Despair made the mists thicker; the air warmer. He would, therefore, not despair. There was no reason for him to despair.
Indeed, there was reason for cautious optimism. He had called; Rebecca had come. That the fickle mists then rose to hide them from each other—the mists were jealous; that was well known even of the keleigh, which could not abide anything to thrive, excepting itself.
The point to focus upon was that experimentation had proved that he could call Rebecca to him, and that she could recognize him amidst this tenuous geography. That was well.
What was required, before he called her a second time, was that he craft some way for them to connect immediately, and before the mists intervened. He must contrive to meet her at some point where the mists were thin, and follow her back out. Whether she led him to the Vaitura or to her own land, he cared not, save that he was brought out from this mist-filled and treacherous place.
It was said that Drakin Fairstar sought her heartmate inside the keleigh, when her duty was done and her hands were grown back. When she found him, so the tale went, she carried him far away into the mountains, and hid the two of them, until they forgot they were heroes, and, by degrees, the rest of who they had been, and so they had faded away entirely, rejoining the elements that had birthed them.
It was also said that the keleigh never relinquished that which it had claimed, but if anyone could have managed the thing, Altimere thought, closing his eyes against the monotonicity of the mist, it would have been Drakin.
The keleigh grew stronger on fear, on confusion, on pain. It melted away from power, confidence, and endurance. He had crossed the keleigh many times precisely by keeping his goal before his mind's eye, and riding on, refusing to accept any doubt of his safe arrival.
So, then, this substance, which was so like, and yet subtly unlike the keleigh. He had allowed himself to be vulnerable and it had attacked that vulnerability. Before he attempted another contact with Rebecca, he must gain and hold mastery over his environment.
He centered himself, feeling his kest warm at the base of his spine, and the tingle of banked power at his fingertips.
"I am Altimere, of the Elder Fey," he said, and the mist eddied away from his voice. He rose with studied calm, and with a hand-wave dispersed his chair back into the surrounding murk.
He took one step forward, another—a third.
And the mist parted to let him through.
* * *
Rosamunde was the wind itself, sweeping between trees and over low-growth.
From behind them came roars and other noises, that sounded like shouts, or laughter, or both. Ahead was darkness, lightly etched with tree-shine, and the blazing silver bar that was Nancy, scarcely beyond Rosamunde's nose, her wings a smear of color painted on the dark air.
Of the Brethren, there was no sign.
Becca lay almost flat, the reins long since lost, her strong arm around Rosamunde's neck, the fingers of her weak hand tangled in mad strands of mane.
Branches lashed her, as if they would unhorse her, but she clung to Rosamunde's back, and would not, would not fall. The sounds of pursuit fell behind, grew fainter, and fainter yet, until all Becca heard was the wind wailing in her ears.
"We lost them," she said—or tried to say. She loosened her hold 'round Rosamunde's neck and eased slightly upward, groping for the reins, whereupon two things happened at once.
The beast that had flushed them from their protecting bush roared out of the shadows toward which they were rushing, two creatures that looked as if they were made out of twigs shouting from its back . . .
. . . and Rosamunde stumbled.
* * *
"Stay close," Meri said to Sam Moore. "We will go quickly."
The Newman smiled, blue eyes glinting, ripples of humor flowing through the hectic disorder of his aura. "I heard our good Lady give that command," he said. "But why do I come at all? I'll slow you."
"You can run when it pleases you," Meri returned, settling his bow across his shoulders. "Besides, it will fall to you to take this Newoman in hand. It may be that she simply blundered from the path. But it also may be that she deliberately quit Sian's escort, in a reasoned attempt to escape. In either case, she may be more willing to come away with one of her own."
Sam frowned. "A prisoner? I—"
"Queen Diathen's prisoner," Meri interrupted, his attention more than half on the images beginning to form inside his head. "We neither of us wishes to disappoint her."
There was a pause, then a light snort, as if of laughter. "You're right there," Sam said. "Lead on, then, and I'll follow as best I can."
Meri nodded, took his direction, turned to the right, and leapt into a run.
It was a challenge to travel under the direction of trees. It required the ability to heed both the vision unrolling between one's ears, and the very real landscape through which one ran—and match the two.
Meri had often done such hunting before his long sleep, and it was only the matter of a few heartbeats before he had picked up the way of it again. It was rather like seeing from both eyes at once—dizzying, disorienting, and oddly energizing.
He did not worry about Sam Moore, whose woodcraft he knew to be equal to trailing, in the unlikely event that he fell behind. On the contrary, all his worry was centered on what the trees showed him, of a creature like some mad melding of horse and boar, accompanied by a handful of brown and stick-thin Low Fey. All were in pursuit of a chestnut mare, her rider clinging like a limpet to her neck, her tail streaming like water behind her.
Frighten the beast from the scent, he suggested to the trees as he ran. Compel the Low Fey to abandon the hunt.
We have tried, Ranger, a cedar murmured to him; they do not hear us.
Meri felt an icy stab in his belly. Low Fey that did not hear the voices of the trees? That was against all natural order.
Like the trees in the deep wood, he thought, leaping over a downed branch, which do not hear the voice of a Ranger.
Swallowing a curse, Meri ran on.
* * *
. . . Rosamunde stumbled.
The monster lunged, slashing with cruel tusks, one of the twig-man leaping from its back, screaming in a high, excited voice.
The horse-boar rushed by, and the twig-man crashed into Becca, its stick-fingers closing hard around her wrists, gibbering shrilly in her ear as it wrenched her from Rosamunde's back. The stick-man was beneath her as they hit the ground, the breath leaving her lungs in a scream, and ribbons of color distorting her vision.
She twisted, yanked her good arm free, and rolled away, sobbing in pain and fury. A angry snort warned her, she looked up to see the horse-boar charging her, and threw herself flat. The creature passed over her, and she rolled again, trying to get beneath the dubious protection of the small-growth.
Laughter sounded, her hair was yanked with a force that all but removed her scalp, and the twig-man was astride her, heavier than it looked, and utterly naked, her hair gripped cruelly in one long hand while the other tore her blouse from shoulder to waist, thorn-tipped fingers scoring her flesh.
Becca screamed, twisting, got her good arm free and struck out, only to have it caught in those same strong fingers, which were exerting pressure, while blood dripped from the scratches it had inflicted.
Somewhere nearby, a horse shrieked. She managed to turn her head enough to glimpse Rosamunde rising on her hind legs, exposing her belly dangerously to the horse-boar's tusks.
"No!"
Her captor struck her with the back of a hard hand. Becca's sight fragmented, the monster snorted, Rosamunde shrieked. Sight still confused, Becca twisted, not caring if she left her hair in the stick-man's grip. She struck out again, her weak arm connecting with twig like ribs—and its weight was gone.
Free, she rolled, away from the sounds of angry hooves and furious hooting; branches scraped over her and leaves crackled against her ears. She dragged her hair away from her eyes and peered out upon the battle scene.
Directly before her, the twig-man was swatting at a tiny bedevilment, darting in and out, swift and bright as a needle. Nancy! Heart in mouth, Becca watched as her maid turned the twig-man, dodging his blows, while apparently landing no few herself. Beyond, the monster and Rosamunde faced off. Gore from half-a-dozen scrapes and scores marred the bright chestnut hide. The monster was not unscathed, and it displayed a certain respect as it faced its noble opponent, but it showed no intention of quitting.
Rosamunde bugled, rearing back, hooves dripping red sparks like blood. The monster answered with its terrible coughing grunt. Nancy darted in toward the twig-man's face; he dodged, twisting impossibly, his arm moved, the hard palm caught her square and slapped her out of the air.
She hit the ground, a dimming silver ember. The twig-man ululated, and raised his foot.
Becca rolled from beneath the shrub, throwing herself into the creature. Balance destroyed, he fell on top of her, but she kept rolling. Hooves thundered against the earth, and she thought she heard shouts, as she raised her hands and pummeled the twig-man.
Twigs broke beneath her hands, and still she struck, over and over, sobbing now, seeing again the hard hand flashing and Nancy smashed to the ground; feeling her hair twisted and her flesh scored, while Altimere stood by and did nothing—
Gardener! Have done!
The voice rattled inside her head. She raised her arm and struck the thing beneath her again, and again.
Very well, the tree said, you may take his kest, if you so desire.
* * *
The mare fought valiantly, and her downed rider had at last joined the fray, flinging herself on one of the two Low Fey, and punishing it with her naked hands. The other, forgotten in the melee, was creeping around to the rear of the rider, a rope-vine in hand.
Stop him! Meri flung his thought at the trees, zigzagging 'round new growth. The mare's challenge split the air—and he leapt forward with renewed speed. So near, and yet not near enough!
Images unscrolled inside his head: the mare turned and struck, landing a solid kick in her opponent's ribs. On the ground, the rider continued to beat her now-quiescent enemy. Behind, the other moved, stealthily, too intent upon the scene before him to note that the branch he crept toward had of a sudden drooped. He eased forward, put his weight on the branch, and it snapped upward, slapping him into the tree's embrace, with a cry that Meri heard from very near hard at hand.
Two more leaps and he was at the edge of the battle, bow in hand and an arrow ready.
The mare was beset, now, her hooves planted firm and foursquare, as if she had determined to yield no more. Meri paused, concerned for a heartbeat it was her rider she protected. But, no, that one was yet astride the Low Fey, punching and striking with gore-dyed fingers.
Gardener! the voice of the elitch was so fierce Meri's fingers slackened on the string. Have done!
If the Newoman heard, she chose not to heed—and the horse-boar hurled into a charge.
The mare screamed, but held her ground. Meri pulled, loosed and was moving in the instant the arrow left the string.
He vaulted to the back of the valiant mare, who held firm though she could not like a stranger standing on her rump. The monster was dead, his arrow buried to its fletching in its right eye. Yet it was carried onward by its own weight, on course to strike the mare and smash her.
Meri raised a hand, drew his kest, and flung it into the ground directly before the mare's front hooves. Power flared, emerald and gold, splashed upward and froze an instant before the monster's shoulder struck it.
His vision blacked, and all his bones screamed at the transfer of energy, but the barrier held. The monster fell not an inch from the mare's feet, and Meri slumped into the saddle.
The mare snorted irritably, muscles bunching.
"A little grace," he said, his voice none-too-steady. "I've just saved you a goring."
There was a pause, an ear twitched—
And a woman screamed, high and hopeless.
* * *
Take his kest—Elyd was beneath her, his eyes dying even as he cried aloud in pleasure. Becca flung up and back, screaming, turned—and all but ran down a man in hunting leathers, calloused hands held chest-high, fingers open, a bow and quiver on his back.
"Easy, then, Miss," he said in a voice so rough and commonplace that Becca nearly swooned. "I'm Sam Moore, out of New Hope Village," he continued, and the fires outlining him matched the blue of his eyes. "You'll be wanting somebody to look at those hands, and my sister's girl is a healer."
Scarcely understanding, she looked down at her hands, torn as if by brambles and dripping blood. She shook her head, and gasped, looking behind her—seeing only a pile of sticks among the disordered leaves.
"I think you've taken good care of him," Sam Moore said gently.
"He hurt Nancy," Becca explained. "She was trying to protect me."
"That's right," the man said, in the patient tone one uses with those caught inside a fever-dream. "She's fine, and a brave horse she is." He jerked his chin to the right.
Rosamunde! How could she have forgotten? Becca spun, and there she stood—ears up, eyes bright, but—there was blood on her flank, on her shoulder, and just beyond her, the monstrous horse-boar, an arrow in its eye.
"Scythe!" Becca flung forward, raising her torn hands—and lowering them, her laughter not—quite—convenable. "Rosamunde! Brave, bold lady! I left you to fight alone!"
"Each of you had your enemy," Sam Moore said from behind her. "Both acquitted well." She heard him move slightly.
"Best we get on, Miss. The sooner those hands are tended—and the lady's wounds, too—the quicker they'll heal."
"We do not leave until we find Nancy," Becca said, flatly. She looked about. There! That was the bush she had hidden beneath. Nancy had darted between it and the approaching twig-man, and been dashed down . . . .
She looked down at the scuffed and marred ground. How could she hope to find one small person among the churned leaves and gouges?
"Nancy!" she called, her stomach cold with dread. "Nancy, come here! I want you!"
No quick silver body framed by bright-flashing wings appeared. Becca swallowed and looked down. She would search every inch of the Vaitura, then, until she found her.
"Happen she hid herself?" Sam Moore asked. "We can send out more searchers, from the village. You need care, Miss. Those hands'll be hurting soon."
"You may go, if you like," Becca said absently, her attention on the ground. "I appreciate your assistance, but I will not leave until we have found—"
There! Between Rosamunde's forefeet! Was that a feeble silver glow among the dead leaves and detritus?
Becca knelt, and carefully brushed the leaves away. "Nancy?" she whispered.
There was no answer; the little body did not move.
Lower lip caught between her teeth, Becca tried to think. Nancy was so tiny! How could she find what was broken, if anything? Would whatever hurt she had taken be made worse by lifting her and carrying her to Sam Moore's healer-niece?
And yet—they could not remain in this place. What if there were more monsters in the wood?
Gently, Becca slid her fingers beneath the little body, and raised it, cushioned by
fallen leaves. Cradling Nancy to her breast, she thrust clumsily to her feet—and would have fallen, had Sam Moore not caught her arm.
"Thank you," she said, her attention for her burden. So still, her glow so dim . . .
"That's all right," Sam said. "I can carry that for you, if—"
"No," she said shortly. "I will carry her."
There was a slight pause, then Sam nodded.
"Fair enough. Can you hold her while I put you in the saddle?"
Becca shook her head, and glanced up at him. "Rosamunde is wounded. I wouldn't ask her to carry me. We can walk to your village."
Sam Moore's eyebrows lifted, and his glance down at herself was frankly dubious, but all he said was, "T'isn't far."
* * *
The captive Low Fey had slipped his trap. Meri sighed and leaned briefly against the tree. He had very much wanted to talk to that one.
Well.
He watched Sam lead Rebecca Beauvelley and her horse out of the savaged clearing in the direction of New Hope Village before he ducked out of his shelter to recover his arrow. The Low Fey the Newoman had beaten was gone, leaving a few scattered twigs in his wake. Meri shook his head and passed on. He retrieved his bow, turned and gave one last glance behind him at the dead monster cooling upon the ground.
I've never seen its like, he commented to whichever tree might be listening.
Nor have we, Ranger, said a nearby ralif. Nor have we.