“Will it, Aiden? If they have an army, and we have an army, will the battles between them really determine anything? If the eastern barons and Inquisitors lose, will they go away and let the rest of us go back to living the way we want to live? If we lose, will the people of Sylvalan just submit?”

“They submitted in the east. They watched the witches die. They watched the lives of their mothers and sisters and wives be torn apart. They stood aside and did nothing when the barons and Inquisitors ordered the…maiming…of all those women.”

“I don’t think they’ll stand aside here,” Morag said softly. “I think they’ll fight on, village by village, until there’s nothing and no one left to be crushed by the Witch’s Hammer. If that’s the case, will those thousands dying on a battlefield really matter?”

Aiden studied her for a long moment. “You could stay here with Ari and Neall. You don’t have to go.”

“Of course I do. I’m the Gatherer. I’m Death’s Mistress. My place is on a battlefield.” Morag sighed. “I should have killed the Master Inquisitor when I had the chance. Maybe things would be different now if I had.”

“Maybe,” Aiden agreed. “And maybe if you had, the battle would have come sooner, before we had any chance to meet it.”

“I gave him a chance to leave, and to leave us be. I won’t give him a second chance. I won’t give any of them a second chance.”

Aiden shifted uncomfortably.

None of the Fae—except Ashk—were comfortable with that aspect of her gift, but until last summer, it had been something that had been mentioned in old stories and songs. Unlike the other Fae whose gift made them Death’s Servants, she could gather a spirit from one who was dying, not just from one who was already dead. And she could gather a spirit from someone who was very much among the living. She could ride through a village and leave nothing but corpses in her wake. It was one thing to know that was an aspect of the Gatherer’s power; it was quite another to realize the person who wielded that gift was willing to use it.

And she would use it. Had used it. By the time she’d found the Witch’s Hammer last summer, she had killed all of the Inquisitors he’d brought with him to Sylvalan. She’d hoped that would convince him to leave Sylvalan and never come back, but that had been a foolish, futile hope. So the Gatherer would follow the Hunter into battle, and Death would be her weapon.