Duainfey

by Sharon Lee

  "Dickon, take me home," she whispered, as kind hands pulled the sheets back, straightened her limbs, and brushed the tears from her face. They held her head and gave her a sup of water, freshened her pillow and tucked the covers 'round her.

  "No . . ." she protested, struggling feebly. "I must go home!"

  There was no answer, save the soft pressure of a hand against her forehead—and sleep swept her away.

  It was different under the trees.

  Sam Moore had taken the lead, Meri following at a compromise distance; neither so close as the Newman seemed to feel necessary—did he think a Ranger could become lost in a wood?—nor so far removed that Meri need see neither man nor aura.

  He had half feared that the strength of the Newman's aura would blind him to the trees. Instead, the sharp-edged colors were blunted under the greenleaf, and Meri sighed in relief. Not only did the bow he had wheedled from Sian's armorer buoy his spirits, but the terrain now favored him. Too, the necessity of focusing to keep the Newman's aura from overwhelming him was less of a burden under leaf, where there was so much else for him to heed.

  As he walked, he listened to the stroke of wind along leaf, while the birds sang him riddle-bits of news. There was an art to piecing together sense from bird-song, and he was inordinately pleased to find that he had not entirely lost the way of it. Chief among the news items was his sojourn among the high branches, two nights ago. A Ranger in the Wood was cause, it seemed, for some excitement, which made him wonder if it were actually true that Sian had no Rangers save himself to send with Sam Moore. He had merely thought it an excuse, but if there were no Rangers at Sea Hold, which enclosed a not-inconsiderable forest within its honor, then—where were they?

  Possibly the trees knew, though the older ones were likely to become confused regarding time. Meri snorted lightly. The whole of the Vaitura had become somewhat confused regarding time, since the artificers had exercised their skill, for the safety of all and everyone.

  Sam Moore ducked beneath a low branch, scarcely disturbing a leaf. Meri ducked in his turn—and paused, caught by the hum of the tree's contentment.

  Greetings, he sent, politely.

  The humming became not quite so loud. Greetings, Ranger.

  I wonder, Meri sent, if the one who preceded me is known to you?

  He and his folk are known to the trees.

  And he and his folk have your . . . approval?

  They are a joy upon the land, Ranger. And what is a joy for the land is a joy for the land's children.

  Of which he, Meripen Vanglelauf, called Longeye, was arguably one.

  I see, he said to the tree. My thanks. Good growth to you.

  And to you, Ranger.

  He continued, only to find Sam Moore awaiting him at a curve in the path, a frown on his square, brown face. Meri hesitated, hand dropping to the elitch wand, but the Newman made no threat, nor said a word, merely turned and walked on.

  Very soon after, he called a rest.

  It was early for it, or so Meri felt—and then reminded himself that the Newman held the route for this hike, and would have planned his rest stops and night-overs. The spot was likely enough, next to a swift-running streamlet, and near a culdoon tree. Meri helped himself to a fruit and sat down on one of the rocks near the stream, his shoulder to the Newman.

  He should, he thought, ask where they were bound, but it was far more restful to listen to the discussion of the squirrels in the aspen tree growing on the far side of the stream. Something about the Brethren and—

  Sam Moore cleared his throat and Meri started, the comfortable woodsy scene momentarily lost behind a mosaic of glassy color.

  Meri bit into his culdoon, concentrating his entire attention on the sharp flavor. The colors retreated somewhat; the woods returned; and Sam Moore spoke, hesitantly.

  "The Engenium said that you had taken harm from—from men, on the far side of the hellroad. I—it is doubly good of you, to consent to help us."

  Anger flickered and Meri fought it down, putting his attention on the complexity of smells born on the wood-breeze, the sound of water racing over stones, the feel of the culdoon in his hand. When the world felt stable, and his anger had retreated to mere annoyance, he looked up and met the Newman's eyes.

  "I go with you because the charge came to me," he said slowly, "to aid the trees." And if, he added silently, what aided the trees discommoded the Newmen, none would see Meripen Longeye weep for it.

  Sam Moore bit his lip, but his gaze did not wander from Meri's face. "I would try to persuade you that—even as the Fey—we are not all the same. There are good folk among us, and ill; strong and weak. Foolish and wise." He paused, his expression earnest, apparently expecting an answer, and prepared to wait for it.

  Meri took an irritable bite of his culdoon. Thorn and stone! Was it not enough that he came with the creature? Did he have to converse with it, too?

  "There is a saying, among my folk," Sam Moore said quietly. "A dark heart will tarnish the noblest deed."

  "And the remedy 'mong your folk for lightening a heart that bears the burden of a death?"

  The Newman blinked, and looked aside. "The Fey healers are—" Meri raised a hand, and he stopped, pressing his lips tight.

  "Leave it," he said shortly, and frowned as the squirrel's discussion erupted into argument. Silently, he rose from the rock and silently moved downstream, toward a clump of redthorn bushes, their fruits trembling in the breeze.

  Or perhaps not.

  Meri threw the half-eaten culdoon into the heart of the bush, which burst into agitated movement, accompanied by squeals and complaint. A short, cobby body sprang up and out of the thorns, hit the ground, took a running step—

  "Hold." Meri did not raise his voice, nor did he move.

  The Brethren stopped and stood as if frozen, growling softly, its horned head lowered, and the tip of its tail twitching. From the side of his eye, Meri saw Sam Moore rise from his rock, and raised his hand, freezing the Newman, as well.

  Such power.

  "Good day to you, Brethren," he addressed the horned one, mildly.

  "Release me," the other snarled.

  A non sequitur, or a pleasantry, since Meri had not—indeed, could not—extend a compulsion. Still, it was best to observe the forms.

  "Of course, you are free to go according to your needs and will," he said, and paused. The tufted tail twitched, stilled—but the Brethren did not otherwise move.

  "I only wonder," Meri said, tucking his hands into his belt, "if you have news."

  "News?" The Brethren shook its horns lightly. "What news would you? A High Fey fell off his horse and lay in the road, smiling up at the sky while those of the Brotherhood made free with his pockets and saddlebag. The horse would not be frightened off, more's the shame, and eventually the Fey returned to the saddle and rode on." It shook its head, and stood on one foot, staring up at Meri over its shoulder.

  "The Barrens are widening. We lost one of our own down a crack in the earth."

  Meri bowed his head. "I grieve for your loss," he said politely, and the Brethren growled deep in its throat.

  "The land trembled to the west and south last night. It could be that some trees fell." It pivoted at the waist to stare the silent Newman. "It could be that some trees fell on huts, or gardens, or Newmans."

  The Brotherhood were indeed a wealth of information, Meri reminded himself, but they also, some of them, valued making mischief above all other pursuits. He glanced aside, expecting to see the Newman striding forth, but Sam Moore stood where he had stopped, his eyes on the stocky, horned form.

  "Anything else?" Meri inquired patiently.

  "Meripen Longeye, who quenched the madfire, is back underleaf. The trees natter of nothing else."

  "Thank you," Meri said. "I appreciate it, that you took the time to share your news. Is there any service I might perform for you in return?"

  "Might be," said the Brethren. "I'll think on't."

  It put it
s foot down, hopped across the stream—and vanished from sight.

  Across the clearing, the Newman sighed noisily, spreading his hands when Meri turned to face him.

  "What chances," Sam Moore asked, and Meri could see the effort he made to speak calmly. "That it was . . . telling a tale . . . regarding the damage at the steading?"

  Meri shrugged, walked over to the rock and picked up his pack.

  "Best we go see for ourselves," he said, pulling the straps up over his shoulders. "How far distant?"

  Sam Moore shook his head, and settled his own pack. "Two days, walking at a—walking gently."

  Meri froze, while the realization that the leisurely pace and early rest had been for him.

  In respect of his illness.

  A sparkle of too-vivid color warned him; he snatched at his temper, caught it, and managed to say, evenly, if not with the best of grace, "There is no need to travel gently on my behalf, Newman."

  Sam Moore licked his lips. "I would not see you come to harm through me." His voice was faint, but steady.

  Meri flicked an impatient hand in the direction the Brethren had taken. "Lead. And do not stint."

  The Newman took a hard breath, his various worries plainly at war across his square face. All at once, he nodded, squared his shoulders, turned and led on, moving at a trot.

  Meri smiled and settled his bow before following, taking the stream in a low leap.

  This, he thought, was more like it.

  Chapter Thirty

  Nancy dressed her in a brown split skirt and a pale green shirt, combed her hair out so gently that tears came to Becca's eyes, and put it into a single loose braid down her back.

  "Thank you, Nancy," Becca murmured. She rose and shook out the skirt, eyes averted so that she need not see the woman in the glass. Outside her window, the day was fine and blue; the breeze that danced past the curtains bearing the sweet tumbled scents of the garden below. She yearned to be outside in the day, to walk among the flowers and take her ease beneath the elitch tree at the far garden.

  And yet—how could she leave her room? What if she met Jandain and he—and he—

  She covered her face, feeling cheeks hot with shame against her palms. What had she done? She had degraded herself, accepted—reveled in!—acts that no woman of gentle birth—

  There was a tug on her sleeve. She raised her head to see Nancy hovering on busy jeweled wings, plucking at the cloth with tiny, anxious fingers.

  "No," she said, her voice wavering and full of tears. "I cannot go down to eat. I cannot go down for anything. Nancy, I am—" Ruined. In a far different, and far more damning way than—

  Nancy plucked her sleeve again, tugging her toward the door, agitation plain in her small, scrunched face. Becca bit her lip, ashamed once again.

  She had been sunk so deeply in her own misery that she had failed to think about what might happen to Nancy, who Altimere might hold responsible for Becca's failure to attend breakfast.

  Nancy, who had been "adjusted" once, and whom Becca had not even had the grace to welcome back into her service.

  She smiled, or tried to. "Yes, I will go down. You are quite correct; I'm only being foolish." She took a deep breath. "Thank you, Nancy. It is good to have you back."

  The little creature dropped her sleeve and rose, until she was staring into Becca's face. Suddenly, she extended her tiny hand and patted her cheek, then zipped off to some far corner of the room, where Becca, turning to follow her flight, could not spy her.

  "Thank you," she called softly, putting her hand over the cheek Nancy and patted. "Thank you."

  She had trembled and cringed for nothing; the dining room was empty when she went down and remained so while the Gossamers served her coffee and cheese scones, which she ate, to her own surprise, with a great deal of enjoyment.

  While she was drinking her second cup of coffee, a note appeared on the table at her elbow. She blinked at it, wondering why she hadn't noticed, but there—one of the Gossamers must have brought it when her cup was refilled. Carefully, she broke the wafer and unfolded the stiff paper.

  The note was written in the flowing script of the Fey, which Becca had yet to master. She frowned—blinked, and the symbols shifted before her eyes, making what had been unreadable very readable, indeed.

  My very dear child, I hope this morning finds you well and radiant as always. You will perhaps be relieved to know that Jandain our guest departed while you slept, citing pressing business in Xandurana.

  Do as you please today, but pray do not tire yourself. We shall be entertaining another guest this evening; an old and dear friend of my youth. Her name is Sanalda, and I think you will like her extremely.

  Once again allow me to express my delight in you and in our association. Truly, you are a marvel, Rebecca Beauvelley. I kiss your hands.

  Altimere

  * * *

  It was cool beneath the elitch tree. Becca sat on the bench with her feet drawn up, and her back against the warm tree trunk. The lord's purse and penijanset lining the walk had gone to seed, and there was the faint, musty smell of old leaf in the breeze. The elitch itself showed no sign of incipient autumn, and Becca shook her head, astonished all over again at a land where all seasons coexisted, and the rain seemed never to fall.

  Dropping her head back against the tree, she tried to order her thoughts.

  While it was a relief that she would not have to face Jandain after—after what they had done together, yet she could not but own that her own actions remained a mystery to her.

  She tried to examine what she had done—what she had been thinking, but it was as if the actions of the night before had taken place years ago. The details seemed to slide about, misty and half-recalled. Why, even having met Altimere, afterward, in the moon garden . . .

  Wait.

  She screwed her eyes shut, battering at the memory, and again heard that soft voice, Wait. Allow it to rise.

  Becca took a breath, and another, letting her eyes droop closed, and little by little the memory arose: Herself stepping out onto the terrace, golden light spilling from beneath her skin that put the night-plants to shame. Altimere's arms around her, and her stretching up, eager for his kiss. The fading of the light, of her awareness of the night. The creeping chill and pain. His praise.

  His assurance that she was safe in his hand, as he suborned her will and forced her to act as she would rather not—and how? Becca wondered wildly. How did he have this terrible power over her? She—

  The collar.

  She had accepted the collar. Her hand rose, touching the cool stones at her throat, recalled with sudden vividness Jandain reaching to remove it, and the sparks with which it defended its position.

  That meant . . . Did it mean that Altimere could read her mind? Yes! she decided, cold to the bone; it must! That by itself was enough to make one swoon.

  There was, however, no time for swooning, even if she had been prone to such things. She must act to insure her liberty and her safety.

  Which meant that she must remove the collar.

  She bit her lip. Well she recalled what an ordeal it had been to affix the thing; she had almost swooned them, from the pain.

  And yet, she thought, while a catch might want two hands to fasten, it was entirely possible that it might be unfastened with only one.

  She raised her right hand, groping 'round to the back of her neck—

  Gasping, she snatched her hand back, staring at the blood welling from her sliced fingertips.

  The stones were not that sharp! She had touched them many times, taking pleasure from the liquid feel of the surface.

  Becca fumbled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket with her left hand, and wrapped her wounded fingers.

  Obviously, she thought, gulping against the rising bubble of wild laughter. Obviously, she would need both hands—and gloves, too—in order to undo the catch. Doubtless Nancy could provide her with gloves, though that meant returning to the house.

  She
did not wish to meet Altimere before she had—

  . . . before she had . . .

  With no direction from her conscious mind, she came to her feet, her thoughts sliding away like water. She took a step—and paused, an elitch branch tangled in her braid. Patiently, she freed the branch, being careful of the tender leaves, then turned and walked out of the garden, leaving the bloodstained handkerchief fluttering on the bench.

  Sam Moore could cover a bit of ground, when he wasn't cosseting the halt and the infirm, Meri thought. Indeed, he had so far forgotten himself as to range beyond Meri's sight, which was not particularly worrisome, as his trail was plain to see.