Longeye

by Sharon Lee

  Well. Doubtless something else would recommend itself. There was, after all, no hurry—and tasks in queue before it.

  The first of those being . . .

  Simultaneously, he opened the door and extended his will.

  There was a moment of—almost, he would have characterized it as surprise, save the Gossamers were incapable of such an emotion—or any other. He took note, and then forgot it as they manifested, tentacles weaving welcome, eager to receive his commands.

  The welcoming scene before him smeared for a moment, as tears rose to his eyes. He blinked them aside with a vague feeling of disgust that was all but entirely swept away by an uprushing of joy as intoxicating as new-drawn kest.

  He was home.

  They followed the march of undead trees up the slope, Meri in the lead and Becca coming after. The Brethren made its own way, now and then allowing a glimpse of a tufted tail, as if to reassure them that they had its company still.

  Becca moved with a graceful silence that she had surely learned from Meri, and kept the best distance she could from the unnatural trees. Before her melding, they had seemed to her to be strange in the extreme. Her new sensibilities pronounced them perversions. Her nerves clamored, lest the undead do some mischief to a true living tree, and therefore she kept a close lookout, even as she dreaded the need to come among them.

  She shivered, wondering how Meri could tolerate such feelings of desperate horror and maintain so cool a countenance. Years of practice, doubtless—and the education bestowed upon a prince.

  A stick lay in her path, concealed by grass and fallen leaves. Once, she would not even have seen it, much less avoided it altogether, choosing not to risk a stumble, should it turn underfoot.

  Truly, she thought, she had gained all manner of useful things from Meri. It did occur to her to wonder, with a feeling of guilt, what he could possibly have learnt from her, to balance the richness of his lore. Making salves and mixing elixirs seemed tame stuff in trade, and of limited use to one who might merely ask a plant for its grace to be healed. Such a person had no need for lists of symptoms and hopeful cures, nor even—

  "Here," Meri said, softly.

  She stood at his shoulder and looked with him at what had once been a grassy knoll, now bedamned with undead trees, encircling a burned spot on the grass.

  "What," she asked, keeping her voice low as well, "am I looking at?"

  "The place where the shortcut was," he said. "Sian must have realized—and either closed it, or had it closed." She felt a ripple of mirth that was certainly not hers; it seemed to be directed at the scorched spot.

  "I'd say she closed it herself," Meri added, giving her the key to his amusement.

  "Ah," Becca smiled, seeing Sian flinging turquoise fire toward a mist-filled gateway crowded by silvered trees—and then frowned.

  "Closing the gate—didn't help."

  "Recall that they have been pushing trees out of the keleigh using their own methods for some while," Meri said. "The shortcut may have made it easier for them, but they could get on very well, without."

  "This way," the Brethren growled, abruptly at Becca's knee. "The hole in the hedge."

  Becca eyed him. "You say yourself that one hole is much like another," she commented. "Or, indeed, may be the other."

  "We may wish to observe this one, in either case," Meri said. "Unless you prefer to run to Xandurana?"

  She looked at him, reading weariness in his face—and wariness, too.

  "Must we still seek Sian?" she asked slowly. "If the Queen is preparing to act . . ."

  "We have seen what has happened, across the keleigh," Meri said. "Diathen must be told."

  She frowned. "Because the Fey must repair that ill?"

  "Precisely," he said, and took her hand, looking earnestly into her face.

  "We destroyed our enemy, and his lands," he said slowly. "Then, like children, we hid from what we had done, and threw up the keleigh, to keep us safe. We have sundered the world, in our arrogance. Now, it lies with us to mend it."

  "But—the Queen. Surely, she will know this and—"

  "The Queen must convince the Constant," Meri interrupted, turning away. "And that were the problem before."

  "The Constant . . . withheld its support? Its kest?"

  He shook his head. "The Constant—you understand that the Queen is the focus for the will of the Constant. Not only did they decree the keleigh against every argument and persuasion she could bring before them, but . . ." His voice died.

  But Becca had remembered, now. "Not only did they agree to the keleigh's construction, but they lent the builders their support. Through her."

  Head still averted, he nodded.

  "It is," he said, "no easy thing, to be Queen.

  "Well." He shook himself and looked about, his eye lighting on the Brethren.

  "Lead on, Little Brother. We are eager to behold this new wonder you have found for us."

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In short order, Altimere was bathed and dressed. Others, perhaps, might think there were tasks more pressing than mere grooming confronting him. Indeed, it was true that he stood upon the edge of a momentous event, one that would, upon its culmination, change him, the Vaitura, and the world.

  To present oneself as challenger at the foot of the throne, sweat-stained, and reeking of the keleigh—no, it would not do. A bookkeeper from a house of bookkeepers, Diathen surely was. She might be—indeed, she was!—his inferior in philosophy, and in artifice. Granting those things and a dozen deficiencies more, she was yet the Queen, and he would not make the error of believing her a weakling.

  It was with these thoughts very much in his mind that he slipped his watch safely into his pocket and ambled into the dining room, where he partook of an excellent meal made up entirely of foodstuffs that had grown in the good soil of the Vaitura, rather than conjured from chaos-stuff. Afterward, he pleased to observe that he felt nearly much his old self, and that his kest was much improved.

  "Excellent," he murmured and rose from the board, carrying his wineglass with him to the library.

  The next step—ah, the next step . . . He paused before the shelf bearing the bound notes of his completed projects, running his fingers lightly down the battered bindings. Surely, the next step was to claim his power in fullness?

  Curiously, now that the hour was upon him, he found himself . . . reluctant. Altimere sighed.

  He did not consider himself a romantic, and he had learnt long ago that tools were but the means to an end. It was folly of the worse sorry to consider even for a moment that he might preserve her inside the sleep, waking her for brief periods in order that he might partake of her pretty foolishness.

  "No," he said firmly, turning from the shelves. "It will not do." Who knew better than he how very dangerous she was? While his Rebecca might regard him with the simple fondness of her kind, she was but a tool, vulnerable and unable to defend herself. Doubly unable to defend herself, now that the necklace had somehow been broken. Obviously, someone else had found her a tool fit to his hand, and worth considerable trouble. He, Altimere, dared not falter now. The tool was his, to retrieve, and to destroy.

  And yet . . . Perhaps he might preserve some small portion of that unique and glorious power. Having perfected the technique, why should he not do so? A portion sufficient to animate an artifact—that was surely no danger to him. And it would give him, perhaps, some solace, or even pleasure.

  He would think upon it, further. In the meanwhile . . .

  He snapped his fingers, twice, and nodded at the Gossamers as they came to attend him.

  "Bring me Rebecca Beauvelley," he said calmly, "and the artifact called Nancy." He paused, glancing around at his books, and added.

  "I will see them in the garden."

  "No," Becca said, staring at this newest manifestation of the Brethren's "hole." "I will not go into that."

  Meri glanced up from his crouch far too close to the thing's perimeter, mouth grim a
nd eyebrow quirked. "Pretend there is a unicorn chasing you," he suggested.

  Becca pointed. "You do not fool me, sir! You are quite as terrified as I am."

  "Am I? Perhaps that's true. And yet I see no other trail, if we are to gain Xandurana."

  Becca sank to her knees on the rough ground, staring from him to the Brethren, and, reluctantly, back to the object of their study.

  "It's a rabbit-hole," she protested.

  "If it were, I would not be nearly so terrified," Meri said softly. "Nor would you. Well." He looked to the Brethren. "You had best come, Little Brother."

  The Brethren made a rude noise. "The Queen will be pleased to see me."

  "I don't doubt. Yet this matter lies close to you, does it not? The Brethren are the children of the keleigh. What will happen to you and your kin, if the keleigh is struck down?"

  "The mists are hungry," the Brethren observed. "Brethren taste as good as High Fey." He blinked his sun-yellow eyes at Becca. "Or Newmen."

  "So it is decided," Meri said with feigned briskness. "I will lead and shape our path, because I know the court and the chamber. Little Brother, you will come after, and Becca at the last."

  She stared at him, her heart suddenly tight. "But—what if I lose the Brethren in the mist?"

  "You may," Meri admitted, and gave her a tight smile. "But you will not lose me. The sunshield will see to that, eh?"

  Becca blinked. She had forgotten about the sunshield, and was not at all sure that she cared to be reminded of it—especially when it was offered as a source of comfort.

  "Very well, then," she said, grudgingly. "I will follow the Brethren." She glanced at the tunnel and away again, her stomach profoundly unsettled. "And I will hope that this trip is not a long one."

  The garden had undergone a . . . change, Altimere noted. Somewhat alarmed, he looked about him, cataloging orderly groups of flowers and greenery, some beds lying fallow, while others bloomed with full enthusiasm, and yet others showed browning leaves, or tender stalks just beginning to put forth their first shy leafling.

  And there! The so-called wheel garden his Rebecca had nattered on about in her artless way. Here, more than any other place in the garden, could be seen the progression from birth to decay—one quarter of the wheel in exuberant bloom; its opposite quarter lying brown. One quarter carpeted with pale sprouts; and the last quarter showing some browned edges and nodding blooms.

  Altimere took a breath, somewhat . . . dismayed . . . by this display of order. The garden at Artifex, of course, grew to his specifications, and in accordance with his will. This—this had been designed and carried out by a will both focused and powerful. It seemed unlikely that the plants had banded themselves together to produce this effect, though one could never be entirely certain with regard to the whims of plants.

  The trees, now . . . But the trees of Xandurana had previously been content to let their small-kin proliferate as they would.

  It was, to be sure, a puzzle. Altimere bent his attention once more to the wheel garden, noticing in particular a pale pink flower peeking out from its glossy, overlarge leaves, like a coquette from behind her fan. Quite apart from its pleasing aspect, it seemed to glow, not with a plant's usual small aura, but with a knife's edge of pure white light. Bending, Altimere extended a hand—and pulled it back as he encountered heat.

  "Well," he murmured. "And was it you who burned my pretty child's hands?"

  The plant made no answer, and after a moment, Altimere walked on, to the bench near the elitch, where he seated himself.

  It came to him then that the Gossamers had been an uncommon while in fetching Rebecca and the artifact. Well. It must be expected that whoever had broken the necklace would set powerful wards about his newly acquired treasure. But the artifact—surely there would be no need to protect it, even if it had been taken to placate and serve Rebecca.

  Altimere closed his eyes. The breeze was light and pleasant against his face, scented agreeably by the abundant flowers. He would rather, he thought, know the location and estate of all of his pieces before he made challenge. However, he felt that he could not tarry long. It would soon, if it had not already, come to the attention of those who made it their business to know, that he had returned. And at that point—

  A gong sounded, seeming to rise up from the Vaitura itself. It reverberated in his chest, became one with the beat of his heart.

  Altimere, seated on the bench beneath the elitch in his garden at Xandurana, sighed lightly.

  Time was short, indeed. Shorter by far than he had imagined.

  Diathen the Bookkeeper Queen had summoned the Constant.

  It was a rabbit-hole, Becca thought despairingly, feeling her way through the fog. She could see nothing, and it was as if the mist had gotten into her ears and stopped them up, for all the sound she could hear from ahead. Her shoulders rubbed the sides of the tunnel as she crawled on, praying that the mist hadn't gotten into Meri's head and fuddled his sense of their destination, willing with every fiber that the journey would end soon—preferably before she was reduced to wriggling on her belly like a worm.

  As if in answer to her petitions, the tunnel widened somewhat, the moist dirt beneath her hands becoming drier. She thought that the mist was thinning, and surely—surely that was the Brethren ahead of her, tufted tail twitching from side to side?

  A picture was growing inside of her head: a picture of a room she had never seen, and yet knew in intimate detail. A circular room it was, grown within the largest tree in Xandurana. There was nothing here of artifice, not so much as a rug, or a cushion; only the living wood. A chair grew at the center of the room. Around the edges tier on tier of benches grew. The room was illuminated with a deep green light, as if the tree had dedicated its aura to this purpose.

  Becca crawled on, the room becoming clearer and more precise in her mind's eyes. She barely noticed that the mist had lifted entirely; scarcely heeded the moment that she came to her feet and walked out onto the living floor.

  Meri was looking about him, the Brethren crouched at his feet, horns held at the defensive, though what it defended against, Becca hardly knew. The circular room was empty.

  Or—not quite empty.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pale flash, as if an errant curl of mist had followed them out of the rabbit-hole.

  Then, they were around her—tentacles gripping arms and waist.

  "No!" she cried to the Gossamers. "Release me at once!"

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Altimere sipped his wine without tasting it. It was senseless to pretend that the summons had not touched him, or, in doing so, left him unmoved. Yet, he assured himself, forcing himself to sip again, as if there might be a witness to his leisure—it had been but the first call. He had—

  "No," he murmured, the summons ringing yet in his very marrow. "No, I am in error. That was the second call."

  He closed his eyes, and bent his head, listening to the pleasant sound of the breeze among the leaves. How different from—and infinitely preferable to—the muffling of the vexed mists! He must make it a point to sit in the garden more often.

  So, then. Another breath. He, a high-ranking member of the Constant, was in receipt of the Queen's second call. Very well. He needn't present himself until the third call had gone out. He might yet recover his missing game pieces. If he did not . . .

  The wind whipped briefly. There was a fwump of displaced air, followed by a scream composed more, he judged, of frustration than fear.

  Altimere raised his head, and considered the various parts of the apparition before him.

  "You are tardy," he said to the Gossamers, "but successful. Leave us."

  The alacrity with which they obeyed that order might have been amusing had he any attention to spare. As it was, his attention was wholly focused on the vision before him, twigs tangled in her hair, mud streaking her face, and dirt beneath her fingernails.

  Art and artifice! he thought, keeping a firm grip on both his
glass and his countenance. Was it possible that she had become even more desirable?

  "You have no hold on me," she said sharply, and, ah, look! See the shimmers of anger and dismay punctuate the flow of blue-green and gold! Wholly enchanting. But, he was boorish. His Rebecca deserved better of him.

  "In fact," he said gently, "we are bound by several threads. We have shared kest on numerous occasions, and while I do not hold your name, I know it." He raised his glass and sipped, watching her over the rim. She met his eyes—not without a flinch, but neither with that childlike naïveté to which he had been accustomed. Something had changed his Rebecca. How . . . interesting.