Duainfey (29 page)

Altimere's attention was wholly on the merchant; Becca's more distant attention wavered between the two Fey, each with certain admirable qualities of person . . . 

"Such disarray scarcely seems like her," Altimere commented. "I wonder if she had some deep plan which went awry?"

"That would be most like the Zaldore who has been a gadfly amongst us since she took her chair," Jandain answered. "And I believe you may have the right of it. For a moment it seemed as if she expected this hero to appear from smoke and air to be seated at once. When there was no such manifestation, then came the appeal for an adjournment." There was a slight pause, as if Jandain savored his wine. "She has since been calling on everyone, regardless of their known affiliations. I had not yet had the pleasure of a visit before I felt it necessary to take up your invitation, but it scarcely seems likely that all this politicking is aimed at the creation of a single new chair."

"It seems strange in the extreme," Altimere conceded after a time. "But surely all will soon be revealed? The adjournment must swiftly be drawing to a close."

"So it is. There was rumor that Zaldore has another string to her bow, but what that may be, no one I speak to has been able to discover."

Silence, in which Becca floated, the night garden blurred to an agreeable smear of light before her drowsing eyes.

"Well," Altimere murmured, twining his fingers through Becca's hair. "But what are we about, to sit talking of politics! Do tell me what you think of the garden! I know you have an artist's eye, whereas I am merely a technician—"

Becca drowsed, their voices a pleasant rise and fall, like the sound of the wind in the trees. How long she might have dozed, she did not know; but she was roused by Altimere's voice.

". . . poor child is exhausted! Come, there will be an end to our cruelty. Rise, rise and make your goodnights . . ."

She lifted her head as he rose from his chair. He lifted her to her feet and turned her toward Jandain, who had risen to his own tall height. She made an unsteady curtsy.

"Good night, Jandain Sleep well in our house."

He bowed. "Good night, Miss Beauvelley. Please forgive me for having kept you so long from your rest!"

For some reason, she smiled, then turned to Altimere. "Good night, sir," she murmured, and stretched high on her toes, her face turned up to his, lips parted, her right hand on his shoulder.

He laughed lightly, slipping his fingers through her hair and holding her head between his hands. "Greedy child," he whispered, and kissed her, his lips bruising hers; his tongue forcing her mouth wide.

Liquid flame shot up her backbone; she leaned into the kiss, demanding—and then he withdrew, setting her gently on her feet, and slipping his fingers free of her hair.

"Good night,
zinchessa,
" he said. Becca turned and walked in to the house, along the dim hallways, and up to her room.

It was dark in her bedroom. Altimere was busy with his guest and Nancy had been banished. She would never be able to remove the dress herself, and she did not wish to ruin it by sleeping in it.

She was so tired! Becca yawned and stopped by the bed. Hands, or gloves without hands, appeared, casting pale shadows against the darkness. Becca smiled. Of course! Altimere would have thought of her needs, and left orders.

The Gossamers had the dress off in a trice; two took her hands and led her to the bed, tenderly drawing the covers up to her chin.

One stroked her forehead, and it seemed that Becca heard Altimere's voice, murmuring, "Sleep."

She woke all at once, with the feeling that someone had spoken her name. The room was awash in sunlight, but as far as she could tell she was alone—no, even as she thought so, the door to her bathing room swung open, and the coverlet was drawn gently back. It could, Becca thought, hardly be any clearer what was expected of her.

So thinking, she slipped out of bed and went to have her bath.

Jandain rose from behind the table and bowed as she entered the dining room, bathed, her hair in a demure knot at the back of her head, dressed in a green split skirt and a white shirt laced with green cord.

"And now," he said dramatically, "it can truly be said that the sun has risen!"

That was quite ridiculous, of course, and it was on the edge of her tongue to tell him so, but instead she looked down, as if confused by his compliment, and slipped into her place.

"I hope that everything is as you like it," she said, watching her cup fill with coffee.

"I am pleased by everything," he said lightly. "Altimere is a generous host." He leaned forward suddenly, and felt herself compelled to raise her head and meet his blue, blue eyes. "Ah." He smiled and leaned back. "Indeed, I hear that he has outdone himself in generosity, and that you are to be my hostess today."

"Yes," she said, as the precise amount of cream she preferred was added to her coffee. "I am at your disposal today, sir. Is there something in particular you would care to do or to see? The gardens are quite . . . amazing. We might go for a walk, if you desire it. Or we could ride."

"I think that I should like to ride this morning," he said, watching her even as he broke a muffin and spread jam on it.

Becca felt a thrill of pleasure at the prospect of riding Rosamunde—and then dread. For Elyd was dead and there was no one to saddle—

"Miss Beauvelley," Jandain murmured, and once again she felt compelled to raise her head and look into his eyes. "May I call you Rebecca?"

"Certainly," she heard her voice say, before she had time to consider the matter, and Jandain smiled.

"Excellent," he murmured, and picked up his cup. "Please, do not feel that you need to make small talk with me. I am content to lie here and bask in your beauty while you break your fast."

Becca felt her cheeks heat again, and looked down into her coffee cup.

"You, sir, are quite ridiculous," she heard herself say.

Jandain laughed. "So it has been said—many times!"

Becca cast him a sideways look from beneath her lashes. He smiled at her, and sipped his coffee.

"Now,
there's
a filly in want of a ride," Jandain commented as they entered the stables, and Becca smiled for the praise of Rosamunde.

"Indeed, she is a very fine horse!" she said, seeing with relief that the horses—Rosamunde and a big-chested white stallion—were both saddled and waiting. The Gossamers, of course. She hoped that Altimere would give them a gift, to compensate them for the extra work that had fallen upon them.

"Rosamunde is the granddaughter of one of Altimere's horses," she continued, laying her hand on the filly's nose. Immediately, she felt the warmth of Rosamunde's regard, tempered by—something. She hesitated, but here was Jandain, setting his hands around her waist; Becca gasped, shrank back—and caught up against Rosamunde's shoulder.

"Gently," Jandain murmured. "I only wish to lift you to your saddle."

His hands were firm, and Becca looked up at him shyly.

"Of course," she whispered, and he smiled.

Once she was up and gathering the reins into her good hand, he swung onto the back of his own beast, which danced under him in a show of impatience that seemed utterly lost on Jandain.

"Pasha wants to run," he commented. "Shall we have a race?"

"Certainly, if you like it. But what shall we have for a prize?"

"Why not a kiss?"

Becca frowned. "Are you so certain of victory, sir?"

He laughed and held up a hand. "No, you mistake me! If I win,
I
shall kiss
you
. If you win,
you
shall kiss
me
! Surely, that's a fair division of wealth."

Becca clicked to Rosamunde and that lady moved out of the stable.

"Very well," she heard herself say as they passed Jandain and Pasha. "The stakes are acceptable."

The white stallion gained an early lead across their impromptu course. Becca threw herself along Rosamunde's neck, and dropped the reins, letting her run.

Run she did, passionate, fleet, and determined, the ground a blur beneath her hooves and her mane lashing Becca's cheek. Together, they ran, they flew—

They gained. Inch by inch Rosamunde closed the distance between them, until she was at Jandain's stirrup. And there she stayed, unable to gain more, unwilling—determined—to lose an inch.

Hooves pounding, they rounded the third corner, heading for the finish.

The white horse stretched, and Rosamunde did, keeping her place, but unable to gain. Becca clung to her neck, exhilarated—and there! There was the finish! Certainly, they were going to lose, but the white stallion knew that he had been in a race, by good seed, and Jandain the Fey as—

Ten lengths from the finish, the stallion checked, slowed—and Rosamunde tore past, passing the fourth corner, and coming around—guided now by Becca's hand—to where Pasha stood, Jandain smiling at her from the saddle.

"You, sir, are unhandsome!" Becca cried angrily.

He laughed, and moved his hand, showing her the post they had agreed on as the finish.

"You and your lady won, did you not?"

"We did not!" Becca said hotly.

Jandain blinked, his smile vanishing.

"You pulled back and let us pass! Did you think I would not see? Do you think that
she
would not know? That was no win, but a cheat!"

Jandain's pale cheeks flushed bright red.

"Do you say I cheated?" he asked in a tone so quietly dangerous it pierced Becca's fury.

She drew a hard breath, and leaned over to stroke Rosamunde's neck. "Swift, my lady," she murmured, "and beautiful. You have spirit, grace and heart, and you ran with all—an admirable race, my lady . . ."

"
Do you say,
" Jandain asked again, as Pasha walked toward them, "that
I
cheated, Rebecca?"

She raised her head and met his eyes. "I do," she said, slightly more temperately "—and it is nothing nor the truth, sir. You pulled up. 'Twas not a fair race." She took a deep breath, meeting his eyes firmly. "You mock my horse, sir, and her lineage."

Jandain's lips parted—but he closed them again without giving voice to whatever he had thought to say. The color receded, leaving his cheeks properly pale, his eyes a glittering deep blue. He considered her for a long moment, then bowed low from his saddle.

"Lady Rosamunde, your pardon. It was never my intention to mock you—or to anger your fair rider."

Rosamunde flicked her ears, and he smiled slightly.

"I see my poor manners are forgiven." He tipped his head. "And you, cruel beauty?"

Becca looked down at Rosamunde's mane, suddenly overcome with shyness. "If Rosamunde accepts your apology, it would be churlish in me to refuse it," she murmured.

"Reprieved," he said, lightly, flashing his wide, brilliant smile that was so different from Altimere's.

"Where shall we ride now, Rebecca? The horses must walk." He jerked his head toward the Wild Wood, looming dark and moist just over the wall. "Perhaps a short ride beneath the trees might amuse you."

Becca shook her head quickly. "I cannot," she said, her voice sounding breathless in her own ears.

"Are you timid of the wood? There's no need, you know. I doubt the Brethren come within a league of Altimere's land. If by chance there is some danger, I will protect you."

"No." There was a high ringing in Becca's ears; her chest was tight, and it was hard to get enough air—"I cannot!" she burst out, tears springing from her eyes. "I cannot cross the wall!"

"Cannot—ah. I understand." Pasha was suddenly very close. Rosamunde began to sidle away—and went still. Jandain leaned over and gently wiped the tears from Becca's cheeks with his fingertips.

"Hush, pretty child. Hush, hush. There's no need for distress. I had not understood. He keeps you very close, indeed. Of course he does; I would do the same, did I hold such a treasure. There, don't cry. There's no blame to you."

Becca sniffed, swallowed, and blinked up into his face. "I'm sorry, sir—"

Jandain lifted a hand. "No need. Come, let us walk the horses back to the stable."

Meri slept, finally, stretched along the broad branch of a ralif tree, rousing only when a grey whistler sang a shrill inquiry into his near ear. It was mid-morning by then, and his mind was clearer. Sian might well think that she had sound reason to believe that Faldana was but a cat's paw for her ambitious kin. In fact, Faldana
could have been
just that. Even so, she could not have dreamed that she would endure what horrors came to her on the far side of the
keleigh,
nor did anything she had—or might have—done before negate the fact that she had died a hero, granting him the means to cross the border in one burst of power.

That sacrifice,
Meri thought, as he climbed down from his arboreal couch,
yet requires an answer. Whatever Sian might think.

He put his hand against the ralif's smooth ebon trunk. "Thank you, friend," he murmured, and felt a brief warming against his skin, which meant that the tree had heard him.

Well. Meri looked about him, caught his direction and strode off into the trees. He had walked a goodly distance last evening while he struggled with his memories, but he was still on the Engenium's lands, which meant that—technically, at least—he had not violated his parole.

Perhaps Sian would even see it that way.

He plucked berries as he walked, and broke his fast; followed a silvery giggle to a spring where he drank, and washed his face.

Thus fortified and refreshed, he came back at last to Sea Hold, and sauntered up to the main gate.

The Sea Wise standing guard there looked to be the same who had passed him and Ganat, a small age ago. Certainly, her frown was familiar, and also the ironic cant of her brow as she surveyed him. He braced himself for a sarcastic greeting, but she had better in her arsenal than mere sarcasm.

"The Engenium desires to see you," she said, her voice studiously bland. "Immediately you return."