by Sandra Waugh
Enchanted, this heightened space of midnight. A hush first—a lull—then the crackling of the hearth fire disappeared, replaced by singing night things. Perfumed air slipped along my arms and neck, and I breathed it in, deeply. Dark overwhelmed the garden; the moon had passed the heights of the castle walls, leaving only gleaming bits of silver between long shadows. The windows behind the cloisters glowed with candles, some of them, but not bright enough to pass more than feebly between the leaves of ivy. I did not mind. This dark was beautiful; the garden was beautiful. I was barefoot, the grass wet with dew … and I ran. The energy buoyed me up, let me dance and leap and gulp in the lovely fragrances of night. I wished Rileg had been there to leap with me, the way we did at the burning of ghisane.
I collapsed at length to the ground, palms deep into the grass, laughing with exuberance. Awakened—I whispered it into the dark, rolled onto my back, hugging my arms close like I’d spilled some secret. I smelled the bell roses so sweet, felt the wetness of the dew seep into my skirts, and tasted the dark, almost, on my tongue.
And then I heard the splash from the pool—the sound made when an object is plunged in water. I rolled over with a gasp, watched the body rise behind the pool’s edge, tall and dripping, gleaming in the night air.
Gharain pushed his hair back from his face with both hands, watching me.
I spoke, barely. “You? How are you here?”
He still watched me—I think it was the longest amount of time that his eyes had ever lingered. Finally he answered, “Usually I am the one to make use of the garden at night.”
It was simple clarification or outright hostility. Yet a tiny glimmer of humor laced his voice, and why not? I’d looked the fool leaping about the garden. I started to rise from my clumsy sprawl, but that made me taller than he standing naked and waist deep in the sunken pool, so I abruptly sat on my heels. I was glad that the darkness covered the fire in my cheeks.
“All that happened,” I said, a bit in defense, a bit in truth. “It’s racing through my bones. I needed to release it somehow.”
I waited, hoping for a response, anything that might show understanding or at least recognition of this feeling, but there was none; his eyes went elsewhere. I finished awkwardly, “Anyway, ’tis beautiful here.”
Gharain wiped his brow with a careless strength of hand. “You are staying, then.”
Stay. He’d already asked that of me. Or, not asked; he’d simply told me to do so, the way he told me now—as something already determined. I almost liked that I could refuse. “No. I return to Merith—”
“Merith!” I’d surprised him. Then, flatly, “It is not safe.”
“Nowhere is safe,” I said, likewise abrupt. That left us silent.
At length and without looking back, Gharain murmured, “How is the king?”
“Not well. Not …” I stopped. I was only repeating myself to fill the emptiness in this conversation. Somewhere a night thing rasped its wings in brittle song. I should want to get up; the dew had soaked cold through my gown. I shook my head. “I expect you already know.”
He stiffened immediately. “Why do you say so?”
“Because you were there. Even if you were gone when he faltered, you must know he is ill.”
“He is ill. He has little time left.” There was a deeper silence, and a slight release to Gharain’s shoulders—only slight. “I call him Grandfather. But he is greater, far older than my father’s father.”
Old indeed. “I saw,” I said carefully, “the eyes. Are you alone related to him?”
“Ilone is my sister.”
Sister. How silly to be relieved by that answer. I’d already assumed she was paired with Dartegn, and what did it matter anyway? This Rider could barely look at me. I nodded to no one—Gharain’s focus was entirely on the boxwood at the far corner.
He moved a little then, his fingers brushing through the water. The ripple shuddered in sound, like musical notes piling together, and the little circle on my shoulder blade tingled. It had never done that before. The flame inside of me flared very bright.
And so I said on impulse, “What is our connection, Gharain? What happened when you touched my mark?”
It was direct, terse, and I’d used his name, but I did not anticipate the sudden rage that flashed in his gesture. He turned sharply, gaze piercing through like a blade. “Why ask? You’ve been awakened, Guardian. Why do you need to know more than that?”
This was all wrong, but I blundered on, “Because I was awakened by you. Why you?”
He was harsh. “As if that should matter more than your purpose, more than what the king has confirmed, or that the queen—”
“The queen!” The empty chair? “Where is she in all of this?”
“The queen is dead.”
Such a rigid, final announcement—not a good death, it was clear. The intent of malice, I remembered with a shiver, the Breeders. “I—”
Gharain cut over me again furiously, as if he’d heard my thoughts. “No, it was not a good death. It was violent, and brutal, and meant to inflict pain on all who loved her. We all loved her—”
“I’m sorry!” I cringed under his vehemence.
“—and yet you ask of our connection, as if that were of importance!” He’d ignored the condolence, his voice still harsh, challenging where I’d placed my interest. “You already know one exists. You saw, you felt, the charge of marks when they touched—that it should matter to you!”
I stared at him. “That it matters to me makes you bitter?” And then I could not help my own challenge, my own snipe of bitterness, because I was humiliated that I’d cringed before him again, and that he saw through my need and rejected it so coldly. “You despised that touch.”
He bristled. “You know little.”
“I know you. I’ve seen your beauty and your rage in my dreams, Gharain. I did not understand that in between there is simply hostility.”
“Dreams! Dreams of what?” His laugh was raw. “You do not understand—”
“Understand?” I was angry now. “Of course I don’t understand! All of this came to me unbidden. You came to me unbidden!”
Now there was pure silence in the garden. Not even the night things dared sing. We stared at each other—I in defiance, he in shock. Whether it was shock that I’d scolded him or shock that I admitted he’d been in my dreams, I did not know. At first, a flicker of alarm crossed his gaze. And then there came a moment that I felt too intensely—a moment where, though he hadn’t moved, I sensed him reach out across the distance, brush my heavy hair back from my temple, and cup my face in his hands.
I felt his breath on my cheek, and I felt my eyes close.
“Don’t,” Gharain said sharply, painfully, from across the lawn.
I took a shaking breath, forced open my eyes. “What—?”
“Don’t do it,” he interrupted roughly. “You must be strong.”
“Strong for what? I don’t know what this is!” It was the second time I’d said that, and I said it loudly, but was ignored. Gharain had already turned his back and pushed through the water up the far steps of the pool. It did not seem to matter to him that he was wearing nothing, or that I made a small, awed gasp at this. He strode a few feet into the dimness, reached for the linen sheet that lay tossed on a stone bench, and threw it around him.
“You will need to learn how to ride,” he said fiercely, inconsequential as it was in that moment. “Marc or Evaen can teach you. You will have to keep up.”
He was walking now, away into the night, starlight and shadow streaking over him, the bell roses closing their scent around his path.
And, ridiculously, I could not let him go like that. I called out before he disappeared, “I did not yet thank you, Gharain.”
That made him stop. He hung midstep; I could see his shoulders clench, and the harshness was shaken from his voice. “Thank me? For what?”
“For saving me. Last night. From the Troth.”
He turned slowly
, looking at me fully for a moment, though we were now far apart and little could be seen. Then his voice came quiet and clear from across the way. “Save you? I meant to kill you.”
And he turned and walked away.
DESPITE LITTLE SLEEP, no appetite, and three previous falls, I still stood fairly bravely before my horse.
Marc was cupping his hands, bowing over—waiting for me to place my foot in his palms again and somehow throw myself onto Rune.
“It’s easy, little Lark.” He was laughing now; I’d been delighting him all morning with my ignorance of horses. “Step in; grab his mane for balance. There, now …”
I stood on tiptoe once more to catch Rune’s mane and put my weight into Marc’s hands. There was the sway and release of ground, and then finally I was high, scrabbling my legs over the horse’s side and sprawling full length on the broad back. Rune stood solidly in place with only a twitch of his tail as I worked my way up to a sitting position, spitting my hair from my mouth.
“There you are, Lark,” Marc called up. “Does it not feel better to be there than two-footed on the ground?”
“I—I’m not sure. I like the ground well enough.”
Marc laughed at me again. He had an easy way with laughter, a gentle way of teasing me into challenge. I remembered him well from the night before—he with the unkempt brown hair, standing at one end of the grouped Riders close to his pretty, soft-eyed wife. He’d smiled at me then, a little welcome grin when he—like everyone—returned my bow. For all the seriousness of what must be a Rider’s life of risk and danger, Marc seemed to let such slide off his shoulders, finding humor in the details. I’m certain, though, that teaching me to ride a horse would have been a laugh for anyone.
I yelped as Rune gave a little shake of his head, grabbing fistfuls of his mane. “I’m not steady! What do I hold? How do I stop him?”
“Find your seat, little Lark. Let him walk you a bit; you will discover how fluid it can be.” He made a little clicking noise and Rune started forward.
I swear I shrieked again. It is one thing to be awed by the beauty of a creature that one has only dreamed of; it is another to claim it, to climb on its back and to share its power.
“Trust, Lark. Trust.” Marc called this to me as Rune walked away along the edge of the clearing. Castle Tarnec hung out enormous over its cliff in the near distance, meadows and gardens and orchards spread around me, the forests beyond. It was beautiful—magnificent, like Rune.
“He’s waiting for you to give in!” Marc shouted across the lawn.
I heard him, but resisted, staying intent on my whirl of thoughts, cramming in all the things Marc had taught me since early this morning, all the things I’d tried to pay attention to. They flickered through my mind—the stalls of beautiful horses; the fresh, sharp smell of hay; the intricately woven leather reins and the rich gleam of dark saddles. I’d already forgotten how to strap them on, but Marc had said no matter, for what was important was the trust forged between rider and horse; accessories were merely accessories (or for maneuvering in battle, I interpreted). He explained that not all horses take a rider, but once a horse had chosen, there was no reason to break in the animal. “They wait,” he’d said, “until they know. No need to force a steed’s will to anyone else—such would destroy a most powerful bond with these treasures.”
Treasure—an apt image for Tarnec’s ruthless protection of its hills, I’d noted. Marc replied that Tarnec closely guarded its territory against Breeders, of course, and to stay free of any outside influence so that Balance would remain undisturbed. And, he’d added, looking at me for the first time with a serious expression, they could not let the extraordinary horses be discovered, pilfered, or used for ugly purpose.
“Imagine the dwellers of Tyre finding the source of horses. Desire to own them would lead to avarice, and as well to jealousy. They would be harnessed, collected, corralled; the creatures would not be able to choose their riders, and the bond would be destroyed, diluted to a meaningless relationship of owner and chattel.”
“You determine rather harshly that people are greedy,” I’d said to him.
He’d laughed. “You are from Merith! Tyre is an unpleasant city of desperate and needy sorts, long a stronghold of the Breeders. I do not assume that greed controls us, but I do understand that the Breeders feed on people’s desires—and they work to brew the things in each of us that can lead us to ruin.”
I wondered if the Breeders would feed on my desires.
“Lark!” Marc was shouting loudly now, shaking me from my stupor. “Let go of your thoughts! Feel your horse; move with your horse.”
I took a breath and focused back on the present. Rune had walked me nearly in a full circle and I’d not noticed, other than gripping wildly with hands and legs. Taking another breath, I released the handfuls of mane that I was pulling at and wiped my palms on my buckskin leggings—another gift from Nayla’s store of clothing—surprised, then, that I did not fall. I patted Rune tentatively. He blustered and shook his head, inviting me to place my hands there, on the length of his neck. I slid them down slowly, and felt the warmth and strength and solidity of this horse—
And I did not fall.
His energy shot through me, strong and breathtaking. A memory flashed—of leaning my head against his shoulder that first night—and I felt suddenly safe. Reaching down, I wrapped both arms around his neck as I’d done the first time, laid my cheek against his soft mane, and breathed. Rune began to move.
How we went, how fast we ran, I would never know the details. I think I heard Marc say, “Yes, Lark!” but then again that could have been my own voice, for I too was feeling Yes! My legs unclenched and simply held against the wide back. At some point, I lifted my head and unwound my arms so that I could hold his mane, gently this time, merely as connection, and so that I could see. But I did not need to see, for now I trusted he would see for me.
We passed once more by the grinning face of Marc, standing singly in that green field, and I shouted to him, “It’s glorious!” Then we were gone, streaming beneath limbs of trees, taking a stone wall in unbroken stride, and I laughed, swept away with the speed and thrill of motion. We left the clearing, the orchards, and climbed into the forest. Oaks and chestnuts swept over us, but we pushed higher, ascending the hill like a ladder into the pungent-needled pines. Up we climbed. I did not know, nor care, which way Rune chose; I let the power of momentum charge through me, and abandoned thought for pure exhilaration. Farther and farther up, Rune began to snort his breath in powerful bursts, pulling hard until at last we came to level ground.
He stopped then, ears flicking, and I sat back, glad for the pause, but not before throwing my arms around his neck.
“Thank you!” I was breathless with delight. I released him, flinging my arms wide, breathing deep, exhilarated and alive. Rocks, trees, creatures … “I feel you!” I shouted to what surrounded me. And then I yelled it as loud as I could: “Guardian of Life!” and laughed. Even alone on this hilltop I blushed to voice what I’d accepted so quietly in my life: the energy of everything humming through my body. But there it was, done, aloud and owned, and maybe that was what being proved meant. And for the moment there was no burden, no dark quest, but only the brilliance of this sharing. “I am awakened!” I yelled, and leaned to hug Rune again.
Rune stood alert and poised, the way Rileg would at the scent of a badger, his neck strained and still with my hands resting there. He shifted once, I remember, changing his balance as if to charge forward. There was a call of a bird too—one sharp, alien caw that stood out from the muffled sounds of the forest. I sat up tall, alert now as well. I was not afraid, yet something was here, it seemed, and Rune was waiting.
“Rune—”
He turned suddenly, moving north some lengths, and stepped out onto a ledge laid bare to the sun. And then I gasped, seeing why we’d come this way, why he was cautious. The Myr Mountains exploded into view, imposing on all the senses. Ash-gray crags were etc
hed in hard detail; I could see the brush of snow whitewashing the peaks, feel its cold breath on my face, taste, even, the icy sweetness. It seemed almost that I could reach out my hand and touch the slabs of stone that jutted from the earth, so heavy and so huge. My fingers tingled and the mountains pushed at me.
Tombs of rock. Desolate. Crushing. They swelled dark despite the daylight, and I heard nothing now but a small whistle of wind. For a long while I sat motionless, listening to that hollow sound whisk over stone and bury itself in the trees.
And then, from somewhere in that weight of cold stone, I sensed a pulse, a little throb of light. The same small heartlike pulse I’d felt from the image of the orb glowing in my palm last night. Energy. Life. I knew what it was.
“That,” I whispered to Rune, “is where I have to go.”
At my voice, the horse turned his head, catching my gaze with his solemn eye. I looked back out, sighing, I suppose, wondering if the sky was indeed less blue at this height, or if the gray cast a pall over all. The Myr Mountains. I watched them, watched how the sun seemed to slam into the solid facets and lose strength, watched how everything was absorbed into this bleak surface, unreadable and forbidding. And as I stared long, the lifeless stone began to burn its gray into me. The wind whipped bits of the snow off the peaks and spiraled it wildly; the shadows lengthened and sharpened the blade edges of the mountains. There was an eerie whirring from far off. Far off, I repeated aloud slowly, feeling the hair on the back of my neck prick. Beyond those crags lay the doom of the Waste.
I dragged a breath in and out, and the Earth seemed to respond, answer my sigh with one of its own. There seemed some tremendous weight pulling me, toward and into the ground, drawing away my strength. And the sigh resolved into a whispering borne on the wind: