by Sandra Waugh
I swore and took off running. They pursued—shreds of darkness, racing fast. No faces, no true arms or legs, just wisps—brushing across my face and arms like a sweep of stinging nettles. I yelled and lashed out with my broom handle. I hit some of them, I think, for there was an ugly ripping sound and a stink of sulfur. I stumbled forward, hacking at the air, trying to beat back the shadows, but I was already surrounded—they hovered and swallowed. Their sheer numbers turned the night black like some turbulent and hostile cloud that lifted me off my feet and hurtled me, dangling, through the miles of marsh at breakneck speed, leaving a wake of broken reeds.
I kicked and slashed, but anything struck was only replaced by countless more, an endless swarm of shadows buzzing She! She! She! until the word blurred into a single drone. I was gasping from the struggle, the speed, the suddenness—
And then, just as sudden, we broke through the end of Rood Marsh, where the moon ascended above a wide, shallow pond that bled from the rushes. It lit the surface in a sweep of silver. It lit my hair silver too, a beacon in the midst of the black. The abundance of light seemed to shock the swarm, for they abruptly scattered in a fury of hisses, dropping me belly-first into the water.
I sank, resurfaced, and then stroked fast away from the marsh. They were shaky strokes—I moved by some mechanical reflex, hardly thinking. But it was a mistake, my release; the things were not done with me. In a shriek the swarm regathered and clouded above my head more frenzied than before. I ducked under. My cloak and satchel dragged leaden around my neck, but the water was only chin-deep. I half swam, half stumbled toward the shore, popping up for another gulp of air, and the things attacked from the left, propelling me back out to the center. When I came up for air a third time, they were there on the left again, pushing me north.
They were herding me.
I took a deeper breath and dove under, tacking back toward the marsh. I scrambled onto soggy ground and made for the reeds, but there the moon betrayed me. Even wet, my hair shone—I might as well have shouted, “Here!” for the swarm was on me, surrounding, suffocating, buzzing….
“Get away!” I screamed, swiping at the wisps. “Get back!” I gulped a lungful of air and dove back into the pond, shooting to its deeper center. But it didn’t matter; I wasn’t escaping, only buying time. I could hold my breath long, but I couldn’t think of what to do next. I opened my eyes underwater, trying to see where I’d lost the broomstick—
Help came least expected.
I have swum in the river at Merith and in Fresh Pond at Dann. There are crays and periwinkles and tiny green baits that nip and swim through the strands of my hair as if it were lakeweed. But I’d never before witnessed the glimmers of light that sprinkled through this pond. Moonwater. I’d heard of it—a phenomenon that happens only in full moon, only in silted ponds, and so rare as to be more legend than truth. Where moonlight washes a path over such water it frays into fizzy spirals—true light, not merely reflection, trapped in tiny droplets and set adrift. They shimmered and danced above me so beautifully that for a brief moment I forgot the black swarm and watched the little glowing swirls. I reached my hands up, and they gathered at my fingertips and clung….
Light. I burst up directly under the swarm, flicking my fingers at the wisps. They bolted away before regrouping and I shouted at the discovery—that these remnants of light disturbed them—and ducked under to do it again. And again. I was exhilarated; the wisps infuriated. They splintered, returned, splintered again. Each time I came up splashing, the swarm scattered, enraged, their buzzing reaching some fevered pitch.
They’d have to give up; they’d have to wear out. I flung the moonwater with a vengeance, saw the shadow break and scatter, then ducked under once more to gather the fizz. The hostile wisps had worked themselves into a fury, their buzzing pounding like hooves upon stone—
I gasped, inhaling water and light, and came up choking. Somewhere out in the darkness real hooves were pounding closer. Hooves, carrying the weight of horses—not ponies, I knew, for I’d never seen a horse until the eleven Riders came galloping into Merith that day, and I would never forget such a sound.
Galloping. The wisps sensed the approach. They lifted as a piece, leaving me, and shot across the pond. Moonlight expanded over the water again; I could see the swarm rebuilding—shaping itself like some gargantuan creature with arms spreading wide to swallow whatever those hooves brought.
Hooves—and grunts. Grunts, shouts, and the faint clank of sword slashing at the suffocating folds. The stench of sulfur gagged; the swarm surrounded and smothered, too thick for me to witness the fight. There was a horse’s harsh whinny, then his rider was swearing and shouting at the dark—and I realized there were not eleven as before, but a single steed and a single rider. One man alone had stormed into the fray.
He was not winning.
The man wasted his energy, for what sword could conquer things insubstantial as smoke, multiplying faster than they disappeared? The folds only thickened, choking. I could hear the horse in distress even as his rider refused to give in.
“Wait!” I shouted from the water. “Let me help!” I swam and slogged toward the shore. “I can help!”
“Stay back!” came an answering command. But I paid no mind to such a silly order. The man could not fight this alone; he could not fight this at all.
“Move!” I screamed. “I know how to stop them!” I was tearing at the knot on my sodden cloak, grabbing its deep hood to use as a pail and scooping the moonwater. I dragged the cloak to the shore, to the shadows, close to where I thought the hooves stamped. “Move,” I screamed again, and heaved the cloak at the blackness.
The exploding swarm knocked me back into the deep. I sputtered, fought my way up. The creature they’d formed had shattered like glass, dissipating in a thousand directions. My hand hit my broom-spear, which bobbed in the pond; I grabbed it, hurled it on shore, then yanked my satchel from around my neck and threw the sopping thing to the silhouetted man. “Get off your horse!” I pushed my streaming hair from my eyes and pointed at the satchel, spluttering indistinct directions: “Grab the cinder stone from it! They’ll regather. I can hold them, but you have to start a fire—the spear will catch. They hate direct light!”
He didn’t answer. There was no time to. The regrouped wisps came shooting at us like an arrow. I dove under, kicking hands and feet, splashing moonwater at the swarm. It was a blur of motion. I was shouting, the horse neighing, the wisps buzzing, and then—
And then there was a burst of light and a final hiss of wisps. I lay in the shallows, dragging deep breaths, staring up at the sky, where the moon spilled silver over the edge of marsh, the pond, and across the horse and rider who stood on shore by a burning pile of moss and cloth. Sweat frothed at the horse’s jaw; his neck glistened in the firelight. The man in silhouette pulled the reins over the head of the horse and released the bit and bridle. He leaned heavily for an extra moment against the horse. Then the horse made his way to the water. The man made his way to me.
The battle had taken its toll. He aimed straight but his gait was unsteady. His breath shuddered.
And I? My breath shuddered as well. For as the man neared, the moonlight erased the shadows one by one, opening his features. I saw hair curling darkly and eyes of clear blue.
I struggled upright, stood ankle-deep and dripping wet. The man stopped at the lip of the pond, made an effort to grin. “You…are…a difficult…girl…to find….”
And then the Rider Laurent pitched forward and fell facedown in the shallows at my feet.
HAIR DARK AS a raven’s, falling in waves from crown to jaw. Face tanned and smooth-polished. A sweep of brow and thick lash covering those blue eyes. He was as tall as he’d looked that fateful day astride his horse.
I watched Laurent sleep off his exhaustion.
The wisps were gone. Vanished, as if they’d simply been some dream. I’d dragged the Rider out of the water and laid him on the mossy bank. I’d ripped reeds fro
m the marsh, gathered pinecones, and built up the fire. I’d unlaced his shirt, removed it, and hung it on a stick to dry near the flames. And I’d gone to the horse—huge and black and heaving steam from his nostrils—and wiped down his flanks with my sodden cloak, checking for wounds. Superficial, those scratches the steed bore; I’d healed enough ponies to know this horse was not hurt, just worn out. They’d ridden hard.
Difficult to find, he’d said. Lark said it as well in the Insight spell: Laurent must find her. The Rider had come on purpose.
I’d gone back to him then and used the cloth that was tied to his belt to wash the blood and dirt from his cuts. I’d never been embarrassed or squeamish about a man’s body. ’Twas healing work, simple and straightforward, and I’d swear I focused only on the beads of red crisscrossing the Rider’s arms and chest. But even so, I stopped often and walked away to reclaim my breath, as if it was I who was overtaxed. I was keenly aware too that I both lingered and rushed, that I acted far less efficiently than I should. So I’d forced my hands, my breath, to behave, to pay attention to detail, to do all the things Healers would do for anyone, checking for a break of bone, for any wounds to clean or repair.
But finally I’d given up, frustrated at my sloppiness, sat back a little way from Laurent and simply watched him. ’Twas curiosity affecting me, I decided, and if I drank my fill of the Rider this once, then I’d not need to think of him again. It would take time, though. This Rider was a mass of curiosities—a history of pain imposed on gentleness, of strength built from necessary endurance. It was all there to be read from his body.
Hands that should have been a sculptor’s, face and form that would have been a sculptor’s muses. Square jaw, faint stubble, and hollow cheek—’twould be expected his mouth be grim, set in that hardened look, but it wasn’t. Whatever a Rider was, Laurent was not born to it. There was the bruise at his left cheekbone from the fall—that would be gone by day’s end. The deeper cut above his collarbone would last but a day longer if I found some mithren for a salve, likewise the raw scrape where his breath raised his chest. Nothing needed serious attention or my tending, honestly. But there too were fine scars from wounds that had been inflicted long before. Wounds that had been tended—by some other Healer perhaps—from some other time. Twenty-five year’d, I deemed this Rider. I wondered what other Healers he’d known in his life.
And then I wondered why I wondered that.
There was one scar in particular, a thin line that ran from just above his left eyebrow to his temple. It was old and very faint; most would not notice. But my eye was sharp for such marks that did not belong. The wound had been severe. Laurent would have lost too much blood before any herb or hand could have sealed it—a spell had to have been involved. A White Healer treated that wound. A thorough, perfect job. I reached my hand out and drew a finger across the scar, sensing warmth and the life force of this Rider—
I pulled back, got up, and stormed across the bank. Why had I done that—touched him not as a Healer? This was a betrayal to Raif, to my own calling. I should have left then and there. Still, I paced back again, swore at Laurent for having come, and then (with stern focus) forced myself to finish what I’d started. I rinsed his cloth, spread it to dry, then worked the saddle from his steed and dragged it to rest by his head. There was a cloak rolled with a small pack, which I unstrapped from the saddle. I opened the pack. There was food—a tough bread of sorts, a cup and knife, and some sort of cake that smelled distinctly of oats, which I tossed to his horse. I placed the bread atop the pack ready for him and filled the cup with water. I spread the cloak. I would drag Laurent onto it and be done; walk away. He did not need further attending; his life force was strong.
It burned a little that what questions I had for the Rider would go unanswered—but it was a far lesser hardship than to actually speak with him. I already bore the memory of his gaze and seared the feel of his skin against my fingers; I didn’t want the cadence of his voice to ring forever in my ears.
The reed fire spit and fell to smoking. I’d not rekindle it. Dawn was nearing anyway. I crouched down and caught under the Rider’s shoulders to drag him onto the cloak. A simple move, one I’d done often: with the right leverage even bodies twice my weight could be slid evenly—
And then suddenly it wasn’t simple. “What—?” “Ow!” His yell, my gasp, a thud. One moment I was dragging the man, the next moment he had me pinned underneath him—a swift, hard move—his hand on my throat. I’d surprised him and he was quick to defend.
But I was quick too, reflexes taking over. My hand was there, digging under his ribs, pinching the place that would incapacitate him long enough for me to wriggle free. He swore and flinched, but it seemed Riders were well trained to withstand, for he grabbed one of my hands and then the other, yanking them out of the way, pressing me down with his full weight.
And all of this took but an instant. He growled, “Who…?” then his eyes widened; he pulled abruptly away. I scrambled back and faced him, breathing hard, wary as his expression went from battle-ready to surprise, then almost—almost—to humor as he took in the spread cloak, and his own bared torso.
But then the humor fell away and he turned his gaze back on me. “Lady,” he murmured with a respectful nod. He brushed his hair back from his eyes.
Lady was ridiculous. “My name is Evie Carew.” But then I wished my name back. Wished I’d called myself Eve again to sound older.
The Rider nodded, then turned quick to look for his sword, disturbed that I’d placed it just out of his reach. He leaned, caught it up and stood in one fluid movement, testing its weight—or maybe his own tired strength—by sweeping the blade through the air. And then he looked about; I wondered if he expected the swarm to return.
“You said that I was difficult to find,” I blurted, watching him. “Why were you looking for me?”
The Rider’s brow creased, as if the question made no sense, or else the sword—or something—felt wrong. So I added, “My cousin, Lark, might have asked it of you. Please let her know that I am fine.” There. I considered us done. I brushed my wet skirts to look busy, hoping he would find something to do—tend to his horse, inspect everything that I’d unpacked for him.
He sheathed the sword. “Nay, my lady, I do not return. I am here to protect you.”
“Why?” It came out something like a gasp. I was forgetting my vow of no questions—not to ask, not to learn anything that might make it difficult to leave this Rider. I shook my head to clear it and found a firmer, harder voice: “I journey alone, and there is no reason to protect. I need no help.”
“We all need help,” he said pleasantly.
“You might.”
There was a flash of a grin at my bluntness, but then the Rider asked quite seriously, “You did not fear that attack before?”
“I have no fear of death.”
“There are worse things than death.” He raised a brow, implying how curt my response was and his own impulse to remark in kind. But then came something else: recognition and sympathy and regret, as if he suddenly remembered Raif’s body in the market square and that maybe I’d already faced worse things. The brow dropped; the grin faded. Silence expanded the space between us and yet the moment was suddenly too intimate.
I said quickly, “Your wounds are not deep. You will heal. Your horse as well.” I tipped my chin in the direction of the steed. “What’s his name?” No questions, Evie!
“Arro.”
“Arro,” I repeated, then rose to my feet, picked up my cloak and satchel, and turned, realizing suddenly I had no direction. The marsh had lost any appeal, my poisons were gone, and I’d never retrace my steps home. ’Twas a hasty choice: there was some shadowing to the west beyond the pond, a forest maybe. So I started off, then stopped and turned back—too aware that he watched. “Thank you,” I said as evenly as I could, and rounded once more, heading away from sun.
“My lady,” he called after me. I bit my lip and kept walking. “What of
you? Will you heal as quickly?”
That stopped me. What did he know of my wound, my loss and anguish? I paused and whipped around. ’Twas on the tip of my tongue to say something harsh to end such nosy concern. The Rider was standing, a figure brilliantly lit by moonlight.
“Your injuries,” he said, gesturing. “Look at them.”
I looked down at my arms, where my sodden cloak hung away from them. They were covered in long, fine scratches, rivulets of dried blood. I reached my hands to my face, my neck, and drew away smears of red. I’d not even noticed.
“The reeds.” My indignation deflated. I simply felt exposed.
“Or the wisps,” he suggested with a nod to the pond. “You might wash.”
As if he needed to tell a Healer what to do for this. Nonetheless I walked to the pond, dropped my satchel and cloak, and pulled off my frock and dropped it as well, realizing later there was no point in removing anything since all of it was wet anyway. I was not acting myself.
Wisps. He’d named them as I had. “Those wisps,” I began, splashing off the blood. “What are they?”
“Vestiges of the Waste. They come from underground and are rarely seen above, but if they are stirred to swarm…Shadows, seemingly nothing, but needle-sharp when threatened or spurred to aggression. When massed they can overwhelm, whisk you off your feet. Easy enough to be rid of, but you have to be quick.” He said a little ruefully, “I was not quick.”
“Quick?” No questions, Evie! I bit my tongue before I could ask what the Waste was.
“Fire, any sort of light—as you said. I knew better than to fight the swarm. Though I do not know why water worked.”
“ ’Twas moonwater.”
Laurent looked hard at me, but then nodded as if he’d heard of such a serendipitous occurrence before. He said more solemnly, “Thank you for coming to my aid.”
