by Sharon Lee
Faldana nodded. "We dare not wait," she said, and threw a tight smile at him over her shoulder before ghosting forward into the dusk.
Following the boar to ground.
* * *
The rocks grew larger, and more numerous. There were no trees. Ahead, the keleigh belched and danced, soaking the landscape with its unhealthful glare. Meri squinted, trying to make sense out of their surroundings, piecing the jagged outline of a rock fall out of the weird light.
He held up a hand. Faldana paused, looking at him worriedly.
"We cannot go back."
"We cannot go forward much longer. Happily, I think I see where it has gone to ground. Take your bow to the top of yon boulder, and I will take mine to that. You are the better archer, so I will shoot first, to flush it. You, I depend upon to bring it down."
She tipped her head, considering—then nodded and turned without a word to the boulder he had indicated.
Meri vaulted to the top of his chosen rock, drew an arrow and set it. He lifted his hand and moved the patch from his right eye to his left.
The blasted, unnatural landscape leapt into focus so sharp he winced, and closed both eyes. Two breaths to steady himself, and to recall that they sought a boar.
He opened his eye. The landscape blurred dizzyingly, bile rose in his throat, and there—there was the quarry, belly down on the stones. Its burned flank was peeled and raw, the ugly wounds weeping, and he could feel the effort it made, simply to breathe. It was dying—and yet it could not finish.
His focus still on the suffering animal, Meri carefully raised his bow.
More often than not, longsight created more problems than it solved. On the one hand, it was possible to see what was desired, many furlongs distant. However, it was damnably difficult to know how far the desired thing lay from the seeker's physical presence. It was also all but impossible to know where it was, for the longeye focused tight, and any attempt to gain context or a sense of near surroundings usually resulted in a loss of focus and a debilitating headache for the seeker.
Meri had learned through hard lessons to use his longeye sparingly. Indeed, this particular situation—where they were near enough to the creature they sought that they needed no context—was one of the few where his gift was exactly as useful as it ought to be.
The animal in his sight shuddered where it lay, and Meri paused, wondering if he witnessed its death, after all.
But, no—it abided. In misery. But it abided.
Meri pulled the arrow back. He had told Faldana that he intended to startle the beast into running toward her position. In truth he would do his best to kill it where it rested; he hardly had the heart to force it to rise again.
Back came the arrow. The boar lifted her heavy head.
Meri released.
The arrow sped true—and buried itself to the fletching in one enormous eye.
The animal roared, hurtling to its feet. Meri brought another arrow across the bowstring . . .
And the boar crashed to the stony ground, shaking the boulder Meri crouched upon.
Faldana slit its throat, to be certain, and straightened with a tired smile.
"We should have thought of that sooner," she said.
Meri shook his head, and gazed around him with his left eye. "It had to be here. We were near enough, and she had put her back against a wall. Startled, she could only bolt toward us."
Faldana nodded, absently, her eyes lifting to the ghastly display of the keleigh against the obscured, starless sky.
"Have you ever wondered?" she said softly. "What they're like—the Newmen?"
Meri shrugged. "So long as they remain on their side of the keleigh and we on ours, there's no need to wonder."
She looked back to him, her body taut against the unnatural sky. "What if the keleigh falls? What if time and place reassert themselves and thrust them into the Vaitura with us? Should we at least not scout them out and learn what sort of folk they are?"
"Since we're so close?" Meri frowned. "What brings this to you now?"
"We are so close," Faldana pointed out. "And it is our charge, to scout ahead, to be certain that the land is safe for travel, that no boars lie in wait to savage the innocent, that the trees are cared for, and the covenant upheld."
Faldana stepped closer and put her hand on his arm. He felt her kest rising, and his stirred in answer. Indeed, it was their charge, but even more than that, to cross the keleigh, to spy out the Newmen in their natural habitat—what an adventure it would be, at the side of a companion his equal in craft and spirit. . . .
"I would like it," Faldana whispered, "if you would hunt with me, Meri."
The morning was pleasant—as were all mornings in this place—giving the lie to the horror of her dreams. What could happen here, that was less than fair or beautiful? And yet, such a dream . . . Becca shuddered under sun's caress and hurried to the stables.
Rosamunde whickered from her stall, and Drisco snorted. Altimere's black stallion gave no sign that he had even noticed her presence.
"Elyd?" Becca called. "Elyd, are you here?"
The only reply was the sound of Rosamunde's hoof striking the floor of her stall—firmly.
Becca bit her lip. "Elyd!" she called again, voice shrill, chest squeezed with the memory of the dark dream.
Not even Rosamunde answered this time.
"No," Becca whispered, hearing her breath rasping. "It can't have been true. . . ." She tried to slow her breathing; tried to think. Elyd could simply be—somewhere else. Surely, duty called him to other segments of the estate from time to time. Perhaps—Perhaps Altimere had given him the day off. Perhaps—
Becca moved to Rosamunde's stall, which looked as if it had just been cleaned and reprovisioned, and the other stalls, as well.
"Well, then," she said briskly, though the pressure in her chest was no less. "He can't have gone far."
She turned, ignoring Rosamunde's offended snort, and moved to a door set in the right wall. That Elyd's room lay beyond it, she knew. She had seen it once—if one did not count the dream—a modest bed with a straw mattress, and clothes hung carefully on hooks. There was another door that opened out into the courtyard.
The door she had entered. In the dream.
Biting her lip, Becca pushed the interior door open—and stood staring at the tidy storeroom: buckets, sacks, rakes, and spare tack all neat and orderly. There was no bed, no clean, tattered clothing hung up off the floor.
No sign that Elyd had ever been here.
Becca felt a stab of pain, tasted blood, turned and bolted, the door banging shut behind her and Rosamunde's whinny shaking in her head long after she had run past the water garden, shoved the gates open and pelted into the elitch garden.
Panting, she collapsed onto the bench, pulling her feet up and leaning into the tree's firm, warm trunk.
"Oh, Scythe! Oh, Scythe . . ." she moaned, and dropped her head to her knees.
It was true. She had—she had taken cruel advantage of her friend, had gloried in his terror, and reft him—reft him of life.
"How . . ." she cried, shivering in self-loathing.
The necklace. She raised her hand and touched it, hard and hot around her throat. Altimere had given her the necklace, and she had suddenly felt—different. Abandoned. Powerful. And she had gone to Elyd—but the dream, or the memory, did not provide her with a reason for his seduction. She had simply—acted, with no more thought or choosing than if she had been a gleeman's doll, responding to twitches along her wires . . .
And then! He had died—died under her, in the midst of their debauch, and she had tried to help him—she had!—only then to rise, thoughtless again, walking naked out into the night, returning . . .
. . . to Altimere, who kissed her and petted her and told that her she had done well!
"I'm mad," she whispered, rubbing her wet face against her skirt. "How could such a thing happen? How could he think it right? How could I—"
She stood sudde
nly, and turned toward the gate. A low branch caught at her sleeve, as if the elitch sought to detain her, but she shrugged it off without a glance, walking briskly down the path, letting the gate fall closed behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was, Becca thought, as Nancy returned with the comb and began to dress her hair, an altogether confusing dress.
The color was old gold, which set off her brown skin beautifully, with a demure square neckline that barely revealed the swell of her breasts. The sleeves were wide, banded tightly at the wrist; the silver-bound slashes in the left sleeve alternately revealing and concealing her ruined arm.
The bodice that Nancy had laced so tightly was a fantasy webwork of silver, drawing the eye to her waist, and from there, following the sparkle of dangling cords, down to her belly and to her legs, faithfully outlined by the clinging fabric.
In short, it was a puzzling mixture of the demure and the hoydenish and she wondered what was meant by it.
Perhaps, she thought, wincing as Nancy pulled a knot, it was a comment on her—her base treatment of Elyd? But, no—he had been pleased. Therefore, the dress was not a punishment.
Was it—could it conceivably be—a reward?
Nancy pulled another knot, so hard that tears flooded Becca's eyes.
"Oh!" she cried. "Nancy that—"
"That is quite enough," a quiet voice overrode hers smoothly. Altimere's reflection appeared behind her shoulder, dressed for dinner in cream and sable. He took the comb from Nancy. "Go to the workroom," he said coolly.
The little creature hung in the air for a moment, wings vibrating, her hands lifted in what might have been supplication.
"To the workroom," Altimere repeated, pulling the comb softly through Becca's hair. "Shall I say it a third time?"
An explosion of silver, a poof of displaced air and Nancy was gone. Altimere smiled at Becca in the mirror.
"There, this is better, is it not?"
"Yes . . ." Becca said hesitantly. It was better; she adored it when Altimere brushed her hair, but—
"You won't . . . discipline Nancy too harshly, will you, dear sir? It's true that she's—peevish—sometimes, but she's a magician with my clothes and hair." She smiled at him in the mirror. "You can't dress me every day, after all."
"As much as I might wish to . . ." he murmured, amber eyes downcast, as he watched the comb glide through her hair. After a moment, he looked up and met her gaze in the mirror.
"I will not deprive you of your dresser, zinchessa. Merely, I will perform an adjustment, so that you are not subjected to these petty tyrannies. You are a treasure of my house and you will be honored as such. Nothing shall harm you—certainly not your own servant. Stand a moment and let me finish this."
In a trice he had her hair coiled atop her head. Diamond pins came to his fingers and he set them with casual artistry; they sparkled slyly when Becca moved her head.
"It feels—a little loose, sir," she said tentatively.
His hands cupping her shoulders, Altimere bent and brushed a kiss along her earlobe. "I think it will hold as long as it must," he murmured, and looked at her in the mirror, his cheek against hers.
"Excellent," Altimere murmured. "You are exquisite."
"It is a . . . very fine dress," Becca said slowly.
"It becomes you perfectly," he said. "Yes, you will captivate. I doubt it not."
Becca rubbed her cheek against his softly. "Captivate whom, sir? Yourself?"
"But I am already in your thrall," he said, straightening and turning her to face him. He slid a cool finger under her chin and looked down into her eyes, his hooded and amused.
"Tonight we will have a guest with us at dinner. By the end of the meal, I am confident that you will have added another slave to your retinue, cruel child."
"A guest? Who?"
"Do you recall in Selkethe, we met a Fey at the market? He was much taken with you."
"Jandain," she said, remembering masses of copper ringlets and gypsy silks beneath a brilliant orange canopy.
"Precisely Jandain! He has taken up my invitation to visit. I imagine that we will have him for . . . some days. His entertainment will fall largely to you, I fear, for my work has reached a point where vigilance is imperative. Indeed, now I think on't, this visit is timed well! You need not grow pale and listless for lack of company while I tend my tedious experiments."
"But I will miss you, sir!" Becca cried, panic suddenly roiling in her stomach. "I do not know this Jandain—and you said he was no friend of yours! What if he—"
"He will not harm you," Altimere said with a cool assurance that was at once terrifying and infinitely comforting. However, that answered but half of the question.
Becca looked down, biting her lip. "But how if I harm him, sir?"
"What is this?" Altimere sounded frankly surprised. He raised her head again, the touch of his fingers sending a thrill along her nerves. "How do you imagine that you might harm Jandain?"
She wanted to fall to the floor and hide her face. Instead, she licked her lips and forced herself to meet his eyes firmly.
"In the same way in which I . . . harmed Elyd," she said steadily.
Altimere's face clouded, and Becca felt her courage fail.
"Did I not tell you that Elyd Chonlauf died because he was weak?" he asked sternly.
"Yes, but—"
"Jandain is High Fey. He is an upstart and a heathen, as is the Queen he supports in Xandurana, but he is not a weakling. It is not possible for you to harm him, nor do I expect that you will attempt to do so." Altimere smiled. "After all, he is a guest in our house, and blessed."
"Yes . . ." Becca whispered.
"Poor child!" He bent and brushed her lips with his. "Come! Allow yourself to be pleased with him. If you recall, he named himself your most ardent admirer."
"He did," Becca her spirits rallying, "but I would not have it."
"Indeed you did not." Altimere laughed softly. "Perhaps you will be kinder this time." He took her left hand and placed it on his sleeve, pressing gently with cool fingers.
"Shall we go down and greet our guest? I am certain that he is eager to renew your acquaintance."
The flowing sleeves, tousled ringlets, and bright colors were gone. In their stead was a sober man in a sapphire velvet coat, and silver lace at throat and wrists. The copper colored hair was confined in a tail that flowed to the small of his back. There were rings on his fine, pale hands, stones flashing azure and orange. He smiled when Becca came in on Altimere's arm, and met her eyes boldly. His were the precise sapphire blue of his coat.
Becca lowered her eyes modestly and curtsied.
"Jandain. How good it is to see you again."
He bowed, with a fanciful flourish that seemed to make mock of the courtesy.
"Rebecca Beauvelley, I am entirely enchanted to see you again."
He straightened, and gave his host what seemed an almost insultingly casual nod.
However, Altimere did not react as if he had been insulted, merely nodding in return. "I am pleased that you grasped the opportunity extended to you," he murmured, stepping forward and bringing Becca with him.
"Will you accept Miss Beauvelley's escort to dinner?"
Jandain bent slightly, and smiled down into Becca's face as he offered his arm. "I will be in all ways delighted to accept Miss Beauvelley's escort," he said, his tone uncomfortably warm.
She thought to frown at him, but instead found that she had cast her eyes down, as if in maidenly confusion.
Altimere raised his arm, and Jandain received her hand as if it were a treasure, and placed it gently on his sleeve.
"Lead on, Miss Beauvelley," he said lightly. She glanced at him out of the side of her eye and saw him smiling widely.
"Of course," she murmured, her fingers pressing into his sleeve as if drawing courage from the contact. Eyes still averted, she stepped forward, leading the guest in to dinner.
Through the sorbet, soup and cracker Jandain
regaled them with tales of his late travels. He was droll enough to draw laughter from Altimere, which made Becca happy. For herself, she smiled politely, though she did not always understand the jest, and watched the guest from beneath her lashes. The wine which accompanied the cheese course was the peppery red; she sipped, tears starting to her eyes, and sipped again before replacing the glass.
