Duainfey (32 page)

The Newman licked his lips. "The Engenium is everything that is kind," he said—carefully, to Meri's ear—"and certainly our need of a Ranger is, um. Is acute. But, I would not put the journey on you, sir, if you are ill. She tells me that there is no one else to send—"

Meri cleared his throat and Sam Moore stopped, his face stricken. "She tells me the same," he said moderately, breathing in the calming scent of the trees. He spread his hands. "If the trees need me, then my duty is plain."

The Newman nodded, lips compressed. "I understand. But your illness, sir. I—"

"I am not ill," Meri said curtly.

There was a pause, followed by another plain bow, and Sam Moore bent to pick up his pack.

"Are you provisioned?" he asked as he settled it on his shoulders.

Irritation flared. Did the boy think he was just sprouted—and idiot besides? He thought—and bit his lip to keep from gasping aloud as the room slid sideways, the furnishings pierced by brilliance—no. He touched the elitch wand on his belt, focused his eye on the sturdy brown boots upon the Newman's feet, and the colors faded into the background.

He sighed. Lifting his head, he stared into Sam Moore's face, daring him to say anything. The Newman looked grim, but his lips were pressed together into a straight, pale line.

And,
Meri thought,
as it happens, I am not entirely provisioned.

"I need to stop at the armory," he said, and turned. It was harrowing, turning his back on the Newman, whose belt knife had looked as serviceable as his leathers, his boots and his pack. But there, the blade was nothing more than honest lektrim, such as any Wood Wise might wear, and while the outcome of a knife fight was never certain, Meri need not fear such an engagement, if it came.

No, what frightened him more than the Newman at his back was the prospect of proximity to that disorienting aura. He strode down the hall with an alacrity that another might uncharitably classify as a trot, and heard the sound of Sam Moore's boots striking the stone floor behind him.

Leaf and root, but he could scarcely abide being in the same room with the creature! How were they to travel together?

Perhaps, he thought, it will be different, under the trees.

"Dickon! Dickon!"

She screamed herself out of sleep, and lay coiled in a knot under the covers, sobbing, her throat raw, her body torn and painful.

"Dickon, take me home," she whispered, as kind hands pulled the sheets back, straightened her limbs, and brushed the tears from her face. They held her head and gave her a sup of water, freshened her pillow and tucked the covers 'round her.

"No . . ." she protested, struggling feebly. "I must go home!"

There was no answer, save the soft pressure of a hand against her forehead—and sleep swept her away.

It
was
different under the trees.

Sam Moore had taken the lead, Meri following at a compromise distance; neither so close as the Newman seemed to feel necessary—did he think a Ranger could become lost in a wood?—nor so far removed that Meri need see neither man nor aura.

He had half feared that the strength of the Newman's aura would blind him to the trees. Instead, the sharp-edged colors were blunted under the greenleaf, and Meri sighed in relief. Not only did the bow he had wheedled from Sian's armorer buoy his spirits, but the terrain now favored him. Too, the necessity of focusing to keep the Newman's aura from overwhelming him was less of a burden under leaf, where there was so much else for him to heed.

As he walked, he listened to the stroke of wind along leaf, while the birds sang him riddle-bits of news. There was an art to piecing together sense from bird-song, and he was inordinately pleased to find that he had not entirely lost the way of it. Chief among the news items was his sojourn among the high branches, two nights ago. A Ranger in the Wood was cause, it seemed, for some excitement, which made him wonder if it were actually
true
that Sian had no Rangers save himself to send with Sam Moore. He had merely thought it an excuse, but if there were no Rangers at Sea Hold, which enclosed a not-inconsiderable forest within its honor, then—where were they?

Possibly the trees knew, though the older ones were likely to become confused regarding time. Meri snorted lightly. The whole of the Vaitura had become somewhat confused regarding time, since the artificers had exercised their skill, for the safety of all and everyone.

Sam Moore ducked beneath a low branch, scarcely disturbing a leaf. Meri ducked in his turn—and paused, caught by the hum of the tree's contentment.

Greetings,
he sent, politely.

The humming became not quite so loud.
Greetings, Ranger.

I wonder
, Meri sent,
if the one who preceded me is known to you?

He and his folk are known to the trees.

And he and his folk have your . . . approval?

They are a joy upon the land, Ranger. And what is a joy for the land is a joy for the land's children.

Of which he, Meripen Vanglelauf, called Longeye, was arguably one.

I see,
he said to the tree.
My thanks. Good growth to you
.

And to you, Ranger.

He continued, only to find Sam Moore awaiting him at a curve in the path, a frown on his square, brown face. Meri hesitated, hand dropping to the elitch wand, but the Newman made no threat, nor said a word, merely turned and walked on.

Very soon after, he called a rest.

It was early for it, or so Meri felt—and then reminded himself that the Newman held the route for this hike, and would have planned his rest stops and night-overs. The spot was likely enough, next to a swift-running streamlet, and near a culdoon tree. Meri helped himself to a fruit and sat down on one of the rocks near the stream, his shoulder to the Newman.

He should, he thought, ask where they were bound, but it was far more restful to listen to the discussion of the squirrels in the aspen tree growing on the far side of the stream. Something about the Brethren and—

Sam Moore cleared his throat and Meri started, the comfortable woodsy scene momentarily lost behind a mosaic of glassy color.

Meri bit into his culdoon, concentrating his entire attention on the sharp flavor. The colors retreated somewhat; the woods returned; and Sam Moore spoke, hesitantly.

"The Engenium said that you had taken harm from—from men, on the far side of the hellroad. I—it is doubly good of you, to consent to help us."

Anger flickered and Meri fought it down, putting his attention on the complexity of smells born on the wood-breeze, the sound of water racing over stones, the feel of the culdoon in his hand. When the world felt stable, and his anger had retreated to mere annoyance, he looked up and met the Newman's eyes.

"I go with you because the charge came to me," he said slowly, "to aid the trees." And if, he added silently, what aided the trees discommoded the Newmen, none would see Meripen Longeye weep for it.

Sam Moore bit his lip, but his gaze did not wander from Meri's face. "I would try to persuade you that—even as the Fey—we are not all the same. There are good folk among us, and ill; strong and weak. Foolish and wise." He paused, his expression earnest, apparently expecting an answer, and prepared to wait for it.

Meri took an irritable bite of his culdoon. Thorn and stone! Was it not enough that he came with the creature? Did he have to converse with it, too?

"There is a saying, among my folk," Sam Moore said quietly. "
A dark heart will tarnish the noblest deed
."

"And the remedy 'mong your folk for lightening a heart that bears the burden of a death?"

The Newman blinked, and looked aside. "The Fey healers are—" Meri raised a hand, and he stopped, pressing his lips tight.

"Leave it," he said shortly, and frowned as the squirrel's discussion erupted into argument. Silently, he rose from the rock and silently moved downstream, toward a clump of redthorn bushes, their fruits trembling in the breeze.

Or perhaps not.

Meri threw the half-eaten culdoon into the heart of the bush, which burst into agitated movement, accompanied by squeals and complaint. A short, cobby body sprang up and out of the thorns, hit the ground, took a running step—

"Hold." Meri did not raise his voice, nor did he move.

The Brethren stopped and stood as if frozen, growling softly, its horned head lowered, and the tip of its tail twitching. From the side of his eye, Meri saw Sam Moore rise from his rock, and raised his hand, freezing the Newman, as well.

Such power.

"Good day to you, Brethren," he addressed the horned one, mildly.

"Release me," the other snarled.

A non sequitur, or a pleasantry, since Meri had not—indeed, could not—extend a compulsion. Still, it was best to observe the forms.

"Of course, you are free to go according to your needs and will," he said, and paused. The tufted tail twitched, stilled—but the Brethren did not otherwise move.

"I only wonder," Meri said, tucking his hands into his belt, "if you have news."

"News?" The Brethren shook its horns lightly. "What news would you? A High Fey fell off his horse and lay in the road, smiling up at the sky while those of the Brotherhood made free with his pockets and saddlebag. The horse would not be frightened off, more's the shame, and eventually the Fey returned to the saddle and rode on." It shook its head, and stood on one foot, staring up at Meri over its shoulder.

"The Barrens are widening. We lost one of our own down a crack in the earth."

Meri bowed his head. "I grieve for your loss," he said politely, and the Brethren growled deep in its throat.

"The land trembled to the west and south last night. It could be that some trees fell." It pivoted at the waist to stare the silent Newman. "It could be that some trees fell on huts, or gardens, or Newmans."

The Brotherhood were indeed a wealth of information, Meri reminded himself, but they also, some of them, valued making mischief above all other pursuits. He glanced aside, expecting to see the Newman striding forth, but Sam Moore stood where he had stopped, his eyes on the stocky, horned form.

"Anything else?" Meri inquired patiently.

"Meripen Longeye, who quenched the madfire, is back underleaf. The trees natter of nothing else."

"Thank you," Meri said. "I appreciate it, that you took the time to share your news. Is there any service I might perform for you in return?"

"Might be," said the Brethren. "I'll think on't."

It put its foot down, hopped across the stream—and vanished from sight.

Across the clearing, the Newman sighed noisily, spreading his hands when Meri turned to face him.

"What chances," Sam Moore asked, and Meri could see the effort he made to speak calmly. "That it was . . . telling a tale . . . regarding the damage at the steading?"

Meri shrugged, walked over to the rock and picked up his pack.

"Best we go see for ourselves," he said, pulling the straps up over his shoulders. "How far distant?"

Sam Moore shook his head, and settled his own pack. "Two days, walking at a—walking gently."

Meri froze, while the realization that the leisurely pace and early rest had been for
him
.

In respect of his
illness
.

A sparkle of too-vivid color warned him; he snatched at his temper, caught it, and managed to say, evenly, if not with the best of grace, "There is no need to travel gently on my behalf, Newman."

Sam Moore licked his lips. "I would not see you come to harm through me." His voice was faint, but steady.

Meri flicked an impatient hand in the direction the Brethren had taken. "Lead. And do not stint."

The Newman took a hard breath, his various worries plainly at war across his square face. All at once, he nodded, squared his shoulders, turned and led on, moving at a trot.

Meri smiled and settled his bow before following, taking the stream in a low leap.

This, he thought, was more like it.

Nancy dressed her in a brown split skirt and a pale green shirt, combed her hair out so gently that tears came to Becca's eyes, and put it into a single loose braid down her back.

"Thank you, Nancy," Becca murmured. She rose and shook out the skirt, eyes averted so that she need not see the woman in the glass. Outside her window, the day was fine and blue; the breeze that danced past the curtains bearing the sweet tumbled scents of the garden below. She yearned to be outside in the day, to walk among the flowers and take her ease beneath the elitch tree at the far garden.

And yet—how could she leave her room? What if she met Jandain and he—and he—

She covered her face, feeling cheeks hot with shame against her palms. What had she done? She had degraded herself, accepted—reveled in!—acts that no woman of gentle birth—

There was a tug on her sleeve. She raised her head to see Nancy hovering on busy jeweled wings, plucking at the cloth with tiny, anxious fingers.

"No," she said, her voice wavering and full of tears. "I cannot go down to eat. I cannot go down for anything. Nancy, I am—" Ruined. In a far different, and far more damning way than—

Nancy plucked her sleeve again, tugging her toward the door, agitation plain in her small, scrunched face. Becca bit her lip, ashamed once again.

She had been sunk so deeply in her own misery that she had failed to think about what might happen to Nancy, who Altimere might hold responsible for Becca's failure to attend breakfast.

Nancy, who had been "adjusted" once, and whom Becca had not even had the grace to welcome back into her service.

She smiled, or tried to. "Yes, I will go down. You are quite correct; I'm only being foolish." She took a deep breath. "Thank you, Nancy. It is good to have you back."

The little creature dropped her sleeve and rose, until she was staring into Becca's face. Suddenly, she extended her tiny hand and patted her cheek, then zipped off to some far corner of the room, where Becca, turning to follow her flight, could not spy her.