Becca nodded. "It was hard," she admitted, "but it had to be done." She took a breath and deliberately stiffened her back. "Besides, now there is something harder I need to be about."
"That will be your lessons with Master Vanglelauf," the other woman said wisely, and gave her a nod. "Be of good heart, Miss."
"Thank you," Becca said, stepping out onto the path. "I will do my best."
Something was operating . . . not quite as it ought.
Three times now Altimere had brought the image of Artifex before his mind's eye, raised his
kest,
and attempted to leave the
keleigh.
Three times, he had failed in that simple process, though his will was as firm as ever.
He sat himself down by the ghost of a culdoon tree and produced a glass of wine from the mist. Though it was mist, still, it was easier to work, without that unpleasant and recalcitrant stickiness that had characterized the mist filling his late prison.
Sipping his wine, Altimere took stock.
It was apparent that he had not come out from Zaldore's prison unharmed. He had expended more
kest
than he had realized in combating the mists, and had of course gathered no more to him.
Though his will was firm, it was possible that his low levels of
kest
were interfering with his timely escape from the
keleigh
—a significant difficulty, as the
keleigh
consumed
kest
. The longer he remained within, the more would he be consumed by his environment, until he was but a memory of himself, wandering the mists.
He was therefore wise to have made his best attempts of escape before his power was depleted. And now that he had established himself already too low of
kest
to break free on his own, he must seek assistance.
Happily, assistance was to hand.
There were three anchor points for the
keleigh
inside the Vaitura. One was at Sea Hold—on the far side of the Vaitura from Zaldore's estate of Tarsto. The second was in Rishelden Forest, hard by Xandurana. The third was at Donich Lake, in the mountain country. Altimere had been to all of them, and could picture them clearly in his mind.
By their very nature,
kest
tended to pool at the anchor points. The pooled
kest
at some times was so large that it threw a shadow across the
keleigh
. That shadow could be followed, and the accumulated kest absorbed.
Once he had absorbed sufficient
kest
, he would be able to step out of the
keleigh
and into the Vaitura.
In theory, he thought, it should work.
The Gardener comes, Ranger.
Meri stepped back into the shadow of the friendly culdoon tree and shook his head.
"I cannot do this," he whispered, hating the cramp of fear in his belly and the weakness in his knees. Teacher and pupil shared a special relationship—not a full melding, but yet an easy sharing of
kest
and knowledge. It had not been unusual, during his own tumultuous schooling, for his tutor to imbue his
kest
, so that he might learn the correct architecture of a particular subtle working from the inside. To engage with Rebecca Beauvelley in such a wise . . .
His stomach twisted, and he slumped against the culdoon, pressing his cheek to its foolish trunk.
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 temper. 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.