Meri paused once by a rotting stump, the tree laid out in broken segments along the forest floor, crumbling into the rich mold. He paused again by a tall pole of a tree, its bark polished away by the creatures who fed and sheltered inside its hulk, its once-proud branches now smooth stubs.
He paused a third time by a forest pool, and unwrapped the bread and cheese Elizabeth Moore had packed for him. As he ate, he listened to the birds, and the various sounds made by the small lives, and to the murmur of leaf against branch. Familiar sounds, and welcome to any Ranger who might find the way here, and rest a moment from wandering.
Indeed, thought Meri, as he bent to drink from the pool, all was as he might expect—saving one thing.
No single tree had spoken to him, either in welcome, or to ask his business among them.
Her books were in the trunk under the window where she had left them, and what was left of her seeds, salves, and the little bag of duainfey.
"Get my shawl from the wardrobe, please, Nancy," she murmured, telling over these treasures with soft fingertips. These few things defined everything that remained of her dreams and hopes. She
was
an herbalist. A healer. A gardener. Those other things, that had been inflicted upon her, by her will or not—she was free of those things, as she was free of the collar and the compulsion of Altimere's will.
Free of everything, save memory.
There was a flutter at the edge of her vision. She turned as Nancy alighted on the bed, spreading out a crimson shawl gaudy with gold thread and long silk tassels. Becca sighed, quietly. It was not, after all, the shawl she had taken away from her father's house, but—'twould serve.
'Twould serve.
"Thank you," she said, and picked up Sonet's book, awkwardly one-handed. She placed it on the shawl, and had scarcely turned back for the rest when a flutter of wings warned her, and Nancy alighted with Becca's own journal under one arm and the bags of salves and seeds in the other hand.
She placed the objects with care, then rose into the air, gathering the corners of the shawl into her hands and knotting them.
"Thank you," Becca said again, reaching for the packet. She snatched her hand back as Nancy darted toward her, shaking her head from side to side, and clearly expecting Becca to do—something.
"I—" She cleared her throat and inclined her head. "I will be visiting a friend in—in another country," she said slowly. "You are at liberty until Altimere returns."
Wings flashed, and Nancy shot toward the ceiling. Another flash of wings and she was hovering bare inches from Becca's nose, her face twisted in obvious distress, hands gripped together as she were praying.
"Nancy, I am grateful for your service," Becca said, tears rising to her eyes in response to the little creature's pain. "I would take you with me, if I could. But—Altimere made you, and it is him that you serve, not me."
Nancy extended a hand and grasped Becca's collar, and now she could see that her abigail's face was glistening as if with—but surely not! Nancy was a construct! Surely a machine could not weep?
And yet it did seem as if Nancy were weeping—very likely in terror of what would become of her, when Altimere returned to discover Becca gone.
It was, Becca allowed, a predicament with which she had some sympathy.
"Very well," she said softly. "I accept your service. You may accompany me if you are able. Whatever binds you is yours to break."
For a moment it seemed as if Nancy were frozen in air; then she bolted upward, turning a series of handsprings. She dove then to the bed, snatched up the shawl-wrapped packet, and darted toward the door.
"Yes," Becca murmured, sending one more glance around the sun-drenched room. "It is certainly time for us to go."
Sian was waiting in the hall below. Her eyebrows rose as Becca came down the ramp, but she made no comment, either on Becca's choice of clothing or the tiny naked woman who flew at her shoulder, bearing a bundle twice her size.
"Did Altimere's library pall?" Becca inquired, as she gained the hall.
Sian swept her an extravagant bow.
"In the sense that I was not allowed to remove any books from their places on the shelf—it did. One rapidly grows weary of admiring handsome bindings."
"In that case I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long."
"Please don't trouble yourself on my account," Sian told her with an earnestness Becca could not but feel was utterly false. "I exist to serve."
"You will then be relieved to learn that my horse is being brought 'round and that we may leave immediately your own has been saddled."
Sian gave her a sideways smile, eyes glinting, and Becca had a moment to wonder if she was quite wise to tweak the Fey woman. And yet, she thought rebelliously, she was Sian's prisoner, hostage to the Queen's command. Why should she pretend it suited her?
And if Sian were to place you into the sort of slavery from which you have only just recently won free?
a cool voice murmured inside her head.
Becca's step faltered. Nancy, taken by surprise, bumped her shoulder with the bundle she carried, wings fluttering in agitation. Ahead, the door opened slowly, drawn by a pair of Gossamers, a tentative cast to their appendages. Becca bit her lip and quickened her step. She did not want to give the Gossamers time to think about her departure and their part in it. For the Gossamers were also Altimere's creatures, and who knew what punishments they might be meted, when the master discovered that she was gone.
"There is no need," Sian said at her shoulder, "to run, Rebecca Beauvelley."
Becca took a breath, a tart rejoinder on her tongue—then forgot everything: her fear, her situation, and the unlikelihood of her escape from either. She had eyes and thought only for the chestnut filly standing there, her reins in the keeping of a Gossamer, ears cocked forward at an interested angle, the star on her forehead blazing bright white.
"Rosamunde!"
Joy lanced through her, and she was across the courtyard, her arm around that elegant neck. Her hat had fallen off in her rush, or Rosamunde had pushed it away, so she could lip Becca's hair.
"Beautiful lady, I've missed you," she crooned, rubbing her cheek against the silken mane. Rosamunde whuffed, her breath warm and smelling of clover.
"We'll never be parted again," Becca whispered. "I swear it."
Rosamunde whuffed again, and there came the sound of hooves, walking purposefully.
Becca raised her head as a dappled grey with a mane like sea-froth strolled, riderless into the courtyard, reins loose along the proud neck.
"Well!" Sian said brightly behind her. "And here is my horse! We may leave at once." A low whistle followed. The grey whickered gently, strong ears flicking.
"Brume, old friend." The Fey woman's voice was soft now; tender, as if she spoke to a child. "Wilt bear me home?"
The grey blew and shook his head, as if laughing, then extended his right foreleg and bent his left, bowing, or so it seemed to Becca.
"Your spirit is wide and your heart is great," Sian murmured, moving past Becca and Rosamunde as if they were as tenuous as Gossamers. "There is no other like you."
She threw a long leg over the grey's back and settled herself in the saddle. Brume rose, and stood, the Engenium looking down at Becca.
"Do you require assistance to mount, Rebecca Beauvelley?"
Becca turned without answering, aware of a blur of color near Rosamunde's flank. Nancy still bore the bundle, though it must, Becca thought with a flash of guilt, weigh on her cruelly.
She turned, fumbling one-handed with the strap on the saddlebag. Something cool brushed her fingers—tentacles, she saw, deft and sure. The strap loosened, the flap came up and Nancy flittered forward to slip the precious shawl-wrapped bundle inside.
That done, the Gossamer pulled the strap tight.
"Thank you, Nancy," Becca said, and to the Gossamer. "Help me to mount, please."
She felt the pressure about her waist, and a moment later was settling into the saddle, the neat split riding skirt seeming a frivolous affectation in comparison to Sian's spare elegance.
"It is well," the Engenium said. "We take our leave now." Brume turned and moved out of the courtyard.
"Follow, please," Becca whispered into Rosamunde's ear. "We must do as she says until we can think of another way to keep ourselves safe, and together."
Meri finished his bread and cheese, washed his hands in the pool, and walked out to the center of the grove, his arms wide and his face turned up toward the leaf-shrouded sky. His chest was tight, his meager
kest
rising to cast dancing shadows among the lower plants. It had been many seasons since he had offered himself formally to a forest. Even after his long sleep, the trees had known him, welcoming him by name, respectful of his diminished power.
This wood, though . . . It was not merely that this wood did not know
him
. It was as if this wood knew
nothing
; as if it had dreamed itself out of the Vaitura entirely, leaving behind only empty trunks.
"I am," he said, his voice solemn, as befit this venerable and subdued place, "Meripen Vanglelauf, Wood Wise and Ranger. My purpose is to uphold the ancient covenant. Of my own will, I seek the trees. Of my own heart, I serve them."
His words rang for a moment against the air, then faded, as if swallowed by the forest's dream.
Meri took a breath, lowered his arms slowly, and stood, head bent. Disdained, his
kest
fell. He shivered in the absence of its warmth.
Sighing, he crossed to the pool, drank, and stood. He felt the veriest sprout, roundly ignored by his elders, and laughed wryly, recalling Jamie Moore's hot assertion that the trees spoke to him—and his wilting when Jack Wood had pointed out that the trees did not share their pain with him.
His thought snagged on that, and he frowned, frozen in the act of reaching for his pack.
The trees near the homestead had not only spoken to him, they had
known
him. Indeed, now that he cast his mind back, there had been tree chatter and a sense of regard this morning as he had walked out with Jack Wood, until—
Until they had come upon the larches, cloaked in their uncanny stillness. He must have been more distressed than he had understood, but yes, now that he thought, it was precisely as if the larches had marked a boundary between forests, as sharp and distinct as a wall between rooms.
Meri shook himself, grabbing up his pack and his bow.
All very well to pinpoint where the problem began. It was, he allowed, a step. However, his duty lay in the direction of discovering what the problem
was
, and doing his utmost to repair it.
Well.
Meri swung the pack up and settled it across his shoulders. Whatever it was that made this wood so strange and dreamy, it lay ahead of him. That, too, was a step.
"Steps enough," he sing-songed for his own amusement, "a journey do make."
He shook his head and moved off, with a Ranger's ground-eating stride, one more silence among many.
Nancy settled on Becca's shoulder, one tiny hand wound in the hair over her ear, pulling uncomfortably. Becca began to speak—then stopped, suddenly aware that her maid was trembling violently, her spasms increasing as they came nearer the arched shrubbery that marked the end of Altimere's garden.
Ahead of them, Sian and Brume passed through the arch. Nancy's grip became excruciating; Becca gasped, and bit her lip.
Rosamunde passed under the shrubbery. Becca took a hard breath, tasting the lemony scent in the back of her throat, and Nancy—
Nancy
screamed
.
Becca started, jerking the reins, Rosamunde danced, steadied as her rider made a brief recover, then skittered as Becca sagged, her shoulder abruptly ground beneath an appalling weight.
Nancy's scream went on, high and hopeless, ragged with agony. Becca pulled on the reins, and screamed herself as the banshee on her shoulder spasmed, tearing her handful of hair out by the roots. Becca pitched forward, her braid snapping free of its pins, her heels striking Rosamunde's side, and her horse
leaped
, hitting the street with a clatter, charging Brume's flank. The grey spun, ears back and teeth showing, while Sian raised a hand shrouded in turquoise mist, and cried out in a voice that brooked no argument, "Hold!"
Rosamunde slammed to a halt, throwing Becca forward, left hand tangled painfully in silky mane, right arm flung 'round a sweating neck while Nancy arced into the air like a stone from a catapult, scream trailing behind her—and cut off abruptly as she was surrounded by a turquoise-barred cage.
"Wrack and wind!" The bars solidified. Nancy threw herself onto her face, wings trembling.
"Release her at once!" Becca cried, pushing herself awkwardly up into the saddle, Rosamunde unnaturally still beneath her. "And remove your will from my horse!"
Sian raised haughty eyebrows. "Do you order
me
?" she asked, cold-voiced.
Becca shook the loose braid behind her shoulder and stiffened her spine. She ought, she knew, be afraid, but what she felt was anger, and a rising warmth. The day glittered at the edges, showing stipples of gold and copper.
"Do you infringe on my rights?" she snapped, hot to the Fey woman's cold. "My horse, Madam Engenium—and my servant!"
"The horse, I grant." A sweep of long white fingers and Rosamunde was moving, dancing nervously. Becca consciously adjusted her seat, and leaned forward to pat the proud neck.
"Gently, my lady," she murmured. "We have an agreement to reach."
"An agreement to
easily
reach," Sian snapped, and the bars enclosing Nancy contracted. "Surely neither of us desires one of Altimere's creatures by us on our journey."
"Nancy is
my servant
," Becca said, swallowing against the heat rising in her blood. "I told her that I would accept her service, if she won free of Altimere's influence." She moved a careful hand, startled to see a wisp of golden fog following her fingers. "I believe that she has done as much—as I have, myself."