Longeye (31 page)

She sat up, determined to learn what he had to teach.

"Though you still doubt that it can be done," he murmured, as if in counterpoint to her thought. He frowned. "You are a healer . . ."

"I am. But Violet tells me that Palin—and, we assume, yourself!—need only ask the appropriate plant for its virtue in order to be healed, with none of our chopping, or drying or brewing to be done! It seems to me that we are about very different businesses and simply call them by the same name."

"That is possible," he said, his brows pulled together in thought. He sighed. "Elizabeth Moore had asked a question, for which I had and have no good answer: If a Newman can accomplish a Fey's service, and precisely as the Fey would do it, is that person Fey or Newman?"

"Or one of Palin's half-breeds, perhaps," she said, chewing her lip. "That would be a question close to her heart, would it not? Given her agreement with her—with Palin?"

"So it might," he agreed, and lifted a finger. "Attend me, now, and draw your
kest
—
softly
—upward, toward your center."

"My—center?"

He placed a brown hand over his heart, and inclined his head, one eyebrow well up.

Becca took a deep breath, and felt after the molten glow pooled in its resting place at the base of her spine. Gingerly, she pictured it rising along her backbone. For a moment, she felt nothing, then all at once the too-familiar flush of desire, and the slow movement of hot honey along her veins.

The night faded away, the cool breeze stroking her hot skin went unregarded. All of her attention was directed inward, her entire will focused on the slow, contained rise of her fires . . .

"Good." Meripen Vanglelauf's cool voice seemed to come from very far away. "Now, direct it along your wounded arm; your will is sufficient to this, and to direct the healing . . ."

She was dimly aware that she was shaking; that her clothing clung to her wetly. Her blood was consumed with
kest
, and it was burning its way into her arm. She imagined the wasted muscles regaining vigor, the blasted nerves regrown, strength and motion . . .

Her arm was on fire; she screamed and convulsed, straining against the straps as the power crackled through her, burning, destroying—

"
Healing
power!" a voice shouted, and an echo rang inside her head, "Heal!

"Rebecca—
your will
is what decides between destruction and healing!"

Her arm—she could not—but no! This time, it would be different! The fires would act upon her as they had been meant to do; the spasms would exercise atrophied muscles, bringing them back to full health. This time, it would work. She would be healed. She would rise from this place whole and beautiful.

She
would
.

"Enough." His voice was like a long draught of cold water. "Withdraw your
kest
."

She gasped and concentrated, picturing the fire retreating, flowing up her arm and down, down, quiescent now, and cool.

"Rest now," Meripen Vanglelauf told her. "You've done well."

She stirred and looked up into his face; she was, she understood after a moment, lying flat on the ground, with her head resting on one of the packs. He nodded to her left and she looked, at first seeing nothing but the ruins of her sleeve, only then understanding that the brown, firm flesh showing between the scorched fabric belonged—to her.

"I did it," she gasped, raising her hand to her face, turning her wrist this way and that . . .

"Indeed. You did it." For all its coolness, his voice did not sound precisely steady. "Rest now."

"But—" She could scarce move her eyes from the marvel of it. "The Brethren . . ."

"I will speak to the Little Brother," Meripen Longeye said, firmly. "You will rest, and recover yourself." He leaned forward slightly, as if he would kiss her forehead, and whispered, "
Enayid
."

A wave of weariness washed through Becca; her eyes drifted shut, and she slept.

"We rest here," Meri said to the culdoon, "until the Gardener is recovered from her healing."

There was a rustle in the mid-leaves, and the Brethren appeared, a fruit in each hand. It dropped one, and Meri caught it.

"My thanks."

"The tree gives it," the Brethren growled. "One for the Ranger, and one for you, too, Little One."

Meri grinned and bit into the fruit, savoring the sharp taste. "These . . . creatures that surprised you when you were guiding the Gardener . . ."

"Stupid Gardener is too bright!" the Brethren snarled.

"She is certainly very bright," Meri agreed, and had another bite of culdoon to cover his shudder. Bright
and
willful. He was not at all certain that he could have endured the healing she had just imposed upon herself—the shadow-pain he had received through their
kest
-bond had all but set
him
to weeping. He shook the thought away and looked back to the Brethren.

"I wonder where they come from, these creatures, and if you think we might encounter any on our way to the hole in the hedge."

The Brethren was silent for so long Meri thought that he would get no answer at all. Then came a soft growl, and a sharp rustle, as of a tail snapping irritably among leaves.

"There is much of the Gardener in you, Longeye."

Meri froze, the culdoon suddenly tasting of ash. Deliberately, he swallowed, and rested his head against the tree's trunk.

"The Gardener gave a great gift," he said evenly. "I am in her debt."

"There is more," the Brethren observed, "of the Alltree."

Meri laughed slightly. "The Alltree is a story for sprouts, and for the Little People, snug in their holes."

"Silly Brethren," the creature crooned, and growled again, as if in debate with itself.

"The Brethren see many things," it said slowly.

Meri waited.

"We see roaming mists, dead trees, and creatures even stranger than we. There is a hole in the hedge, Meri Longeye, and the wyrd is blowing through."

Altogether, Meri thought, that was a very un-Brethren-like speech. He cleared his throat, but there was a rustle of leaves above him, and when he looked into the culdoon branches, the Brethren was gone.

The dream was of dappled leaves, scented breezes, and bright flowers; a child's happy woodland. Becca, curled sweetly on silky grasses, knew it for what it was—a sleep imposed upon her—and felt a small golden ember of anger begin to smolder.

Deliberately, she brought her attention to one single honeycup blossom. Concentrating, she altered it, pulling it tall and giving it a copper beard, until it was a penijanset blossom blowing there. Emboldened, she pushed at the fabric of the dream, feeling it give way under the assault of her will, the bright day darkening, the dappled leaves becoming shadows, and the flowers fading.

Becca opened her eyes, and sat up.

She was alone with the packs, tucked cozily against the ralif. It was, she thought angrily, not enough that she had
again
been thrust into sleep by a Fey, she must be left vulnerable and unguarded, too!

Not unguarded, Gardener,
a mellow voice said inside her head.
I had you under leaf.

"Thank you," she said, putting her hand against the tree's trunk—and gasped, staring at the strong supple hand delicately outlined in gold, pressed against the rough bark.

"I
am
healed," she whispered. She had half feared, but no! On impulse she threw both hands into the air and waved them wildly over her head. She jumped to her feet, spun—staggered as the wet skirt snarled around her ankles. She saved her balance by windmilling her arms, and laughed aloud.

"I
am
healed," she said again, loud enough that her voice came back to her from the surrounding night. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, took a step back—and stumbled as the skirt caught her up again.

"That is
quite
enough of that!" It was the work of a moment only to unbutton the spiteful garment, and step away, leaving it lying on the forest floor.

"Which is all very well," she told herself, "but you cannot walk naked through the wood."

Her eye lit upon the packs. Perhaps Palin had packed extra clothing. The thing had certainly weighed enough to have held a whole wardrobe.

The laces came apart easily under nimble fingers and she quickly set out on the ground a rope, an axe, a tin of tea, several leaf-wrapped packets of waybread, and a wooden cup. Whereupon, the pack was empty.

"How can so little weigh so much?" Becca asked the wood rhetorically. "Surely, there must be something—"

She reached inside again, thinking that she might have missed something balled up and shoved into a corner, wishing against hope that the something might be a pair of sharkskin leggings and a wide-sleeved shirt.

Her fingers touched something soft.

Her fingers touched something rough.

She pulled them out, first the one, then the other, and stared at them as they spilled over her lap—a shirt in flowing forest green; sharkskin leggings, tight and tough.

Becca bit her lip and took a careful breath. "I would like a belt," she said aloud, though that, she knew, was foolish. "And a good knife."

She reached into the pack and withdrew those items.

"Sturdy boots," a light voice suggested from behind her. "And a vest."

Becca gasped, embarrassment warring with anger.

Anger won.

"How dare you put the sleep on me!"

He moved out of the darkness to lean a casual shoulder against the ralif trunk, green and gold silking about him.

"You needed to recruit your strength," he said mildly.

She glared at him. "I will
not
be put to sleep whenever you or any other Fey wish it! Sian thought nothing of putting me to sleep, without so much as a by-your-leave, and Altimere—!" She bent her head, pressing her fingers to her lips.

"Go away," she whispered. "I want to get dressed."

He said nothing. After she had composed herself somewhat, she raised her head.

She was alone under the ralif, her clothes and goods strewn all around her.

Meripen Vanglelauf was gone.

The ralif whispered when he returned, while she was finishing her braid, using the comb she had last seen in Violet Moore's grandmother's bedroom, and, before that, on her own dressing table at—across the
keleigh
.

"Where do they go," she asked, by way of a peace offering. "When they are returned to the pack?"

"They fade," he answered, his voice also neutral, "unless they are required to remain. After all, they're only shadows."

Becca turned to frown up at him. "Shadows? But . . ." She held up the comb, showing him its solidness.

"Think it into something else—a necklace, perhaps, or—"

"No!" Becca recoiled—and stared as the comb melted out of her fingers and was gone.

"How—"

"We draw upon the heart of the Vaitura for such things," Meripen Vanglelauf said, as if he were delivering another lesson, which, Becca supposed, he was.

"We are children of the Vaitura," he continued. "We each have our service, and we are cared for according to our need." He knelt, and pulled his pack to him. "There is no need to make a comb for you, and one for me—" Smiling slightly, he withdrew his hand and showed her the same silver comb—"when the thought of a comb will groom us all."

"But do you make nothing?"

He tipped his head. "Did I not just make a comb?"

Becca sighed. "I—don't know," she confessed. "I—surely New Hope Village makes what it needs—and not out of thin air, sir!"

"I don't doubt that they do," Meripen Vanglelauf said carelessly. "They are Newmen, and have their ways." He rose effortlessly, shrugged into his pack, and settled the bow.

"The Brethren awaits us at the culdoon tree," he said. "It's time we were walking again."

"The trees here, they aren't real. They won't talk, they don't grow, and they'll steal all your
kest
in a eyeblink if you don't watch close."

"The heroes are like them, all silverlight and gone. Sometimes they'll give you words, and sometimes you can hardly see them, or hear them."

"The trees are like shortcuts—I saw a sprout come in through one. And then it closed, and the sprout screamed . . . and her
kest
just . . . blew away."

"They're working though, the heroes, shades though they be. We can't figure, quite, what it is they're doing. They're chary of us, because we're here, but our trees are still thriving in the Vaitura."

All of the Rangers had their say, four of them sitting in a semicircle around the pile of marked stones, drinking ale that Altimere had produced out of the hanging mists. He listened, and questioned pointedly, arriving at an improbable description of long-dead heroes thrusting
keleigh
-kissed trees out into the Vaitura.

"Why?" he asked.

"What would you?" That was Cai, the restless Ranger who had not yet spoken. "This is a curious place you have built for your amusement, Elder."

Her voice put her behind his left shoulder. He turned, courteously, to face her, and pretended he did not see the serviceable leather truncheon in her hand.

"Forgive me, but I do not believe I understand you."

Cai swept her free hand out, encompassing the
keleigh
entire. "The creatures of this place are misshapen and desperate, the heroes long gone mad, the forests dreadful and dangerous. All of us here—the poor, mad heroes; the ghastly trees; the monstrous creatures; ourselves—why, even the weeds!—all long to be elsewhere. You made this place—you and the philosophers. Can you not solve it for us now, as you snatch good ale out of the very mists that bind us? Can you not unmake this place?"

"The
keleigh
may be unmade," he said, which was truth, if a simple one; "but not from within it."

He rose then, carefully, taking a pace back, which allowed him to include all the Rangers in a glance, and left him out of range of a quick blow, were Cai mad, rather than weary and ill with grief.