by Sharon Lee
She raised her head and smiled at Becca. "With what result you see here."
Altimere, however, was still stern. "It was a great deal of force," he said, as if Becca had indeed been in control, rather than simply allowing the necklace to do what it had been made to do.
Becca did not hesitate in her answer, for surely it was to her advantage to seem to be the woman of kest that Altimere claimed she was, rather than a captive to another's will.
"Indeed," she said, her voice cool. "I was concerned for my safety, sir. It is possible that I overreacted."
"She wants schooling," Zaldore commented. "If she cannot control her kest, she will do someone a hurt, Altimere."
"So she might," he agreed. "Now that we are here in Xandurana, I shall engage a tutor." He raised his voice. "Venpor, are you hale?"
A moan answered him.
"I'll tend him, Altimere," the soft-voiced Fey said. "He's in his cups, and ought to make his bows."
"You are too kind," Altimere told her. "I thank you."
"No need." She rose from Venpor's side and bowed. "Altimere," she murmured. "Zaldore." She straightened and smiled directly in Becca's eyes. "Rebecca, allow me to express my admiration."
She curtsied. "Thank you, ma'am," she murmured.
"Now that we have put this disturbance behind us," Altimere said, turning toward the crowd that had followed him and Zaldore into the room. "Perhaps it is time to sing rounds."
There was a general murmuring of pleasure at that, and Becca stepped forward, to do what a good hostess ought, and direct the guests to their places.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The dress was silver white laced with deep green, its neck square and modest, the sleeves full and fluttering. Nancy took special care with her hair, brushing it until it shone in the rich yellow light spilling in from the windows, and braided it with a ribbon-thin vine bearing flowers no larger than snowflakes.
Becca stood, shook out her skirt and looked at herself in the mirror. Suddenly, she was cast back to the over-bright ballroom, stifled by the sound of human voices, talking, instruments playing, a cup of wine in her hand and her own voice, low and intense beneath the racket of gaiety, "Show me another choice."
"Another choice!" she cried and began to laugh. A choice where she was not a puppet, entirely subject to the will of another, upon whose whim she thrived or died, with no one to succor her, friendless in a country of savage strangers.
The laughter grew wild in her own ears, while Nancy fluttered about her shoulders, wings agitated, and finally darted off. Becca leaned against the vanity table, laughter shrill now, and her stomach roiling with nausea—
A hand whipped against her cheek, knocking her head back. She gasped, the laughter dissolving into tears, and the Gossamer struck her again, on the other cheek.
Shuddering, she gasped for breath, squeezing her eyes shut to stop the tears. The Gossamer did not strike her again, but she had no doubt that it would, if she did not bring herself under control.
And slowly, she did regain—not calmness, but at least an outward seeming of composure. She pushed away from the table and looked at her reflection. There were no marks where the Gossamer had struck, though when she raised her hand, she found her cheeks tender to the touch.
"Invisible bruises," she murmured, and swallowed the spasm of laughter that threatened again to overwhelm her sense.
She shook her skirt out in order to buy herself another moment, then moved away from the vanity, walking toward the door. None impeded her, and the door itself misted out of existence as she approached.
Last night, she had traversed this hallway on Altimere's arm, her senses disheveled, and she had scarcely taken note of anything but the feel of his arm beneath her hand.
This morning—if, indeed, it was morning, and not a flawless sunlit afternoon—she noted her surroundings carefully, in an attempt to focus her intellect and push that horrified and horrifying laughter further away.
Altimere's country house had been elegant, and appointed with every luxury that an Earl's daughter might expect. The hallway that led to her room had been hung with expensive tapestries, and rich carpet had covered the floor. By contrast, the city house was plain, the floor seemingly cut from a single, vast board, the walls mottled silver-grey; rough, as if—she ran her fingers down the surface—yes. As if the walls were covered in bark.
Further along the hall, one entered a ramp, which executed a lazy spiral along the outer wall. Becca paused on the landing, then turned to the left, meaning to follow the ramp upward, to see what lay above her own room, but a light, invisible touch to her shoulder steered her to the right, and down.
The ramp was covered in the same barklike material. It gripped the sole of the shoe, which was, Becca thought, a good thing, there being no banister to catch at, should one trip. It was a dizzying descent without Altimere's arm to steady her, and she hugged the wall, trailing her fingers along the rough surface.
The ramp ended in the flagged entry hall she recalled from the night before. Here, she had stood beside Altimere and welcomed his guests as they were made known to her. Some names left her memory as soon as she spoke them—the soft-voiced Fey who had later in the evening escorted the drunken Venpor away being one—and others remained with her even now. Venpor, alas, was all too clear in her memory, nor had Zaldore faded.
Becca crossed the hall toward the dining alcove. Zaldore, she thought, was a dangerous woman. Certainly, Altimere was not without his dangers, and he, too, wished to depose his Queen, though for what cause Becca could not have said.
Zaldore, however, wished to be Queen, and for a specific purpose. Becca shivered and paused on the threshold of the dining room, glancing sharply to the right and left—but the room was empty, save for some covered dishes steaming gently on the table.
She forced herself to enter, to approach the table, and sit on the bench that seemed to grow out of the wall. No low table, dining cushions, and thickly carpeted floor here. There was a harp in the far corner of the room, but it was silent this morning, as it had been last night.
Her coffee was poured, the precise amount of cream that she preferred was added. Becca leaned back, sipping the hot beverage gingerly; savoring the bitter warmth.
She rested her head against the rough wall and closed her eyes. Once again, she saw the vision that Altimere had shown her—her other choice. How stupid had she been, she wondered now, to ask him to show her only one more? Surely, where there were two choices, there were three? And if there were three, then certainly there were four, five, six—until one achieved an infinite number of Beccas, each making her own unique choice, each leading to—a unique and special torment.
She shook her head against the wall. No, she told herself carefully. Surely—certainly—some of those infinite Beccas had made happy choices. Why! Perhaps, somewhere, there was a Becca who had chosen not to accept Kelmit Tarrington's offer of a ride, and who was now whole in spirit, heart, and body, married and—
Her face was wet. Hastily, she leaned forward, placed the cup carefully in its saucer, and caught up a napkin to dry her tears, wincing when she patted bruised cheeks. When she had done and opened her eyes again, she saw that her plate had been filled for her with the pastries she had so loved at the country house, and thin crisp strips of bacon. The Gossamers meant for her to eat, no matter how troubled her heart. Nor should she, Becca reminded herself as she picked up a pastry, think hardly of them for this. After all, they received their orders from Altimere, as Nancy did, and Elyd had . . .
As she did.
The pastry was too sweet; she swallowed coffee too hastily, to clear her mouth, and burned her tongue. Gasping, she shook the tears of pain away, and reached again to her plate.
The bacon, at least, was just as always, waking a hunger she would have sworn she did not feel. In the end, she ate four strips of bacon and a piece of toast brought by the Gossamers, and drank another cup of coffee.
She was not prevented from leav
ing the table afterward, though she was guided away from the library, and down a hall she had not previously traversed, to a strong wooden door at the end of it.
As upstairs, the door misted into nothing when she approached and she stepped out into a garden.
The garden.
The glimpse in the wine cup had not been the half of it. She had never seen such a multitude of flowers, all in full rioting bloom. There was a narrow pathway, but it had been ceded reluctantly; there were portions only a few steps beyond the door that were covered in flowers. Among the flowers grew trees, noble branches arcing against the flawless pale sky, casting shade and shadow amidst the crowds of color. The air was rich with the perfume of growing things and there was a constant murmur of sound—bees and birds, surely, gilding another, deeper sound, which might have been the voices of the trees themselves.
Her spirit rose. She stepped onto the path, moving carefully lest she crush a blossom. The gradials, sunbursts, and other tall sun-lovers for which she had no names, bowed their heavy heads as she passed, chickadees came to her shoulder and exuberantly declared themselves, their sharp toes pricking through the thin fabric to her skin, and flew off again, calling out to their less bold kin. Low-hanging branches stroked her sleeves as she walked, and she heard a murmured low welcome . . .
Her senses reeled, but she pressed on, deeper into the riot of growing things, and eventually she came to a bench. She sank onto it with gratitude and never a thought for her fine dress or fragile sleeves, closed her eyes and listened to the voice of the garden.
The birds, the bees, the wind, filtered through green leaf . . .
Welcome, Ranger.
"I thank you," Becca murmured, "for your welcome. But I am no Ranger."
Indeed she is not, a different voice said.
Or not precisely, a third put in, while the first asked, How shall we call you?
"I'm a gardener," she whispered, feeling her throat close with longing for her own dear wild garden, never—not a tenth!—as wild or as glorious as this!—"An herbalist."
Gardener, she's a gardener, the trees told each other, the words moving on the breeze.
Becca smiled and took a breath, drawing the scents and the strength of growing things deep into her lungs.
Possibly, she dozed. Certainly, the chickadee that landed on her shoulder and shouted into her ear thought so.
One comes, the deep voice that had first spoken to her said, seeking you, Gardener.
Altimere? Her heart pounded and she rose, turning—and froze, her body no longer her own.
The garden had gone silent; she heard the quick, light step clearly. The flowers parted and she came forth, long, white hands outstretched.
The soft-voiced Fey from the evening before; she who had not wished her name to be recalled.
Her eyes were so blue that they seemed purple, there in that place awash with color, and they crinkled at the corners when she smiled.
"In the heart of the garden, I find the bloom that puts the rest to shame," she said, with the air of one quoting poetry.
Becca lifted her chin. "Pretty words," she—she, herself!—said. "From one who did not trust me with her name."
The Fey's smiled deepened as she stepped forward. "What can my excuse be, but that at the beginning of the evening I did not know who you were? By the end of the evening, precious flower, I regretted my lack of courtesy very much indeed."
"And so you have come to make amends?" Again, her own words, spoken by her own will. A wild flicker of hope sprang up in Becca's breast as she gazed into the pale and lovely face. Surely, so noble a woman, gifted with so quick an intellect, surely, were she appealed to directly . . .
"I have come," she murmured, her blue, blue eyes intent on her face, "to propose that we two share kest."
Becca opened her lips, "Help me," she said—rather, she willed to say.
"You have Altimere's permission, of course," her voice said haughtily, and the nameless Fey laughed.
"Altimere is thought to be the deepest and most powerful of all the Queen's Constant," she said, bending down to take Becca's left hand. "It is a reputation not undeserved. But if he will leave a treasure so lightly guarded, then he must pay the consequence. Do you not agree?"
She pushed the sleeve up off Becca's ruined arm, her breath quickening as the damage was fully revealed.
"Enchantress, tell me that we may share, now, here, and fully. We will both be the stronger for it, and I swear to pleasure you as no other."
"There is," Becca murmured, her knees trembling as cool fingers continued to caress her arm, "a toll."
The Fey moved her eyes with an effort, and focused on Becca's face. "A toll?" There was stern pride in her voice, and a certain cool amusement. "Name your toll, fair tormentor, and I will decide if it is too dear."
Becca stepped back, pulling her arm away, and the Fey allowed her to escape.
"I still lack your name," she said sternly. "Is this how the High Fey in Xandurana share?"
The Fey women threw back her head and laughed, then dropped to one knee on the pathway, recapturing Becca's hand, and raising it to her forehead.
"I am Benidik, woman of power. Remember me."
"Certainly," she said coolly, "I will remember your name." But her right hand moved and stroked her pale hair, belying the coolness of her voice.
Benidik laughed again, softly, and raised her head, looking up into Becca's face. "Is that a challenge?"
"If you wish to hear it so," her voice said.
Benidik pressed her lips against Becca's left hand.
Still on her knees, her hand pushing the sleeve back slowly, her lips traveled up Becca's ruined arm, paused a moment to use her tongue on the sensitive skin inside the elbow and continued. Becca shivered where she stood, her head tipped back in pleasure. The garden was gilded in light, as if an aurora danced among the leaves.
Benidik's lips reached her shoulder; she nuzzled Becca's flesh, and looked up, blue eyes dazzled.
"Already, we take fire from each other," she said, her soft voice husky. "I begin to see why Altimere keeps you hard by him." She smiled. "You tremble, woman of power."
"I tremble," Becca answered, and her voice trembled, too, "with desire."
"We are well matched, then," Benidik murmured, and slid her hand slowly down Becca's arm, letting the sleeve fall. "And yet we must be certain that we do not stint each other . . ." Her hands slipped beneath the white skirt, cool palms skimming Becca's limbs, her thighs, lifting the fabric until she suddenly leaned forward, head and shoulders beneath the skirt, hands gripping Becca's buttocks tightly, and her mouth, her tongue—
Becca cried out, and the garden melted away in waves of desire.
They lay tangled among the flowers, Benidik's alabaster skin slick with sweat, her form outlined in a blue as deep and flawless as the sky. Becca kissed her breasts, feeling the other woman's desire as if it were her own. The cool hands were warm now, urgent, but Becca resisted her urgency, teasing, drawing out the moment to the final sharing, feeling their pooled kest build, interweaving into a fabric made wholly of light and spirit.
The garden crackled, green power interweaving into what they made between them, sharing, strengthening . . . strengthening, and it seemed that they would melt together in the conflagration of their need, and from the ashes rise a new and marvelous creature neither Fey, nor human, nor plant, but partaking of the excellencies of all.
In the heart of the conflagration, Becca found her voice.
"You must swear," she said, and there was no pride, but only naked need in Benidik's voice when she answered,
"I swear!"
"When we have shared, you will take me away," she gasped, fighting her desire—her need—for culmination, for union, fighting the will that drove her, and that locked her voice, too late, into her throat.
"I will," Benidik gasped. "On my name, which you know!"
There was no more waiting then. Around them, kest burned the air, and the ve
ry ground reverberated with their passion, as they shared, and melded, and shouted aloud with one voice, fulfilled.
Chapter Thirty-Five
One comes, Gardener.
The deep voice roused Becca from her drowse against Benidik's shoulder. She stirred, and was abruptly yanked to her feet, muscles protesting.
"Benidik!" her voice cried. "Altimere is come! You must away!"
The Fey was awake and on her feet between one moment and the next, full clad in the third, her smile in place, and an arm around Becca's naked waist, turning her away from the house, down toward the unexplored bottom of the garden.
