Longeye

by Sharon Lee

  Quarter-Fey? Meri looked at the mare's lines, the tall sturdy ears and sapient eye. "You surprise me," he said truthfully.

  "She was bred on the—the other side of the keleigh," Rebecca Beauvelley continued, and it seemed to Meri that the words spoke themselves, without much direction from the speaker. "Her grandfather was one of Altimere's stallions, that he sold to Lord Quince, who bred him to his prize mare. He intended the offspring for his own mount, but Lady Quince put her foot down. So he bred that one, too, to another of his mares, and the result was Rosamunde."

  "And a fine horse she is, too," Sam said. "I'd wager that most would have bolted from that . . . thing. Your Rosamunde gave battle."

  "She is very brave," Rebecca Beauvelley agreed, and fell silent.

  There was, Meri thought, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with the brave Rosamunde, much in that little story worth thinking on. The fact that the mare traced her lineage back to the stables of Altimere the artificer—who had sold her grandsire to Newmen on the other side of the keleigh—that alone was enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

  "We're almost home," Sam said, though Meri thought the cheerful note in his voice was forced. "See those lights over there through the leaves? That will be our house, I don't doubt. My sister's girl will take good care of your hurts, Miss, and Elizabeth—my sister—is the best cook in the village!"

  "Rosamunde will need care," the Newoman said. "And Nancy."

  "I'll take care of the bold lady," Meri heard himself say, to his considerable surprise. "You needn't worry there."

  "Thank you. Nancy will need to be tended—immediately. If Mr. Moore's niece will allow me the use of her supplies."

  "I think," Sam interrupted, thereby saving Meri the need, "that Lady Sian is very anxious to see you, Miss, when you return. The—the Nancy. I'll take it—she—to my niece and let her try her skill. I don't know that she's had much chance to patch up Hobs, though every now and then one would come out of the woods and ask my mother to wrap a cut, or splint a broken bone."

  "Nancy is not a Hob!" That came out sure and strong, Meri noted. "She is—she is my friend."

  "Fair enough," Sam said soothingly. "But you have to own, Miss, that she isn't like you or me."

  Good of the Newman to have left him out of that particular equation, Meri thought, though he didn't think Rebecca Beauvelley had noticed.

  "She may not be exactly like you or me," she said, still strong and snappish, "but she is alive, and fearless, and—and good. I will not have her injuries ignored."

  "No one said that," Sam protested, the lights of the village quite near now, and it was not, Meri thought, only Elizabeth Moore's house that spilt light out into the night.

  The sprout lies in wait, Ranger, an elitch commented, but Meri had already seen the flicker of the boy's aura.

  "Jamie," he said, half in warning and half in command.

  Laughter rustled the leaves and the sprout dropped out of a larch a few paces ahead.

  "There you are!" Jamie said exuberantly. "What took you so long?"

  "There was a battle royale engaged when we arrived, and we were obliged to assist in the vanquishing of the foe before we could continue," Meri answered, just ahead of Sam's avuncular, "Jamie, make your bow to Miss Beauvelley and offer your service, please."

  "Yes!" Jamie stepped respectfully into their group at Rebecca's Beauvelley's far side, his quiet greens and curious yellows immediately hidden by the noisy blare of her aura.

  "Good evening, Miss Beauvelley," he said, politely. "I'm Jamie Moore, Sam's nephew. Is there anything I carry for you? You look tired."

  "Thank you," she said distantly. "I am not so tired that I cannot carry my friend another few steps. However, it would be very kind in you to run ahead and let the healer know that there will be wounded for her to tend."

  "I—"

  "That's well-thought," Sam interrupted. "Do that errand, will you, Jamie? And also let Lady Sian know that Miss Beauvelley has asked that her wounded be treated before anything else goes forth."

  Jamie sighed, lightly, but perfectly audible to Meri's ears.

  "Sam, Lady Sian sent me to tell you that Miss Beauvelley should be brought directly to her."

  "Fine!" the object of this discussion snapped. "Tell Sian that she may meet me in the healer's room, then! I will not have Nancy's life endangered!"

  "That seems a reasonable compromise," Meri said into the stunned silence that followed this pronouncement. "Pray carry that message, as well, Jamie."

  "Master—"

  "Go," he interrupted, letting sternness be heard.

  Jamie went.

  Sam led them to the house that Meri had seen in his longeye look from atop the spystone. A tree, shaken off its roots by an earthdance, had struck the roof. In the meanwhile, the tree had been removed and the roof mended. The small room built off of the main house had not been harmed at all; and Violet Moore stood in the open doorway, her face set and her aura a confusion of yellow, orange, and grey.

  "Good evening, Healer," Rebecca Beauvelley said firmly. "I have an unusual patient for you."

  "My brother said you carried a wounded friend," Violet answered, her voice much surer her aura had predicted. "He also said that you were wounded yourself." She stepped aside. "Please, come in."

  The Newoman hesitated, glancing behind her. "Rosamunde . . ."

  "I had said I would care for the lady," Meri said from the shelter of the mare's shadow. "My word is good."

  "Thank you," Rebecca Beauvelley said, and with no more argument stepped through the lighted doorway.

  Sam hesitated for an instant, and looked around. "I should have been quicker off the mark to offer care for her horse," he said resignedly.

  "You are better suited to guard Diathen's hostage," Meri said, slipping the reins out of the Newman's fingers.

  "Because she'll trust me," Sam said with unexpected bitterness. "I don't have much heart to stand as jailer."

  "Nor do I," Meri answered, truthfully. "Nor, I suspect, does Sian. Trust me, Sam Moore, you do not want the Queen's eye to fall upon you. Best you do as your sworn lady bids, and think no farther than duty."

  Sam snorted. "That's advice you take yourself, is it?" he asked.

  Happily, he did not wait for Meri's answer, but strode through the open door, toward the two Newomen bent over a small form on the table.

  "Well." Meri sighed and stroked the mare's elegant neck. "Rosamunde, is it? Let us get you on the mend." He looked about him, noting the signature of several beneficial small-plants along the side of the house.

  The Elder Healer kept those low-growers that she made use of most often close to her hand, the elder elitch told him, and once again offered the images of the old woman bent over her work of grinding, drying, and combining.

  "To each his own custom," Meri said, though the old woman's way seemed unnecessarily complex. He stroked the mare's neck once more, and moved toward the glow of the small-plants. The mare walked companionably at his side, pausing when he did.

  "Here," he murmured, crouching down beside the golden-glow. "Of your kindness," he said to it, as he had learned to do very long ago, when he was scarcely older than Jamie Moore. "Of your kindness, would your share your virtue with a friend?"

  For a moment, nothing happened, and Meri wondered if, perhaps, the plants over which the elder had placed her hand could not heed a stranger. Then, the glow began to solidify into a sphere, as if the plant produced a berry of kest for his use. He extended his hand and it dropped, warm and smooth as a pebble, into his palm.

  "Thank you," he said politely. "I pledge that your gift will be used to heal, and in no way to do hurt."

  He rose, the tiny gem of kest cupped in his hand. His ears brought him the sound of voices, moving closer, as he stepped to the mare's side.

  Sian comes, the elitch remarked. She is not best pleased with the Gardener.

  That was scarcely surprising, but Meri had more important matters than Sian's temper t
o concern him at the moment.

  Careful to keep his own meager kest confined, he stepped before the mare, and raised his hand, letting her see what he held.

  "A gift," he said, which a Fey horse would know, but that one bred beyond the Vaitura might not. "To mend your wounds."

  A strong ear flickered. The mare whuffed thoughtfully, and bent her proud head.

  "Yes," Meri said encouragingly. He raised his hand to press the golden gift of kest against the white blaze of her star.

  Power flared, sparking briefly as virtues met and meshed. The mare's coat shone, as if every chestnut hair were lit from the outside. The gash on her shoulder faded, and the worst one, on her flank. Meri stroked her nose, murmuring gently while the healing ran its course. She stood firm, and perfectly calm under his hand, and when the melding was done, he ran his palm down her shoulder, and smiled.

  "Not even a scar," he said to her. "You are blessed, indeed."

  The mare blew lightly, and he felt his grin grow.

  "There you are, Cousin Meri!" Sian's voice was brittle. He sighed, and leaned his forehead briefly against the mare's shoulder. "If you're done resting, perhaps you would attend me?"

  It was not, he thought, going to go well for the Newoman Rebecca Beauvelley, not with Sian in this temper. Nor would it go well with him, to refuse to attend her.

  "Surely," he said, keeping his voice even. He turned away from the mare, spotted the sprout in Sian's train, standing between his mother and the elder Jack Wood.

  "Jamie Moore," he said. "Unsaddle the mare, and see to her comfort."

  He had expected the sprout to demur, but to his surprise, Jamie stepped forward with the alacrity of relief. "Yes, Master," he said, sturdily, as he received the reins, and added, lower, "thank you."

  Chapter Eleven

  "Please, put your—your burden on the table," the girl said, her voice as tight as her face.

  Becca did as the healer requested, gently placing Nancy in her bed of leaves and moss atop the scrubbed wooden table. She gasped as she flexed her fingers, and again as she looked down at her hands. Seen in the light, they looked—very bad, the right, which had cradled Nancy, especially, with bits of grass and leaf stuck to the drying blood.

  "I'll need to clean those," she said, and looked up at the girl, her slim figure soaked in brilliant yellow and orange. "If I might ask your help?"

  "You might," the other said, and it seemed to Becca that the tight face eased somewhat. "I am Violet Moore." Her eyes moved to the door, and Becca turned her head to see that Sam had come into the workroom and was seated on a bench by the door. "Sam's niece."

  "Yes, he had said. I am Rebecca Beauvelley," she continued. "I am very glad to meet you, Miss Moore. I fear that Nancy is . . . very seriously injured. In my—in my own country, I am a healer, but Nancy's injuries may require all of our combined skill."

  "That may indeed be the case," Violet Moore said, motioning Becca to follow. "I'm glad to hear that you are a healer yourself. While the headman has said that I'm now village healer, two days ago I was a half-trained apprentice."

  Becca looked at her, the compressed lips and the dark shadows beneath her eyes.

  "My sympathies. Am I to take it that your teacher has . . . passed on to a brighter land?"

  The girl's brown eyes filled. She turned abruptly and picked up the kettle, splashing hot water into the waiting basin.

  "Wait a moment," she said harshly, and went over to the neat shelves, her movements graceless and hurried. She returned with a twist of dried easewerth, which she sprinkled into the water before testing it with the back of her hand.

  "It will not burn," she said, "but I fear that it will hurt, Miss. What did you do to mark yourself so?"

  Becca looked down at her gore-stained fingers, took a breath, and plunged both into the steaming water.

  It did hurt. She bit her lip and kept her hands submerged, watching the bits of leaf and other rubbish float to the surface, feeling the water dissolve the dried blood and open half-sealed cuts.

  "I'm afraid that I . . . beat . . . a creature made out of dry twigs and thorns," she said, and raised her head to meet Violet Moore's eyes. "It had set a monster against us, knocked me off my horse, and struck Nancy down when she tried to protect me. I—" Suddenly, she could not meet those eyes. She looked down again, at the rusty water, trash swirling on its surface. "I wanted to kill it."

  "And rightly so," Sam said from across the room. "When we came on the scene, it looked like they were doing their best to kill you. That . . . creature, whatever it was, wasn't just playing with your horse, Miss Beauvelley, and as you say, the Hob didn't mind hurting your Nancy, there."

  "That's right," Violet said, suddenly brisk. "If Sam says that you did right, Miss, then you can depend on it that you did."

  "Now, there's good advice!" Sam said, with a glib earnestness that put Becca suddenly and painfully in mind of her own brother. "I'm glad to hear that you've come 'round to my point of view, Violet!"

  His niece ignored him, and brought out a cloth. "Here, Miss. Let's dry you off and see what we have to deal with."

  "Nancy—" Becca began, looking over at the still form on the table. Had her glow dimmed? "Her state is very bad, I fear."

  "It may be," Violet said briskly. "And if that is the case, she will certainly need your skill more than mine. Give me your right hand."

  There was some sense in what the girl said, especially if she was herself not an experienced healer. Becca lifted her right hand out of the murky water, shook it carefully, and allowed Violet Moore to enfold it in the cloth. Her touch was gentle, but Becca found it necessary to bite her lip so as not to cry out.

  "Now the left," the girl said, holding out the pink-stained cloth.

  Becca raised her left hand slowly, blinking at the damage there. How had she found the strength to strike the creature hard enough to produce such damage to her crippled hand? She looked up into Violet Moore's frown.

  "Have you hurt your arm?" the girl asked, wrapping the towel gently around Becca's left hand.

  "A long time ago," she answered. "My hand is very weak and I do not have a full range of motion. I wonder that I was able to strike at all, much less so strongly."

  "Anger sometimes lends strength," Sam said from his seat near the doorway, and gasped, boots scraping on the floor as he leapt to his feet. Becca and Violet turned, Becca pulling her hand free of the towel and allowing it to fall to her side, as Sian walked in, attended by a sturdy woman outlined in copper fires, an old man leaning on a stick, and a slender man in hunting leathers. Others crowded behind those four, but Sian raised her hand and they stopped short of entering the workroom.

  "Miss Beauvelley." The Engenium's voice was brittle, her movements so sharp she seemed to cut the air as she walked forward. "You summoned me, I believe?"

  The room was too small, and overfull with power. Meri hung back, his hand pressed hard against the dead wooden walls, the open door at his back not as much comfort as he had hoped, blocked as it was with craning Newmen.

  Rebecca Beauvelley's hands had been cleaned; in the absence of old blood, the lacerations seeped new. He wondered that the healing had not yet taken place, unless the damaged Nancy had taken precedence?

  But no—a glance at the table between Sian and the two Newomen showed a small silver-limned form curled among a handful of forest-floor trash. It showed no aura, and it did not breathe, yet there was no sense of death about it.

  An artifact, Ranger, the elitch told him.

  An artifact, Meri thought, and leaned harder against the wall. And it was Altimere the artificer who had sold a horse to a Newman across the keleigh, which had been the grandsire of the mare who permitted Rebecca Beauvelley to ride her.

  Whence came this Newoman? he asked the trees, but if they answered, it was lost in the blare of Sian's anger.

  "Well, Miss Beauvelley? Did you dare to summon the Engenium of Sea Hold?"

  Rebecca Beauvelley's chin went up, her aura
reflecting Sian's anger.

  "If it comes to that," she said icily, "I am the daughter of an Earl. While I don't suppose I outrank you, certainly neither of us is the servant of the other. What I asked was that you speak to me here, so that both of our necessities could be met."

  That was well-said, Meri thought, and it might even have answered, had she had the wit to moderate her aura, and modulate her voice. Temper would only draw temper, as kest drew kest, and no good could come of either.