Nancy tipped her tiny head to one side, mimed another curtsy—and was gone in a flash of wings, which was, all things considered, not the answer Becca had been expecting.
"At your leisure, Rebecca Beauvelley," Sian called from the back of her mount.
Becca sighed sharply and went to mount Rosamunde.
Meri walked, and occasionally stumbled, but he did not fall.
He moved inside almost total darkness, his steps lit only by the feeble glow of his own
kest
. The trees he walked among gave off no slightest glow, and yet—they were not dead; they had not so much given up their essence as been separated from it.
A stick turned under his foot, and he very nearly lost his balance. His mouth was dry, but the water skin was long empty. Perhaps his luck would turn, he thought murkily, and he would fall into a stream.
Soon, he thought, he would have to stop. He was worn and feeble, his legs trembling with strain. It was not a decision he made willingly, but it was apparent that if he did not rest soon, he would fall—and where he fell, he would lie.
Best, he thought laboriously, to pick his spot, than leave it to chance.
As for choosing his spot—that was trickier. Every time he placed his foot, he struck a stone, or a stick.
He was so tired.
Ahead, a smear of light beckoned, green and fresh. Meri blinked, squinting his shorteye. He had walked so long among these frozen, unnatural trees—was his vision creating a dream of tree-aura, to comfort itself?
But, it appeared not. The aura grew brighter as he walked, as if it were not one, but several. Meri felt his heart lift, and he walked more quickly. A breeze sprang from somewhere and kissed his hot cheek. Above, dancing beyond the reach of high limbs, were stars.
Meri threw himself into a ragged run toward those bright and welcome auras. A cry broke from his lips as he flung himself to his knees at the base of a pine, and pressed hands and forehead against the aged trunk.
Sleepy, half-absent comfort flowed into him from the tree, and he bit his lip to keep from sobbing like a sprout. When he had control of himself, he looked up and about him.
Behind, there was darkness; before him was the glow of a elder, somewhat sleepy, but wholly natural wood. To his right was a stand of larch, glad in the vermilion robes of age, their aura a thing of icy menace.
He had walked full circle, Meri thought, sagging back against the pine, and was back near the Newman village.
They rode on into the dusk, Brume's lead a bit longer than it had been, as Becca urged Rosamunde to a more considered pace.
At first, Sian had glanced over her shoulder often, to be sure that she followed; lately, she had looked less often. And that, Becca thought, was precisely what she wanted.
What she did
not
want, so she had quite decided over these last few hours, was to remain in the keeping of a Fey
or
to be brought as a prisoner among her own people, who would rightly despise her.
She would, therefore, part from Sian's company, and before they came upon this village of "tame Newmens."
And, she thought, chewing her lip, as dark was quick approaching, it was time to put her resolution to the test.
The idea of venturing alone into the nighttime woods was daunting, but perhaps, after all, she need not be without a guide.
"Nancy," she said softly, as if Sian could hear her across the distance, and over the noise of the horses. An instant later, she felt a tiny weight on her right shoulder and the touch of cool fingers on her ear.
"I wonder," Becca said, all but whispering, "if you might fetch the Brethren to guide us away—at once."
There was a momentary pause, as if Nancy considered the wisdom of this mad request; then she was gone in a flash of silver and jewels, streaking off toward the trees at trailside, and vanishing among the shadow-limned leaves.
Becca sighed, and leaned forward to whisper in Rosamunde's ear. "Be ready, bold lady. You will need to be clever, quick, and silent, which I know you are. We must depend upon the Brethren, but it is not necessary, I think, to trust it."
A strong ear flicked, as if in agreement. Becca sighed again, and looked about her.
How magical the forest seemed, with this new sight of hers! The trees each sported their own pale aura, plainly visible in the growing darkness. Ahead of them on the path, Sian's shroud of turquoise light also glowed brighter, bathing Brume's flank with ghostly radiance.
Becca glanced down at her own brown fingers, outlined in palest gold. A glance behind showed Rosamunde's flank likewise gilded.
She chewed her lip, wondering if Nancy would be able to find the Brethren quickly, and if it would be willing to guide her. She had angered it, after all, and there was nothing save her own folly to support her uneasy hope that the creature still followed their small party.
What if she had put Nancy into danger? She would never forgive herself, if her order had brought harm onto her maid. Why hadn't she simply guided Rosamunde off the track and taken her chances alone?
Because she was craven, she answered herself bitterly. If had not been, she would have faced the marriage her father had made for her, and tried to change the future Altimere had shown her. Surely, there must have been some way to turn Sir Jennet from malice toward—if not friendship, at least a sort of comfortable neutrality.
Ahead, Brume vanished 'round a curve in the trail. This would be the time to slip away, if she dared to—
A flash of silver drew her attention to the right, and there was Nancy, turning handsprings in the darkening air, perilously near the horned head of—was it the very Brethren whom they had rescued from the High Fey's hunt or another?
As if it heard her unspoken question, the Brethren raised its hand, white bandage glowing in the dusk.
"Now, Rosamunde," she whispered, and applied the lightest pressure on the reins.
His pride would not allow him to return among the Newmen looking as if he had rolled down a mountainside. Indeed, his pride had taken a severe drubbing and needed to be coddled.
Meri stripped off his leathers, begged a few leaves from a near-at-hand soapwort, and waded into the darkling pool, disturbing the leaves reflected on its surface. A Wood Wise—nay,
a Ranger
—who had become lost under leaf?
There
was a tale to set Sian's court howling with laughter. He moistened the leaves, and scrubbed himself briskly, giving no quarter to aching muscles.
There was, of course, he admitted to himself, dunking his head beneath the cold water, something else, far more daunting than merely becoming lost.
He had been afraid.
Yes, there was the core of his shame. He, a Ranger, who had given his willing service to the forests of the Vaitura—he had
been afraid
of the trees under which he had walked. He had
run away
, to pile shame upon shame, and wept like a child on receiving the comfort of an elder.
Best for all if he returned to Sian immediately, and confessed his failure. After she was done laughing, she might send someone competent to mend . . . whatever was wrong. While he—
Well
, he asked himself, ironically,
and what will you do? Offer yourself to the sea?
Meri soaped himself a second time, submerged, and burst to the surface. He wrung his hair out and quit the pool. Shivering, he pulled his clothes on, and braided his wet hair, the memory of those cold, unnatural trees still in his mind.
In his years of wandering, he had never seen such trees, nor heard of their like from any other Ranger he had met on the trail.
"Of course," he muttered, shrugging his pack on and picking up his bow. "You were asleep for almost nine thousand nights, all praise to the chyarch of Ospreydale. Who knows what wonders may have sprung up in your absence?"
And, yet, the trees. Surely the trees knew of this affliction. And what the trees knew, they passed on to the Rangers.
Didn't they?
"What ails them?" he aloud, hoping that one, at least, of the sleepy elders might hear him—and answer.
He waited, eye closed and mind still, respectful of their age. When he opened his eye again, the early stars were flirting in the darkening sky.
A moment more he stood, considering his options. His instinct was to return immediately to Sea Hold and lay all before his cousin Sian. However, courtesy required that he properly take his leave of Sian's Oath-held, and warn them to avoid the trees beyond the larch. Jack Wood might not have the eyes of a young man, or of a Wood Wise, but he clearly had access to other senses which had given him some small knowledge of the wood's strangeness.
Definitely, Jamie Moore, who was to all Meri's senses a proper Wood Wise sprout, should be told of the strange trees and warned away from the deep wood. Such trees had the power to confuse an experienced Ranger; he did not wish to consider what they might do to a sprout.
He settled his pack, took a breath, and bowed gently to the elders drowsing about him. Then, he turned his face toward the Newman village and began to walk.
"Quick! Be quick!" The Brethren darted ahead of Rosamunde, vanishing into the long shadows.
Scythe take the creature!
Becca thought. How was she to follow when her guide disappeared? She dared not call out, nor urge Rosamunde to the speed her own nerves pled for. It was very true that Sian might miss her at any moment, and come thundering back on her big grey horse to snatch them under her so-called "protection." But she would not risk a stumble, or—worse!—a broken leg for her mount.
Before them, etched against the dark air, was a dazzling loop of garnet and green.
Nancy.
Becca touched her tongue to her lips, and leaned forward to whisper in Rosamunde's ear. "Follow, beautiful lady, but at your own pace. Do not risk yourself for me."
Both ears flicked, as if Rosamunde laughed at such faintheartedness. She moved forward at a measured walk, placing her feet so precisely that Becca scarcely heard a leaf rustle.
Proceeding thus, they followed Nancy's beacon, away from the path, and deeper into the trees.
Becca bent her head, allowing the branches they passed beneath to sweep harmlessly above her. They had been riding for some time, with no hint of pursuit, yet Becca kept craning toward the rear, expecting to hear the sound of hoofbeats and Sian's order to halt. It seemed fantastic that they could have gotten away so easily, and yet it appeared that they had indeed.
On they went. Though the shadows lengthened, yet they did not walk entirely in the dark, thanks to the tree-shine, and her own luminescence. Occasionally, they disturbed some branch-dweller, who complained with sleepy chirps or chitters and, judging horse and rider to be no threat, settled down again.
Ahead, Nancy darted into the heart of a shrubbery and disappeared.
"Not again!" Becca whispered sharply. "Rosamunde, stay—"
But Rosamunde did not stay. Ignoring word and rein alike, she pushed forward into the shrubbery. Leaves rustled, horrifyingly loud, a branch broke like a thunderclap, and there was an overwhelming scent of cedar.
"Stop!" Becca whispered frantically, but the noise was done. Rosamunde stood quite docile in the clear center of the plant, Nancy perched between her ears and the Brethren dancing in a tight circle on the ground, shaking its horns and growling.
"Be quiet!" it snarled, though it seemed quite shockingly silent to Becca. She tried to take deep, silent breaths, hoping that it wasn't the pounding of her heart that the creature objected to.
"Quiet!" it said again, glaring up at her with glowing yellow beast-eyes. "Stupid Gardener! Too loud! They'll see!"
They?
Becca thought. Were Sian and Brume in pursuit, after all?
"I'm being as quiet as I can," she whispered, her voice so light she could barely hear it.
"This is not quiet!" The Brethren swept its horny hand up and out, fingers closing in the golden spill of her aura. "
Be quiet
," it repeated for the third time.
Becca gasped. The rich light piercing the Brethren's fist faded, like the sun going behind a storm cloud, leaving only a pale wash of gilt behind. She raised her hand. If she stared, she could see the pale fires outlining her fingers. Rosamunde's flank was only a slightly warmer chestnut, as if she were bathed in dawn-light.
"What did you do?" she demanded, but the Brethren had turned away, its heavy head cocked to a side, as if it heard some sound too soft for her ears to discern.
"What—" she began again. Her words were cut off by the firm press of cold fingers across her lips. She pulled back, slightly, seeing Nancy as a blur of silver and jewels, emphatically shaking her tiny head from side to side.
All right, then,
Becca thought. Nancy was plainly as convinced of the necessity of quiet as the Brethren. Though she still did not understand how she should have known that her
glow
was too loud—much less what to do about it—she could keep quiet in . . . more traditional ways.
She pressed her lips tightly together. Seemingly satisfied, Nancy withdrew her hand, and drifted upward on lazy wings. She patted Becca's cheek lightly, then rose higher and was lost in the shine of the shrubbery enclosing them.
Ignored by her companions, she concentrated on what she could hear, which was precisely what she would expect to hear in a wood settling down for the night: branch-creak and leaf-rustle; the skitter of some small creature through the dried leaves that covered the ground inside her shelter; the call of a night bird.
Rosamunde tensed, noble head rising, ears at full alert. Becca's heart slammed into overaction, and she tasted the metallic tang of fear at the back of her mouth. Yet, she saw nothing.
Still, Rosamunde did not relax. Becca swallowed and sighted determinedly between those fine, upright ears.
Tree-glow was what she saw, and a glossy wall of blue-green cedar needles. Rosamunde had likely just picked up her rider's unease and, horselike, was on the lookout for goblins.