Duainfey, page 28
"A sad outcome," Venpor said, his tone suggesting otherwise.
Altimere bowed his head. "So I thought and still believe," he said gravely. "You speak of kest as if its acquisition and manipulation is the mark of a higher being," he continued in that grave voice. "Having seen the Newmen, walked among them . . ." He turned his head to smile tenderly at Becca, ". . . associated closely with them—I would say that it is not so simple a line to draw, between man and beast. And as for power—I have seen a Newman take one wire, bring it toward another—and watched power visibly arc between the two!" He shook his head slightly. "No, I would wish to keep the Newmen under my eye, rather than have my reason in rags through not knowing—and being unable to guess!—what new artifact they might be a-building."
He paused while the Gossamers circulated among the guests, refreshing depleted wine glasses.
"There is another . . . difficulty," Altimere said slowly, "with this notion that we might simply strengthen the keleigh."
"And that is?" inquired the soft-voiced Fey leaning against Zaldore's chair.
Altimere smiled at her. "Why, that the keleigh itself is no simple thing! Would you care for a demonstration?"
"Very much," Zaldore said before anyone else could speak, and Altimere gave her a bow before raising one languid hand.
At once the Gossamers appeared, carrying a thin sheet of highly polished stone. This they placed on the table before Altimere. He, in the meantime, had reached into his other pocket and withdrawn—
A child's top.
No, Becca thought; not precisely a child's top. This was painstakingly painted with flowers and birds—more art-piece than toy. Altimere held it up for all to see, smiling.
"A simple device," he murmured. "It does one thing well, much the same as the keleigh. It spins. When the keleigh spins, it reweaves and strengthens itself, but spin it does and must, precisely—so!"
The top struck the polished stone and spun, the Fey watching breathlessly. It was marvelously well-balanced, thought Becca, for it neither wavered nor bounced and kept on spinning long after she had thought it must fall and stop.
"Ah." Altimere shifted slightly in his chair and several of the groups started. "How pleasant to watch the pretty thing spin, is it not? And yet I fear it is beginning to waver. It will stop soon, unless it has some assistance. You, ma'am—" He nodded at the soft-voiced Fey. "Would you indulge me by insuring that the top continues to spin?"
Pretty brows drew together, but the Fey inclined her head. "Certainly," she murmured and the toy immediately recovered itself and recommenced spinning, tall and true.
"How much kest do you expend on this task?"
The soft-voiced Fey looked up, obviously surprised. "Very little."
"Of course," Altimere said politely. "Now, if you would do me the honor, slow it so that its revolution matches the span of a day."
"Matches the—" The Fey frowned. "I cannot," she said slowly. "If I slow it so much, it will fall."
"Yes. Excellent. The top must spin at a certain speed to maintain its position. And in order to spin without faltering, it requires a steady input of kest." He opened his hands. "So, with the keleigh. It uses energy, and, as we all of us know, it is so constructed that it draws what energy it uses directly from the land."
"Which in turn," the soft-voiced Fey said, "requires energy—or it will die."
"You have been studying!" Altimere exclaimed, obviously pleased. "Precisely that is our conundrum." He looked around at the watchful faces. "The keleigh was created as a solution to a problem—a most dire problem. It has served us well, but now, I submit to you, it serves us no longer. And it was our error, that we never considered that the keleigh itself would one day require a solution in its turn."
There was a small silence, then Venpor spoke again.
"So, what would you, Altimere? Throw down the keleigh and mix blood with the Newmen?"
"Throwing the keleigh down is—also not as simply done as said," Altimere murmured. "And as for the Newmen—they are, as I have said, clever. They might serve the Fey well, if they are put under strict governance. Indeed, they may well flourish under such governance. I see that as a beneficial course for all, and one that does not repeat past error."
There were mutters at that, and it seemed that there would be more questions—but just then Zaldore rose from her chair with a lazy smile, and reached her hand down to Altimere.
"I am sure you have given us much to think upon with regard to the keleigh and the Newmen," she said. "But, come, Altimere! You and I must speak in private, if your guests will forgive you."
"Of course." He took her hand and rose gracefully to bow to those gathered. "Pray excuse me. I don't despair that you will find a topic or two of conversation in my absence."
There was laughter at that, and the group began to dissolve into small clumps, while Zaldore led Altimere away. Becca took a deep breath and, recalling her duties as hostess, set herself to moving among the guests.
The Gossamers, of course, were much more efficient than she was at keeping glasses filled and circulating trays filled with savories. As she moved among the guests, Becca began to understand that she was present not so much as hostess, but as a reminder—or a provocation—to those who held her own people in such low regard.
She found that she did not mind playing the part of the provocateur, either. What right have they, she thought, as she strolled from the main room to the small parlor, to declare us beasts? If we possess this precious kest of theirs and choose not to use it as they do, does that make us any less admirable? Surely, the genius for mechanics—for art, and for healing, too—surely that is kest, only expended in a manner unlike—
"I tell you," an unfortunately familiar voice said, too near at hand. "She's nothing more than a beast, no matter what the artificer's son may say! He's besotted, obviously."
"Altimere, besotted!" scoffed his friend. "The wine has the best of you, Venpor. Certainly, he may take some pleasure in the company of a comely woman strong in kest. Who would not? But—"
"Strong in kest!" Venpor interrupted. He threw what was left in his glass down his throat. No sooner was the glass empty than the Gossamers were there, offering a full one in trade. Venpor scarcely seemed to notice that he had received a new glass, his attention on his friend, who was, Becca saw with surprise, the soft-voiced Fey who had grasped the lesson of the top so adroitly.
"That cow possesses no more kest than this glass!" Venpor announced, raising it exuberantly, and it was a credit to his nerves—or to the other Fey's deft application of kest—that not a drop was spilt. He held his pose for a moment, then lowered the glass, turning slightly so that his gaze fell upon Becca.
He frowned.
She lifted her chin and met his eyes, striving for that look of iced haughtiness perfected by Celia Marks.
"Arrogant beast," Venpor muttered, and jerked his head, calling his friend's attention to her. "If I prove that she's no more than a lower form, will you come speak with Harow?"
"How will you prove it?" the other Fey asked, and Becca admired how adroitly she failed of giving her word.
"By dominating her, of course. Here."
Becca felt an unpleasant pressure behind her eyes, as if someone had pushed at her thoughts. The feeling was eerily familiar, and she was still for a moment, trying to recall—
The second push was harder; hard blue light flashed, dazzling her, spiking a headache. Irritably, Becca pushed back. The blue light snapped out; the headache vanished.
The soft-voiced Fey laughed.
"Apparently," she murmured, giving Becca a tip of the head. "She does not wish to be dominated this evening."
Venpor's pale face flushed hot pink, and Becca had no trouble at all in reading hatred in the stare he brought upon her.
"It's the collar," he snapped. "She draws power from it."
"Come now!" the other chided. "If she does, surely that disproves your theory!"
"How so?" Venpor snarled, his gaze never leaving Becca's face.
She met his eyes, defiant, and felt a thrill of fear. His hate was hot, she could feel it. Venpor wanted to hurt her—possibly to kill her. She should, Becca thought coolly, scream for Altimere, or run, or—or curtsy and beg his pardon.
Notably, she did none of those things, merely held his eyes with hers, while the soft-voiced Fey said—
"The collar bears her signature, therefore, she created it. And if it was fashioned, as you believe, to protect her, then it is hers, it functions as it should, and she is thereby no dumb beast, but a woman of kest and cunning." She shook her head, smiling, but Becca thought she looked more worried than amused. "Give over, Venpor!" she said, urgently. "If nothing else, recall that you are a guest in this house."
"I forget nothing," Venpor grated. "And I say again, without the collar she is a worm, an insect, a thing to be dominated by a higher order and used as seems best."
"If you believe that my jewelry in some way impedes you," a voice that Becca belatedly recognized as her own said frostily. "Then remove it."
He will kill you! a small voice screamed inside her head.
Good, she answered herself, and smiled at Venpor.
Wineglass in one hand, the other outstretched, he lunged. She stood her ground, whether by courage or idiocy, she scarcely knew.
There was flash, a sense of heat, a thump of displaced air—and a crash, as Venpor struck the wall across the room, and collapsed bonelessly to the floor.
The soft-voiced Fey had not reached his side when Altimere arrived, Zaldore with him, and a great many people in train.
"Rebecca," he said sternly. "Venpor is a guest in my house."
"Yes, sir," she said, meeting his eyes no less boldly, and felt another, more potent, thrill of fear. "A guest in your house tried to dominate me, as is his natural right."
"The lady speaks sooth," the soft-voiced Fey said, kneeling next to the fallen, who was beginning to moan and shake his head. Becca tried to feel relieved, that he had survived—and failed. "He insisted that the necklace gave her . . . unearned . . . protection, wherefore she most courteously invited him to remove it."
She raised her head and smiled at Becca. "With what result you see here."
Altimere, however, was still stern. "It was a great deal of force," he said, as if Becca had indeed been in control, rather than simply allowing the necklace to do what it had been made to do.
Becca did not hesitate in her answer, for surely it was to her advantage to seem to be the woman of kest that Altimere claimed she was, rather than a captive to another's will.
"Indeed," she said, her voice cool. "I was concerned for my safety, sir. It is possible that I overreacted."
"She wants schooling," Zaldore commented. "If she cannot control her kest, she will do someone a hurt, Altimere."
"So she might," he agreed. "Now that we are here in Xandurana, I shall engage a tutor." He raised his voice. "Venpor, are you hale?"
A moan answered him.
"I'll tend him, Altimere," the soft-voiced Fey said. "He's in his cups, and ought to make his bows."
"You are too kind," Altimere told her. "I thank you."
"No need." She rose from Venpor's side and bowed. "Altimere," she murmured. "Zaldore." She straightened and smiled directly in Becca's eyes. "Rebecca, allow me to express my admiration."
She curtsied. "Thank you, ma'am," she murmured.
"Now that we have put this disturbance behind us," Altimere said, turning toward the crowd that had followed him and Zaldore into the room. "Perhaps it is time to sing rounds."
There was a general murmuring of pleasure at that, and Becca stepped forward, to do what a good hostess ought, and direct the guests to their places.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The dress was silver white laced with deep green, its neck square and modest, the sleeves full and fluttering. Nancy took special care with her hair, brushing it until it shone in the rich yellow light spilling in from the windows, and braided it with a ribbon-thin vine bearing flowers no larger than snowflakes.
Becca stood, shook out her skirt and looked at herself in the mirror. Suddenly, she was cast back to the over-bright ballroom, stifled by the sound of human voices, talking, instruments playing, a cup of wine in her hand and her own voice, low and intense beneath the racket of gaiety, "Show me another choice."
"Another choice!" she cried and began to laugh. A choice where she was not a puppet, entirely subject to the will of another, upon whose whim she thrived or died, with no one to succor her, friendless in a country of savage strangers.
The laughter grew wild in her own ears, while Nancy fluttered about her shoulders, wings agitated, and finally darted off. Becca leaned against the vanity table, laughter shrill now, and her stomach roiling with nausea—
A hand whipped against her cheek, knocking her head back. She gasped, the laughter dissolving into tears, and the Gossamer struck her again, on the other cheek.
Shuddering, she gasped for breath, squeezing her eyes shut to stop the tears. The Gossamer did not strike her again, but she had no doubt that it would, if she did not bring herself under control.
And slowly, she did regain—not calmness, but at least an outward seeming of composure. She pushed away from the table and looked at her reflection. There were no marks where the Gossamer had struck, though when she raised her hand, she found her cheeks tender to the touch.
"Invisible bruises," she murmured, and swallowed the spasm of laughter that threatened again to overwhelm her sense.
She shook her skirt out in order to buy herself another moment, then moved away from the vanity, walking toward the door. None impeded her, and the door itself misted out of existence as she approached.
Last night, she had traversed this hallway on Altimere's arm, her senses disheveled, and she had scarcely taken note of anything but the feel of his arm beneath her hand.
This morning—if, indeed, it was morning, and not a flawless sunlit afternoon—she noted her surroundings carefully, in an attempt to focus her intellect and push that horrified and horrifying laughter further away.
Altimere's country house had been elegant, and appointed with every luxury that an Earl's daughter might expect. The hallway that led to her room had been hung with expensive tapestries, and rich carpet had covered the floor. By contrast, the city house was plain, the floor seemingly cut from a single, vast board, the walls mottled silver-grey; rough, as if—she ran her fingers down the surface—yes. As if the walls were covered in bark.
Further along the hall, one entered a ramp, which executed a lazy spiral along the outer wall. Becca paused on the landing, then turned to the left, meaning to follow the ramp upward, to see what lay above her own room, but a light, invisible touch to her shoulder steered her to the right, and down.
The ramp was covered in the same barklike material. It gripped the sole of the shoe, which was, Becca thought, a good thing, there being no banister to catch at, should one trip. It was a dizzying descent without Altimere's arm to steady her, and she hugged the wall, trailing her fingers along the rough surface.
The ramp ended in the flagged entry hall she recalled from the night before. Here, she had stood beside Altimere and welcomed his guests as they were made known to her. Some names left her memory as soon as she spoke them—the soft-voiced Fey who had later in the evening escorted the drunken Venpor away being one—and others remained with her even now. Venpor, alas, was all too clear in her memory, nor had Zaldore faded.
Becca crossed the hall toward the dining alcove. Zaldore, she thought, was a dangerous woman. Certainly, Altimere was not without his dangers, and he, too, wished to depose his Queen, though for what cause Becca could not have said.
Zaldore, however, wished to be Queen, and for a specific purpose. Becca shivered and paused on the threshold of the dining room, glancing sharply to the right and left—but the room was empty, save for some covered dishes steaming gently on the table.
She forced herself to enter, to approach the table, and sit on the bench that seemed to grow out of the wall. No low table, dining cushions, and thickly carpeted floor here. There was a harp in the far corner of the room, but it was silent this morning, as it had been last night.
Her coffee was poured, the precise amount of cream that she preferred was added. Becca leaned back, sipping the hot beverage gingerly; savoring the bitter warmth.
She rested her head against the rough wall and closed her eyes. Once again, she saw the vision that Altimere had shown her—her other choice. How stupid had she been, she wondered now, to ask him to show her only one more? Surely, where there were two choices, there were three? And if there were three, then certainly there were four, five, six—until one achieved an infinite number of Beccas, each making her own unique choice, each leading to—a unique and special torment.
She shook her head against the wall. No, she told herself carefully. Surely—certainly—some of those infinite Beccas had made happy choices. Why! Perhaps, somewhere, there was a Becca who had chosen not to accept Kelmit Tarrington's offer of a ride, and who was now whole in spirit, heart, and body, married and—
Her face was wet. Hastily, she leaned forward, placed the cup carefully in its saucer, and caught up a napkin to dry her tears, wincing when she patted bruised cheeks. When she had done and opened her eyes again, she saw that her plate had been filled for her with the pastries she had so loved at the country house, and thin crisp strips of bacon. The Gossamers meant for her to eat, no matter how troubled her heart. Nor should she, Becca reminded herself as she picked up a pastry, think hardly of them for this. After all, they received their orders from Altimere, as Nancy did, and Elyd had . . .
As she did.
The pastry was too sweet; she swallowed coffee too hastily, to clear her mouth, and burned her tongue. Gasping, she shook the tears of pain away, and reached again to her plate.
The bacon, at least, was just as always, waking a hunger she would have sworn she did not feel. In the end, she ate four strips of bacon and a piece of toast brought by the Gossamers, and drank another cup of coffee.
