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They were gentle, and most courteous, Meri admitted, and careful not to overwhelm his senses. Not merely with the arranging of the meeting out-of-doors, where he might feel unconfined, but also in the numbers that they chose to field: himself, Elizabeth Moore, a white-haired elder called Jack Wood, and the sprout Jamie.

  The trees would have it that the sprout was fruit of a melding of the Newoman Elizabeth and a Wood Wise named Palin, which strained credulity. Yet, the trees had said so, and certainly the shy greens of the boy's aura were more Fey than the hectic and gaudy displays of his elders.

  Jamie the sprout carried a chair out of the house and placed it for the elder. Elizabeth Moore settled herself comfortably on the grass between chair and bench; at a sign from her, Jamie settled next to Meri, his cool aura showing yellow sparkles of curiosity.

  "Sam sends apologies," Elizabeth murmured. "He's with our mother, in case she should wake."

  "I grieve for the elder's illness," Meri answered politely. "May her kest soon rise."

  "Thank you. We all hope for her recovery."

  "No more'n I do," the elder Jack Wood said in a voice like the wind blowing through reeds. "Just her an' me left o' those who walked the hellroad. Stubbornest woman I ever known, that side er this, and I don't think we woulda won through, if not for the tongue in her head, and the wit that drove it."

  Meri turned to him. The elder Newman's aura was a complex weave of silvers and blues, as vivid and as dangerous as glass.

  "You crossed the keleigh?"

  The old one laughed, his aura shimmering, and shook his head. "Some long seasons ago, that was! Eliza there was a babe in arms—slept through the whole passage, for all the sound she ever made. Sam, now, he was born this side, same as Gracie an' Thomas an'—"

  "And me!" Jamie piped up from Meri's side.

  "You!" Another laugh, warm and welcome as new bread. "Ain't no doubt regarding you, Sprout."

  "No doubt at all," Elizabeth said, with a calmness at odds with the brilliance of her aura. "But the Ranger hasn't come to hear our lineage. His concern is to hear what ails our good friends, the trees."

  "Aye, aye!" Jack Wood raised a hand gnarled and spotted like an old branch. "Mind you, now, it was Lucy give the trees our parole back when we first found this spot. And 'twas the trees sent young Palin along to have a look at us. I put myself forward as caretaker, for I'd been a woodsman, back there, and fancied I knew something of trees." He chuckled. "They soon learned me different, and Palin, too, after he brung Lucy back from swearing us to the good lady of Sea Fort."

  "So," Meri said carefully, into the silence that followed this declaration. "You have been caring for the trees. The Engenium—the good lady of Sea Fort—had given me to understand that your folk were . . . not tree-wise."

  "Nor are we," Jack Wood told him. "I'm no Ranger, young master—far from it! Oh, I'm canny enough to take off a sick limb, and to keep the burrowers away from new roots. But there's a need in the forest of late that I'm not understanding, a—" He moved his hand again, as if fingering the word from the passing breeze. "A—mistiness. My lore tells me the stand's old; and in the natural way of things some o' the elders'll be fallin', the same as with Lucy, and—soon enough—myself. This though—I'm thinking this is something different, something . . . not of root nor branch." He sighed and shook his head, sending Meri a rueful grin.

  "You'll see why we asked our good lady for a Ranger, eh? It goes far beyond me, and this one—" He jerked his head at Jamie.

  "The trees talk to me!" the boy said hotly and the old man chuckled.

  "Who said they didn't, eh? But are they speakin' of their affliction?"

  There was a pause. Jamie sighed, visibly wilting on the bench, and shook his tumbled head.

  "No."

  "Nor would they," Meri said briskly, "burden a sprout. We are all as children to the elder trees, and in truth there are those whose thought is strange, even to we who are Rangers." He looked again to Jack Wood. "Surely, though, the trees would speak to their own."

  The old man blinked. "Eh?"

  "The Ranger means Palin, I think," Elizabeth Moore said from her comfortable recline on the grass, and gave Meri another of her smiles. "Palin wanders," she said softly. "He does errands, for the trees, for the Engenium at Sea Hold, for us, for other Wood Wise—for the Hobs, too, when they ask him. He belongs to the trees, certain enough, Master Vanglelauf, but less to these trees than we do." She moved her shoulders in an easy shrug. "We had thought perhaps someone who was tied to the Engenium's lands, as we are . . ."

  "Which I am not," Meri said softly.

  "But the trees like you!" Jamie said exuberantly. "They're pleased you've come!"

  "And so I am pleased to have come," Meri said firmly. He looked, first to Elizabeth Moore, then to Jack Wood.

  "I will undertake to identify the problem," he said slowly. "You understand that this will mean that my time will be spent—"

  "Can't you use your longeye?" the sprout interrupted. "Sam says you saw our village from leagues away!"

  "Seeing is not the same as going among," Meri said, patiently, for it was the duty of those elder to teach the young. "In addition, the longeye is a gift of the sea, and is less use than you might think, among the trees."

  "I—" began the sprout, and pressed his lips suddenly together as his mother raised a hand.

  "You," she said, "have been quite rude enough for one evening, Jamie Moore." She turned her head and gave Meri a smile. "We understand that you are here to aid the trees, Master Vanglelauf. It is what we asked of Lady Sian. Had we wished for a jester, that is what we would have asked her to send."

  "And right daft she would have thought us, too," Jack added, with a grin.

  Elizabeth nodded, and seemed about to say something else when there arose an outcry from the house across the green, the accumulated power flaring into new and terrifying patterns.

  "Gran!" Jamie cried, flinging to his feet, running heedlessly back toward the house, with his mother not two paces behind.

  The Newman elder rose more slowly, and turned, staring at the house without moving. Meri gained his feet also—courtesy, he reminded himself, though he trembled at this new display of raw, potent power.

  "May I escort you, sir?" he asked, desperately hoping that this proper and polite suggestion would be rejected.

  Jack shook himself—"Eh?"—and looked over his shoulder. Meri could see that cheeks were wet.

  "Nay, then," he said softly. "That's a gentle offer and I'm obliged, but—I can walk on my own." He shook his head, seeming not to notice the tears that ran into his beard.

  "Never thought she'd go first," he said, "and leave me at the last."

  Chapter Two

  Waking was a long, languorous business.

  Becca stretched, luxuriating in the smooth slide of sheets along her limbs and the flex of muscle and flesh. She slipped back into a drowse, becoming by degrees aware of the warmth of sunlight upon her face, and a ruddy glow beyond her eyelids. A sweet, riotous scent tickled her nose—roses, lavender, teyepia and gradials—beneath it the prickle of pine and the clean, woody odor of elitch, a touch of turned earth.

  She smiled and nestled her cheek into the cool pillow, a little closer to awake now, lazily following the frenzy of birdsong until she smiled and stretched once more.

  "You may wish to bear in mind, in the interest of your future well-being," a clear voice said dryly from near at hand, "that one does not demand of a Queen. Even so mild-natured a Queen as Diathen."

  "Yet it was not the Queen," Becca answered languidly, "who struck me down."

  A short silence and then a sigh that sounded more irritated than comfortable was her answer as she drifted inevitably toward the shores of true wakefulness.

  "A Queen," Sian said at last, "depends upon those who owe her loyalty to protect her. Does it become necessary for her to raise a hand in her own defense, she cannot afford to be seen as . . . less than strong. Are you awake, Rebecca Beauvelley?"

&nb
sp; "For the moment, it seems that I am." Becca opened her eyes and met Sian's sea-green gaze firmly. "Until you decide otherwise."

  "This conversation has a familiar odor to it," Sian observed, perhaps to herself. She sat a-slouch at some remove from the daybed, one boot planted firmly on the glass-topped table, the chair tipped precariously back on two legs. She moved her arm in a meaningless sweep. "I grant it may seem mere whimsy on my part, but you must own that twice I've acted to preserve your life."

  "A boon," Becca snapped, fully awake now—and fully irritated, "I neither requested nor desired!" She sat up and thrust the covers aside, faintly surprised that these things were allowed her.

  Sian raised a thin golden brow. "Come now, would you rather be dead?"

  "In fact," Becca answered, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. "I would! What do you think I was doing when you interfered with me in Altimere's garden?"

  "Seeking clear thought," Sian said, and brought her hand before her face, fingers spread wide, as if in defense. "Do not glare at me, madam! I only repeat what you yourself told me."

  Becca snapped to her feet, and flung out her good arm to catch her balance. "I do not—"

  "You saw the collar for what it truly was, did you not?" Sian continued. "Certainly, with all the artifice woven into it—forged signature and will-to-fail among the lesser evils that Diathen's philosophers have found!—certainly, you were correct to seek clear thought before attempting to deal with such a thing for the third time. That you triumphed—"

  "Had to do with—" Becca bit her lip, while inside her head a deep, amused voice told her, Good morning, Gardener.

  Sian tipped her head. "Had to do with?" she inquired politely, and crossed her arms over her breast, waiting.

  Well, and what does it matter, now? Becca thought angrily. Surely, I might be excused for having run mad.

  "Had to do with the trees!" she snapped. "They came to my aid at the last."

  Sian closed her eyes. "A very familiar odor, indeed," she murmured. She raised her boot from the table, the chair crashed down onto four legs, and she was on her feet.

  She made, Becca admitted privately, a brave figure, with her hands on her slim waist, her sleeves billowing and bright in the fresh breeze, her legs shapely in their tight trousers, and the cool blue flames outlining her against the air.

  For herself, she felt . . . somewhat grubby, her dress draggled with having been slept in, and her hair knotted and none too clean—and the weight, not entirely unfamiliar, of dread anticipation pressing down upon her shoulders.

  "Why," she demanded, "have you wakened me, this time? Has Altimere returned?"

  Sian lifted both eyebrows. "In fact, he has not, nor has Councilor Zaldore, and the Queen's Constant has gone into recess for the lack of them. I am therefore redundant, and my kinswoman, gentle Diathen, the Queen, has deemed you to be my problem."

  "The Queen," Becca said, snappishly, "is in error."

  "That's as may be," Sian returned mildly. "But she is the Queen."

  Becca raised her chin. "I am a—a free woman in possession of my own name," she stated, in a hot, small voice that did not seem quite like her own. "I refuse to be dominated."

  Silence. Sian turned her head to stare out the window. "Oh," she said. "Do you."

  "Surely that is my right?" Becca challenged her.

  "Surely, it is your right to resist domination, should it be offered, to the fullest extent of your power," Sian murmured, her attention still seemingly engaged by the scene outside the window. "To state that you refuse . . ." She shrugged, and at last glanced back to Becca. "Of course, you must say so. Anyone would. However!" She raised her hand imperiously. "It is not domination, but care that is offered, since you apparently lack the wit to perceive it. Think, Rebecca Beauvelley! Your situation is perilous at best and dire at worst! Might a friend—or even two—be beneficial?"

  "Perhaps so. Do you put yourself forth as my friend, Engenium? I warn you—terrible things happen to my friends."

  Sian shrugged. "Terrible things have happened to my friends, as well. And neither of us wishes to dwell long upon the fates which have overtaken Diathen's friends, now and again." She sighed.

  "Put your wits to work, girl! Altimere the master artificer has vanished, and with him she who would be queen in Diathen's place! Does that frighten you? Certainly, it casts my nerves into disorder—and you may make of that what you will!"

  Becca swallowed, her right hand curling into a fist at her side. "The thought that I might meet Altimere again . . . terrifies me, if you will have it," she said, her voice low, but steady. "And, since you bid me apply my wits, allow me to say that I know the Queen wishes to keep me in her pocket until my testimony may be used against him. Nonetheless, I must insist that I be allowed to go free."

  Sian blinked. "Free," she repeated, as if the word were some strange artifact that had only now been put into her hand. "And where will you go, free?"

  "I would go across the keleigh." The words had scarce left her lips when her stomach heaved. Becca clamped her teeth against sickness, took a breath—

  Peace, Gardener, murmured the voice of the trees. A cool wash of green flowed through her, cooling her tumultuous blood, uncramping her stomach.

  She took another breath, tasting the distinctive sweetness of duainfey in the air. Duainfey, which gave the gift of clear sight; and surcease from pain. A healer's friend, duainfey, the death it gifted as sweet as the taste of its leaves.

  She had eaten two duainfey leaves—enough to achieve clarity of vision. The third leaf had been taken from her before she could complete her resolve.

  "You would cross the keleigh." Sian sounded openly skeptical.

  "I've crossed the keleigh once," Becca said, lifting her chin with an effort. "It holds far fewer horrors for me than the possibility of meeting Altimere again."

  The Fey woman nodded. "You do have wits, then. Still, the keleigh, though less horrifying than Altimere, is no small obstacle. And, as you say, the Queen has her own reasons to keep you close. Best you come with me, to a more protected location, and await her command."

  "I—" Becca stopped, looking down at her draggled garments. What, after all, awaited her at home? She was ruined—even if she managed to keep the details of her life under Altimere's . . . protection . . . a secret. After all, she had been wanton enough to elope with the man! She had been ruined before the first night was through. All else—everything else she had accepted or had forced upon her—merely confirmed her in shame. Women like her were remanded to Wanderer's Villages, or hanged by the Board of Governors, as an example for obedience and chastity.

  And yet—to remain in the Vaitura, where she was prey and worse? A kest-less being to be dominated and used by those who held more power—which would, she thought dismally, be anyone, including a child not yet out of nursery.

  You are not so unprotected as that, Gardener, nor so friendless.

  The thought warmed her, even as she recalled that the trees had been unable to preserve Elyd's life.

  "Forgive me, Rebecca Beauvelley," Sian said, breaking into these thoughts. "You were about to say?"

  "A moment," Becca said curtly. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to reason.

  The first thing to do, she told herself carefully, was to remove herself from Altimere's orbit. He might, after all, return home at any time. Therefore, to accept the Queen's dictate—for now!—and accompany Sian was, in its way, wisdom. Later, when she had had time to plan, and to proceed from a position of safety—or at least such safety as was available to her here—later, she would see what else she might contrive.

  She sighed, and raised her head to meet Sian's eyes.

  "I will not leave my horse here," she said, firmly, "nor my lore books."

  Sian's mouth twisted into an ironical smile. "These books—they are in Altimere's house?"

  "Yes, and my horse is in his stable," Becca answered tartly. "Is that so wonderful?"

  "Scarcely wonderful at
all," Sian said, and made Becca a sudden, extravagant bow.

  "Lead on, by your kindness! I shall, of course, accompany you."

  It was, Becca thought, shameful that she should feel quite so much relief at hearing these words.

  Sian is not an ill friend, Gardener, the tree told her confidentially, which, for all she knew, was so.

  And, in any wise, she really had no choice.

  Head high, she walked past Sian, across the room. The hallway door opened to let her through.

  Meri had returned to the nest and curled down 'mong the sweet grasses, thinking to make an early start on the morrow. Sleep, however, eluded him, held away, no doubt, by the sounds of wailing on the air, and the flares and flashes of the Newmen's auras, terrible and seductive in grief.