Shadows and Light by Anne Bishop

question the Small Folk about?”
    “Us.” Nuala took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “It seems the Fae have developed a surly interest in us.
    ”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. The Fae don’t do anything that doesn’t serve themselves, so it has to have some benefit for them.”
    “Did the cousins say anything about the Fae taking an interest in them?”
    Nuala shook her head. “When there’s a wolf at the door, you don’t worry overmuch about the fox raiding the henhouse.”
    “I don’t like it.”
    “Neither do I. So it may be in our own best interest, as well as the interest of those who are coming to us, not to dismiss Liam as a potential ally—especially when we may have enemies gathering in Tir Alainn as well as in this world.”

Chapter Three
    Morag, the Gatherer of Souls, sat back on her heels and stared with dismay at the profusion of little green plants before her.
    “It’s easy, he says.” She almost snarled as she said the words. “Just pull up anything small and green that doesn’t belong in that patch of the garden, he says. Mother’s tits, Neall, how am I supposed to know what doesn’t belong here?”
    “That doesn’t belong,” a voice said. A slim stick came over the waist-high kitchen garden wall and pointed to a spike of green. “That’s grass trying to find a home for itself in well-turned earth.”
    Morag looked up. Ashk, Bretonwood’s Lady of the Woods, stood on the other side of the garden wall, smiling at her.
    Pushing at the strands of black hair that had escaped from the ribbon she’d used to tie it back, Morag gave Ashk a sour smile in return. “Are you certain? If I pull up the wrong thing, Ari will be upset and Neall will spend the rest of the year teasing me about it. ‘We’re having grass soup tonight because Morag weeded out the peas.’ Or the beans. Or whatever it is that’s supposed to be growing here.”
    “The rest of the year?” Ashk said, her voice full of laughter. “You’re Clan now, darling Morag. You’d be lucky if he didn’t mention it for the next ten years.” She leaned farther over the wall and studied the little green plants. “But you may be right. Those might be the beans. Or the peas.”
    “In other words, you don’t know either.”
    “I can tell you what grows in the woods, but in the kitchen garden ...” Ashk shrugged. “But I am certain that that —” She pointed again with her stick. “—is grass and doesn’t belong there.”
    Morag leaned forward, grasped the shoot of grass firmly between thumb and forefinger—and couldn’t bring herself to pluck it from the soil, to tear its roots out of the Great Mother. Last summer, she’d been steeped in death—cruel, vicious death—while she discovered the presence of the Inquisitors and uncovered why their destruction of the witches also meant the destruction of Tir Alainn. She had gathered too many spirits and taken them up the road to the Shadowed Veil so that they could pass through to the Summerland beyond. But here, staying in this Old Place with An and Neall, she was almost overwhelmed by the heady feel of life. So much of it, all around her. She didn’t want to hear Death’s whisper, not even for a weed.
    “Day and night,” Ashk said softly. “Shadows and light. Life and death. They’re all part of the turning of the days, Morag. All pieces of the world. Life can choke out life. Weeds can leave no room for other plants to grow. Some harvesting must be done.”
    “Are we talking about small green plants, Ashk?” Morag asked. The understanding in Ashk’s woodland eyes was as compelling as it was disturbing.
    “We’re talking about life,” Ashk replied. She looked up, her gaze focused on the woods that bordered the meadow where Ari and Neall’s cottage stood. “This is the growing season. This is the time when the Lord of the Woods is called the Green Lord, the time when life is bursting into the world.
    But no one forgets that when the Green Lord walks,