Duainfey (38 page)

"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 very ground reverberated with their passion, as they shared, and melded, and shouted aloud with one voice, fulfilled.

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.

"Come," she said. "We shall go through the Queen's Day Garden."

"Rebecca!" Even muffled by leaf and flower, Altimere sounded angry, and it was in Becca's heart to run.

Instead, she shrank from her escort, and pushed her away.

"Go!" she hissed. "I would not have him harm you!"

Benidik laughed and shook her head, silvered hair flying.

"Foolish child," she said fondly. "But go I shall, remembering my promise. I will return, precious flower, and bear you away. You have my oath and my name on it!"

She bowed, kissed her fingers to Becca and was gone, vanished into the garden like one more blossom.

"Well," Altimere said from quite near at hand, "that went . . . differently than I had planned."

Because she must, Becca turned. Fear thrilled through her, and the garden went grey around her.

Courage, Gardener,
the tree's raspy voice said.
We will keep safe what is yours.

Altimere strolled into sight down the reluctant path. He paused to gaze down upon the flowers that had been their bed, and Becca felt her heart quail in her breast.

"That was . . . rather surprising," Altimere said to the crushed and fragrant flowers. He raised his head and looked into Becca's eyes, and if not for the grip of his will she might have swooned at the anger she saw there.

"Would you abandon me, Rebecca? You find the noble Benidik more to your taste? Now that she has what she desires from you, do you imagine she would treat you as well as I do? That she would treasure you and hold you as closely?"

She stared at him, shaking, her skin pebbling in the breeze.

"You make a fine picture," he commented coldly, "smeared with leaves, crushed flowers, and berry juice. If my patronage wearies you, perhaps I will give you to my good friend Venpor." He cocked an eyebrow. "Well? I give you leave to speak."

It was true; her voice was her own.

"Altimere," Becca gasped. "For the love of breath, what is this if not domination? You make me a stranger to myself; my actions are not my own! I bear the burden of deaths I never desired! I am nothing more than a knife to your hand, a—"

"Silence."

The collar tightened around her throat; her voice choked out.

"I see my error," Altimere continued. "I have assumed that you might hold the goal as high as I did, myself. You gave your power into my hands, you retained your own name. By these actions, I chose to see that you had the ability to understand what must be accomplished, and the courage to sacrifice yourself to necessity."

Becca struggled. The collar was uncomfortably tight, but not so much that she could not breathe. And if she could breathe, then surely—

"Altimere—" she said, her voice a thin croak.

His eyebrows rose. "This is extraordinary. Last night, you challenged my dear friend Venpor, provoking an incident. This afternoon, you plead with the so-noble Benidik to bear you away. Even now, you defy me. I am impressed, Rebecca Beauvelley."

Hope stirred. Perhaps, Becca thought, he would forgive her. Perhaps—

Altimere stepped forward; at the same instant, Rebecca crashed to her knees, her head wrenched back on her neck until the muscles screamed. He looked down on her, his face devoid of expression.

"You will surrender what was harvested in my name," he said. "It need not be as pleasant as a kiss."

Trapped on her knees, unable to move, she stared up into his face, seeing a mist of pale gold rise, and take shape—a scythe, or a hook or—

The hook plunged, set into the core of her, and began to pull. Pain threw the world into blackness. She bled joy, love, memory as the burnished fire at the base of her spine was dragged out, thread by fiery thread.

Becca screamed and
pushed,
fighting the loss as she had fought Jandain's domination. She screamed again—and could not. The collar was tight, tightening; she gasped for breath, and still it tightened, her body's anguish overriding the horror. Names swirled away in a blood-red mist, faces, once dear, faded and were lost. She
pushed
again, with everything she had left—

The pain ceased. She lay in the dirt, twisted, naked, and sobbing for breath. Altimere was gone.

Be at ease, Gardener,
the tree murmured. Slowly Becca caught her breath, though the collar remained too tight around her bruised throat, while around her the garden took up its interrupted rhapsody. She lay where she had fallen, and could think of no reason to rise. Surely, she thought, she was bleeding; impossible that the rape she had just suffered had left no mark upon her.

The lightless ones approach, Gardener
. The tree's voice roused her from a dream or hallucination in which she wandered the night-time streets of the city, ragged and miserable, only to spy Irene being handed down from her carriage before a brightly lit house. Strains of music came from the windows, and the sounds of animated conversation. She rushed up to her friend, knowing that she had found the one person in the world who would not shun her, who would love her and care for her, no matter what she had done.

"Irene!" She thrust past the coachman, leaving the rag she called her cloak in his hand, but she had no care for that because Irene would take care of her. Sobbing with joy, she placed her hand on her friend's shoulder. "Irene!"

The woman turned, there was her dear face, shocked, as of course she would be, but any moment she would realize—

Becca trembled, smiling. "It's Becca," she whispered, and saw horror in her friend's face before she was snatched away among a babble of men's voices and pushed out into the street, while hands groped her nakedness, and patted her head.

She cringed, sobbing, but the Gossamers were stronger than she. They lifted her, gently, despite her struggles and cries, and bore her down the path, into the house and up the ramp to what she groggily realized was her room.

A bath had been drawn. She was slipped into the water, and here came Nancy to undo the braid, while the Gossamers bathed her, their touch as soft and as sweet as any woman's.

Sometime during their ministrations, she lost consciousness, and awoke to her full senses in bed, wrapped in a crisp, white nightgown, reclining in the embrace of a multitude of pillows. The bed was softly illuminated; the room beyond was dark.

At the bottom of the bed, half in shadow, was Altimere.

Becca shrank back against the pillows. He smiled, sadly, and shook his head.

"There, child," he said softly. "I allowed my anger to have its rein, and I have lost your trust. How could it not be so? Truly, you deserve better of me. Now that I am no longer blinded by anger, I see how well you have served the goal. Venpor's set-down, the plea to Benidik—both can be used to advantage. Yes, child, you serve me well, and I am pleased with you."

"You
did
send Benidik to me," she murmured, and felt some fragile flower she had nurtured in her breast wither.

"I allowed it to be possible for her to think she had stolen access to you." Altimere laughed gently. "There is nothing the noble Benidik loves so much as thinking she has gotten away with a theft." He was silent, then continued thoughtfully.

"She is a Fey of great power, and also of some cunning, to have left so little of her
kest
to be harvested. She must guard herself more closely than I had thought. Still, the matter is well-ended. I shall put that promise to good use, I think. How clever of you,
zinchessa,
to obtain it."

As always, his voice soothed her, and his words were fair—but the memory of the garden, the violation of her spirit . . . 

"I also see that I have not served you as well as I might." He moved forward and sat on the edge of the bed. Smiling softly, he took her left hand and held it between both of his.

"The plan—the goal—it is complex. Even Fey have difficulty understanding the scope of what I would accomplish. Small wonder that you find yourself adrift, making wild throws that—though they have thus far proved to our fortune—might well endanger everything."

She searched his face, but all she saw there was tenderness, and a lingering sadness. "You have already punished me," she said, and was ashamed to hear how her voice shook.

He bowed his head. "I wish you will forgive me that display. It was ill-done." He looked back to her face. "There is nothing here of punishment,
zinchessa
. Merely, I wish to take from you that burden which, in my thoughtlessness, I required you to bear. You have been eloquent in your willingness to do your part, and for that I have and continue to honor you. The error lies—again!—with me. Relative to those others I have known across the
keleigh,
you are strong; your spirit adamantine. But you are not Fey. It is my shame and my sorrow that I forgot that, Rebecca, and so caused you to suffer."

"But," she said, honestly bewildered. "What will you do?"

"I will no longer burden you with these periods of solitary thought during which you weave your own clever variations upon our theme. I had thought that the sleep—but no matter. I am determined to rectify all of my errors and make myself worthy once again of your trust."

Becca licked her lips. Surely he could not mean—but, yes, it was possible. If he could lock her to his will at whim, what prevented him from extending that power?

Nothing, she answered herself. The diamond collar made all possible. And she had willingly accepted it, vain fool that she was.

"Altimere," she said, leaning forward and daring to touch his sleeve. "I—I am flattered by your care and protection, but this—you ask too much of yourself," she improvised wildly, wondering why she had not understood until this instant that he was mad. "To be forever in—in my thoughts. Would it not be better to remove the collar, and allow me to go home? You have made great gains. Councilor Zaldore courts you, little guessing that you are her master. She does not guess that your plan, so carefully made, is the plan that will see success. You are beyond what poor assistance I can give you."

He smiled and shook his head. "That is where you are wrong,
zinchessa
. I need you now more than ever before." His smile grew wistful, and he leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper that, aleth help her, thrilled along her nerves.

"I will tell you a great secret. The inclusion of yourself into the plan is itself a variation, for how could I plan on—how could I dare hope that there existed on the face of this sickening earth—the precious treasure who is Rebecca Beauvelley? Now that you have been woven into the pattern, you cannot be unwoven without doing violence to the whole."

Becca drew a deep breath.

"The necklace," she said, as steadily as she was able. "Altimere. You must remove the necklace."

He bowed his head. "If you wish to remove it,
zinchessa,
then do so. I impede you in no way." Gently, he placed her left hand on her lap and folded his hands upon his knee.

She stared at him, the blood gone to ice in her veins. "You know I cannot."

He raised his head; his face was calm, his eyes reflecting only sadness. "And yet, you placed it and sealed it, of your own will and power."

Well she recalled putting the necklace about her neck, the pain, the wild sense of exhilaration.

"Very well," she said. She sat up against the pillows, concentrated, and began to raise her left hand.

It was agonizing work; though she used her good hand to force it up, the ruined muscles could not suffer the strain. At last she rested her left hand on her left shoulder, fingers gripping the fabric of her nightgown. She screwed her eyes shut, feeling the sweat running her face, raised her right hand and took hold of the edge of the clasp. The left hand inched its way toward the collar, pulling itself along by tiny pinches of fabric.