Bishop, Anne - Tir Alainn 01 - The Pillars of the World

278 Pages·2016·0.78 MB·English

by  Bishop Anne

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THE TREES WHISPER OF DANGER
The youngest in a long line of witches, Ari senses things are changing—for the worse. For generations,
her kin have tended the Old Places, keeping the land safe and fertile. But with the Summer Moon, the
mood of her neighbors has soured. And Ari is no longer safe.
The Fae have long ignored what occurs in the mortal world, passing through on their shadowy roads
only long enough to amuse themselves. But the roads are slowly disappearing, leaving the Fae Clans
isolated and alone.
Where harmony between the spiritual and the natural has always reigned, a dissonant chord now rings in
the ears of both Fae and mortal. And when murmurs of a witch-hunt hum through the town, some begin
to wonder if the different omens are notes in the same tune.
And all they have to guide them is a passing reference to something called the Pillars of the World....

THE PILLARS OF THE WORLD
Anne Bishop
For Pat York
and Lynn Flewelling
and
in memory of
Alan Mietlowski

Chapter One
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Another road was closing. It would take a little time, but not that long. For a few more days, that road
through the Veil that separated Tir Alainn from the human world would shine, as it had for as long as the
Fae could remember. Then the Veil would thicken and the road would disappear, and any of the Fae
Lords or Ladies who tried to travel that road out of Tir Alainn wouldn’t come home again.
And once the road closed, the part of Tir Alainn that was connected to that road would disappear as
well—another piece of what had been the Fae’s most glorious act of magic mysteriously devoured.
We do not ask what becomes of the Fae who lived in those lost pieces, Dianna thought as she stared at
the garden beyond the open window.We do not ask if they are somehow surviving in their Clan
houses, cut off from the rest of us, or if they’ve become lost souls who will never reach the
Summerland when the flesh gives itself back to the Mother .
Turning away from the window, she faced the man and woman who had been patiently waiting for her
attention.
They had the feral beauty that was common to the Fae. The woman had dark red hair and woodland
eyes—a brown-flecked green. Some of the Fae said eyes that color harkened back to the House of
Gaian, a Clan that had disappeared so long ago it was barely even a legend anymore. Whether that was
truth or wishful thinking, no one could say any more than they could remember why the House of Gaian
had been special—or why it had disappeared.
The man had black hair and blue eyes that were usually filled with sharp amusement. She saw storms in
his eyes now, and sadness in the woman’s.
“You found nothing,” she said, not bothering to make it a question since their eyes had already
answered.
“We found nothing,” Lyrra replied. “Inspira, Cariden, and I have asked every storyteller and poet we
could find. None remember anything that would help us understand why the roads are closing or how to
stop it from happening.” She hesitated. “I don’t know if this is related to the information we’ve been
seeking, but there was an old poet from another Clan who remembered hearing a fragment of an ancient
poem that spoke of the Pillars of the World. But he had been a child when he heard it and could recall
nothing else about it.”
“The Pillars of the World,” Dianna said, forcing herself to remain calm. “Do you know what it means?”
Lyrra shook her head. “It’s as if we had once known so well what they were, there was no need to
explain them, no need to hold onto them with words.”
Dianna swallowed hope turned bitter. “Then it’s unlikely they have anything to do with what’s happening
to us now.” She looked at the man.
“I found nothing,” Aiden said flatly. “The bards know songs enough about riding the roads and the
delights that might be encountered on the other side of the Veil, but nothing that will help us.”
Ifthe Muse and the Bard can find nothing, who else can we ask? Dianna wondered.Where else can
we look for the answers ?
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None of them mentioned what might have been known to the Clans who had used the shining roads that
had connected to the Old Places in the human countries called Arktos and Wolfram—the Clans who had
been disappearing, one by one, since she was a little girl.
Now, the only roads through the Veil were the ones connected to Sylvalan, and those, too, were
beginning to close.
Had warnings gone unheeded all those years, or had they never been sent? Had the Fae whose
territories had been connected to the Old Places in those countries been willfully blind to the danger, so
sure that whatever had happened to another Clan couldn’t possibly happen to them—or had they kept to
their own Clan houses and their own territories because they’d been afraid that itwould happen to them?
Or had it been that those Clans had always seemed so distant anyway that no one in this part of their
world had paid much attention?
Now the danger was no longer distant, no longer happening to someone else. Now it was devouring
their Clans, and they hadn’t been able to find out why—and they hadn’t been able to stop it.
“I am sorry, Dianna,” Lyrra said softly.
“My thanks for trying,” Dianna said, turning back to the window.
A rustle of fabric. Quiet footsteps walking away.
Only one set of footsteps.
Looking over her shoulder, she could almost see the swelling anger in Aiden. “Something else?”
He joined her at the window. “Before coming to the Clan house here, I went down one of the other
roads.” His expression was bland, but his eyes ... “I traveled through a couple of villages in the
northeastern part of Sylvalan.”
“And no doubt stopped at the taverns to hear a minstrel or two,” she said, working to give him an
indulgent smile that might ease his mood.
He didn’t smile back. “I listened,” he said curtly.
And hadn’t liked what he’d heard.
“The minstrels are singing songs about beings they call wiccanfae.”
Dianna stiffened at the arrogance ofanything else referring to itself as Fae. “And they are?”
“Wicked fairies. Witches. Creatures who, out of spite, will make a cow dry or a woman barren, who
will creep into a house and devour a newborn’s soul so that the mother finds the babe dead in its cradle
with no mark upon it. They sometimes steal babies to sacrifice to their master, the Evil One, so that he
will come and indulge in carnal acts with them. They use their love charms on chaste young women of
good name and family, causing them to become so overcome with lust that they fornicate with men,
without the honorable bond of marriage. They are the vessels of dark magic.” He paused. “And they
control the Small Folk, who are soulless creatures full of mischief magic. Creatures that must be cleansed
from the land so that honest men can take the land’s bounty without coming to harm. Do you want to
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hear more?”
“No,” Dianna said, feeling a winter wind brush past her face even though spring would soon give way to
summer. But what she wanted and what duty required were two different things. “Do you think these . . .
wiccanfae . . . are the reason the roads are closing? Could they be using their magic to keep us out of the
human world?”
“It is fact that the shining roads close in the human world before we lose a piece of Tir Alainn.”
Dianna saw something shift in his eyes. “What happened at those taverns?”
“Just as the Muse can still a tongue or open an inner door inside a person that allows the words to flow,
so I can give the gift of music—or take it away.”
Dianna hesitated. Even for the Lady of the Moon— a title that made her the most influential female
among the Fae—it was the better part of wisdom not to antagonize the Bard. Provoked, he wouldn’t
hesitate to shape a song that would diminish a person into a fool. “If the witches are our enemies, why
stop the minstrels’ songs?”
“I cannot stop what already exists, but I can stop any more from being created.”
She placed a hand on his arm, felt the tight muscles. “Why stop them?” she asked, wondering how much
he hadn’t told her.
“One doesn’t need to drink from a cup to know that it contains a poison,” Aiden said harshly. “There’s
something wrong with those songs. Music that hasn’t flowed through the heart on its journey to the hands
offers little and can take much.” He smiled bitterly. “And those who play those songs have sold their
hearts for a bag of gold coins.”
“Minstrels have to eat,” Dianna said cautiously.
“There is warm gold and cold gold, andI know which has been taken by the end of the first turn. These
minstrels play songs that create an ugliness in the hearts of those who hear them. And they’ve put new
words to old tunes—tuneswe created—that once spoke gently of magic and the gifts that magic gives.
That is too deep an insult, Dianna, because that is an offense againstus . The decision to take back the
gift of music is mine, and only mine, to make.”
“Has Lyrra decided to take back the Muse’s gift as well?”
His eyes darkened until they were almost black.
Oh, yes, Dianna thought.The Bard heard far more than he has said .
“I have asked her to take back her gift from any minstrel who sings those songs,” he said quietly. “But
that is her choice.”
Which meant that, unless she had a strong reason to oppose him, the Musewould honor his request. She
and the Bard weren’t exclusive lovers, but they were lovers nonetheless and often gave—or
withheld—their gifts in tandem.
“And there is another reason to silence the music that would smear all magic with the offal of the
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witches’ deeds.” Aiden crossed his arms, leaned against the wall next to the window. “We travel through
the Veil and use our gifts to hinder or help the humans.”
“We do that because it amuses us, not because we need to,” Dianna said impatiently.
“We do that because it amuses us,” Aiden agreed, “and because it’s . . . invigorating.”
Dianna let out a delicate snort. She knew quite well what “invigoration” Fae men found in the human
world. Fae women seldom found a similar kind of “invigoration.”
Aiden’s blue eyes twinkled, a sure sign that he knew exactly what she was thinking. Then the twinkle
faded, leaving him serious again. “That isn’t exactly what I meant. Living in Tir Alainn is like floating in the
sun-warmed water of a quiet pond. Dealing with humans and their world is like riding the rapids of a fast
river. One brings peace, the other stirs the blood.”
“There’s nothing wrong with peace,” Dianna insisted.Especially when it might be taken away at any
moment .
“Tell me something, Dianna,” Aiden said. “When you ride with your shadow hounds for the Wild Hunt,
do you gallop over the perfect, rolling hills of Tir Alainn or the rough imperfection of the human world?”
She didn’t want to answer that, didn’t want to acknowledge the truth in what he was saying—that the
Fae traveled to the human world because the peace and perfection of Tir Alainn became boring after a
while—so she said nothing.
After a moment, Aiden said, “I’ll see if I can find any other references to the Pillars of the World. It may
have been nothing more than a bard’s way of referring to the roads at one time or other, but even
knowing that much is more than we know now.”
She nodded in agreement. Then there was nothing more to say.
“Dianna,” Aiden said, bowing slightly.
“Aiden,” she replied.
After he left, she remained at the window. If they didn’t find the reason behind the roads closing, the day
would come when she would look out and see . . . what? What had any of the lost Fae seen before their
piece of Tir Alainn disappeared?
Wiccanfae.
Her mouth shaped the word without giving it voice.
If they were the reason her beloved Tir Alainn was dying, they would soon discover what it was like to
have the Lady of the Moon, who was also called the Huntress, for an enemy.

Chapter Two
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Adolfo, the Master Inquisitor, stood near the wide, open grave, his hands lightly clasped at his waist. A
spring wind, too cold for this late in the season, tugged at his long, fur-lined, austerely cut brown coat. He
paid no more heed to the wind than he did to the baron, Hirstun, standing beside him, or the common
men who had gathered at this place to watch; his attention was focused on the men dragging the bound,
struggling woman from the cart.
“Take care,” he said in that quietly stern voice that the countries of Arktos and Wolfram had already
learned to fear. “Do let her wickedness incite you to less than honorable behavior. Her remaining time
should be spent in reflection and repentance on the harm she has done the good people of Kylwode and
not on any harsh treatment that may come from your hands.”
The men holding the woman hesitated, then nodded.
She fought against their hands, making it impossible to lead her forward without dragging her.
Adolfo fixed his brown eyes on her. “Do not make this more difficult. Accept the fate your own actions
have brought you to.” He paused, then added very gently, “Unless you have other things to confess?”
The woman stiffened, her eyes wide and fearful. A moment later, she sagged in her captors’ hands.
They led her to the open grave, keeping their steps small as she shuffled between them as well as the
hobbles permitted. When they turned her to face Baron Hirstun and Adolfo, her eyes were filled with
loathing for the men who had condemned her. She straightened, a last gesture of defiance that made her
look like one of the gentry instead of a frightened, bedraggled woman who was about to die.
Adolfo felt fear creep down his spine, felt it collide with the hatred that had shaped his life until it settled
into a dull ache in his lower back. That war within himself didn’t show on his face or in the eyes that
always remained as soft and gentle-looking as a doe’s.
But the other men shifted uneasily as they felt the power rising in her.
It’s the last time it will rise, Adolfo reassured himself.And it can’t help her now. I’ve made sure of
that . “Do you have any last words?” he asked her.
She said nothing.
One of the men holding her glanced at the metal device around her head. “Begging your pardon, Master
Adolfo, but I don’t think she can be saying much with that thing around her head.”
“Get on with it,” Hirstun growled.
Adolfo ignored the baron and addressed the man. “I would know her words no matter how garbled. But
the metal tongue on the scold’s bridle prevents her from clear speech, and, therefore, prevents her from
casting a last spell to harm those who bring her to justice.”
The other man grinned at the first. “You should get one of those for your Jenny, Sax. Give you a bit of
peace.”
Sax ducked his head. “Her tongue’s got a sharp side to it, and that’s the truth, but I couldn’t see putting
one of those things on my Jenny.”
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“The scold’s bridle is a good man’s tool,” Adolfo said. “A caring husband and father does not allow his
females to stray into unseemly behavior, nor does he allow his females to create discord at home. And it
is well known that a woman’s sharp words can blight a man’s rod and weaken his seed until all he can fill
her with are girl babes instead of strong sons.”
Sax’s face turned bright red. He stared at the ground. “Still, it looks like a harsh thing to do to a
woman.”
Adolfo smiled indulgently. “Metal is used for witches. For other women, the scold’s bridle is made of
leather, and a man tends it with the same care he gives the bridle of his favorite mare. It does her no
harm. The shame of wearing it is sufficient to teach her modesty and pleasing behavior. Even my own
cherished wife must, from time to time, wear the bridle. At first she resented and resisted being
disciplined. Now she is grateful for that sign of my deep affection and concern for her well-being.” He
waited a moment, then added, “But perhaps you do not care quite as much for your Jenny.”
After a long pause, Sax mumbled, “Where could I find one of these bridles?”
“I have copies of the pattern,” Adolfo said. “I’ll see that you get one—when our task is complete.”
He kept his eyes on Sax, but he had been watching the witch, had seen the moment when she could no
longer maintain her defiant stance and had slumped once more into the resignation of a dumb animal
caught in a trap.
“Bind her legs. Be sure to leave enough leather for the spikes.”
Sax pulled the length of leather from his belt and hunched down. When he reached under her dress,
Adolfo snapped, “Bind it over her dress. We do not want any good man standing witness here to be
provoked into lust if she should begin thrashing and expose her limbs. Women are weak vessels, easily
corrupted by the Evil One. But even a strong man can be snared through the lascivious actions of a
woman who is the Evil One’s servant.”
Sax quickly finished tying her and stepped back, rubbing his hands against the rough fabric of his
trousers, as if even so little exposure to her might put him in danger.
Adolfo made a slight gesture at the grave. “Put her down. One of you other men get the box from the
cart.”
When Sax and his friend lowered her into the grave, she began struggling again. Reluctantly, they slid
into the hole to force her onto her back.
“Drive the spikes into the ground and tie the leather to them to keep her legs still,” Adolfo instructed. He
gestured to the man who had retrieved the box that had been built to Adolfo’s specifications. “Place the
box over her head and shoulders. Fix the other spikes through the straps.”
As soon as Sax and his friend were done, the other men helped them out of the grave.
“Fill it in,” Adolfo said. “Begin at the feet and work toward the head.”
He and the baron watched in silence as the men shoveled dirt into the grave. When the first shovelful of
dirt finally hit the wooden box, they heard her scream.
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“I wouldn’t have thought the Master Inquisitor was a compassionate man,” Hirstun said quietly. “What
difference does it make if the bitch gets dirt in her eyes?”
“Iam a compassionate man,” Adolfo said just as quietly. “If I were not, I wouldn’t have taken up the
task of freeing good people from these wicked creatures. The box will hold a little air after the grave is
filled in. That will give her time to repent.”
Hirstun eyed him warily. “And how will anyone know if shedoes repent?”
Adolfo smiled sadly. “True repentance comes at the moment before death. If she was spared at that
moment, she would swear that she had repented, but it would be a lie. Death is the only freedom these
creatures know, Baron, and even that isn’t freedom since their actions in this world have condemned
them to the Fiery Pit that awaits the Evil One’s servants.”
They said nothing more until the last shovelful of dirt filled the hole.
“Well, it’s done,” Hirstun said, watching his servant pass out copper coins to the men who had assisted.
“You’ll come back to the manor to ... settle things?”
“I’ll be along shortly. I want to maintain watch for another minute.”
“You are most diligent in your task.” Hirstun walked away, his servant and the common men trailing
behind him.
“Yes, I am,” Adolfo said softly once there was no one close enough to hear. “I will not suffer a witch to
live.”

She lay in the dark, feeling the weight of the earth pressing down on her. Not much air left, not much
time.
She’d tried to summon the power, had tried to move the earth so that she might somehow escape. But it
was water, not earth, that was the branch of the Mother from which she drew her strength, and her
efforts had gained her nothing.
Why had things changed?Why ? For generations, the women in her family and the rest of the people in
Kylwode had lived and worked peacefully in each other’s company. How many of the common villagers
and tenants on the baron’s land had been helped by her grandmother’s simples when they didn’t have the
coin to pay the physician, who was really only interested in tending to the gentry and the merchant
families in the area? How many hadshe helped by showing them where to dig their wells? Andthis was
how they showed their gratitude for all the help that had been given?
She tried to breathe slowly, tried to make the air last, knowing it was useless to hope, and still unable to
keep from hoping that some of those men—anyof those men her family had helped over the years—
would defy Baron Hirstun and return to free her.
Why had resentment begun to simmer in Kylwode? Was it because people had looked at the sparse
crops they were scraping out of their own overused land and then had turned envious eyes on the rich
meadows and forests—and the game that lived there—that belonged to the women of her family since
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the first witch had walked the boundaries and marked the Old Place that was in her keeping?
How many years had they been telling people, over and over again, that the Mother was bountiful, but
one must give as well as take? The people in Kylwode simply didn’t want to listen. The Mother
gave—and should keep on giving and giving. And lately, the response to any suggestion of giving
something back to the land was, “witch words,” followed by uneasy, suspicious looks—and the
suggestion that the “giving” was some kind of blood sacrifice. And that the bounty of her own garden was
payment from the Evil One for carnal pleasures.
She’d never heard of the Evil One until Master Adolfo came to stay with Baron Hirstun. But she knew
with absolute certainty that there was such a creature, that the Evil One did, indeed, walk the earth.
And its name was Master Inquisitor Adolfo, the Witch’s Hammer.
He was the very breath of Evil with his quietly spoken words and the gentle sadness in his eyes. Those
things were the mask that hid a rotted spirit.
Oh, yes, treat the witch gently so that she may repent. Don’t look upon her limbs so that you won’t be
swayed by lust.
The soul-rotted bastard just didn’t want those men to see the welts, the cuts, the burns he had inflicted
on her to “help” her confess. The hobbles provided a clever excuse for why she couldn’t walk well. And
he certainly hadn’t hesitated to indulge his lust. His rod was as much a tool as the heated poker and the
thumbscrews.
Three times he had led her to the small writing table in the hated room in Baron Hirstun’s cellar that he
had changed into his Inquisitor’s torture chamber. Three times he had insisted that she must confess her
crimes against the good people of Kylwode.
Twice-she had refused to sign the confession he had written out, had even demanded the first time to
know who had accused her of doing harm. She had done none of the things listed as her “crimes.”
Harming others was against the creed she and her family lived by.
Twice she had refused. But the third time, he had shown her the other bridle, the one she would force
him to use if she continued to resist his attempt to lead her to repentance. That bridle had what he called
“witch stingers”—spikes that would pierce the cheeks and tongue. He had shown her the other things
that would have to be used to persuade her to “freely” confess.
When she finally signed the confession, he told her he was grateful she had relieved him of the burden of
continuing such an onerous task. And by signing, it was she, and not he, who had condemned her to this
death.
Bastard!
Tears filled her eyes.
So hard to breathe now. So very hard.
She was glad her mother and grandmother had gone to a neighboring village to help with a birth when
the baron’s men—and Master Adolfo—had come for her. She hoped one of the Small Folk had warned
her family while they were still on the road home so that they could flee.
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Not much time now. Her body struggled for air.
Water was her strength and her love. But they had planted her in the middle of a dry field on the other
side of the village, too far away from the Old Place that had been her home to give her even that much
comfort. If only she could feel water flow over her hand once more, maybe she could accept . . .
She dimly heard her own garbled, anguished cry.

Beyond the field, behind a stand of trees, the brook seemed to hesitate. Its bed shuddered and ripped.
Then ripped deeper. The water poured into that rip, forcing its way between the trees’ roots until it
found a newly made channel that continued to shiver open before it even as it spread itself beneath the
land.

Her hand was wet. Not just damp from the earth, butwet .
The water found the open space of the box—and the brook sang to her as it had done so many times.
She closed her eyes and floated on its song.
The water caressed her. She no longer felt her body, no longer felt any pain. Just the water as it
continued to rise to the surface—and took her with it.

“This will be enough?” Hirstun said as he studied the confession.
“It has been more than adequate in Arktos and Wolfram,” Adolfo replied. “Sylvalan has a similar law:
any person convicted of a heinous crime against the community forfeits all property, which then goes to
the highest-ranking noble in the community to dispense as he sees fit.” It was a law Hirstun knew well; at
least three of his tenants had once been freeholders before one of Hirstun’s ancestors had found a
“crime” against those families that allowed him to confiscate the land and add it to his own holding.
“There’s only one copy,” Hirstun said.
“I retain the other copy,” Adolfo replied. Andthat copy confessed to one other thing, which would only
be brought to light if Hirstun proved to be a difficult man to deal with.
“I expect you’ll be leaving soon.”
That tone, both dismissal and command, infuriated Adolfo, but his voice remained mild when he said,
“Unless there are others in Kylwode who are suspected of practicing witchcraft.” He made the words
almost a question.
“Those three were the only witches in Kylwode,” Hirstun said coldly.