by Sharon Lee
A tray wafted by, borne by Gossamers. Her right hand rose to receive the glass of red wine, and she drank deeply, feeling the pepper score her throat, near half the over-full glass in one gulp. That was almost enough to clean her mouth of those other tastes. She drank again—a sip only—and lowered the glass, suddenly aware of another scent almost as intoxicating as the wine, and a flutter of yellow light at the edge of her vision.
She turned her head, seeking the source of this unexpected brightness, of the scintillant scent, and sense of willing sharing of the energy of stored daylight. The memory of her exertions over the last while faded under the carress of a quiet thought: Gardener.
Ah, there! The vase of fresh flowers, with the greens tucked behind and between the sunbursts, and the coy purple bells of fremoni. She had arranged them this morning, thinking they would freshen the room, and how odd it was that Altimere, who was so meticulous regarding his grounds in the country, never brought flowers inside. She had forgotten, and none of the guests had noticed as they pursued their plotting and their lusts. And Altimere had ignored them entirely.
Something else, then, she'd done not quite right, or only right enough for a moment's fleeting urgency. The glass of wine weighed suddenly heavy in her hand, drawing her eyes momentarily from the flowers. The glint and promise of respite moved her hand and though she meant to sip it became a gulp.
When the glass was empty, she lowered it, to find a lady she had never seen before standing before her.
For a moment, she thought that here was another such as herself, her skin being more brown than white. She felt a touch of concern, even of jealousy. If Altimere grew tired of her failures and meant to replace her, surely such a one as this would do.
Then she saw the hair, and the jutting cheekbones, and the cool green eyes that could only be Fey.
A Gossamer snatched the empty glass out of her fingers. She curtsied, and came up with a toss of her head, revealing breasts hard with need. Lust warmed her belly and she felt her mouth move in a smile and knew that Altimere considered this one worth pursuing.
"Engenium," her voice said, politely, full of sudden knowledge. "Be welcome."
"Thank you," the lady replied, and it seemed to Becca that there was an ironic note in her clear voice. "What is your name?"
"Rebecca Beauvelley, lady." Becca took a step forward, raising her head with a smile. "How may I serve you?"
"Nothing comes to mind at the moment," the Engenium said in her dry, ironical voice. "If something occurs, I will certainly inform you. In the meanwhile, what do you here, you who speak with flowers?"
"I entertain Altimere's especial friends," Becca heard herself say.
"How fortunate for them. And this is a task you undertake of your own will?"
"Certainly, Engenium."
The lady tipped her head, sea-green eyes speculative. "My name is Sian," she said. "Will you be able to recall it?"
"I have a very good memory, Sian," Becca's voice said, and she swayed forward, face upturned, offering her lips to the lady. "Will you not give me something else to remember?"
The Fey shook her head. "Perhaps—upon another occasion," she said, and moved her hand, showing Becca the library, the clusters of guests—and Korvayte, approaching with hunger naked on his face. "This is rather . . . public."
"Rebecca, sweet child!" Korvayte stepped close and put his hand on her left shoulder. "Surely you haven't thrown me over for the Queen's salty cousin?" He ran his hand possessively down her arm, making Becca to shiver, but his eyes were only for Sian.
"The lady and I were merely passing the time until her next duty arrived," Sian said lightly. She bowed. "Miss Beauvelley, your servant." A flicker of sea-green eyes. "Korvayte."
She was gone.
"Half-breed!" Korvayte snarled under his breath. His fingers tightened around Becca's wrist and pulled her with him across the room to the private alcove.
Korvayte was never gentle; this evening, he was harsh, and spent quickly. He sealed his clothes and left her without a word.
The Gossamers found her there some time later, kneeling where he had thrust her, head throbbing, her face and breasts sticky with his seed, with no will to try to raise herself. They cleaned her with the scented towels they had brought, lifted her to her feet and guided her out to the larger room, thin of guests now, and over to the place where the pleasant arrangement of flowers reposed in its own play of sunlight.
She closed her eyes, standing in the wash of scent; fremoni, giving soft comfort. Gardener, the voice whispered inside her head. Healer. Was she awake, she wondered, or caught in some dream of Altimere's willing? Who did she heal here? Comfort fell away, leaving her needful.
A wine glass was pressed in to her hand. She drank of her own accord, wishing that the burning pepper were poison, indeed. How had she come to this? she thought wildly—and knew a bolt of fear, that she was able to form the thought, here and now, at the very center of Altimere's party. Had he abandoned her? Left her alone? Was she become so wanton that the will to do these things was no longer his, but hers?
Panting, she thrust the empty glass at the air. "Another," she snapped, and it appeared in a trice.
"Thank you . . ."
Becca drank again, and looked about her. The library was empty, saving her and the little arrangement of flowers; the candles replaced with fog pots. Was the party over, then? Her heart stirred, but—surely not. She had not yet entertained Aflen. But—perhaps. She looked at the glass in her hand, half-full with wine, raised it and dashed it to the floor, where it broke, red droplets scattering like blood. She staggered, retching, pushed her fist against her mouth and ran, naked feet soundless against the living wood floor.
She was free of Altimere's will. What could have precipitated such a thing, she could not imagine. She could scarcely grasp the meaning of such an event, saving only the thought that she would not be forced to endure Aflen. She would run, she thought, and hide herself in the garden.
The dining room was deserted; the kitchen door misted away from her approach and she was in the garden, feet sure on the twisty, overgrown pathway.
Gardener, 'ware!
The tree's shout disoriented her, she staggered, off-balance, threw her hand out to grasp a branch, missed—and her wrist was caught in a crushing grip. She spun and squealed as her naked back struck the rough bark of the elitch tree.
"There! Did I not say she would come here!" Aflen's voice echoed triumphantly. He twisted his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back. Abused neck muscles screamed, and Aflen smiled hatefully down into her face.
"See how frightened she is," he crooned. "Deeply, genuinely frightened. This, my friends, will be a feast to recall."
"Unhand me!" Rebecca snapped, her voice shaking. Aflen laughed, grabbed her breast with his free hand and twisted it. She screamed; he bent and covered her mouth with his, grinding her lips against her teeth until she tasted blood.
"Come!" He called out, raising his head. "Who will partake with me?"
There were voices, hands. The flimsy skirt was torn away, a knee was thrust hard between her legs, while someone panted, hot and damp, in her ear.
"Altimere!" she screamed, and there was more laughter.
"I am here, zinchessa," his voice came out of the dark, calm and soothing as always.
"For the love of life, stop them!"
"Indeed I shall not," he said. "Did I not say that Aflen had requested a special serving of your charms?"
"And so I did!" Aflen cried, his fingers digging cruelly into her breast. "A serving without the interference of your protector—raw passion, pain, anger! There lies the power in a true melding. Three of us, Rebecca Beauvelley. And we will all have our fill."
She kicked, her bare feet doing no damage, and tried to twist away from them. They laughed, and Aflen—she thought it was Aflen—struck her across the face and threw her to her knees, one hand still twisted in her hair while he unfastened his clothing with the other.
Someone pulled at her glove, the last of her coverings, and Aflen laughed again, forcing her to look into his face.
He thrust his member into her mouth, choking her, and even as she recoiled, hands caught her hips, pulling her up, impaling her. Pain flared, shaming the stars, sheets of flame danced among the flowers, and the pure liquid fire exploded from the base of her spine, pouring out of her in wave after wave of ravenous color, melding, overpowering, consuming their pale, vapid colors, taking them into herself, making them hers.
Making them her.
Aflen spent, and the man in her rectum. They cast her away into the bleeding colors. Fingers closed around her left arm, jerking her to her feet, and hurled her against the tree once more. Ribbon went 'round her right wrist, shocking in its softness; and again, around her left. There was a moment—a lull—and then agony as both arms were yanked above her head, pulled hard and high, so that her toes barely brushed the grass.
Becca screamed, or tried to. Her assailant laughed, low, and brought his hand up under her chin. Light flared, showing her Venpor's face, then he was in her, each thrust an agony, fire bleeding off of him in thick orange sheets. Becca clawed her way back into the heart of the conflagration, reaching, absorbing, making everything that was his, hers, weakening him, draining, taking. Taking everything.
Help me! she screamed inside her head, and suddenly there was help, cool and green, lifting her away from the heat and the horror and the pain, to the top, the very top branch of the elitch tree, where she reclined, coolly at her ease, watching with distant interest as below hateful things were done to a ragged, soiled doll, who was finally abandoned, coiled into a knot among the trampled flowers, light pulsing out of her in rich streams of red, blue, and gold.
Three of the men righted their clothing, nodded to the fourth, seated upon a bench at some small distance from the abandoned doll, and were guided away by the firefly flickers of the invisible servants.
The fourth sighed, and stood, and suddenly she was swept from her aerie, and thrust into the trembling, torn body of the doll.
Whimpering, she lurched to her feet, and limped to him. He took her battered face between his cool hands and looked deeply into her eyes.
"This experiment has been a success," he murmured. "We shall have to entertain in this manner more often."
She swayed, her heart crushed in her breast, and he kissed her, long, deep, and hard.
Pain swirled, interlaced with flares of crimson. The night slid sideways—and disappeared.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Becca woke into sunlight, snug and comfortable in her yellow-covered bed, with the feeling that someone had spoken her name. She stretched, carefully, expecting twinges and complaints from bruises and outraged muscles. Astonishingly, there was no pain, only a sleepy feeling of well-being, already beginning to dissipate as memory grew sharper.
She raised fingers to her lips, which had been torn and bleeding, and encountered only smooth, soft flesh. The fingers themselves showed a network of spidery white scars where there had been raw blisters only the night before. Her hair was clean—but the Gossamers would have bathed her, after all, rather than sully the bed with blood, and fluids, and mud.
Flinging the covers aside, she slid out of bed and went to stand before the mirror, staring at the brown-skinned woman with her down-tilted eyes and slanting brows, her hair neatly braided for sleeping, swathed in a pure white nightdress, sleeves deep with lace, and the ribbons tied in demure bows. Around her throat, the diamond collar sparkled coldly. Becca raised her hand, then allowed it to drop before her fingers made contact. What was the use? The thing would only protect itself—exactly as Altimere had built it to do.
Color flashed, quick as butterfly wings, behind her left shoulder, and then Nancy was before her, hovering with her little head cocked inquisitively to one side.
"How long," Becca asked her, "have I been asleep?"
Nancy hesitated, then spun full around—once, twice . . . thrice.
Three days? Becca took a deep breath. Very well. She knew that Altimere had sometimes caused her to sleep . . . longer than simply one night through. But even three days would not have been enough to heal the harm she had taken at the hands of Aflen and his—
Bile rose in her throat, and the room seemed to slide sideways, sunlight shattering into glimmering motes. Becca doubled over, retching, snatched at the vanity table, missed, and was caught in a strong, gentle grip.
The Gossamer eased her onto the bench, and kept her shoulder in a light grip until the fit passed and she was able to straighten. A glass appeared, water sparkling in its depths. She received it gratefully and drank.
"Nancy," she said, her voice not at all steady. "Is Altimere home?" Her maid fluttered before her, shaking her head, no.
No. She was alone and in her own will. Or, if not entirely in her own will, near enough.
Near enough.
She held the glass out; a Gossamer swept it out of her hand as she rose.
"Please dress me, Nancy," she said, her voice calm and low. "I am going down to the garden."
How quickly things grew here! Becca leaned over the half-wheel, fondling the lush lemon-colored leaves of the duainfey. Her fingers tingled, the pain so minor as to be a caress.
Duainfey, which bestowed clarity of thought—and surely clarity of thought was a virtue, though she sought other of its virtues.
For here, right here—these sweet, bright leaves were the answer to everything. An end to grief and guilt. An end to being a stranger to her own thoughts. An end to dishonor.
An end.
Carefully, not wishing to harm them, she took a leaf from each plant, and carried them with her to the stone seat by the elitch tree.
Gardener, what seek you?
"I seek an end to pain," she said dreamily, turning the leaves over on her lap. So pretty, like filigreed gold.
"And yet an end to pain is too often an end to joy," another voice spoke from beyond the elitch. "Both must be embraced, to achieve a balanced and fruitful life."
Becca laughed, raised the first leaf and took it into her mouth just as Sian the Engenium stepped out of the flowers.
"Good day," she said solemnly. "I hope you will forgive my intrusion. My garden shares a gate with this one. I saw you were out and thought to share news that perhaps might interest you."
"I will soon be beyond news," Becca told her. "If you wish to tell me, however, I will listen for as long as I may."
There was a small pause. The first leaf lay on Becca's tongue; she sucked it like a mint leaf, and almost smiled. She had feared that she would not be able to tolerate the taste, but in truth it was quite pleasant.
"That's fairly said," Sian said at last. She stepped forward until her shadow fell across Becca's face. Today, she was dressed in sharkskin leggings and wide-sleeved shirt, a leather cord binding her forehead. She frowned down at the two remaining leaves on Becca's lap.
"What manner of plant is that?" she asked. "It burns the air between us."
There was a sort of . . . shimmer about the Engenium's slim form, a misty, pleasing blue-green. Doubtless an effect of the leaf, but pretty, nonetheless. How odd that Sonet had not written of this—but, then, perhaps Sonet had not known. Those in need were unlikely to describe the hallucinations of release, after all.
"The herb is called duainfey," Becca said. "It is from—from beyond the keleigh. In one of its preparations, it is said to bestow clarity of thought."
Her mouth was damp and sweet; she felt relaxed. She curled the leaf with her tongue and swallowed it, allowing that the touch of it was more satisfying than much she had swallowed of late.
"Certainly, clarity of thought is to be desired," Sian said seriously, and Becca smiled politely.
"You had news of interest, you said?"
"Indeed. Aflen, the Queen's first counselor, is gravely ill. The healers have remanded the case to the philosophers. The philosophers pronounce it a crisis of kest and say they can do
nothing."
"A crisis of kest," Becca murmured. "I have heard that one might die, if one is . . . too weak . . . or too open . . . to guard one's kest."
"Have you?" Sian looked at her with interest, but Becca only raised the second leaf, nibbling it daintily.
Sian cleared her throat. "My news continues—Flonyth is likewise ill, which is perhaps not surprising. He and Aflen are never apart, so it is not wonderful that whatever afflicted one should also strike low the other. They share not healers, however, and Flynyth's healer claims his to be an affliction evermuch like those of the war, where great magics oft were loosed with little thought."
Amusement tinged the taste of the leaf; Becca wondered briefly if she appeared harelike as she nibbled the leaf down to stem. No matter; Flonyth and his thoughts were being solved even now. She licked her stinging fingertips, and glanced up into the Engenium's serious face.
