by Sharon Lee
"Your necessities," Sian said, her voice edged and her aura stitched with red, "included leaving the path and losing yourself in the woods, making a mockery of my protection—"
"Does it occur to you that I might have had quite enough protection from the Fey?" Rebecca Beauvelley interrupted hotly. "It seemed best to throw my lot in with the trees, who are at least kind to me."
Sian rocked back on her heels, her hands tucked in her belt. Elizabeth Moore slipped by her and went to stand at the foot of the table, while Jack Wood planted his stick on the dead wood floor midway between Sian and the door.
"Placing yourself in the care of trees seems to have worked well for you," she observed.
Rich color mantled the Newoman's brown cheeks, but she took a hard breath and answered, with a credible attempt at calmness, "It did not, as it happened, but it was scarcely the fault of the trees that we were purposefully led astray and then fallen on by bandits."
She looked down, as if suddenly recalling herself, turned slightly, and held her hand out to Violet Moore.
"If you please," she said, "the rag."
The girl handed the pink-smudged cloth over, and Rebecca Beauvelley blotted her hands with it absently, as she stepped to the table.
"The trees," she said, looking up into Sian's face, "suggested that you might know how to . . . heal . . . Nancy."
"Heal it?" Sian repeated, disbelieving. "It's an artifact, as you well know, and has no precedence over my business with you!"
"I disagree," the Newoman said flatly, and used the cloth to gently clean the tumbled bits of forest debris away from the small silver body. "Nancy broke her tie to Altimere in order to serve me, and she fell protecting me. Whatever else she may be, she is my friend, and I have too few in this place to allow her to fail!"
There was a rustle and a shift in the crowd blocking the doorway. Meri turned his head as Jamie Moore wriggled into the room. The sprout sent a quick glance toward his mother, stern and alert at the foot of the table, and slipped over to stand next to Meri.
"That—thing—" Sian said, and Meri heard the rumble of surf beneath her words, "is a danger to you, to me, and to the Queen. I spared it once, out of courtesy to yourself. I can no longer allow it to exist."
Kest flared, turquoise and aqua, arcing from Sian's fingers to the tiny figure on the table.
"No!" Golden power washed the room, straining against the wooden walls.
Meri cried out, his kest leaping to answer the outflow of power. Beside him, the sprout shouted, his aura afire as he moved blindly toward the glory.
"Jamie!" Meri lunged, one knee banging painfully against the floor as he caught the boy and held him, pressing the small face into his shoulder, feeling the thin body tremble with the buffeting of forces too strong for him.
Cringing, his kest yearning, Meri stared up at the confrontation. The Newoman's kest was considerable, but she was obviously untrained in its use. Sian, on the other hand, had had a great deal of training, her kest was considerable, and she stood upon her own land, among folk who had accepted her protection. Even as he watched, the flow of Sian's kest shifted, and began to twine itself around Rebecca Beauvelley's kest. Meri swallowed, suddenly ill. If she succeeded—and he thought she could—she would tie the Newoman to her, kest-to-kest, overriding the other's will.
Sian must not subsume the Gardener, the elitch thundered into his head. You must stop this, Ranger!
He must stop it? Meri thought dizzily, his meager kest burning in his veins. And yet, he thought, feeling the boy's body shivering against him—who else was there?
Meri lurched to his feet, and thrust Jamie into the arms of a woman hovering at the door.
"Hold him!" he snapped, and turned, reaching Sian's side in two long strides.
"Sian! Have done!"
She ignored him. Indeed, she might not have heard him.
"Sian!" He dared to put his hand on her shoulder, felt the thrill of her kest along his nerves.
Rebecca Beauvelley was going to lose this contest; she had no control, nothing but untamed power. Worse, her already fragmented focus was disintegrating, as fear crept in to replace anger.
She was right to be afraid, Meri thought, and too unschooled even to disengage. If she simply dropped her defense, Sian would bind her before she could stop herself.
If, inside this state of exalted anger, she wished to stop herself.
The Newoman needed a distraction, something to draw her attention and her kest, something that Sian would recognize, even in her anger, as untouchable.
Scarcely had he formed the thought, than his fingers were in his pouch. The sunshield, that the sea had given him so many days ago. A chancy gift, as the sea's gifts often were—and something against which Sian, the Engenium of Sea Hold, would never contend.
He felt the intelligence within the sunshield take note, felt sea-kest wash through his blood.
"Subdue the Newoman," he murmured, and tossed the sunshield directly at her.
As he had hoped, she jerked back, her kest flaring wildly, even as her right hand rose. The sunshield flashed in the instant before her fingers closed around it. Sian's kest fell so quickly Meri winced in sympathy for the headache she had doubtless just given herself.
On the far side of the table, Rebecca Beauvelley swayed slightly. Meri breathed deeply, as if to prompt her, and was faintly gratified to see her inhale, as well, her kest visibly falling. Two more breaths and she was nothing more than a bedraggled and exhausted Newoman bathed in a dangerously brilliant aura. She shook her head, and raised her hand to look at the sunshield.
His heart jolted, and Rebecca Beauvelley lifted a face as pale as linden leaves, eyes wide and hopeless as she stared into his face. She shook her head, though what she denied he could not say, and her lips parted.
Softly, he thought, anxiously—and to the trees. Tell her to speak Sian sweet, and apologize for contending with her.
The Newoman blinked, her face going vague. She nodded, and cleared her throat.
"Sian, please forgive me," she said, her voice trembling slightly, which was not, Meri thought, a bad thing. "I should not have challenged you. But, truly, Nancy is not a danger, and—and I wish you would help me to mend her. The trees said—that you might."
He felt Sian stiffen beside him, and for a heartbeat feared that she would come the haughty High Fey. The moment passed, however; Sian's stance softened, and she inclined her head.
"All you need do is renew its kest," she said. "Artifacts do not continue forever without a renewal of power, and this one has undertaken some . . . significant exertions of late."
Meri had not thought it possible for Rebecca Beauvelley's face to pale further. Watching her, he felt ill himself, and shivered as if with a sudden chill.
"Renew her kest," she whispered, staring down at the tiny figure. It seemed to Meri that it was significantly less bright than it had been, and he wondered if it would cease to be altogether, once the glow went out.
Slowly, the Newoman approached the table, and slowly bent over the small object there. Meri fancied he tasted silver and grit as Rebecca Beauvelley kissed the thing tenderly on its cold lips.
No one in the room or outside of it spoke. No one moved.
On the table, the artifact named Nancy began to glow, bright, brighter, brightest. Her wings flushed red and green, and suddenly she was up, flashing a long silver loop around the room, and turning handsprings on the air.
As suddenly as she had risen, she dropped back to the table, and knelt. Taking Rebecca Beauvelley's bruised and bloodied hand in both of hers, she kissed her fingers.
Rebecca Beauvelley sighed. Meri swallowed around the lump of emotion in his throat.
Sian nodded, and crossed her arms over her breast. "There," she said briskly, "what had I said?"
Chapter Twelve
She was burning; she was melted; she was liquid gold, formless and flowing. Even as she flowed, she felt something contain her; glimpsed a rope of living turquoise coolly dividing he
r heat. More heat built, enough to burn the world, and yet the fluid rope remained untouched. It divided, forcing her to flow into smaller and smaller pockets, ineffectual . . .
. . . and frightened.
Becca tried to step back from the flowing heat; tried to shake away the confining strands, but she was confounded by the blare and sizzle of power.
Something arced into her vision, as cool and calming as snow. She reached out and caught it, heard a roar, a crash, and tasted salt on her lips.
She felt her body, her hand, fingers closed about something damp and cool, but the fire, she was on fire—no, she was the fire! She breathed in, as if she would cool herself, astonished when the heat did subside, a little.
Deliberately, she inhaled. Again, the heat decreased.
A third breath, deeper than the first two, and she was merely herself, somewhat unsteady on her feet; her head light with pain and fatigue.
She raised her hand to see what it was that she held—and gasped, her heart stuttering in terror, as she saw in memory what she had not made sense from in the midst of the fire.
The object in her hand—a bone-dry disk from which the thinnest possible thread of blue emerged, wafting delicately across the table, until it became part of the ragged cloak of greens and blues drifting about the slim woodsman. She saw him plainly now—not a man at all, but Fey, his face stern and scarred; his uncovered eye as green as new leaves.
Bound again, she thought, and shook her head in despair. Rebecca, you fool!
Gardener, the tree addressed her with gentle urgency. You must not shame Sian before those who shelter under her branches. Apologize for challenging her, and ask her aid sweetly.
Becca blinked. The tree offered good counsel, she admitted to herself. The Landed were courteous to each other; to be otherwise was to encourage misbehavior among the subordinate orders. She cleared her throat and looked to the Fey woman, standing taut and grim just across the table.
"Sian, please forgive me," she said, hating the way her voice shook. "I should not have challenged you. But, truly, Nancy is not a danger, and—and I wish you would help me to mend her! The trees said—that you might."
For a moment, she feared that she had not been sufficiently respectful, and if Nancy was to lose her life because of Becca's ineptness, when she had given so much—
Sian inclined her head.
"All you need do is renew its kest," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Becca stared at her, stomach knotting. Renew Nancy's kest! she thought wildly. Did the Fey expect her to mount the tiny silver body here and now? How—but wait! In gentler times, Altimere had taken kest from her with a simple kiss.
"Renew her kest," she whispered, looking down at the tiny figure. Was—no, surely the silvery glow was dimmer now! Would Nancy cease to exist, when her light died completely?
That was by no means an experiment Becca desired to make. She bent down and pressed her lips gently against Nancy's hard mouth.
She felt a wash of warmth, and a connection, as if a hook had seated firmly in its eye. Dazzled, she stepped back, and Nancy rushed into the air, a shooting star in reverse, turning exuberant handsprings in the air.
Becca smiled; she heard someone laugh, and someone else sigh. Nancy dropped to the table. Kneeling, she raised Becca's weak and battered left hand and tenderly kissed her fingers.
Tears rose. Becca blinked them away with a sigh.
"There," Sian said briskly; "what had I said? Now—" She looked about her, and nodded to the woman limned in copper standing at the foot of the table. "Elizabeth, this is, as you have heard, Rebecca Beauvelley. With your permission, I would leave any further discussion until we have all eaten and rested."
Elizabeth inclined her head gravely. "I think that's wise, Lady. We all want our beds, I think."
As if he took her words for a command, Sam Moore moved toward the door, his big hands making absurdly delicate shooing motions.
"Go on home, now," he said, comfortably. "Let Miss Beauvelley get settled in and have her hurts looked to. There'll be plenty of time for questions and talking on the morrow." He paused to look at the old man leaning on his stick, who in turned looked to Elizabeth.
"Thank you, Jack," that lady said. "I'll have just another word or two with Lady Sian."
"That's well, then," the old man said, and nodded briefly to Sian. "Lady," he said, and looked across the table, meeting Becca's eyes firmly. "Daughter of an Earl, are you, Miss?"
"Yes," she said, and hoped most earnestly that the old man would not ask her which Earl.
Happily, he did not ask, but smiled and gave her a nod. "Not many in New Hope know what an Earl is. You rest easy, here. It's good land."
Becca felt tears sting her eyes, and managed a smile. "Thank you."
He turned, stick striking the floor, and went out the door ahead of Sam, who closed it firmly behind.
Becca drew a hard breath, raised her hand and pointed at the one-eyed Fey with his ragtag aura blowing about him. "What is your name?"
He raised a disdainful eyebrow. "Meripen Vanglelauf," he said, his voice light and cool.
She glanced down at the flat, round bone in her hand, looked back at him, and threw it as hard as her aching muscles allowed.
"I refuse this!"
He leaned—no, he flowed forward, scooping the thing out of the air. It vanished among long brown fingers as he inclined his head.
"Meri," Sian said, "is the cousin of whom I told you, Rebecca Beauvelley."
"As unpredictable and as willful as one might wish," Becca murmured, remembering, and saw the Fey's eyebrow rise again.
"Master Vanglelauf has kindly come to help us with our trees," Elizabeth said, her calm, commonplace voice drawing Becca's eye. She smiled and stepped forward, her gaze dropping briefly to Nancy, kneeling yet on the table before Becca.
"Welcome you, Miss Beauvelley," she said softly. "I am Elizabeth Moore, Sam's sister. Now that your friend has been mended, it would be best if you let Violet tend to you. There's a bed here, and Violet will stay with you. I will send over food, and ale, and we'll talk—" She looked to Sian, but more, Becca thought, as one issuing an order, than asking permission—"on the morrow. Lady?"
"I bow to your arrangements, Elizabeth," Sian said with a blitheness that made Becca shiver. "Thank you." She gave Becca a perfectly cheerful grin. "Sleep well, Rebecca Beauvelley. Violet—I thank you."
"Lady," Violet said softly, from behind Becca.
Sian nodded, and turned, slipping her hand 'round the other Fey's arm. "Come, Meri, you must be starved yourself."
The door opened, and they exited, followed, after another smile and an earnest look, by Elizabeth Moore, who drew the door closed behind her.
"Now," Violet said, on a long exhalation. "Let's bind those hands, Miss."
"Master Vanglelauf, please allow me to thank you for . . . what you did for Jamie." Elizabeth Moore's voice was grave, her aura casting a bright copper shadow before her.
"No thanks are needed," he said, truthfully. "It was no good place for a sprout."
"I . . . see." They walked a few paces in silence, the Newoman, the Engenium, and himself. He held the sunshield inside the curl of his fingers, its dry surface prickling his skin.
"Would it be possible to tell me," Elizabeth Moore said, and he heard the sharp edge beneath her delicate tone, "what it was that endangered Jamie?"
Sian said nothing. Meri swallowed his sigh.
"His kest—you understand that a sprout has very little, and is naturally not skilled in its uses—his kest was drawn to the . . . contest between Sian and Elizabeth Beauvelley." He paused, weighing what he had just said, and judged that something more was needed. "You mustn't think him inept; it was an . . . unconsidered display by persons of strong kest. I was nearly drawn in, myself."
"My apologies, Elizabeth," Sian said softly. "My failure to rule my temper endangered your son. It is not how I treat those who live within my honor."<
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"I know that, Lady," the Newoman said, as if her mind were on something else. "Many tempers were drawn thin tonight. Master Vanglelauf."
His eyebrows twitched upward in surprise. "Tree-Kin?"
She made a light sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "I see that the wood has told you all. Palin, who is Jamie's sire, promised me two children—one to follow me, and one to follow him. It was Palin who told me that kest is the ability to draw upon the strength of one's soul."
Meri blinked. Soul? he queried the trees, and the elitch answered immediately.
The inner fires, Ranger. Palin and the Old Woman were fast friends and spent much time disputing this point.