by Sandra Waugh
I dropped to the floor of my chamber.
It was before dawn, the first fingers of light attempting to pierce the veil of dark. I lay hovering half in, half out of my body, aware of myself as one of two figures on the blanket. I was rolled into Gharain’s chest with his arm draped over my waist. We’d lain like that for a long time, it seemed—with his breath close enough to ruffle my hair, his warmth deeply comforting. The silence was softened by the faint hum of the earth; the rock we lay upon cradled us. And if I looked up, his mouth would be near enough to touch mine—
I shut my eyes against the need. Cruel taunt! Even in this brief moment between sleep and wakefulness, I could not pretend I didn’t know what my dream meant: that touch was not mine to have. Choose for me, Lark, she’d said. Choose the one I will love. You have the Sight.… You will know. And I’d promised her I would.
I’d promised.
Brutal, honest Sight. It had made its choice—or not even a choice, simply an answer. You will know. Her words came back to me, and bitter tears smarted suddenly behind my eyelids. Unfair—this hateful awareness that I’d only just described to Gharain as wondrous. Wondrous! I wanted to spit the word now. This dream, this new, unhappy knowledge, burned at me from inside. Unfair: Life Guardian, bearer of the Sight—kinship with all of Earth and her creatures but the one I wanted most. I lay completely still for a time, wishing I could undo my sleep, my dream, my life.
But it was done. I could not change what I’d seen. Worse, I could not change that I’d promised. I meant to be happy for Evie; I wanted to be happy for her. Instead, I buried my face in Gharain’s shoulder one last time and breathed in his delicious scent, swallowing the terrible pang of envy that I could not help but feel for my cousin, my closest friend.
I’m sorry, Evie, I was whispering. I’m sorry.…
And Gharain said, “Who is Evie?”
His question startled me; I didn’t know I’d spoken aloud. I pulled away and sat up abruptly so that his arm fell back. “Evie is my sister—my cousin, really. You will meet her when we reach Merith.” I said that fiercely, brushing away sleep. “I was dreaming,” I added for protection, and looked down at him. His eyes watched mine; he’d made no move to draw from his place, too close, still, to me.
“So was I,” he said. And then he said a little more softly, “I’ve seen many emotions haunt your face, but not this one. You look sad.”
We watched each other, and I was unable to tell if he knew what I’d dreamed, or maybe even shared it. Then Gharain’s eyes flicked away.
Unfair. Unfair.
But Gharain spoke first. “We should go.”
IT WAS A long day returning to Bren Clearing. The hills of Tarnec marched a downward course in an endless display of rock edges, soaring pine, and eucalyptus. The horses’ hooves mashed the bed of pine needles in a dulled progression of steps. I wondered how Gharain knew his horse was going true. It appeared the same—the straight, tall trunks, the sharply mingled smells, and the brown carpet.
The monotony did not matter. We were making progress; we’d catch up with the Riders and be on our way to Merith. And … I was with Gharain. Guiltily, that was all I thought of. I watched him with both need and resistance so acute that Rune felt the tension in my body and every so often would shake his head as if to stir me awake and have me focus on descent.
That I was not alone in this tension did not help—it hummed between us, and I sensed Gharain’s gaze forced away more than once. I wrestled with my conscience, shamed myself for my desire. He’s meant for Evie; he’s meant for Evie, I repeated over and over in my head. If only I’d not dreamed.
If only I’d not promised.
I was aware as well that Gharain’s sword stayed snug in its hilt. “Do you not worry for Troths?” I asked him.
“Not here,” he replied, pulling up a little on his reins as his horse stepped over a hillock. “The smells are too potent here for them, and daytime too harsh.”
“But you said the hills of Tarnec have been breached.”
“They have. With the amulets in their grasp, the Breeders are bold. The Troths are sent—to divert our attention, maybe keep our focus from seeking or,” with a nod at me, “protecting the Guardians. Still, this forest is an almost lethal venture for those creatures. They would not stay here long. Most are likely too far away to sense us now.”
Troths, worming their way into other territories, compelled to kill at the beckon of Chaos … I thought then of the swifts. “Are there many creatures conjured or dominated by the Breeders?” I asked. “More than what I’ve seen?”
Gharain’s expression darkened. He dismounted then, having paused on an outcropping of rock at cliff’s edge where some grass grew. As the horses set to graze, I wandered a bit, letting my face drink in the sunshine, and watched the two steeds moving together in a slow motion, the dappled gray and the white.
“What is the name of your horse?” I asked to change the subject.
“Petral.” It was muttered inconsequentially. Gharain was busy with something by the edge, so I walked to where he stood.
“What is that?” I asked.
He looked up from his belt, where he was unfastening something. It was the leather braid that he’d used to bind my hands, though neither of us acknowledged it. “Do you see?” He stretched an arm out, pointing down toward something between the craggy rocks.
I squinted. “The small hare there?”
“Yes.” Now Gharain was digging a stone from the hard ground. I watched as he wrapped the stone in one end of the braid, in quick, practiced fashion. His elbow was up and he was swinging the braid over his head before I realized what he intended.
“Don’t!” I said. My hand shot out and closed over his forearm, a move I immediately regretted. Energy surged through cloth, through skin.
Gharain started at my touch. The braid dropped sharply, and the stone ran off the end of the leather and rolled away on the ground. He looked down at me. “That is a share of the meal tonight when we meet the others.” Then, “Lark …” His hand was reaching up to cover mine.
I jerked back. “Just—just don’t,” I said. “Please.” I turned away, then rounded back with a grin to cover my reaction. “Guardian of Life, Gharain. You can’t think I would eat another.”
It was why I’d never chosen to eat meat, I thought absently, tucking in the hand he’d just grasped. Answers for things I’d never questioned. Then I was off, skittering away from him down the steep slope toward the animal, who was far less upset by her close call than I was by that simple touch. She waited as I neared, nose quivering and eyes steady. And when I sat down close by and held out my hand, she made a hop toward me and let me scratch her between her ears. One connection erasing the other.
I shall never touch him again, I promised myself.
Gharain made a small sound. I knew he watched, but I was afraid to look up and relieved when he walked away. I was left with the hare, soft and warm beneath my fingers. Her eyes were wide and dark-deep. Darkly deep.
Nature will give up her secrets … if you know how to listen.
Listen for the signs, the king had said.
“What do you know?” I whispered, only half-serious. “What secrets would you tell?”
And right through my fingertips came the words: Dark entry to the world … the last stand on the windswept face. Go left—stay true.
My hands flinched around her fur, and the hare jerked back. I let her go.
Stay true, the words echoed. Stay true. From her mind, from mine, I didn’t know.
“Lark?” Gharain was back, watching us from above. “We should leave.”
I stood and reached to wipe my hands against my leggings, but not before I breathed in the scent of the animal’s fur, sun-drenched and musky. Thank you, I mouthed. I turned, and then madly stumbled as the ground shuddered beneath my feet.
“Lark!” came Gharain’s shout.
“I’m all right!” But another rumble took my legs from under me, and
a terrible cracking sound dropped me crouched and gasping in the dirt.
“Lark! Come, quickly before the ledge breaks! Can you?”
I looked up at Gharain lying flat, hand outstretched, farther away than I wished. I think I nodded. I lurched for the incline, scrabbling my way up the solid face even as it heaved, reaching for fingerholds that pulled away in my hand.
“Lark!” Another rumble of earth, and my own cry, and I slid back as far as I’d come, scraping my belly on the grit that sprinkled down and over the small fissures that seamed the dirt around me. Small rifts of Nature, the king had said.
“Breeders?” I yelled up at Gharain. “Is this—?”
“Stay there!” he was shouting. “I’ll come to you.” Then came a sharp “Watch yourself!”
A large stone barreled downhill; I ducked my head under my arms. It tore past me and I regrouped, slamming my hands into the earth to push myself forward. I could not let Gharain come down; we’d both be trapped under this ledge of loose rock. I yelled, “Wait!” and gathered breath, cursing at these Breeders. Slithering, wriggling up the short length, palms smeared on the stone—
The earth stopped moving abruptly. I slid down once more in its surprising last gasp of violence, and then all was still. I lay breathing heavily, hearing, oddly, the soft feet of the hare hopping out from a protecting crevice.
“Lark!”
“Here.” I could stand. I dusted off my clothes, loosed my tangled braid, and stumbled my way back up the slope. “You tell me not to worry about Troths,” I gasped, reaching for Gharain’s hand, letting him help drag me up the last length; he pulled me right into him. “Now you’ll tell me the Breeders only play with the amulets.”
Gharain too was breathing hard, but managed calmly enough, “You are all right?” He eased his embrace as I nodded, stepping back a little. Hadn’t I vowed not to touch him?
Yet, one of his hands still held mine tightly and he reached the other up, his thumb rubbing a smear of dirt from my cheek—a steady, gentle sweep despite the heat that sparked from his touch. Then he answered me: “This is only play.”
Bren Clearing had not changed. Almost. There was the rowan tree in the center, huge and strong. There was the path that I’d run down so wildly happy. After the pine and eucalyptus, the air was sweetly fresh. The snowdrops, though, had died. They lay brown and shriveled, dotting the green grass like tiny sores.
The Troth’s presence had done that. And I shuddered for the foxes. I hoped I would not see any violent reminder of their defense, their sacrifice, and thankfully or not, there were no remains.
“Look,” said Gharain, pointing, diverting the ugly thoughts.
The other Riders had arrived before us and were setting up camp south of the rowan where they were hidden by the tree.
It was Dartegn who first signaled our approach with a wave. Gharain shouted to him, “What news of my sister?”
“Ilone rests, Gharain. No lasting harm,” Dartegn called back. He made a little nodding bow to me.
As we drew up, Arnon and Sevrin walked forward to greet us, similarly tall and sturdy with their shocks of dark hair and brows. “You took your time!” they scolded in jest.
“So you could do the hard work!” returned Gharain.
“Nay, we left it for you!” came their retort, and Gharain laughed.
I looked over at him. There was such pleasure in his face at the news of Ilone and joining with his friends.
Arnon took Rune’s mane while I slipped from his back, and Marc came toward us, saying, with a wink at Gharain, “Now we have not one hotspur but two. Surely, Lark, you did not need to prove to us your fleet horsemanship a second time.”
I flushed a bit. “I did not intend to be followed,” I said, uncertain if he joked.
“Nay, Lark,” he said, reaching us. “There’s safety within a group.” And then something more like a reprimand: “I did not teach you to ride so that you could run away.”
“Don’t tease her, Marc. She’s here now.”
“Lucky for you, Gharain, that you sit so well on a horse. I imagine she gave you quite the chase.”
“That she did,” Gharain replied. He grinned at me, and with the pleasure of being accepted into this camaraderie, I could not help but grin back.
“Come, little Lark,” Marc said, and threw a friendly arm over my shoulder.
We ate as the sun settled between the Cullan foothills and the hills of Tarnec, sitting in a large circle around the fire, where Sevrin had concocted a stew from root vegetables. The dark came up from the east, and then firelight alone was left to color us gold and orange. I looked around our circle. Taran, Evaen, Cargh, Marc, Arnon, Sevrin, Dartegn, Wilh, Laurent, Brahnt, Ian, and Gharain—the twelve Riders, whose strength, horsemanship, and courage heralded them above all Keepers. Odd that I sat so easily with these men, dwarfed as I was by such ability. Most of them were still strange to me, yet I casually shared their meal and talk—I, who rarely left home and dined only with my grandmother and cousin. There were village festivals sometimes that I was obliged to attend, or I’d shared a picnic with Quin, but he usually had to coax me from our fields for that.
Quin. A tremor flicked through me. Was he all right? Involuntarily, my hand touched my chest, thinking of the fern he’d given me, but of course it was not there. It had gotten tossed into my pack long ago and probably lay withered somewhere in the hills of Tarnec. I felt bad for that, that I’d not protected it the way he’d offered it to protect me.
And then I felt something as insubstantial as a shadow brush my cheek, and I looked up to see Gharain watching me from across the bonfire.
“A day and some to Merith.” The dark-curled, blue-eyed Laurent was speaking.
“A leisurely pace?” asked Evaen with mild curiosity. I remembered him as the one who, with his wife, Mara, had left the Council to arrange for refreshment.
Laurent made a small nod in my direction. “A necessity, not a waste,” he answered.
“The swifts are up,” said Brahnt. “They will hunt for us.”
“Or not,” Sevrin interjected. “They may be sent to where we are, or where we go.”
“So the swifts could attack Merith too?”
The men paused at my question. “We cannot anticipate the Breeders’ intentions,” answered Laurent, who seemed to be the accepted leader of the Riders. I accepted it too, for he had a soothing, deep voice and demeanor of calm strength. “But I would not fear the swifts. The villagers can take shelter. Remember, the swifts cannot touch things of earth.”
“But they explode. The damage—”
“There are other things more deadly to hold our concern.”
Gharain made a small noise in his throat, but Laurent looked over at him, saying pointedly, “We should not hold back any truth from the lady. It does not help her.”
Then Wilh, sitting next to me, added with a wink, “I doubt we could keep much from her anyway. Little Lark seems very capable of having her way.”
There was a low chuckle all around the circle.
I ignored the lightheartedness and looked to Laurent. “My cousin is a Healer. A swift could destroy her, then, without touch, and yet you speak of things more deadly than swifts. What more?”
Ian spoke up. “Lark, do not worry on things left to imagination, for that inspires the fear so welcome to the Breeders.”
I looked back at Ian—the most handsome of these striking twelve, his face and hair glowing gold in the firelight. “I saw flames consuming my village square. That inspires fear just as well.”
Ian shook his head and smiled a wickedly endearing smile. “Maybe it should not. Trust what you know, what you feel. What do you feel?”
I said, “I feel I want a sword.”
Brahnt laughed out loud. So did Marc.
“Merith has no idea how to defend with force,” I retorted. “But I will not stand calmly unarmed to face Troths, or anything else that can be sent to destroy my family and neighbors. I want to learn how to use a
sword so that I can help when we reach the village.”
Ian said, “Lark—”
“No! Please, hear me: Ruber Minwl had no defense. What if he’d had a sword? What if there was but one Troth who attacked him? What if he could have defended himself?”
I told them of the poor tailor; the Riders accepted my disconnected argument, but not the way I imagined. “And if you give Ruber Minwl a sword,” asked Evaen, “and another man a sword, and another, where does defense begin and end? When does defense become offense?”
Marc added, “It is something like the horses, Lark. Those who are armed with weapons should not use them lightly. Too many weapons cheapens power—cheapens life as well.”
The fire was dancing little flames of green. “He had to sacrifice himself,” I said obstinately. “He died alone. In Dark Wood.”
“You saw this?” Laurent asked this over the sputter and hiss of burning wood, and I nodded, thinking how immensely lonely it would be to die far from those I loved, to—
“Lark.” Gharain was there across the fire, his eyes a deeper green from those flames. “It is not your fault, Ruber Minwl’s death.”
“He died alone,” I repeated. In this company of friends, it seemed a terrible end.
There was a long pause before Laurent asked, “But was he afraid?”
