Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec)

by Sandra Waugh

  “Try again,” he suggested. “Hold them there a moment longer.”

  And I dunked my hands again into the shallow stream and let the fresh water run between my fingertips. The night was cool, the water cooler still, but it felt good. Some of the anxiety dissipated, washed downstream. I thought of Nayla saying we offered love to the Earth and in return it was bountiful. I thought of the pleasure of digging my hands into earth to plant, to weed, and what it offered back—

  “Lark?” Gharain said gently.

  I lifted out my hands, shook the water away.

  Gharain tipped the torch again. The wicks were not as brown, nor as shriveled as they were before—the water did seem to have drained the Troth’s presence out of them—but they were still limp, lifeless.

  “Oh,” I murmured, disappointed.

  “It was a good try.” Gharain touched a hand under mine cupping the wilted flowers.

  I gasped. The energy ran between hands, and the wicks suddenly sprang to life—the leaves and flowers plumping and greening before our eyes, even as they fell from our shocked grasp.

  We laughed aloud, quickly clamping hands over our mouths lest we wake anyone. And then our eyes met—equal gazes of thrilled surprise.

  He affected me, he’d said. The strike of lightning, the extinguishing of visions, and now the power to burst life into something that seemed dead, all from his touch—

  I had to look away. I had to remember. If not love for Evie, Gharain was still the one who would kill me.

  Gharain cleared his throat. “Arnon.” We rose quickly.

  To our dismay, we’d not found a cure. It was impossible to make a paste, a poultice, or anything else from the wicks. They’d sprung back; now they would not crush or be ground smooth, and they popped out from any wrappings we tied onto the silently agonizing Arnon. We tried laying the individual stems along his arm, but though he claimed he could feel a healing chill at their touch, they rolled off his skin immediately. It would have been comical if Arnon’s pain had not been so deep.

  “Some magic,” growled Cargh. It was the first time I’d seen him out of sorts.

  “There must be something else to this,” Gharain said, exasperated after so many attempts. “If we could but stick them to his skin.”

  Cargh snorted, but I said quickly, “Sap will work. From the rowan.”

  “No,” the three men decreed simultaneously. “The rowan is sacred,” continued Cargh. “No branch may be stripped from it.”

  “Then I’ll ask for one.” And I was away, running to the rowan. They let me go alone.

  Within the wide boundary of its branches, I paused. Wait, I told myself. Wait. Time was scarce, but I could not make a request of the tree with the jumble of emotions tearing through me. I put my hands against my mouth, breathed hard into them, and flung my hands away, again and over again until I panted, sweating and empty. Only then did I wipe my palms on my leggings and step forward to place them on the smooth, gray bark, listening to the ancient music few could hear. I thought of Arnon, and the ugly hukon that had killed the queen, trapped the amulets, and threatened the fragile balance that brought life to this Earth.

  And then I whispered, “Please help.” I looked up into its dark canopy. “An offering?”

  Silence. The rowan’s song—like distant bells—whispered through the leaves. My fingertips pressed against the horizontal etching of lines running up the trunk, feeling its hum running into my fingers—

  A wave of energy spilled through—a power from eons of seasons, of standing watch over this magical clearing. I was not the first to ask of the rowan, for I felt the presence of many others who’d stood beneath this tree entreating help long before my time. Voices of anguish, fear, and even, sometimes, greed. The roots ran deep; the leaves branched high—connecting earth and sky to this place where a small being could stand and make a request.

  And the tree spoke to me.

  Bring light into dark.

  There was a rustle in the branches high above, and through the leaves dropped a twig at my feet.

  Smiling, I pressed hand over heart and bowed to the rowan, picked up the gift, and ran back to the others.

  The twig was fresh, covered in young, fine hairs and rich with oil. Neither Cargh nor Gharain spoke, but Arnon gave me a grateful look.

  “I don’t know if this will do anything,” I warned him quietly.

  “But you tried, and I thank you.” His voice was very tight.

  The sap was smeared as lightly as possible, and the wicks we laid in rows up his arm—and they held. Arnon took a deep breath and said it was not so bad anymore. I didn’t expect that any of us believed him, but after a few moments his tightly clenched eyes relaxed and his head tipped to one side in some sort of rest.

  It was all we could do for now. Cargh claimed he’d take the watch and told us to go back to sleep for the last hour or so; I went to the stream to wash my hands.

  And I washed and washed, and tried to erase everything I’d seen from Arnon and dreamed about Gharain—of death and pain and heartbreak, of the Breeders of Chaos wreaking destruction over all. Somehow, finding the Life amulet would help make this stop, but now I didn’t even know if I would live long enough to recapture it.

  Gharain had followed me. He bent and rinsed his hands—we both worked silently. Even from his distance I could feel him like a shock, warm and vital. Despite everything I’d foreseen, my desire still burned.

  I had to end this terrible, futile need.

  I sat back on my heels and faced him. “Laurent said no truth should be withheld,” I began, then gritted my teeth, meaning to be bolder. “This connection between us pulls me strongly. But …”

  My voice fell away; Gharain had met my gaze in the dark. For a moment we were frozen in place, eyes locked. The air stilled, and the water at our feet was the last remaining sound jingling over the stones.

  And then Gharain stood up, took two steps toward me, and pulled me to my feet, his touch charging through my arms.

  I think time stopped. He would kiss me; his mouth dipped to mine. And all the rumors I’d ever heard of first kisses—a sweet press of lips, shy glances, and a stolen touch—this would be none of these. This would be fierce and full and all-consuming. And this would shatter me—a million pieces of desire, and despair. I could not have that kiss. I had to look Evie fair in the eye someday.

  I shoved him back, stumbling from my own force. He reached out to catch my arm, to right me, but I found my footing and jerked my arm away.

  “Lark!”

  “Why? Why would you do that? You said yourself we must be strong!” My hands went to my cheeks; they were fiercely hot. “I promised myself not to let you—you burn in me so deeply. And then you do that, and it ruins every resolve!”

  “And so you push me away?”

  “Yes!”

  That surprised him. “Yet you speak of our connection—”

  “Not through a kiss! You cannot kiss me!” I clenched my fists again.

  He said roughly, “A kiss is the most powerful of touches. Of connections.”

  “You cannot want this—me.”

  “And why can’t I? Deny that you want me.”

  I ignored that. “For two profound reasons, Gharain!”

  “All of two?” He was mocking in his defense. “And those being …?”

  “That you are meant for another. And, that you will kill me.”

  He disregarded the first reason. “Kill you? How?”

  “By sword.”

  He laughed. “I already tried that. Fate thankfully intervened—”

  “Rune intervened,” I interrupted to correct. “But fate will ultimately have her way. It is what I have foreseen.”

  His breath exhaled harshly. “No. That cannot be. Our destinies entwine—merge, not destroy. You know this as well as I.”

  Destinies entwined. It hurt to hear that, and it was likewise thrilling. I didn’t want to remember that he was destined rather to fall in love with Evie,
kill me. Still, if I focused on those agonizing truths, I might find strength enough to keep away. “You don’t want me.”

  His smile was devastating. “You’re wrong. It’s all that I’ve wanted. I’ve fought myself from the beginning. I didn’t want to believe I deserved—”

  “No! Don’t say it!” I was fierce. “There is no beginning—it’s too late! It’s always been too late.” There was a tiny, miserable pause. “I have the Sight, Gharain. It does not lie.”

  “But maybe it can be misinterpreted.” He growled this; I’d hurt him. Gharain turned and stormed off, kicking over a torch as he passed it. The flame went out.

  Misinterpreted? If only I had. For just a moment I clung to that possibility—that I’d erred. But no flash of white had protected me from this sword strike; it had sliced straight through. And I’d promised Evie, and Gharain had held her so close.…

  “Maybe,” I whispered after him. “But not if you’d seen what I’ve seen.” And not if you’d promised.

  It was good that he was going to kill me. At least all this pain would be short-lived.

  A RUSTLE, A thump, a shout, and a shriek of absolute terror woke us in the early dawn.

  “Arnon!” I gasped, eyes flying open.

  But it was not Arnon. In a flash, the Riders were up with swords raised, all pointing to where I lay stunned and blinking sleep from my eyes. It occurred to me that I was about to be cleaved in half by eleven warriors at once, but I suppose my new dream of death left me less than concerned at the swords raised over my head. This was not the way I was going to die.

  The same calm, however, did not hold for the little, shrieking thing that dove under the blanket I slept in. Like a mole, it flew beneath the wool and shot across my legs and then curled in one lump between my shoulder and head. Yet it was much larger than a mole, possessing potent strength for its size. Its abrupt movement had shoved my head to one side.

  Evaen shouted, “Draw away, Lark!”

  “Watch her throat!” Gharain yelled at his friend.

  “Hold!” commanded Laurent to all before any of the Riders made a further move.

  And I cried out, “Wait! Wait!” and scrambled to sit up. The thing by my neck attempted to come with me. I threw off the blanket and reached up and pulled the clinging creature from my shoulder. It writhed and squirmed and shouted in a voice double its size.

  “What,” asked Brahnt, “is that?”

  I had to hold it in both hands to still its fierce struggle. “Stop it!” I hissed at the thing. “Stop! You will not be hurt!”

  “You say it! Does not mean it!” it shouted back.

  “Lark!” Laurent commanded.

  I looked up at him, at all of them. “It’s a gnome,” I said, and set the thing on its feet. It was still wriggling and so promptly fell over on its back, only to struggle to stand upright, at which point all eleven swords closed the gap and froze it in place.

  Gnomes are small. This one, tall for his race, barely reached halfway to my knee. And beneath the hard stares and serious height of the Riders, he was absolutely puny. His age appeared advanced—his beard was white, long, and double-knotted to keep from touching the ground. His clothes and shoes and waistpack were of boiled wool in the browns and greens of nuts and leaves, though I did see a sparkle in one of his buttonholes, something as glistening red as a drop of blood.

  “Lark, move aside,” said Laurent.

  I looked up at the Rider in surprise, exclaiming, “You’re not going to kill him?”

  “The gnome invaded our camp; he was in Taran’s pack. And, he bit Gharain. He’s spying, or stealing. A Breeders’ lackey.”

  “That is untrue!” The gnome turned to Laurent, a contained little ball of fury. “I am none of those! I made my way to warmth is all! And you”—he spun to face Gharain—“you squashed my foot!”

  “Never mind warmth,” growled Brahnt. “What brings you here? To us?”

  The gnome looked around at the circle of suspicious and intimidating men, and then pointed at me. “I came for her.”

  Marc laughed. I would have too had I not felt a bit sorry for the little man. None of us quite believed him, but he took much pride in his offense at being threatened, and I had not the heart to accuse him of any sort of treachery, though I was not certain he spoke any truth. I had little experience with gnomes, other than seeing them once in a while rooting around our gardens. Whether honest or wily, thieves or friends, I held no knowledge.

  But the gnome dug his heels into my tossed blanket and drew himself up as tall as he could. “For her I came!” he repeated with his finger still pointing at me. “She called for me!”

  “I did not!”

  “You did!” he insisted.

  Gharain muttered, “Belligerent thing.”

  But Laurent demanded, “Explain yourself.”

  None of the Riders had relaxed his sword grip. The gnome eyed the sharp points and remained obstinate. “The lady summoned me last night. Here I am.”

  The Riders looked at me; I looked at the gnome. “I did not,” I repeated.

  But the gnome, now insulted, said with absurd formality, “I take great umbrage at your denial, my lady. But I am forgiving, and so I will repeat myself by requesting of your memory: did you or did you not say ‘Please help’ last night beneath the rowan tree?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “There you are, Riders. Remove now your swords.”

  We all stared at him. I said, “But I asked help from the tree for sap, and she gave me the twig. I did not ask for you.”

  “By asking help, you asked for me. A tree cannot leave its roots. I can.”

  I was repeating myself. “All I asked was sap for Arnon.”

  “No. What you asked for was help and then an offering. The tree was more than generous last night, giving you the sap—but do you know how to use it? Ah, I thought not. If the rowan has allowed me to help you, I shall begin by improving upon what must be woeful attempts to use its offering properly.”

  Woeful was right. “Riders?” I looked up at them in their tight surround. “We might trust him.”

  Laurent dropped his sword tip to the earth. “Let him show us what he can do for Arnon.”

  The gnome made a stiff little bow, but Gharain scoffed, “You don’t imagine that he’s a Healer, do you? Look at him.”

  “It has already been determined,” the gnome said pointedly, “that you, sir, have impulsively poor judgment. I will not pay attention to you.” He turned to me. “You, my lady, may direct me.”

  We were all looking at him with surprise—except for Gharain, who stalked away a distance, flushing. But what the gnome said was true.

  I thought to defuse some of the tension. “Are you a Healer?”

  The gnome shook his head gravely. “Not as you people interpret. But we gnomes are Earth creatures and so know many of its secrets—some of which will help heal an injury.”

  “Then you can start with my finger!” Gharain grumbled from his farther spot.

  “The finger, sir, simply needs a bit of your spit,” the gnome replied coldly. “The wound to your pride, however, I cannot determine.”

  “Gnome.” I jumped in. “Our friend was poisoned through a lash of green fire—a Breeders’ attack.”

  “And what have you done for him?”

  I explained, leaping up to head to where Arnon slept by the stream. The Riders parted and let us pass, then followed curiously, and protectively.

  “Wait! Wait!” The little man toddled as fast as he could across the grass in my wake. “You cannot move so quickly!”

  I stopped and he reached my foot and climbed onto my boot, gripping my leggings for balance. “Now,” he said.

  I took two steps. “This is too awkward, with you hanging from my leg. Let me carry you.”

  The gnome looked pained, but he suffered my suggestion and let me pick him up and tuck him in the crook of my arm. He smelled like the forest and like dirt, dark and rich. In my hands there hummed
the low energy I preferred from things of Nature. He was of Earth; at least on this he spoke the truth.

  I set him down when we reached Arnon, and the Riders gathered around so that we all regarded the man who slept an uneasy sleep on the bank of the stream. Cargh, who’d sat last watch, reached down and gently shook his good shoulder.

  The Rider woke immediately, and—despite pain—fully ready. He took us in as he sat up, using his good hand to push himself right, saying with grim humor, “It is that bad?”

  Laurent forced a chuckle, “We’ve not lost you yet, my friend.”

  I kneeled down and put the gnome on the ground. He trundled over to the Rider, who regarded him with mild surprise.

  “The gnome offers his knowledge of healing,” I said by way of introduction.

  Arnon raised a brow. “I am open to all efforts.”

  “Nothing we did last night helped?” My heart sank. The wicks had sprung to life—I’d so hoped we’d found a cure.

  “Nay, it helped. I think, at least, staunched the poison’s spread.” Arnon stiffly lifted his arm, and we leaned nearer. I swallowed. Arnon’s humor covered a far worse condition. The arm was ridiculously grotesque—slicked with sap, the little wicks laid out in rows up his swollen and discolored skin. The wicks were no longer white, but a sickly yellow.

  The gnome waddled up and down by the Rider’s arm, his head cocked to one side. He nodded; he tsked. He stopped and peered close. “Not bad, not bad,” he said at last. “I am pleasantly surprised.” He looked at me. “This was your idea, my lady?”

  “I had help.” I nodded in Gharain’s direction, and the gnome sniffed. Apparently, it would take much to make a gnome forget what offended him.

  “The wicks and sap were your suggestion. This is not bad for one who is no Healer and ignorant of her own strengths.”

  Compliment and critique well blended—I blushed at both.

  “You trusted your choices—that shows some talent. You were near right,” he added. “But you neglected an ingredient. You need the barren stone.”

  “Barren stone?” We all looked at him blankly.

  The gnome sighed. “Easy enough to find one in the stream. Look for it. It’s round and smooth, a silvery gray.” And he waddled to the water’s edge, then began walking down the length of the bank peering into the clear run.