It seemed to Becca that a dark wing passed over the sun. Master Vanglelauf! The one-eyed Fey with his cold demeanor, who had bound her to him with a bit of bone, and was now ingratiating himself with her horse!
"I—" she began, and found her elbow in a strong grip. Startled, she turned her head and met Violet Moore's determined brown eyes.
"Miss Beauvelley, your horse is well cared for," the girl said forcefully. "You can check on her after the Speaking. In the meantime, I don't know how such things are done beyond the hellroad, but here in New Hope, when our Lady calls us to a Speaking, we do not dawdle and we are not late."
"That's right," Jamie piped up from her other side. "It would be disrespectful."
Becca swallowed. "On the other side of the . . . hellroad . . . when the Landed called folk together, that call had the force of law."
"Well, then," Violet said, stepping forward, and urging Becca with her. "That doesn't sound so different from home, now does it?"
Sian stood under the big elitch tree, brave in her leggings and shirt. She appeared, to Becca's eye, well rested and in possession of her temper. On her left stood Meripen Vanglelauf, hands behind his back and legs braced wide, and on his left Sam Moore, arms crossed over his chest. On Sian's right stood Elizabeth Moore, face calm, and hands folded before her.
Gathered in a loose semicircle before them were perhaps three dozen folk, ranging from the greybeard with his stick to a babe in a sling at his mother's breast.
Good morning, Gardener
, a deep voice echoed inside her head.
I am called the Hope Tree. You are welcome to shelter beneath my branches.
"Thank you," she whispered, feeling tears start to her eyes, as Sian looked up and saw her.
The Engenium inclined her head gravely, and raised her hand, beckoning with long, elegant fingers. Becca went cold, her feet rooted to the ground. Sian wanted her
up there
, in front of the
entire village
? She—
Peace, Gardener. Sian means to arrange for your protection. And a new seedling in the grove is known to all.
True enough, she thought, swallowing. True enough.
Still, it was—hard, harder even than walking through Altimere's garden, past the flowers on which she had been raped, through rooms where she had serviced Altimere's guests. Her stomach twisted, and she was abruptly sorry for her simple breakfast of tea and bread.
Somehow, she made it to the little group at the front of the crowd. Elizabeth Moore smiled at her and took a step sideways, making room for Becca to slip into position at Sian's immediate right.
"Good sun, Rebecca Beauvelley. I trust you slept well?" Sian sounded positively courtly. Becca looked up into intent, sea-colored eyes.
"I slept well," she acknowledged, which was true, if not
entirely
true. "Thank you," she added, belatedly.
The Fey inclined her head and turned to face the assembled villagers. Slowly, the gesture rich with meaning, she placed her fingertips together, raised her arms to the height of her shoulder, and spread them wide, as if offering an embrace to all of those gathered.
"Good sun, people of New Hope. I am Sian, Engenium of Sea Hold, keeper of your oath, protector of your land. Today, I bring you a duty, and a warning."
There was a little stir at this, though none of the faces Becca saw expressed dismay. Curiosity, rather, and a little intrigue. Sian lowered her arms, slowly.
"First, your duty." She extended a long hand, caught Becca's wrist, and stepped forward. Becca, perforce, went with her.
"This is Rebecca Beauvelley, who crossed the
keleigh
in company with a High Fey. Queen Diathen in fair Xandurana requests on her behalf the boon of your hospitality, until such time as she is required at court. Rebecca Beauvelley is a healer and a Gardener."
Speak to them, Gardener
, the Hope Tree urged her.
"Good sun," she said, her voice thinner than she liked. She cleared her throat, and raised her chin, meeting the eyes of the old man who had spoken to her last night, and told her that there were not many in New Hope who knew what an Earl was.
"I am pleased to offer my skills for the greater good," she said, the words coming somewhat easier off her tongue, "and in return for the care of myself, my horse, and my servant."
The old man gave her a toothy grin, and an easy nod. "That's right, Missy," he said. "And the trees talk to you, don't they?"
"They do," she answered. "The trees have been very kind to me."
"That's well, then. Ye can help young Master Vanglelauf to figure out what's gone amiss with ours."
Becca swallowed bile, refusing to think of the one-eyed Fey and what service he was likely to require of her.
"I will do everything in my power," she said faintly, "to assist the trees."
The old man gave her another nod. "That's right," he said again, and pointed his long chin at Sian. "Is there other news, Lady?"
"In fact, Jack Wood, there is. I must warn you all that strange Fey may come into your village. They may say that they are sent from the Queen, or from me. Direct all such visitors to Master Vanglelauf, who will remain here as my emissary and the instrument of my will."
That
created something more of a stir among those who stood in deference to their Lady's word. Indeed, Becca felt a frisson along her own nerves, and wondered if Sian had touched them all with her power.
"I have," Elizabeth Moore said from her place behind Becca, "asked the trees to call Palin and Vika in to us, as well." There was a pause, as if the woman had smiled. "After all, Master Vanglelauf must sleep sometime."
"These strangers are enemies of the Queen?" a sandy-haired man called from the crowd. "Should we arm ourselves, Lady?"
"With the permission of the headman and the tree-kin." Meripen Vanglelauf's cool voice sliced effortlessly through the minor babble arising from this question. "With their permission, I will set wards, and request that the trees be vigilant for us. It should not come to fighting."
"Indeed," a woman cried from very near to Becca, her voice thin and shrill, "it
ought not
come to fighting! Fey can enslave with a look! The best answer is to hide yourselves in the wood!"
Becca gasped, belatedly recognizing her own voice, and pressed her fingers against her lips.
The green was silent, saving the movement of a breeze through the branches stretching above them all.
"In fact," Sian said, calmly, "that is not ill advice. It is better for Fey to deal with Fey, especially when there may be, as John Culdoon surmises, opposing political goals in play. You are of the land, by your oaths and by your actions. The land will protect you, and the trees will shield you. Use these gifts wisely, and all will be well."
She looked out over those assembled, to the right, and to the left.
"I hold your oath," she said and it seemed to Becca that the very air shimmered with the force of her words. "I carry your lives next to my heart. You may be at peace, under my protection."
Becca shuddered, tasting the ghost of peppered wine score her throat.
Protection
.
Sian's word is good, Gardener. She does not hold her duty light.
Becca swallowed, stomach roiling. Beside her, Sian raised her arms to shoulder height and curved them inward until her fingertips touched, then lowered her joined hands to her waist.
"Good sun. Good growth. Good travel," she said. "Until we meet again."
"Good sun, Lady!" "Until again!" "Travel safe, Lady!" The chorus of well-wishes washed over Becca, leaving her feeling limp and strained. Blindly, she turned and walked away from Sian's side, past Elizabeth Moore and away.
No one tried to stop her; no one joined her. She had no clear notion of where she was going, only that she had to get away, to be by herself and order her thoughts.
"Hope Tree?" she whispered.
Gardener. What would you?
"Do you know where Rosamunde—my horse—is?"
There was a pause, in which she still somehow felt the tree's presence, though it did not speak. Slowly, she became aware of a picture growing inside her head, of a lean-to sheltered by a larch tree. Inside the lean-to, shoulder pressed against the gate—was Rosamunde, ears perked forward as if she had seen Becca approach.
Becca felt her heart lift. She blinked, disoriented by the vividness of the picture inside her head. Another blink brought the world around her into focus. Behind her, she heard voices—Elizabeth Moore and Sian—and the sounds of people returning to their daily business. Ahead of her, she saw the green, and Gran Moore's house, with its attached workroom and side-garden. To her left . . .
To her left, and some distance past Gran Moore's house, along a sort of grassy avenue, she saw the hint of a fence covered in winberige blossoms, and the corner of a roof, shrouded in larch leaves.
"Thank you, Hope Tree," she whispered, and began to walk down that grassy avenue.
A dozen steps along, she heard a whinny, and an emphatic snort, as if Rosamunde were scolding her for being so slow.
Laughing, Becca began to run.
There was, Altimere admitted to himself, a degree of risk involved in what he planned to do—risk to his liberty, to his continued survival, and to his plans for the Vaitura, and the
keleigh
. Still, an artificer did not falter because of risk. Indeed, as his teachers had carefully instructed him, risk was the heady land that lay between
can
and
cannot
, where all things are possible.
Still, the mists had not yet succeeded in making of him a fool, and he had prepared as well as he could. A bell jar wrung from the sticky mists sat upon a similarly constructed worktable. It was like enough to the arrangements previously known to his subject that he felt it would not rail against its confinement—out of habit, if nothing else.
It did trouble him, that his sole raw material remained the mist. He had reasons—compelling reasons—not to wish the mists to taste what he would draw to him.
He checked his precautions once again, and flicked his finger against the bell jar, smiling slightly when it rang.
The bond between those who had shared
kest
was strong, and the bond between student and teacher.
But the bond between the creator, and that which was created—that was a special and potent bond, indeed.
Altimere shaped the thought of his artifact—his great work, though it seemed so small. He shaped the thought lovingly, building detail upon detail, until it stood in his mind as vividly as if the actual construct hovered before him.
When he was satisfied with his detail and his concentration, he flicked his finger once more against the glass, and spoke a single word.
"Come."
"It would have been mannerly," Meri said, "to have allowed me to know beforehand that I was going to be burdened with your will."
Sian gave him a sidelong glance. "Perhaps it would have been, Meri, but a moment's thought would surely have shown you that I had no other options."
"I think you have another option," he said, as they walked beyond his nest and toward the threshold to the forest.
"Do I? Teach it to me, by all means."
"You might take Diathen's hostage to Sea Hold. Indeed, I would call
that
your only option, rather than leaving her here 'mong Newmen, with no protection save one ill-used and befuddled Ranger."
"I think you give yourself too little credit, Meri! It is hardly like you. As to taking Rebecca Beauvelley to Sea Hold—I dare not."
"
Dare
not?" He stopped to stare at her. "You
dare not
burden
Sea Hold
, which has stood in the teeth of storm and sea, and weathered not only the last war, but two before that—with
one
Newoman?" He raised a hand to Sian's elevated eyebrows. "I grant her untrained and heedless, but she certainly mounts no threat to Sea Hold. To this village, however, and to those whose oath you hold, she is a threat, indeed. And that
before
we come to the matter of 'strange Fey' who may have an interest in her failing to return to Diathen's hand." He laughed, mirthlessly. "Who shall be shown to me, shall they?"
"Meri, you must have slept poorly; you are not usually this humble of your abilities. There
may be
strange Fey. Equally, there may be no one at all. And in any wise, I still do not dare bring her to Sea Hold—not while she is bound to a sunshield."
He opened his mouth—and closed it with a sigh.
"Precisely." Sian bowed, put her fingers to her mouth, and whistled.
"At least tell me," Meri said, as they stood awaiting the answer to her call, "if it
is
Altimere the Artificer that I may expect to entertain on behalf of the lady."
Sian sighed. "Cousin," she said softly, "I cannot say. Altimere the Artificer has disappeared, and Councilor Zaldore with him. Their lack is the reason the Queen's Constant was put to recess."
"Zaldore . . ." Meri frowned. "She who sent the geas to me under your name."
"That very Zaldore," Sian agreed, as the shadows shifted, and grey Brume ambled up to her.
"My very good friend." She reached out to stroke his nose tenderly. "Wilt bear me home?"
The stallion blew, and bowed. Sian threw a leg over his back, settling as he rose. She smiled down at Meri.
"You are a hero, Cousin."
"It pleased some to say so, based on a single action, taken many sunrises ago," he returned. "It bears recalling that there has been much that I might have done better, since."
Sian laughed, and Brume turned, moving from a walk to a canter with seamless grace.
He waited until they were out of sight, then turned back to the village, sending his thought ahead to the elitch.
Where might I find the Gardener, Elder?
"Not a mark on you!" Becca ran her hand wonderingly over Rosamunde's shoulder, across her barrel and flank. Horsehair flowed like silk beneath her palm, no tears or rents apparent. Rosamunde blew and stamped, twice, the muscles moving sweetly, with no hitch or grab.