by Sharon Lee
Ranger! The charge comes to you, the tree pushed into his mind. End this.
Meri moved his head, the scene so far away jittering in his long sight. He? From here? Impossible.
And yet—the charge had come to him.
Longeye yet uncovered, he groped his way to his feet, found his bow, and set his back against the ralif. His kest rose; he exerted his will, and saw the clouds forming overhead, spinning with unnatural force. He shuddered, knowing that he would pay for such work, later, and yet—the charge had come to him.
The clouds whirled faster, sucking moisture from Morran's snow-peak. Meri left it to do what it would and looked again, down among the burning trees.
Three Fey standing there in the shade of an elitch, unconcerned as trees blazed and died around them.
Even as he watched, a heavy branch split from the tree, crashing down upon the Fey, leaving one writhing, one still, and one hastily retreating, to snatch up a tool—an instrument of some sort, and turning again, released a stream of liquid fire, engulfing elitch and scurrying Brethren alike, destroying . . .
Someone screamed.
Meri raised his bow, reached to his quiver and pulled out the arrow that he never thought to use. The arrow of Gerild Vanglelauf, inherited from his father and his father before him, said to have been first fletched during the war itself.
His father's word was that this arrow would find any target its archer could see.
He drew.
It was the seeing that was hardest now; as he struggled to pull bow and pour into it all the strength of his kest and all the strength of his body—and all of the sight he could.
The cloud he had made boiled down the mountainside, heavy with rain, obscuring—no! There was the target!
Meri released.
The bow flexed, shattering in the aftermath; thunder boomed, wind whipped and rain slapped his face.
Meri screamed, his fingers bleeding, his head afire, but still he watched—watched the arrow find its target, and the rain pour down upon the burning land . . .
He woke, hand fisted in his mouth, face wet with sweat, or tears, and sat up, looking about him at the dark wood, full of the thoughts of trees.
Across from him Sam Moore the Newman slept rolled in his blanket. He shook his head and sat up, putting his back against the tree he had chosen to sleep under.
The trees remember, Meripen Longeye, a voice so deep and resonant that it must, indeed, be the voice of the entire wood.
We remember. And we honor you.
Chapter Thirty-Three
"Strengthen the keleigh, then!" the Fey with the truculent chin shouted. "There's no need to go hunting the grubbin' things!"
"Indeed," Altimere said, so smoothly that Becca thought only she in all the very full room understood that he was irritated. "There are many who agree with you, Venpor. Isolation is strength! We've all heard that cry often enough. Yet what thing, of all possible things, will occur if the keleigh is strengthened so that neither Fey nor Newman may pass?"
Venpor frowned, chin quivering. "Why, what will happen is that we shall be inviolate."
"Safe," Altimere said, with an edge to his voice that made the word seem an insult. "And yet would we be—safe?"
He looked around at the dozen Fey faces, seemingly transfixed by his words. Zaldore alone did not have her eyes on Altimere. She, rather, watched those who watched him, a calculating cast to her cat-green eyes.
"You suggest," another said, "that we would not be safe."
"I suggest," Altimere corrected her with a smile, "that we would not know if we were safe."
There was a stir at that, then silence as Altimere raised his hand. "Think. If we were to strengthen the keleigh so that none could pass, how would we know what the Newmen might be about? They are a clever race, and their devices are cunning. I would not put it beyond them to find a way through the keleigh, if they conceived a need."
"Oh, come now, Altimere," Venpor said. "You speak as if they are something above brute animals, which we know they are not."
"Do we? How many times have you crossed the keleigh, Venpor, and walked among the Newmen?"
There was a short silence, before Altimere bent his head.
"I see. In fact, you know nothing of them from first-hand observation, and base your decisions on rumor and fear."
Venpor drew himself up, but before he could say something that was bound, so Becca thought, to be regrettable, Altimere put his hand into his pocket and withdrew a watch.
He flipped open the silver case and placed it on the table before him. The gathered Fey bent low to study it. Becca, from her shorter vantage, could see that it was a very fine watch, indeed, with a painted porcelain face, and a hammered silver case.
"Observe this sample of their skill," Altimere murmured. "See how finely it is made."
"May I?" Zaldore murmured, and at Altimere's nod bent forward to pick the watch up. She held it in her hand for a time, gazing down into the face, then blinked and looked up.
"There is no kest tied to this."
Altimere smiled. "No," he agreed, "there is not. It is a machine—an artifact. Properly constructed, it operates itself, with no need for continued input of kest from the artificer." He extended a hand and reclaimed his watch, turned it over and opened the back.
"Look at this!" he commanded, and his guests bent forward as much in response to the power of his voice as in genuine curiosity.
"Observe the intricacy of the work; the sophistication of concept. A beast did not fashion this. Nor is this the least of their works. Do not suppose that they rest with the counting of time. I have seen great metal machines as long as this room, stoked with wood, achieve speeds beyond a horse—even a proper Fey horse!"
"Are they kin to the Wood Wise, then?" Someone—Becca could not see who—asked from the far side of the table. "Do the trees serve them?"
"The machine I saw was powered by the reaction of fire and water," Altimere answered. "Steam drove it. And it was a marvel, indeed, to see how the energy was captured and contained to be released at need—all, all, without a candle-flash of kest expended." He sighed. "Indeed, I was sorry not to have an opportunity to study it at length."
"What prevented you?" Zaldore asked.
Altimere closed the watch and slipped it back into his pocket. "The device unfortunately exploded," he said. "A matter, so I understand it, of faulty calibration, which might happen to any artificer in the throes of experiment. Lost with the device was its maker, and the plans were taken by the law-givers of that place—for such devices go against the word of the Newmen rulers—and burned."
"A sad outcome," Venpor said, his tone suggesting otherwise.
Altimere bowed his head. "So I thought and still believe," he said gravely. "You speak of kest as if its acquisition and manipulation is the mark of a higher being," he continued in that grave voice. "Having seen the Newmen, walked among them . . ." He turned his head to smile tenderly at Becca, ". . . associated closely with them—I would say that it is not so simple a line to draw, between man and beast. And as for power—I have seen a Newman take one wire, bring it toward another—and watched power visibly arc between the two!" He shook his head slightly. "No, I would wish to keep the Newmen under my eye, rather than have my reason in rags through not knowing—and being unable to guess!—what new artifact they might be a-building."
He paused while the Gossamers circulated among the guests, refreshing depleted wine glasses.
"There is another . . . difficulty," Altimere said slowly, "with this notion that we might simply strengthen the keleigh."
"And that is?" inquired the soft-voiced Fey leaning against Zaldore's chair.
Altimere smiled at her. "Why, that the keleigh itself is no simple thing! Would you care for a demonstration?"
"Very much," Zaldore said before anyone else could speak, and Altimere gave her a bow before raising one languid hand.
At once the Gossamers appeared, carrying a thin sheet of highly polis
hed stone. This they placed on the table before Altimere. He, in the meantime, had reached into his other pocket and withdrawn—
A child's top.
No, Becca thought; not precisely a child's top. This was painstakingly painted with flowers and birds—more art-piece than toy. Altimere held it up for all to see, smiling.
"A simple device," he murmured. "It does one thing well, much the same as the keleigh. It spins. When the keleigh spins, it reweaves and strengthens itself, but spin it does and must, precisely—so!"
The top struck the polished stone and spun, the Fey watching breathlessly. It was marvelously well-balanced, thought Becca, for it neither wavered nor bounced and kept on spinning long after she had thought it must fall and stop.
"Ah." Altimere shifted slightly in his chair and several of the groups started. "How pleasant to watch the pretty thing spin, is it not? And yet I fear it is beginning to waver. It will stop soon, unless it has some assistance. You, ma'am—" He nodded at the soft-voiced Fey. "Would you indulge me by insuring that the top continues to spin?"
Pretty brows drew together, but the Fey inclined her head. "Certainly," she murmured and the toy immediately recovered itself and recommenced spinning, tall and true.
"How much kest do you expend on this task?"
The soft-voiced Fey looked up, obviously surprised. "Very little."
"Of course," Altimere said politely. "Now, if you would do me the honor, slow it so that its revolution matches the span of a day."
"Matches the—" The Fey frowned. "I cannot," she said slowly. "If I slow it so much, it will fall."
"Yes. Excellent. The top must spin at a certain speed to maintain its position. And in order to spin without faltering, it requires a steady input of kest." He opened his hands. "So, with the keleigh. It uses energy, and, as we all of us know, it is so constructed that it draws what energy it uses directly from the land."
"Which in turn," the soft-voiced Fey said, "requires energy—or it will die."
"You have been studying!" Altimere exclaimed, obviously pleased. "Precisely that is our conundrum." He looked around at the watchful faces. "The keleigh was created as a solution to a problem—a most dire problem. It has served us well, but now, I submit to you, it serves us no longer. And it was our error, that we never considered that the keleigh itself would one day require a solution in its turn."
There was a small silence, then Venpor spoke again.
"So, what would you, Altimere? Throw down the keleigh and mix blood with the Newmen?"
"Throwing the keleigh down is—also not as simply done as said," Altimere murmured. "And as for the Newmen—they are, as I have said, clever. They might serve the Fey well, if they are put under strict governance. Indeed, they may well flourish under such governance. I see that as a beneficial course for all, and one that does not repeat past error."
There were mutters at that, and it seemed that there would be more questions—but just then Zaldore rose from her chair with a lazy smile, and reached her hand down to Altimere.
"I am sure you have given us much to think upon with regard to the keleigh and the Newmen," she said. "But, come, Altimere! You and I must speak in private, if your guests will forgive you."
"Of course." He took her hand and rose gracefully to bow to those gathered. "Pray excuse me. I don't despair that you will find a topic or two of conversation in my absence."
There was laughter at that, and the group began to dissolve into small clumps, while Zaldore led Altimere away. Becca took a deep breath and, recalling her duties as hostess, set herself to moving among the guests.
The Gossamers, of course, were much more efficient than she was at keeping glasses filled and circulating trays filled with savories. As she moved among the guests, Becca began to understand that she was present not so much as hostess, but as a reminder—or a provocation—to those who held her own people in such low regard.
She found that she did not mind playing the part of the provocateur, either. What right have they, she thought, as she strolled from the main room to the small parlor, to declare us beasts? If we possess this precious kest of theirs and choose not to use it as they do, does that make us any less admirable? Surely, the genius for mechanics—for art, and for healing, too—surely that is kest, only expended in a manner unlike—
"I tell you," an unfortunately familiar voice said, too near at hand. "She's nothing more than a beast, no matter what the artificer's son may say! He's besotted, obviously."
"Altimere, besotted!" scoffed his friend. "The wine has the best of you, Venpor. Certainly, he may take some pleasure in the company of a comely woman strong in kest. Who would not? But—"
"Strong in kest!" Venpor interrupted. He threw what was left in his glass down his throat. No sooner was the glass empty than the Gossamers were there, offering a full one in trade. Venpor scarcely seemed to notice that he had received a new glass, his attention on his friend, who was, Becca saw with surprise, the soft-voiced Fey who had grasped the lesson of the top so adroitly.
"That cow possesses no more kest than this glass!" Venpor announced, raising it exuberantly, and it was a credit to his nerves—or to the other Fey's deft application of kest—that not a drop was spilt. He held his pose for a moment, then lowered the glass, turning slightly so that his gaze fell upon Becca.
He frowned.
She lifted her chin and met his eyes, striving for that look of iced haughtiness perfected by Celia Marks.
"Arrogant beast," Venpor muttered, and jerked his head, calling his friend's attention to her. "If I prove that she's no more than a lower form, will you come speak with Harow?"
"How will you prove it?" the other Fey asked, and Becca admired how adroitly she failed of giving her word.
"By dominating her, of course. Here."
Becca felt an unpleasant pressure behind her eyes, as if someone had pushed at her thoughts. The feeling was eerily familiar, and she was still for a moment, trying to recall—
The second push was harder; hard blue light flashed, dazzling her, spiking a headache. Irritably, Becca pushed back. The blue light snapped out; the headache vanished.
The soft-voiced Fey laughed.
"Apparently," she murmured, giving Becca a tip of the head. "She does not wish to be dominated this evening."
Venpor's pale face flushed hot pink, and Becca had no trouble at all in reading hatred in the stare he brought upon her.
"It's the collar," he snapped. "She draws power from it."
"Come now!" the other chided. "If she does, surely that disproves your theory!"
"How so?" Venpor snarled, his gaze never leaving Becca's face.
She met his eyes, defiant, and felt a thrill of fear. His hate was hot, she could feel it. Venpor wanted to hurt her—possibly to kill her. She should, Becca thought coolly, scream for Altimere, or run, or—or curtsy and beg his pardon.
Notably, she did none of those things, merely held his eyes with hers, while the soft-voiced Fey said—
"The collar bears her signature, therefore, she created it. And if it was fashioned, as you believe, to protect her, then it is hers, it functions as it should, and she is thereby no dumb beast, but a woman of kest and cunning." She shook her head, smiling, but Becca thought she looked more worried than amused. "Give over, Venpor!" she said, urgently. "If nothing else, recall that you are a guest in this house."
"I forget nothing," Venpor grated. "And I say again, without the collar she is a worm, an insect, a thing to be dominated by a higher order and used as seems best."
"If you believe that my jewelry in some way impedes you," a voice that Becca belatedly recognized as her own said frostily. "Then remove it."
He will kill you! a small voice screamed inside her head.
Good, she answered herself, and smiled at Venpor.
Wineglass in one hand, the other outstretched, he lunged. She stood her ground, whether by courage or idiocy, she scarcely knew.
There was flash, a sense of heat, a thump of dis
placed air—and a crash, as Venpor struck the wall across the room, and collapsed bonelessly to the floor.
The soft-voiced Fey had not reached his side when Altimere arrived, Zaldore with him, and a great many people in train.
"Rebecca," he said sternly. "Venpor is a guest in my house."
"Yes, sir," she said, meeting his eyes no less boldly, and felt another, more potent, thrill of fear. "A guest in your house tried to dominate me, as is his natural right."
"The lady speaks sooth," the soft-voiced Fey said, kneeling next to the fallen, who was beginning to moan and shake his head. Becca tried to feel relieved, that he had survived—and failed. "He insisted that the necklace gave her . . . unearned . . . protection, wherefore she most courteously invited him to remove it."
