Duainfey

by Sharon Lee

  "Yes, my child?"

  "Could—we—not hire a tutor to come and teach me reading?"

  "Why, I suppose we might," he said, sounding much struck. "Let me think upon it."

  "Thank you," she said.

  "There is no need to thank me," he said, nudging the platter nearer. "The pinchmelon is quite good, I think. Do try some."

  After the meal they rose, as always leaving what remained of the meal to be cleaned up by invisible and efficient Gossamers, but when Becca stepped toward the door that led to the inner garden, she was restrained by a gentle hand upon her arm.

  "Let us come into the small parlor for a moment," Altimere murmured, sliding his hand slowly up her withered arm.

  Becca felt her skin heat under the light fabric, and allowed herself to be guided down the hall.

  She had been in the small parlor only once. It was an oddly shaped space that ought not really have been a room at all. Situated behind the dining room, it was a weirdly shaped cave of a place, with neither prospect nor art to recommend it.

  This evening it was . . . less ill than it had seemed on that previous occasion, for someone had laid a small fire, and lit real candles. The dance of live flame against the darkness served to conceal the room's odd proportions, and made it seem a safe and cozy haven.

  "Here," Altimere murmured, guiding her over to a small table where two candles burned merrily, casting their light onto polished wood and a pouch of some material so dark and dense that it seemed to absorb any flicker that touched it.

  "Now," Altimere said. "Do you recall that I said it pleased me to make you a gift?"

  "I do, indeed, sir. And I recall that you have given so many gifts already—"

  "Peace." He raised his hand, his smile flickering in the candlelight. "I have said that it pleases me to do this. That does not mean, however, that you should feel in any way compelled to receive what I offer. Take it only if you desire to possess it."

  Impossible to read his face in this light. Still, he sounded serious, his voice resonate with meaning, as it had been when he had taken her life and her future into his hand.

  "Of course anything that you give to me is precious in my sight," she said slowly. "And it must please me to receive any token of your regard."

  "All very pretty and proper." He sounded—amused, now. "I say again, child: Receive it only if you desire to possess it."

  He extended a long hand, his fingers washed in golden light, and plucked the fabric away.

  Starlight burst across Becca's vision, impossibly bright; a thousand scintillant points burning against the dark.

  Diamonds, she understood slowly. A diamond collar, the stones so pure they burned blue at the heart.

  Another vision rose, partially obscuring the glory spread before her—the vision in the wine cup, of herself gowned like a queen, strolling at ease among her attentive trees, and around her throat, a diamond collar, glittering like all the stars of summer.

  The memory faded, leaving the reality of the collar, sparkling in the candlelight, colder and more brilliant than the moon.

  She wanted it. Of course she wanted it! More, she was meant to have it! Had she not seen it? Did the vision not mean that she had already accepted and treasured this gift? Why else, indeed, was she here, except to make that vision true and real and her own.

  Becca extended her right hand, felt the reflected glory sparkle across her skin.

  "I will require assistance . . ." she murmured, hardly hearing her own voice.

  "Perhaps not," Altimere answered, his voice so low it seemed she was hearing it inside her head. "Remember, zinchessa: Receive it only if you must possess it."

  She shook her head. There was no question that she must possess it! Possession of the collar would make her future perfectly . . . real.

  Shaking, she slipped her right hand beneath the stones, not at all surprised to find them pleasantly warm. A moment later, concentrating, she was able to slip her left hand also beneath the collar. It clung to her fingers as she raised it, shaking harder now as pain shot the length of her ruined arm, but she persevered.

  The collar was hers. She would be worthy of this gift.

  Her whole future depended upon it.

  Sweat ran her face, and tears, and still she pushed, demanding that the strengthless limb do as she desired, ignoring the agony that threatened to burn her bones into ash.

  The darkness edged tighter, the candlelight glaring cruelly, and still she demanded, and still her ruined arm rose, inch by torturous, agonizing inch . . .

  The collar was against her throat now, warm against sweat-soaked skin. Becca gathered herself, and pushed, driving dead muscles to do her bidding. Her arm jerked, the necklace slipped in feeble fingers, she pushed once more, and the two ends met, meshing with a snap that was loud even over her scream.

  "My brave, beautiful child!"

  Altimere's arms were around her, cuddling her against his chest. He stroked long, clever fingers down her back, down her arms, and the pain died, cooled by his touch. A kiss and her tears dried. She lay against him, content, fulfilled, the collar an unaccustomed weight around her throat.

  "Well done, well done! Your strength is of legend. There were heroes who had not done so much!" Altimere crooned, and kissed her cheek once more before setting her away from him and smiling down into her face.

  "Now, if you will, we shall have a small demonstration."

  "Demonstration?" Becca looked up at him in amusement. "What sort of demonstration can we need?"

  "A definitive demonstration," he answered, quite seriously. "We have come far, and gone boldly, but it will not do to become overconfident. So." He moved away, one step only, and smiled at her.

  Becca smiled back, dreamy and content, not much surprised when she felt the silken tumble of her hair against her neck. She threw the silver comb lightly to the table, where it landed on the cloth that had hidden the collar, glinted once in the candlelight—and was extinguished.

  Smiling still, she felt a tug at her breast, and looked down to see her busy fingers languidly unlacing her blouse. As the laces loosened, she stroked the curve of her breast, sighing pleasurably. The ribbon slipped through its last eyelet and dropped to the floor from negligent fingers. Becca was busy looking down, watching her hand move across her own body, shuddering with pleasure, though with a yearning, a yearning for . . . something. She scarcely knew . . .

  No, she realized. She did know what she desired. And she knew where it was to be found.

  Without a word, she left Altimere, walking down darkened halls with no misstep and let herself out into the night. The breeze was cool and sportive against her exposed breasts. Her feet were sure on the path. The door swung open at her touch.

  Elyd leapt from his bed of straw, shirtless, his hair unbraided, and a look of horror on his rugged brown face.

  "No," he whispered. "Becca—leave me."

  "Leave you?" she asked and her voice was thick with anticipation, for this, yes, this was what she wanted. This was what she would have. "But we are friends, are we not?" She stepped closer, fingers at her breast, pinching the upright nipple.

  Elyd stood like a man transfixed, his eyes wide, his face sick with longing. Becca closed the distance between them, pushing her body against his, flesh to flesh, his maleness hard against her belly.

  "No . . ." he whispered, as a shudder ran through him.

  Becca laughed, twisting her fingers through his hair, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

  He shuddered again, and his arms went around her, bruising, exciting. She felt the warmth pooling in her belly, rising from the base of her spine, exalting her, making every touch an agony of pleasure.

  Elyd clawed her shirt down and bent, licking her breasts, her belly . . . She put her hands on his head and stepped back, undid the single button and stepped out of her skirt.

  He moaned, his face suffused with an expression she had no trouble recognizing as desire—and yet he shook his head.


  "Go," he said harshly. "Root and branch—" He reached out, arms trembling. "Stay. You are so beautiful. I must . . ."

  "Must you?" she murmured, stepped close, rubbing her nakedness against him. "Must you?" she asked again, and licked his cheek, feeling his panic, his yearning.

  One hand on his chest, she pushed him back; back and down until he was flat on his bed. His eyes looked into hers, as he unbuttoned his breeches, freeing himself. Becca smiled and bent to place her lips on his hardness.

  Elyd sobbed, his hands twisting in her hair, whispering over and over, "I must . . . I must . . ."

  He grabbed her shoulders, urging her up, and she kissed him tenderly on the lips as she lowered herself onto him, his hips rising to her—and she rode him until they both screamed with pleasure, his body arcing under hers—

  And going utterly limp, as light, desire, and life left his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The sea sent him back to the sand spit on the back of a rising wave, which delivered him with a fine boom and a brave showing of foam, withdrawing even as Meri rolled to his feet.

  Laughing lightly, he gave a nod to the swelling waters, marking the boats and fishing rigs sweeping toward safe harbor on the incoming tide.

  Still smiling, he turned away, fairly skipping across the sand to the rock where he had left his clothes. However long he had slept under the care of the healers, it had not done him as much good as this morning's drowse in the arms of the sea. He felt . . . stronger, less weary—and considerably less sullen. Whether these improvements were indicative of a deeper sea-change, he thought, drying himself with his shirt, remained to be discovered.

  It was plain that immersion in the sea had not eradicated the pale scars stitched across his skin. Eye closed, he ran his fingers down his chest, feeling only smooth flesh, beginning to pebble slightly in the breeze. His shiver had nothing to do with the freshening breeze off the water.

  "I must have slept an age," he whispered. The breeze snatched the words from his lips and bore them off, up the hill, inland. To the trees. Perhaps, to the trees.

  He sighed slightly, and shook out his wet, bedraggled shirt as best he could before dragging it over his head, and pulling on his leather pants. He would have to draw another set of clothes from stores and put these in for a thorough cleaning.

  "No more sense than to wear wood's clothes down to the sea," he grumbled to himself, hearing his mother's voice behind his own. "Small wonder they let you sleep so long, Meripen Tree-son. They were hoping you would sprout some sense."

  He cinched his belt, made sure of the elitch wand, and picked up his boots. He'd take the common path up to the Hold, and—

  Behind him, a wave struck the sand with a crash and a roar. Meri spun, the leading edge washing over his feet, and the whole wave receding as suddenly as it had come, leaving wet-combed sand, and an—object, perfectly round, perfectly white—and perfectly dry.

  He did not hesitate—one did not refuse a sea-gift, no matter how chancy such gifts were known to be. Darting forward, he snatched the object from the wet sand, its dry-as-bone surface rough against his palm, and danced back from the next wave, all the way to dry sand before opening his fingers and looking at what the sea had brought him.

  The wand flared to white heat against his side, proving yet again that the elitch was the wisest intelligence in the Vaitura. Meri—Meri merely stared, breath-caught, and wondered what the sea might ask of him, for placing such a treasure into his hand.

  Sunshields were never found; they were always given—by the Sea Wise, rarely; by the sea, more rarely still. For all they appeared to be merely dry, untenanted shell, each housed a living intelligence, acute, reclusive, and occasionally whimsical. Meri had heard it said that the spirit of the sea itself worked through the shells. He supposed that this was possible in much the same way that any single elitch tree seemed to possess the knowledge and wisdom of all elitch trees.

  And, as elitch trees demanded courtesy, so did this strange token. Meri drew a careful breath.

  "Welcome," he said, trying not to sound as ambivalent as he felt.

  The elitch wand warmed approvingly against his side.

  The sun shield made no sign at all.

  "Elyd!"

  Becca was on her knees, sobbing as she groped for his wrist, his flesh still warm, stone-gray eyes staring sightless, and there was nothing beneath her questing fingers, nothing—

  "No! Elyd!"

  Her voice locked, and quite abruptly she stood, tears running her face, turned and walked out of the snug little room, leaving him where he lay and her clothes scattered on the straw-covered floor. Into the color-soaked night she walked, naked, sure-footed, and silent. Inside the house, she moved down hallways, through shimmering curtains of light, and up the ramp to her rooms.

  Altimere awaited her by the bath, his hair streaming like sunlight across the dark shoulders of his dressing gown, his whole form haloed in silver.

  Smiling, he opened his arms. Becca went to him, raising her face. He kissed her, deeply; the liquid fire coursed up her backbone and along her veins, leaving her chill and shaking.

  She was swooning against his arm when he broke the kiss, and stroked her face with his long, cold fingers.

  "Why do you weep, zinchessa?"

  The question unlocked her voice, and she began to sob anew. "Elyd! Oh, Altimere, he is dead! I—I killed him!"

  "Indeed, indeed," he murmured, leading her toward the bath. "And most gloriously. I stand in awe of you, Rebecca Beauvelley. You are more than ever I had hoped to discover."

  "Altimere—Elyd is dead. He was my friend and—"

  "He expired at the peak of his joy, insofar as one of his sort might be said to experience joy. Into your bath now, there's a good child. As deaths go, it was a kind one, and worthy of a friend."

  "I—" The water enveloped Becca, blood warm and smelling strongly of roses, driving away the lingering odors of straw, and of lust.

  "I don't understand you," she whispered, as Altimere picked up the sponge and began to bathe her.

  "No, I see that you do not." The sponge moved in hypnotic circles on her back. "All that you need to understand is that you have exceeded my expectations and that I am very pleased." Altimere's voice was slow and liquid, filling her head, drowning her horror in contentment.

  "Did you enjoy yourself, my child?"

  "Yes," she murmured. "Yes, I—enjoyed myself very much."

  "Good." The sponge moved over her shoulder, circled her breast, and moved down her belly. Becca lay back in the water, drowsing.

  "You must let go of this shame," Altimere said, his voice smooth and honeyed. "You have put yourself and your kest into my keeping, and I use both to further my goals. Oh, you will be the darling of the High Fey. Who can resist you?"

  Becca struggled. "I—will they all die?"

  "Hush. Hush. They will not die. They will scarcely know what it is that they have given away."

  "But, Elyd—"

  "Elyd Chonlauf died because he was weak. He could not resist the meld, and once he had melded, he lacked the strength to withdraw."

  "Why?" Becca whispered, looking up into Altimere's amber eyes. "Why did he die?"

  "Because you absorbed his kest, and left him powerless to survive. Be still now and let me finish bathing you."

  Becca drifted, awake only enough to come out of the water when she was told to do so, to stand while he dried her and wrapped her in her dressing gown, to sit before her mirror.

  She watched him in the glass as he braided her hair, his dark gown disappearing into the dark room, his hair lifting and spreading as if he floated in a pool of black water.

  "What happened to it?" she mumbled as he laid her down in the bed.

  "Happened to what, my treasure?" He pulled the sheets up around her shoulders and looked tenderly into her eyes.

  "Elyd's kest. You said I . . . absorbed . . . it?"

  "Indeed you did." He stroked her cheek, smiling softly.
"As to what you did with it—why, child, you gave it to me." He leaned closer and blew across her eyes.

  "Sleep now," he whispered.

  And she did.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "And who," Meri said carefully, "would Zaldore be?"

  Sea Hold's master philosopher looked down at his hands, and studiously said nothing. Sian, seated at Meri's left hand, sighed sharply.