Bishop, Anne - Tir Alainn 2 - Shadows and Light

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Ever since the slaughter of the witches, the Fae—who should be shielding

their long-lost cousins from danger—have ignored the needs of the rest of

the world. And shadows are again gathering in the eastern villages—dark,

potent shadows that threaten the lives of every witch, woman, and Fae. Only

three Fae can stand against the growing madness and help prevent more

bloodshed—the Bard, the Muse, and the Gatherer of Souls.

Aiden, the Bard, knows how desperately the world depends upon the Fae’s

protection. But the Fae refuse to heed his warnings about the wickedness

lurking amid the trees. Now Aiden and his one true love— Lyrra, the

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Muse—must embark on a perilous journey to find the one Fae who can

convince the rest to leave their secure perches to save the witches and

mortals. Because if the Fae don’t act soon, no one will survive....

SHADOWS AND LIGHT

Anne Bishop

A ROC BOOK

ROC

Published by New American Library, a division of

Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014,

USA.

Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

M4V 3B2

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New

Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex,

England

First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of

Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, October 2002

10 987654321

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file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Bishop,_Anne_-_[Tir_Alainn_02]_-_Shadows_and_Light._(V1.0)_[html].html
Copyright © Anne Bishop, 2002 All rights reserved
Cover art by Duane Myers Cover design by Ray Lundgren
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
Without limiting the right under copyright reserved above, no part of this 
publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval 
system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, 
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior 
written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of 
this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 
the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any 
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, 
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED 
TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION 
PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN 
PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 
10014.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this 
book is stolen property It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the 
publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment 
for this “stripped book.”
CONTENTS
MAP
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 
29 30 31 
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For Kandra

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to Blair Boone for continuing to be my first reader, to Jenny

Wegrzyn for telling me all the things hawks don’t do so that I could justify

why mine did them, to Kandra for her continued work on the Web site, and

to Pat and Bill Feidner, just because.

Chapter One

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed’s sagging, lumpy mattress,

Lyrra brushed her dark red hair and studied the small room she was sharing

with Aiden.

At least it was clean. The floor was swept, the sparse furniture dusted and

polished. And the tavern owner’s wife had proudly claimed that she always

put fresh sheets on the bed, even if a guest spent only one night.

Despite the mattress, this room was luxurious compared with the one they’d

been in two weeks ago. There, a bold little mouse had run across her foot

while she was washing herself in the chipped basin that was as close to a

bath as that particular tavern offered. Her shriek had woken Aiden from a

sound sleep, lifting him out of bed in a tangle of covers. At least he’d landed

on the bed—mostly—and didn’t hit his face on the floor.

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He wrote a song about it that made men roar with laughter and women give

her sympathetic smiles.

The wretch.

A burst of male laughter rose from the tavern below.

Lyrra wrinkled her nose, then smiled. Aiden must have reached the point in

the evening’s entertainment where he was singing a few of the bawdy songs

he knew. And the Bard knew plenty of them.

But there were some bawdy songs he didn’t sing anymore. Whenever

someone asked for one of those songs, he’d say he didn’t know it. Which

was a lie, of course. Aiden was the Fae Lord of Song. It was part of his

particular gift of being the Bard that he knew the words of every song, could

play any tune he’d heard.

She could guess when he’d stopped singing the more ... blatant... songs

about men and women because of the one song he did sing at every tavern or

inn they stopped at for food and lodging.

“I gave her kindness, courtesy; respect, and loyalty,” Lyrra sang softly. “I

strung them on the strands of love. ”These are the jewels for me. These are

the jewels for me.‘“

The song was called “Love’s Jewels.” The Fae had called it “The Lover’s

Lament,” and most still did. But Aiden now sang it with the extra verses

he’d learned last summer. Learned from a young witch who had tilted their

understanding of the world and had left some of them scrambling to set

things right again.

That hadn’t been Ari’s fault. She hadn’t asked for the Fae to intrude in her

life. But they had, and in doing so learned more than they had bargained for.

Sighing, Lyrra set her brush on the wobbly table beside the bed. She closed

her eyes and sat quietly for a moment. If she reached out with her gift, if she

let it drift through this small village and the surrounding farms until it

touched an open, willing heart, what would that person receive from the

Muse tonight? A poem, a play, a story? It could be any of those things. But it

would be a poem, a play, a story about sorrow and regrets. These people

already seemed to have their share of that. When Aiden had sung his song

that was a warning against the Black Coats, she’d seen the way the men’s

faces had turned grim—and she’d seen the tears, and the fear, in the

women’s eyes. This place hadn’t been touched by the Inquisitors, but

villages just to the east of here had suffered. After that, she and Aiden had

kept the songs and stories funny or romantic, things that would lift the spirit

or nurture the heart.

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Since nothing she could send tonight would lift the spirit, she kept her gift to

herself. But withholding it made her sad, and she wondered if a story filled

with tears was better than no story at all.

She shook off the feeling when she heard the footsteps outside the room’s

door. By the time the door opened, she’d worked on presenting a smile of

greeting.

That smile faded when the black-haired, blue-eyed man stepped into the

room. His harp case was slung over his shoulder by one of its straps. In his

hands, he held a steaming mug and a small plate containing two slices of

buttered bread and a piece of cake.

“I thought you might like a cup of tea and a bit of a nibble,” Aiden said,

pushing the door closed with his foot before taking the couple of steps that

brought him close enough to the bed to hand over his offering.

He looked tired, Lyrra thought as she accepted the cup and plate. Well, they

were both tired, and she’d been traveling with him only for the past few

weeks, ever since he’d come back to Brightwood to find out why she hadn’t

met him as planned. But he’d been traveling since last summer, singing

songs in the human villages to warn people about the Black Coats, the

Inquisitors—and traveling up the shining roads to tell the Fae Clans that the

witches who lived in the Old Places were the descendants of the House of

Gaian, and their deaths by the Inquisitors’ hands were the reason pieces of

Tir Alainn were disappearing. It was physically wearing to stay in the human

world and travel from place to place day after day, singing the songs and

telling the stories. It was emotionally wearing to pass through the Veil that

separated the human world from Tir Alainn to visit the Fae Clans and see the

stubborn faces and hear the dismissive remarks when she and Aiden tried to

tell them the witches needed the Fae’s protection.

“Drink your tea while it’s still warm,” Aiden said. He bolted the door, then

crossed the small room to carefully set his harp beside the table and two

chairs placed beneath the window. He undressed with his back to her,

leaving his shirt on until he got into bed beside her and was covered below

the waist.

Disturbed by this new modesty of his, Lyrra sipped her tea and ate a slice of

buttered bread. They had been lovers on and off for several years, whenever

they were both staying with the same Clan in Tir Alainn and during the

times when they’d made brief journeys together in Sylvalan. Then, he’d

been brash, arrogant, sure of his welcome as a lover. And he hadn’t thought

twice about undressing in front of her.

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She handed him the cup to share the tea and insisted he have the other slice

of bread and half the cake. She was hungry enough to eat it all, but so was

he, despite a hearty dinner they’d been given as part of the fee for their

performance. There had been too many lean meals lately.

When they finished, she put the cup and plate on the bedside table, next to

her brush and the candle she’d lit when she’d come up to the room—and

decided it was time to find out what had been preying on his mind lately. It

was something more than the loss of another piece of Tir Alainn, something

more than the loss of another Daughter from the House of Gaian.

“Aiden, what’s been troubling you these past few days?”

He stripped off his shirt, tossed it on one of the chairs, then lay back. He

tucked one arm under his head. The other lay across his belly. “What isn’t

troubling me these days? I’ve spent almost a year talking and talking and

talking—and no one has listened. The Old Places are still unprotected, the

witches are still unprotected, and the Fae sit above it all in Tir Alainn,

expecting everything to go on as it has for so long without making any effort

to make sure it does go on. The foul thoughts and feelings the Inquisitors

brought with them from Wolfram last year haven’t been cleansed from

people’s hearts and minds. If anything, those thoughts are spreading, slowly

seeping into other parts of Sylvalan. Those words are still poisoning men’s

hearts against the Great Mother, women in general, and the witches in

particular.”

“That’s been true for months,” Lyrra said softly. “But there’s more now.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Yes,” she said dryly, “and pigs can fly.”

He gave her a shadow of one of his old smiles. “Perhaps they can in some far-

off land beyond the sea.”

Lyrra stiffened, recognizing it was her heart more than her pride that was

stung. She had asked a serious question, and had, by the asking, offered to

share whatever troubled him. And he was going to brush that offer aside as if

it were whimsy. Very well, then.

She leaned over to blow out the candle when he said, “It wears on a man

when fear is his constant companion.”

She turned to look at him. “You’ve been afraid you might meet up with the

Inquisitors?”

“No. I’ve been afraid you would.”

She didn’t know what to say. Pleasure at hearing he cared lifted her heart.

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Fear of the things she’d heard Inquisitors did to women accused of being

witches churned in her belly, making her feel a little sick.

“Late last summer, I visited a Clan about half a day’s ride east of here,”

Aiden said, not looking at her. “They wouldn’t listen to me. There were two

witches living in a small cottage in the Old Place that anchored that Clan’s

territory to the human world, and the Fae wouldn’t listen to me when I

explained the danger that had crept into Sylvalan because of the Inquisitors.

When I came back this way on my way to Brightwood, men were in the Old

Place cutting down the trees. The witches were gone, the shining road was

gone—and another piece of Tir Alainn was gone with it.

“I thought of you, Lyrra. If you’d left Brightwood to meet up with me as

we’d originally planned, you might have stopped at that Clan’s house to rest.

If you’d stopped there at the wrong time, you might have disappeared with

the rest of the Fae who had lived there, and there would have been nothing I

could have done.”

“Someone else with the gift of story would have ascended to become the

Muse,” Lyrra murmured.

“She wouldn’t have been you,” Aiden said quietly. He took a deep breath,

then let it out slowly. “A few days before I reached Brightwood, I passed

through a human village and saw a little girl with red hair. And I thought... if

you had a child, that’s what she would look like—a darling little red-haired

girl with a sweet smile that would grow sassy in a few years.” He

swallowed, the muscles in his throat working with the effort of it. “And I

thought if I was the man who had sired your child, I wouldn’t be content

with knowing your male relatives would help you raise her. I’d want to be

the one to rock her to sleep at night and teach her the songs and kiss the

scraped elbow or skinned knee. I’d want to be her father instead of just her

sire.”

“That’s not the way the Fae live,” Lyrra said. She felt tears sting her eyes

and wasn’t even sure why she wanted to cry.

“That may be, but the ways of the Fae may not suit all of the Fae,” he

replied a little sharply.

“There are good reasons for our living the way we do,” she said, her own

voice taking a sharper edge. “The main one being that Fae males aren’t

capable of keeping themselves to one lover.”

A long pause. “I haven’t been in as many beds as you seem to think,” Aiden

said, turning his head to look at her. “And I always came back.”

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“To dance with the Muse.”

“To be with you, Lyrra. And you haven’t been without lovers when I wasn’t

there.” An unspoken question shimmered in his eyes.

“I—” Something was happening here. Something between a man and a

woman, not between the Bard and the Muse. “I haven’t invited as many men

to my bed as you seem to think.”

He sang quietly, “I gave her kindness, courtesy, respect, and loyalty. I strung

them on the strands of love.”

“These are the jewels for me,” she finished just as quietly, unsettled enough

to feel dizzy.

“Would they be enough?” he asked, a strange, strained note in his voice. “If

they were offered each day, would they be enough?”

“They would be precious,” she murmured. “Priceless.” She bent her head so

that her hair would fall forward, hiding her face from him. Her heart beat

oddly. She couldn’t seem to draw in enough air to breathe properly. She felt

as if Aiden were holding a treasure she craved just out of her reach.

“Would they be enough for you to accept one man as a friend and lover? As

an ... exclusive mate?”

Pushing her hair aside, she studied his face, baffled by the uncertainty in his

eyes. “Are you asking if I’d be willing to accept you as an exclusive mate?

As a—” What did the humans call it? She knew the word as well as she

knew her own name. But she couldn’t remember either at the moment.

“As a husband,” Aiden said softly. “Yes. That’s what I’m asking.”

Tears stung her eyes. She pressed a hand against her mouth, not sure if she

was going to laugh or cry. There were too many feelings spinning through

her.

She drew her hand away from her mouth, let it rest on her throat, and felt her

pulse beating wildly. “The rest of the Fae will say we’ve been contaminated

by spending so much time in the human world.”

“These are our lives and our choice,” he said, sitting up so they were eye to

eye. “Do you really care what the rest of the Fae will say or think?”

Lyrra shook her head, reached for him.

He pulled her into his arms and held her tight.

“Yes,” she whispered in his ear. “Yes, I’ll take the jewels of love that you

offer, and, giving them back in turn, I’ll accept you as friend, lover, and

husband.”

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When he tried to kiss her, she pressed her head against his shoulder and

wept.

“Lyrra,” he said, alarmed. He shifted her until she was sitting on his lap and

rocked her. “Why are crying? If you want this as much as I do, why are you

crying?”

She made an effort to hold back the tears, since they were making it

impossible to speak. “When I was at Brightwood over the winter, I read the

journals the women in Ari’s family had left behind. This is what they

wanted. This is what they had once and wanted to have again. This is what

Ari never would have gotten from Lucian. I met her only that one time, but I

liked her. It seems so unfair that, because we met her, I’ve gotten my own

heart’s wish and she—” She swallowed the tears. “And she got nothing more

than whatever kindness Morag gives to the spirits the Gatherer takes to the

Shadowed Veil.”

Aiden rocked her for another minute. The storm of emotions that had

battered her was fading now, leaving her limp and exhausted. Comforted by

the movement and the feel of his arms around her, she began to drift toward

sleep.

“We all have secrets,” he said quietly. “Things we know that we don’t share

for one reason or another. We all have the right to have thoughts that are

private. But I’ve noticed that, among humans, it usually is not considered

breaking a confidence when something is shared between a husband and a

wife.”

“That’s part of love,” she replied.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Lyrra, sometimes words can lie

even when they tell the truth.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said, a little prickly. “After all, I am the Muse.”

“Ari is gone.”

She felt the tears sting her eyes again. He didn’t need to tell her the obvious.

Wasn’t that what she’d been talking about a minute ago? Ari had been

captured by the Inquisitors, and Morag had told Dianna and Lucian—

She sat up slowly.

Sometimes words can lie even when they tell the truth.

“Ari is gone,” she said, watching Aiden’s eyes, seeing the silent message in

them: there was something under the words being spoken that she needed to

pay attention to. Over the past few weeks, they’d gotten very good at giving

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