by Sandra Waugh
Gharain said abruptly, “May I go?” It was hardly a request. There must have been some slight nod from the king, for Gharain turned on his heel and strode from the room. He would have broken through the doors if the guards had not still held them open. It’s what I had wanted to do. He told me to stay and yet he’d left.
I looked to the king. He was watching Gharain’s departure, his face a mixture of something like sadness and patience.
“He needs time,” he said to all without apology. Then, with a completely different tone, he called for some refreshment to be brought and smiled again.
“Lark, I may not show you the book, but I will show you something else that explains your purpose among us. Come close.”
I did so, kneeling once more at the feet of this aged king. The remaining company turned to better hear him. They must have known their history, but seemed to wish to hear it once more.
And yet I was wrong. It was not words they waited for. The king shifted, tipping the book a little so the gold filigree caught the candlelight. He reached for my right hand, taking my index finger to guide it along the thin circle etched in the book’s cover. Three times he had me trace it, then placed my finger in the center of my left palm and had me retrace the circle three more times. The king cupped my upturned palm, lifted it so all could see. I gasped. A spark of light jumped in its center and steadied, a little glowing flame that held no heat.
The king said to me, “Life, Death, Dark, Light. What are they to you?”
Maybe it was a challenge. I felt suddenly like Min, when she stood before the Gathering wondering what meaning to put to our faces. I knew enough about life and death from Grandmama’s and Evie’s healings; I knew enough from my own daily chores in the gardens. Still … I looked at him, looked again at the little flame of light, and answered carefully, “Life and Death are a cycle for Nature’s creatures. And Dark and Light are a cycle as well—the way night follows day follows night. ’Tis like a cycle within a cycle. It is the working of Nature.”
“It is what sustains Nature.” The king took the flame in my palm between his thumb and forefinger and drew with it a circle. It stood vertical in my hand, a glowing loop. “The cycle of Life and Death,” he said. Then he pulled the flame horizontally, threading another circle, saying, “The cycle of Dark and Light.” It hovered in my palm for a moment, this outline of a sphere, then the king cupped both hands around mine.
“Life, Death, Dark, and Light,” he said, “are the four primal forces. They are what bind Nature to the Earth. Linked as they are, these forces create essential cycles in Nature, cycles that must be equally balanced so that Nature—all of the Earth—may thrive. Balance, you see, is the root of what supports our existence.” He looked down then and smiled at me.
“We of Tarnec are the Keepers of Balance. Ages ago amulets were placed in our care for this purpose—four amulets signifying the primal forces: a shell for Death, a stone to represent Dark, a blade of gold for Light.…” He paused. “And this.”
The king released my hand, and there in my palm danced a whole sphere—crystal, with blue, gold, and green threads weaving through it. It was an apparition only, but I felt from it a tiny pulse, a tug of energy. I grinned up at him. It was beautiful.
“The orb,” he said. “The amulet of Life.”
“These—the primal forces are in your care?” I asked.
He smiled again. “Balance is in our care. We cannot hold Life, Death, Dark, or Light any more than you can lift a mountain or gather the sea. But we hold these amulets safe in our possession, deep within our castle walls, so that the four forces remain equally charged, and equally neutral.” There his smile faded, and he said gravely, “It is the Keepers’ birthright and eternal duty to protect this Balance. Because, my dear, if Balance is ruptured, then the cycles are broken, distorted. In other words: devastation.”
The king closed my fingers over my palm, and the sphere was snuffed. I was stunned at how empty my hand now felt. “But an entire kingdom,” I blurted, disappointed, “pledged to the safekeeping of an orb, a shell, a stone, and a blade? Why, then, do you look to me?”
There was a shifting of weight in some of the Riders. I saw the king’s eyes unconsciously flick to the empty chair beside him.
“We are not infallible, young Lark. Size may well belie power.” His voice saddened. “A simple-seeming arrangement, true, but understand this: while we protect, there are those who seek to destroy—who wish to manipulate Balance and bring full destruction to our world.”
The Troths.
The king said softly, “No, my dear, Troths are merely foot soldiers of a greater power.”
I stared in shock, looked away to the others. Wine had been brought after the king’s request, was being served. The Rider with the tawny eyes and molten bronze hair passed my cup to me; the king accepted his from Dartegn. Neither of us drank. “What can be greater than the Troths’ ferocity?” I finally asked.
“Ferocity is not the truest threat; the threat is the intent behind the ferocity,” the king murmured. “A choice of malice—that is the greater power.” And then with a resigned sigh, as if loosing a tremendous weight into the Great Hall, he said, “That, my dear, defines the Breeders.”
“What—what are the Breeders?” Even the name thrust a dark chill into the room.
“Our nemesis, Lark, our greatest threat. Chaos is the opposing force of Balance, and the Breeders of Chaos work to spread such force just as the Keepers of Balance seek to hold against it. As it is our task to preserve, theirs is to destroy: take what we have, rend the Balance, and watch us die or distort into something unrecognizable. A cunning, malevolent power they are, akin to us in form, opposed to us in purpose. Beyond the Myr Mountains—beyond what is known—lies the Waste, realm of the Breeders. It is doom and madness; it is what they intend for our world—to consume us with. They match us in strength; they never rest in their effort to foment Chaos within and around us. We are locked in endless struggle.…”
The words trailed away and the king’s eyes drifted from my face. At length, he took a sip from his goblet for fortification, and I saw for what seemed the first time how extremely fragile he was, watching his thin hand trembling with its weight.
The king recognized his feebleness. He sat up straighter and cleared his throat. “While Tarnec holds the amulets, the world is safe. But Tarnec was breached and the amulets stolen, Lark, ripped most cruelly from us by a single Breeder. Now we all stand to suffer, unless they can be brought back. They must be brought back.”
My own goblet was trembling; I set it down. “And I am a part of this?”
“More than any Keeper.” The king looked down at me again with his sad smile. “Lark, do you understand why the Troths attack Merith?”
I could answer this. “Because we are near Dark Wood, because we have no weapons and are far from—”
“That is not the reason.”
“And, we have not yet learned the correct defense. There is something about color—”
“That is neither the reason. The Troths attack Merith because they are told to attack Merith, Lark. They look for you.”
“No.” I stood quickly. “No.”
“Lark.”
“No.” It was petulant; I was like Min again, I knew, like a child. “Please. I accepted my summons—that I was bound to venture forth for help. But you cannot also place in my hands the burden of the Troths’ cruelty! Please do not do so!”
“Lark.” It was a command. I had to stop, to sit once more. I waited furiously for him to speak, my breath making impatient little snorts while the king took time choosing his words.
“We are entrusted with Balance, and yet we are but Keepers, Lark. While we can protect Tarnec, protect what houses the amulets, we cannot protect the amulets themselves. Yet”—he leaned a little closer—“there are four who can. Four descendants of Tarnec, to whom the amulets ‘speak’—four who alone may find the amulets should they be lost, who alone may carry them, hold t
hem in their grasp, and who alone can return them to their rightful place in Tarnec.”
The king paused a moment before adding solemnly, “They are the Guardians of Tarnec, awakened only when such crisis demands.”
Then, with that hint of sadness, he repeated it: “One Guardian connected with one amulet … Only when crisis demands.” He looked over at the empty chairs along the wall. “We have not needed the Guardians in a very long time.”
I watched, dreading how his eyes moved from the chairs to me, dreading that he sat up a little taller, a little more commanding. I whispered, “And now you say I am needed.”
“Yes, I say it. You might have lived your life peacefully unaware of this calling, but crisis demands. You, young Lark, are one of these four Guardians; you are the first of these four. You are our Guardian of Life.”
Guardian. The Guardian of Life. I could only stare as he spoke the words.
“I will not say we knew it would be you, for on purpose we scattered our people, left little trace of lineage and of destiny, trusting that the Guardians will rise when needed.” His eyes crinkled a bit. “You wonder why we did not keep everyone here, that Tarnec is strong. But even Balance must be balanced, for concentrating power in one place only weakens the whole. So, through village, through town, Keepers were spread as allies to Tarnec, as were those in whose line is destined a Guardian.”
“My mother was a Guardian? My grandmother?” How could it be—how could I not know this?
He shook his head. “The line that I speak of is the extraordinary connection that links a Guardian to her amulet, her primal force. You know this, Lark, you’ve felt this connection all your life. The Earth speaks to you; creatures speak to you. But, no, it is not a direct bloodline, for then it would be too easy for the Breeders to track you.”
“And they cannot track the bloodline of the Guardians, so instead kill indiscriminately,” I whispered. How many villagers had Merith alone lost?
His gaze did not falter. “Our task, Lark, is to protect the amulets. To this end, of our people and creatures we may ask for sacrifice.” And then he said harshly, “Understand this, Lark: innocents will be killed. Allies of Tarnec, all living things, are at risk as they offer us help. We know this; we allow this. Regardless of the sacrifice,” he repeated, “the amulets must be protected, returned, balanced, or our world will be destroyed.”
We sat for a while in silence. The fires roared, rippling their dancing light across the tapestries, across the stage, making the wine sparkle. I could have been alone, hushed as it was. I wondered at their fortitude, in the face of this horrible news, these men and women standing so simply, so quietly, for so long a time. Perhaps it was a strength of these Riders of Tarnec and their loved ones—a strength of all Keepers of Balance—this acceptance of sacrifice. I did not possess it.
The king was weary, troubled, maybe, as I was. He said, “The Breeders would not unwittingly kill the Guardians, Lark, for they need them as we do. Instead, they spy, stir up fear. They manipulate, and weaken, and erase the Keepers and their allies as they can, looking to find the Guardians and separate them, not obliterate them. They need the amulets destroyed in order to unleash permanent Chaos on the rest of the world. Only the Guardians can do that.”
“We can destroy what we are born to protect? Why?”
The king’s eyes only flickered, but I found myself looking again at the empty chair beside him. He said it slowly: “We are all at the mercies of our own frailties. Choices are not always made with clear mind and heart.”
There was a change then; the king made to rally. “Lark, truths reveal themselves in time. It is enough to know that the Breeders found their opportunity to steal the amulets. With Balance undone, Breeders’ powers are no longer in check. They will toy with us now.…”
Toy. Brahnt had used that same word, as if we were there for Breeders’ whimsical pleasure.
“It will begin with small rifts of Nature, or the vicious attacks,” he was saying, “as you’ve already witnessed. Uncontrollable things, things to frighten and instill unease in an innocent population. It will lead to worse—as fear and anxiety grow, so too will anger, and then violence among ourselves. Breeders can plant such seeds and cultivate the madness. But … for Chaos to triumph, the amulets must be destroyed. They need the Guardians for that, just as we need the Guardians to bring the amulets home.”
He looked at me then. “Lark, you are the first of the Guardians to be sought, for the Life amulet was the first forged, the necessary foundation for the other primal forces. You were awakened for this.”
The king paused, then said formally, “Lark, Guardian of Life, will you reclaim your amulet?”
My eyes were wide. “I have no experience in battle.”
“No? You fight for Balance every day. It is your chosen daily task to root out the ghisane and its insistent efforts to claim your land.”
I flushed, admitting, “I weed the gardens, pick the herbs, and yes, dig up the ghisane. That is my strength.”
“The Earth is indeed a strength, but you underestimate yourself,” he said. “You are here, are you not? Your courage in the face of uncertainty still brought you to us.” A bit of humor crept in as I met his gaze. “Neither, I would add, do you fear challenging a king.”
“Am I bound to this?”
There was a slight pause before the king answered very clearly, “No. A Guardian cannot be bound to protect her amulet. To protect or destroy: it is a choice she must be free to make.” Then more softly came, “Always Balance.”
And I looked—hard—at my reluctance.
Ruber Minwl had not expected the Troths’ attack, nor that his hand would be my second sign, but he’d stood still and accepted death. Raif, Quin, Evie … not one of the villagers in Merith would have pushed me forward could they have given their life in place of mine. And the foxes: what of their sacrifice, or even the Riders who protect with their lives this secret kingdom of Tarnec and its precious burdens? Who was I, then, to wish my burden away, off of me?
Even if I did not believe I was worthy of it, I’d been given this task. What sacrifice would I make? I hung my head under the weight of such choice. “I will seek the Life amulet. I will return it to Tarnec.” My voice was low, but at least it was clear.
There was a collective breath—one of relief—from everyone, before the king said, “We Keepers thank you.”
I looked up at him. “Do I journey to the Waste?”
He shook his head. “Lark, the Sight is your extraordinary connection to all things belonging to the Earth. Embrace this power; use it. The orb will reveal its whereabouts. But remember too that the Breeders want you. They will know you are awakened. They will find you, and they will lure you, using the people and things that mean most to you. They will attempt to trick you into destroying your amulet.”
“Then I have to go home. Merith is too vulnerable—” I stopped, counted the days I’d been gone—three. “The Troths attack six days from the morrow.”
The king said, “Lark, the Riders will go. There is time. They will help Merith.”
“I have to go with them. I must return—if even for a short while. I have to know that Merith stays safe, to let my family know that I am safe.…” I swallowed. “Or at least to make farewells.”
The king was so very tired. His eyes watered slightly; his smile was not as full. But he said as loudly as he could, “You make a choice. I cannot refuse it, young Lark, though once you leave Tarnec, you will be exposed to grave danger. I would you remained here first to better prepare for the great challenge you face. Do you still insist?”
I nodded.
He made a little sigh. “Then take with you this knowledge: three items—three small tokens—I will give you to help you in your task; wait for them. Do not choose your way from impulse or fear, Lark; listen and look for signs of your path. Trust that you will know what to do.”
The Merith elders had similarly charged me with warnings those few days past. Now it
seemed a lifetime ago.
“Ask for help, Lark, for you are not alone.” The king paused then to draw breath before calling out to each of the men who stood so calm and strong beside him, “Laurent. Dartegn. Sevrin. Ian. Arnon. Cargh. Marc. Taran. Wilh. Evaen. Brahnt. And, our absent Gharain. Lady Lark, meet your Riders.”
I found myself rising as the eleven turned to me to pay homage to their Guardian of Tarnec, and the king repeated, as if he commanded it to be so, “You are not alone.”
It was late when I returned to my chamber. Sleep forsaken, I sat by the fire cupping a mug of tea between my hands, glad for its warmth though I was not chilled.
The king’s strength had failed after he’d presented the Riders. With something like a sigh, he simply stopped. Wilh, Evaen, and Laurent moved quickly to support him from the hall, Ilone carefully taking the book from his grasp and following them. We’d watched their exit somberly, yet the remaining Riders were not distressed; they seemed to expect this. It bothered me, though, his grave departure. I’d left too many questions unasked and knew that I had not long to learn from this man.
But now I sat with my tea, not thinking on the king, or the book he’d held in his hands, or how the amulets were stolen, or on the empty seat beside the king. I was not thinking on this crystal orb—small enough to cup in my hands—this symbol of Life. And I was not thinking that it needed to be found, needed to be placed back in the embrace of Tarnec, was not thinking even that the beautiful Earth and all people would suffer without the balance of the primal forces, the reclaiming of amulets. I suppose all of those thoughts hovered above, waiting to be introduced for brooding, but that time was not yet.
I was thinking of the burst of light I’d felt inside when Gharain had pressed his mark against mine.
The charge in my body remained, like a flare of light in a dark room. After all the experiences in these past days, this touch was an insignificant moment of time, and yet in its aftermath the light remained. And it still burned.
I set down my tea finally, having to stand—no, to move under this sensation, which propelled me nowhere and everywhere at once. I paced to each corner and back again, but the room was not large enough for this. And maybe I would have gone without prompting, but a sudden waft of air carried in the scent of the bell roses; I turned in my tracks and went out into the garden.