Longeye

by Sharon Lee

  The charge comes, Gardener. The Hope Tree sounded, Becca thought, tired. Certainly, it had reason. As did she.

  "I have this evening run a great distance through the forest and assisted in the healing of someone in a crisis of kest, and who has yet to be cured of a deficiency of courtesy! I am very tired. Therefore, I am going back to the village and I am going to bed. I am not the least use on a journey to see a hole in the—"

  "The charge has come," Meripen Vanglelauf said, his light voice echoing the tree. He tipped his head. "It is true that the charge has come to me, and not to you. But, it is felt that the . . . bond . . . we share through the sunshield will insure that you accompany me." He hesitated, and gave a reluctant nod. "It is not what I would have, Rebecca Beauvelley, but I suggest that sunshields are chancy at best. Behind them is all the power of the sea. It would be best to put on your pack and accompany me willingly, for if you do not, you will accompany me nonetheless." He considered her. "Perhaps you find subjugation is what you like."

  "It is not!" A brief shower of golden sparks reminded her to take a hard breath and cool her temper. Feeling somewhat less incendiary, she turned her back on the lot of them and began to walk.

  Half a dozen steps toward the village, her legs locked, her feet seemingly rooted to the ground.

  "Stupid Gardener," the Brethren said, clearly.

  "You see?" Meripen Vanglelauf added. "Resign yourself and at least you have the boon of traveling under your own will. It will be easier, for all."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The night wind was lightly edged with chill, as if promising the snow he had not seen fall since first he had walked under Vanglewood's sweet branches. Above, the stars were rich and frolicsome, and the dreams of trees made fantastical shapes against the dark.

  Indeed, Meri reflected, it was just the sort of night that might tempt any Wood Wise from out of his tree, to dance with the shadows, sing with the stars, and race the manic breezes toward morning. Stern and weary Ranger that he was, yet he might have tried a jig or two himself on such a night, were it not for cold shine of the undead wood on his left hand, the Brethren at the lead of their small party, and Rebecca Beauvelley, walking badly in her cumbersome skirts, her aura showing flickers of temper like lightning between high clouds.

  He could scarcely blame her. She had said aright—she was more of a burden to the expedition than an aid—but there! It was best to think of Rebecca Beauvelley as little as he could manage, with her walking directly before him. If he considered her overmuch, then he would begin again to think of other matters which were best left unconsidered.

  The Gardener is also a healer, the Hope Tree told him, its voice already thin with distance. She could not see you fade, Ranger.

  It seems, he sent carefully, that you also gave much, Elder.

  How not? the tree answered. For many sunrises, you served the trees, Meripen Vanglelauf. A touch here, a word there; a healing, a quick release. Your kest is woven into the kest of entire forests. Should we not return some small portion to you, in your extremity? It is no small thing that you give us, and we do not hold your service lightly. We regard you, Ranger.

  Elder, I thank you, Meri sent, chest tight. My service is my life.

  There was no answer, nor, he thought suddenly, did there need to be one. It was very true that his service was his life; that was what it was to be Wood Wise and Ranger. And if the trees judged that his service was yet needed, then what was it but their right to revive him and snatch him back from—

  He shivered, recalling the cold seep of silver along his veins. Truly, you would have ended, he told himself, had she not given the gift. And as for whether she should have withheld it—the sunshield compelled her and the elitch advised her. What would you, Meripen Woodenhead?

  As for the manner of his near-return to the elements that had borne him . . . Kind enough to say that he had been made foolish with pity. That kindness begged the question of whether the shade of Vamichere Pinlauf had aimed to entrap him, to pull him into the keleigh to join with the other heroes; whether it was simply mad with loss, or was nothing more than an accident of the mist, recalling for an instant that there had been a Vamichere Pinlauf, once . . .

  The effort to extract the trees—and, root and branch!—other living things from the keleigh would seem to be madness of itself, Meri thought. Yet, if there were heroes trapped in the mist, would they not attempt to defeat it, to be true to their service, and to rescue those in peril?

  The terrain had changed, the ground becoming stonier as they bore away from the border with the undead wood. The Brethren increased the pace, and Rebecca Beauvelley increased hers, though he felt shoulder muscles and back complain. He blinked, breath-caught, and forced his own shoulders to relax.

  He had, he reminded himself, received a great gift from Rebecca Beauvelley, and though they had not melded, yet they were linked by that which they had shared. As they accumulated kest from other sources—which they surely would do—the awareness each had of the other would become less . . . intense, but for now at least, he would know her pains and her sorrows—as she would know his.

  Ahead, a stone turned under her foot. She cried out, staggered, snatching one-handed for balance—and fell, striking her knee with a force that sent a shock of pain through Meri's body.

  "Stop!" he called ahead. The Brethren, its clay-colored aura displaying flickers of what might be irritation, circled back, as Meri knelt beside the Gardener.

  "We can rest, take some waybread and water," he said, keeping his voice even, so that he did not add the burden of his impatience to her other dismays. "But we will need to walk on, after."

  "Fix it," the Brethren said, and added, in her own voice, "This will sting. That means the medicine is working."

  She shook her head, wearily. "There is no medicine that will fix it," she said dully. "I know that I walk off-balance for it, and am more susceptible to stones." She sighed and raised her head to meet Meri's eyes, her own a soft and weary brown. "Master Vanglelauf, is there nothing you can say to the trees to make them see the folly of this?"

  "It is not the trees that compel you, but the sunshield," he reminded her.

  "Yet you said it was the trees who compelled you."

  "The charge has come to me," he admitted. "It is not . . . quite the same thing as compulsion, for no Ranger will refuse a charge." He shook his head. "Say if you will that it is our nature that compels us—but you are neither Wood Wise nor Ranger. The trees can lay no charge on you." He rose and held down his hand to her.

  "Come, let us rest. You'll feel better for a bit of waybread."

  The night was intoxicating, exciting senses she scarcely knew she possessed—and perhaps that she had not, before her wild run through trees and forest and the desperate gamble for Meripen Vanglelauf's life.

  Sunshield, she tried, forming her thought very carefully. What do you want of me?

  If the dried bit of bone heard her—and she very sternly forbid herself from wondering how it might—it did not choose to answer, which was, she thought irritably, all of a piece.

  Her skirt had picked up night dew at the hemline and the wet fabric clung to her ankles, making it difficult to walk. The pack was an unnatural and uncomfortable burden; her back was already beginning to ache—another pain added to a growing list. The sunshield had not been particularly gentle in its use of her; she had a myriad of bruises, as well as cuts and scrapes on her hands and face. Surprisingly, though her legs hurt, they did not refuse to bear her, as she had half-thought they might. The sore muscles even eased somewhat as they walked on, which gave her some hope for her back.

  The skirt slapped her ankles, hampering her stride. She sighed, wishing after Sian's sensible leggings. Perhaps if she called Nancy . . . but Nancy wouldn't be able to hear her, would she? Not away out here in the woods, moving farther and farther from New Hope Village.

  Ahead, the Brethren, their guide, bore right, away from the eerie, ice-clad trees. The bushe
s gave way to a sort of sharp, scrubby grass, growing amid plentiful rocks and free-rolling stones. Becca tried to mind her footing, but a stone moved, the dress clung, and she was down, feeling utterly foolish, and the pain in her knee added to her list of complaints.

  She stared for a long moment at Meripen Vanglelauf's brown, capable hand, held down in an offer of aid, then looked up into his stern face.

  "I thought that I would not snare you so easily," she said, hearing the petulance and distress in her voice.

  He pressed his lips together, but gave her a curt nod.

  "We are now more equal in kest than we were," he said evenly. "As I have been trained and you have not, you are more at risk in this transaction than I." He raised an eyebrow. "Will you dare it?"

  Dare it she did, feeling a slight and not unpleasant crackle of energy across her skin in the instant before their hands met. He lifted her easily to her feet and guided her to a ralif tree, offering his assistance once more, so that she sat down with some modicum of grace.

  It was the Brethren, surprisingly, who slipped the pack off her shoulders and dragged it around onto her lap. She had barely begun with the laces when the Ranger sat down beside them, a waterskin on his knee and a bit of cracker in his hand.

  "Here," he said, breaking the cracker into three and handing them around.

  Becca nibbled hers, surprised by the burst of nutty sweetness. She was surprised, too, by evidence of a new . . . gentleness in Meripen Vanglelauf. His care for her well-being seemed genuine, with no appearance of his previous ill-concealed disgust.

  Her bit of cracker was gone, leaving her well satisfied. She leaned back against the ralif and sighed.

  "Drink," Meripen Vanglelauf said quietly.

  She stirred to take the water skin from his hand; sipped, and passed it to the Brethren, who drank as if unused to such niceties before giving it back to its owner.

  "Before we go on," Meripen Vanglelauf said, turning so that Becca must look squarely into his face, "it is time to heal your arm."

  "I—" she began; and closed her mouth, pressing her lips tightly together.

  "Yes?" he inquired.

  "I tried—after you—after our first lesson was over. I tried to heal it and—I almost set Rosamunde on fire!"

  Both eyebrows rose, though Becca thought he looked more amused than horrified.

  "I gather, however, that you avoided this doom. Tell me how."

  Becca sighed, and settled herself more firmly against the ralif, feeling a not unpleasant warmth soothing her tired muscles.

  "I asked the trees to tell me the word you had used," she confessed, "to put out my previous fire."

  One corner of the stern mouth twitched, then straightened.

  "Did you?"

  "I did, but they did not tell it to me," she said. "I—I suppose you would say that I reached out and gathered up water from the trough, and the grasses, and it rained down—quite a lot, I'm afraid; nothing so neat as yours!—and put the fire out."

  "I see." He looked down, busying himself with hooking the waterskin to his belt. When he looked back up, his face was as austere and serious as ever.

  "The word I spoke was . . . a construct, in which the process you describe—of calling water to your hand—had already been stored. It needed only the speaking of the word to set the work into motion." He paused. "Those of us who are philosopher-trained learn such things, which are, occasionally, useful."

  "But the word," Becca said, thinking about what he had told her; "it would have done me no good, even if the trees had told me, because I had not . . . prepared it beforehand."

  "That is correct. Now," he said briskly, with a glance aside. "If the Younger Brother will grant us the gift of his patience for few heartbeats more . . ."

  The Brethren growled, and came to its feet.

  "I will come back," it said, and walked away, to Becca's eyes vanishing into the darkness.

  "Brethren are shy of such workings as we are about to undertake," Meripen Vanglelauf said to her look of inquiry. "Tell me how you tried to heal yourself."

  She told him, quickly, and felt her face heat as he shook his head.

  "Kest is the fire within," he said, with a return to his former asperity. "Why draw it outward, only to push it inward again?"

  "Now that you say so, it seems utterly nonsensical," she said. "I suppose I was thinking in terms of applying a cream—easewerth, perhaps—rather than ingesting a tea or tinsane."

  She sat up, determined to learn what he had to teach.

  "Though you still doubt that it can be done," he murmured, as if in counterpoint to her thought. He frowned. "You are a healer . . ."

  "I am. But Violet tells me that Palin—and, we assume, yourself!—need only ask the appropriate plant for its virtue in order to be healed, with none of our chopping, or drying or brewing to be done! It seems to me that we are about very different businesses and simply call them by the same name."

  "That is possible," he said, his brows pulled together in thought. He sighed. "Elizabeth Moore had asked a question, for which I had and have no good answer: If a Newman can accomplish a Fey's service, and precisely as the Fey would do it, is that person Fey or Newman?"

  "Or one of Palin's half-breeds, perhaps," she said, chewing her lip. "That would be a question close to her heart, would it not? Given her agreement with her—with Palin?"

  "So it might," he agreed, and lifted a finger. "Attend me, now, and draw your kest—softly—upward, toward your center."

  "My—center?"

  He placed a brown hand over his heart, and inclined his head, one eyebrow well up.

  Becca took a deep breath, and felt after the molten glow pooled in its resting place at the base of her spine. Gingerly, she pictured it rising along her backbone. For a moment, she felt nothing, then all at once the too-familiar flush of desire, and the slow movement of hot honey along her veins.

  The night faded away, the cool breeze stroking her hot skin went unregarded. All of her attention was directed inward, her entire will focused on the slow, contained rise of her fires . . .

  "Good." Meripen Vanglelauf's cool voice seemed to come from very far away. "Now, direct it along your wounded arm; your will is sufficient to this, and to direct the healing . . ."

  She was dimly aware that she was shaking; that her clothing clung to her wetly. Her blood was consumed with kest, and it was burning its way into her arm. She imagined the wasted muscles regaining vigor, the blasted nerves regrown, strength and motion . . .

  Her arm was on fire; she screamed and convulsed, straining against the straps as the power crackled through her, burning, destroying—

  "Healing power!" a voice shouted, and an echo rang inside her head, "Heal!

  "Rebecca—your will is what decides between destruction and healing!"

  Her arm—she could not—but no! This time, it would be different! The fires would act upon her as they had been meant to do; the spasms would exercise atrophied muscles, bringing them back to full health. This time, it would work. She would be healed. She would rise from this place whole and beautiful.

  She would.

  "Enough." His voice was like a long draught of cold water. "Withdraw your kest."

  She gasped and concentrated, picturing the fire retreating, flowing up her arm and down, down, quiescent now, and cool.

  "Rest now," Meripen Vanglelauf told her. "You've done well."

  She stirred and looked up into his face; she was, she understood after a moment, lying flat on the ground, with her head resting on one of the packs. He nodded to her left and she looked, at first seeing nothing but the ruins of her sleeve, only then understanding that the brown, firm flesh showing between the scorched fabric belonged—to her.

  "I did it," she gasped, raising her hand to her face, turning her wrist this way and that . . .

  "Indeed. You did it." For all its coolness, his voice did not sound precisely steady. "Rest now."

  "But—" She could scarce move her eyes fr
om the marvel of it. "The Brethren . . ."

  "I will speak to the Little Brother," Meripen Longeye said, firmly. "You will rest, and recover yourself." He leaned forward slightly, as if he would kiss her forehead, and whispered, "Enayid."

  A wave of weariness washed through Becca; her eyes drifted shut, and she slept.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "We rest here," Meri said to the culdoon, "until the Gardener is recovered from her healing."

  There was a rustle in the mid-leaves, and the Brethren appeared, a fruit in each hand. It dropped one, and Meri caught it.

  "My thanks."

  "The tree gives it," the Brethren growled. "One for the Ranger, and one for you, too, Little One."