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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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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