Duainfey (16 page)

Altimere turned to her, offering his arm. "Miss Beauvelley," he murmured.

In the act of raising her hand, she froze, as if all her muscles were as useless as her withered arm. She tried to draw a breath—to scream? to speak?—but her cramped chest admitted no air. Her heartbeat was loud, frantic in her ears, and stars danced at the dark edges of her vision.

"Miss Beauvelley?" His voice pierced the panicked thunder of her heart. "You placed your power into my keeping. Do you withdraw your word?"

She looked up into eyes that seemed to glow in the dimness like a cat's. Warmth suffused her, as if his glance heated the very blood in her veins, and she felt her mouth relax into a smile.

"Withdraw my word?" she repeated, tucking her hand around his arm, her fingers delighting in the sturdy weave of his traveling coat. "Certainly not, sir."

He smiled, his eyes narrowing into glowing slits, as if he were a cat in truth, and put his hand over hers, there on his coat sleeve.

"You relieve me," he murmured, and then said nothing else as they followed the patient innkeeper down the hall, past the empty common room, up a wide staircase to a door.

"Here you are, sir and madam!" He pushed the door open and would have gone inside, but Altimere spoke.

"Give me the lamp and leave us," he said, receiving that item into his free hand. "We will be wanting the bath and our food as soon as they may arrive."

"The fire wants—" the landlord began.

"I will see to the fire, and the lady will see to the lamps. You will see to those other needs we have indicated."

The innkeeper bowed. "Yes, sir!" he said smartly, and took himself off, his footsteps firm and certain in the dark.

"Come," Altimere murmured, and drew her into the room.

The lamp threw his shadow, macabre and towering, against the spotlit walls. He set it on a table, raised his hand and snapped his fingers, once.

Becca flinched in the sudden blare of light as every candle in the room took flame.

She gasped, and looked to the tall Fey.

"How—"

He laughed, the first time she had heard him do so, and reached out, capturing her chin in cool, thin fingers.

"So powerful and yet so childlike." He looked down into her face seriously, like a man contemplating the heart of a flower. "You have much to learn, Miss Beauvelley." He bent close, his breath warm against her cheek. Becca felt her blood heat until she felt she must surely melt—and the thin mouth brushed hers, the merest touch of lips against lips. She shuddered, longing for—for what, she scarcely knew, though she leaned toward him—

"Much to learn," he whispered in her ear.

He withdrew, turning from her to toss his coat onto the chair.

Trembling, she gripped the chair back, watching him stride across the room to the fireplace, the poker in one long elegant hand.

Happily, the room was provided with a boot jack, which Becca made use of while Altimere showed the boy where to place the tub.

She shivered, standing there in her stocking feet, and almost wept. Plainly Altimere expected her to bathe and, truth told, she would welcome warm water on tired muscles. But to
bathe
 . . .  Becca dared a glance at the glass, wincing at the tangled mass of her hair, all too like that cold, doomed future she had glimpsed, and nothing at all like the glittering, immaculate vision of herself among the adoring plants. She was a fool, three times a fool! And lucky she would be if she came out of this night's work with—

The door opened, and Altimere stepped within. He rid himself of his boots, and unbuttoned his shirt, showing a narrow chest as smooth and as pale as alabaster. Becca took a hard breath, feeling her face heat. Altimere paused, head tipped to a side, and a small smile along the side of his mouth.

"You do not look ready to bathe, Miss Beauvelley. Perhaps you require assistance?"

Perhaps, Becca thought, the man had enlisted a housemaid to assist her. She gave him a smile.

"As it happens, yes. I do require some . . . minor . . . assistance."

The small smile deepened, and he stepped forward. "It is my pleasure to offer such . . . minor . . . assistance as you may require," he murmured, and cupped her cheek in his palm. "So pale, Miss Beauvelley. And you would have had us ride further." He rubbed his thumb lightly along the line of her cheekbone. Becca shivered.

"Nay, you have nothing to fear from me," he said, dropping his hand. Becca felt a pang at that separation, and bit her lip.

"Tell me," Altimere said. "What assistance may it be my pleasure to render unto you?"

"I—" She took a breath and met his eyes firmly. His smile widened in delight.

"Yes," he urged. "Tell me."

"If you will only recall it, sir, I did tell you—at the dance. I am less than perfect."

"But of course I remember this discussion, for it seemed absurd to me."

"Yes, and so it seems to many people. But the truth of the matter is—my left arm is crippled. It has no strength and very little range of motion. I require assistance in the smallest things. Washing and dressing my hair, for instance. Putting on or taking off clothing . . ." She looked down at herself ruefully. "These I can manage, but anything more . . . convenable, let us say, and I must have help." She raised her head and met his eyes again.

"If I must bathe tonight, I will have to ask you to summon the innkeeper's wife, or perhaps a chambermaid to assist me."

Altimere considered her out of warm amber eyes. "There is no need to summon a stranger to this task when I, in whose hands you have placed your power, stand ready to assist you and care for you. Come."

He stepped toward the door. Becca hesitated, her hand fisted in the fold of her skirt.

"I don't—"

"Come," he repeated, without heat, and Becca moved forward obediently. He held the door open for her and followed her into the parlor.

"Stand there by the tub," he directed, and she did as she was told.

He came up to her, smiling softly, and began to unlace her shirt. Becca shook her head, and stepped back, her hand rising.

"Please, I—"

Altimere caught her hand, his touch cool and intoxicating. Becca swayed, feeling as she had when they had danced, only—

"You need fear nothing from me," he repeated. "I will care for you, and comfort you."

"Why?" she whispered, swaying toward him, as if she were the moth to his flame.

"But why not? Would you not have groomed your Rosamunde and fed her and seen her in all ways comfortable before tending to your own needs, had there not been a stable boy present?"

"Why—yes . . ."

"And so it is with us. Come now." This time, he reached for her skirt, unbuttoning in a trice what had taken her hard minutes to secure. She stood docile under his hands, watching his face as he let the skirt, and then the petticoat, down to pool 'round her stockinged feet before he reached again for the laces.

The blouse fell open. He slid it off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. For himself, he stood very still, his face bearing an expression she had no hope of reading. She did not think it was repugnance; rather it looked like . . . exhilaration.

"This?" he breathed at last. He ran his fingers down her ruined arm,

leaving trails of pleasure in their wake. "
This
is what makes you—how did you say?
Less than perfect
?"

"Yes," Becca whispered. "I—"

"They are fools," Altimere said. Taking her strengthless fingers in his, he raised her hand, bent, and kissed her wrist where the bruises from Jennet's outrage showed.

"This must never be hidden again," he murmured, and his voice made Becca shiver.

"But now," he said, practical again, "we must finish what we have begun." He released her hand, gently, dealt with the rest of her clothes summarily, and held her right hand as she stepped into the tub.

"Oh . . ." she sighed as the warm water enveloped her.

"Yes." Altimere knelt beside, shirt gone entirely now, cloth and soap in his hand. "Allow me."

She should, Becca thought, be terrified, scandalized, given over to remorse—any or all of those emotions which the romances had taught her were the territory of a maiden who was about to have her virtue reft from her. Instead, she felt . . . peaceful, drowsy, cherished. Doubtless, she thought muzzily, her sensibilities were coarsened by reason of having been ruined once, already.

All too soon the bath was done. Altimere brought her out of the tub, wrapped her in warm towels and sat her on the stool in front of the hearth, while he combed out her hair.

"Our dinner has arrived," he murmured. "I will bring you a plate and some wine."

This he did, setting a low table between them, and they ate together, companionably silent, while the fire dried her hair.

"You should have your bath," she said, over her second glass of strong red wine.

"First, I will see you settled and comfortable for the night," he said. "Do you wish for more to eat?"

"Thank you," she said, "but I have eaten enough."

"Very well, then." He slipped her wine glass out of her fingers and stood. "Come," he said, and as before she rose unquestioningly and followed him into the bedroom.

He lifted her into the bed and covered her tenderly, as if, Becca thought muzzily, she were a child, instead of a wanton woman.

"Peace," he murmured and leaned down to stroke her forehead with a mother's gentle touch. "You are safe here with me. Now, sleep."

Rebecca closed her eyes—and did just that.

The air was intoxicating; lush with reds, oranges, and royal blues—the colors of passion, power, and determination. They washed over him in warm, sensuous waves, filling his senses, awakening again the sick, desperate longing.

He lay on the dead wooden floor, the burning in his flesh as nothing beside the burning of his desire for the rich opiate of those colors. His
kest
rose, beyond his will, beyond outrage or shame, blindly seeking to join, power to power, and if it were subsumed, what matter?

For a long exhalation, he hung poised between horror and need. If he were to cede control, allow his base nature rein . . .  Depleted as he was, he would most certainly be overcome—subsumed, dead to agony and desire alike.

His essence joined forever to that which he hated.

"No . . ." he whispered, and exerted himself, trembling with the effort. The first lesson of childhood, and almost, it was too much for him. The colors poisoned the air, and he retched weakly—then screamed as the lash stroked his chest—screamed, and screamed—

"Wake!" The voice was loud, and something about it suggested to his disordered senses that it was not the first time that command had been uttered.

He gasped, the memory binding him, every muscle locked in horror—

"Faldana! 'ware, 'ware!"

"Meripen Vanglelauf, I command thee—
wake
!"

The ripple of power was nothing more than a spatter of raindrops against his face, yet it was sufficient. He snapped into wakefulness, and blinked up at Ganat, grim-faced in the starlight.

"Your—pardon," he whispered, aware then of the other's hands gripping his shoulders, holding him hard against the living land, as if the other had sought for him some aid or healing.

"Are you truly beyond the dream?" Ganat asked warily, and Meri sighed.

"You were gentle, and I am powerless. Indeed, I am awake—and I thank you for your care."

Ganat blew his breath out hard, and sat back on his heels, letting his hands fall to his knees.

"They woke you too soon," he said, then lifted a placating hand, as the night wind brought his words back to him. "Bearing in mind that I am not a chyarch."

"Though you are a healer," Meri said with a sigh. "I should have suspected that."

Ganat shook his head, leaf-brown hair brushing his shoulders. "Not so much of a healer, either. Only a Wood Wise who has been given some art and set loose to wander as I will. The chyarch would have it that the Forest Gentry are in want of ministering—or at least of sense. We crawl back to our own small-lands when we're wounded, which is all very well, but not perhaps as wise as might be. Some healing might speed the process, drain less of one's power—and so she trains any of us she can lay hand over and sets us loose again, to heal where we find harm—and perhaps to persuade those who are grievous hurt to seek the Hall." He sighed. "It's the accursed walls," he said, "and the staying in one place. None of us willingly embrace such things."

"I know," Meri said softly, and sat up, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. "I apologize for disturbing your rest, Ganat. Please, if you can, sleep."

"Well." Ganat paused, and Meri turned his head to look at the man out of his uncovered eye.

"The thing is, you're weak, and you've been wakened too soon and you need all the things that an invalid needs—
and
I can say that without giving offense because I
am
a healer and I'm here to help you." He glared, unconvincingly.

Meri snorted lightly.

"Even if I were offended—which I assure you I am not!—there's very little I could do about it in my present state."

"Exactly my point. You need sleep, for I'm thinking the Engenium Sian wants you delivered in some reasonable shape."

Meri shuddered and turned his head away, looking out into the quiet night. "Thank you," he said politely, "but I'm wakened now."

"I can give you dreamless," Ganat said quietly, and Meri raised his head, meeting the other's eyes.

"Can you," he said, inflectionless. Ganat raised his hand, fingers curled toward the palm. "I swear it on my small-land."

Meri shuddered. To slide back into the dark, where the horror awaited for him, bound to unconsciousness by whatever art lay at Ganat's hand? Did the other lack sense entirely, to think that he—

No,
he told himself, recalling the other man's open, earnest face.
Ganat wishes to assist you. He does not understand.

"This is not dream," he said slowly, "but memory."

For a long moment, Ganat sat utterly motionless. Then he sighed, and bowed his head.