Duainfey

by Sharon Lee

  "I would like," she said, keeping her voice steady by long practice. "I would like very much to embrace the second possible future you showed to me."

  "Ah, indeed?" He looked down at her. "We have said that the customs of your land are not the customs of my own, so I will ask, in order to be certain: You offer to ally with me; to place your kest—your power—in my hands?"

  Her power, thought Becca, and might have laughed, had Rosamunde not blown lightly against her hair.

  "I place my power, my honor, and my future in your hands," she told, and if her voice shook, who could blame her? It was a terrible step she was about to take—and, yet, to find succor, where she had been so certain that all was lost . . .

  "The small, angry man?" Altimere said. "He has been informed that he will not profit from an alliance?"

  "He has—not." Becca swallowed. "I—if I tell him so, my father will lock me in my room until the day of the wedding, which is—very soon, now. A matter of days. I—if you accept my—my alliance—we will have to go secretly—swiftly and with the possibility of pursuit."

  Altimere looked, faintly, amused, but his voice was brisk. "It is well that the moon is just past full, and fortunate that Quince has bestowed upon you this horse." He glanced at the cloudless sky. "If you are able, we may leave tonight at moonrise. Say to Quince that you will come for the horse later; I will bring her to you."

  "Yes," breathed Becca, "thank—but her tack, I don't—"

  "Leave all to me. For yourself, you need bring only those things which are necessary to your kest, but nothing more than will fit in a saddlebag. You will not need jewelry, or coins, or any medium of trade or exchange."

  Becca looked up at him. "But, how will I purchase—"

  "You have allied yourself with me," he said, and there was a note of arrogance on that last word. "I will provide those things which are needful."

  "I—see." Her heart quailed, but Rosamunde blew again, a gust of warmth against her ear, and she giggled instead.

  "The beautiful lady has heart and courage for two," Altimere said, and looked over Becca's head. "The excellent Quince returns to us. Moonrise, at the servants' door. I will be there for you."

  He turned away, calling out a question to Lord Quince. Becca leaned into Rosamunde and closed her eyes, letting the warmth of her mount's regard soothe her spirit and calm her racing heart.

  The chyarch was found in a bower of sandelkirk, a book on her knee and a wood's cat curled at her feet. She looked up at his approach, and dismissed the attendant with a nod. He bowed, the performance of which courtesy gave him time to recover from his surprise.

  It was most usually the Elder Fey who were called to the healing arts. While it was not impossible to find one of the Wood Wise among the healers, yet it was—unusual.

  That one such would rise to chyarch—that was unlikely, for the Wood Wise dislike confinement and are happiest when they rove.

  "Chyarch," he murmured respectfully, straightening from his bow.

  "Meripen Vanglelauf," she replied, marking her place and setting the book aside. "I would have had you sleep for some while longer. Alas, I have been overruled." She pulled a roll of birch paper from her sleeve and sat holding it in her hand, considering him gravely. Her eyes were pale—grey with a touch of brown, like bark seen through morning mist—her aura a faint shimmer of autumn yellows.

  "The Lady of Sea Hold sends for you, by name. Perforce, you must be wakened and set upon the way."

  He blinked. "The Lady of Sea Hold?" he repeated the phrase as if the sleep, or what had gone before, had robbed him of sense.

  "Indeed," the chyarch said solemnly. "Precisely that most gracious and puissant Lady."

  "I—" He paused, trying to think. Unlike some of the Forest Gentry, he had no fear of leaving the land. Indeed, his own mother had ranked as a captain among the Sea Wise, and he had learned the lore of wave and wind at her side. That he had accepted the duties of the Wood Wise was more accident than destiny. He knew and was acknowledged by kin on the seaward side, and had been fostered at Sea Hold in his youth. The last he had known, however, Sea Hold had rejoiced in a lord—one Velpion, whose title had been, properly, Engenium. To find that there was now a lady in that dour Elder's place . . .

  He wondered again how long he had been inside the healing sleep.

  "Forgive me," he said to the chyarch. "Why does the . . . lady . . . send for me?"

  She shrugged. "I had hoped perhaps you would know what urgency drives her. But it would seem not." She held out the roll of bark. "You may read for yourself what she writes. And then, if you feel able, you may draw what you need from stores and—"

  "No." He said flatly, hands fisting at his sides as he recalled what he must do.

  The chyarch raised an eyebrow. "Could you be more explicit?"

  "I cannot go to Sea Hold," he said. "There is a matter of duty which must be satisfied before—"

  "Yes, yes . . ." She waved the bark at him, impatiently. "It's all in here. I am, in a word, commanded to wake you and to send you forth. It may be argued—persuasively, for your reputation precedes you, Ranger—that I cannot be responsible for where you go once you leave here, but leave here you must and shall. And I do think, myself, that you will go to Sea Hold."

  Goaded, he snatched the bark, unrolled it, glared—and blinked.

  You will, he read, awaken my cousin Meripen Vanglelauf and put him on his way to Sea Hold as he is needed here. This by the hand of Sian, Engenium.

  He read the brief message in the bold, plain hand again—and a third time. Sian had risen to rule Sea Hold? But Sian was—He looked up to find the chyarch watching him, her eyes holding a certain foggy amusement.

  "Forgive me," he said again, though his voice was abrupt in his own ears. "How long—"

  "Ah." She bowed her head. "Nine thousand nights have passed since you came here, raving, powerless, and very nearly dead. Your wounds were terrible; we thought at first that we would lose you to them. As it came about, the burns and the abuse were not the worst of it. I would have had you sleep longer, a full ten thousand nights, to equal the sleep of Jonga, Ranger, and then I would not have sent you to Sea Hold, but deep into the Vanglewood. However, as you read—" a flutter of fingers at the message he still held—"my wishes count for naught.

  "I do most earnestly counsel you to obey the Engenium's summons of your own will, for she has also provided me with this, in case you should prove . . . recalcitrant." She reached into the pocket of her vest and withdrew a cord of braided seaweed, an ordinary fessel shell suspended from it, the compulsion woven into it so strong that Meripen shivered where he stood.

  The chyarch nodded. "It is no gentle invitation the Lady of Sea Hold sends you, Ranger, but a stern order. Be prudent, I beg, for I do not wish to be the one to place this burden upon you."

  Standing there among the plants and live things, Meripen acknowledged that he felt not the slightest stirring of kest. Should the chyarch apply her will—which she had not done, and which, so he read in her face, she did not desire to do—he would be powerless to resist her.

  Stiffly, he bowed.

  "It would seem that I have no choice," he murmured. "I will draw what I need and be gone before moonrise."

  The chyarch sighed. "Haste is needful," she agreed. "Headlong flight is not. Take time to eat, and to rest again after you have assembled your kit. Sunrise will be soon enough to set out."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sonet's herbal she would not leave behind, nor her own, nor could she travel without easewerth, aleth or fremoni, or the few packets of seeds, including Sonet's gift of duainfey, she had on hand. Which left little enough room for clothes and womanly necessities. In the end, she bundled a single change of clothing together in her heaviest, most serviceable shawl. Happily, her day-clothes had been tailored with her handicap in mind; her riding shirt laced, and while the split skirt did require buttoning, she had a buttonhook for just that purpose. By necessity, she wore her hair loose.
It would be well enough, she thought, with the cloak fastened over it—and in any wise, there was nothing else she could do.

  Her boots were the worst, and by the time she had them on, she was shaking with effort, her ruined arm aching up into her back teeth.

  It was then—just then—as she sat there, aching and weak, that she bethought herself of what she was about to do.

  What, in truth, did she know of Altimere? That he was Fey and—how had Harin said it? Not human-folk. Yes, and her grandmother, who had seemed to have a fondness for them, still warned her granddaughter never to trust them.

  And yet, Becca thought, what choice had she? She might very well question Altimere's "small power," and put the scene she had been "shown" in the wine cup down to exhaustion, or hypnotism, or hysteria—any of that, or all of it. What she could not do, however, was to discount the evidence of her own senses. Jennet had meant to hurt her. Nor did his manner of demanding an apology—an abject apology, far out of proportion to her misstep . . .

  Having seen Jennet thus, the future in the wine cup, however it had been formed, seemed to her possible, even probable. Whether he knowingly wished her ill, or was merely possessed of a . . . masterful nature . . .

  "No," she whispered to the dim room, "it will not do."

  Better by far to trust Altimere, who was odd, though no more a stranger than her promised husband, who had furthermore offered her no harm, and indeed seemed to have some concern for her welfare. Traveling in his company would ruin her, of course, but she was accustomed to that.

  The clock in the entrance hall struck the hour, its chimes reverberating throughout the house. Becca stood and dragged her cloak on, clumsily one-handed; twisted the brooch shut, and picked up her parcel.

  It was time. Whatever doubts and dangers attended this night, she would meet them as they arose.

  Soft-foot, she went down the back stairs. Once, she paused, thinking she had heard something—but the soft noise was not repeated and she put it down to nerves, or perhaps the stealthy incursions of a mouse.

  She eased the door to the kitchen open and stepped inside. Shadows danced, misshapen under the influence of the banked fire, and it took her a moment to tease the familiar room—with its work tables, and stools, and the cook pots all hung away in their proper places—out of the—

  Someone was sitting at the pastry table, leaning against the pillar. Becca gasped, and froze.

  The man at the table did not move. Becca held her breath, trying to think. Surely he knew she was here? He would have seen her open the door. Why did he not speak? Why—

  The sound of a gentle snore reached her.

  The guard was asleep.

  Relief made her giddy. She bit her lip so that she did not laugh, took a deep breath, and very slowly, very quietly eased past the table, crossed in front of the fireplace, to the door.

  The latch worked silently. Becca let herself out into the night.

  The moon was a great yellow cheese lumbering above the tree tops, the stars glittering like pins spilled across black velvet. Ahead of her were shadows, and within those a flicker, as if a horse had moved an impatient ear, followed by a soft ladylike snort.

  Becca let herself smile as she walked carefully down the flagged path to where Rosamunde—and Altimere—awaited her.

  "Miss Beauvelley." He was at her side before she saw him, pale hair covered with a dark hat.

  "You placed your power into my keeping. Do you wish to withdraw your word?"

  She blinked up at him. Did he not understand? Or did he think that she did not understand? Better him and what he offered—better anything she could imagine!—than that bitter, ill-used future she had seen.

  "I stand by my word," she said to Altimere, and he bowed to her, as graceful as always, before stepping to Rosamunde's side and opening the saddlebag.

  She handed him her bundle, and he paused, looking down at her, so she thought, quizzically.

  "Pots?" he murmured. "Books?"

  "I'm an herbalist," she said to the note of query in his voice. "The books are my references and the pots contain medicines we might have need of on the road, and . . ." She bit her lip, but continued strongly, ". . . and a salve, for when my arm pains me."

  She felt the weight of his glance against the side of her face.

  "I had not understood that the angry man had wounded you so grievously."

  Becca opened her mouth—and closed it. This was not, she thought, the time for a protracted conversation regarding the realities of a withered arm.

  "But!" Altimere continued, in a lighter tone. "I see that these things are, indeed, necessary to your power. It is well." There came subtle rustlings and the groan of leather being pulled, then Altimere spoke again.

  "With your permission, I will lift you to your saddle."

  "Thank you, I—"

  "No!"

  Becca spun, her feet tangling in the uneven ground; she fell heavily against Rosamunde's side as Caroline darted out of the shadow of the house, hair unbound and the moonlight poking bold yellow fingers through her muslin shift. She had not even bothered to snatch a shawl to cover her against the night chill and her feet were naked on the dirt path.

  Altimere strode forward and Caroline ran into his arms—or, rather, he caught her above the elbows and held her at arm's length, as if she were an overexuberant puppy that he wished to prevent from leaving mud on his trousers.

  "It is I who love you!" Caroline cried, her voice ringing with passion. Becca cringed, certain that the noise would rouse the sleeper in the kitchen, and all would be lost.

  "Becca is a cripple," Caroline sobbed. "She's ugly and willful—you can't want her! She only uses you for her own gain. When she is done, you will be like poor Kelmit Tarrington. It is I who loves you! I loved you from the first moment I saw you! Have pity, my lord! Take me, take—"

  "Silence."

  He did not raise his voice, yet Becca felt it crackle over her skin like Sir Farraday's electric current. The effect on Caroline must have been the same, for the outpouring of words stopped at once, and she hung boneless between Altimere's hands, mute and adoring.

  "Return to the house," Altimere said in that same even, oddly forceful voice. "Return to your bed. Return to sleep. Forget that you followed your sister to this place. Forget me." He leaned forward, and Becca thought that he was going to kiss—but, no. He merely blew across her eyes, then stepped back, loosing her.

  "Go."

  And before Becca's unbelieving eyes, Caroline turned, wordless, and passed silently down the path and through the door. She held her breath, waiting for a scream that would rouse the house, but all she heard was the snap of the latch, loud in the still air.

  "So." Altimere was at her side once more. "If you will allow me to lift you to your saddle, Miss Beauvelley? The moon is our friend, and it would be ill done of us to shun her bounty."

  "I—" She looked up at him. "Caroline will raise the house," she said, the words feeling tentative in her mouth.

  He shook his head, clearly amused. "No," he said softly. "She will not."

  And with no further ado he put his hands around her waist and threw her into the saddle. Rosamunde stood steady as a rock as she picked up the reins, then turned with no signal from Becca, following Altimere and his mount out of the shadows and into the moonlight night.

  Meripen settled the pack on his back, touched the patch over his right eye, and the hilt of the knife at his belt. Despite the pack, he felt curiously unfettered—unfocused—light, as if he were one with the pearly dawn even now creeping along the treetops. It was a sensation that he had experienced before, when it had sat less oddly upon him. He paused with one hand on the gate, seeking warily after the memory—

  "Are you able?" his companion murmured at his side. "There's no shame in waiting for another sunrise."

  "No shame," Meripen murmured. "Yet you carry something for me in your pack, should I choose not to go on."

  "I carry it, true enough," his compani
on, one Ganat Ubelauf, admitted cheerfully. "But we both know it's only because the chyarch will not have it here. Therefore, someone must return it to the lady—and I have a long-standing role as the chyarch's someone."

  "No," Meri said slowly, and turned to face him. "You carry it because I am not strong enough. I feel—I feel as if I have no substance. As if I were nothing more than a doll cut from fog, and stitched with moonlight. As if—" He had it, the memory of his previous similar state—"As if I were a child again, without experience, purpose, or kest—"

  "Aye, aye," Ganat said placatingly. "The long sleep'll do that. Your strength will rise quick enough, now you're awake. A few days on your own land and you'll be better than ever—see if not! Why—" He moved forward, pushing the gate open and stepping out onto the path. "You'll hardly credit it, but back when I was scarce more than a sprout myself, a patch of my wood took fire."