Duainfey (40 page)

"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.

"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, overlaying 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.

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.