Duainfey

by Sharon Lee

  "That's right," Meri answered, slowly, and extended a cautious hand. The sprout surrendered his grubby paw with a grin.

  "I am Meripen Vanglelauf, of the Wood Wise."

  The boy tipped his head, but did his part courteously enough. "Jamie Moore, of New Hope Village." He lifted his hand away. "The trees call you Meripen Longeye."

  "That's another of my names," Meri agreed, as the trees volunteered something of the sprout. "This concept is not unknown to you, as I learn that you are properly called James."

  Jamie Moore sniffed. "That depends on who you ask," he commented, a small edge to his burry boy-voice. Meri inclined his head.

  "That is how it is with names, after all. And, as you had asked me, I gave the name I wish to be known by."

  "Oh." The sprout's fine brows pulled together in thought. While he considered, Meri learned, by way of the trees, that the child's mother was Elizabeth, Sam Moore's sister; his father the Wood Wise Palin Nicklauf.

  "What should I call you, then?" the boy asked—and his pale eyes grew round. He ducked his head.

  "The trees say I'm to call you Master Vanglelauf," he said, subdued.

  "And so we achieve a third name," Meri said solemnly, while he put forth the question of Palin Nicklauf's whereabouts.

  Jamie nodded and looked about him. "You came a long way to help us," he said slowly. "We—that is, as the headman's nephew and his nearest heir—I welcome you. The rest would do so, but—there was an earthdance two nights ago, and one of the trees came down on Gran's house. They took Sam off to see, because, um—because the village is first in their minds." He slanted an agate blue glance beneath his lashes. "Being villagers."

  "Of course," Meri said politely. "As it happened, I saw the downed tree and the damage. I hope that all who were inside escaped safely?"

  Jamie looked grave. "Gran, she chased everybody outside, but—they didn't think she was hurt at first. My sister and mother put her to bed and kept her warm, but next day, she was sickening. She's only gotten worse, and it's thought she's dying."

  "Thought?" Meri lifted an eyebrow. "Is no one certain?"

  "Well—Gran's our healer, see? Violet's her 'prentice, but not so far along as—as she needs to be."

  Meri hesitated . . .

  "You're not a healer, are you, Master Vanglelauf?"

  "I am not—and it is not certain that a Fey healer would be of use. However—"

  "If I ask the trees, will they send?" The boy's voice was at once tentative and fierce, from which Meri deduced an elder Wood Wise who had impressed a sprout with his own insignificance, when measured against the trees.

  "It is possible," he said now. "If you are respectful, and ask—do not demand."

  The boy nodded, and closed his eyes. Through the kindness of a larch, Meri heard the boy's request, and most gentle it was. In a trice, it had been taken up by the elders and entered the thought of the forest.

  "Well done," he said. "The matter is now with the trees, and you may rest easy."

  Jamie nodded solemnly, and rose. "Would you like something to eat?" he asked, slowly. "Or—we weren't sure. My mother made up a room in our house, if you'd rather, but—I made a nest out near the barn, if . . ."

  A room—he shuddered, rejecting confinement inside one of their dead structures. And yet—did the boy think he was unable to make his own nest?

  They meant it as a kindness, Ranger.

  A kindness.

  He did not laugh. Or weep.

  Merely, he inclined his head to the eager sprout before him.

  "I thank you for your . . . care. My preference would be, indeed, to sleep under leaf."

  Jamie Moore grinned and leapt to his feet.

  "I knew it!" he exclaimed, and held out an eager hand. "Here, I'll show you . . ."

  Becca was in the garden before the dew was dry. The seeds she had set the day—or had it been two days?—before were sprouting already. Her task today was to set the seeds into the second quarter of the wheel, before continuing her program of thinning and spreading the plants that overran the rest of the garden.

  Though she preferred to set the seeds herself, she had, at Altimere's insistance, a pair of Gossamers with her. And truthfully, they were useful for turning the soil and for grasping those plants that she meant to move while she dug gently 'round their roots. That task, she trusted to no one but herself. She was under no illusion that the Gossamers understood, or cared about, growing things. They assisted her because Altimere willed it, not from any interest of their own.

  Carefully, Becca laid out her seed packets. Yes. The first quarter-wheel had been planted with fosenglove, penijanset, aleth and sunspear. The second quarter, then, would be . . .

  She paused, frowning in thought, her hand hovering over the careful packets. It had been her conceit to create a seasonal garden, the plants in each quarter coming to fruition in proper sequence. If she did it correctly, it would appear that the wheel itself was turning as the plants matured.

  But it was so difficult to recall! Did lord's purse bloom at the end of spring or in high summer? Did she deceive herself that teyepia blushed into blossom for a sweet, single day in late summer? And fremoni—no, surely fremoni bloomed all summer long!

  And duainfey . . .

  "Oh, bah!" she muttered, reaching for her book. It was kind of Altimere to have fetched her herbals and her seed packets back from Artifex—and of course when she had tried to thank him, he had pretended it was the merest nothing. To be able once again to garden and tend to the needs of plants. That was a benediction and a kindness that surpassed all the others he had bestowed upon—

  Becca sat back on her heels, frowning at the last page of the herbal. Surely, she had sketched in what she had planned, and labeled each plant and the order of planting, just as, as . . . just as she had been taught? She recalled it! No—she recalled . . . she recalled sending the Gossamers for a pen, and then she recalled the evening's entertainment . . . Altimere had become quite a hectic host, now that the whole of the government had been recalled to the city. Why, scarce an evening went by when there were not visitors, and many of course wished to, to—but there! She must have forgotten, in the rush of getting ready to receive their guests . . .

  What is this wheel that you construct, Gardener? the voice of the garden asked her. Since the severing, each plant is always in season.

  Becca shook her head and smiled, fingering through the book until she found the entry for lord's purse. There! This bloom marks the end of spring and the true beginning of summer . . .

  "Here, there are so many of you," she said, pushing the packet containing the lord's purse ahead of the others. "There are so many of you that no single voice can be heard above the riot and clamor. It is as if we two were trying to hold a comfortable conversation in the midst of a storm, having to shout our gentlest wishes over the blare of the thunder and the roar of the wind!"

  Here—it was duainfey that bridged the seasons from summer to early autumn. Becca leaned forward and pushed it to the right. Teyepia, then . . .

  But we easily converse amidst this clatter you object to, the deep voice said, pursuing its point. And each plant obeys its natural cycle.

  "Why, yes it does!" Becca agreed. "Over near the door the daisies have wilted and gone dormant, while by the bench, they bloom as if it it were high summer! It makes my head quite spin to see it. Even if there are no seasons here, still all of one kind ought to bloom with their kin."

  Seasons . . . the tree mused, and said no more. Smiling, Becca put the herbal aside and leaned forward. Using the fork, she scored the turned earth and sprinkled the tiny, fur-covered seeds into the tiny furrows, then covered them gently.

  Teyepia liked to be planted deep. She poked holes in the soil with a stick, taking care to start inside the row of lord's purse. Dropping a big striped seed into each hole, she asked the Gossamers to cover them, which they did with a delicacy that made her smile again. Perhaps, after all, she could teach them to care for somethi
ng other than Altimere's word.

  Fremoni seeds went shallow, interleaved with the teyepia, so it would seem that the new flowers sprang immediately from those which had passed their time.

  Becca reached for the sack marked "duainfey."

  These, as she recalled, were something different. Little knots of plant stuff, that required shallow planting, the hairy roots well-covered and the nub of dried stem exposed to the weather. The illustration showed it a leggy plant with a profusion of dark cone-shaped flowers. According to the text, the flowers were deep purple, the leaves a lucent, light green. She hoped it would take to the soil—she had not seen its like among either of Altimere's gardens, and wondered if she had in fact found the one plant that would not grow in this changeless springtime.

  "It could be," she said, after she had tried to set the first root three times with no success, "that it does not grow here because it cannot be planted." She sat back on her heels, and looked down at her reddened fingers. The dried root gave off a protective irritant, she thought absently. That was interesting. Duainfey thought much of itself.

  Well, it would not have the better of her.

  "Gossamers," she said, leaning forward again. "Please hold this nub upright while I make certain that the roots are well-covered."

  Cool fingers brushed hers as the nub was taken from her control. Becca bent to cover the roots—and sighed in exasperation as the bit fell over.

  "Come back here," she said sternly. "I'm not done."

  The Gossamers, however, did not forth to continue their task. "Oh, really!" Becca muttered, frowning.

  At last, she made a pile of soil, pushed in a pocket, set the nub precariously in the little depression and gingerly covered the roots. They went into the earth not as straight as she would have liked, but perhaps straight enough. And if they were touchy, tender plants, Becca thought, frowning down at the tiny white blisters covering her reddened fingertips, it was best to know so immediately.

  That is a strange plant, Gardener.

  "I agree, but its properties are said to be beneficial, so we will all profit, if it will grow here."

  She pushed herself awkwardly to her feet and walked across to the overcrowded flowerbed she had been trying to thin. To her chagrin, new leaves were already pushing into the small spaces she had created in order to let the settled plants breathe and thrive.

  "That is far too quick!" she cried. "They'll be smothering each other again in—"

  The words died on her lips; she turned and walked away from the garden, through the misty door and up the curving ramp to her room.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  "A glove, dear child? Are you chilled?" Mondair tightened her arm, and drew Becca closer to her side. It being one of Altimere's special subscription parties, Becca wore only a long, diaphanous skirt, the diamond collar, and the single, long glove on her right arm, which had been added to her costume at the last moment, and if she were not cold it was because Altimere willed it so.

  "What have you done to your fingers, foolish girl?" Altimere had demanded, frowning at the blisters.

  "One of the plants I handled today secreted an irritant," she answered, and smiled at him. "It's nothing, really."

  She'd placed the vase of new-cut flowers on the stand the Gossamers had provided, arranged them one more time, and turned to smile again, and to accept his thanks for the pretty display.

  Altimere, however, had not returned her smile, nor given thanks. "I dislike it very much when you put yourself at risk," he said sternly. "And our guests will not like to see these mars. Glove!" This last was snapped to the air, to be obeyed by whichever Gossamer happened to hear.

  Becca shook her head. "I don't understand, sir. Surely, your guests have—have displayed only admiration for my crippled arm. A few blisters is scarcely anything at—"

  "Your crippled arm, as you care to style it," Altimere interrupted, "is a potent sign. It displays to the world how much you are willing to endure in the service of your power, and therefore excites the senses. These few blisters are merely tawdry. Ah."

  He received a single black leather glove from the Gossamer, rolled it and eased it over her fingers and up her arm. The leather was cut in strips, so that it criss-crossed her skin, clinging like skin itself from her fingertips to her shoulder.

  Altimere stepped back to survey his handiwork. Amber eyes thoughtful, he extended a hand and plucked a single curl loose from the careless pile atop her head, and guided it down to lay upon her breast. The cool back of his hand brushed her nipple and Becca gasped, ready all at once.

  Altimere laughed. "I am pleased to see you so eager. There will be several among this evening's guests who will desire your companionship most particularly. We may also look for some new faces from 'mong the Queen's supporters."

  He walked around her, eyes intent, and Becca stood very still. Tonight's entertainment must be critical indeed, for him to care so much about her appearance.

  "In the meanwhile, I will allow you to know that your especial friend Aflen will be present, and has requested a private audience."

  Becca shrank in on herself. "I hope you refused him, sir," she said, her voice small.

  "A joke, zinchessa? Of course I did no such thing. Aflen supports the Queen too well. To see him weaker is to find ourselves stronger, and therefore it behooves us to accommodate him in any small thing that he might ask."

  She did not answer. Aflen had become—very particular in his attentions, and had begun to bring others to her, which pleased Altimere very much, but—

  "It is time," Altimere said, interrupting her thought. Her body drew taut, breasts thrusting, as he came to her and placed her left hand reverently upon his sleeve.

  "Now, zinchessa, a piece of news," he murmured as they walked through the misty doorway and down the short hall to the ramp. "I will be gone for a number of days, on the business of Zaldore. As she considers you too much of a danger to be let loose among her own supporters, you will remain here."

  "Without you, sir?" Becca stopped, staring down at the floor, face hot, her emotions in such turmoil she could scarcely say what she felt. Fear, surprise, desolation . . .

  "Peace. It will not be for so many days. My servants will of course be here for you, and you may work as you have been among the growing things." He put a finger under her chin, and tipped her face up to him. "Poor child. If the separation will be too painful for you, you may sleep through it."

  "No!" she said immediately, so there, at least was one thing upon which she stood certain. "I—it is only that I will scarcely know how to go on . . ."

  "You will be well-protected and receive every comfort. Of course, there will be no visitors for you while I am gone." He smiled, and bent to kiss her sweetly upon the lips, before breathing into her ear. "But we will make up for that lack of society when I am returned."

  She shivered, suddenly cold. Altimere laughed softly and began to move on. "Your devotion touches me," he murmured. Becca shivered again; all at once Sanalda was before her mind's eye, knife in her throat, surprise cooling into death, and the stink of blood over everything. She stumbled, and had it not been for the support of Altimere's arm she surely would have fallen. A high whine distressed her ears, her stomach heaved—

  "Silence!"

  The ghastly sound ceased. Becca moved her head, as if to shake the terrible memory from her mind, but there was blood—the reek of it everywhere and—

  "Be still!"

  She froze where she stood, muscles locked, and still the horrific memory before her mind's eye.

  "What nonsense is this?" Altimere asked. "A little bit of willfulness, to demonstrate your dismay at my absence?" He sounded less angry than amused, Becca thought, the odor of blood still in her nose. "I have, as I said, noted your devotion, and your display. I am gratified, but I cannot have you work yourself into such a pitch, zinchessa. Not now. You will calm yourself—"

  Honey filled her head, sticky and beguiling, dissolving the terrible memory, ov
erlaying the charnel stink with sweetness; sluggish, it ran her veins, leaving her languorous and eager.

  Sighing, she leaned her head against Altimere's shoulder.

  "Yes, that is more the mode," he said. "Come now. Let us greet your guests."

  * * *

  Mondair had finished with her and gone in search of the rest of her party. Becca, her hair long since tumbled into disorder, moved slowly out into the wider library. A breath of breeze stroked her nipples into hard nubs, and she very nearly melted at the sensation of her skirt along her limbs. Already, she had entertained three of Altimere's guests, though she had yet to see Aflen and his friends, a circumstance that both relieved and distressed her.