Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec)

by Sandra Waugh

  A tiny spark flared at the impact. I stared dumbly for a moment until memory of Twig’s words flared too—his voice loosed from the ally token: There are things that can help you in the midst of misfortune.

  I raced to the shirt, hands feeling over the gritty floor, looking for what had made the spark. My fingers closed on it: a little stone—a pebble, really—that the shirt had flung against the rock. I scooted over to the moonstone and held the small thing in its glow. It was grayish—not unlike the barren stone that Twig had used for Arnon, but without its silvery cast. And then I laughed and turned back to the bars. I was holding a cinder stone. ’Twould start a fire came Twig’s echo.

  Hukon burns very fast, I learned. After two strikes of the little stone, a lick of orange flame whisked up one bar, spread across the horizontal rungs, and shot up the next vertical stake. Up, down, across—in a moment the entire barricade and surrounding rock glowed blue-white. Black sap bubbled down to the floor, spreading a thick, filthy puddle to which I gave wide berth. Pungent filth it was: a choking, cloying poison. I slung my pack on my shoulder, grabbed Gharain’s shirt and pressed it to my face, stood back, and waited for the cage to crumble into ash. “You cannot prevent,” I murmured fiercely in triumph. And then, picking up the moonstone for light, I ran.

  Somewhere past the reek of the hukon, I stuffed Gharain’s tunic in my pack and held only the moonstone. The path now led wide and straight, seemingly with no end. Hollow and empty and cold, working deeper into the mountains. I slowed, for oppression built—the weight of the mountains sinking me with each step. But so too did the pulse of the Life amulet. Throbbing, steady, a heartbeat’s pace, ever encouraging me forward. You cannot prevent.…

  The first snuffle came from above.

  I assured myself that the passage’s ceiling was very high, that the Troth could be far away. Then a grunt, a soft snarl. More than one now, but I insisted this was to be expected—these were their mountains. It was only after the swish of many feet along my track that I could no longer hope they’d not yet seen me. Even if I held no light, their eyes were made for this dark. Soon after, I knew they were following me. Soon after that, I was surrounded.

  My breath quickened, but I was not afraid. These were foot soldiers of the Breeders, I reminded myself. Erema would need me; I could not yet be their sport. Besides, Gharain was to be the instrument of my death, not Troth. It was that hideous thought that kept me calm as I continued on, calm at the sounds of clawed fingers scratching on the rock, calm against the snorts and growls that echoed along the tunnel of stone—

  Opaque eyes gleamed suddenly in the dark, hundreds of pairs peering over slabs of rock: on ledges high above, behind me, ahead around corners—dots reflecting the moonstone’s light that could be seen as clearly far away as they could close by. My steps hastened; so did the skittering of clawed feet and hands. The eyes doubled in number, tripled, quadrupled, closing in. I was running now, as best I could, heavy as I felt, and then the Troths were so close I could feel their stinking breath on my skin. I bit teeth into lip, pushing forward, willing myself to stay ahead. One beast reared itself suddenly in the circle of my light, and I yelped. In a wild move I struck out, losing the moonstone, and caught its arm; it made an awful scream and rolled away.

  I tore down the passage, gasping for breath. I burned them; they would not attack.

  And yet, I could not outrun them. Sheer numbers of the creatures herded me in a direction I might have gone anyway, for the throb of the Life amulet was now vibrating my skin, pulling me toward it. Down the passage in the pitch dark, I didn’t need the moonstone’s light; I ran by my senses and by the steady push of the Troths from behind, closing in.

  And there, far away, appeared a new light—something luminous and isolated, suspended in the dark, bobbing slightly before disappearing. I remembered my vision then, of the crystal orb revealing itself, only to be choked by strands of hukon. And I cried out, thinking I could somehow warn it. Then I stopped short, crashed to my knees—for I’d burst into a room, a blue-tinged, oppressive, and dank room hewn into the very heart of the Myr Mountains. I hunched there, panting, watching the bluish light waver and brighten and reveal I was at a dead end. And I was not alone.

  Erema.

  She stood quite still—her figure tall and lush. The orb, caught as it was by the poisoned netting at her breast, illuminated her face and blackened her already black, staring eyes. She scanned first her horde of foot soldiers, searching through the creatures beyond my collapsed figure, and then her gaze drew down and focused on me.

  In her exquisite voice she said, “There you are.”

  My dream, come to life. Erema smiled as if she knew, and it might have been one of the earth rifts that opened behind her smile—a void, a nothingness as black as her stare, yawning deep behind the beautiful lips and glistening teeth. The mouth gaped, saying, “Look what I have.”

  I could not wake from this. I was surrounded by the slimy, death-reeking Troths and gaping Breeder, entombed in these dark mountains. I stood up slowly, turning a full circle, hands wide in defense. And I said, plain and true, “Return the crystal orb.”

  I heard her laugh, musical and delicious. I spun around again. The Troths shuffled back. And then I laughed too, to show I was not afraid of this army of beasts. “Do you see? They cannot hurt me. Give me the orb.”

  “Try, little Lark. Try and take it,” she coaxed.

  I stepped toward her, still fearless. I’d come this far, I’d survived this much; here was but one Breeder to confront. The shuffling and scratching of the Troths gathering in and blocking the exit did not make me flinch.

  With a simple shift of cloth, the orb’s light was doused once more behind Erema’s cloak. She leaned close, so that I felt the void within her drawing me. “The orb is mine,” she sang, and stepped back.

  But I reached anyway, unafraid, as if I could simply take it, as if she would have to relinquish the amulet because its Guardian demanded. Unafraid too of the Troths stirring behind me, restless.

  It was only when I felt the violent shock of pain exploding inside that I screamed in utter terror.

  Hukon. They’d punctured my shoulder with a spear of hukon.

  WRETCHED, SCALDING WOUND!

  I curled into a ball and tried to rock away the searing pain. I retched until my body broke into sweat colder than the air. I slammed my shoulder onto the slab floor, where I writhed until, sore and spent, I lay crumpled in some exhausted stupor, wishing for anything but this torture.

  And then, but for the orb, silence. I rolled onto my back—the cold of the stone the only thing to cut the agony in my body—and forced my eyes open, letting dim blue light filter in.

  There was a swish of fabric, footsteps, a growing intensity of the Life amulet’s pulse, and Erema loomed over me. The orb gleamed, ensnared in its web of hukon. It was so close, and yet I could not think to lift my hand.

  Erema said with what seemed sweet pity, “Lark, you look so ill. The hukon burns the life from you.”

  It was too hard to speak. I stared instead at the orb. It should have been radiant with light, but black streaks slashed the glowing surface in the same crude shape I remembered branded on Ruber Minwl’s hand. Even as I watched, another lash scored its surface—the net was alive. Yet these were not the creeping tendrils of vine as in Dark Wood; this was hukon, the black willow: striking blows across the light, ever looking for a way in, for a way to destroy it.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Erema said, following my gaze. She put her hand up as if to cup the orb. “So pretty how it glows: sun-filled earth colors, like you. Imagine how it would help your pain if you clasped it in your hands.”

  “You have what does not belong to you,” I groaned.

  “I know! It was so easy to take!” She laughed at me, and her laughter grated, lilting as it was. “And now look at you, the little, timid thing! Thinking you deserve this. That you are worthy of this.”

  “I am its Guardian.” I was hoarse.r />
  She leaned over me with that smile. “Come get it, then.”

  And I did. Or tried to. I think I made a futile swipe with my arm—fingers reaching to grasp at nothing, crying out in misery from the acidic burn of hukon.

  “Tut, Lark, you are too weak a thing. Try again.”

  But I was looking at her hand, which did not touch the amulet. “You cannot hold it,” I whispered, remembering.

  That seemed to make her pause, slight as it was. Then she laughed again, the sound discordant. “But you can. ’Twill soothe your ill, you know. Come, Lark, take the crystal orb. Both hands.”

  Perhaps it would be this easy, if I simply used both hands. My fingers trembled, lifting from the cold stone floor.

  “Come now, Lark, take it. Don’t you wish your pain away? Let the amulet be your balm.”

  Hands lifting—one, then both. “Grasp it tightly, now, Lark,” came her soft whisper. “Do not mind the net. You will be whole again.”

  And then the king’s words drifted in my head: They will attempt to trick you into destroying your amulet.… My hands fell back to my sides. “No.”

  Her voice was still soft. “Must I make you try harder?”

  “Then I will fight you.”

  At that Erema leaned in and snarled. She sounded like a Troth. But her threat came low and seductive: “You might think you’ve learned power. But it is nothing to mine.” And with an infinitely graceful gesture, she pushed two fingers against my left shoulder and I screamed in agony before she let go.

  “Are you finished with pain yet, foolish little Guardian? Know that it can be made better.” She was very close to me, her breath like flowers. “Would you like to know instead how you could feel?”

  And she was no longer Erema but Gharain, over me as I first had seen him in a dream—his glorious smile, the chestnut curls skimming his temples—oh, it burned to see him safe and so close before me, his sage-green eyes lit from within. “I am what you want,” she whispered, but it was Gharain’s voice, low and rich, stirring the pit of my stomach, making my heart ache with need. “Come, place your hands on my heart and feel my love.”

  I groaned. I knew it was not real, and yet it was too real. Gharain was tangible there before me, safe and unharmed, inviting me to kiss him, to touch him. I couldn’t think clearly.

  “Be with me,” he whispered. “There is no other.” His hands were reaching for mine to draw them to his heart.

  I shook my head, blabbering, delirious—mad with desire, mad with pain. “Say it, then, first. Promise me Evie will not part us—”

  “Evie?”

  The spell was broken. Gharain was no longer there. Erema was bending over me, a quizzical smile parting those lips, opening the void behind, and I snapped at her, angry that I’d lost sight of Gharain. She ignored me, curious at the other name. “Evie?”

  She’d not known of my cousin. I gasped, “No!”

  But Erema had stopped smiling. “Who is she, Guardian? Part of your line?”

  “No!”

  Her hand reached and squeezed my shoulder, and I shrieked. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me.” Her fingers tightened.

  I’d let the haze of pain take me before I gave in. I gritted my teeth—groaning, sobbing at the torture, biting my tongue until it bled. I’d not let the Breeders find Evie.

  But Erema suddenly released my shoulder. Panting, I opened my eyes onto her grinning face, now garishly cast in the blue light. I remembered the grin—the one that hung over my vision with poor Ruber Minwl’s hand, the one of such malevolence that shot cold horror through my spine.

  “Indeed,” she hissed from that grotesque mouth. “You think you can bear pain? You have the Sight: look and feel what true pain is!”

  Her smile yawned wide, and I could see right into her void, right into the blackness. She cried out something in a brutal voice. The hair pricked on the back of my neck, and I screamed as before me a wall of flame erupted, throwing myself back from the heat before I could say to myself, This is the vision, the vision.… This is what you warned to the Riders.…

  A tent, charred black, fell in tatters before my feet, and what had been a pretty ribbon went flaring up in a puff of smoke. The village square, market day in Merith. The booths were ablaze.

  A voice was screaming for Grandmama, for Evie. My voice. I was louder than the cries I heard around me, and I ran haphazardly through flames, screaming for my family, for Quin, for Krem Poss and Dame Keren. Figures stumbled in the smoke, but I could not see who they were. I ran toward the silhouettes, dodging shreds of burning fabric and collapsing framework. A Troth leaped from out of nowhere, nearly colliding with me, a tangle of slug-textured limbs made even more grotesque by their bloodied state. I lashed out, but my hand went through him. I was a ghost in the midst of turmoil. I was not there.

  With a thunderous rumble of hooves, the Riders pounded past, first in single file, then breaking form to sweep through the square, leaping the flames with swords drawn. The Troths were howling now, deafeningly. The smoke was stinging, blurring my vision. There were other sounds: sword against Troth, Troth upon villager, the shrill neighing of the horses tearing straight into my soul.

  For a moment the smoke cleared—a whim of the wind, perhaps. The square was laid bare and burning before my gaze, a chaos of debris beneath the fighting bodies of beast and man and horse. Black was everywhere; blood was everywhere. There—Taran’s steed reared to avoid a Troth who went with jaws open for his legs. And there—Cargh had swept his sword across the neck of a Troth. I shut my eyes.

  And yet I could not shut out the scene, for this was a vision; the violence poured in through each of my senses. Sight, sound, smell, taste, and even touch pressed upon me the heat and dirt and sticky blood. I gagged and choked and reeled from one direction to another, but I could not escape my Sight.

  I tripped, face-first onto the filthy cobbled square, avoiding something—no, someone who’d been struck. I rolled to sit up, to look, and choked, “Raif!” Raif.

  He lay faceup, mouth working to catch any kind of breath. An impossible task—he could not fill his lungs, for there was a gash torn from throat to chest.

  “Raif!” I screamed it this time. And then I gasped, for his desperate eyes focused on me. Saw me.

  “Lark.” He struggled horribly for air, but his gaze stayed steady.

  Raif was dying. He was dying—that was why he could see me.

  “Lie still. Let me help!” I pushed my hands to his chest to staunch his wound, then raged to see the blood rush through my ethereal fingers. Utterly helpless, I’d be forced to let him bleed to death as others were too mired in battle to notice, and my voice was nothing more to them than the wind.

  “Raif …”

  He knew. He needed no consoling. But he was glad for my presence, glad he was not alone. He worked at something like a smile, gasping, “You are like sunshine on a summer day. You are brilliant.”

  “No, don’t speak—!”

  “Thank you for your friendship. For your bravery.”

  “Raif, stop. Please! Stop.”

  “Evie.” His eyes flicked to look, the blood seeping faster as he strained. “Evie.”

  I was weeping, for his voice was bleak with regret. I could not bear this grief. And I said it, anything to make him live: “She loves you, Raif; she loves you. Please, please hold on!” I could swear his face lit at those words. “Evie will come. She will!”

  “Tell her love cannot die.” Then he said, barely, “Look.” His eyes slid downward and mine followed. His hand in the dirt opened and a little object fell out. I leaned down to peer at the thing. It was a Merith man’s ring, the thin braid of leather.

  I looked up at Raif. “Your grandfather’s.”

  “I got it back.” He would have said it proudly. I think I heard him say it. But it no longer mattered. Raif’s wound ceased flowing and his eyes closed.

  “Raif!” My hands were in his blood, useless, and yet I kneeled there shouting at him. Shouting.
Shouting. A blast of hot air rushed by from the fire, and his lashes flickered, and I thought, He stays! I screamed aloud for anyone to help; I screamed until my throat was wrecked—but the din of the battle was louder; the flames were louder. I sobbed with fury and helplessness, and then I looked up through grimy, miserable tears and saw her running.

  Evie.

  She was dirt-streaked and bloodied, but she was whole. She was beautiful. Her silver-blond hair was nearly transparent in the smoke, flying back like a cape as she ran. I croaked, “Evie, stay back,” but she was not looking at me. She’d never heard me. It was Raif she was running for, her face terrible in its dread. The breath went out of her body in one thin exhale, and too late, the Healer sank at his side, her hair spilling into the dirt and blood about her.

  And from some great distance, I heard Erema make a little crow of delight, for I had exposed my cousin. “So there she is. Now you shall feel true pain, Guardian. Watch.”

  Erema called out things unintelligible and frightening. And from behind the flames, a Troth reared its ugly head, breaking through smoke and fire, its milky stare fixing on Evie. I shrieked for my cousin, but she did not look up.

  “Take your amulet, Guardian,” Erema cried to me. “Take it with both hands and squeeze hard. Crush it here within its net and I will save your friend.”

  I had no voice left; screams would go unheard anyway.

  “She will be torn asunder,” came Erema’s hideous threat. “Crush the orb or you will watch her sacrifice.”

  It was what I could not do. It was unbearable. The Troth was loping toward Evie, her back open and vulnerable as she covered Raif. I threw my head back and screamed anyway, again for help. Another Troth slithered by. People’s footsteps stampeded past; others screamed too. But no one saw. And I was nothing—

  “Sacrifice, Guardian. They will all be sacrificed.”

  —Nothing, until I heard the pounding of a horse’s hooves. Through swollen eyes I saw the huge and powerful shape of Rune wheeling in the distance.