The Pillars Of The World

have the gold that would take care of his own expenses, the baron would have the timber that would more than make up for the price of services rendered, and the witch who now owned the land
    . . .
    When the time came, he could decide what would be a fitting death for her.
     

 

     
     

Chapter Twenty-three

 

     
     

     
    Hearing the mare’s pathetic whinny, Morag’s hands tightened on the dark horse’s reins. He shook his head, but slowed his pace, as if waiting for her to decide if he really had to stop.
    She drew back on the reins, then twisted in the saddle to look behind her. The other mares walked past her but didn’t go far. The sun stallion turned, blocking the road.
    The last mare kept coming toward them. She was sweating heavily from the effort to keep up. The dead hide around the nighthunters’ bites kept sloughing off, leaving more open sores for the flies to find.
    If it wasn’t for the mare’s tenacity, Morag would have summoned Death to end the suffering. But anything that fought so hard to live should be given the chance to fight until there was no hope—and the mare didn’t know there was no hope.
    The mare stopped before she was close enough for the sun stallion to lash out at her.
    Morag faced forward, pressed her knees against the dark horse’s sides, and said, “Let’s go.”
    She still didn’t understand why she had ended up with the sun stallion and his mares. After she had guided the witches’ spirits to the Shadowed Veil, she had returned to that meadow just to check on the horses Morphia and the others had left behind. Then she had set off on her own journey since there was nothing she could do for them. She’d been surprised when the sun stallion had rounded up his mares and come after her. Perhaps the horses felt some comfort in being close to one of the Fae; perhaps they recognized her and the dark horse as the only familiar things in a world that had gone strange. All she knew for certain was she was now traveling with a stallion and five mares, as well as the dark horse.
    The dark horse snorted, stopped, looked toward the woods beyond the roadside field.
    “Water?” Morag asked quietly, noticing that all the horses had flared nostrils and were looking in the same direction. Whatever they scented didn’t frighten them.
    The dark horse pawed the road.
    Water.
    But was it safe to enter those trees in order to reach it?
    Morag studied the land, looking for signs.
    On the right-hand side of the woods was a cluster of dead trees.
    She let her power drift over the land, feeling, listening.
    Death whispered.
    Death will whisper louder if we all don’t get water soon , Morag thought. Urging the dark horse to head for the woods, she said quietly, “Stay watchful. Be careful. Those . . . things . . . are nearby.”
    The dark horse snorted softly. So did the sun stallion as he fell back far enough to guard the mare who had already been bitten by the nighthunters. Morag watched the trees as they approached the woods.
    There were no birds here, no squirrels. The small creatures had fled, another sign that the nighthunters had claimed this piece of land.
    Mother’s mercy, but those things grew and bred unnaturally fast. And when they fed, they devoured blood and magic and a little bit of the creature’s spirit.
    She lost track of the days since she and Morphia had parted company, each to give her own warnings.
    The traveling had been slow because she stopped whenever she came to an Old Place. She had found no witches. Sometimes the land simply felt abandoned; sometimes it felt like the magic was bleeding out of it. She had thought of going up the shining roads through the Veil to warn the Clans that their roads would soon be closing, but even the dark horse had refused to approach the roads, as if he sensed what was about to happen. And, in truth, she didn’t want to change to her other form and go up those roads herself since she didn’t know how fast those roads might close. She had been lucky once to have escaped before a shining road closed. She couldn’t trust that she would be as lucky again.
    Besides, Death had summoned her in each of those places.
    The Small Folk were suffering from the nighthunters’ attacks, and at each Old Place there were several who asked to be guided to the Shadowed Veil.
    At first, she’d resisted because they didn’t appear to be so terribly ill. Then the Small Folk explained that none who had been bitten had recovered. The ones who