Duainfey (30 page)

"Wine and a light luncheon," Jandain said as they came into the house. "On the evening terrace."

Becca wondered if the Gossamers would serve him—and then decided that of course, they would. Altimere had doubtless left word with them, as well as with her, regarding the guest and his comfort.

She considered mentioning that the evening garden did not have its best face on so early in the day—and did not. If it pleased the guest to overlook night-blooming plants in the full light of day, well, then, his pleasure was hers.

Or, to state the case as exactly as possible—Altimere would be pleased that she had cared for the guest so well. And to have Altimere pleased with her was everything she desired.

Jandain stepped out into the garden, Becca at his heels. She noted that the Gossamers had wasted not a moment in carrying out his instructions. Wine, two glasses, and the requested light luncheon sat on a small table between the two chairs.

She was, Becca realized suddenly, quite hungry. Exercise—and the aftermath of anger—were the likely culprits. She moved toward Altimere's chair, but Jandain was there before her, settling into it as if it were his by right.

"Sir!" Becca said—or thought to say. Despite her intention to speak sharply to this man who usurped Altimere's place, she said nothing, but meekly went to her place at the side of the chair and curled up, leaning her head against Jandain's knee.

"Ahhh . . ." He exhaled, and it seemed to Becca that he shivered. His hand dropped to her hair, very lightly, smoothing it where it had come loose during the race.

"Yes," he murmured, perhaps to himself. "He keeps you very close, indeed."

He said nothing else for a time, merely stroking her hair as he overlooked the garden. Becca tried to ask him what he thought of it, in daylight, but her lips would not form the words.

"Are you hungry, little child?" Jandain asked eventually, sounding as if he were thinking about something else entirely.

"Yes, sir," Becca said truthfully, and nestled her cheek closer against his knee, as if he were Altimere!

She tried to lift her head away, to put distance between herself and this stranger—but it might have belonged to someone else, for all the success she had.

"If you are hungry, then it will be my pleasure to feed you," he said, lifting his hand from her hair. "Come and sit on my lap."

As if his words had released her, she raised her head, and waited a heartbeat, but—unlike Altimere—it seemed that Jandain was not going to lift her to her feet. Gritting her teeth, she rolled clumsily to her knees, unbalanced by her crippled arm, and staggered upright, nearly missing a headlong tumble off the terrace and into a silverthorn bush, showing black and toothy in the mid-day sun.

Disaster averted, she turned to find Jandain watching her intently, as if he had never seen someone almost fall and break their heads open before. He met her eyes, forcefully, and patted his knee, as if, Becca thought hotly, she were a lapdog.

And, precisely as if she were a lapdog, she went to him and sat, stiffly, upon his knee.

Jandain laughed softly. "Such an obedient little one," he murmured caressingly. He lifted a wine glass and sipped, with every evidence of enjoyment, then held the glass to her lips.

"Drink," he murmured, and Becca, who wished to do nothing other than rise, dash the glass from his hand and retreat to her room, meekly did as she was bid.

He sighed, as if deeply affected. Becca felt her face heat, and tried to concentrate on the flavor of the wine—her favorite, tasting of peaches.

The glass was removed. Jandain reached to the tray and selected a piece of cheese, which he held out to her.

She lifted her head without wishing or desiring to do so, lips parted to receive the morsel from his hand. He caught his breath, watching, rapt, as she swallowed, and extended his hand once more, fingers tracing the line of her throat, down to the lacing, leaving trails of fire down her flesh.

No
! Becca thought.
I don't—he's not—

"Fear not, little Rebecca," Jandain crooned, his voice slurring slightly, as if he had drunk too much wine, but—a sip? How could he be drunk on so little?

"I will do nothing that you do not like," he murmured. His fingers ran along the margin of her shirt, and Becca gasped, shaken to her core.

"Do you like that?"

"Yes . . ." she breathed, truthfully, her voice wavering.

"Good. And this?" He touched her breast, covered as it was with shirt and undergarment. Her nipples hardened, and Jandain laughed, low in his throat. "I feel that you do."

He took his hand away, reached negligently for the wineglass, and sipped slowly. Becca, watching him, licked her lips, craving the taste of peaches. Jandain watched her from hooded blue eyes, glass cradled close.

"You said," Becca heard her voice say, small and timid, "that you would care for me, sir."

"And I do care for you." Abruptly, he brought the glass to her lips. She drank thirstily, and when he took it away, it was empty.

"Greedy little one," he whispered, slipping his hand along her waist. Becca's stomach clenched; all at once she felt the urge to laugh uproariously, coupled with a yearning so poignant she felt that she must weep.

"Come closer," Jandain murmured. "Let us find what else you may like."

He tucked her against his chest, her head on his shoulder, and his right arm like an iron bar around her waist.

"Do you like that?" he asked.

"Very much, sir," she said shyly.

"Excellent. And this?" He stroked her cheek with a light forefinger.

"Yes . . ."

"Ah. And we have already found that you like this . . ." He cradled her breast, kneading gently, then his clever fingers were between her legs.

It was as if there were no barrier between her womanly parts and his fingers. Becca moaned, bit her lip and tried to hide her face against his shoulder.

"What a rare, lovely and astonishing prize she is." Jandain crooned. "Look how her
kest
burns . . ." He withdrew his hand, and Becca moaned again, as he took her chin between forefinger and thumb and forced her face up to him.

He covered her mouth with his; his tongue twining with hers as his fingers teased the lacing wide and pulled her shirt off her shoulder and down her left arm, the slide of his fingers along her ruined flesh exciting, tormenting—She moved her head, and suddenly it was not she who was being kissed, but who was kissing him, demanding.

Jandain pulled back with a gasping laugh, looking away from her face to stare at her arm, something like awe in his face.

"Land and weather, look upon you, Rebecca Beauvelley," he whispered. "Your
kest
burns like the sun, and you wear the evidence of your power proudly." He ran his hand down her arm, Becca moaned in pleasure so fierce it was nearly pain.

"Ah, and you like that very much, do you not?" Jandain murmured. He moved his gaze from her arm with an effort Becca felt in her own gut, and looked into her eyes.

"We will share
kest,
" he announced, his voice a weight against Becca's will; "now and completely."

"Yes," she agreed, and lifted her head, mouth questing for his . . . 

"Greedy bird. Let us find a more seemly nest." He gathered her against his chest and stood, striding into the house, and down halls she had never explored, until a door opened before him and he strode in, to lay her on the wide, deep bed.

It went without saying that the Engenium was in her formal hall at this hour. One might almost think that she had known he had spent the night sleeping in a tree.

And what if she did, Meri thought, sauntering down the hallway. He was Wood Wise and a Ranger—and the Sea Folk expected far stranger behavior from such a one than a mere nap among the branches.

Ahead of him, the living stone floor flashed briefly pink, as if Sea Hold urged him to a brisker pace.

"Ah, if only I had the patience of stone," Meri murmured, and chuckled when the walls went dark.

"Well," he commented, coming to a leisurely halt, and crossing his arms over his chest, "this will certainly speed things along."

Pink light flooded the hallway, and Meri squinted his eye in protest.

"Don't you think it might be best if I simply continued at my own pace? At least then I'll be certain to arrive."

The blare of light faded until the walls were suffused with their usual gentle glow.

"Thank you," Meri said, and moved on at a slightly less lazy pace, amused to see that there was no recurrence of the encouraging flickers in the floor.

It was said that Sea Hold never forgot its Folk, and that the rocks truly mourned those who had returned their
kest
to the sea, even as they delighted in births, and teased fosterlings newcome to their care. It was . . . profoundly comforting to find that Sea Hold at least had not forgotten
him,
or the silly game they had devised between them.

He reached the formal hall too quickly. The Sea Wise on the door didn't even ask his business, but merely stepped aside to let him through. Well, Meri told himself, Sian had left orders that he was to come to her immediately. Certainly she would have told the door—

Two steps into the hall, he stopped, blood gone to ice and stomach heaving, the room blurring out of sense as he fell to his knees, retching, every scar burning as if the chains still wrapped him. He heard voices and braced himself for some new torture all the while the beauty and power of their auras seduced his will and—

"Meri!" Cool hands on his face, quick words spoken over his head, the sound of boot heels on stone, and of the door, closing.

Meri gasped, struggling for breath, but the seductive, unnatural colors were gone, leaving only the cool misty turquoise that was Sian's aura, and the glow from the heart of the stone.

"Meri?"

Slowly, he raised himself, though he would far rather have sunk into the heart of Sea Hold and never be seen again. To have made a display of his weakness, here before Sian and whomev—

"Newmen!" he spat the words, straightening to stare into her face.

Sian sat back on her heels, eyebrows raised.

"Am I to take it that you are recovered?"

"Why does the Engenium harbor one of them?" he snapped, ignoring both her question and her station in the sudden boil of anger.

"The Engenium may do whatever she pleases in her own place and among her own folk," she snapped back. "Meripen Vanglelauf."

"Send it away!" He heard the bleeding edge of his own voice, and took a hard breath, and another, as he touched the elitch branch in his belt.

"Your pardon," he managed. "I—"

"You are distraught and ill," she interrupted him. Her words at least were gentle, and if her tone was still snappish, who, Meri thought, could blame her? Certainly not Meripen Vanglelauf, ruined and useless as he had become.

"Tell me, Cousin, what illness is this that afflicts you? It seems to have passed now—is that so? Shall I call for a healer?"

"I was with the healers, an' you recall it," he answered, and raised a weary hand. "I know you had no part in drawing me away; I merely say that . . . I think I see why I was still bound to the sleep." He shuddered, and took another breath to center himself. "I sometimes . . . experience the . . . memories of my time . . . beyond . . . the
keleigh
as if they were in fact happening, here and now. I—apparently suffered such an attack when I entered the room. It seemed to me that I was seeing the aura of one of the New Folk—"

"You were," Sian said crisply, and came to her feet in one fluid move. She held her hand down to him. "I am pleased to see your
kest
so much restored, Cousin."

Meri did not take her hand. "Tell me," he said. "Sian. Why do you have Newmen at your court? They are dangerous, devious and cruel. I—"

"Do not, I pray you, be absurd," Sian cut him off coldly. "Sam Moore was born on Sea Hold land. He and his owe allegiance to the Engenium. As to why he was here—he came to apply for assistance with his landhold." She looked down at him haughtily. "Would you like to hear his petition?"

"No," Meri said tiredly. He took her hand and was grateful for her assistance as he climbed to his feet. "But doubtless you believe I should."

"I do," she said, "because it concerns you closely." She turned away and walked over to the sideboard, Meri following more slowly.

"Here." She handed him a glass half-filled with amber liquid. He sniffed it. Double-wine.

"You do look as if it might do you some good," she said softly, pouring herself a simple glass of water from the carafe.

Well, and it could hardly hurt. Meri sipped, welcoming the potent burn of the liquid.

"It happens," Sian said, leaning against the sideboard, glass in one hand, and the other thrust through her belt. "It happens that Sam and his folk are settled in a section of our land on which there are many older trees, some, perhaps, not in the most robust health. The Newmen are clever farmers, and they know plants. They have respected the trees, and the land. For all of their excellencies, however, they have not the tree-wisdom.

"And so Sam has come to ask me to send them a Ranger." She sipped her water. Meri, dread gone to sand in his gut, threw the rest of the double-wine down his throat.

Sian nodded. "Just so. You had expressed to me that you wished to return to your fictitious former existence as a simple Ranger, and—I tell you honestly, Cousin—I have no one else to send. Once you have yourself in hand, you will—"

"No," Meri said firmly. "I will not."

Sian raised her eyebrows, and tipped her head, inviting him to go on.

"I will not place myself in the hands of those—of Newmen. I have scars and wounds enough, Sian."

"Agreed. And yet—you
are
a Ranger, and the charge has come to you. Will you deny the trees, Meripen Vanglelauf?"

"It is not possible. You have seen—"

"You were taken unaware," she interrupted, "and given no time to shield yourself. It need not happen again. Indeed, I trust that it will not."