Anne Bishop - Tir Alainn 1 - The Pillars of the World

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THE PILLARS OF THE WORLD - TIR ALAINN BOOK 1 - ANNE BISHOP

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.

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THE PILLARS OF THE WORLD - TIR ALAINN BOOK 1 - ANNE BISHOP

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

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

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THE PILLARS OF THE WORLD - TIR ALAINN BOOK 1 - ANNE BISHOP

Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, October 2001

10 987654321

Cover art by Paul Youll Cover design by Ray Lundgren

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Printed in the United States of America

Without limiting the rights 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 product 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

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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 32 33 34 35 
For Pat York
and Lynn Flewelling
and
in memory of 
Alan Mietlowski
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to Blair Boone for being an encouraging first reader; to Mari 
Anderson for giving voice to “Love’s Jewels”; to Deb Coates, Linda 
Antonnsen, Mindy Klasky, Doranna Durgin, Vonda Mclntire, Deborah 
Wheeler, Julie Czerneda, and Jennifer Roberson for information and 
observations about things equine and canine; to Nadine Fallacaro for 
reviewing things medical; to Kandra for her continued time and energy on 
the Web site; to Michelle Zymowski, Rick Kohler, Cortney Heitzman, and 
Hal Leader for their help with the map; and to Pat and Bill Feidner for being 
there.
Chapter One
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THE PILLARS OF THE WORLD - TIR ALAINN BOOK 1 - ANNE BISHOP

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,

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THE PILLARS OF THE WORLD - TIR ALAINN BOOK 1 - ANNE BISHOP

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.”

If the Muse and the Bard can find nothing, who else can we ask? Dianna

wondered. Where else can we look for the answers?

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 it would 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.

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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 of anything 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

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.

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THE PILLARS OF THE WORLD - TIR ALAINN BOOK 1 - ANNE BISHOP

“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, and I 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—tunes we 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

against us. 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 Muse

would 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 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

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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

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

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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

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THEPILLARSOFTHEWORLD-TIRALAINNBOOK1-ANNEBISHOPTHETREESWHISPEROFDANGERTheyoungestinalonglineofwitches,Arisensesthingsarechanging—fortheworse.Forgenerations,herkinhavetendedtheOldPlaces,keeping helandsafeandfertile.ButwiththeSummerMoon,themoodofherneighbo shassoured.AndAriisnolongersafe.TheFaehavel...

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