The Pillars Of The World

like his own. As it was, what little he knew about the power that was his heritage he had learned passively from being around the witches of Brightwood and by working with it on his own.
    No matter. He knew enough for this.
    Raising his right hand, he pressed it against that unseen, magical barrier that kept people out unless they were welcomed in.
    “You know me,” he said softly, feeling the magic of the warding spell pushing against him as he channeled his own power into his hand. “You know me. I’ve been welcomed in this house before. Let me in. As I will it, so mote it be.”
    The magic in the warding spell didn’t pull back like a curtain the way it would have if Ari had welcomed him, but it thinned from feeling like an invisible stone wall to a barrier of thick cobwebs.
    As Neall crossed the threshold, he shuddered at the sensation of wispy strands brushing over his hand and face. He shook off the feeling. It was easy enough with something else pushing at his senses.
    Someone had been here. Someone new, different, unknown. He could sense the lingering presence that was layered over the familiar feel of Ari’s cottage.
    She wasn’t there. He could sense that too. Still, he quickly peeked into her bedroom to make sure she wasn’t there, then the workroom that held the looms and spinning wheels and baskets of yarns that Ari used for her weaving.
    As he headed for the kitchen, he glanced down at a chair pulled back a little from the table . . . and froze.
    He wasn’t sure how long he stared at the saddlebags when Ari said, “Neall?”
    She was standing in the open doorway, looking puzzled. She was wearing her oldest clothes, the ones she used when she worked in her garden, and she was holding a small, empty basket in one hand. There was color in her cheeks, and her dark, unbound hair looked like it had danced with the wind. It hurt to look at her, standing there so wild and lovely. Especially now.
    Crossing the threshold, Ari looked back at the doorway and then at him.
    “Your front door was open, and I was concerned,” Neall said, striving to keep his voice calm.
    She frowned at the doorway, but the way her shoulders relaxed told him she probably knew why the door had been open.
    “But . . . How did you get in?” Ari asked, turning back to him.
    One day he would tell her about his parents and his power. But not today. Not now.
    He tried to smile. “I’ve been welcomed many times over the years, Ari. I guess the warding spells recognized me.” The smile faded. The saddlebags sat on the chair between them. “Or maybe it was because I was concerned that the warding spells let me in. They didn’t feel the way they do when you’re here, though.”
    She tipped her head a little to one side and looked at him thoughtfully. “How did they feel?”
    “It was like walking through thick cobwebs.”
    She made a face, brushed her hand across one cheek as if she could feel the cobwebs herself.
    “You were out early,” Neall said. Who do the saddlebags belong to, Ari ?
    She set the small basket on the table. “I took a loaf of sweet bread over to Ahern to thank him for fixing my kitchen door.”
    So he couldn’t even do that for her.
    His chest hurt. Was this what the songs and stories called heartache?
    “You have company,” Neall said, glancing at the saddlebags.
    “No,” Ari said quickly. “That is . . .” She looked away.
    “You met him on the Summer Moon?”
    Her shoulders went back and her chin went up. Defensive pride. He understood it well.
    “And if I did?” she asked, challenging.
    “Did you give him the fancy?” When she looked at him warily, hurt gave way to the first stirring of anger.
    “Royce didn’t keep silent about that, Ari. I knew he was coming here, and I knew why.”
    “It wasn’t Royce.”
    “Then who?”
    She leaned against the table, looking weary. “No one you know. He’s not . . . He’s not from around here.”
    Neall closed his eyes for a moment. There was mercy in that. At least he wouldn’t look at every man in Ridgeley and the surrounding estates and farms and wonder if that was the man who was using Ari.
    “Answer me this. Was he . . .” Impossible to ask. Impossible not to. “Was he kind?”
    She relaxed a little, but still watched him too closely. “Yes, he was kind.”
    “That’s good, then. That’s good.” He was feeling too many things—jealousy and pain . . . and relief that Ari would not dread this stranger’s return. Because he would