gasped. The rich light piercing the Brethren's fist faded, like the sun going behind a storm cloud, leaving only a pale wash of gilt behind. She raised her hand. If she stared, she could see the pale fires outlining her fingers. Rosamunde's flank was only a slightly warmer chestnut, as if she were bathed in dawn-light.
"What did you do?" she demanded, but the Brethren had turned away, its heavy head cocked to a side, as if it heard some sound too soft for her ears to discern.
"What—" she began again. Her words were cut off by the firm press of cold fingers across her lips. She pulled back, slightly, seeing Nancy as a blur of silver and jewels, emphatically shaking her tiny head from side to side.
All right, then, Becca thought. Nancy was plainly as convinced of the necessity of quiet as the Brethren. Though she still did not understand how she should have known that her glow was too loud—much less what to do about it—she could keep quiet in . . . more traditional ways.
She pressed her lips tightly together. Seemingly satisfied, Nancy withdrew her hand, and drifted upward on lazy wings. She patted Becca's cheek lightly, then rose higher and was lost in the shine of the shrubbery enclosing them.
Ignored by her companions, she concentrated on what she could hear, which was precisely what she would expect to hear in a wood settling down for the night: branch-creak and leaf-rustle; the skitter of some small creature through the dried leaves that covered the ground inside her shelter; the call of a night bird.
Rosamunde tensed, noble head rising, ears at full alert. Becca's heart slammed into overaction, and she tasted the metallic tang of fear at the back of her mouth. Yet, she saw nothing.
Still, Rosamunde did not relax. Becca swallowed and sighted determinedly between those fine, upright ears.
Tree-glow was what she saw, and a glossy wall of blue-green cedar needles. Rosamunde had likely just picked up her rider's unease and, horselike, was on the lookout for goblins.
Becca took a deep breath, willing herself to relax. The Brethren, she told herself, was only being cautious, and hiding them until it could be sure there was no pursuit. Really, it was a wonder that it had led them so long before taking—
The wall of cedar framed by Rosamunde's ears broke inward, away from a massive head and snarling maw.
Becca screamed. Rosamunde reared, lashing out briskly with a front leg. The hoof caught the creature a glancing blow across its massive nose. It fell back with another roar, over which the Brethren's voice could be clearly heard.
"Run!"
It was Sian's voice the wind brought him as he came upon the Newman village, and Sian's aura he saw staining the new night with power.
"Well," Meri said conversationally, in case a tree or six might be listening; "I don't have to walk all the way to Sea Hold, after all." There came the sound of running feet, and the blare of Newmen auras. "Surely, this display is not on my behalf."
Sian has lost the Gardener , the voice of the elder elitch told him. She is not pleased.
"Certainly, Sian never took it well when she misplaced something," Meri allowed, slowing slightly while he sorted words out of the wind.
". . . must have gone off the path at the long curve," Sian was saying, her voice sharp. "It is imperative that she be found—quickly—and brought here to safety! Where is the Ranger I sent to you?"
Meri sighed, and quickened his stride.
"Master Vanglelauf went into the wood this morning." Elizabeth Moore's voice was calm and unhurried, a notable feat in the face of a High Fey's angry panic. "We don't know when he might come out, Lady. He, himself, was unsure of what he might find."
"As much as it pains me to disturb Master Vanglelauf at his work, yet I must ask if you will have young Jamie request the trees to bid him come, and at once."
The two stood beneath the elitch's generous branches; he could see their auras clearly as he moved on, Sian's showing far
"What did you do?" she demanded, but the Brethren had turned away, its heavy head cocked to a side, as if it heard some sound too soft for her ears to discern.
"What—" she began again. Her words were cut off by the firm press of cold fingers across her lips. She pulled back, slightly, seeing Nancy as a blur of silver and jewels, emphatically shaking her tiny head from side to side.
All right, then, Becca thought. Nancy was plainly as convinced of the necessity of quiet as the Brethren. Though she still did not understand how she should have known that her glow was too loud—much less what to do about it—she could keep quiet in . . . more traditional ways.
She pressed her lips tightly together. Seemingly satisfied, Nancy withdrew her hand, and drifted upward on lazy wings. She patted Becca's cheek lightly, then rose higher and was lost in the shine of the shrubbery enclosing them.
Ignored by her companions, she concentrated on what she could hear, which was precisely what she would expect to hear in a wood settling down for the night: branch-creak and leaf-rustle; the skitter of some small creature through the dried leaves that covered the ground inside her shelter; the call of a night bird.
Rosamunde tensed, noble head rising, ears at full alert. Becca's heart slammed into overaction, and she tasted the metallic tang of fear at the back of her mouth. Yet, she saw nothing.
Still, Rosamunde did not relax. Becca swallowed and sighted determinedly between those fine, upright ears.
Tree-glow was what she saw, and a glossy wall of blue-green cedar needles. Rosamunde had likely just picked up her rider's unease and, horselike, was on the lookout for goblins.
Becca took a deep breath, willing herself to relax. The Brethren, she told herself, was only being cautious, and hiding them until it could be sure there was no pursuit. Really, it was a wonder that it had led them so long before taking—
The wall of cedar framed by Rosamunde's ears broke inward, away from a massive head and snarling maw.
Becca screamed. Rosamunde reared, lashing out briskly with a front leg. The hoof caught the creature a glancing blow across its massive nose. It fell back with another roar, over which the Brethren's voice could be clearly heard.
"Run!"
It was Sian's voice the wind brought him as he came upon the Newman village, and Sian's aura he saw staining the new night with power.
"Well," Meri said conversationally, in case a tree or six might be listening; "I don't have to walk all the way to Sea Hold, after all." There came the sound of running feet, and the blare of Newmen auras. "Surely, this display is not on my behalf."
Sian has lost the Gardener , the voice of the elder elitch told him. She is not pleased.
"Certainly, Sian never took it well when she misplaced something," Meri allowed, slowing slightly while he sorted words out of the wind.
". . . must have gone off the path at the long curve," Sian was saying, her voice sharp. "It is imperative that she be found—quickly—and brought here to safety! Where is the Ranger I sent to you?"
Meri sighed, and quickened his stride.
"Master Vanglelauf went into the wood this morning." Elizabeth Moore's voice was calm and unhurried, a notable feat in the face of a High Fey's angry panic. "We don't know when he might come out, Lady. He, himself, was unsure of what he might find."
"As much as it pains me to disturb Master Vanglelauf at his work, yet I must ask if you will have young Jamie request the trees to bid him come, and at once."
The two stood beneath the elitch's generous branches; he could see their auras clearly as he moved on, Sian's showing far
Similar Books
