by Sandra Waugh
Dame Keren looked kindly down at the fourteen-year’d girl. I thought if anyone were to ask such an ignorant question, then it was good it was Min. Her fresh, freckled face with its rosy cheeks was endearing in its simplicity. And Dame Keren’s interest was sincere—all the elders took Min seriously.
Jarett Doun, another of the eldest, took the opportunity to speak. “My dear Minnow,” he said, easing his frail bones forward in the chair, “look about this Gathering. What do you see?”
Most eyes were on Min as she looked around, her cheeks even rosier under such attention. “I—I see my neighbors, Master and Mistress Wilhock; my friends, Cath and Druen; my grandmother is over there; and my brother, Quin, is there on the well with Lark Carew—”
“Ah. Look again, young Min. What do you see?”
Many could answer for her, but she needed to search this out, to understand this for herself. The answer held a cruel truth; I felt a wave of sadness rush through the group, as if it was a pity the brutal memory was to be brought forth. Min stared and stared about, her lips moving as she attempted to solve what was clearly a puzzle. “I see the pretty faces of the young,” she said at last, “and the beautiful faces of the old. Is this right?” she asked brightly.
“Nearly, Min. Well done.” Now Sir Jarett stood, an auspicious gesture. “Here, indeed, are the pretty faces of our young villagers and the beautiful ones of our elders,” he called out. “But, I ask, do you not also see what is missing? Do you see any village members in their prime? No, you do not, for there are none. They were culled from our group by the Troths thirteen years ago. Not one remaining villager of childbearing years was left alive. Only those too old, and the young we had chance to hide, were … spared.” The word was apologetic; not one of us felt spared by this loss. Sir Jarett paused and cleared his throat. “Or so we thought. In retrospect, I understand what has been done. They slew our children—your parents—and now look about: there is now a new age of parents upon us. The Troths may well believe the time has come to take those.”
There were loud gasps. Thom Maker marched to the front of the crowd, the little thatch of white hair on his crown bobbing above his short stature. “Wait, Sir Jarett! There is error in your reasoning! The eldest of our grandchildren have barely begun siring families. This is too soon!”
Some nodded in horrified agreement, but then Kerrick Swan strode forward, his furrowed brow more deeply creased. “Thom, did they not take your parents some five decades back, as they took mine? We survived, but then they took our children! Fifty years, thirteen—there is no pattern to carnage. Troths are more beast than human; they hold no plan, they simply wish to kill. We are their blood sport. They want to watch us run.”
These were ugly thoughts coming from our villagers. Words of violence were awkward on our tongues, and to be forced to confront something we’d hoped to forget, something so appalling to our natures, made their very sounds shocking. Sadness blurred to a palpable unease, with worried murmurs rippling through the crowd; my own breath heaved a little faster. The sky seemed to darken.
“But we don’t run.”
A silence fell over the square. The oldest villager of all had risen from his chair. Farrin Rawl—the shepherd, the sage. The one who rarely spoke. “We don’t run from death. It is not in our nature.”
That pleased us. “Aye, Sir Farrin! Let them come,” said Kerrick. “If they look for sport, they will find none here!”
“My friend—” But the eldest man’s voice was temporarily drowned out by concurring shouts. A wonderful idea: the Troths would leave us alone because we would give them no game. What should be feared? Relief washed through the group. This was a plan of action that involved no act at all.
But they made Ruber Minwl run, I thought. They made him run until he broke.
“Lark?”
I looked up and realized that Quin’s arm was off my shoulder, that the entire Gathering was hushed, looking at me.
That was not my thought—that was my voice, quite loud.
“Lark?” Dame Keren repeated. “What did you see?”
I hesitated, looking down to avoid their eyes, but they waited. “I saw that the Troths inspired terror,” I said after a moment, knowing my voice was now most likely too soft to be heard. “Their brutality awoke such fear that he could do naught but run.”
Silence, still. Now I forced myself to look up at the villagers watching me, to search out Raif and plead an apology with my gaze. He did not need to know that part of his grandfather’s fate.
“Lark, are they near us now?” asked Sir Jarett quietly.
“Not yet.” I needed to clear my throat. “I think not yet.” I looked at Grandmama, who nodded; she’d left it for me to tell. And so I turned to Sir Jarett, eyes wide, a tiny detail from my Troth vision now looming enormous. “I saw the crescent moon at the sunrise.”
“Ah.” He nodded solemnly. “The old moon. And we are near full.…”
Anxious whispers, calculations. Ten days it was, between a full moon and waning crescent. I could sense this added tension, the building worry, the feeble desire that I be wrong, but I was not wrong. I blurted, half apologizing, “It was quick what I saw, to be sure. But the Troths looked to Merith, and beyond, the sky was dawning and—”
Dame Keren said, very kindly, “We believe you, Lark. You would not recall this, my dear, but that terrible night thirteen years back, you sobbed uncontrollably the entire day before the attack. You—who had smiled your way through life before! We did not know then that you had the Sight, that you felt their presence as they neared. You, Lark, tried to warn us once, as you have again.”
But of what help was that? I feared what everyone feared: warned or not, we could not protect ourselves either way.
“My friends.” It was Sir Farrin. “I am misinterpreted.”
We all looked to him.
“We of Merith do not run. But I do not likewise imply that we should face the Troths, simply hoping we will”—he nearly smiled—“bore them into leaving us alone. I mean to say that we will not run, but rather stand and defend ourselves, and each other.”
If the villagers of Merith did not run, neither did they fight. There was a shocked pause, until someone called out, “With what, Sir Farrin?” It was Rula Narben, who made sweets for market. “I have but wooden spoons to stir the treacle.”
“Axes might do well,” muttered Perdy Ginnis. “Though I have just one.”
And already the crowd was looking to our blacksmith, Mirk Jovin, as if he could promptly supply us all with necessary, wicked armament. As if we would be capable of using any. Mirk scratched his bald pate and shrugged his indigo-clad shoulders.
“Nay, we have few weapons. But—” Sir Farrin spoke a little louder, enough to make the crowd silent again. “But we have friends.”
Friends. I looked about at all my friends—really, at the entire village. I could not bear to think of Rula Narben, or Kerrick, or little wizened Perdy attempting to defend themselves with their nobly useless tools. My heart quickened, imagination running wild. They would be slaughtered, all of them. My dearest friends—how could I bear to see Quin facedown in his own blood? Or Evie’s silver-blond hair running red, and Grandmama—
“Lark! Lark!” Quin was hissing at me, his arm once again a comfort around my shoulder. “Your face! Your beautiful face! Do you sense something?”
I shook my head no, but too violently. Were we all feeling this helpless? I leaned into Quin, drawing from some of his warmth. People around us were murmuring, thinking aloud: which friends would come to our aid? Other towns and villages traded well with us, sipped ale with us, but would they fight for us? We had never been asked to fight on another’s behalf—we were a peaceable village; no one bothered to request our support. Would anyone come for us?
The town of Crene was mentioned, as was our neighboring village, Dann. I think Benna Jovin brought up the option of Tyre, a city, fifty times as big as Merith. They would have soldiers.
The hum a
nd buzz of ideas crisscrossed the Gathering. There was excitement now, the possibility of victory and an end to the lingering dread of Troths.… And then, one by one, like little bubbles bursting, the ideas fizzed out. Dann was as ill-prepared as we; Tyre was unfamiliar to us, and at least a fortnight’s journey away. What could we do in ten days?
Sir Farrin alone looked the least grave, calmly waiting for the murmurs to die. When it was finally silent, and perhaps when we felt most anxious, he spoke four words:
“There are the Riders.”
The Riders.
The energy from Quin’s arm changed. A little tremor of excitement passed through him and into me. I did not understand it, though. I had not heard of the Riders, nor, judging by the expressions in the crowd, had most of the younger folk. But the oldest villagers seemed to know. It was their pause that created the sudden weight to the atmosphere. An apprehension, almost, hovered wordlessly above our group.
Dame Keren was nodding slowly. I looked to find Grandmama’s face in the crowd. She was grave. Evie too had a thoughtful expression.
“Quin,” I murmured, “who are the Riders?”
He leaned close to my ear. “They are the twelve who might save us.”
That was of no help, but he did not offer more. Sir Jarett was speaking. “They would come,” the elder was agreeing, almost to himself, but we hung on his words. “They would come.”
Min was going to ask about the Riders; I could see her heading toward the platform again, newly boldened by the attention given her first question. But her grandfather pulled her back, hushing her with a touch to her shoulder. I was sorry for that. I wanted to know as well about the Riders, yet the answer was lost in the sudden and tacit agreement that these dozen should be contacted apace. A quick, almost frenzied discussion ensued among the three eldest—which was the formal way of contact, where would it be done. Memories needed to be jogged as to the proper way of approach.
I watched it all, a little confused, a little disembodied, with Quin’s arm the only thing that seemed to keep me attached to the stone edge of the well. My mind was swirling back to my dream, miserably so. The young man’s face filled my view again, his horrified, furious expression distorting a once beautiful smile, and then the sword was flashing up, pointing to strike down, straight through my heart. I could not feel the stab, but before the flash of white mercifully wiped the vision, I could see the sword in great detail: the straight gleam of silvery metal, the intricately tooled handle with inlays of gold. It too was beautiful. It was huge.
“Lark,” Quin murmured. I looked up.
The Gathering was parting in the center, drawing back to create a circle. Milo Swan, Kerrick’s oldest grandchild, was walking into the middle, weighted under a wooden tub. He had the stones. I’d missed the conversation, the agreements, the decisions, and we were suddenly at the stones.
It was time to choose who would carry the request to the Riders.
Milo placed the tub on the quickly provided stool. We would file past, reach in, and draw one of the smoothly polished gray stones—one for each member of the village over the age of fifteen. One of these stones had a small circle chiseled from it; the person who drew it would be the volunteer. One only would journey for help from the Riders, for in their world, it was remembered, one makes a friend. Two or more make a challenge.
It had been a very long time since our village had used the stones. They were brought forth for only the most serious of tasks; I’d never before been of age to be included. A rustle of anticipation passed over the group as we began to sort away the few youngest villagers and to form the line, each wondering: if chosen, would he meet the Riders or the same fate as Ruber Minwl?
And yet, there was no opportunity to choose. Raif Minwl strode to the front of the line and said commandingly, “Let me go. Let me bear the request.”
Surprised murmurs rose from the crowd now. I saw Evie watching from where she stood farther ahead in the line. Kerrick Swan said gently, “That is not how we do it, Raif.”
“I know,” he replied. “But let me go.”
And while the rustle and mutterings flickered through the Gathering, and all eyes focused on Raif, no one noted the black speck hurtling across the sky. Even I was delayed in looking up; but then the hair on my neck pricked.
A raven, huge and glossy, streaked straight to us. It was only when he reached the square that people gasped and pulled back. He paid no attention to the villagers, diving instead for the tub of stones. It took but a moment, a flash of folded wing and strike of beak, and then the bird had selected its object and was back in the air. His wings flapped twice to bring him to where I stood; I had my hand out already, for I knew what was coming. The raven dropped the stone into my palm, whirled, and arced away, back toward Dark Wood.
There was no need to say aloud that I held the marked stone.
“NO, LARK!” I think both Evie and Quin cried it out at the same time.
“This—this is very odd!” Kerrick Swan sputtered in shock.
The eldest were all standing now, and somehow I’d become the center of the village circle. No one ever expected me to be the messenger; they knew my reluctance to leave home, my avoidance of strangers. This was a mistake, certainly. The barrage of comments and concerns was washing over me, through me—a telltale vibration of energy that would soon make me ill. I forced my focus to the stone, warm in my hand, my thumb filling its little hole in the center. Only when I heard Grandmama’s voice did I look up at the surrounding faces and realize I was shaking.
“We should consider whether we must abide by the raven’s intention,” she called out. “Perhaps such a sign is merely a solicitation, not a requirement.”
“I’ll go instead!” shouted Quin. “I am quick and strong.”
If only you could. A sign. Grandmama herself had named it.
Quin took a breath to continue, but Raif interrupted, facing him. “Nay, Quin, this is my task. It was my grandfather; the warning is mine.”
Then other members of the village, men and women alike, put forth their reasons why they should go in my place. Bravery from all of them while I stood in their midst, trembling, gripping the stone. I do not think they even saw me anymore, but they filled my senses. It was like market day now, all the noise and bustle of bartering for this task. The voices grew in fervor; my head swam. My hands went to my ears, hardly blocking the sensations, the little stone still crushed in my fist and pushing against my temple. The smell of the square intensified, the warmth of bodies exuding fragrances of sweat, of earth, of plant and mineral; the smell of the water from the well rose up and over me; the very cobbles of the square reeked of their dusty weight. I would be sick.
“Stop,” I gasped. “Stop! Stop!”
And then it was quiet. The villagers widened their circle around me. I could draw a breath again. I sank to my knees, uncertain of my balance.
“Lark.” It was Sir Farrin. “We care for your well-being.”
“I know it.” I’d not stopped shaking; my hands shivered against the pale cobblestones, and the stone rolled from my grasp.
Someone cried, “We motion to ignore the raven’s intent. Any number of us will go in Lark’s stead.”
“Go home, Lark,” Grandmama called out. “Your participation is not needed further.”
I forced my hands to be still. “No.”
“Lark, I will do this. Let me do this.”
It was Quin; it was Raif. I was not hearing them, but working too hard to look calm, to push out my words evenly, when I was everything but. “This is to be my journey.”
“Lark—”
“No, Raif!” I shouted, overly loud, shoving back from the young man who had stepped too close to me. “Believe me.”
He meant to understand; he pulled back a bit to make more space before saying gently, “Lark, you don’t have to go.”
“I wish that were true.” I wish. I clutched the marked stone again, gripping it as if it could anchor my body, keep me from sp
litting into a thousand shrieks of no. And I spoke as clearly as I could to all, raising my arm and holding the stone high over my head: “This, from the raven, is my third sign. And this—” I slipped my other hand into my bodice and drew out one of the three lark feathers I’d tucked there, holding it high. “This was the first. I am summoned. I am bound to seek the Riders.” My arms sank back to my sides and I looked at my grandmother, knowing she was remembering my dismissal of the third feather. It was hard to plead this truth; her face was so awful, reflecting my own fear. “It was meant to be so. You knew it before I did.”
An exhale of breath ran simultaneously through the crowd. There could be no more disagreement.
I took my own deep breath, then looked up with the bravest face I had. “Please tell me who the Riders are?” Then—and with, unfortunately, less certainty—I added, “And how I shall find them?”
The villagers turned to the platform. Dame Keren stayed standing, though the eldest men sat down again.
“There is little information, my dear,” she said. “A dozen men are they, rarely seen. The Troths are their enemy; that much we do know. They came to our aid those fifty years back, and saved us from complete devastation. But the last time we were … we had no chance.” This she finished softly. Pain never completely dissolves. I wondered back to her explanation about my tears those thirteen years ago, how she must wish she’d understood my cries. Dame Keren, the one villager whose color of choice was a lifeless charcoal, lost her six daughters to the Troths. One of them was with child.
“But fifty years!” I asked instead. “How can we know that the Riders still exist after all this time?”
“Oh, they exist,” she answered. “Once in a while we hear of things, little things that keep their legend alive.”
“Like what?” This was Min. She was as curious as I, as the rest of us.
“Stories sometimes filter between towns—the sound of hooves far in the distance, or the discovery of a hoofprint on a trail.”
“Ponies …,” I muttered, thinking how this could possibly hold importance.