Longeye

by Sharon Lee

  "Best they keep their virtues close than waste them in trying to fly" was what she had used to say, and then look sour when Becca pointed out that they were each abjured to turn their faces to the sun and grow as straight as they could.

  By those signs she knew less well—color and depth of the aura—it seemed that the easewerth she studied was goodly and strong. She extended her hand, slowly, and felt a thrill along her fingers.

  "Please," she said, "may I have some of your virtue?"

  Nothing happened; she neither heard a voice inside her head, as she had half-expected that she might, nor felt a seepage of slow indigo into her blood. She did feel the molten gold at the base of her spine begin to warm, and rise.

  Mindful of her earlier misadventures, she dropped her hand, closed her eyes, and concentrated on breathing until the warmth subsided.

  There must, she thought, be some art to regulating the flow of one's inner fires. With her, it seemed to be nothing or conflagration—which Meripen Vanglelauf, his aura in tatters, then extinguished with a word.

  "Very well." She took a particularly deep breath, hoping to cow her eager fires, and extended her hand once more.

  "Please," she said, and came to her feet with a snap, precisely as if Altimere had suddenly imposed his will over hers, only this time she did not have the blessed confusion bestowed by the collar to soften the experience.

  Without any input from her own will, she began to run, awkwardly, then all at once with the fleet, effortless grace she had observed in Meripen Vanglelauf.

  "No!" She tried to stop, she tried to throw herself to the ground, she tried to divert her steps so that she would run into a tree—but whatever held her in thrall did not allow her so much as one step taken under her own will.

  "I won't!" she screamed, feeling the ever-ready inner fires flare.

  Gardener! The voice of the Hope Tree shook the thoughts in her head. Run as you have never run before! Meripen Longeye fades!

  "Where?" she gasped, as the other pushed her into even more speed. She might, she thought, gain the nest before the pace she was driven at broke a leg.

  The sunshield will guide you, the Hope Tree said. When you run past, take up the twig that is on the bench at my feet.

  The Hope Tree loomed. She was dimly aware of people, of shouts; compelled, she ran on, her hand going out of its own accord to snatch the stick up.

  Run! the tree thundered, and run she did, the elitch twig gripped in urgent fingers.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  His kest rose, exultant, meeting and melding with silver. He cried out, his voice strange to him, and tried to pull away, but the other was too strong—no melding of equals, this, but a power so vast that everything must rise to it, become part of it, lose . . .

  . . . lose . . .

  Silver . . . cool and clean. Green and blue fluttered, fading, at the edge of his vision, and he cried out again, both eyes open now, and seeing, near and far, away into the roiling silver mist, seeing faces, row on row—Fey and Newmen, shoulder-to-shoulder, at one with the mist and the undead trees.

  Meripen Longeye! The voice was so strong the mist shivered, and those standing among the front ranks went back a step, as if compelled.

  Meripen Longeye! The trees do not release you!

  He fell then, or thought he did, but it was so hard to know with everything going to mist, and it was silver . . . silver dimming his eyes, silver mixing with his blood, silver so cool, so cold . . .

  . . . so . . . cold . . .

  Her body was beyond her; she ran until her thoughts whited, and still she ran. She dared not close her eyes, and it seemed to her frantic senses that sometimes she ran through trees, rather than between them, and that she felt her soul catch and leave threads on the rough inner barks.

  Meripen Longeye! the Hope Tree thundered. The trees do not release you!

  Perhaps it was the force of the shout, or perhaps the sunshield pressed her into even greater efforts. The trees she passed blurred into silver—and then became green, and brown, and silver, as the sunshield withdrew its will from her.

  Released, she staggered, and fell, her head hitting the ground hard enough to throw a spangle of stars across her vision.

  Gardener, arise! He fades, he fades!

  Whimpering, she pushed herself to her knees, looking wildly about—

  Meripen Vanglelauf lay not three handspans away, at the foot of a hard silver ralif. His scarred face was composed and peaceful, his lips tinged just slightly with blue. He had lost his patch; both eyes were closed, long lashes lying lightly along stern cheekbones; his hair was tangled with dead leaves and green. The lines of his limbs as he lay there among the forest floor litter were clean. He appeared to be whole, hale, and unwounded.

  Saving that the tattered green rags of his aura—were gone.

  "No . . ." Becca crawled to his side, lifted her hand to the heart-point, and blinked at the twig she yet clutched in her hand.

  Give it to him. The Hope Tree's voice was quieter now. My gift, given freely, from the top of my crown to the deepest roots.

  Becca dropped the twig on the still chest, barely attending what she did, fingers already on the heart-point, her own heart stuttering in horror.

  If Meripen Vanglelauf's heart was beating, it was doing so very quietly, indeed.

  "No . . ." Becca whispered again. "You can't live without kest."

  She had so much that she couldn't control it. And here he lay, so cold, when the Hope Tree itself wept for him.

  Becca took a breath.

  Bending, she placed her mouth against his blue lips, and deliberately reached to the pooled gold of her power.

  Power flowed to him. The heartfire of the Vaitura itself rose through his roots, green, brown, and amber, pulling him tall and taut. Branches burst from his body, reaching toward the benediction of the sky, and golden light poured upon his greedy leaves, burning the mists from his eyes, heating his blood, and melting the last cold crystals of silver.

  Warm and comforted, he lay listening to the small sounds of the wood. In a moment, he thought, he would open his eyes and see what strange new world he found himself inhabiting. In a moment, he would surely do just that. But for this moment, it was more than sufficient to lie still, and listen, and rejoice in being alive.

  Gold fires and green danced with brown and amber. Becca clung to Meripen Vanglelauf, unable to end the kiss, unwilling to disrupt the play of powers. It seemed that the cold lips softened against hers. Beneath her, his chest moved as he took in a deep, shuddering breath; and the pulse under her fingertips staggered, stumbled, and began a steady beat.

  Enough, Gardener. We have done what was needful.

  She raised her head, the trees—silver and green—swirling unpleasantly around her. You have given him everything, she thought, as she allowed herself to slide to the ground.

  You have given what was needful, and no more. The trees honor you, Rebecca Beauvelley.

  "Thank you," she murmured, warmed and comforted by the tree's voice. She closed her eyes.

  "I can show you the way," a deep, growly voice whispered, hot breath against on her ear. Something sharp poked her firmly in the side. "Wake, silly Gardener."

  Becca sighed. "Go away."

  "I can show you the way," the voice repeated, slightly louder. "The hole in the hedge."

  Becca started up, suddenly very awake indeed. "You!" she cried. The Brethren dodged back, but she was quicker; her good hand darting out and seizing the creature around the wrist.

  "Release! Release!" the Brethren shouted, yanking against her fingers.

  "Betrayer! You tried to kill us!" Becca shouted back. The creature tried to free itself again; she twisted 'round, letting the force of its efforts pull her to her knees.

  "Stupid Gardener was too bright!" it cried. "Called bad things down on us!"

  "You led us to them!"

  Her fingers slipped on the Brethren's wrist. It yanked again, breaking her grip. She threw hersel
f forward and grabbed its tail.

  "Stop! Stop!" it screamed, but she held on grimly.

  "We'd given you nothing but kindness," she panted. "And you led us to those things . . ."

  "No! Let go! I know the way! No monsters if stupid Gardener will be sensible!"

  "On the surface, that seems excellent advice," a light voice commented. Becca, her heart in her mouth, looked over her shoulder.

  Meripen Vanglelauf sat cross-legged on the forest floor, both eyes open and plainly sighted. The left eye was as green as new spring leaves; the right was ocean blue. His scarred face bore a look of faintly amused interest. Outlining his slim form was a cloak of woven greens, shot with gold and umber. It shimmered and flowed about him, informing his least movement with grace and beauty.

  "If the lady releases your tail, will you stay and speak with me?" he asked.

  "Rude, stupid Gardener lets go," the Brethren muttered.

  Meripen Vanglelauf moved his head slightly from side to side. "Your agreement . . . ?" he suggested.

  The Brethren growled, and shook its horns. Becca held onto its tail for all she was worth.

  "I agree," the Brethren said abruptly. "Let go!"

  The Ranger nodded. Rebecca let go.

  The Brethren snarled, muttered, shifted—and crouched on its haunches.

  "Thank you," Meripen Vanglelauf said calmly. "Now, you offer to show the Gardener 'the way'—which way would that be?"

  "The way through the hedge," the Brethren growled.

  Becca settled her chin on her arm and kept still where she was, flat against the ground.

  "Everyone knows the way through the hedge. Not all are foolish enough to take it."

  "Longeye doesn't know everything," the Brethren said.

  "Now that," Meripen Vanglelauf replied, "is very true." He raised his hand and fingered his brow above the sea-blue eye. "Will you bring me my patch, Little Brother? I think it may have fallen by yon silver ralif—mind you don't go too close."

  The Brethren snorted, and darted away. The Ranger moved his attention to her.

  The aspect of his face with both eyes uncovered, Becca thought, was—unsettling. The blue eye focused, and surely saw—but upon objects and events far beyond her, while the green eye was sharp upon her face.

  "Sit up," he said. It sounded like a command.

  "I cannot," she answered, "without someone to assist me, or at least a great deal of flailing about. I did not wish to disturb the conversation."

  He frowned, which expression had lost none of its direness, then glanced aside as the Brethren approached, the patch extended on one horny paw.

  "Those trees comfort no one," it commented.

  "That they do not. My thanks." Meripen Vanglelauf took the patch.

  "Where do they come from?" Becca asked, while the Ranger placed the patch over his blue eye and fussed with knotting the cord. "The silver trees? They—it is as if they have been frozen."

  "I am told, and by one who should know, that they come from out of the keleigh," Meripen Vanglelauf said. He finished with the cord and glanced between Becca and the Brethren.

  "You had heard of this hole in the hedge previously," he said to her.

  "The Brethren had mentioned it before," she admitted; "and offered to show me the way."

  He nodded thoughtfully and looked back to the Brethren "Will you show me the way?" he asked it.

  The Brethren hesitated. "The other ones fell," it produced eventually.

  "I see. I am touched by your regard for my safety."

  "I am not touched," Becca said hotly, "by its disregard for mine!"

  The Brethren turned its heavy head and stared at her.

  "It's the Gardener's land, beyond the hedge."

  "That is true, but I assure you that the hedge—the keleigh!—is no less inimical to me than it is to you, or to Master Vanglelauf!"

  "The trees—" the Brethren began, then growled, lowering its horns.

  "Peace, Little Brother," Palin Nicklauf said easily. He stepped out from—surely, Becca thought, from behind—a birch, Vika at his knee, two packs and a bow distributed about his lean person. "You're looking well, Longeye."

  "I'm feeling well," Meripen Vanglelauf told him, rising with heartbreaking grace. He slid one pack from Palin's back and took the bow, tipping his head when the other Ranger dropped the second pack by the first.

  "You're coming with me? I'll be glad of your company, Brother, but I believe it needful that one of us remain here." He turned and nodded at the cold silver trees.

  "These are come out from the keleigh."

  "Are they now?" Palin looked thoughtful. "And the manner of their coming?"

  "They are pushed out of the mists by the efforts of heroes. I myself spoke to Vamichere Pinlauf . . ."

  Palin said nothing—pointedly, Becca thought.

  ". . . and nearly died of it," Meripen Vanglelauf concluded. "Warn folk neither to go among nor have intercourse with the trees. If someone calls to them from the mists, they are wisest not to answer—and they must not by any means offer their hand in succor."

  "I'll keep the sprout close by, and consult with the Hope Tree, and others," Palin said slowly. "Eliza's folk don't quite see as we do, Brother, but there's Eliza herself, who's given herself as tree-kin . . ."

  "And Sam," Meripen Vanglelauf added, "who bears the oath to Sian."

  "Well." Palin looked about him, his gaze eventually lighting on the packs at his feet.

  "As it happens, Brother, you will be having company, but it won't be mine. The trees had it that the Gardener should walk with you."

  "I," Becca said, "am clearly not going anywhere."

  Palin grinned and stepped over to where she reclined yet on the ground. "Need some help, Gardener?"

  "If you would be so kind. I would also take it kindly if you would then escort me back to the village."

  "First thing first." He extended a wiry hand. Becca took it in her good hand and let his strength guide her up, first to her knees and then to her feet.

  "There you are, then," he said. "I'll just be helping you with the pack . . ."

  "I am going back to the village," Becca said, speaking slowly and distinctly. "I am not going traipsing around the Vaitura with a pack on my back, looking for—for a hole in the hedge!—that has apparently defeated several experienced Rangers! I would only—as I am sure he will agree—be in Master Vanglelauf's way."

  She turned to look at that gentleman, certain of his warm agreement, but he was gazing abstractedly upward, as if he were sighting the stars through the branches.

  "The trees have said it's you and the Longeye going together with the Younger Brother, here," Palin said cheerfully.

  Becca frowned. "The trees may say what they will," she said firmly, "but there are reasons why I must return to the village. I have a horse—"

  "Aye, and I'll be pleased to care for her while I'm there—which will be a time, since my charge is to wait there for any strange and unwelcome Fey who may arrive to endanger Sian's oath-sworn."

  "I also have," Becca said, around a feeling of desperation; "a servant. She is—that is, she requires a renewal of kest from time to time in order to—"

  "I've heard something of that one, too," Palin said slowly. "An artifact, is it?"

  "So everyone seems to insist," she said icily. He raised his hand, showing her a callused palm.

  "I'm pleased to do what I can for that one, too, Gardener, but artifacts are tricky, and I wouldn't want to do it harm. I'll take a look at it when I get back to the village. Between the sprout and me, we'll figure out what's best to do. Where do I look for it?"

  Becca bit her lip. "I—am not entirely certain where she goes when she is—when she has no duties for me," she admitted, one eye on Meripen Vanglelauf, who had given over staring into the treetops and was busily adjusting his pack. "She . . . appears . . . when her name is spoken."

  "Might be we'll have something to talk about, after all," Palin said with a grin.
r />   "She cannot speak," Becca said repressively. "Her name is Nancy."

  "Then I'll do what I might, Gardener." He looked down at her gravely. "Best you get your pack on."

  "I am not going," Becca said flatly.