by Sandra Waugh
“Wilh!” Brahnt shouted into the silence.
“Here!” was the returning shout from some distance away. “I’ve got Rune.”
Gharain sheathed his sword by slamming it into his belt. He, with Brahnt following, slid down the new ridge, eased me up on my one good ankle, and lifted me to stand supported by Wilh’s horse. They did it matter-of-factly, as if nothing had occurred, despite a sheen of sweat at their temples and Gharain’s paled complexion. His hand was warm on my arm before he let go.
I found my voice. “H-how did that happen?”
Brahnt took charge with quickly adopted cheer. “There.” He gave an awkward pat to my shoulder. “Just wet. You’re all right.”
But I wasn’t. “It’s as Harker said.”
As quickly, his cheerfulness was gone. “What?”
“From last morning, the village of Dann. An old man was traveling through.” My teeth were starting to chatter, maybe from the cold. “A seer. He said the world is in agony, upheavals—”
“A seer spreads tales of this?” Gharain interrupted, grim. He passed me his cloak.
“Not tales! He spoke true enough. He warned of Nature’s turmoil. Was this flood not such? And yesterday the ground shook when I was inside the Niler marshes.” Only yesterday? It felt a lifetime.
“Far away, then. What else?”
I did not tell him of the dream, of the books or the girls, or Harker’s anguish. I shook my head and dried my face on Gharain’s cloak before wrapping it close. It held his scent, faint with juniper. There was a noise and we looked to see Wilh clambering up the ridge with Rune, one hand clutching the horse’s mane, one holding his side. “That boulder was none too kind to my ribs,” he said to us with a half grin as he neared. “There’s a long scratch down Rune’s flank, but it’s not deep. ’Twill not hamper his speed.”
Rune came close, nudging at my hair and sleeve to judge my sopping state. I looped one arm around his neck and ran my fingers along his wound. Thankfully, Wilh was right: it was not deep.
Brahnt was muttering to the other Riders, “They toy with us.”
“Toying is what they’ll do,” said Gharain, his voice bitter. “For now at least.”
Wilh moved to close ranks with the Riders. “But more than toying, I think,” he murmured, with a glance to where I stood. “They’re looking.”
“Who is looking?” I shivered, picturing Troths, and leaned into Rune’s warm side.
Brahnt ignored me, saying low and with some severity, “You assume, Wilh. We don’t know.”
Wilh raised a brow. “And yet, maybe they do.” They walked off to argue away from me. Their hands stayed on their sword hilts.
I was left with Gharain, who finally returned my stare. “Who are they? Troths?” I asked.
“It is nothing.”
As if I should be content with so ridiculous an answer. “That was not nothing.”
He held himself rigidly. “You are perfectly safe with us.”
“I expect I am. But it’s not what I asked.” I was as rude as he, for his eyes were so coldly disconcerting and his demeanor so stiff that I couldn’t remember manners or timidity or even the fear from moments ago—only the urge to somehow bring back that smile, or at least effect something more than disdain. Finally I dragged his cloak off my shoulders and pushed it back at him.
Gharain hesitated for the briefest moment, but gave a little jut to his chin as acknowledgment, took the cloak, and walked away.
As the sun was just past the midpoint, the horses came to the edge of a wide plateau, pausing above a grass-carpeted, granite-rimmed valley.
“Home,” announced Wilh.
I looked down from the height of our shared saddle. “Home?” What could bring the note of pleasure to his voice? The emerald expanse was pretty, but there were no cottages, no tents, no shepherds’ huts, even. I wondered that they might live in caves.
“Little Lark,” Wilh laughed gently. “Not down. Look there.” And he raised his arm to point west across the dale.
Sir Farrin said the Riders protected secrets. I was wrong to think it was only the horses.
Stone battlements rose from a precipice that jutted out and split the valley nearly in half. A forest of turrets spired up from the sheer face, grown, it seemed, directly from the hard earth. Surrounding them, and sweeping back from a wide terrace that ringed the back of the castle, was the green of grass, and trees, and woods, even. Woods—not of fir and eucalyptus, but most likely oak and chestnut and birch. The pines took over only farther up the wide slope that spread out like a cape. There was space enough for cottages to scatter across the green swath. Even from this distance I was certain I could make out sheep and other livestock dotting the green next to rows of what must be farmed offerings. And beyond I saw the even spacing of orchard trees. Only the Myr Mountains stretching north dominated Tarnec’s height, and they could not cast the land in shadow.
Wilh grinned at my expression. “Quite the view. This is Tarnec.”
“I’ve never seen anything so grand,” I said with true awe, watching the banners waving atop the spires. A kingdom. An entire kingdom crowding to the edges of the jutting cliff, at once huge and contained.
There was a small spiral of energy whirling in the pit of my stomach—not the usual dread of unfamiliar people and places, but rather anticipation. I looked over at the other two Riders. Something too in their pleasured expressions made me want to climb that precipice, enter the realm. Even Gharain’s face had relaxed.
“Come!” Brahnt set off, calling out to the others, “We’re not there yet!”
It was impossible to reach Tarnec along the plateau, so we traveled down in tight single file on the only path carved into the cliff, spreading out for a final gallop when we reached the valley floor. Gharain took the length at a wild speed, quickly outdistancing us; Wilh and Brahnt let the horses run open at their own pleasure while I held on, breathless.
We’d been spotted by lookouts. As we neared the halfway point, I saw three men on horseback filing down the last path from the castle lands to meet us. Wilh yelled to me over the sound of hooves, “Three of our brethren. Now you have half our group to lead you home.”
I frowned. Kind, but odd words. This was not my home.
Nor was the greeting entirely hospitable. The three new Riders had pulled their horses up, blocking the path.
“Ho! Wilh! What have you brought?” came the cry as we neared.
“Nay, it is all right!” Brahnt shouted back, and I tensed again at that. He’d said as much to me after the flood, and neither time did he erase the gravity of the mood.
Gharain reached the three first, gripping forearms with each in salutation. I heard him mutter as we approached, “Careful. Don’t crowd her.”
Stern and serious looks from the Riders—eyes to me, to Rune, to Gharain, then back to me, with suspicious curiosity. Hardly surprising; I was both trespasser and frightful mix of mud and pine needles and wind-dried clothes. I heard one murmur, “Again?” before it was lost as Brahnt called out, “Lark, I offer you Taran, Dartegn, and Cargh. At your service.”
The Riders stayed where they were but bowed their heads to me briefly. From this distance I took none of their history, only their energy: a sensation of something both earth-rooted and pliant, the way wheat fields ripple in a breeze. They were strong-built, of differing ages, though all far younger than I’d first pictured. Cargh was blond; the others were dark-haired. Blue-eyed, brown, hazel—they had pleasing looks. None had Gharain’s chestnut curls and sage eyes.
“How?” asked Taran, his eyes on me.
Gharain was quiet. Brahnt grunted, “Later. Bring us home.”
There was a pause, a hesitation that swelled as the Riders waited. A flush spread along Gharain’s cheek. Gazes flicked back and forth in silence. Then Brahnt said roughly, “It is well. I believe it is well. I will account for this.”
“So be it, then. After you, my lady,” Dartegn announced with a sweep of arm, gesturing
Wilh to move ahead.
Taran fronted the way up the path, and Wilh followed. The others filed behind, talking—of me, I assumed, but I did not hear their words. I was rigid and wide-eyed at the straight drop but an arm’s length away. Up and up we progressed. The castle was lost for a time behind the height of the cliff walls. And then it reappeared, much more huge and imposing. Windows, battlements, massive blocks of stone, all hanging, suspended, as if it would at any moment tip over on us. I caught my breath.
Wilh sensed my reaction. He laid a gloved hand over my hands gripping his saddle.
“Welcome to Tarnec,” he said.
WELCOME WAS NOT enough of a word to describe our arrival. Many came running as we entered the courtyard through the towering oak gates—guards, groomsmen, men and women of varied rank and uniform. I held very still as the crowd gathered, waiting for the onslaught of sensations. But there were none, other than the pleasant buzz of conversation and motion. Wilh helped me gently down to the waiting arms of two servants, arms that passed no unpleasant visions. I’m not certain if I was more stunned at the ease I felt with the residents of the castle, or at the impressive structure itself; all of it was unreal. I turned to look back at the Riders—Wilh, Brahnt, and Gharain. They were dismounting, laughing, leaving their horses with affectionate slaps to the capable hands of grooms. And though he had no lead, Rune docilely followed the others through murmurs and exclamations at his appearance. The white horse, it seemed, was already known.
If murmurs trailed me as well, I could not tell. I was whisked inside Castle Tarnec in the opposite direction that Gharain headed.
I wished it had not mattered.
I suppose the mere size of a castle implies that most things will be done on a grand scale, but I’d never seen anything so huge. The entryway alone was more than twice our cottage. The ceiling rose until it was lost in shadow; timeworn floors of stone stretched through arched doorways leading to places of mystery. I was carried—neck craning, trying not to miss any feature—through winding, tapestry-lined halls and into an airy room where I was at last set down.
It was simple and sparsely furnished, and lovely. A candelabra set with fat tapers hung from the soaring ceiling; slate floors were scattered with thickly woven rugs of blues and greens. Opposite the huge fireplace was an equally wide down-stuffed bed, and a looking glass stood by the door. An armchair and footstool were bathed in sunlight pouring through the leaded casements and small doorway that filled one wall. They opened to a cloister and interior garden where ivy climbed around the stonework, and flowers scented the air with heady sweetness.
I took my first deep breath then, drawing in the hush and peace of the room—but for a moment only, since behind us crowded a lively force of helpers. Information, it seemed, had traveled as quickly through the castle as I. “Haste now! She is here!” echoed in the corridors, and in came servants bearing a hip bath, buckets, clothing, food, and an assortment of soaps and brushes and towels. A cup of sweet tea was given to me to swallow, then the pine needles were shaken from my hair, salve dabbed on my wrist burns, and my clothes unlaced and bundled away. Two girls casting curious glances hurried through the cloister door and began drawing water from the pool that graced the center of the garden. It was done so quickly that I could only blink at the busy figures and wonder why I was not overwhelmed.
It was too beautiful; they were too attentive. None of it appropriate to my status. I said aloud to anyone who might stop long enough to listen, “This is a mistake. I am the trespasser the Riders brought from the hills.” I grimaced a little at my own honesty, expecting I’d just asked for some dank dungeon to replace these pleasures.
A stout, motherly, apple-cheeked woman came over to pull the last burrs out of my tangles. She smiled at me. “We welcome all who reach the castle.”
So, if not killed outright, as Sir Farrin warned of trespassers, then welcomed? I stared at her. I would have sensed a lie through her hands even if her smile held. But she spoke truth.
“But what of the Council? I was brought here for that.”
“Council will be tonight,” the woman said. “You shall rest and heal first.”
Nayla was her name. She announced herself my attendant, and with brisk efficiency directed my arrival. Trays placed here, towels stacked there—she helped me limp to the bath, shushed a young girl who was pointing to my shoulder, and asked brightly, “Found on the hills, were you?” I’d barely nodded before buckets of freshwater poured over my head, warm freshwater.
“A spring-fed pool, my lady, but our kitchen fires burn directly below it,” Nayla explained, then turned a stern eye to my filthy hair. I gave over to the luxury of assistance. Not even at market day had I been so close to so many people at once, and yet here their touch showed nothing disturbing, simply the soft hum of tranquil energy as they scrubbed me clean with soaps and oils, unfamiliar but enticingly perfumed.
“Colraigh and elspen,” said Nayla with a nod when I murmured something about it. “They take to water. In it their scent expands. Some are growing just outside.” She tsked, “Pine sap,” and scoured my elbows.
I looked out at the girls drawing the water, running along a footpath leading to the wide pool. The garden was enormous; one wing of the castle must have been built to surround it. The deep-green lawn was bordered by white flowers—not quite the shape of roses—jumbling up the stone pillars spaced evenly along the cloister. Ivy and boxwood draped and bordered as well—a tease to conceal stone and space. This was not what I’d imagined. The directions to Bren Clearing had not included this.
At last, cleaned of three days’ travel, I was dried with a sheet of linen warmed by the sun and helped from the tub. The other assistants withdrew with their buckets and bath while Nayla lifted a gown from the bed. “For sleep,” she said just as I yawned, and exchanged the linen sheet for this. “Now come sit by the window and eat something while I attend to your ankle.”
There was stew, hard cheese, and bread. There was fruit, and some sort of cake with a sugared icing. I sat back with a handful of blackberries, not quite relaxed but lulled anyway into the afternoon, breathing in the scent of those pretty flowers, feeling the shifting sun glint here and there across my face while Nayla unwound neat folds of linen strips into a brass bowl that she’d warmed in the fireplace. She poured in two tinctures, and I watched their clear colors turn deep violet as they mixed. A rich scent wafted up from the shallow depth. Pungent herb and dark flower—I thought, almost, that I knew it, but then the memory was gone.
“Minion, stonecrop, and thyme,” Nayla said, catching my faint frown. “Heat releases their power.”
“Heat releases the healing properties of these herbs,” I mused sleepily. “And water releases the scents of colraigh and elspen. What else?”
The maidservant laughed, pointed at the pretty flowers climbing in the cloister pillars. “The scent of the bell roses. They soothe and heal as well.”
Piece by piece, Nayla wrung out the linen and wrapped my ankle. There was a pleasant heat, and then I felt a tingle swirling my ankle, reaching deep. I nearly jumped.
Nayla nodded. “The healing begins.” Then she nodded again with approval at my yawn. “And that is the tea having its effect. Come take your rest.”
Cloud-soft, I told Nayla, sinking into the bed. Sunlight streamed through the green leaves in the cloister, making dappled patterns of shadow over the white comforter; a light breeze stirred the shadows and ushered in the sweet smells of the garden—
“Wait!” I said, rousing as I heard her collecting her things. “Water, fire, and air you have told me. But what growing things are enhanced by the earth?”
“My lady, it does not work the same for Earth,” Nayla responded, though she was now by the door. “With Earth, it is what we do that enhances its bounty.”
“I don’t understand.”
“But you, my lady? Do you not? ’Tis a cycle: plants harvested from the earth heal us. And it is we who, in turn, affect the earth. What
we give to Earth encourages her ability to provide for us.”
“What—provide what?” I murmured. I was nearly out. “What do we give?”
It was so sweetly said, my lashes flicked down. “Love.”
I dreamed of home. I dreamed of things I loved: the smell of cut grass, lilacs blooming, the nudge of Rileg’s cold nose. I dreamed of the comfort of Grandmama’s plump and sturdy embrace, Quin’s laugh, and Evie’s fair gaze. I dreamed of Gharain’s smile.
But then another, terrifying smile consumed all, yawning huge and black and greedy, whispering, “There you are.…” I woke with a gasping jolt.
Shadows had deepened across the room, but the rich scent of the bell roses lingered still, a reminder of how distinctly my life had changed in a single day. The sweet dream was gone. Home was gone. I sat up slowly, hugged my arms around my knees to clasp what was familiar.
As if she’d waited to hear me stir, Nayla bustled in, arms laden with a splendid-looking gown. “A pleasant sleep I trust, Mistress Lark?”
Maybe enchantment could be broken if confronted. I fixed her with a severe glare. “Tell me: Am I magicked? Is this a spell?”
Nayla laughed at me. “Now that would be a most difficult task: to weave all of this into a spell.” She nodded at the room, the garden beyond, and, I assumed, the entire realm. “Too exhausting” was her pronouncement. She draped the gown on the chair and proceeded to light the candles. I scrutinized each motion with suspicion, but the tasks were too ordinary to be working enchantments. Finished, Nayla turned, hands on hips, wondering that I waited. “Time to rise, my lady; the king waits to meet you.”
