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Chapter Twenty-Nine

"How much further?" Becca asked. They were resting in the center of a frizenbush following a dinner of morel, vinut, and bonberry. Meri was stretched out on his side, head pillowed on his arm, and it was only the fact that he looked every bit as weary and as grimy as she felt that allowed Becca to preserve any pride at all.

"If we sleep until moonrise, then run the night, we will raise Sea Hold at dawn," he said, drowsily.

Becca sighed. They had already run two nights—between the trees, not through them, which would, so Meri had told her, have been the quicker route.

"We cannot risk it," he'd said, as they sped through groves littered with ghost trees. "What if you or I leapt from a true tree into one of—those? We would be lost, like that poor sprout."

The lost sprout weighed on him, she knew, and the poor mad Wood Wise who had tried to chop the offending phantom down. What weighed on him more, as she had learned these last few days of travel and infrequent rest, was the violation of Vanglewood.

"You could not have stopped them, if you had been there," she'd said. "Indeed, you might have been among the first to be lost, when the Wood Wise called you to help them."

He had laughed then, somewhat. "I have—just a little!—more sense than that," he'd told her, and rose from that resting place, reaching down to help her rise. That time, they'd run on well into the night, surprising the dawn into a shout as they raced across a high windswept ridge.

Becca stretched out on her side, tucked her head into the crook of her arm, and considered his face, just a hand span from her own.

"Meri?"

"More questions?" Which had become a joke between them.

"Only one," she answered, soberly. "What will Sian do?"

For a moment, it seemed as if he had forgotten to breathe. Then, he sighed, and opened his eye to consider her.

"I don't know," he said. "It—if I am to speak of hope, then I hope that, somewhere at Sea Hold or at Xandurana there is a philosopher who has been studying these phenomena and will have crafted an answer. Sian is the Engenium of Sea Hold; her power is not that of Diathen, speaking as she so rarely may with the support of her Constant, the trees and the Vaitura, but—Sian's power, though lesser, is unfettered."

He fell silent.

"That is your hope." Becca said after a moment, hearing her own voice fuzzy with sleep. "What is your expectation?"

"Is that two questions where one was promised? We only have 'til moonrise to rest."

"But—"

"Peace. My expectation, though perhaps fear is the better word, here—is that there is no such brilliant and foresighted philosopher among Sian's court, and so they will send those they have, who are not inconsiderable, for Sian does not tolerate fools. And they will work and strive and expend kest in great quantity, only to find that none of what they have wrought has been fruitful."

"And then what will happen?" Becca asked, fear making her shiver though the air was warm and the frizenbush protected them from the breeze.

Meri shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "But I fear for the Vaitura, and I very much fear for the world." He gave her a tired smile. "Sleep now, Questioner, or shall I say the word?"

"We share kest," she said pertly. "Will you not put yourself to sleep, as well?"

"It is," he told her, "an experiment I am more than willing to undertake."

"No," she answered, settling her cheek against her arm. "Dream well, Meri."

She was asleep before he gave answer, if, indeed, he had stayed awake so long.

 

"There! Did I not say she would come here!" Aflen's voice echoed triumphantly. He twisted his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back. Abused neck muscles screamed, and he smiled hatefully down into her face.

"See how frightened she is," he crooned.

He struck her across the face and threw her down on the cold stone floor. Ribbon went 'round her right wrist, shocking in its softness; and again, around her left. There was a moment—a lull—and then agony as both arms were yanked above her head, pulled hard and high. Her legs were pulled apart until she thought her hips might break, each ankle tied with another ribbon.

"Now . . . " he said, and held it up to show her. In form, it was not unlike a male member, but it glowed with inimical powers. He smiled, then thrust it into her, laughing while she screamed and screamed . . .

 

 . . . and screamed herself awake, into a present where strong arms confined her, trapping her—She pushed, felt a flare of heat, a splash of rain—

"Becca, Becca, peace," the light voice panted in her ear, while in her head, his thought, so strong and certain—Becca, a dream. Two dreams, yours and mine. Wake, wake, be calm . . .

Sobbing, she collapsed against him, her face pressed into his shoulder, feeling the presence and the interest of trees, relaxing again as their murmured comfort soothed her.

"Why?" she gasped. "Why do we want to repair the world's ills? We are terrible—Fey and Newmen alike! Look, look at what we've both endured . . . " Her voice choked out, she lay there, strengthless, as a warmth began to build, and inside her head a picture formed, unhurriedly, like the unfolding of a flower.

An elitch leaf, as bright and as perfect as anything she had ever seen; looking at it made her feel good and whole, and then—a voice spoke, inside her thoughts, but different, so deep and wise, that she felt love rise with her infant kest, and she closed her eyes, the better to hear it said again.

Welcome, child. Vanglewood accepts you.

She sighed against his shoulder, feeling kest yet warming her blood.

"Is it all and only for the trees, that we go on, then?" she murmured.

Calloused fingers slipped under her chin and raised her head until she was looking up into his face, so stern and lovely. His aura showed as lucent and pure as the light at the heartwood. She raised her hand and touched his cheek.

"No," he whispered, his voice unsteady. "Not only for the trees . . . "

Becca the Gardener . . . His arms trembled, and his inner voice failed.

She stirred, feeling the heat and the familiar, yet new, drawing of desire. I should, she thought, end this.

But she did not want to end it.

His face, his aura, his kest. She wanted to remember him, to wrap herself in the flowing green cloak of his aura, to hold him as part of her, to have him hold her as part of himself.

Show me, she said, speaking him mind-to-mind. Meri, can you abide it?

His laughter shook them both. Oh, yes. I can abide it. But you . . .

Us, she sent, and slid her fingers behind his head, pulling his lips down to hers.

 

His skin was smooth, a delight to her fingertips. She traced the white lines of scars, tenderly, thinking of easewerth and mint. Meri shivered under her touch and laughed, breathless, his hand molding her breast.

"Why not simply ask me to give you my virtue?" he asked, and gasped as her fingers brushed his hip.

Becca laughed then, soft. "But there is no harm in pleasure," she said, "save it harms none." She bent and kissed his chest, nuzzling his nipple, shivering as his kest washed through hers, enriching her . . . "Does that give pleasure, Meri?"

"Pleasure . . . " He ran his hands into her hair and lifted her face, looking into each of her eyes in turn. "More than pleasure," he whispered. "Becca . . . " His hands were trembling, the interplay of their auras striking desire.

It was she who trembled now, and she bent her head to kiss him, her blood aflame, sheets of gold-laced green enveloping them, piercing each.

"Root and branch, Becca . . . "

She molded her body to his, his hands stroking her as the fires heated; desire burned, and a need, an imperative, raised her up. Shivering, on fire, every fiber of body and soul yearning for completion, she straddled him. His came hands about her waist; his hips rose to meet her.

Light thundered, the skies poured glory; they rose, branches grazing the sky, roots delving deep, thoughts and memories, loves and hates, knowledge and desires, rising like sap, nourishing them, forging them in a conflagration of kest, melding them.

Changing them.

* * *

The pattern was complete, saving the positioning of the last branch. Altimere walked from Ranger to Ranger, drawing their kest, and allowing it to fall. Between them, they had little enough, though it would suffice, if he was not wasteful. He considered Xandurana as his proper destination, and trusted that his needful tools would come to his hand when called from within the Vaitura.

He checked his watch, delighted to see that it still functioned; and paused for a moment, head bent, reviewing his plan.

There were risks associated with an immediate return to Xandurana, certainly. Artifex was the seat of his power, and the prospect of re-entering the Vaitura there, and recruiting himself somewhat before attempting Diathen contained more than a grain of wisdom. It was, indeed, what anyone would expect him to do.

"It is decided, then," he murmured, and smiled down at the pretty painted face. "One does not wish to become . . . predictable."

Tucking the watch away, he picked up the final piece, transferred his smile to the bound, doomed Rangers, and walked toward the gap in the pattern.

* * *

Meri opened his eye to a night soaked in emerald and azure, at once achingly familiar and wonderfully new. Becca woke with him, and sighed, her head moving against his shoulder.

We are forever altered, she sent, her thought as bracing as a long sup from a deep spring.

We are melded, he replied, reaching to stroke her warm hair. We have grown.

He felt her laughter ripple on two levels and smiled.

And I a Gardener. But, Meri, will we always be thus close? Those others with which I shared kest . . .

He recalled, as if it were something he had read, once, and long ago, those others with whom she had shared kest, and how. Altimere, were he still in the Vaitura, had much to answer for—and not only from Diathen the Queen.

Those others—to share kest is not a melding, as you know.

"And yet," Becca murmured aloud, her voice languid, "even when we had—only—shared kest there was a connection, such as I did not experience with anyone else." She moved her head, kissing the side of his throat.

"Recall who was the mind behind the plot," Meri said, his own voice sounding absurdly relaxed. "Depend upon it, the artifact had some inhibitor woven into it, though no one else in the Vaitura may ever be able to puzzle out how it was done."

"I suppose . . . " Becca sighed, and raised her head, looking down at him with such tenderness that he felt his heart melt anew.

"I note, Ranger, that it is moonrise."

"Gardener, I note this as well." He smiled up at her and raised a hand to trace the angle of an eyebrow, the arc of her cheek. "We had best be about our business, then. Sea Hold, by dawn."

"By dawn," Becca echoed, and kissed him once more, sweetly, before turning to find her clothes.

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