Longeye (22 page)

As the dark increased, he folded the watch away, tucking it carefully into his pocket and out of harm's way. His feet were getting hot, as if the ground below his boots was hotter. His ears felt warm, his face flush, his
kest
peak.

He spoke the word he had formed, for the unmaking of walls, spoke it with all the will within him, and all the dark, silent power teeming at the edges of his star.

For a breath, nothing happened.

Sound returned in great crashing rhythms.

The song he had sung crashed outward and the mirror became a blazing beam stabbing into the emptiness.

The heat fled from his body so quickly he feared for his consciousness. His throat ached. He swallowed and swallowed again, while his ears were assaulted with an agony of sound.

Around him, the starlines blazed. The mist-shrouded world tilted, and he fell, his mirror disappearing into dust.

He landed, hard, on his knees, the breath going from him in a shout.

Shakily, he stood.

The first thing he noticed was the blessed coolness—and even a breeze! to ruffle his hair and kiss the sweat from his throat.

The second thing he noticed was that the sky was hidden by a low ceiling of unending cloud.

The third thing he noticed was that the horizon, if there was one, was shrouded in mists.

He had, he told himself carefully, won through.

Into the very
keleigh
, itself.

Putting his hand into his pocket, he withdrew the watch, and opened it. It ticked, the hands moving as they should. Relief washed through him. So much, then, had gone right.

For the rest—well, then. It was fortunate that he had been here before.

Meri set wards until he could scarcely stand—paltry things; mere warn-aways. Tomorrow, he would have to do better, for he felt in his heart that the boundary with the shadow-wood ought to be well warded, indeed. If his concern with that particular boundary had more to do with the safety of the slumbering elder trees than that of Rebecca Beauvelley, well—he was a Ranger, and his first concern must naturally be for the trees.

At the moment, hard truth told, it was the Ranger who was first in his care, light-headed and drifty as he felt. He paused for a moment, leaning into the comfort of a young elitch, and took stock. His
kest
, which had been rising, slowly but steadily, had under the strains of the last few days fallen to worrisome levels. He would need to take care—very close care—for it would profit the trees not at all if he were to drain himself dry.

In care for the Ranger, then, he gathered culdoon, vinut, and morel, which he ate, slowly, beneath the kindly branches of a ralif, by the side of a spring-fed pool. When his meal was done, and having secured the tree's consent, he climbed it and settled on a broad branch some distance above the forest floor.

He set no wards for himself—it was necessary to conserve what
kest
he possessed for the protection of the trees—but he trusted the ralif to rouse him, should a woodscat or a denilar or a Brethren bent on mischief locate his resting spot.

"Good moon," he murmured, which was, after all, only courtesy.

Good moon, Ranger
, the ralif in whose branches he sheltered responded.
Sleep well, dream wisely.

Meri sighed. He would, he thought muzzily, be glad of no dreams at all. As for wisdom . . .

The thought faded, and Meri slept.

"Good night, Miss—Rebecca," Violet said shyly, they having decided over the course of an evening spent companionably by the hearth, that they would address each other by their given names.

"Good night, Violet," Becca returned with a smile, and stepped into her room.

She pressed the door closed behind her, and stood with it against her back, staring.

When she had quit this chamber prior to dinner, it had been simple—perhaps even austere, with a plain table to hold a basin, and a shelf above it. The straw mattress had been covered in good linen, and a worn but serviceable patchwork quilt. Now, within the space of a few hours at most, it was—altered out of all recognition.

A rug patterned in bright yellows and deep browns lay on the planed wooden floor; curtains of matching yellow dressed the window. A wardrobe stood in the far corner of the room, brass handles gleaming, and a small vanity table sat beneath a chaste mirror, her comb and brush set neatly to hand.

The bed was swathed in a coverlet the color of elitch leaves, across which a half-dozen small bright pillows bloomed like flowers. A table sat between it and the far wall, holding her books, a water jug, a cup, and the lamp.

"Nancy—" Becca's voice wavered, indistinct. She cleared her throat and spoke again, more firmly. "Nancy."

A spot of color swirled into being, spinning larger, and her maid was hovering before her on jewel-toned wings.

"Nancy, where did these . . . 
things
come from?"

The little creature spun 'round, as if she were looking for something, then darted to the wardrobe, pulling the doors wide. Becca pushed away from the door and crossed the room to peer inside.

The wardrobe was not, as she had feared it would be, empty; her nightdress—she supposed it to be the same dress she had worn last night and which Nancy had whisked away this morning while Becca was having her bath . . .  Her nightdress hung chastely from a hook, and on the floor at the back were Rosamunde's saddlebags, Nancy sitting pertly atop them.

"
All of this
," Becca demanded, pointing backward into the room, "came out of those saddlebags? That's preposterous."

Even as she said so, she recalled Sian pulling crystal and wine and fresh food from the depths of
her
saddlebag—but no, she told herself. Sian was a Fey, a creature of
kest
and mystery, who could shake snowflakes from a fire, if she wished to do so.

"Those saddlebags are—enchanted, aren't they?" Becca asked. "Like the wardrobes at ho— at Altimere's houses." Nancy leapt into the air and turned a handspring, blazing like a star in the dark depths.

"There is no need for sarcasm," Becca murmured. She turned from the wardrobe and walked to the bed, tossing a corner of the coverlet back. The sheets were linen, cool and smooth. She pressed on the mattress, which sank delightfully beneath her palm; it was as she had feared—goose down.

Who would have thought Nancy had so much initiative? Becca thought, feeling a little wild as she looked about her. What if she wished for a coach-and-six? Would that come out of the saddlebags, as well?

Her head hurt.

Turning, she went over to the vanity table, and fingered the brush—silver, heavily cast with wheat sheaves, precisely like the set she had left behind at Barimuir, long months ago. How odd. But perhaps the saddlebag read her mind, as well.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"Nancy," she said. The tiny creature flashed out of the wardrobe and stood a few inches from Becca's nose, her feet braced against the air, and her hands on her nonexistent hips.

"I wish you to be as frank with me as you are able," Becca said. "
Where
did these things come from?"

Nancy tipped her head, as if considering the question closely. She nodded once, firmly, and dropped slightly downward. Darting forward, she placed her hand on Becca's breast, over her suddenly pounding heart.

"From me?" That tale was even more preposterous than the saddlebags, she thought, and sighed lightly. It was probable that further questioning would elicit progressively more outrageous stories from her maid; besides which, she was tired.

"Very well," she said; "we shall talk about this again, later. In the meanwhile, if it is quite convenient, I would like to be made ready for bed."

The dream began with candlelight; rich puddles of yellow light splashing across a dark cloth, waking glitters that were disturbingly
kest
-like from a tumble of silver and faceted stone.

From his comfortable recline on the ralif branch, Meri moaned, far too softly to wake himself.

It was the necklace that drew his eye and his desire, drawing his
kest
as if it were a living thing, and powerful, too. He tried to move his eyes, to step back, away from its immediate influence. His resistance was futile—pitiful. He might as well have resisted the tide. Shivering with desire, he watched his hand move forward to touch the glittering stones.

She knew it was a dream, but try as she might, she could not waken herself. It was as if the she who had escaped Altimere's influence and lay safe in New Hope Village hovered a hand's span above the shoulder of the she in the dream, foreknowing horror, yet powerless to change one detail of what went forth.

Horrified, she watched herself walk down darkened hallways and out into the night, breasts bare and wanton, her body rosy with lust. It was only a short walk, really, from the house to the barn, and the room where Elyd, where she—

No! She must do something, she must—she would not kill him a second time! But she needed so much . . . Desire heated her blood, burning—burning her hand.

She cried out, and the dream-Becca, wanton murderess, vanished, dissolving into now-Becca, crouched shivering in Lucy Moore's herb garden, her nightdress muddied beyond redemption, and a duainfey rootling clutched in her left hand.

Weeping, she opened her fingers one by one. The rootling fell to the ground, silver and gold against the darkness. Ignoring the agony in her hand, she scrabbled in the dirt with her fingers, desperate to replace the duainfey before it took harm from her use of it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her burned hand tucked against her thigh, and tears sprinkling the soil liberally. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sorry . . ."

"Miss Beauvelley?" The voice was soft, rough along the edges, and carrying a weight of concern. "Are you all right, Miss? Can I help you?"

"What?" Becca started, looking up into a brown face—young, too young to be here, to be with her, and about him those cool greens, just as Elyd must have—

"Miss?" His eyes were pale blue, wide, and dazzled. He held out his hand to her, and she snatched herself back, screaming even as she toppled gracelessly onto her side. "Go away!" she heard herself shriek across a night suddenly rent with crimson and gold. "Walk away from me now and never come back!"

Thunder rolled, and somehow she saw his face, the start of shock, and the moment when the blue eyes lost some of their brightness, and the green glow outlining his form faded . . . just before he turned—not as if he wished to do so—and walked directly away from her, heedless of plants, detouring grudgingly around the trellis, and walking on, until she lost the glow of his diminished aura inside the darkness.

The dream dissolved in a confusion of desire and pain. Meri half-woke with a start, one hand pressed flat on the branch that was his couch, shivering with unfulfilled need.

Two such dreams in as many nights, he thought muzzily, was worrisome. Perhaps he had been too long between meldings.

"But who," he muttered, settling his head again and closing his eye, "would I meld with?"

The breeze danced, rustling leaves on all sides of him, as if the night itself exerted itself to soothe him. Meri smiled—and slipped into a doze.

Jamie Moore!
The voice of the Hope Tree knocked Becca back into a planting of mint, and sent ripples of pain through her head.
Jamie Moore, you have given your service to the trees! The trees do not release you!

Jamie Moore!

Becca whimpered and raised her arm to shield her ears, as if she could soften the tree's shout.

Gardener, you must remove your will from him!
Another, softer, though no less urgent voice crept into her abused head.
Quickly!

"I . . . I . . . no," she whispered. "He mustn't come near me. It would be terrible—"

Gardener, it may already be terrible. He is only a sprout, and you have overridden his will. Release him!

Becca cringed. Overridden his will—just as Altimere had overridden hers. And yet—

"I don't know how," she moaned.

Ranger! Awake!

"You don't need to shout," he muttered with a sigh for the loss of the comfortable drowse. "What's amiss?"

The Gardener has put a geas upon Jamie Moore
, the ralif told him, its thought very rapid, indeed.
He walks toward the shadow-wood, and the trees cannot turn him
.

He heard the trees whispering even before he saw the sad flutter of the boy's aura, ahead of him, and bearing steadily toward the baleful silver gleam of the shadow-wood.

Meri stretched his legs, ignoring the unsteadiness in his own stride and the conviction that there was little enough he could do for the sprout, even when he caught up, except turn him from the wood, and, perhaps, bear him company.

The trees regard you, Jamie Moore
, an elitch murmured.
We marvel at a sprout so brave and true, and stand in awe of the Ranger you will grow to become
.

You may stop, sprout, and rest
, a ralif urged, 'round the croonings and caresses of the culdoon and the larch.
The Gardener's geas is not that you must walk forever
.

What precisely is the geas?
Meri asked that one. The sprout was steps away, now; he could hear ragged breathing, which told him that Jamie Moore was weeping. He swallowed a surprisingly potent jolt of anger.
Yes, very good!
he thought angrily.
Enslave a child and blight his spirit!

It is believed that the Gardener imposed the geas in error
, the ralif told him.

I'll grant it an error, indeed
, Meri growled.
But the geas—?

Go away!
Rebecca Beauvelley's voice screamed inside his head.
Walk away from me now and never come back!
Even as a reflection from the memory of trees, the blast of power that accompanied that doom made Meri gasp and snatch after his own feeble
kest
.

"Root and branch, no wonder the sprout weeps," he muttered. "His head must still be ringing!"