Duainfey

by Sharon Lee

  "Aye, it would, at the cost of your dismay. And, do you know, my curiosity almost—almost!—overweighs my concern. If I have been asleep so long, why wake me now? If I have been asleep so long, what use am I?" He turned, jerking his head at the other to take the lead. "No, let us go on, by your leave. I would have the riddle's answer, now."

  Ganat hesitated a heartbeat longer, then nodded once, sharply, and stepped forward, taking the lead to the shortcut.

  "How far beyond the Bou—your pardon! the keleigh—does your house lie?"

  They were in their private parlor at the inn, eating breakfast tete-a-tete. Altimere had opened the window, so that they might have the benefit of the warming breeze. Becca gazed out at unclouded blue sky, wearing a skirt of smudged purple, which was the weird glow of the Boundary.

  "It will seem no distance at all, once we have the keleigh behind us," Altimere said, replacing his cup in its saucer with a tiny click of porcelain against porcelain.

  "Is it so very wide, then?" Becca asked, pushing her plate aside.

  "Sometimes it is very wide. Sometimes, it is scarcely three steps across." He leaned forward slightly, catching her gaze with his, and she shuddered with the weight of his regard.

  "Understand me, Miss Beauvelley, the keleigh is a dangerous and uncertain place. Strange things happen there—strange even to those of the Fey. Very often things are lost in the keleigh. I speak not only of possessions, but of those infinitely more precious—memories, small powers. One's name."

  Becca blinked. "One's name?"

  Altimere smiled. "I said that even the Fey find the keleigh strange, did I not? How much stranger must it seem to you, who have lived all your life among . . . those who are not Fey, to whom the keleigh is merely a pretty curtain of lights?" His smile faded. "To return to the topic—treasure is easily lost in the keleigh. Most often, it is the inexperienced travelers who lose the most. You," he smiled at her and she felt her whole body warm. "You are fortunate in that you travel in company with an experienced guide. Still, it would pain me to find that you had lost any small thing. I will guard you as best I might, but it would perhaps be best, before we cross, if you were to give me your name."

  Rebecca paused with her coffee cup halfway to her lips. "Give you my name?" she repeated. "How might I do such a thing?"

  "It is very simple," said Altimere. "You merely say, 'Altimere, I give you my name to hold in safekeeping until I ask for its return.' "

  Becca laughed. "Forgive me! It seems very cool and civilized," she explained to his raised eyebrow. "However, I have held my name this long. I think that I may hold it a while longer yet. Though if this crossing is as dangerous as you tell me, I fear for Rosamunde—and for your own mount."

  "And yet they are in less danger, for they have so much less to lose."

  "Surely, their names and their memories are precious to them," Becca said.

  "Do you think so? I consider that memory is a burden upon those creatures of a lower order," Altimere said, glancing down to spread jam on his toast.

  "Why so?"

  He looked up, his amber gaze holding her riveted. "Why, because they are so often at the command of a will that is not their own, and required to perform actions which they might not, for themselves, perform, and which they may even find to be—distressing."

  "In fact, you hold that animals are slaves," Becca said slowly. "I had heard that argument when I was in the city. I think, rather, that animals and men are partners in the husbandry of the land."

  There was a small pause while Altimere finished his toast and dusted the crumbs from his fingers.

  "That is certainly a viewpoint with some merit," he said politely. "We shall have to discuss the matter again, after we are home and settled. In the meantime, child, allow me to braid your hair. The sooner we begin our ride, the sooner it will be done, however wide the keleigh is, this journey."

  Altimere's touch on her hair was soothing—too soothing, thought Becca, her eyes drifting shut despite her best efforts.

  "Truly, child," Altimere's voice was so low that it seemed to originate inside her skull. "I wish you to sacrifice nothing to the keleigh. Would it not be wise to allow me, your most devoted ally, to hold your name safely for you? Think what might happen, if it were stolen away. Not only would you lose your memories, but also those memories Rosamunde must have entrusted to your keeping, for she has placed her power into your hands, just as you have placed your power into mine. Allow me to protect you, and all that you treasure . . ."

  "I . . ." Becca forced her eyes open, and straightened her shoulders. "I think it would be best . . ."

  "Yes?"

  ". . . if I kept watch upon my own name, and Rosamunde's, as well. You are, as you say, our guide and our guard across a strange and dangerous land. It would be churlish of me—and would endanger our entire party—if I were to burden you with that which I can easily bear myself."

  "Ah." Altimere finished off the braid and stepped back. "I will fetch our cloaks," he said, and was gone.

  Becca blinked, abruptly and entirely awake. Shaking her head, she rose to her feet. Really, what an odd thing, to have been so sleepy when they had just an hour ago arisen! But she was perfectly alert now, and as ready to ride into a strange country as she might ever be.

  "Here you are," Altimere draped her cloak tenderly over her shoulders and fastened the brooch, then stood with his hands on her shoulders, looking down into her eyes.

  "You are not afraid," he said after a moment. "Excellent."

  "Of course I am not afraid," Becca said, smiling up at him. "You will be with me, after all."

  Chapter Seventeen

  The wind was coming off the sea, so heavy with brine that Meri's eye teared, and the familiar shoreline blurred. He sniffed, shook his head, and there—there were the cliffs, glowing like a sea-rose in the rays of the lowering sun, banners snapping smartly in the wind, and the sound of surf against the land.

  Out, past the rosy cliffs, was the sea itself, its restless surface glittering turquoise and gold. Tide was coming in, Meri judged, watching the boats at anchor dance on the rich surface—and hard. The wind tasting so much of salt bespoke a storm bearing down upon the land, though the sky showed only the least swirl of orange and grey cloud.

  He took a deep breath, forcing the salty air down into the very bottom of his lungs. From his belt came the whisper of leaf as the sea-wind teased the elitch branch. Meri exhaled and drank in another breath, hoping, only that. His was a mixed heritage; the sea as well as the forest held virtue for him—he exhaled on a sound that might have been a laugh.

  Yes, surely, the sea had virtue for him. The sea-breeze? Perhaps not so much.

  Beside him, Ganat cleared his throat.

  "Not so bad, was it?" he said. "The transfer."

  Meri shook his head. The transfer had been effortless: a slight blink of darkness between one step and the next, like stepping from light into shadow and back into light.

  "I had expected something more . . . nightmarish," he admitted. "You had said the power came off the keleigh."

  "The power comes off an anchor for the keleigh," Ganat corrected. "It's thought by those whose power resides in such thoughts, that this is an important difference. If you'd like to know why they think so, I suggest you apply to Konice, the Queen's philosopher. He'll be pleased to explain it to you over a period of days, and if you understand more than one word in ten, you're vastly more clever than ever I'll be."

  Meri smiled. "I think I'd best capture one square at a time. First, let me survive a meeting with my cousin."

  Ganat gave him a worried glance, and settled his pack nervously. "I suppose we'd best go on, then," he said. "Having come this far."

  "It would seem the . . . most direct trail to an explanation—and your dinner," Meri agreed, and started down the stone stairway to the courtyard below.

  They passed the last homestead at mid-morning; the road thinned to a thread of dusty track through country overgrown with s
parse, leggy shrubbery.

  Becca recognized redthorn and thessel, punctuated by wild carrot, coinflower, and bluebows. Fire plants, the lot of them, their only virtue that of quick growth and quicker die-off, to enrich the ground so that sturdier, more useful plants might re-grow.

  The sound of their passage was unusually loud in the absence of both bird-song and breeze; overhead, the sky faded from azure to grey to purple. Becca felt herself shrink into the saddle, and straightened into proper alignment with an effort. Ill-at-ease she might be, but to communicate her forebodings to Rosamunde was unforgivable.

  Not that Rosamunde seemed unaffected by these eerie surroundings. She followed Altimere's mount closely, and set her feet carefully, as if wary of what unwelcome surprise might scurry out of the dust.

  Ahead, Altimere guided his horse to the edge of the path, and reined in. Becca brought Rosamunde beside, sent a worried look at his profile, and followed the line of his gaze.

  The track ran straight for another few horse-lengths, then curved sharply. Across the raddled landscape she saw a shimmering curtain of dark light, baleful and bleak, and took a breath that sounded more like a gasp.

  Altimere turned to look at her.

  "You are very right to be afraid," he said severely. "The keleigh is a sore test, even for one of the Elder Fey. I ask you again to allow me to hold your name."

  Becca swallowed, staring ahead at the dire, billowing light, and shook her head.

  "You to guard your treasures," she whispered. "I to guard mine. I will follow you."

  "You will follow me most nearly," he said sternly.

  Becca inclined her head. "As you will. If this place is as dangerous as you tell me—what should I do, if we become separated?"

  Altimere bent upon her a look so grave she felt her heart chill in her chest.

  "If we become separated, it will be because I have failed you. Should that occur, give Rosamunde her head, and trust to your power—and luck."

  "Luck," Becca repeated, dully, and looked up, amazed to hear Altimere laugh.

  "Luck is often discounted, even among the Fey, yet undeniably it is a power, capricious and uncontrolled as it may be. It bestows its patronage as it will, for no reason that can be discerned. So, yes, if you should become lost in the keleigh, trust to luck, Rebecca Beauvelley."

  "Very well," she said slowly. "I will do so, if we are separated Before we go on, I wonder if you will tell me—what force created that—the keleigh?"

  Altimere was amused, she could feel it, but he answered her seriously enough.

  "Why, the Fey created it, of course. Who else would have had the power, or the need?"

  He leaned over and placed his hand briefly over her left, where it rested on the pommel.

  "We will go slowly. Do not fall. Do not for any reason dismount. Do not speak, and in no wise answer, if something should speak to you. Do you understand me?"

  Becca took a breath and met his eyes firmly. "I do."

  He smiled. "Bold heart," he murmured, awaking an echo of a voice that—but, there it was gone, dissolved in the warmth of Altimere's regard.

  "Now," he said, and gave his horse the office. That gentleman moved forward delicately, as if he knew what awaited him around the bend, as of course, Becca recalled, he did.

  "We must," Becca murmured. "Don't fail me, lady."

  Her horse sighed, ears straightened, and she moved forward, docile and wary, 'round the curve and into the unknown.

  "Names and business." The guard on the door was one of the Sea Wise, grizzled hair braided with fessel shells, boat-hook in her belt. Corded brown arms were crossed over her breast in what one might take for an attitude of careless insolence.

  If one were a fool.

  Meri met her pale, canny eyes. "Meripen Vanglelauf, at the command of the Engenium."

  He had meant to speak mildly, but the twitch at the corner of the guard's firm mouth told him he had missed the mark. She only nodded, though, and looked past him to his companion.

  "Ganat Ubelauf, Healer and Wood Wise. I bear a message from the chyarch of Ospreydale to Sian, Engenium of Sea Hold."

  Oh, indeed? thought Meri.

  "You bear something else, Healer. I can smell it from here."

  "A jewel which the lady desired to be returned to her with all speed." Ganat's voice was frankly acidic, which made a startling contrast to his usual light-spoken mode. Before Meri could decide whether he preferred it, the guard spoke a soft word, and the salt-wood door behind her swung open.

  "Susel?" the guard asked, without turning her head.

  A younger edition of herself strolled out, and paused to survey them out of fog-colored eyes, her thumbs hooked in her belt.

  "Captain?"

  "Escort these worthy Wood Wise to the receiving hall. They are here for the Engenium."

  Susel nodded slightly, then jerked her head in the general direction of Meri and Ganat. "Follow," she said and swung about, never looking to see if they obeyed.

  "Best keep close," the door guard added. "It's a tricksy route and we don't have a lot of time to rescue lost Wanderers."

  Ganat stepped forward, placing his boot heels with such firmness that the stone floor rang, and echoed off the stone walls.

  Meri, who had been fostered at Sea Hold, frowned in protest of the unnecessary racket; after all, it was easier to walk silent on stone than it was among the trees. Moving considerably more quietly, he came up to the other Wood Wise.

  "I thought you'd said you'd been here before," he said, hoping to leach some of the man's palpable nervousness. "And that the food was good."

  Ganat sighed and slanted a sheepish glance at him. "Oh, aye. I've been here before, though as little as I might. Say that I don't care to be enclosed by stone, and excuse me for ill-temper."

  "There's nothing to excuse," Meri said honestly. "Well I recall, when first I came here, how difficult it was to reconcile myself to living inside the land, rather than atop it." He tipped his head. "One does become acclimated." Of course, he added to himself, it did help one's acceptance of an unnatural order to be able to feel the staunch regard the stone treasured for all those it guarded. This chill and echoing emptiness was . . . disquieting.

  "I doubt I'll be here long enough to become acclimated," Ganat said wryly; "therefore, I had best reconcile myself to accept discomfort with good grace."

  The hallway branched and their escort bore to the left—toward the sea. They were not bound for the Engenium's formal audience room, then. Meri tried to decide if that was good or bad.

  He was still undecided when the guard struck the bell outside of a door that, in Velpion's day, had opened into a small parlor where messengers had been put to await the Engenium's summons.

  The guard paused, head tipped to one side, then bent forward and opened the door, waving the two of them through.

  "The Engenium will see you now," she said, with the perfectly blank face the Sea Wise showed to those who were considered outsiders, or enemies.

  Meri felt a cold draft run his backbone, and touched the elitch branch thrust through his belt. Then, as Ganat had not yet moved, he stepped across the threshold.

  The room was still small, but it was no longer merely a bare rock cave with the simple table and chair that only a messenger exhausted from his ride might find comfort in. Now, there was a window in the far wall, opening over the sea, allowing the last rays of the setting sun in to fill the space with rich light, waking glints of silver and gold from the depths of the stone.

  A woman stood before the window, turning as they entered. She moved toward them, 'round the desk set by the window, threading her way through a clutter of chairs made out of canvas in the way of the Sea Wise.

  She wore the sharkskin leggings and wide-sleeved shirt of a captain of the Sea Wise, her skin was the color of alabaster that had been left to soak in strong tea, her features angular and thin.

  A leather cord caught her tawny hair at her nape, and another bound her brow. Her eyes w
ere blue-green, and extremely clear. They widened slightly as they met his, and she pressed her thin lips together.

  His little cousin Sian, all grown up.

  Meri folded his arms, boots braced against the stone floor, noting a spot of warmth where the elitch wand nestled against his side, and a spot of coldness where the fear lay in the bottom of his belly.

  Abruptly, Sian turned her head, and strode forward, her attention now fixed on poor Ganat.

  "Wood Wise, you have a message for me from the chyarch?" She held out an imperious hand.

  Ganat considered that hand for a moment, sighed and raised his eyes to her face.