, paused when it reached the small men, then continued toward the kennels where Baron Felston kept his hounds.
    “Well,” Neall said, gathering Darcy’s reins. “Once those hounds get a whiff of fox, that should create enough noise to clear some of the men from the yard.”
    He scanned the field. There was no sign of the Small Folk. He counted to one hundred, clenching his teeth until his jaw ached. Then he gave Darcy the signal to move forward, holding the horse to an easy trot as if he had all the time in the world.

    Ari stared at the spiked bridle and kept shivering, shivering. The one encasing her head hurt badly enough. She could imagine what that other one would feel like. But, somehow, the face she kept seeing being pierced by those spikes wasn’t hers. It was Neall’s.
    Neall.
    He would know where they’d taken her. He would be coming here. And they would be waiting for him.
    Morag, if I knew what to do, I would use whatever power the Mother granted me to do whatever was needed to help him. But if they do catch him, if they do harm him, please, Morag, please be kind to him when you show him the road to the Summerland.
    Her hands and feet were so cold. If only there was a little fire in this room to take away the chill.
    Fire warmed. And fire burned.
    She looked at the rope binding her hands together. If it was done carefully . . .
    She slowly drew the branch of fire into herself, feeling its warmth flow through her. She channeled it down her arms to her wrists, let the heat build. She focused on the rope, drawing the heat to one spot until it was ready to burn. She twisted her wrists a little. A tiny puff of smoke rose from the rope.
    A small flame inside the rope, burning upward.
    More smoke. And heat. Then flame burst from the center of the rope, still small, still controlled. Must control it.
    She watched the flame, kept twisting her wrists to help fray the rope, even though it rubbed her skin raw.
    She winced as the flame brushed against her hand. One more pull and the rope snapped. Moving awkwardly, but as quickly as she could, she freed her hands and tossed the rope on the dirt floor.
    She reached up to free herself from the metal bridle, then paused. Having her feet free was more important.
    It was easier this time. She knew how to guide the fire into the rope, and she could use her hands to tug at it to make it break faster.
    Once her feet were free, she fumbled with the straps that held the bridle. When she finally got it off, she studied it for a moment. It was a slightly more benign version of the spiked bridle sitting on the table, but that didn’t make it any less cruel. Only someone with a withered soul would use this on another person.
    Setting the bridle on the floor, she rubbed her legs, gritting her teeth against the fierce tingling as blood began flowing through her limbs again. When the tingling changed from unbearable to tolerable, she used the wall to help her stand up.
    She stumbled over to the table and braced her hands against it. She was sure she didn’t want to know what had produced the fresh stains on its surface, and she was suddenly grateful for the dim light.
    She picked up the confession, held it out. Fire flowed from her fingers. The paper burst into flames. She dropped it, watched it burn.
    She was free, and she could move. Now all she had to do was figure out how to get out of this room and away from these awful men.
     
    One of