Duainfey

by Sharon Lee

  "Agreed. And yet—you are a Ranger, and the charge has come to you. Will you deny the trees, Meripen Vanglelauf?"

  "It is not possible. You have seen—"

  "You were taken unaware," she interrupted, "and given no time to shield yourself. It need not happen again. Indeed, I trust that it will not."

  He looked into her face, and read resolution there; her misty aura was threaded with gold threads of determination. He wondered, briefly, if she would compel him—and then knew that she would have no need.

  He was a Ranger, and the charge had come to him. He could no more deny the trees than refuse to breathe. And yet—

  "I will need time to . . . prepare," he said slowly. "Truly, Sian. I do not know if it can be done."

  She put her glass on the sideboard with a firm click, and came forward to place her hands on his shoulders. "Meripen Longeye was a strong and canny Ranger. I do not say a philosopher, or an artist, but skilled and practical. Deny him a hero, if it amuses you, but do not deny his strength." She leaned close and kissed him on the cheek.

  "Go. Make your arrangements, as I trust you can and will. Come back here tomorrow after you have broken your fast. Sam will be here, waiting."

  Jandain's white skin was touched with a rosy glow, as if an hundred wax candles burned at his core; around him pulsed a nimbus of palest lavender. For all of which, his fingers were cool, and clever, and his lips and tongue even more so.

  Becca lay in the wide bed, trembling, her limbs heavy, so that she could not even lift her right hand to stroke his hair. Each knowing touch of his cool, clever fingers inflamed her more; she moaned, and cried out, beyond speech, half-mad with sensation, her eyes and senses dazzled, the lavender nimbus deepening, and she reached—reached . . .

  "Ah, no . . ." His fingers stopped, and Becca screamed in frustration, though she made no sound.

  Jandain bent over to look into her eyes, his hair brushing her face.

  "You are a greedy, greedy child," he murmured, breathless and unsteady. "But you will—I insist that you will—obey the proprieties. Why, pretty Rebecca, you are still dressed! We will remedy that."

  Still dressed? Rebecca thought, as his fingers slid over her shoulders, upward, toward—

  "No!" she cried, suddenly terrified. "You may not remove Altimere's gift!"

  He paused, and looked at her curiously. "Are you so fond of him, then?" he murmured, his voice so low it seemed she heard her own thoughts. "He collars you and keeps you hidden here, whereas I . . ." He bent even closer, his breath hot on her cheek. "I would take you to Xandurana, and show you all the delights of our land, and protect you. Ah . . . protect you . . ." He licked her cheek; she closed her eyes, shivering, and he kissed her eyelids. "Say you will come with me, Rebecca Beauvelley," he whispered, his hands at her throat . . .

  Words rose to her lips. "I forbid you," she whispered, and opened her eyes to stare into his. "I forbid you to remove Altimere's gift."

  He laughed.

  "Stop me, then, mighty philosopher." His fingers slid 'round her throat, tightening, as he sought the clasp—

  Jandain cried out, jerking back, hands before him as if he had been bit, or burned. He blinked, and looked down at her, his long fingers curling into fists. The lavender nimbus showed flickers of red.

  Fear washed through her, icing her belly and her heart. She struggled against the invisible bonds that bound her to the bed—

  Jandain laughed again, low in his throat. He reached down to stroke her crippled arm, she shivered—and gasped as his fingers closed painfully.

  "I see the game," he whispered, his eyes like sapphire flames. "You like to be helpless, do you? You toy with me, and think me your lesser . . ."

  "No," she whispered, her voice shaking. He was going to break her arm!

  He smiled. "Perfect," he murmured. "See her eyes, so wide and frightened. Hear her voice tremble." His eyes moved, as if he gazed upon something just beyond her face. "And her kest—see it blaze, and beckon. Seductress." He smiled, Becca thought to scream for Altimere, but her throat closed. She lay there looking up at him, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

  Jandain's smile widened. "We will share kest, fully," he said. "And you will come with me, Rebecca. You will want nothing else."

  The kiss was brutal, horrifying—wrong. Yet the familiar molten gold rose from the base of her spine, and her breath came short now with passion. He thrust his member into her mouth and she spent at once, cresting again when he did, and the golden fire coursed her veins and overflowed her.

  He brought her up onto her knees and rode her as a stallion rides a mare, his fingers knotted in her hair, pulling her head painfully back; and the room filled with flame. He threw her down and impaled her, again, again—and at last her voice was her own. She screamed, and reached, snatching at the boiling violet, while above them the ceiling went to ash, the stars burned gold against the night.

  How wise the Engenium, Meri thought sourly, as he watched the moon rise over the sea. For soothly she had said, he was not a philosopher.

  "If all the healers could think to do was put me to sleep until I forgot . . ." he muttered.

  That it might, indeed, be possible to create a charm that would shield him from the—from Sam Moore's damnable, sickening aura, he had no doubt. There were marvelous things created by the artificers—witness the keleigh itself. Alas, he was not an artificer, nor had he any wish to be one. And if he had once possessed a certain small, clever talent, he doubted he possessed it any longer.

  Fire and flood! He wasn't even certain that he could best the—Sam Moore—if the Newman turned violent.

  Shaking his head, he stepped off the balcony, back into his room, robe rustling about his ankles as he paced.

  His leathers had been cleaned and were draped over the chest, ready for wear. How if he simply left now, faded into the woods . . .

  . . . forswore himself . . .

  . . . and ignored the fact that there were Newmen in the Vaitura.

  They held land under Sian's aye; they had not been unseemly—and yet they were dangerous, savagely beautiful, senselessly violent . . .

  He paused, looking down at the table where he had put out his few possessions—knife, elitch wand, sunshield—and sighed. Surely it was a virtue to travel light, but even a Wood Wise might find this kit scant. And while the kitchen would provision him, even, perhaps so far as a carven cup and small pack of dried teas—he wanted a bow. Badly. Also a rope.

  More than bow, or rope, or tea, he wanted some assurance that he might bear the company of Sam Moore and however many of his kin-group he was destined to encounter without succumbing to a fit, wherein he was entirely vulnerable . . .

  He frowned suddenly. The elitch branch had not yet lost its leaves; indeed, they were as new green as they had been when stick had first dropped into his hand.

  And they were waving—though there was no breeze.

  Meri picked the branch up and closed his eye. The scent of elitch tree was strong, and he heard the voice of the elder tree whispering between his ears. You need not walk alone, Ranger.

  "Help me," he whispered. "Please."

  She woke, crushed beneath heavy limbs, tangled painfully in the twisted sheets. Though there was no candle burning, nor fog light in the room, but Becca could see quite clearly by the golden light spilling from her hands—indeed, from her entire body. She did not spend much time in wonder of this, however, but wriggled carefully out from beneath Jandain, pausing for an anxious moment until she was certain that he slept on. Satisfied, she slid out of the tall, wide bed, and padded across the room, casting golden shadows before her.

  She went purposefully, but slowly; she was bruised, stretched and sticky, which made walking difficult.

  But, after all, she had not so very far to walk.

  Only out to the terrace, where he waited for her, overlooking the silver-washed garden. He turned, opening his arms, and she walked into them, her brilliance dulling the garden's glory.


  "Yes . . ." Altimere murmured, and bent his head somewhat. She stretched high, her torn mouth questing for his. He kissed her, long and thoroughly, and it hurt, but she could not pull away. When he finally set her upon her feet, there was only the garden for illumination. She staggered, giddy and chill, and he put his arm around her waist to steady her.

  "So, zinchessa, did you enjoy yourself?"

  She shook her head. "I was afraid," she whispered, her voice strained and rough. "He hurt me." She blinked up at him through sudden tears. "He . . . seduced me . . . and he says—he says he will take me away with him."

  "Really? Would you like to go with him? It might be diverting."

  "No!"

  "Then you shall not," he murmured, stroking her knotted hair back from her face, and touching her brow lightly. Immediately, she felt soothed and at peace, her tears drying before they fell.

  "And as for our honored guest seducing you—I beg you to understand that you have seduced him—and to good effect, as well!" His arm tightened about her in an affectionate squeeze. "I am pleased, my child. Very pleased."

  "I—seduced him?" Becca shook her head. "Sir, he—it was so strange! I felt his will move me, he forced me to speak words that I had no wish to say, and, and—do things that—"

  "Nay, nay, you were never so entirely in his power! You sat safe in the hollow of my hand, speaking and acting as was necessary to fulfill our goal." Another slight hug. "I say again that you are a marvel and a wonder, darling child."

  "You?" She stared at him in the silver light of the garden, feeling the sluggish surge of horror in her belly. "You made me say and do those things? Why?" She swallowed. "How?"

  He looked down at her, elegant eyebrows arched. "To further our goal. As to how—did you not give your life and your kest into my keeping? Did you not accept the collar? You are my willing vessel, Rebecca Beauvelley, and you do as I will." He smiled at her tenderly.

  "With great passion."

  Her stomach cramped. She was going to vomit. She was going to scream. She was—

  Walking into her rooms, where candles were burning, striking golden notes from the dark wood. The Gossamers ushered her into the bath, cleaned her, dried her, and wrapped her in a spotless white nightgown.

  It all seemed to happen from a considerable distance, and to someone who was not precisely herself. She thought, when she finally slipped between the sheets, that she might not be able to sleep, then wondered why.

  And then wondered nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dawn found Meri in the kitchens, cajoling provisions from the staff. He was either unusually persuasive, or they unusually sleepy; in either case his pack was filled in very short order and he was on his way to the Engenium's formal hall.

  He went slowly, each step an argument between self-preservation and duty. The elitch wand warmed his side, and he did not doubt that it would do for him what it might. Indeed, he was aware of the subtle aroma of growing things as he walked on, as if he moved inside a sphere of greenwood. Perhaps he would not fall into distemper merely upon observing the Newman's aura. He very much wished for that outcome.

  Even if he managed to keep his wits about him, he was vulnerable. All honor to the sea and to the trees, his kest was rising, but was yet dangerously low. If the Newman exerted influence, Meri was not at all certain of his ability to preserve his own integrity.

  He stopped there in the center of the hall, hands clenched, stomach roiling so that he was glad he had refused any of the breakfast meats offered him in the kitchens. If the Newman exerted his influence, Meri thought, what recourse had he? A dagger rode in his belt, but—granting the Newman any amount of skill—he would have no opportunity to use it before he was bound to the creature.

  Perhaps, he thought, his heart hammering in his ears; perhaps if he sought out his cousin Sian and begged the boon, she would kill him now.

  The elitch wand dug into his ribs, and the aroma of green growing things faded. Beneath his boots, the floor flickered, thrice, and subsided.

  "Rabbit-hearted, am I?" He put out a hand and pressed his palm against the living stone wall.

  Strength flowed from the stone, gritty, chill, and deliberate. Meri closed his eye, feeling his panic cool, and his heartbeat slow. Certainly, there was risk in this undertaking, but he had taken risks before. He knew how to keep watch; and how to defend himself, and if the worst came about—well, then the Newman was land-bound to the Engenium of Sea Hold, who would perhaps not wish to see a kinsman enslaved.

  Perhaps.

  Meri sighed and took his hand from the wall. His skin gave off a faint pink luminescence, fading as he watched. He took a breath, soothed by the aroma of new leaves, and took a step down the hall toward the Engenium's audience hall. And another, after that.

  At the door, he paused for only a heartbeat, to touch the elitch wand, and his dagger.

  The door opened; he crossed the threshold—and stopped, senses reeling under the assault of colors so varied and sharp that they might have been cut and pieced into a window. The room swam out of focus, its textures suborned by the blare of color, its reality challenged—

  He took a hard breath, the scent of elitch leaf steadying him. The colors faded; the room solidified. At the windows, framed in the dawn light, stood a thin young man in scruffed and serviceable traveling clothes. He wore a beard, as seemed to be the habit among the Newmen; an auburn fringe outlining a square face as brown as Meri's own, from which a pair of soft blue eyes considered him with no small amount of wariness.

  Meri took another deep breath and made shift to bow.

  "I take it that you are Sam Moore?" His voice sounded odd in his own ears, as if he had been breathing thin mountain air.

  The Newman produced an answering bow. "I am. And you are Meripen Lo—Vanglelauf."

  "Indeed," he answered, and his voice sounded . . . more substantial now; "I am Meripen Vanglelauf." Another careful breath. The assault of colors was—not fading, no—but he was able in some measure to ignore it. If he concentrated on the broad, brown face, the wary blue eyes, on the scent and the sense of the safety of trees—he could contrive. Already, he told himself rallyingly, he was much improved. Had he not only failed to fall into a swoon, but held rational conversation with the—with Sam Moore?

  The Newman licked his lips. "The Engenium is everything that is kind," he said—carefully, to Meri's ear—"and certainly our need of a Ranger is, um. Is acute. But, I would not put the journey on you, sir, if you are ill. She tells me that there is no one else to send—"

  Meri cleared his throat and Sam Moore stopped, his face stricken. "She tells me the same," he said moderately, breathing in the calming scent of the trees. He spread his hands. "If the trees need me, then my duty is plain."

  The Newman nodded, lips compressed. "I understand. But your illness, sir. I—"

  "I am not ill," Meri said curtly.

  There was a pause, followed by another plain bow, and Sam Moore bent to pick up his pack.

  "Are you provisioned?" he asked as he settled it on his shoulders.

  Irritation flared. Did the boy think he was just sprouted—and idiot besides? He thought—and bit his lip to keep from gasping aloud as the room slid sideways, the furnishings pierced by brilliance—no. He touched the elitch wand on his belt, focused his eye on the sturdy brown boots upon the Newman's feet, and the colors faded into the background.

  He sighed. Lifting his head, he stared into Sam Moore's face, daring him to say anything. The Newman looked grim, but his lips were pressed together into a straight, pale line.

  And, Meri thought, as it happens, I am not entirely provisioned.

  "I need to stop at the armory," he said, and turned. It was harrowing, turning his back on the Newman, whose belt knife had looked as serviceable as his leathers, his boots and his pack. But there, the blade was nothing more than honest lektrim, such as any Wood Wise might wear, and while the outcome of a knife fight was never certain, Meri need n
ot fear such an engagement, if it came.

  No, what frightened him more than the Newman at his back was the prospect of proximity to that disorienting aura. He strode down the hall with an alacrity that another might uncharitably classify as a trot, and heard the sound of Sam Moore's boots striking the stone floor behind him.

  Leaf and root, but he could scarcely abide being in the same room with the creature! How were they to travel together?

  Perhaps, he thought, it will be different, under the trees.

  "Dickon! Dickon!"

  She screamed herself out of sleep, and lay coiled in a knot under the covers, sobbing, her throat raw, her body torn and painful.