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“You said I was trustworthy,” he said. “You’ll have to trust me, then, and do as I ask—or,” he said, and for all that he could do, his voice quavered, “or go away and never come back.”

For his soul’s sake he should have wished that she would do exactly that, but his heart hoped devoutly that she would not.

She took his hands as the mist melted away in the pale sunlight, and looked into his eyes. Her beauty threatened to break his poor long-suffering heart. She was even more beautiful inside, he thought as he met that deep blue gaze.“My name,” she said, “is Deirdre.”

He gaped. “Not the . . .”

“Oh, no,” she said. “My sorrows are much more recent and less personal.”

“Deirdre,” he said dreamily. “Beautiful Deirdre. Lady of sorrows.” He blinked hard and pulled himself forcefully back to earth. Her gaze kept trying to lure him away again. Never mind whatever journey she had had in mind—one long look into those eyes, and he had traveled as far into enchantment as he ever needed to go.

He was lost, he supposed, and his soul was in dire danger. He could not find it in himself to be concerned about it.

As he stood staring, she gasped and swayed. Her face had gone stark white. She seemed for a moment to lose substance, to become transparent.

He clutched at her hands and willed her back to solidity. Her fingers locked in his. She clung for her life.

“What,” he said. “What—”

“The tree,” she said faintly. “They cut down the tree. Its roots go deep, so deep . . . it draws up magic. But no longer. It’s broken, bro ken and dead. William Thorne, if you can do anything, I beg of you—”

And that was the trouble. He could not think of a single useful thing to do, except help her into the tower and sit her down by the fire and spoon broth into her from the pot that Pegeen had brought that morning. She did not object to mortal sustenance, nor cast it back up again, either.

While he looked after her, he began to feel odd. Things were fluttering on his skin and flickering just out of sight. The floor suddenly felt . . . full.As if a great crowd had gathered under it.

She read his thought as always. The broth had revived her; she was still weak, but she could speak. “Yes,” she said. “They’re here. They’ve all gone under the hill. There’s nowhere else that they can go.”

“If the priest finds out,” said the hermit, “we’ll be exorcised with the rest.”

Her lips twitched ever so slightly at that we. “We can make a stand here. There’s still a little power left in us. All together in one ancient place, we’ll be able to resist him for a while.We’ll go out with honor, at least, and die in battle.”

He rose up in protest. “You are not going to die! I’ll think of something. Just give me time. I do have a little, I hope?”

“A little,” she said with a sigh.

“I’ll pray it’s enough,” he said. He appreciated the irony of that after he had said it, but he did not try to call it back. These were God’s children, too. He had convinced himself of it, looking into her eyes. God would listen to a prayer for their welfare.

THE FAERIE FOLK CAME in all shapes and sizes, from the slender height of the Daoine Sidhe to the diminutive sturdiness of the bogles and hobs and leprechauns, and every range between. Kelpies had come to live in the stream that flowed around the foot of the hill, and but for their magic it would have been a tight fit for all of them. But they managed.

How many of the rest filled the halls under hill, the hermit did not try to guess. Many, that much he could tell: more than he might have expected from the lady’s laments. If they were but a fraction of their former numbers, in their heyday they must have been as thick as midges in a marsh.

He had all the evidence he needed now of their existence and their various natures. Deirdre’s race and rank protected him from the worst of the mischief, and most of the magics slipped harmlessly away when he happened by. Even so, he could not prevent them from turning his tower into an otherworldly palace and his robe into faerie silk. He would rouse from prayer