"So soon?" Lady Quince stared at Mother over the rim of her teacup. "Obviously, the gentleman is smitten."
"It would seem to be so," Mother murmured. "He sees no reason to subject Becca to a journey at what is, in his own country, the threshold of winter."
"And by marrying now, there is time for a honeytrip before he may be wanted at his own harvest. That is well-thought, I must own." At last, her ladyship sipped her tea, placing the cup back on the saucer with a tiny clink.
"Well, then, Miss!" she said, with a gaiety that seemed entirely horrible to Becca. "Did I not tell you that he would soon overcome his annoyance and realize that he must make a push to secure that was promised?"
Becca swallowed in a dry throat, and made shift to smile. "Indeed, you told me just that, ma'am," she murmured, and raised her own cup so that she need not speak further.
The tea, she knew, was quite good—Lady Quince's tea was always perfectly brewed. It must, therefore, be only what her father was pleased to style an "overwrought imagination" that produced the burning in her throat, as if it were not tea, but vinegar that she sipped.
Her "overwrought imagination" could not, however, be blamed for yesterday's shocking series of events. It was a fact that she had been forbidden to leave the house without her father or mother as escort—"by order of the Earl," so the footman who had barred the front door against her explained apologetically.
She had not been allowed to visit Sonet, nor to tend her garden, nor to repair to her workroom. Which was, Mother said brightly, when Becca laid these same facts before her, just as well.
"For you have a prodigious amount to do, you know, Becca! And a very short time to do it in. Now. What do you think about—"
"I think that I would like to visit Sonet," Becca interrupted. "She expects that I will be here through the summer; this sudden, unexplained departure—"
"Need not be unexplained," Mother interrupted in her turn. "You may write her a note. Any of the servants will be happy to carry it for you."
But Becca did not write to Sonet when she left her mother. Instead, she had walked firmly and briskly down the hall to the door of her father's study—and paused, with her hand on the knob.
Beyond the door, her father was shouting—which was, regrettably, not . . . entirely unknown. It was, however, no luckless lackey whom he disciplined this day, for a second voice, not—quite—shouting, cut across his, and it was that which gave her pause.
For the second voice had been Dickon's.
Prudently, she had removed down the hall to a position of less exposure, and had scarcely ducked into the shelter of the library when a door slammed, and slammed again, and angry footsteps approached.
Becca stepped out into the hall—and stopped, her hand flying involuntarily to her lips.
She had often seen Dickon angry, but this—surely this was fury.
"Becca!" he snapped, sounding more like her father than himself. He caught her arm and snatched her back into the book room, closing the door quietly behind them.
"You will not go to Father," her brother told her, his voice breathless and tight.
"But—" she began, and started back a step when he slashed the air with an impetuous hand.
"Yes, yes, I know! You are not to go visiting on your own, nor are you allowed the solace of your plants, or your work. Protest it and you will find yourself locked in your room until your wedding day!"
Becca swallowed. "Dickon, I cannot marry Sir—"
Again, he slashed the air between them, turned and strode energetically to the window.
"There is no choice," he said flatly, staring out over the formal garden.
Becca gasped. "There must be a choice! I must send a message to Sonet—"
"No. Any notes will be taken directly to Father."
She went to his side, and touched his sleeve. "Would—you—not carry a note for me, Dickon?"
His laughed so bitterly that she winced, and snatched her hand away.
"I might have done, but—not after this. I had no idea that Father—" He shook himself, turned and put his hands on her shoulders. She looked up into his face, seeing sorrow, now, and affection, and something else, for which she had no name . . .
"There is no choice," he said, his voice so low she could scarcely hear him, as close as they stood. "For either of us."
". . . dress?" Lady Quince asked, loudly enough to startle Becca out of these distressing memories.
"The wheat will do splendidly," Mother answered, calmly. "The event is on us so suddenly that it will only be family—and close friends, of course!—in attendance. If it is fine, perhaps an outdoor wedding, in the formal garden."
"That should please the bride," Lady Quince said, with a roguish glance at Becca, who bent her head, pretending to be considering the biscuit-plate.
"Why should we not try to please the bride?" Mother murmured, giving Becca a fond smile. "We are all very proud of Becca for her—"
A tap at the door interrupted her, for which Becca could only be thankful. Lord Quince stepped into and made his bow.
"Madam," he greeted his wife. "Lady Beauvelley—and Miss Beauvelley! Just the lady I was wanting to see!" He turned to Mother. "Might you spare her for a few minutes, ma'am? I've that item I discussed with you here to show the young lady."
Mother sighed and put her tea cup down. "It is a handsome gift," she said slowly, not quite meeting his yes. "I fear the Earl will consider it too handsome."
"Is that so? You leave Robert to me. As far as 'handsome'—well, ma'am, so it is! A bride gift is supposed to be handsome! Besides that, this filly was born to be Becca's. I knew it the instant I saw them together. It would be cruelty to keep them apart."
Mother laughed, hand up and palm out. "Pray save your eloquence for the Earl! You will need it!"
Lord Quince grinned and gave a bow. Straightening, he beckoned. "Come along, young lady, and tell me if you think she'll do."
Becca rose, eager to be away, and eager, indeed, to see Rosamunde again.
"Ma'am?" she said to her hostess, but that worthy merely moved an indolent hand.
"Go on with you! And mind you look her over minutely! Your mother and I have many things to speak of!"
Yes, Becca thought, she imagined so. She curtseyed and followed Lord Quince out.
Rosamunde whickered as they approached the fence, and Lord Quince rumbled a laugh.
"She recognizes you," he commented, and pulled a carrot out of his pocket. "You know your duty, I'll warrant."
Becca took the proposed treat and stepped up to the fence, her mood suddenly lifting, as if she had just stepped from deep, winter dark, into the full blare of summer.
"Good day, Rosamunde," she murmured and smiled at the flick of expressive ears. "Would you do me the honor of accepting this?" She offered the carrot across the palm of her hand.
Disconcertingly, the horse did not immediately attend the carrot, but looked into Becca's face, for all the world as if she were judging her.
"Lord Quince," Becca murmured, keeping the carrot on offer, "has kindly thought that you and I might suit. I would . . ." She paused, and the large eyes never left her face, as if there was an intelligence beyond the mere equine listening to her words.
"I would," Becca said, the words coming from her very heart, "very much like it if you would consent to be my mount."
There was a small silence, and a certain . . . warmth, as if someone had lit a candle in the center of her chest. Then Rosamunde bent her beautiful head and lipped the carrot off of Becca's hand.
"I'd take that as an acceptance, myself," Lord Quince said comfortably.
Becca took a breath, her eyes on the elegant curve of the filly's neck.
"Was her grandsire as . . . attentive?" she asked.
"Fey horses are . . . extraordinarily perceptive," a cool, accented voice said from close at hand. "The beautiful lady is quarter-Fey. Surely, she listens, and judges—and determines for herself where her power is best allied."
"Altimere." She turned, her heart suddenly soaring. Here, she thought. There is a choice.
The tall Fey leaned on the fence beside her, and smiled.
"Good day, Miss Beauvelley," he murmured. "It is a pleasure to see you again. Lord Quince."
"Altimere," said his lordship in his bluff way. "M'wife tells me we're losing your company."
"It is so, I fear," the Fey said. "My business here is complete, and I am wanted in my own land."
"Well, I'll be sorry to see the back of you," Lord Quince said. "You still thinking of that parcel up near Eastkirk?"
"I am. Indeed, I plan to pass by again on my return, and to speak to Mr. Smythe regarding his price."
"He's asking high," Lord Quince said, and it was clear to Becca that both men had forgotten her presence. She leaned closer to the fence and raised her hand to stroke Rosamunde's soft nose. A feeling of satisfaction filled her, and she narrowed her eyes in pleasure.
"Still," his lordship went on, "even if you meet his price, you'll make it back inside a season. I can't think of a man of my acquaintance who wouldn't want one of those horses of yours!"
"I may do well enough for a few seasons," Altimere murmured. "However, I think I may soon be redundant."
"Horses producing more of themselves, as they're wont to do," Lord Quince said. "I see your point, but I'm thinking that what you need to do during those first few years is fix it in folks' heads that the man to go to for the real thing, no imitations, not side breeding, nothing but pure blood Fey—" He stabbed an emphatic forefinger at Altimere's chest—"is yourself."
"You fascinate me. Perhaps we should ally ourselves in this matter."
"I tell you what, that's not a bad notion at all! You write me once you've got everything set the way you want it and I'll—yes, Dobbs, what is it?"
"It's the bay, sir. You asked to be told the next time he loosed that front shoe by stepping on with his back foot in the walk ring."
"Blast!" Lord Quince nodded curtly to his guests. "I'll be just a moment. Sorry, but this has to be tended to immediately!" And with that he strode off, hard on the heels of the stable boy.
Becca sighed, and shivered, suddenly queasy in her stomach. Surely, such a meeting was fated?
If only she believed in fate.
"Altimere," she said softly, stroking Rosamunde's nose the while.
"Miss Beauvelley. How may I serve you?"
She turned, deliberately, to face him, her hand falling from Rosamunde's nose to grip the fence.
"I would like," she said, keeping her voice steady by long practice. "I would like very much to embrace the second possible future you showed to me."
"Ah, indeed?" He looked down at her. "We have said that the customs of your land are not the customs of my own, so I will ask, in order to be certain: You offer to ally with me; to place your kest—your power—in my hands?"
Her power, thought Becca, and might have laughed, had Rosamunde not blown lightly against her hair.
"I place my power, my honor, and my future in your hands," she told, and if her voice shook, who could blame her? It was a terrible step she was about to take—and, yet, to find succor, where she had been so certain that all was lost . . .
"The small, angry man?" Altimere said. "He has been informed that he will not profit from an alliance?"
"He has—not." Becca swallowed. "I—if I tell him so, my father will lock me in my room until the day of the wedding, which is—very soon, now. A matter of days. I—if you accept my—my alliance—we will have to go secretly—swiftly and with the possibility of pursuit."
Altimere looked, faintly, amused, but his voice was brisk. "It is well that the moon is just past full, and fortunate that Quince has bestowed upon you this horse." He glanced at the cloudless sky. "If you are able, we may leave tonight at moonrise. Say to Quince that you will come for the horse later; I will bring her to you."
"Yes," breathed Becca, "thank—but her tack, I don't—"
"Leave all to me. For yourself, you need bring only those things which are necessary to your kest, but nothing more than will fit in a saddlebag. You will not need jewelry, or coins, or any medium of trade or exchange."
Becca looked up at him. "But, how will I purchase—"
"You have allied yourself with me," he said, and there was a note of arrogance on that last word. "I will provide those things which are needful."
"I—see." Her heart quailed, but Rosamunde blew again, a gust of warmth against her ear, and she giggled instead.
"The beautiful lady has heart and courage for two," Altimere said, and looked over Becca's head. "The excellent Quince returns to us. Moonrise, at the servants' door. I will be there for you."
He turned away, calling out a question to Lord Quince. Becca leaned into Rosamunde and closed her eyes, letting the warmth of her mount's regard soothe her spirit and calm her racing heart.
The chyarch was found in a bower of sandelkirk, a book on her knee and a wood's cat curled at her feet. She looked up at his approach, and dismissed the attendant with a nod. He bowed, the performance of which courtesy gave him time to recover from his surprise.
It was most usually the Elder Fey who were called to the healing arts. While it was not impossible to find one of the Wood Wise among the healers, yet it was—unusual.
That one such would rise to chyarch—that was unlikely, for the Wood Wise dislike confinement and are happiest when they rove.
"Chyarch," he murmured respectfully, straightening from his bow.
"Meripen Vanglelauf," she replied, marking her place and setting the book aside. "I would have had you sleep for some while longer. Alas, I have been overruled." She pulled a roll of birch paper from her sleeve and sat holding it in her hand, considering him gravely. Her eyes were pale—grey with a touch of brown, like bark seen through morning mist—her aura a faint shimmer of autumn yellows.
"The Lady of Sea Hold sends for you, by name. Perforce, you must be wakened and set upon the way."
He blinked. "The Lady of Sea Hold?" he repeated the phrase as if the sleep, or what had gone before, had robbed him of sense.
"Indeed," the chyarch said solemnly. "Precisely that most gracious and puissant Lady."
"I—" He paused, trying to think. Unlike some of the Forest Gentry, he had no fear of leaving the land. Indeed, his own mother had ranked as a captain among the Sea Wise, and he had learned the lore of wave and wind at her side. That he had accepted the duties of the Wood Wise was more accident than destiny. He knew and was acknowledged by kin on the seaward side, and had been fostered at Sea Hold in his youth. The last he had known, however, Sea Hold had rejoiced in a lord—one Velpion, whose title had been, properly, Engenium. To find that there was now a lady in that dour Elder's place . . .
He wondered again how long he had been inside the healing sleep.
"Forgive me," he said to the chyarch. "Why does the . . . lady . . . send for me?"
She shrugged. "I had hoped perhaps you would know what urgency drives her. But it would seem not." She held out the roll of bark. "You may read for yourself what she writes. And then, if you feel able, you may draw what you need from stores and—"
"No." He said flatly, hands fisting at his sides as he recalled what he must do.
The chyarch raised an eyebrow. "Could you be more explicit?"
"I cannot go to Sea Hold," he said. "There is a matter of duty which must be satisfied before—"
"Yes, yes . . ." She waved the bark at him, impatiently. "It's all in here. I am, in a word, commanded to wake you and to send you forth. It may be argued—persuasively, for your reputation precedes you, Ranger—that I cannot be responsible for where you go once you leave here, but leave here you must and shall. And I do think, myself, that you will go to Sea Hold."
Goaded, he snatched the bark, unrolled it, glared—and blinked.
You will, he read, awaken my cousin Meripen Vanglelauf and put him on his way to Sea Hold as he is needed here. This by the hand of Sian, Engenium.
He read the brief message in the bold, plain hand again—and a third time. Sian had risen to rule Sea Hold? But Sian was—He looked up to find the chyarch watching him, her eyes holding a certain foggy amusement.
"Forgive me," he said again, though his voice was abrupt in his own ears. "How long—"
"Ah." She bowed her head. "Nine thousand nights have passed since you came here, raving, powerless, and very nearly dead. Your wounds were terrible; we thought at first that we would lose you to them. As it came about, the burns and the abuse were not the worst of it. I would have had you sleep longer, a full ten thousand nights, to equal the sleep of Jonga, Ranger, and then I would not have sent you to Sea Hold, but deep into the Vanglewood. However, as you read—" a flutter of fingers at the message he still held—"my wishes count for naught.
"I do most earnestly counsel you to obey the Engenium's summons of your own will, for she has also provided me with this, in case you should prove . . . recalcitrant." She reached into the pocket of her vest and withdrew a cord of braided seaweed, an ordinary fessel shell suspended from it, the compulsion woven into it so strong that Meripen shivered where he stood.
The chyarch nodded. "It is no gentle invitation the Lady of Sea Hold sends you, Ranger, but a stern order. Be prudent, I beg, for I do not wish to be the one to place this burden upon you."
Standing there among the plants and live things, Meripen acknowledged that he felt not the slightest stirring of kest. Should the chyarch apply her will—which she had not done, and which, so he read in her face, she did not desire to do—he would be powerless to resist her.
Stiffly, he bowed.
"It would seem that I have no choice," he murmured. "I will draw what I need and be gone before moonrise."
The chyarch sighed. "Haste is needful," she agreed. "Headlong flight is not. Take time to eat, and to rest again after you have assembled your kit. Sunrise will be soon enough to set out."