"Faldana?" His voice was hoa.r.s.e; his inner eye seeing her as he had seen her last-broken, drained, and defiled on the dead stone floor in a windowless room on the very wrong side of the keleigh.

The wind gusted, throwing grit into his face, twisting his hair in wet, spiteful fingers, but Faldana did not answer him.

Or, thought Meri, as the first driven raindrops bruised his face-perhaps she had.

"Thank you, Nancy." Becca smiled at her maid in the mirror. "That's lovely."

The tiny creature gave one more, and quite unnecessary, pat to the glossy dark curl trailing in counterfeit abandon from the orderly cl.u.s.ter at the top of Becca's head. The curl drew the eye from imposed perfection, past Becca's left ear, following the curve of her cheek before plunging to her shoulder, and spilling wantonly over the swell of her breast, bringing the admirer to a doubled delight.

Altimere had explained these things to her, and she learned them, despite secretly finding it more than a bit silly to be referred to as a "treasure of art." That this mode pleased Altimere must be her only concern, and that she learn to dress herself to please him her only care.

Not that she needed to keep such close care as all that while Nancy tended her, her maid being, in Becca's opinion, even more of an artist than the master of the house.

The gla.s.s reflected a sharp flutter of jeweled wings; Nancy was never patient with wool-gathering.

"The amethyst drops, do you think?" she asked, and watched in the mirror as the tiny creature tipped her head consideringly. She hung in the air just behind Becca's shoulder, her wings moving in a blur of garnet, green, and gold-then suddenly darted off across the room.

Becca shook her head, noting the sensation of the renegade tendril feathering across her tender flesh. Altimere had been teaching her other things, as well . . .

A flash in the mirror warned her of her maid's return, bearing, not the expected ear-drops but a deep purple flower from the bowl on the bedside table. Hovering so close to Becca's right ear that she could hear the hum of the busy wings, Nancy delicately seated the flower among the careful curls, then zipped away so that Becca might study the result in the gla.s.s.

Study it she did.

"Yes," she said eventually; "I see. The ear-drops would have distracted the eye from the fall of the curl."

Behind her, Nancy turned a handspring on the air. Becca bit her lip, careful not to laugh. One did not laugh at the infirmities of others, and it was no fault of hers that Nancy could not speak, and must thus make her feelings known in-other ways.

Why Altimere had chosen not to give the maid a voice, Becca did not know. He had turned her questions on the point, asking if she wished to always be gabbled at by a mere servant. It would, Becca thought privately, have been nice to have someone else to talk to-though of course she did have Altimere and Elyd.

The Gossamers likewise being voiceless had led Becca to suspect that the lack was far less what Altimere termed "deliberate design," and much more because he hadn't known how to go about it. He was a proud man, and proud of his skill as an artificer, so naturally he would not wish to admit to such a thing-and Becca had stopped asking him to give Nancy a voice.

And, truly, aside from that one small thing, she could not wish for a better attendant, though it be a mute mechanism that drew its ability to move from the sun's rays or no. It had been Becca's whim to name the tiny creature "Nancy," for it was not overtly female, its naked silver body slim and s.e.xless as a dragonfly. Still, a lady's maid ought to be female. . . .

Nancy zipped between Becca and the mirror, and darted toward the door, which as hints went was quite broad enough.

Becca laughed and rose, her skirt rustling like leaves. She smiled once more at her reflection, approving the deep purple bodice with its lacing of silver ribbon, the single sheer sleeve covering her right arm, while the left remained uncovered and unadorned. The bodice hugged her upper body, the skirt merely clung, reproducing every line of her limbs in shimmering, silver-shot amethyst. She recalled the first time Altimere had dressed her for dinner-that had been before he had given her Nancy-and her insistence that she must wear at least one petticoat. He hadn't laughed at her silliness, but had taken her onto his knee and petted her, explaining that custom was different in the Vaitura. So patient and kind . . .

She laughed again, softly, and nodded cordially to the woman in the gla.s.s, with her fine eyes and her glowing brown skin. And here was Nancy, darting back from the door in an agony lest she be late, flitting around Becca's head, the agitated flash of her wings almost seeming to crown her with flames.

"I'm going!" she said, and did, relishing the cool slide of fabric along her naked limbs as she walked. Her feet in amethyst and silver slippers made scarcely a sound as she moved down the hall. She paused at the top of the ramp leading to the receiving hall, and there he was at its foot, wearing plain black shirt and trousers, his hair flowing loose upon his shoulders.

He looked up as she hesitated and smiled, opening his arms. Laughing, she ran as fast as she could down the slippery wood, until he caught her up and swung her about, his lips brushing the tops of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s before he set her on her feet.

"Yes," he said, stepping back, the better to observe her. "You are extraordinary, Rebecca Beauvelley."

She laughed up at him. "If I am, it is because you have given me the means to be so."

"Now, can that be true?" He tipped his head, his amber eyes teasing her. "No," he said, after a long moment of consideration. "No, I cannot allow that to stand, zinchessa. You were extraordinary when first I was privileged to look upon you, astride a quarter-Fey horse, full of kest, and with an aura to challenge the sun's pallid rays. If I have done anything, it is only to give you the scope that is your birthright, and to guide you toward performing great deeds."

He offered her his arm and she stepped forward to put her hand on his sleeve.

"Shall I do great deeds, then, sir?"

"Oh, undoubtedly you shall," he murmured, leading her toward the dining room. "Together, we shall accomplish marvels."

It was just the two of them at dinner, lounging on pillows with the meal laid out on the low board between, and music wafting from the golden harp in the corner. There was a specific order in which to address the meal: first, a cup of sorbet, which dried the mouth and prepared it for the tart cold soup; after the soup, one savored a plain cracker before moving on to the next course of skewered vegetables-every possible vegetable, from every season, presented at one time, flavored with b.u.t.ter and hot-salt-removed by another cup of sorbet, and then on to cheese and fruit and wine.

Conversation was as delicate as the foodstuffs. Altimere had chosen this hour to tutor her in his language, and her part was scarcely a complement to the meal. However, he never complained, nor lost patience, but smiled and encouraged her, and leaned over to feed her choice bits from his own hands when he considered that she had been especially clever.

After the meal, they repaired, as always, to the terrace overlooking the night garden. There, Altimere sat in his chair, and she curled onto the cushion at his feet, leaning her head on his knee.

"Altimere?" she murmured, as he stroked her hair.

"Yes, my child?"

"May I plant in the elitch garden?"

"Now, which is the elitch garden, I wonder?"

"It is-" He traced her ear with a light fingertip, and she shivered deliciously-"Mmm."

"Mmm, indeed," he agreed, his rich voice languorous. "But the elitch garden . . . ?"

"It is in the shade of the wild wood," she said, while his fingers followed the errant curl. "An elitch, and a bench beneath it, guarded 'round by penijanset and lord's purse-surely you remember it, sir!"

"I believe I do have some vague recollection," he murmured, cool fingers against her cheek. "But it appears that it is planted already. Unless you do not care for penijanset?"

"There is . . . some s.p.a.ce merely given over to gra.s.s," she explained. "I would like to plant an herb garden there, if you will allow me the service of an under-gardener-or perhaps some Gossamers-to dig the beds." His fingers stilled. "I will be most careful, Altimere," she added, wondering if she had at last overstepped.

"I wonder," he said after a moment. "This herb garden-I apprehend this would be for the raising of medicinal plants?"

"Yes," she agreed. "Aleth and easewerth . . . fremoni." She hesitated. "I am an herbalist," she continued, when he said nothing more. "I do not wish to lose my lore."

"Of course not," he answered, his voice easy once more. "Let me consider this, zinchessa. It may be that there is a . . . more apt . . . location for such a garden. The elitch-as you say, it stands close upon the wild wood. I would not risk you needlessly."

Becca smiled and rubbed her cheek against his knee. "Thank you, Altimere," she murmured.

Chapter Twenty.

The summons came at dawn, as though Sian were aware of his wakefulness. Or, Meri thought, recalling his youthful residence within these walls, as if the rock had informed her.

He closed the book he had been reading-a history of the settlement of Sea Hold, and dry stuff it was, but he would by no means have the volume of poetry that completed the room's slender library-and stood, inclining his head to the page sent to guide him.

"I am ready," he said, and followed the child along corridors lit with a pale pink glow from the walls itself to the Engenium's audience chamber.

He was in for it now, he thought, touching the elitch wand in his belt. For a moment the walls receded, and he smelled-not salt air, but a pure, leaf-washed forest breeze. A breath only, but it put heart in him.

Then the page opened the door and he stepped into the room, reminding himself to bow nicely to the Engenium's honor.

He might have saved the effort.

Sian was sitting, knees drawn up under her chin, on the wide stone windowsill overlooking the sea. Breakfast was laid on a table directly before that same window, and two chairs drawn up, facing each other across the board.

"Meripen Vanglelauf," the page stated in a high, sweet voice, and departed, the door closing softly behind him.

Sian turned her head and gave him a smile.

"Cousin," she said, softly. "Will you break bread with me?"

Traditionally, an offer to share a meal was a guarantee of accord-at least so long as the meal was in process. What happened when one rose from the table was uncertain, but, Meri reminded himself with a sigh, so was life.

"I will be very pleased," he said, "Engenium."

She laughed and slipped out of the window.

"I really would rather a rousing scold, you know," she said, pulling out a chair and waving him to the other.

"I know," he said, lips twitching despite himself. After a moment, he moved forward and took the indicated seat.

"Of course you do. But, Meri, I think I have been punished enough." She pointed at the tureen in the center of the table. "Chowder?"

If he had awakened without knowing his location, the offer of fish chowder for breakfast would have immediately given him his bearings.

"That would be delightful," he said, trying-and, to judge from Sian's quirked eyebrow, not entirely achieving-a less formal tone.

She ladled stew into a sea-green pottery bowl and pa.s.sed it to him, the aroma waking an unexpected hunger. He broke the loaf before him, and pa.s.sed half of it to her, winning a grin and a nod.

"Eat," she instructed, and he found that he needed no such urging. Sian apparently shared his hunger, for there was very little conversation until both had sopped their bowls dry with ends of crisp bread and Sian had refilled their cups with ale.

"You slept badly," she said then, throwing one slender leg over the arm of the chair, and cradling her cup between her hands. "In our house."

Meri sat back in his own chair, feet flat on the floor, the elitch wand digging into his ribs, a little, and gave her a direct look. "I slept badly under leaf, too."

Her brows drew together in a frown, and she looked down into her cup.

"That is . . . unhappy news," she said eventually, and said nothing more, her attention apparently focused on the contents of her cup.

Meri waited with what patience he might muster, nursing his own ale. Finally, though, he could bear it no longer.

"Sian."

She looked up, blinking as one newly awakened.

"Cousin?"

"Why did you have me wakened?"

She shook her head, sea-colored eyes wide and guileless. "I did not."

He raised a hand, frowning. "Your letter to the chyarch, and the-"

"I did not," Sian interrupted forcefully, "send that thing to you!" She shook her head and added, quieter, "Nor the letter. I swear it, on the tides."

The elitch wand warmed against his side, but even he could feel the p.r.i.c.kle of a true-oath along his skin.

Meri let his hand fall to his knee. "Who, then?" he asked simply.

"The philosophers are at work; they have orders to find me, wherever I am, whoever I am with, when they have the answer to that question," she said, and he heard anger running beneath the true-telling. "Someone wished you ill, Cousin."

Ill. Almost, he laughed.

"Well." He finished his ale and sat with the cup in his palm, taking comfort from the weight of it. "If you did not send for me, and never thought to do so, then there is nothing here for me. I will, with your permission, withdraw to Vanglewood, and take up the life of a simple Ranger."

Across from him Sian laughed aloud.

He waited, head tipped to one side, an eyebrow up, until she had subsided into chuckles and raised a hand to brush the tears from her cheeks.

"I am pleased to have amused the Engenium," he murmured, which tipped her over into hiccuping giggles.

"You . . . were," she gasped, "never a simple Ranger, Meripen Longeye!"

His fingers tightened on the cup, but he thought he managed not to flinch.

"Clearly I was once a very simple Ranger, indeed, and have lately reverted to type. Let it lie, Sian, and grant me leave to go home."

She sobered then, and shook her head. "I cannot."

"You did not send for me-" he began, and stopped when she raised a long hand.

"I did not send for you," she agreed. "But someone did, using my name and my influence to do so."

Meri thought about that, the cup cold against his palm. "What reason could there be? I-"

"Come now, Cousin," she interrupted, softly this time. "A hero is always of use to someone."

He closed his eye. "There were those who were pleased to name me a hero," he said, keeping his voice steady. "Once. Since that time, I have done only my duties, as Ranger and as Longeye, until I chose a course that endangered me, and brought doom and destruction upon the blameless."

Sian tipped her head. "You speak of Faldana Camlauf."