Altimere walked through indistinct landscapes, neither hurrying nor dallying, but with much the air of a gentlemen taking a ramble through his garden of a peaceful afternoon. After a time, he grew fatigued, and thought he might rest himself and partake of some refreshment.
He paused and looked about him, spying phantom trees coquette in the flowing air; and indeterminate clusters of rocks, or flowers—or neither. Not, in truth, a very pleasant aspect, but he would contrive. As he always did.
A gesture brought a thread of mist to his hand. He placed his will upon it and shaped it, almost absently, into marble bench. When it was formed to his satisfaction, he caused green grass to carpet the insubstantial ground. Behind him, a ralif tree sprang into being, gnarled branches dividing the tricksy air, leaves cooling the bench at its base.
Altimere seated himself, back against the trunk, smiling when he felt the rough bark rub against his jacket. His smile faded as he considered the grass—too green, too uniform, too . . . boring. He lifted an eyebrow and violets appeared, shy and charming among the bright blades.
"Very nice," he said, and raised his hand.
A wine glass appeared between his fingers; claret glaring balefully at the mist.
Altimere sipped—and sighed. The flavor was off; the red flat, rather than rounded, the peppery aftertaste all but nonexistent.
"It will not do," he said. The wine steamed out of the glass; the glass melted from his fingers.
Altimere settled his back more firmly against the ralif, pleased with its solidity, composed his mind, and raised his hand as if to receive a wine glass.
* * *
Fear had subsided, leaving room for pain, of which there was a surprising amount. Not just her gashed and misused hands, but her back, her knees and her shoulders—all doubtless bruised and battered in her fall from Rosamunde's back and subsequent rolling about on the forest floor.
Sam set a brisk pace through the woods, though by no means as quickly, Becca suspected, as he might have gone on his own. After assuring herself that Rosamunde moved freely, that her wounds did not begin to bleed a-fresh, and that she did not object to Sam leading her, Becca dedicated herself to keeping up, despite the protest of her own injuries. She had borne worse, she told herself; and she had not by any means taken the worst wounds.
Her did head hurt, and walking seemed to exacerbate the pain, which was slightly worrisome. What worried her more was that there seemed to be a shifting fogginess at the edge of her vision. If she were concussed, she might be raving, or unconscious, by the time they reached Sam's village—but there, Sam's niece was a healer; she would surely know what to do.
More frightening than these commonplace injuries was Nancy's condition. The little creature lay unmoving among the dead leaves and bits of moss in Becca's palm. She did not breathe—but Nancy never did breathe. How was she—or Sam Moore's niece—to treat such a patient? Becca worried. How were they even to discover what had been broken? If Nancy would wake, she might provide some clues as to her needs, but if she persisted in this state of seeming unconsciousness . . .
At least, Becca thought, Nancy's silvery light persisted, though, alarmingly, her wings had faded from bright jewel-tones to a forlorn and muddy grey.
"Trees," she said, not caring if Sam Moore heard her. "What shall I do for Nancy?"
An artificer must repair an artifact, Gardener, a soft voice told her. The wisdom of trees does not grow in that soil.
Becca bit her lip. Altimere had told her that Nancy was an artifact. She had forgotten—or, very well! She had never really believed it. Machines did not exhibit irony, or temper; haughtiness or gladness. Machines did not scream in agony when they willfully separated themselves from their maker's influence. Those were the actions and reactions of a living intelligence, and if that intelligence were encased in a gem-and-silver body, it was no less alive.
Perhaps Sian will know, Gardener, the soft voice suggested—and Becca stumbled to a halt.
"Sian!" she cried aloud.
"Miss Beauvelley, are you hurt?" Sam caught her shoulder—carefully—his hand an unwelcome weight holding her against the ground.
"Your—village!" she stammered, staring up at him. "You are one of Sian's tame Newmans!"
Sam's lips pressed together tight, and it seemed to Becca that his hand became momentarily heavier, before he replied, in a perfectly level voice.
"New Hope Village owes allegiance to the good lady at Sea Fort. In exchange, we live as lightly as we might on her land, and keep the accord my mother made with the trees. There's nothing tame in that, Miss. We're not Lady Sian's pets!"
That last was tempery, after all—and why shouldn't it be? No man liked to be accused of being less than he was. She had not escaped Sian at all, nor avoided the judgment of her own kind; she had only made her position even more untenable. Sian was not a fool; furthermore, she was under the direct order of her Queen. For the first time, Becca wondered if Fey might compel Fey, and if the Queen in particular had compelled Sian's obedience in a matter she plainly felt was ill-judged.
Becca sighed. Compelled or freely obedient, it was unlikely that Sian would allow her prisoner another chance to slip away. Becca could likely look forward to a guarded room in Sam's village of New Hope, if Sian didn't simply put the sleep on her until the Queen demanded her presence at court.
"I cannot go with you any further," Becca said, her voice quavering. "Please leave us."
Sam shook his head. "Lady Sian was worried for your safety, Miss. She sent us to find you, quick, and bring you back safe." He sighed. "We didn't manage that too neat, I guess, but—"
"But if you will," a light voice interrupted from the shadows beyond Sam, "waken the ire of creatures unknown even to the trees, you must expect to have something to show for the encounter."
Sam turned his head. "I thought you'd run back to the village ahead of us," he said. "I made a wager with myself whether you'd sit down to dinner alone, or wait for us to join you."
The other woodsman snorted. Becca could make out a tall shape—taller than Sam, and slender, with tatters of green luminescence fluttering about him—which was probably, Becca thought, only the blare of Sam's greater aura, bleaching the color from his friend's.
"Call me a fool," the other hunter said, "but I didn't like the notion of returning to Sian without her truant in hand."
Sam grinned. "There's that," he acknowledged. "Well, then, now that you've caught up, you can help guard against anymore of whatever that was."
"I will certainly do what I might," the light-voiced man said placidly. "But I think we may not see any more trouble tonight."
"I wouldn't be disappointed if you were right," Sam said, and looked down at Becca. "Do you want one of us to carry your—your Nancy, Miss? You don't look half steady on your feet, and it's still a bit to walk."
She was trapped. It might have been possible, though not, she admitted, likely, to run away from Sam. But now that they were joined by Sam's hunting partner—another missed opportunity.
Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away, and shook her head, gasping at the dazzle of pain.
"I will carry Nancy," she said determinedly. "Please, lead on."
* * *
"Better," Altimere said, and tasted the wine again. Yes, definitely better. Pleasing, in fact.
"Now," he said, casually twisting a side table out of the mist. "Cheese, and some crudities."
* * *
Meri confined himself to the pace Sam had chosen, which, while doubtless slower than Sian would have wished, showed respect for the wounded.
He had heard the Newoman's refusal to be lifted to the saddle, in consideration of her mount's injuries. Walking beside the mare, on Sam's right and a few steps to the rear, he inspected her more carefully than he had a chance to do earlier. She had taken three cuts, none as deep as he would have supposed, given the nature of her opponent. He had wondered if she had lamed herself during the battle, but her gait was smooth, and her aura was calm, unlike her rider's, which was shot with red and orange bolts of agitation and pain.
"I did not expect to find a war-mare in these woods," he murmured, a small gallantry for the lady's ear alone, so he was startled to hear the Newoman answer, from beyond Sam's protective bulk.
"Rosamunde is bold and great-hearted," Rebecca Beauvelley said, her voice thin, but steady. "I am honored that she allows me to ride her." There was a small pause, and a rattle of stone, as if the Newoman had missed her footing. "She is quarter-Fey."
Quarter-Fey? Meri looked at the mare's lines, the tall sturdy ears and sapient eye. "You surprise me," he said truthfully.
"She was bred on the—the other side of the keleigh," Rebecca Beauvelley continued, and it seemed to Meri that the words spoke themselves, without much direction from the speaker. "Her grandfather was one of Altimere's stallions, that he sold to Lord Quince, who bred him to his prize mare. He intended the offspring for his own mount, but Lady Quince put her foot down. So he bred that one, too, to another of his mares, and the result was Rosamunde."
"And a fine horse she is, too," Sam said. "I'd wager that most would have bolted from that . . . thing. Your Rosamunde gave battle."
"She is very brave," Rebecca Beauvelley agreed, and fell silent.
There was, Meri thought, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with the brave Rosamunde, much in that little story worth thinking on. The fact that the mare traced her lineage back to the stables of Altimere the artificer—who had sold her grandsire to Newmen on the other side of the keleigh—that alone was enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.
"We're almost home," Sam said, though Meri thought the cheerful note in his voice was forced. "See those lights over there through the leaves? That will be our house, I don't doubt. My sister's girl will take good care of your hurts, Miss, and Elizabeth—my sister—is the best cook in the village!"
"Rosamunde will need care," the Newoman said. "And Nancy."
"I'll take care of the bold lady," Meri heard himself say, to his considerable surprise. "You needn't worry there."
"Thank you. Nancy will need to be tended—immediately. If Mr. Moore's niece will allow me the use of her supplies."
"I think," Sam interrupted, thereby saving Meri the need, "that Lady Sian is very anxious to see you, Miss, when you return. The—The Nancy. I'll take it—she—to my niece and let her try her skill. I don't know that she's had much chance to patch up Hobs, though every now and then one would come out of the woods and ask my mother to wrap a cut, or splint a broken bone."
"Nancy is not a Hob!" That came out sure and strong, Meri noted. "She is—she is my friend."
"Fair enough," Sam said soothingly. "But you have to own, Miss, that she isn't like you or me."
Good of the Newman to have left him out of that particular equation, Meri thought, though he didn't think Rebecca Beauvelley had noticed.
"She may not be exactly like you or me," she said, still strong and snappish, "but she is alive, and fearless, and—and good. I will not have her injuries ignored."
"No one said that," Sam protested, the lights of the village quite near now, and it was not, Meri thought, only Elizabeth Moore's house that spilt light out into the night.
The sprout lies in wait, Ranger, an elitch commented, but Meri had already seen the flicker of the boy's aura.
"Jamie," he said, half in warning and half in command.
Laughter rustled the leaves and the sprout dropped out of a larch a few paces ahead.
"There you are!" Jamie said exuberantly. "What took you so long?"
"There was a battle royale engaged when we arrived, and we were obliged to assist in the vanquishing of the foe before we could continue," Meri answered, just ahead of Sam's avuncular, "Jamie make your bow to Miss Beauvelley and offer your service, please."
"Yes!" Jamie stepped respectfully into their group at Rebecca's Beauvelley's far side, his quiet greens and curious yellows immediately hidden by the noisy blare of her aura.
"Good evening, Miss Beauvelley," he said, politely. "I'm Jamie Moore, Sam's nephew. Is there anything I carry for you? You look tired."
"Thank you," she said distantly. "I am not so tired that I cannot carry my friend another few steps. However, it would be very kind in you to run ahead and let the healer know that there will be wounded for her to tend."
"I—"
"That's well-thought," Sam interrupted. "Do that errand, will you, Jamie? And also let Lady Sian know that Miss Beauvelley has asked that her wounded be treated before anything else goes forth."
Jamie sighed, lightly, but perfectly audible to Meri's ears.
"Sam, Lady Sian sent me to tell you that Miss Beauvelley should be brought directly to her."
"Fine!" the object of this discussion snapped. "Tell Sian that she may meet me in the healer's room, then! I will not have Nancy's life endangered!"
"That seems a reasonable compromise," Meri said into the stunned silence that followed this pronouncement. "Pray carry that message, as well, Jamie."
"Master—"
"Go," he interrupted, letting sternness be heard.
Jamie went.
Sam led them to the house that Meri had seen in his longeye look from atop the spystone. A tree, shaken off its roots by an earthdance, had struck the roof. In the meanwhile, the tree had bee removed and the roof mended. The small room built off of the main house had not been harmed at all; and Violet Moore stood in the open doorway, her face set and her aura a confusion of yellow, orange, and grey.
"Good evening, Healer," Rebecca Beauvelley said firmly. "I have an unusual patient for you."
"My brother said you carried a wounded friend," Violet answered, her voice much surer her aura had predicted. "He also said that you were wounded yourself." She stepped aside. "Please, come in."
The Newoman hesitated, glancing behind her. "Rosamunde . . . "
"I had said I would care for the lady," Meri said from the shelter of the mare's shadow. "My word is good."
"Thank you," Rebecca Beauvelley said, and with no more argument stepped through the lighted doorway.
Sam hesitated for an instant, and looked around. "I should have been quicker off the mark to offer care for her horse," he said resignedly.
"You are better suited to guard Diathen's hostage," Meri said, slipping the reins out of the Newman's fingers.
"Because she'll trust me," Sam said with unexpected bitterness. "I don't have much heart to stand as jailer."
"Nor do I," Meri answered, truthfully. "Nor, I suspect, does Sian. Trust me, Sam Moore, you do not want the Queen's eye to fall upon you. Best you do as your sworn lady bids, and think no farther than duty."
Sam snorted. "That's advice you take yourself, is it?" he asked.
Happily, he did not wait for Meri's answer, but strode through the open door, toward the two Newomen bent over a small form on the table.
"Well." Meri sighed and stroked the mare's elegant neck. "Rosamunde, is it? Let us get you on the mend." He looked about him, noting the signature of several beneficial small-plants along the side of the house.
The Elder Healer kept those low-growers that she made use of most often close to her hand, the elder elitch told him, and once again offered the images of the old woman bent over her work of grinding, drying, and combining.
"To each his own custom," Meri said, though the old woman's way seemed unnecessarily complex. He stroked the mare's neck once more, and moved toward the glow of the small-plants. The mare walked companionably at his side, pausing when he did.
"Here," he murmured, crouching down beside the golden-glow. "Of your kindness," he said to it, as he had learned to do very long ago, when he was scarcely older than Jamie Moore. "Of your kindness, would your share your virtue with a friend?"
For a moment, nothing happened, and Meri wondered if, perhaps, the plants over which the elder had placed her hand could not heed a stranger. Then, the glow began to solidify into a sphere, as if the plant produced a berry of kest for his use. He extended his hand and it dropped, warm and smooth as a pebble, into his palm.
"Thank you," he said politely. "I pledge that your gift will be used to heal, and in no way to do hurt."
He rose, the tiny gem of kest cupped in his hand. His ears brought him the sound of voices, moving closer, as he stepped to the mare's side.
Sian comes, the elitch remarked. She is not best pleased with the Gardener.
That was scarcely surprising, but Meri had more important matters than Sian's temper to concern him at the moment.
Careful to keep his own meager kest confined, he stepped before the mare, and raised his hand, letting her see what he held.
"A gift," he said, which a Fey horse would know, but that one bred beyond the Vaitura might not. "To mend your wounds."
A strong ear flickered. The mare whuffed thoughtfully, and bent her proud head.
"Yes," Meri said encouragingly. He raised his hand to press the golden gift of kest against the white blaze of her star.
Power flared, sparking briefly as virtues met and meshed. The mare's coat shone, as if every chestnut hair were lit from the outside. The gash on her shoulder faded, and the worst one, on her flank. Meri stroked her nose, murmuring gently while the healing ran its course. She stood firm, and perfectly calm under his hand, and when the melding was done, he ran his palm down her shoulder, and smiled.
"Not even a scar," he said to her. "You are blessed, indeed."
The mare blew lightly, and he felt his grin grow.
"There you are, Cousin Meri!" Sian's voice was brittle. He sighed, and leaned his forehead briefly against the mare's shoulder. "If you're done resting, perhaps you would attend me?"
It was not, he thought, going to go well for the Newoman Rebecca Beauvelley, not with Sian in this temper. Nor would it go well with him, to refuse to attend her.
"Surely," he said, keeping his voice even. He turned away from the mare, spotted the sprout in Sian's train, standing between his mother and the elder Jack Wood.
"Jamie Moore," he said. "Unsaddle the mare, and see to her comfort."
He had expected the sprout to demur, but to his surprise, Jamie stepped forward with the alacrity of relief. "Yes, Master," he said, sturdily, as he received the reins, and added, lower, "thank you."