Longeye by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page B
Authors: Steve Miller, Sharon Lee
Tags: Fantasy
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puissant a lady?
"I believe you," she said submissively.
Sian might have snorted, or she might have laughed. Whichever, she did turn her horse, with a click and a lean, and moved off down tree-lined road, Rosamunde following before Becca gave the signal.
If the path would not appear, he would make his own, as ever he had.
Altimere rose from his chair, shook out his lace, took a deep breath of warm, mist-tainted air, and took a single step forward.
It was as if he tried to push himself through a stone wall. He exerted his will, his kest rising in a blaze of silvered reds.
The mist around him flared sullen pink, gave—and tightened like a drumhead, flinging him back, off his feet, willy-nilly into the chair, ghostly hands around his throat.
"I do not permit!" The mist filling his mouth softened the shout to a whisper, but it would appear that in this, his will was, yet, sufficient.
The pressure around his throat faded.
He was alone in his chair, surrounded by mist.
Deliberately, Altimere sat upright, adjusted his collar, and closed his eyes.
He had not wished to do this; had not wished to place his pretty child in peril. But where was her safety, with him imprisoned?
Gathering his kest , he composed himself, and mentally told over those things which were bound to him. Not for him the gemstones and flowers braided into the hair, nor the knotted bits of silk. No; he was Altimere of the Elder Fey, and he had no use for such stratagems and tricks.
It was the necklace he reached for, showing blackly iridescent before his mind's eye. He did not like to endanger his child in this way, but, really, what choice did he have?
Altimere touched the necklace with his will, issued the command—
. . . and cried out as the image faded away into the mist, leaving an echoing emptiness behind.
Chapter Five
It was impossible to tell precisely when the city became the countryside. Eventually, the road began to wind a little more among the trees, the shrubbery grew thicker and even less restrained, the now-and-then glimpse of an open window or the gable of a wooden roof grew rarer, and then ceased altogether.
They rode single-file, and at a rapid walk, Sian in the lead. The road was wide enough for them to have gone side by-side, but Becca wished to be alone with her thoughts.
Such thoughts they were! She had no notion of the geography of the Vaitura; indeed, she could not recall having seen a map of the land in the books she had struggled to decipher in the library at Altimere's country seat. There had not even been a map on the wall, which in retrospect was odd. Her father had a large and handsome colored map of the Midlands over the fireplace in his library at Barimuir House. She wondered at herself, that she had never noticed the lack in the library at Artifex. Surely, she thought, a great and elder lord living so close to the border would have maps at hand? Then she thought again. Perhaps there had been a map, after all, and Altimere merely willed her not to see it.
It came over her all at once, a longing for those days before she had fully understood what she had agreed to, in her ignorance and her folly. When she had believed herself safe, cherished, protected.
Loved.
Tears rose to her eyes, and she wanted nothing more than to be in her bath, ignorant and happy, Altimere lounging carelessly at the water's edge, his hair gleaming in the candlelight, the crimson dressing gown falling open over his smooth white chest.
Beneath her, Rosamunde's purposeful walk changed in response to her rider's inattention. Becca drew a shaky breath and adjusted her seat; Rosamunde's gait smoothed, and her ears flicked, as if to say, "Next time, I shall not be so gentle with you!"
"You are a marvel of patience and forbearance," Becca murmured, her voice choked with tears. "Indeed, indeed , I will try to deserve you."
Rosamunde snorted, and ahead of them, Sian looked back.
"We will rest after we have crossed Horn's land,
"I believe you," she said submissively.
Sian might have snorted, or she might have laughed. Whichever, she did turn her horse, with a click and a lean, and moved off down tree-lined road, Rosamunde following before Becca gave the signal.
If the path would not appear, he would make his own, as ever he had.
Altimere rose from his chair, shook out his lace, took a deep breath of warm, mist-tainted air, and took a single step forward.
It was as if he tried to push himself through a stone wall. He exerted his will, his kest rising in a blaze of silvered reds.
The mist around him flared sullen pink, gave—and tightened like a drumhead, flinging him back, off his feet, willy-nilly into the chair, ghostly hands around his throat.
"I do not permit!" The mist filling his mouth softened the shout to a whisper, but it would appear that in this, his will was, yet, sufficient.
The pressure around his throat faded.
He was alone in his chair, surrounded by mist.
Deliberately, Altimere sat upright, adjusted his collar, and closed his eyes.
He had not wished to do this; had not wished to place his pretty child in peril. But where was her safety, with him imprisoned?
Gathering his kest , he composed himself, and mentally told over those things which were bound to him. Not for him the gemstones and flowers braided into the hair, nor the knotted bits of silk. No; he was Altimere of the Elder Fey, and he had no use for such stratagems and tricks.
It was the necklace he reached for, showing blackly iridescent before his mind's eye. He did not like to endanger his child in this way, but, really, what choice did he have?
Altimere touched the necklace with his will, issued the command—
. . . and cried out as the image faded away into the mist, leaving an echoing emptiness behind.
Chapter Five
It was impossible to tell precisely when the city became the countryside. Eventually, the road began to wind a little more among the trees, the shrubbery grew thicker and even less restrained, the now-and-then glimpse of an open window or the gable of a wooden roof grew rarer, and then ceased altogether.
They rode single-file, and at a rapid walk, Sian in the lead. The road was wide enough for them to have gone side by-side, but Becca wished to be alone with her thoughts.
Such thoughts they were! She had no notion of the geography of the Vaitura; indeed, she could not recall having seen a map of the land in the books she had struggled to decipher in the library at Altimere's country seat. There had not even been a map on the wall, which in retrospect was odd. Her father had a large and handsome colored map of the Midlands over the fireplace in his library at Barimuir House. She wondered at herself, that she had never noticed the lack in the library at Artifex. Surely, she thought, a great and elder lord living so close to the border would have maps at hand? Then she thought again. Perhaps there had been a map, after all, and Altimere merely willed her not to see it.
It came over her all at once, a longing for those days before she had fully understood what she had agreed to, in her ignorance and her folly. When she had believed herself safe, cherished, protected.
Loved.
Tears rose to her eyes, and she wanted nothing more than to be in her bath, ignorant and happy, Altimere lounging carelessly at the water's edge, his hair gleaming in the candlelight, the crimson dressing gown falling open over his smooth white chest.
Beneath her, Rosamunde's purposeful walk changed in response to her rider's inattention. Becca drew a shaky breath and adjusted her seat; Rosamunde's gait smoothed, and her ears flicked, as if to say, "Next time, I shall not be so gentle with you!"
"You are a marvel of patience and forbearance," Becca murmured, her voice choked with tears. "Indeed, indeed , I will try to deserve you."
Rosamunde snorted, and ahead of them, Sian looked back.
"We will rest after we have crossed Horn's land,
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