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Chapter Twenty-Seven

She weighed less than his pack had, her kest guttering but not yet gone. Meri threw himself along the dark tunnel, his own aura a green-and-gold smear, barely discernible through his tears.

He should have known . . . he should have watched, he should have understood that she would try. He knew she had less wit than a sprout, and a hero's sense of her own service.

There was light ahead of him, and he gasped in relief, though he knew that what he would come out into would be the blasted landscape of the badlands. Still, it would be the Vaitura. There would be some virtue in the land at least, and he might breathe a mite of kest into her until they could come under the care of trees.

Briefly, he considered stopping here, inside the tunnel, for the kesting, but rejected the notion. He did not know the virtues that made up this strange construct, and he could not take the chance that they would be inimical to kest.

The light ahead grew brighter, tinged with green, as if filtered through leaves. For a moment, he allowed himself a fantasy, that they would emerge not in the badlands, but under the branches of his own beloved trees. A sprout's imagining, but warming for a moment, as he ran onward, the Gardener dying in his arms.

She moaned, her kest blowing and thin; and there—there was the end of the tunnel—he leapt, hit the ground on his shoulder and rolled, Becca's limp body cradled to his chest, and the benediction of trees overhead. He put his hand on her breast—she was cold; the last brave flame extinguished—and his kest rose in blare of power, pouring forth, until she was limned in green fires, and still he gave more, until the two of them blazed like fallen stars against the grass, and a stern voice directed—

Enough!

His kest fell, and he did, strengthless, to the ground beside her, staring up into an ralif, and feeling the very air caress him.

Welcome, Meripen Vanglelauf, the ralif told him. You have been too long away.

Meri took a breath, and smiled. However it had happened, they had arrived in Vanglewood. He would question and puzzle later, he thought, his eyes drifting shut. For now, he, and Becca, were safe.

They were home.

* * *

There were voices murmuring just beyond her ability to hear. It seemed rather a number; the overall tone one of curiosity, and yet—should there be voices?

Becca stirred, groping after memories. Had the lunatic with the pistol apprehended her, after all? She remembered . . . she remembered pouring kest into the needy land, much like another gardener might pour water on a dry kitchen patch.

She remembered feeling weak, and a numbness in her extremities. She remembered wondering if she had been struck by a bullet.

She remembered hoping that Meripen Vanglelauf had escaped. She had seen him . . . seen him well on his way. Surely someone so fleet would have—

Welcome, child. You have wandered long.

The murmurs fell away into silence, respectful of this new speaker, her voice warm and mature. A grandmother, Becca thought, and sighed, soothed and comforted.

I have wandered far, a new voice, as brilliant and bracing as a draught of spring water made answer. Now that I am home again, I wish nothing more than to remain.

And yet you know, as we do, that this is not possible, the grandmother said sadly. There was a small pause. Good sun to you, Gardener. Be at peace beneath within this wood.

Becca stirred, and opened her eyes to a leafy canopy so lush, the sunlight that filtered through them was tinged with green. It was, she thought drowsily, like resting underwater.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Vanglewood," Meripen's light, cool voice answered her.

She turned her head, unsurprised—pleased!—to find him seated cross-legged on the grass by her right hand. He appeared unscathed; more, he appeared rested, and . . . younger than he had been.

"Vanglewood," she repeated. "Meripen Vanglelauf. This is your home, then?"

"My own wood, yes." He smiled, a tender expression such as she had never before seen from him.

"Thank you," she said slowly, "for bringing me here, but, tell me—what happened? I remember him—Dickon's grandson? How could he be? Dickon is only thirty!—chasing us, and I remember the land . . . I was going to heal the land . . . "

"The cure for what ails that land is not so simple as pouring the kest of one woman upon it," he told her soberly. "All the Wood Wise of the Vaitura could cross over and give up their kest to the land, and still it would not be healed."

"But—" Becca stared at him. "What is wrong with it?"

"The keleigh," he said, with a momentary return to grimness. "Just as it is the keleigh that ails the Vaitura. This is something for the Queen and her Constant, and nothing that can be parsed by a Ranger and a Gardener, no matter how well-traveled."

He leaned forward then, and took her hand in his. Becca felt her stomach tighten in equal parts anticipation and fear, while her kest—but, what was this? The power coiled in waiting was green more than gold; cool and perhaps a little cautious. She looked up into Meripen's face. He sighed.

"You had given all but the last flickers of your kest to that—to the land beyond the hedge," he said gently, as if he wished to soften a blow.

"So you did—what I had done for you." She frowned. "I understand, and I—I thank you for your care of me. It could not have been an easy thing for you."

He laughed slightly, and looked down at their joined hands before meeting her eyes again.

"Truth told, I scarcely thought, save that it must be done." One more glance at their hands before he withdrew his and rose. "Now that I am home at last, I must pay my respects, and give my excuses. Will you come with me?"

Becca rose, nearly as lightly as he had done, and paused. She could hear the

trees murmuring to each other, and feel the land as a living thing beneath her feet. The breeze was laden with a thousand scents, and was as heady to the senses as brandy.

"Is it always like this," she asked, closing her eyes and drinking down the air. "For you?"

There was a small silence, while she stretched high on her toes and raised her arms, allowing the breeze to sway her poor branches.

"I had almost forgotten," Meripen Vanglelauf said, very softly, indeed.

She dropped down from her toes, and opened her eyes to look at him.

"Is it—rich—for you now?" she asked, carefully. "Again."

He smiled slightly. "That it is," he answered and raised his hand to point out their direction.

"Where do we go?" Becca asked, moving swift and light at his side.

"To the heart of Vanglewood."

* * *

It was a blessed thing to walk again among his own trees, and to hear their beloved voices once more. He ought never to have ventured out from this safe canopy, he thought, his heart full near to bursting, and his face turned up toward the leaf-laced sky, basking in their welcomes.

Alas, he had been sent forth from the trees, to his mother at Sea Hold, and from there to Xandurana, for the polish befitting a prince. Thence back again to Sea Hold, and the learning of shiplore and the ways of the wave, and to pay the three voyages he had sworn to the sea. And at the end of the third voyage, he made his choice and returned at last to Vanglewood—only to find that his life beyond its trees had marked him. He was not, if ever he had been, a simple Wood Wise, content inside the forest of his birth; bewildered and a little foolish beyond them. No, Meripen Longeye must wander, so he took up service as a Ranger, returning to his home trees infrequently. There was no taint upon a Ranger's service, after all, and much honor to gain. But, in the end, Meripen Vanglelauf had wandered too far.

He glanced at Becca the Gardener, fair dancing with joy beside him as she took in the benediction of Vanglewood's affection, and scarcely knew whether to laugh or weep.

He had forgotten. He had been so depleted and ill that he had refused the aid of those who regarded him, and he had forgotten what it was like, to fully walk among one's own dear trees.

The air was beginning to brighten, and Meri felt his steps quicken. Perhaps he danced, too, in counterpoint to Becca, and if he did, who might blame him, returned from his journeys, cured of his ills, home, home, and almost—

The trees brightened ahead of them. Becca hesitated and extended a tentative hand, precisely as he had done, the first time his father had brought him here.

And, as his father had done for him, he took that hesitant hand in his own, and led her into that sacred place.

From the joy and brightness of the sentinel trees, they stepped into a pure lucent beauty, sunlight like liquid gold gilding leaves as bright as emeralds. Peace wafted on the sweet breeze, and before them stood an elder tree gently wrapped in lichen, its red branches so broad that New Hope Village could easily have sheltered beneath them. Birds flew between the branches, and a streamlet wound, silent and silver, around its roots.

Vanglewood, I am home, he sent, feeling Becca's hand warm and relaxed in his. I have one more duty to perform in the name of the Vaitura. When that is done, I wish to return and never more to roam. He paused, feeling a pang, then took a breath of lucent air and bowed his head. I ask it, Vanglewood.

There was a pause, then a rustle of the perfect leaves, sounding almost as a sigh.

Long have you served the trees, Meripen called Longeye. The trees would reward you as you have asked.

Meri shivered . . .

However, Vanglewood continued, the word like a knife to his heart. You have been chosen for another, and greater, service. Vanglewood is no longer yours.

"What?" In his shock, he cried aloud, his voice ruffling the flow of the stream. Vanglewood, what cruelty is this?

The breeze caressed him, and Becca's fingers squeezed his. He grew calm, and yet—

The mark of the Alltree is upon you, son-Meripen, and on the Gardener as well. Vanglewood is no longer yours.

Despite the rich air, he could not breathe. Vanglewood—his trees were denying him, but—

Vanglewood, the Alltree is—

The mark of the Alltree, Vanglewood interrupted, its thought sharp, is upon both of you. Vanglewood relinquishes its claim. There was another pause, then, infinitely gentle. Vanglewood remembers, son-Meripen. You are not lost, while these trees endure. Go, now.

* * *

Altimere felt the cold glow well before the Rangers began to show signs of disquiet; eventually it was Skaal who came to him requesting that he walk "very quietly, very quietly on all fronts," if he could.

He damped his questing kest, felt it vibrate in resonance to power. His whole body informed him that nearby was a well of power the like of which he had not seen since he had stored the energy of Rebecca's magnificent triumph in Xandurana.

The Rangers followed their own advice, stepping with care as they climbed a gray hill toward a gray sky. They approached hill crest cautiously, Skaal whispering.

"They are raising power. They are returning the forests that gave up their kest to build the keleigh, returning them to the Vaitura."

All thought stopped; his breathing caught, his hands went still.

Only long experience kept his horror out of his face and stance. The thought that he could not form before. Now—now he remembered.

This was a paradoxical situation; the trees ought to be gone entire, their memory as nothing, the heroes who had given them over dust and less than dust.

He tried to do the equations in his head and failed.

"Come, Altimere. Soon enough they'll know we watch. Best to see what you will before they amend seeing!"

Seeing was unsettling: Skaal whispering the names of forests and groves, pointing to this section or that section of the grand plain below was the more unsettling.

The equations jumbled and came together twice, three times:

If these trees were returned, the very fabric of the world would collapse. Kest, which could neither be created nor destroyed, would become chaos. Thought and will would die.

He looked below and saw the folly of the keleigh, and knew it to be his own.

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