Longeye, page 30
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.
Chapter Thirty-Three
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.
A tug at his coat. Dazzled, he grabbed, felt a hairy arm slide through his fingers, and spun again, his vision clearing sufficiently to see a Child of Chaos vanish into the plentiful flowers, and in its horny hand—
"My watch!" Fury informed his kest. He raised a hand, lightning already forming at his fingertips—and thrown into the crushed, disordered flowers as Rebecca struck his arm aside.
The Brethren vanished, and Altimere spun, grabbing her and throwing the full force of his will against hers, beyond caring if he harmed her.
"Call Nancy," he snarled. "Now."
The Brethren had vanished; up into the tree, Becca thought, or over the garden wall.
For herself, it was as if she were seeing the world for the first time. Kest glimmered everywhere, confusing her sight, which was so clear. She saw everything, and knew it for good or ill.
Meri—Meri stood slumped, a wounded and will-less thing, and yet she saw the vital green kest and the shimmer of blues, like waves. She saw—she saw the bonds that tied them—one by the heart; and the other to a vast uncertainty, a reservoir of power so deep that even the duainfey's gift could not clarify it for her.
Altimere snatched at her arm, his will slamming into hers. She staggered, blinking up at him, half-stunned. His aura, which had been so smooth and pale, was now a bonfire of yellow, orange, rust, and black, threaded through with a substance like fog. His kest, she thought, wondering. Altimere was old beyond measuring; he had walked in the Old World before the war; and in both worlds, after. Without doubt, he had melded . . . countless times, and stolen kest, too. Students—surely so gifted and great an artificer had had students? And those he had dominated, for surely Elyd had not been the only one . . .
All of that kest—so much power; gathered and but rarely shared. And he had need of more? Sun and scythe!
"Call Nancy!" He shook her so that her head snapped on her neck, and the force of his will was a terrible thing. "Will you have it three times, zinchessa?"
Faintly, she felt Meri's horror, and recalled as if she had always known it that to be told three times was to surrender yourself willingly.
She must not cede. Not yet.
"Nancy," she whispered, looking into hot amber eyes. She could not look away. "Nancy, I am with Altimere."
The tree's kest continued to rise, pooling at the base of his spine. Meri concentrated his will and the feeble remainders of his skill on keeping his replenishment hidden, though there had been a heartbeat when he was certain that he had dissembled too late, and Altimere with the word of binding on his lips . . .
Yet, the Elder had not spoken, and Becca— Root and branch! He could scarcely look upon her. She blazed, her aura showing a white edge like a knife blade. The bond between them trembled under the raw assault of power—trembled, and grew deeper, accommodating this new aspect.
For himself, he kept as still as any rabbit in the wood. Altimere appeared to have forgotten him, distracted by Becca's beauty and the Brethren's small theft.
That had been a bold moment, and a tale of mischief to be told among the Little People for many days to come. Very nearly he broke his charade when Altimere whirled to fling lightning at the Brethren—and very nearly cheered when Becca struck his arm aside.
Meri held himself still, very still now, as she lay half-stunned beneath the assault of Altimere's will; and dared not even send her a thought, lest he somehow detect it.
"Nancy," Becca whispered, staring up into his eyes as if her will were already subjected to the Elder's. "Nancy, I am with Altimere."
There was a flash of jewel tones; the air misted and the artifact appeared, wings busy, just beyond Altimere's grasp.
"Excellent," Altimere purred, and Meri felt the instant that he lifted his will from Becca and applied it to the tiny artifact.
Meri, Becca's thought was as sharp as her aura. Can the sea be bound?
The sea can be neither bound nor contained, he replied, as his mother had taught him so long ago.
Will you open yourself to me, entirely?
She did not need to ask, melded as they were, and he loved her the more because she did.
Everything I am is yours.
"What have you done to it?" Altimere's voice was harsh, the pressure of his will like being crushed beneath a boulder.
Becca moved her head, gasping for breath, desperate lest the punishment she endured reach Meri, her vision edged with black.
"She . . ." she panted, scarcely able to form the words. "She left your service, and—entered mine."
There was silence, though the terrible weight did not lift, and a sense of some manipulation made beyond the range of her senses.
Altimere sighed, softly, and Becca looked up, seeing Nancy standing frozen and apparently lifeless in the air.
"What have . . . you done?" she gasped.
"I am simply holding it," Altimere told her, his face softening into a tender smile. "I should never have let you name it, of course. Ill-done, but recoverable." His smile grew sad, as he extended a hand to brush her hair from her face. "Everything is recoverable, zinchessa."
Becca's kest trembled, shamefully, and she whimpered when he ran his thumb lightly over her bottom lip.
"There," he murmured, "it will be just like old times."
She did not remember moving, but she must have done, and stood now pressed against him, her forehead resting on his shoulder, feeling desire rise with her kest, even as she wanted to scream and fight . . . but she did not want to fight this, she reminded herself.
This was what she wanted.
His will moved her and she stretched high on her toes, laying her arms around his neck, and raising her face for his kiss.
His hands were firm at her waist, his lips cool and knowing. He drew her kest greedily, and so quickly that she scarcely had time before she swooned to reach out to Meri along their bond.
Altimere took Becca as if he had a right to her, drawing her kest so quickly that she guttered like a candle flame, fading in an instant to a shadow of herself.
Meri felt her senses spin away—and in the heartbeat before he lost her entirely, he felt her touch upon his heart, and opened himself to her.
The child's kest had grown richer, so seductive that he knew no restraint, no savoring. He drank, senses reeling, not even the cut of the odd white edge of her enough to make him break the kiss. She gave unstintingly, without struggle or demur, as if she wished him to drain her.
And so he would.
He drank, and still she gave, her kest seeming to well from the very ground. And of course, he thought, his thoughts barely coherent; she had melded with the Ranger, his Ranger, who was—how had he forgotten to bind the Ranger?
No matter. However it were done, both were caught in his net. Best to drain both, and thus enrich his holdings. He would deal with the artifact after, and challenge Diathen the so-called Queen to overcome an opponent worthy to rule the Vaitura.
Would the child never run dry? Was he consuming the kest of entire forests, bound to Rebecca through the Ranger? He felt himself a giant, who had only to form a thought in order for it to become so.
Heat built, reminding him uncomfortably of the place of his captivity, and surely, he thought, terror clearing his mind, surely he had drunk enough? Was this some trick, or some fevered dream born out of the keleigh?
Altimere tried to move, to lift his head, to pull away from those arms that lay heavy as lektrim chains on his shoulders.
His efforts were futile.
And then he heard it.
A roaring, as of a wave rushing toward shore. His senses were filled with it; he saw it, towering, monstrous; filled with more power than even the Vaitura might encompass.
Trapped, Altimere threw up his will, his kest forming a seawall . . .
Becca looked down from the high branches of the elitch, watching the events unfold in the garden below. Altimere was bound to the swooning doll in his arms by slender vines of tree kest, unable even to lift his head from the kiss that had become, if the flashes of panic in his swollen aura were a guide, most unwelcome.
Meri stood at some little distance, head up, and craned slightly backward, as if he would spy out her resting place among the leaves, which perhaps after all he could. Power flowed through him; green tree kest mixed among turbulent blues. Gradually, the blues became more dominant, and she heard something—a roaring, rolling thunder that shook the very treetop where she reposed, watching the drama below.
Altimere had become sensible of his danger. Caught though he was, yet he struggled and contrived. Becca shivered in her comfortable nest, and sent a small thought to the elitch.
This will be terrible, will it not?
The sea is pitiless, Gardener, and it cleanses as it must.
