"Surely,
zinchessa
, you recall the tale of the Fey lady who came to review your father's tenant records, when you were but a babe in arms?"
Becca frowned, and Altimere laughed fondly.
"Come, come! I had the whole mysterious tale from your brother one evening whilst we lingered over a friendly glass. The Fey lady was looking for news of kin—that was the tale she told your father, and the tale she herself undoubtedly believed. Alas, the
keleigh
has disturbed temporal factors as well as physical, and the lady did not know that the child she sought—the fruit, so I have come to believe, of a melding between a Wood Wise attached to her honor, and a wife of the House of Barimuir—was a generation dead." He tipped his head, clearly amused. "I gathered from your brother's story that the current babe in arms—yourself—was not shown to the lady, else she might have seen what was left to me to discover."
"I am a halfling?" Becca said, slowly.
"Quarter-Fey," Altimere told her. "Like your horse. Small wonder that you understand each other so well." He shook his head, suddenly stern.
"Rebecca, what became of your beautiful necklace? Did Hero Longeye reft it from you?"
"I took it off," Becca panted, as if she were withstanding some very great force. "I, myself."
"Really?" The Elder Fey raised thin eyebrows. "I own myself impressed by your will, and your willingness to risk . . . all. Well done, Rebecca. Now," he said briskly, "I have uses for both of you. The Longeye shall, in deference to his station, receive his orders first."
The air suddenly became heavy, almost too thick to breathe. Panicked on his own behalf, Meri recognized the feel of power being raised, and all of it—all of it, focused on him.
Power infused the air, glittering; like ice crystals thickening a winter sky. Her feet rooted to the ground, Becca watched the seductive creams approach Meri, plucking at the edges of his blue and green silks. They rippled, like tide, and the cream swirled gracefully away, except, she saw with horror, the tiniest thread of mauve that had adhered among the ripples. Even as she watched, it began to weave itself into the fabric of Meri's aura.
Who hears me?
Becca sent, desperately.
I hear you, Gardener
, came the voice of the very first tree who had spoken to her, here in this garden. The tree who had helped her and given her shelter. Becca bit her lip, in an agony lest her sudden spike of hope be reflected in her aura, and Altimere see it.
Please
, she sent carefully.
This Ranger is Meripen Vanglelauf. Please, do not allow Altimere to subject him.
Of course the Sea Ranger is known and has our kindest thoughts
, the tree answered.
You will help him?
The mauve and cream thread had spread now, into a blot, a mar, as if it were some inimical substance that was burning a hole through Meri's aura. Sickened, Becca recalled the golden blot of her misguided will deforming Jamie Moore's simple aura.
And the tree had not answered her.
She swallowed, watching the stain grow—almost as large as her palm now, and the thick air tasting of brine, and mint, and saltpeter.
The Ranger has the mark of a greater service upon him
, the tree said at last, and as if it were an answer.
Send to the Alltree, then!
Becca thought furiously.
And tell it that its service stands in danger of subversion!
The tree did not reply; she hadn't really expected that it would. And she—she could not—she
would not
—stand and watch this happen. To see Meri melt into subservience, desiring only what Altimere allowed him. Or—infinitely worse!—aware of his captivity, as Elyd had been, and all too cognizant of his inability to break free.
Meri's face was set into the stern lines that she knew now meant he was afraid. He did not look at her, nor at Altimere, but gazed up into the elitch branches, as if in meditation. Their bond brought her an attitude of intensely focused will, tightly controlled eddies of fear, and one cold certainty:
The sea may not be bound.
For Altimere, his attention was wholly focused upon Meri, his head tipped slightly to one side, as if they were old friends enjoying a slightly spirited argument over the merits of a horse they both fancied. As far as she could determine, he was not paying the slightest attention to her, so certain was he that she could neither interfere nor escape.
Very well, then. She had surprised him more than once. He had told her often enough that her ability to do so was one of the many reasons he held her as a treasure of his house. It would, therefore, not displease him, Becca thought grimly, if she surprised him once more.
She brought her attention to her feet. Now that she looked for them, she could see quite clearly the cream-colored wisps about her ankles. If she shifted, they tightened; when she relaxed, they did the same. Recalling the healing of her arm, she wondered if she might burn the wisps away, while Altimere's attention was elsewhere. It was a desperate plan, at best, and she had no illusions that the Elder Fey's attention would remain elsewhere, if he should perceive that he was under attack.
If she were to risk something so perilous, she thought, it was necessary to have a plan to follow on. Her knife was lost with her pack. Simply throwing herself against Altimere and shouting at Meri to run seemed . . . ineffectual at best—even if she believed that the sunshield would allow them at last to separate.
No, she needed a weapon—a distraction, perhaps, or—
Pain, like a wash of acid along her nerves. Becca ground her teeth to hold in the scream, her
kest
rising like the tide, cooling, if not healing. She swayed where she stood, took a breath, and raised her head.
Fully one-quarter of Meri's defense had fallen, by the measure of the blot upon his aura. And she—their bond. The pain she felt was the action of Altimere's
kest
on Meri.
Perhaps she did not need a weapon, she thought, wildly. Perhaps she
was
a weapon.
She looked about her, taking no pleasure in the flowers, or in the display of seasons. Something, somewhere in this garden was a weapon that would give her a chance, at least, of rendering Altimere impotent. But if the trees would not—
The elder trees remembered, Gardener
, the elitch said.
Do you find the seasons represented properly?
As properly as they can be, without the true aid of seasons
, she answered, and sent another plea.
Can you not assist me?
In what endeavor?
Becca swallowed an urge to scream, a white gleam, sharp as a knife's edge, catching the side of her eye. She turned her head . . .
The season wheel . . .
Altimere uttered a small sound, perhaps of surprise. A quick glance showed sweat on his pale brow, the edges of his aura stained, oh so faintly stained, sea-blue.
I would visit the season wheel,
she sent to the tree, her eyes on Meri's face. His eye was closed now, his hair lying across his shoulders in wet strips of brown, auburn, and black, like seaweed. The smell of brine was very strong, and though the air was still thick, there was a different quality to it—more like a storm a-boiling, than the heaviness of ice.
Scarcely daring to breathe, Becca reached to cool power coiled at the base of her spine, and began cautiously to draw—
Something touched her ankle.
She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, staring downward, as a horny nail touched the pearly wisp binding her left foot. It dissipated like so much mist, and a moment later the right binding did likewise.
Becca stepped back, one cautious step. Neither combatant seemed to notice her. She took another step, turned, and ran.
The Brethren was in the garden; Meri had seen the flick of a tufted tail beneath the bench Altimere had lately quit, and the outline of a horn against the elitch trunk. The Low Fey were potent mischief-makers when they chose to be, as befit the offspring of chaos.
He did not wish for the Little Brother to place itself in harm's way. On the other hand, he surely required
some
assistance, with Altimere's
kest
already contaminating his, a sensation not unlike that of the Newman's poison metal corroding his flesh. It was well that the Elder High had been surprised by the strength of his defenses. What was
not
well was that he had immediately altered his own attack and was beginning to push Meri's will hard.
Truly, he thought, eye closed, he stood between the devil and the sea, and whichever won this contest, there would be at the last little remaining of Meripen Longeye.
He heard a crashing, and the rattle of stones told over by waves; then silence, unbroken even by the scream of a gull.
"Meripen Vanglelauf," Altimere's voice breathed into his ear, sweet as any lover. "Surrender your will to me. Why should we contend? Do we not hold as our goal to seek Diathen the Queen, and to testify before the Constant? Come! Ally yourself with me. Let us be of one will, and one desire . . ."
He was caught, bound, his flesh burning; the air tasted of dust and blood.
Who hears me?
he sent, despairing, as he had done over and over from the Newmen's stone prison, his answer only and always silence . . .
I hear you, Ranger,
the resident elitch answered, swiftly.
You are under leaf, and your roots are deep.
I am lost . . .
"Come . . ." the sweet voice breathed. "There can be an end to agony, and a service like no other. Cede to me."
Not so. You will endure.
Meri's knees wobbled. He locked them, gathered the rags of his will, and rejected the intruding poison. Altimere laughed, as if amused by the bumbling of a sprout.
His
kest
—strange desires boiled in his blood, deceit wounded his honor, ambition soured his service. He—
His
kest
. . . rose. Potent and moist, rising from his deepest roots; the
kest
of the Vaitura itself, diluting the poison.
Meri pulled his will around him.
"Cede . . ." Altimere whispered, his
kest
rising even to meet this new level of power.
Cede? Meri thought, shaking his head. Cede the sunshield? Cede the trees?
Cede Becca?
"No," he whispered.
The duainfey flower burned like a star among its dark, plentiful leaves. Becca extended a hand, and snatched it back, knowing it would burn the flesh off the bone if she attempted to pluck it.
She looked quickly over her shoulder—and all but cried aloud.
Meri's aura was an incoherent smear of blues and greens, seen through a hard creamy glitter, as if he were encased in glass. He swayed, and caught himself, as Altimere stepped toward him, his posture triumphant.
Becca whirled back to the garden, and bent close, cupping her hand as close over that burning flower as she dared.
"Please," she begged, feeling her
kest
rise, as if she meant to meld with the plant. "Please, give me of your essence—the virtue only of two leaves."
The flower seemed to shimmer in its own heat. A point of bitter cold lanced Becca's outstretched hand. She snatched it back and looked down at what appeared to be a pearl, or a milky drop of ice on her palm. It melted into her flesh between one blink and the next, and her
kest
rose like a bonfire, blazing greens and blues, as she came to her feet and turned back to Altimere.
The Ranger had been stronger than he had anticipated, Altimere acknowledged, and he himself more diminished from his late adventures than he had fully known. A simple subjugation should not have taken so much effort. The Low—even heroes—were not generally so robust. Still, the natural order would prevail. Meripen Vanglelauf wavered, wounded; his will in tatters. He had, surprisingly, endeavored to pull one last tithe of
kest
for protection—perhaps from the very tree they did battle beneath—and rallied his will behind it.
A noble effort, Altimere conceded, and one worthy of a prince, however mixed his heritage or Low his beginnings. Of course, it were a short-lived rally. The nature of Wood Wise service was to protect the trees at all and any cost. Meripen Vanglelauf would not endanger the tree that supported him, nor drain its
kest
to save himself. He
could not
.
And Altimere the Artificer was the equal of any tree.
"No," the Ranger said, his voice like dried leaves.
Altimere smiled, and thrust strongly, meaning to draw the tree's protection. He had other business, which was rapidly becoming more pressing. Let the Ranger cut his own lifeline, and accept the inevitable.
And what an ornament to his challenge, he thought, exultant with the triumph of his
kest
, was Meripen Vanglelauf! Kinsman to the Queen and to the ever-annoying Sian of Sea Hold! Yes,
this
binding would create a furor in the hall.
He thrust again, the tree's
kest
boiling away like steam, yet rising still, and—yes! The Ranger made a counterthrust, one desperate stroke that could not succeed, his
kest
falling alarmingly as Altimere parried.
Altimere stepped close to his reeling captive, the word ready on his tongue. He felt a shiver in the air, and paused, the word unspoken, wondering if there was yet another bolt to his Ranger—
his hero's
—string.
"Altimere." The voice was smoky, resonant with power.
Rebecca. How had she escaped her bindings? Truly, the child had learned much in her time away from him! Well, he would not underestimate her again. He leaned toward the Ranger . . .
"Altimere." Her aura intruded on his senses, eclipsing the hectic, swirling maelstrom that had once been Meripen Vanglelauf's aura. So beautiful. His
kest
, already risen in service of conquest, overboiled the limits he had placed upon it, and he turned toward her, feeling the edge of her aura press against him like a knife, and for a heartbeat the garden splintered into a myriad of glittering images, as if he beheld the
kest
of the Vaitura entire as discrete, bewildering particles.