Longeye

by Sharon Lee

Despite what he had told the sprout last night, will alone was not sufficient to survive. Oh, a will rigorously trained, and partnered with a . . . moderate . . . amount of kest was certainly enough to perform wonders. Alas, while his will was strong, he had not taken a philosopher's course; and to acknowledge his present levels of kest to be moderate was to indulge in dangerous deception.

  He could not teach Rebecca Beauvelley. The trees had first call upon his service and his duty. Rebecca Beauvelley could, could—

  Burn down New Hope, in her ignorance? the elder elitch inquired politely. Enslave a grove of sprouts with a word, and with another bind them to a second doom?

  Meri shuddered. The single geas she had laid on Jamie would have surely been the end of him before he had walked through another night—and that assuming that he had not strode headfirst and heedless into the shadow-wood!

  Meripen Longeye, the charge comes to you.

  Cheek against the culdoon, Meri shivered, then straightened as a flicker of gold disturbed his senses.

  The Gardener comes, Ranger.

  The trees had guided her to a quiet spot just outside of the village proper, a circle of woven grasses sheltered by pine, culdoon, and larch. Becca stepped lightly, peering into the odd nest, seeing a bow and quiver laid neatly to hand, and a light indention among the grasses, vanishing even as she watched.

  "Master Vanglelauf?" She spoke softly. Respectfully. After all, she reminded herself, she was here to ask for a kindness—a considerable kindness—from someone who found her despicable at best.

  "Master Vanglelauf, the Hope Tree said that you were about."

  She looked 'round, seeing the trees with their still branches, and the bright fruit peeking shyly from beneath the culdoon's leaves. A bird sang overhead, its high, sweet voice putting her momentarily in mind of Diathen the Queen. She shivered with the thought, and glanced back to the grassy nest.

  "Surely," she said to the trees, "he wouldn't have gone far without his bow?"

  There was no answer. She hadn't really expected one, though it would have been nice to know why the trees had led her here if the object of her quest was absent.

  Sighing, she turned roundabout, looking for something—some sign of his direction, perhaps, or—

  "Oh!" She gasped, hand rising to her cheek.

  Meripen Vanglelauf seemed to step from the very heart of the culdoon, and stood before her, arms crossed over his chest and a formidable frown on his scarred, austere face.

  Becca curtsied, wobbling somewhat, and straightened, aiming her eyes over his left shoulder, so she did not have to meet his cold green eye.

  "If you please," she said, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. "I would value lessons from you in . . . in philosophy."

  There was a long moment in which he did not answer. She bit her lip and recruited herself to patience, watching his tattered green fires blow in an unfelt wind, certain that he was about to pour abuse on her head for her callous and brutal treatment of a child.

  But no, it would appear that he had merely been thinking, after all.

  "What," he asked, his voice so cool that she shivered, "is kest?"

  Becca straightened her back. This at least was familiar to her. Every trade had a catechism. Though her first answer would undoubtedly be wrong, yet it required some thought, for it would aid the teacher in learning how much, and what sort of, work needed to be done.

  "Kest is an . . . informing humor," she said slowly. "It may be taken, or given, and it may be worked, after a fashion." She bit her lip, considering. "It is generally invisible to, to those who live across the Boundary. Fey possess it, and use it to provide themselves with all manner of things."

  "How does one acquire kest?" came the second question, and Becca felt her skin heat from the roots of her hair to the bottoms of her feet.

  "One acquires kest," she began, and felt tears start. She closed her eyes and took a breath.

  "One acquires kest by lying with or performing sexual acts with those who are well supplied." Her stomach cramped, but she would not, she thought, tears dampening her cheeks, she would not shirk the question. She had asked for instruction, and whatever Meripen Vanglelauf might ask of her would be nothing to what she had already done.

  "Kest may also be taken by . . ." She cleared her throat. "May be taken by one who has compelled another to gather it in . . . in the manner previously described."

  She drew a ragged breath, and waited, eyes closed, while the silence stretched, and stretched . . .

  . . . and was broken by a sigh.

  "Kest," Meripen Vanglelauf said, his voice betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Kest is the fire that informs the world, and everything that moves within the world. Fey possess it, and Newmen also. Trees, small-plants, the birds in the sky, and the creatures among the grasses—all are informed by kest.

  "Kest may be shared, it may be given away, and it may be shaped. Kest is the great healer. Kest is never lost."

  There was another pause, very slight, during which Becca found the courage to open her eyes.

  Meripen Vanglelauf stood with his legs braced, and his hands tucked into his belt, gazing into the evergreen branches above her head.

  "One acquires kest by living," he said; "by walking up and down in the world and partaking of it. One may meld with another, in order to share, change, and grow. We are a part of all those with whom we meld, and they are a part of us, for kest is never lost."

  He moved his gaze down from the branches and looked directly into Becca's face.

  "You were under the protection of Altimere the Artificer." It was not a question, but Becca answered as if it were.

  "I was," she said, hearing her voice quaver. "He . . . required me to, to meld, and to steal kest, which he then . . . took from me."

  His mouth, which had lost some of its frown in what had surely been a soothing recitation of well-known material, tightened again.

  "When the will of the Elders informed our lives, such subjection was common," he told her. "The war altered the way we—the Fey, as you have us, as if we were all one—live, for very few of the Elder High survived it. The Queen in Xandurana decreed, with the force of her Constant, the Vaitura, and the trees, that henceforth our law would change. No more would the stronger dominate the wills and the lives of the weaker, but all Fey would live together, each according to their service, whether it be low or high."

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  "Diathen having spoken in full, that covenant is, albeit sometimes indifferently, obeyed. The Brethren are most often at risk, but to say truth they delight in provoking others."

  "Altimere," Becca said, hearing the bitterness in her voice, "did not appear to know that there was such a covenant."

  The firm lips twitched, as if Meripen Vanglelauf had captured a smile inside the curve of his frown.

  "Altimere knows the Queen's Rule full well," he said gravely. "It is merely that he is Elder and High and holds to the old ways." He hesitated, then inclined his head. "Those things that he taught you may be . . . untrustworthy. Strive to set them aside and learn better."

  "He taught me nothing, save that Fey are not to be trusted, which seems to be a lesson to hold close," Becca snapped, before she had quite realized that she was angry.

  "Perhaps he taught you that Altimere is not to be trusted, which is a very different thing, though worthy, as you say, of a place in memory." He tipped his head, as if taking counsel of himself, and nodded, once.

  "You are, so the trees say, a healer."

  "Yes," Becca acknowledged temperately, "I am a healer."

  "Despite this, you have not healed your arm. What are your reasons?"

  Her temper, roused, now flared. What had her arm to do with . . . philosophy lessons?

  "It is well to note," Meripen Vanglelauf said coolly, "that strong emotion casts its shadow upon the aura, which is the reflection of the inner fires. One's enemies may therefore gain a significant advantage over one merely by observing the state of one's t
emper. Happily, and with practice, one may learn to control one's emotions and thus shield oneself on that flank."

  Becca glared at him, then, remembering the control she had enforced upon herself after the accident, she took a deep breath, and another, deliberately cooling her temper.

  "Very good," her teacher said, distantly. "Now, if you will: Your reasons for refusing to heal your arm."

  "Why do you believe that I refuse to heal my arm?" Becca asked hotly, and felt her temper flicker. She took another breath and was able to continue, with tolerable calm. "Indeed, many were at pains to heal it, but it is crippled beyond repair." Another impulse flickered, and she looked up into Meripen Vanglelauf's eye. "Altimere had said it made me more desirable to Fey. Do you not find it so?"

  "No." Perfectly composed, that reply, and if, Becca thought irritably, there had been any alteration in the ragged aura that billowed about him, it was too subtle for her to perceive.

  "There are, however," he continued after a heartbeat, "a certain sort of Fey who may find such stratagems attractive. Fey are . . . accustomed to measuring kest by the power and beauty of the aura. Recall that the aura is the reflection only of the inner fires. Therefore, one who displays an aura that is . . . rich and sensuous . . . may be supposed to harbor much kest. Among certain of the High, there is a . . . craving for kest merely for the sake of accumulation. Those would find one who . . . calls attention to her abundance of kest, desirable. By allowing your arm to remain withered when clearly you possess the power to heal it, you announce that your kest is sufficient to all things. There are very few who have so much, and those must be sought-after as melding partners, by those who wish to . . . increase themselves."

  Becca stared at him. "The—those—they thought they were taking power from me?"

  Meripen Vanglelauf considered her gravely.

  "That's preposterous!" Becca cried—and then, without warning, began to laugh. "Ah, that is where he turned the tables on them! While they thought they had gained an advantage through me, he was robbing them of power—through me!" She shook her head, took a breath, hiccuped, and managed to fight the laughter down.

  "I do not think," she said to the Fey's lifted eyebrow, "that—Newmen, as you call us—possess kest in the same manner as Fey. It may be that the aura—is all we have. Certainly, I've never known anyone in—on the far side of the keleigh—who could use kest."

  "Fey and Newmen are different," Meripen Vanglelauf said with cool courtesy. "Certainly, it is possible that Newmen have not the skill to manipulate their kest—especially if there are no teachers on the other side. For now, however, you have the attention of one who may teach you . . . some few things. However or wherever you may have acquired it, certainly you have accumulated kest. Heal your arm."

  Becca stared at him in frustration. "It cannot be healed," she said, speaking slowly and distinctly. "I am crippled and have been for years."

  He looked bored and a little impatient.

  "You are a healer. You have kest enough. Do you have the will?"

  Her temper broke lose from the bounds she had set upon it.

  "Will has nothing to do with it!" she cried. "If it were will that would do it, I would have been cured ten thousand times! The muscles were torn, then burned, then ignored. I am a cripple, Master Vanglelauf! There is no cure!"

  It was, she thought in the midst of her anger, very warm of a sudden. The breeze brought her a taste of smoke and of leaf-burn. Gasping—coughing—she looked 'round. The grass between her and Meripen Vanglelauf was on fire, the flames leaping higher as she stared, horrified.

  The Fey snapped a word that slid past her ear, and raised a slim, brown hand. Mist formed in the air, thickening rapidly, until raindrops splashed down upon the flames, quenching them with a hiss.

  "I—" Becca began, and darted forward with not a thought for her skirts along the steaming ground, and caught Meripen Vanglelauf's elbow, thinking only to steady him as he staggered—

  "Do not touch me!"

  He tore away from her, face pale and posture uncertain, but it was neither of those that caused Becca to stare, and to shiver.

  The thin rags of his aura had—diminished.

  If one's aura was the reflection of the inner fire, she thought wildly, then Meripen Vanglelauf's fires were dangerously low.

  "No, please—" She extended her hand. "I—Master—kest can be given—as a gift?"

  "Yes." His voice was thin, as if he were short of breath.

  "Then," Becca said, speaking rapidly, "allow me to make amends. I would replenish what you spent to mend my error."

  "No!"

  The shout took her to her knees, and when she looked up, Meripen Vanglelauf was gone, vanished—melted into the culdoon, perhaps, or spread out along the wind.

  Becca bent her head and struggled not to cry.

  "He's ill," she said to the trees.

  He is diminished by his sorrows, Gardener. Leave him to his duties now, and come for another lesson on the morrow.

  "If we keep on at this rate, my lessons will kill him," she objected, staggering to her feet.

  Tomorrow, come again. He will teach you; you will learn.

  That had the weight of law behind it, Becca thought, and composed herself as well she might. The fire, she saw, with relief, had not come near his nest. She hoped that the smell of burnt vegetation would not be too unpleasant for him.

  "Trees," she said, softly. "Please tell Master Vanglelauf that I will try to be a better student."

  Certainly, Gardener, the Hope Tree made answer. Go, now.

  By the reckonings of his watch and his sleeps, he had been inside this second, larger, prison, a ten day plus three. In that time he had found rock-strewn paths and trees without vigor, lifeless dust basins, streams without flow, and light that neither increased nor diminished.

  Several times he had seen footprints in the dust, but their direction was lost on the stone that ridged out of the fundamental mist.

  What he had not found was the anchor point at Rishelden Forest, nor yet any significant pool of kest nor any clue to the direction and condition of the Vaitura.

  Twice, he had nearly convinced himself that the Vaitura no longer existed, that all and everything had been swallowed by the mists. The third time the panic rose, he snapped paper and pen out of the aether and began to draw a map.

  The map had grown and was now quite detailed. He had returned willfully to his starting point twice; he made notes of his measurements and compared them, seeking to learn—something that would be of use to him in his extremity.

  Everyone knew that there were heroes in the mists. Altimere by no means aspired to that estate. However, it came to him, as he walked and measured and mapped, that it might in fact be of some use to him to locate such a one.

  Soon after he had that thought, he found a small stream of what ought to have been spring water. Rather than a cool, fresh odor it held nothing he could smell. Throwing a stone into it produced dull splashes; throwing a very large rock into it produced nothing larger. Finally he dared touch the liquid, which was opaque to his kest and held none of the virtue water should know. It very nearly ran around his finger: none of its expected dampness clung to his hand.

  There was more geography present now, and as he walked the mist felt thinner. The stream was a convenient path; like a well-mannered stream in the Vaitura there was some room between the banks and the nearest obstructing trees or rocks, as if from time to time a cleansing flow pushed back against things that encroached. He felt a continued disconnect between the world and himself, an oddity . . .

  The oddity was that though there were trees and plants, they showed, like the water, none of the normal attributes of kest. They seemed to live, and yet they did not. They ought to have been dead, at least, or, in keeping with theory he had himself postulated, subsumed into the keleigh. That they were neither was . . . worrisome in a way that nagged at him, but which he could not articulate further.

  Chapter Twenty


  For the third ward, he asked permission of the abundant mosses carpeting the floor of the sleepy forest, and drew its kest, careful not to take more than he could control.

  By the time it was done and the ward in place, he was feeling so thin and unsteady that he sat down with his back against a sleepy, ancient pine, and closed his eyes so that he would not have to see the unnatural wood that lay beyond his wards, and acknowledge how inadequate they were.

  Who hears me? he asked, wearily.

  I hear you, Ranger, the unmistakable voice of the elder elitch that called itself the Hope Tree said strongly. The Gardener asks me to tell you that she will strive to be a better student.