Longeye

by Sharon Lee

  Rosamunde bugled, rearing back, hooves dripping red sparks like blood. The monster answered with its terrible coughing grunt. Nancy darted in toward the twig-man's face; he dodged, twisting impossibly, his arm moved, the hard palm caught her square and slapped her out of the air.

  She hit the ground, a dimming silver ember. The twig-man ululated, and raised his foot.

  Becca rolled from beneath the shrub, throwing herself into the creature. Balance destroyed, he fell on top of her, but she kept rolling. Hooves thundered against the earth, and she thought she heard shouts, as she raised her hands and pummeled the twig-man.

  Twigs broke beneath her hands, and still she struck, over and over, sobbing now, seeing again the hard hand flashing and Nancy smashed to the ground; feeling her hair twisted and her flesh scored, while Altimere stood by and did nothing—

  Gardener! Have done!

  The voice rattled inside her head. She raised her arm and struck the thing beneath her again, and again.

  Very well, the tree said, you may take his kest, if you so desire.

  The mare fought valiantly, and her downed rider had at last joined the fray, flinging herself on one of the two Low Fey, and punishing it with her naked hands. The other, forgotten in the melee, was creeping around to the rear of the rider, a rope-vine in hand.

  Stop him! Meri flung his thought at the trees, zigzagging 'round new growth. The mare's challenge split the air—and he leapt forward with renewed speed. So near, and yet not near enough!

  Images unscrolled inside his head: The mare turned and struck, landing a solid kick in her opponent's ribs. On the ground, the rider continued to beat her now-quiescent enemy. Behind, the other moved, stealthily, too intent upon the scene before him to note that the branch he crept toward had of a sudden drooped. He eased forward, put his weight on the branch, and it snapped upward, slapping him into the tree's embrace, with a cry that Meri heard from very near hard at hand.

  Two more leaps and he was at the edge of the battle, bow in hand and an arrow ready.

  The mare was beset, now, her hooves planted firm and foursquare, as if she had determined to yield no more. Meri paused, concerned for a heartbeat it was her rider she protected. But, no, that one was yet astride the Low Fey, punching and striking with gore-dyed fingers.

  Gardener! the voice of the elitch was so fierce Meri's fingers slackened on the string. Have done!

  If the Newoman heard, she chose not to heed—and the horse-boar hurled into a charge.

  The mare screamed, but held her ground. Meri pulled, loosed, and was moving in the instant the arrow left the string.

  He vaulted to the back of the valiant mare, who held firm though she could not like a stranger standing on her rump. The monster was dead, his arrow buried to its fletching in its right eye. Yet it was carried onward by its own weight, on course to strike the mare and smash her.

  Meri raised a hand, drew his kest, and flung it into the ground directly before the mare's front hooves. Power flared, emerald and gold, splashed upward, and froze an instant before the monster's shoulder struck it.

  His vision blacked, and all his bones screamed at the transfer of energy, but the barrier held. The monster fell not an inch from the mare's feet, and Meri slumped into the saddle.

  The mare snorted irritably, muscles bunching.

  "A little grace," he said, his voice none too steady. "I've just saved you a goring."

  There was a pause, an ear twitched—

  And a woman screamed, high and hopeless.

  Take his kest—Elyd was beneath her, his eyes dying even as he cried aloud in pleasure. Becca flung up and back, screaming, turned—and all but ran down a man in hunting leathers, callused hands held chest-high, fingers open, a bow and quiver on his back.

  "Easy, then, Miss," he said in a voice so rough and commonplace that Becca nearly swooned. "I'm Sam Moore, out of New Hope Village," he continued, and the fires outlining him matched the blue of his eyes. "You'll be wanting somebody to look at those hands, and my sister's girl is a healer."

  Scarcely understanding, she looked down at her hands, torn as if by brambles and dripping blood. She shook her head, and gasped, looking behind her—seeing only a pile of sticks among the disordered leaves.

  "I think you've taken good care of him," Sam Moore said gently.

  "He hurt Nancy," Becca explained. "She was trying to protect me."

  "That's right," the man said, in the patient tone one uses with those caught inside a fever-dream. "She's fine, and a brave horse she is." He jerked his chin to the right.

  Rosamunde! How could she have forgotten? Becca spun, and there she stood—ears up, eyes bright, but—there was blood on her flank, on her shoulder, and just beyond her, the monstrous horse-boar, an arrow in its eye.

  "Scythe!" Becca flung forward, raising her torn hands—and lowering them, her laughter not—quite—convenable. "Rosamunde! Brave, bold lady! I left you to fight alone!"

  "Each of you had your enemy," Sam Moore said from behind her. "Both acquitted well." She heard him move slightly.

  "Best we get on, Miss. The sooner those hands are tended—and the lady's wounds, too—the quicker they'll heal."

  "We do not leave until we find Nancy," Becca said, flatly. She looked about. There! That was the bush she had hidden beneath. Nancy had darted between it and the approaching twig-man, and been dashed down . . .

  She looked down at the scuffed and marred ground. How could she hope to find one small person among the churned leaves and gouges?

  "Nancy!" she called, her stomach cold with dread. "Nancy, come here! I want you!"

  No quick silver body framed by bright-flashing wings appeared. Becca swallowed and looked down. She would search every inch of the Vaitura, then, until she found her.

  "Happen she hid herself?" Sam Moore asked. "We can send out more searchers, from the village. You need care, Miss. Those hands'll be hurting soon."

  "You may go, if you like," Becca said absently, her attention on the ground. "I appreciate your assistance, but I will not leave until we have found—"

  There! Between Rosamunde's forefeet! Was that a feeble silver glow among the dead leaves and detritus?

  Becca knelt, and carefully brushed the leaves away. "Nancy?" she whispered.

  There was no answer; the little body did not move.

  Lower lip caught between her teeth, Becca tried to think. Nancy was so tiny! How could she find what was broken, if anything? Would whatever hurt she had taken be made worse by lifting her and carrying her to Sam Moore's healer-niece?

  And yet—they could not remain in this place. What if there were more monsters in the wood?

  Gently, Becca slid her fingers beneath the little body, and raised it, cushioned by fallen leaves. Cradling Nancy to her breast, she thrust clumsily to her feet—and would have fallen, had Sam Moore not caught her arm.

  "Thank you," she said, her attention for her burden. So still, her glow so dim . . .

  "That's all right," Sam said. "I can carry that for you, if—"

  "No," she said shortly. "I will carry her."

  There was a slight pause, then Sam nodded.

  "Fair enough. Can you hold her while I put you in the saddle?"

  Becca shook her head, and glanced up at him. "Rosamunde is wounded. I wouldn't ask her to carry me. We can walk to your village."

  Sam Moore's eyebrows lifted, and his glance down at herself was frankly dubious, but all he said was, " 'Tisn't far."

  The captive Low Fey had slipped his trap. Meri sighed and leaned briefly against the tree. He had very much wanted to talk to that one.

  Well.

  He watched Sam lead Rebecca Beauvelley and her horse out of the savaged clearing in the direction of New Hope Village before he ducked out of his shelter to recover his arrow. The Low Fey the Newoman had beaten was gone, leaving a few scattered twigs in his wake. Meri shook his head and passed on. He retrieved his bow, turned, and gave one last glance behind him at the dead monster cooling up
on the ground.

  I've never seen its like, he commented to whichever tree might be listening.

  Nor have we, Ranger, said a nearby ralif. Nor have we.

  Chapter Ten

  Altimere walked through indistinct landscapes, neither hurrying nor dallying, but with much the air of a gentlemen taking a ramble through his garden of a peaceful afternoon. After a time, he grew fatigued, and thought he might rest himself and partake of some refreshment.

  He paused and looked about him, spying phantom trees coquette in the flowing air; and indeterminate clusters of rocks, or flowers—or neither. Not, in truth, a very pleasant aspect, but he would contrive. As he always did.

  A gesture brought a thread of mist to his hand. He placed his will upon it and shaped it, almost absently, into marble bench. When it was formed to his satisfaction, he caused green grass to carpet the insubstantial ground. Behind him, a ralif tree sprang into being, gnarled branches dividing the tricksy air, leaves cooling the bench at its base.

  Altimere seated himself, back against the trunk, smiling when he felt the rough bark rub against his jacket. His smile faded as he considered the grass—too green, too uniform, too . . . boring. He lifted an eyebrow and violets appeared, shy and charming among the bright blades.

  "Very nice," he said, and raised his hand.

  A wine glass appeared between his fingers; claret glaring balefully at the mist.

  Altimere sipped—and sighed. The flavor was off; the red flat, rather than rounded, the peppery aftertaste all but nonexistent.

  "It will not do," he said. The wine steamed out of the glass; the glass melted from his fingers.

  Altimere settled his back more firmly against the ralif, pleased with its solidity, composed his mind, and raised his hand as if to receive a wineglass.

  Fear had subsided, leaving room for pain, of which there was a surprising amount. Not just her gashed and misused hands, but her back, her knees and her shoulders—all doubtless bruised and battered in her fall from Rosamunde's back and subsequent rolling about on the forest floor.

  Sam set a brisk pace through the woods, though by no means as quickly, Becca suspected, as he might have gone on his own. After assuring herself that Rosamunde moved freely, that her wounds did not begin to bleed a-fresh, and that she did not object to Sam leading her, Becca dedicated herself to keeping up, despite the protest of her own injuries. She had borne worse, she told herself; and she had not by any means taken the worst wounds.

  Her head did hurt, and walking seemed to exacerbate the pain, which was slightly worrisome. What worried her more was that there seemed to be a shifting fogginess at the edge of her vision. If she were concussed, she might be raving, or unconscious, by the time they reached Sam's village—but there, Sam's niece was a healer; she would surely know what to do.

  More frightening than these commonplace injuries was Nancy's condition. The little creature lay unmoving among the dead leaves and bits of moss in Becca's palm. She did not breathe—but Nancy never did breathe. How was she—or Sam Moore's niece—to treat such a patient? Becca worried. How were they even to discover what had been broken? If Nancy would wake, she might provide some clues as to her needs, but if she persisted in this state of seeming unconsciousness . . .

  At least, Becca thought, Nancy's silvery light persisted, though, alarmingly, her wings had faded from bright jewel-tones to a forlorn and muddy grey.

  "Trees," she said, not caring if Sam Moore heard her. "What shall I do for Nancy?"

  An artificer must repair an artifact, Gardener, a soft voice told her. The wisdom of trees does not grow in that soil.

  Becca bit her lip. Altimere had told her that Nancy was an artifact. She had forgotten—or, very well! She had never really believed it. Machines did not exhibit irony, or temper; haughtiness or gladness. Machines did not scream in agony when they willfully separated themselves from their maker's influence. Those were the actions and reactions of a living intelligence, and if that intelligence were encased in a gem-and-silver body, it was no less alive.

  Perhaps Sian will know, Gardener, the soft voice suggested—and Becca stumbled to a halt.

  "Sian!" she cried aloud.

  "Miss Beauvelley, are you hurt?" Sam caught her shoulder—carefully—his hand an unwelcome weight holding her against the ground.

  "Your—village!" she stammered, staring up at him. "You are one of Sian's tame Newmans!"

  Sam's lips pressed together tight, and it seemed to Becca that his hand became momentarily heavier, before he replied, in a perfectly level voice.

  "New Hope Village owes allegiance to the good lady at Sea Fort. In exchange, we live as lightly as we might on her land, and keep the accord my mother made with the trees. There's nothing tame in that, Miss. We're not Lady Sian's pets!"

  That last was tempery, after all—and why shouldn't it be? No man liked to be accused of being less than he was. She had not escaped Sian at all, nor avoided the judgment of her own kind; she had only made her position even more untenable. Sian was not a fool; furthermore, she was under the direct order of her Queen. For the first time, Becca wondered if Fey might compel Fey, and if the Queen in particular had compelled Sian's obedience in a matter she plainly felt was ill-judged.

  Becca sighed. Compelled or freely obedient, it was unlikely that Sian would allow her prisoner another chance to slip away. Becca could likely look forward to a guarded room in Sam's village of New Hope, if Sian didn't simply put the sleep on her until the Queen demanded her presence at court.

  "I cannot go with you any further," Becca said, her voice quavering. "Please leave us."

  Sam shook his head. "Lady Sian was worried for your safety, Miss. She sent us to find you, quick, and bring you back safe." He sighed. "We didn't manage that too neat, I guess, but—"

  "But if you will," a light voice interrupted from the shadows beyond Sam, "waken the ire of creatures unknown even to the trees, you must expect to have something to show for the encounter."

  Sam turned his head. "I thought you'd run back to the village ahead of us," he said. "I made a wager with myself whether you'd sit down to dinner alone, or wait for us to join you."

  The other woodsman snorted. Becca could make out a tall shape—taller than Sam, and slender, with tatters of green luminescence fluttering about him—which was probably, Becca thought, only the blare of Sam's greater aura, bleaching the color from his friend's.

  "Call me a fool," the other hunter said, "but I didn't like the notion of returning to Sian without her truant in hand."

  Sam grinned. "There's that," he acknowledged. "Well, then, now that you've caught up, you can help guard against any more of whatever that was."

  "I will certainly do what I might," the light-voiced man said placidly. "But I think we may not see any more trouble tonight."

  "I wouldn't be disappointed if you were right," Sam said, and looked down at Becca. "Do you want one of us to carry your—your Nancy, Miss? You don't look half steady on your feet, and it's still a bit to walk."

  She was trapped. It might have been possible, though not, she admitted, likely, to run away from Sam. But now that they were joined by Sam's hunting partner—another missed opportunity.

  Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away, and shook her head, gasping at the dazzle of pain.

  "I will carry Nancy," she said determinedly. "Please, lead on."

  "Better," Altimere said, and tasted the wine again. Yes, definitely better. Pleasing, in fact.

  "Now," he said, casually twisting a side table out of the mist. "Cheese, and some crudités."

  Meri confined himself to the pace Sam had chosen, which, while doubtless slower than Sian would have wished, showed respect for the wounded.

  He had heard the Newoman's refusal to be lifted to the saddle, in consideration of her mount's injuries. Walking beside the mare, on Sam's right and a few steps to the rear, he inspected her more carefully than he had a chance to do earlier. She had taken three cuts, none as deep as he would have
supposed, given the nature of her opponent. He had wondered if she had lamed herself during the battle, but her gait was smooth, and her aura was calm, unlike her rider's, which was shot with red and orange bolts of agitation and pain.

  "I did not expect to find a war-mare in these woods," he murmured, a small gallantry for the lady's ear alone, so he was startled to hear the Newoman answer, from beyond Sam's protective bulk.

  "Rosamunde is bold and greathearted," Rebecca Beauvelley said, her voice thin, but steady. "I am honored that she allows me to ride her." There was a small pause, and a rattle of stone, as if the Newoman had missed her footing. "She is quarter-Fey."