Longeye

by Sharon Lee

  "I am assured that this is an apt description," he told Elizabeth Moore.

  She laughed outright this time. "How convenient to talk to trees without the need of a translator!" she said, as they came to her door. "Please, thank them for their care of us, Master Vanglelauf." She turned. "Lady, will you come in?"

  "Thank you, no," Sian answered. "I think I have disturbed your peace quite enough for one day. We will talk tomorrow, Elizabeth."

  "As you say, Lady." She turned—and turned back again.

  "Miss Beauvelley," she said. "She speaks to trees and she has the ability to draw upon the strength of her soul."

  "That would seem to be the case," Sian said dryly.

  Elizabeth Moore nodded. "Then isn't she Fey?" she asked, and stepped into her house, closing the door gently behind her.

  * * *

  "That was well done, Cousin, I thank you." They were beneath the central elitch, Sian with her back against the trunk and her feet drawn up on the bench; Meri reclining in the grass.

  "Catching the boy before he was engulfed?" he said drowsily. "It was well done, and I accept your thanks. You might have bound us all, Sian!"

  "So I might have. Rebecca Beauvelley has the art of trying tempers well in hand. She will not believe me her friend, though I have done everything possible—did I bind her will?" She moved a hand in a wide, shapeless gesture. "I did not! And she repays me by running away! But, no—I compliment you upon your timely rescue of Elizabeth's son, but I thank you for binding Diathen's prisoner."

  Meri felt abruptly cold.

  "I bound her for a moment, to disarm her, and allow you to disengage," he said.

  "Is that so? Perhaps you had best consult your ally, Sea Ranger."

  Root and branch! Bound to a Newoman? To that Newoman, who could subsume him with a careless thought?

  He shivered, suddenly ill, and snatched the sunshield out, seeing the thin strands of kest drawn into it—one a familiar tangle of greens and blues, the other an ungiving shine of purest gold.

  "No," he said aloud. "I refuse this!"

  "Cousin, think!" Sian cried from her seat on the bench. "This solves the conundrum of how to respect Rebecca Beauvelley as the covenant directs. Bound to you, she may remain awake and in pursuit of her own necessities. Except as they involve running away and attempting to hide herself from Diathen's summons, of course."

  "Of course," Meri said, staring at the sunshield, the two threads drawn into it . . . "There is, however, a problem."

  "Meri, do not say that you are afraid of her! She is a child, without the least education or understanding of her power. You—"

  "Yes, yes, I am old in guile, though my fires are banked. But that is not . . . precisely the problem, Sian."

  She stirred on the bench. "What is it, then?"

  "Why only that it seems we are not so much bound to each other, as we are both bound to the sunshield."

  She had, Becca thought, groggily, amassed an astonishing number of bruises and contusions over the last day. Violet had undressed her, sighing over the stained and torn riding dress, and probed for broken bones. Discovering none, she sponged and treated the various scrapes, and wrapped Becca in a blanket.

  "I am going to brew you some aleth tea," the girl said, "to help with the pain. Dinner ought to be coming soon. Is there anything else you would like?"

  "A bath," Becca said, her eyelids heavy.

  Violet sighed and shook her head. "You are not to get those hands wet tonight, Miss! You know as well as I do that they need time to heal. In the morning, after you've had a full night of sleep, we'll look at what we have."

  "Nancy can bathe me," Becca protested. "And I can hold my hands above the water."

  "Not tonight," Violet returned firmly. "Now, you sit right here while I brew the tea."

  Her own mistress Sonet must have sounded just this way when she had been a new-made healer, Becca thought, and smiled.

  "I will sit right here," she assured the girl. "I will not take a bath, and I will," she added, wincing as her shifting on the chair woke protest from half a dozen bruises, "welcome the aleth tea."

  Violet smiled shyly and touched Becca quickly on the shoulder before darting away.

  Becca sighed and looked about her approvingly. The bed and chair were separated from the larger workroom by a wooden screen that could be moved, or even removed, if the healer wished to keep a closer eye on her patient while she worked. Sonet had a similar arrangement in her workshop, for those patients who required her close attention.

  On the other side of the screen, she could hear Violet Moore moving quietly, the slosh of water being poured into a kettle and the rustle of dried leaves. It was, she thought, sighing, all very homey. How easy it was to forget that she was not at home, but across the keleigh, and once again the bound prisoner of a Fey.

  She bit her lip as a wave of desolation rose, and closed her eyes. It was no matter, the tears leaked beneath her lashes and dampened her cheeks. Becca swallowed, hard. She did not want Violet Moore to see her cry, and yet, she was so tired. She wanted to sleep, and to wake up and find that—from the moment she had accepted Kelmit Tarrington's invitation to ride in his phaeton to this very moment where she sat, weeping ashamedly—to find that it was all and nothing more than a bad dream. She would wake, and rise, and put on her dressing gown. Her cousin's maid would comb out her hair and dress it with a pretty ribbon, and she would meet Irene in the breakfast parlor, to drink chocolate and tell over their plans for the day.

  Becca bent her head. "Nancy," she whispered.

  There was a poof, as if a small wind had manifested in this protected corner, and cool hands patted her cheek. Becca opened her eyes and beheld her maid, tiny head cocked to one side, as if awaiting orders.

  Well . . . and she had summoned her maid had she not? Becca thought. She drew a hard breath.

  "Nancy," she said, keeping her voice low and calm. "I would like a nightdress. And I wish you would comb the leaves and twigs out of my hair."

  Nancy stood utterly still for the space of two heartbeats.

  Then, she vanished.

  The tears began again, hot and fast. Becca looked down, blinking. It was true that she had nothing—

  "That is not so," she whispered, licking tears off her lips. "You have Rosamunde, and Nancy, and your books; your seeds and your salves. You have your wits and your training as a healer."

  All true, and—and so what if she had no nightdress? she asked herself rebelliously. She had often slept naked beside Altimere before—

  She gasped, shocked tearless by the intensity of pain, and raised her head.

  Nancy swirled into existence no more than a handspan from her nose, a packet under each arm. She flitted to the bed and put the comb and brush on the coverlet, then dashed upward, shaking out a nightdress in spotless white, its sleeves deep with lace, and ribbons at the throat.

  "Where—" Becca began, but Nancy gestured impatiently, clearly meaning her to get onto her feet. Becca stood, swaying slightly, and, encouraged by the small homey sounds still coming from behind the screen, let the blanket fall away.

  Nancy patiently worked the wide sleeve over the crippled arm, tied the ribbons primly, and pressed her back down into the chair. She picked up the blanket, and draped it tenderly over Becca's shoulders, fetched the comb and went to work.

  By the time Violet Moore came 'round the screen, carrying a cup of aleth tea, Becca was drowsing and Nancy was braiding her hair loosely, for sleep.

  "Bound to a sunshield?" Sian put her feet on the ground and snapped forward, frowning. "That's—"

  "Impossible? See for yourself." Meri held it up, the threads glowing bright against the dark air. "Inconvenient? Definitely so. Horrifying?" He shook his head, speechless.

  "I would have chosen insupportable," Sian said, her voice surprisingly moderate. "I have never seen, nor heard of such a thing. Does the sea reclaim you, Cousin?"

  "That choice was mine, and long made," he said, staring at
the thing in his hand.

  One did not bespeak a sunshield as one might a tree, by asking a question and receiving a—most times—cogent answer. Communication with the sea's children was more fluid than that, and subject to many levels of nuance. Still, what he had to say was simple enough.

  Carefully, feeling his way along paths he had walked too little of late, he arrived at a place where he felt the tide move in his blood, and, bearing full upon him, the attention of the sunshield, like the plash and play of water among beach stones.

  I refuse this binding, Meri let the thought flow out of him. The sea long ago released me to the trees.

  Waves lapped the shore, and set stones clattering against each other.

  The Vaitura is not just trees, the stones clattered. The Vaitura is not only the ocean.

  You cannot claim what is not yours, Meri answered.

  The stones clattered, briefly loud; perhaps the sunshield was laughing. The sound of surf faded, and Meri shook himself back to the night, and blinked stupidly at Sian, sitting on the grass next to him, a wooden mug of ale in one hand and a piece of bread in the other.

  "Elizabeth sent the boy out with food," she said, putting the bread on her knee. She reached behind her and produced another wooden tankard, which Meri accepted with gratitude.

  He had not expected more than a few heartbeats to have passed during his exchange—unsatisfactory as it had been—with the sunshield. However, as the poet wrote, the sea kept its own time. He supposed he ought to be pleased that he had not been detained longer.

  The ale had a pleasing nutty flavor; he drank deeply, and took the bread Sian offered with a nod of thanks.

  "If you will forgive me, Cousin, it seems as if your powers of persuasion were not equal to the task you set yourself."

  Meri sighed and had recourse to the ale once more.

  "The sunshield appears to be making its claim for the Vaitura entire," he said, settling the tankard into the crook of his knee and breaking of a bit of bread. He chewed thoughtfully, wondering whimsically how many out-of-the-common-way events one day could contain.

  "Oh." He turned to Sian, who lifted her hand, as if to ward him.

  "I'm not certain I like your tone," she said.

  Meri sighed. "Nor should you. Will you hear the report of your Wood Wise now, Engenium?"

  "It would appear that I must," she answered, waving permission. "Report, by all means, Meri."

  "I spent the day lost inside a wood," he said baldly. "It may be only luck that I wandered out again—or it may be that . . . whatever intelligence holds the trees grew tired of its sport."

  Sian was watching him attentively, her aura showing an edge not unlike a knife.

  "A Ranger who has become lost under leaf is very nearly as strange as a sunshield that seeks to bind Fey."

  "That is precisely the path that led me to recall this now," he acknowledged. "The trees had no awareness, no curiosity; their kest was—silver. Cold. Possibly not kest at all. I had no sense of anything alive—even the birds shunned the place."

  She nodded, absently chewing bread.

  "Sian," he said abruptly, "where are Sea Hold's Rangers?"

  "Sea Hold's Rangers?" She laughed, if so grim a sound could be termed laughter. "Would that I knew. They wandered away, each in receipt of a charge—you know what Rangers are, Cousin!—and have not yet been released to their other duties.

  "I did send one to find one, but nor did she return. You were good with your numbers—how long might I continue to spend two when one had gone unreturned?"

  "Even a Ranger on charge may send a message by the trees," Meri said, stomach tight. "What are their names?"

  "Joda Meerlauf, Varion Fanelauf, Skaal Meerlauf, Cai Vanglelauf, Dusau Meerlauf, and Kluka Xanlauf."

  Meri nodded, and belatedly brought his hand up to cover the yawn.

  "I will inquire," he said, "but not tonight." He finished his ale, and reached over to lean the tankard against Sian's knee.

  "Your Wood Wise has had a most exerting day, Engenium, and now seeks his nest."

  Sian shook her head, eyes wide in bogus wonder, her aura admitting a ripple of mischief.

  "Your manners are fair, indeed, Cousin Meri, when you choose to display them."

  "I look forward," he said, rising to his feet, "to the moment when I may say the same of yours, Cousin Sian. A peaceful nighttide to you."

  "And to you, Cousin," she answered softly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was warm, and the air was silvered with fog.

  Becca looked about her, identifying the trunks of trees, and flowers in stern, ordered beds, reminiscent of the grounds at Artifex. She did not remember rising from her bed in Violet Moore's workroom, though she must have done so, nor walking out into this shrouded garden, clad yet in her chaste, white nightdress. Her feet were bare and the bandages were still wrapped around her wounded hands.

  Where was she? She turned 'round about, trying to identify a landmark—or even a flower—but the mist made everything strange. Music moved on the hot, sluggish breeze, and the fog danced about her, stroking her face with wanton fingers. She shook her head, and took a breath; it seemed that the cool pleasant taste of duainfey touched her tongue.

  She was, she thought, inside a dream—or, perhaps not precisely a dream. There was real danger here.

  "I will awaken now," she said, but the mist she had inhaled cottoned the inside of her mouth and vanquished her voice aborning.

  "Rebecca," a whisper, softened by fog, but she knew the voice. She would never forget his voice.

  "Rebecca. Come to me, zinchessa."

  She meant to stand firm; indeed, it seemed that the uncertain geography moved more than she did, the impish mist leaping at her side, plucking at the ribbons of her gown. It was so warm. Scarcely thinking, she pulled the ribbons, and allowed the fog and the turgid breeze to tug the opened gown down her arms and waft it away.

  The fog continued to flow, wantonly stroking her nakedness, waking such desires that she nearly lay down on the unseen ground and allowed the phantom fingers to have their way with her.

  "What have you done to your hands, foolish child?" The fog covered them, shaping itself around Violet Moore's careful bandages. "You must take better care of yourself, zinchessa. Had I known you would be so careless, I would not have considered leaving you alone."

  "Altimere?" Her voice was sticky and warm, like the air, and her thighs, and the long strands of hair that the mist had teased loose from her braid.

  "Altimere, what do you want?"

  "I want you by my side, pretty child! It is what I have always wanted. Come to me, now. I know that you are able."

  By his side, she thought, and felt a longing so intense she thought it would murder her on the spot, with the mist making sport of her breasts. But—had she not been by his side when his teacher Sanalda was slain, by his will and her hand? Had he not withdrawn his protection and exposed her to violence, shame, and agony?

  She remembered; she remembered it all, so clearly. Looking down she saw golden light dripping like blood from her fog-locked fingers. Where the light touched, the fog burned away; and she saw in the flickering flames the blasted carcasses of trees. "No," she whispered. "No. I won't come to you."

  The mist blew apart in a scalding blast; cruel fingers dug into her softest parts, and she screamed, gagging when the mist filled her throat with a taste like rotting flowers. The burning wind flung a white wraith into her arms—her nightdress, writhing like a mad thing. She clung to it and ran, the fog beating her now, until she fell, twisted, and sat up—

  Whimpering and shaking, her limbs twisted in a blanket strongly scented of lavender, and a single rosy ray of sunlight creeping beneath the screen.

  She focused on that sunbeam—clear and clean, and completely unlike the murky, disturbing fog of her dreams. And Altimere! What could it mean, that she dreamed of Altimere inside the keleigh?

  Or had it, indeed, been a dream? Could he call her,
even now, when she had rejected him?

  Becca bit her lip. Surely, she thought, it had been a dream, born of the stresses of the day, and—and had she not only yesterday seen—and heard!—ghosts in the mists of keleigh? It was not wonderful that she had dreamed of it—nor that she should dream of Altimere. She suspected that he would figure in her dreams for the rest of her life.

  She licked her lips, tasting blood.

  "Nancy," she said softly, so as not to wake Violet Moore, should she still be abed in the next room. "Nancy, I would like to bathe and dress, please."