"And that," Becca said, meeting Violet's eyes firmly, "is what happened. I will perfectly understand if you do not wish me to live in your grandmother's house, or to subscribe to my teaching in anything."
The girl glanced down at her lap, which was filled with gathered marisk, and Becca bit her lip, recruiting herself to patience. This was Violet's decision to make and truly she would understand if the girl did not wish to have the almost-murderer of her brother under roof.
"It must be difficult," Violet said slowly, "to have had these virtues thrust upon you without receiving training in their use." She expertly stripped the blossoms from a marisk stem, frowning as they tumbled down into the basket.
"Father believes that a race of halflings might serve the land best." She gave Becca a slight, sidewise smile. "Which is where you'll see Jamie and me."
"Your mother had said as much this morning, when I went to see how your brother did," Becca admitted, sorting the corish root according to size. "Have you received training in the use of kest?"
Violet shook her head. "I'm Mother's child. The trees do not talk to me."
Becca frowned. "That seems less halflings and more half," she observed and Violet giggled.
"It does, but that was their bargain. And who is to say that, when I'm ready to marry, that I won't bear a Ranger-to-be? I think . . . " She paused while she stripped another stalk. "I think that, over time, as more intermarriages happened, that fewer children would be born either tree-wise or not." She slanted a sideways glance at Becca. "Father takes the long view—Gran used to say that he was practically a tree, himself."
Becca laughed, and it seemed that she heard an echo inside her head.
"I wonder," she said, then; "have you ever spoken with a Fey healer?"
"The nearest I've come to a Fey healer is Father," Violet answered. "Mother called for him to come, so you might ask him any questions you have." She grinned. "He might even answer."
"For that matter," she said after she had put her basket down and piled the stripped marisk stalks to the side, "Master Vanglelauf will know as much as Father, since they are both Rangers. All I know is that a Fey in need of healing merely asks a particular plant for some of its virtue."
Becca blinked. "Is your father prone to jokes?" she asked.
"Sometimes. But I've noticed that when he most seems to be joking—then he is speaking nothing but the truth. Gran said that some of what he said sounded like tall tales because he didn't have our words."
"And the rest of what he says perhaps only sounds outlandish to those who are not . . . intimately knowledgeable of the Vaitura?" Becca guessed.
Violet nodded, shaking out her skirts. "Would you like some tea? I think that—"
She stiffened, as if she'd heard something—and a moment later Becca heard it, too: A high, weird wailing sound that seemed to echo off the branches, then die.
"Father's home!" Violet cried and ran toward the bottom of the garden.
Becca set aside the corish root and rose, following more sedately, reaching the end of the path in time to see Violet throw herself into the arms of a disreputable looking fellow in worn leather. He caught Violet up and spun her around as if she were a child in nursery, his laugh echoing hers. A little behind him stood a large brindled cat, tufted ears cocked alertly, one shoulder companionably against Meripen Vanglelauf's knee.
He . . . looked slightly more robust than he had when they had parted earlier, which relieved her considerably. The pale tatters of his aura seemed a deeper and more subtle green; the comparison with the rich brown and orange of Violet's father's aura was, however, telling.
"Good evening, Master Vanglelauf," she said politely.
The green eye speared her. "Good evening, Rebecca Beauvelley," he answered, distantly. He nodded down at his companion. "This is Vika."
Since it seemed that he wished her to do so, she bowed slightly to the cat. "Good evening, Vika. I am pleased to make your acquaintance"
"And she's pleased to make yours," a strong, rough voice assured her.
She turned to see that the other Ranger had set Violet on her feet and stood with his arm around her waist, considering Becca from leaf-green eyes. He smiled, easily, but without impertinence, and gave her a nod.
"I'm Palin Nicklauf. You'll be the one the trees have named Gardener?"
"Rebecca Beauvelley," she said, returning his nod. "Yes."
"Then I'm as pleased to meet you as Vika is," Palin Nicklauf said.
"Perhaps . . . not," Becca said, with difficulty. "I'm afraid that I have been the . . . agency of some harm befalling your son."
"So the trees told me."
Becca braced herself for anger, but Palin's voice was perfectly easy and calm.
"Master Vanglelauf tells me there was no malice in it, and that he's charged to teach you better. Is that so, Longeye?"
"That's so," Meripen Vanglelauf said composedly, though Becca felt a spark of anger for the casual cruelty. "Palin."
"I hear." The other Ranger gave Becca a grin. "The Hope tree tells us the sprout's awake, Gardener, wanting both his dinner and a walk under leaf. I think we'll find his hurts to be only what any sprout might find, in the process of setting his roots." He turned to look at Violet.
"I'm to your mother, now, sweet flower. Are you coming?"
"Yes!" Violet exclaimed, and gasped in the next breath, throwing Becca a conscious look. "I—that is . . . "
"Go." She waved her hand with a smile. "I have a good deal of thinking to do, and it's been too long since I've had leisure to putter in a workroom."
"Thank you!" Violet darted forward and kissed Becca on the cheek. Turning, she caught Palin's hand and the two of them skipped diagonally across the garden, Vika the cat flowing like silk beside them.
Face warm, Becca touched her cheek, as if her fingers could find the shape of the girl's kiss. A simple, chaste kiss of friendship, she thought—and took a hard breath against a chest that was tight with tears.
She remembered then that she was not alone, and turned toward Meripen Vanglelauf, likewise abandoned.
But the Ranger and his tattered aura were gone, withdrawn to his own devices while she stood, confused.
"Well," Becca said, and went resolutely up the path. She had said that she wanted to putter in the workroom, had she not?
At the bench, she paused to pick up the basket of marisk blossoms that Violet had stripped before marching on to the kitchen door.
* * *
Meri dropped into his nest, arms wrapped around himself, and concentrated, on the smell of the grass, the muttering of a treemouse, the creak of limb and trunk . . .
"Root and branch," he whispered, and rubbed his cheek against the cool grasses that made up his couch. "She is too beautiful."
Slowly, his kest subsided; slowly, the clamor to meld and lose himself in her brilliance faded. Slowly, he began to think.
Ranger, are you well?
"Becoming well, Elder, thank you," he muttered, flopping over to his back. A breeze wafted through the culdoon's branches and skipped over to dry the sweat from his brow. "I have simply . . . forgotten . . . what it is like to be . . . vulnerable to the power of others. I have not been so thin since I was a sprout."
Perhaps you should meld with the Gardener, the elitch said.
"No!" He sat up, then collapsed again to the grasses, one arm flung across his eyes.
You would gain much, the elitch persisted, untree-like, unless one recalled that the trees of one's home forest often guided a sprout's first few meldings. Truly, Ranger, the trees fear for you.
"The trees need not fear," Meri tried to say, but the falsehood stuck in his throat. In truth, the trees were right to fear; and yet—to meld with Rebecca Beauvelley; she would be a part of him forever, as Faldana was. He could not . . .
He could not meld, he thought wearily. He could not set worthy wards. He could not solve the shadow-wood. Verily, the forest was littered with his could-nots! The wards, at least, might be solved, but Palin had refused to assist him.
Will you speak with him? he asked the elitch.
Palin carries his charge, the answer came, surprisingly sharp. We do not ask more of him.
Elder, if I do not have some help, someone to set—
Behind the shelter of his arm, he blinked, seeing in memory the extravagant beauty of her, golden flames traced with green, scarred with crimson. An aura such as the Vaitura had not seen—possibly in the length of a memory as long as that of Altimere the Artificer. An aura and the ability to use her kest.
"I will take her with me tomorrow," he said, speaking aloud so that he could measure the words against the twilight. "She can set the wards. I will show her one of mine—she has eyes to see!—and bid her follow the pattern. It will be a lesson . . . "
Indeed, he thought well-pleased with himself; it would be a lesson, and a stern one. Nor would it require any intermingling of the teacher's kest with the student's.
It may be that the Gardener can riddle the wood you saw for us, the elitch added, which Meri chose to hear as further approval for his plan.
Smiling, he curled over on his side, settled his cheek into the crook of his arm—and plummeted into sleep.
* * *
At noon, or midnight, according to his watch, Altimere was attacked by a winged creature with a woman's head. It shrieked insults at him, and drove sharp talons at his face.
He threw a dart of kest at it and it blew apart into mist and feathers, leaving behind the echo of a scream.
An hour after the attack, he came across footprints in the soft material by the stream's edge. Some were boot-clad, some barefoot, and some were a vague smudge as if who walked there was unused to leaving tracks, or too little in the world to do so.
Altimere paused, chest tight, with an odd sparkle at the edge of his vision. In a moment, he was again master of himself, and walking once more.
Following the footprints, Altimere came to a pile of five goodly stones. Wedged between the stones was a flat bit of silvery wood with short names and marks scratched upon it.
It was a strange record he looked at, and showed a certain intelligence and certitude of purpose. Studying the cryptic notes Altimere pieced together a history.
One Dusau Meerlauf, wandering through the strange mists had come by the stream and followed it . . . and at some point had come across his own steps, as it were. Having undertaken, like Altimere, an attempt to record time and place, Dusau Meerlauf had been the first to inscribe his name on the wood—perhaps he had created the primitive tablet and gathered the stone splinters that served as pens. In any case, Dusau Meerlauf inscribed his name as D. Meerlauf, and left two slash marks. At some point, Kluka Xanlauf and Cai Vanglelauf came by together: C. Vanglelauf and K. Xanlauf, and added a slash each . . . and two stones to the pile.
Then came Varion Fanelauf, solitary . . . and perhaps between, extra visits by the original D. Meerlauf, whose record now was nine slashes, while Cai and Kluka showed five, Varion Fanelauf showed four, and Joda Meerlauf, last comer, showed two.
Wood Wise or Rangers all, Altimere thought, which was no bad thing, saving they seemed as trapped as he was.
Still, they showed amongst them a certain native ingenuity and an understanding that their plight might be ameliorated if they could band together with others: precisely the understanding he had lately come to!
Hope shuddered painfully through Altimere's chest. Five others. The kest of five, even five depleted Wood Wise, plus his own surely . . . might . . . be sufficient to win out of the keleigh and back into life.
He must, he thought, meet these intrepid Wood Wise—very soon, indeed.
* * *
He drifted on a raft of ralif branch and elitch leaf, borne up by salt waves, and soothed by a tender breeze. There were sweet nuts and tart culdoon to dine on, and wine made from dawnderi blossoms. He knew he was asleep, and that the sleep was a gift; he sighed and pulled it more tightly around him and sank deeper into the—
Ranger! 'Ware! 'Ware! The wards are breached!
* * *
The stars were out and Violet had not yet returned. When Becca stepped into the garden, she heard excited voices, laughter, and a glissade of notes from a stringed instrument. Light blazed from Elizabeth Moore's house, supplied equally by candles and the fanciful fires of auras. It seemed the whole village had turned out to welcome Palin Nicklauf back home—though, perhaps, Becca thought, New Hope was not so much Palin's home as a place where friends and kinfolk could be found.
She hesitated, wondering if she ought to join the crowd of well-wishers and merrymakers. It was a situation that required nice judgment and she had never been more than moderately proficient at this sort of social equation.
In the end, she turned away from the noisy, glittering party and walked to the bottom of the garden, where it was quieter, and where she might perform her experimentation in peace.
* * *
Silver stood among the living, and a cold glow crawled along the ground. Meri slammed to a stop, his arm around a thin birch, and stared at the elitch wand that he had planted a dozen paces out from the edge of the shadow-wood. Between him and it there was now a grove of undead trees, glowing cold and unnatural against the night.
His wards—were gone, unmade, he supposed. The elitch wand stood where he had planted it, aura hectic, a shadow-tree not three hand spans away.
"Elders, wake and know your peril!"
His words fell like stones out of the dead air. Not even the birch he embraced stirred.
Who hears me? He sent, hoping that his thought at least would be unimpeded.
I hear you, the answer came back, prompt and strong, but the voice belonged to none of the trees he knew.
Show yourself, Meri sent.
Very well.
Directly before him, perhaps eight paces out, was the silvery seeming of a ralif. The voice seemed to originate there, though it was unlike that of any ralif Meri had ever conversed with. Perhaps it followed, he thought, that trees so unnatural would find even their voices altered beyond recognition.
Carefully, he loosed his hold on the slumbering birch and stepped away from it. Before him, the ralif glimmered balefully, growing uncertain in outline, until it was as insubstantial as mist.
A figure stepped forward, to stand with legs braced inside the tree's foggy outline. The mists obscured his form, and the hard silver shine hid his fires. Still, Meri felt a tug, as of kinship, or memory.
I am Meripen Vanglelauf, he sent; Ranger.
The indistinct figure bowed slightly, and straightened, hands tucked into his belt.
I am Vamichere Pinlauf, Ranger.
Meri shivered.
Vamichere Pinlauf went into the keleigh with his wood during the last days of the war, he sent. He is a hero and his name one to conjure with.
They begged me to leave them! The anguish in the other's thought was raw enough that Meri felt a scream build in his chest. My trees! I to continue while they were unmade? No, a thousand times, though the Elders would have their damned boundary despite us—an' it cost every life in the Vaitura!
Meri swallowed. There could be no doubting that this . . . shade . . . was Vamichere Pinlauf. Though how it was manifest, and what it was about . . .
What do you here, Vamichere Pinlauf?
There are heroes, the other told him, his thought now eerily calm, in the mist.
So my betters have taught me, Meri acknowledged. They taught me also—what is lost to the keleigh is never recovered.
All honor to your masters, Meripen Vanglelauf, we have found a way. The other motioned with a mist-softened hand at the shell of the tree he stood in. We have found a way to remove those things which are lost to the keleigh—to push them out again into the daylit world. He gestured again. My trees live again.
Horror shuddered through Meri. No, he sent. No, Ranger . . . they do not live.
They must! We have liberated them!
The shout nearly split Meri's head. He went back a step, caught himself and took two steps forward, feeling the unnatural shine that was neither aura nor kest cold against his cheek.
Perhaps they have been too long within the keleigh, he said, pity filling him. The silvered trees were terrible—wrong—and yet—if Vanglewood were to slide into the keleigh, would he not bend every effort to succor it?
The trees you have liberated have no kest, Brother, he sent as gently as he could. They have no voices.
My wood is not dead!
No, Meri answered; but neither is it alive.
Silence. The figure in the mist seemed to shrink in on itself.
Perhaps, Meri suggested. They require . . . you.
A ghostly laugh echoed through his head, discomforting.
We have together pushed all manner of life from out of the mists, yet—heroes that we are—we cannot ourselves step free.
Meri looked about him, at the dying trees and the undead, and back, again, to the mist-shrouded figure. He took a deep breath, and forced himself forward—one step, two steps . . . three . . . the cold energy burning his skin . . . and held his hand out.
Perhaps what you need . . . is someone to pull.
* * *
Easewerth's aura was a dim indigo, difficult to distinguish from its leaves. Becca knelt down carefully beside the small planting at the bottom of the garden, and considered what she saw. By those signs she knew to look for—leafing, stem-strength, color—the plants were exceedingly healthy. Sonet might have complained that they were leggy, but Sonet liked her plants bushy and low to the ground.
"Best they keep their virtues close than waste them in trying to fly," was what she had used to say, and then look sour when Becca pointed out that they were each abjured to turn their faces to the sun and grow as straight as they could.
By those signs she knew less well—color and depth of the aura—it seemed that the easewerth she studied was goodly and strong. She extended her hand, slowly, and felt a thrill along her fingers.
"Please," she said, "may I have some of your virtue?"
Nothing happened; she neither heard a voice inside her head, as she had half-expected that she might, nor felt a seepage of slow indigo into her blood. She did feel the molten gold at the base of her spine begin to warm, and rise.
Mindful of her earlier misadventures, she dropped her hand, closed her eyes, and concentrated on breathing until the warmth subsided.
There must, she thought, be some art to regulating the flow of one's inner fires. With her, it seemed to be nothing or conflagration—which Meripen Vanglelauf, his aura in tatters, then extinguished with a word.
"Very well." She took a particularly deep breath, hoping to cow her eager fires, and extended her hand once more.
"Please," she said, and came to her feet with a snap, precisely as if Altimere had suddenly imposed his will over hers, only this time she did not have the blessed confusion bestowed by the collar to soften the experience.
Without any input from her own will, she began to run, awkwardly, then all at once with the fleet, effortless grace she had observed in Meripen Vanglelauf.
"No!" She tried to stop, she tried to throw herself to the ground, she tried to divert her steps so that she would run into a tree—but whatever held her in thrall did not allow her so much as one step taken under her own will.
"I won't!" she screamed, feeling the ever-ready inner fires flare.
Gardener! The voice of the Hope Tree shook the thoughts in her head. Run as you have never run before! Meripen Longeye fades!
"Where?" she gasped, as the other pushed her into even more speed. She might, she thought, gain the nest before the pace she was driven at broke a leg.
The sunshield will guide you, the Hope Tree said. When you run past, take up the twig that is on the bench at my feet.
The Hope Tree loomed. She was dimly aware of people, of shouts; compelled, she ran on, her hand going out of its own accord to snatch the stick up.
Run! the tree thundered, and run she did, the elitch twig gripped in urgent fingers.