Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec)

by Sandra Waugh

  There you are. There you are. There you are.…

  Rune reared, turned, and with one leap plunged back into the pine. The sharp scent of eucalyptus exploded in my nose and dissolved the trance. I put my head down once more on Rune’s neck and closed my eyes. He raced, back through the trees, back toward the clearing. It was quickly over. He would take me home.

  Home. I shook awake, regathered my thoughts, disturbed by what I’d felt, at that strange whorl that seemed to drain energy from my body. I wondered at that. There had been no pain either. There had been nothing.

  I rubbed my cheek a little into Rune’s sweating hide. The eucalyptus and pine were fading now, the rich smells of decaying leaves replacing them. We would soon be home—

  I shook myself again at that word; how could it be so soon that such a sense had seeped into my bones?

  Still, I was glad to see Castle Tarnec reappear in the distance. Marc was not in the clearing where I’d left him, but Rune knew that. We flew across the lawn, slowing only as we reached the main path to the stables. And there was Marc, leaning against a stone pillar of the stable entrance, speaking to one of the stable hands, a water flask in his hand. His surprise was not for our return, but I think what might have been my expression—that, and Rune’s sweating, panting sides. He took one look at me and threw the flask to the ground. In two strides he’d met the horse and, reaching up, let me fall right into his arms.

  “Lark,” he said, not gently. “Lark, look at me.”

  I looked up, disoriented, since only a moment before I’d been looking down. Mark helped stand me on my own feet, keeping a hand on my arm, asking, “What happened?” I sensed the energy from his hand; he was ready to spring to his own horse.

  “The—” But I stopped. Clearly Marc had not felt what I had; he was only concerned at my behavior. “Nothing,” I said then, in all honesty. Perhaps it was enough.

  Perhaps it was. There was nothing wrong. Marc looked over at Rune as if to judge my answer true. The stable boy had claimed the horse, was giving his wet sides a swipe of sleeve before nudging him toward the stable. Rune’s ears twitched away a fly.

  Marc relaxed. He shook my arm, looking back at me, changing the mood. “And here I thought you’d come back exhilarated, putting a blush into your pretty cheeks. You left shouting with the most beautiful joy.” He smiled at me, cajoling my humor to return.

  I pushed away the strangeness. “I am; I was. I don’t know. It was exhilarating, Marc, it was—I was … I was riding! Marc, I was riding! It was magic—!”

  “She went up through the forest?”

  Gharain was striding out of the stables, his hand fisted around a length of bridle and rein that dragged in the dirt, glaring at the two of us. His face showed white beneath the bronze of his skin. “She should not have been up there alone.” Gharain looked accusingly at his friend. “You know that.”

  But Marc was not perturbed. “Reprimand her horse.” He shrugged with a nod at Rune’s retreating backside. “Lark was within the castle boundaries. In my opinion, she was well guarded.”

  “Marc, it is dangerous for her to be alone!”

  “Easy, man.” Marc’s calm voice held the subtlest note of warning. “All is well. Rune brought Lark safely back. You have no need to race after her.”

  I looked at the reins in Gharain’s hand, almost at the same time he did. He didn’t seem to remember he still held them.

  “All the same,” Gharain said stiffly, embarrassed now, “it would be well if she were accompanied always—by a Rider. With weapon at hand.”

  “Understood,” replied Marc softly, though Gharain had turned and was already striding back the way he’d come.

  Absurdly, I ran after him.

  “Gharain!” I called to his rigid back. He walked very quickly and his legs were long. “Gharain!”

  I followed him through the stable and into the separate room where he’d stopped to rehang his tack. “You are back,” he stated flatly at my quick footsteps. “Nothing more needs to be said.”

  “That was unjust,” I panted. “It was not Marc’s fault that I left the grounds.”

  “It is not safe. He knows better, even if …”

  He did not finish, so I offered it for him. “You mean to say, ‘Even if he didn’t feel what happened.’ You felt it too, didn’t you? That pull of Earth—you felt it when the others did not.”

  Gharain stared at me, brief as it was, then looked away to busy himself with straightening the reins.

  “Gharain!”

  “I heard you.”

  “Have you nothing to say?”

  And he turned. “What would you like me to say? That, yes, I felt that pull? That it compelled me to come find you? Are you sorry that I was hard with Marc? Would you have preferred my anger to be with you?”

  I flushed, but squared my shoulders. “If you must be harsh, then, yes, be harsh with me.”

  “Very well. Never leave the near grounds without accompaniment. Is that understood?”

  Not even Grandmama had been so fierce with me. He barely raised his voice, but his tone was like iron. I looked down, feeling like some naughty child under this young man’s remonstrance. My cheeks were hot.

  “Lark.”

  His voice had softened, but I didn’t raise my eyes, for I thought I might rage at him, and hostility would only lead to more hostility.

  “Lark.” Gharain gripped my arm. His touch shot through my body, at once warm and powerful; he shook me, briefly, to force my gaze to his, and we looked at one another, guarded. Suddenly, and not gently, his hand slid from my elbow to grip my wrist. He turned my palm up, studying the underside of my wrist, holding it exposed and vulnerable for a moment, simply looking. My hand was shaking in his grasp, and there was warmth to his sun-bronzed cheek. I felt, suddenly, the terrible agony I’d first sensed in him pierce sharply through me. And yet, there was something more: hope or need or promise; I couldn’t quite tell, for his emotions ran like quicksilver, and the charge that I felt at his touch overwhelmed it all anyway. Gharain turned my palm over, and his hand slid once more to catch mine, but his touch had changed—no longer a grip but a caress. He bent over our clasped fingers the way a nobleman might pay homage to a lady, lingering, but then he released my hand quickly, as if he could no longer bear to feel what I felt, whatever it was that traveled between us.

  “If—” He muttered what else under his breath, to himself or to me I didn’t know, but then his voice was earnest. “Lark, they can make you feel things, and then they can find you. Claim you.”

  They. The Breeders. “Rune knew what to do—”

  “You’ve barely learned to ride. Rune is powerful, but what if you couldn’t stay on his back?” He paused and made a bitter noise. “Or do you imagine he’d protect you as well if you were standing—the way he protected you from me?”

  It was enough. “I don’t know why I came after you,” I whispered, still shaking from the touch. “I suppose to ask you to apologize to Marc. But if you need to stay angry, then I will apologize instead. I am sorry I left the park.”

  He nodded; if he meant to say anything, it was too late. I’d turned and gone back out of the stable.

  Marc chuckled at me, at my red cheeks, and the way I stalked out of the wide doors. “Thank you for defending me, brave little Lark.”

  “You do not take him seriously?” I asked, a little astonished. I’d been severely chastised; the same brushed off of Marc.

  Marc shrugged. “I take him seriously, just not his ranting. He’s young, his passions dominate, but Gharain is also one of the most giving and loyal souls I know. He’s only being protective of you.”

  I swallowed wrong and choked into a small coughing fit. “He’s been nothing but furious since I met him,” I managed to gasp out. I looked at Marc shaking his head. “Protective or not, he hates me,” I muttered. That was silly, I knew, but it was spoken before I realized.

  Marc looked down at me, his head shaking still. “No. He’s in a
nguish—anguish over our queen.”

  The poor queen again. “That she died,” I acknowledged with a more solemn nod.

  He corrected. “That his error caused her death.”

  I froze in surprise, waited for the reason. But Marc looked back at me and gently shook his head. He would not tell tales on another Rider.

  Slowly I closed my gaping mouth, closed over the questions that piled up, that I wished answered. If Marc knew my desire, he ignored it and laughed at me, a hand going to tousle the top of my head. “Come, there must be a meal for us inside. I’ll guard your way back into the castle. Gharain will thank me for that.”

  And he took my arm while curiosity burned its little path inside me. Burned, until I remembered that I had a maidservant who might be willing enough to share knowledge.

  “A Viewing?”

  “Of the queen’s last moments,” Nayla said to the old woman who sat grinding joma seeds in a mortar. “Of Gharain’s place in it. I told Mistress Lark ’twas no story for young maids. But she asked.”

  More truthfully, I’d begged. Three times. Nayla provided the barest of information, busying herself with my dinner, my snarled hair, the buttons of my nightdress, anything she could to avoid discussion. I’d learned only a perfunctory “One moon ago we lost her,” and a sighing “What lovely light shone in her smile …!” But I persisted until Nayla took my hand and marched me down long steps, past the kitchens to the fragrant herbary, and presented me to this ancient herbswoman, Trethe. A Viewing, she requested.

  Trethe pursed her lips, her mouth nearly disappearing into the surrounding wrinkles. “We would need something to connect.”

  “I remember,” Nayla said promptly. “Happenstance, I brushed this from the sleeve of Mistress Lark’s tunic.” It was a strand of chestnut-brown hair she held. Gharain’s. “This should do very well for such purpose.”

  “What is a Viewing?” I asked, looking around. Something, obviously, that required this room full of drying plants hanging from the rafters, jars of salts and spices and seeds lined on the shelves, and trays of stones and glittering pebbles. It smelled of licorice and savory.

  Trethe put the mortar to one side of the table she sat at and wiped her hands on her apron. “A Viewing creates a picture of a past event.” She studied me for a moment. “I am glad to see your ankle healed so well, my lady. My own recipe, those tinctures. Now, then, you wish a Viewing.” She sighed. “That you desire to know requires it be shown. ’Twill bring you no pleasure, but I suppose ’tis better to see for yourself than have the evil recounted as gossip.”

  Trethe gestured me to sit by her. There was plenty of room on the bench to share; her body was rail-thin, skin wrinkled around her bones like a withered plum. She smelled of the room, of the fire burning nearby. She lifted a milk-white shallow stone bowl from her table and gave it to me to hold, adjusting my grip with cool, strong fingers. “The elements will open truth in a Guardian’s hands. We will blend the four, beginning with Earth.” Trethe touched the bowl. “Stone for Earth. Hold it firmly, please, mistress. Good. Now to Earth I will add the element of Water.” She took up a flask and poured enough water into the bowl to cover the bottom, then switched flask for a jar at the end of the table—a small one, filled with tiny clear beads. She tipped several into her palm and added them to the bowl, explaining, “These gases represent Air. They will stir Water and allow the element of Fire to ignite.”

  Already the beads were bursting in the water, throwing up little sprays of color, like tiny rainbows dancing. “Keep it steady, Mistress Lark,” Nayla whispered, her weathered blue eyes sparkling with the light.

  Trethe shuffled away to collect things and returned to show me her tiny handful. “Dried minion flower, and simple rock salt … and Master Gharain’s hair. Vegetable, mineral, and animal—the properties of Earth.” She rubbed them between her palms and sprinkled the mix over the fizzing water. “A hair of yours, Mistress Lark.”

  Nayla tugged a strand and gave it to Trethe, who added it to the mixture. “Like so. Now for Fire.” Taking up her flint, Trethe struck a spark against the bowl and red flame shot up, then died back to a short lick of color glowing in its center. It began to smoke—creating a whitish cloud over the circumference.

  Nayla whispered, “Watch the smoke.” It was unnecessary; my eyes were fixed hard on the bowl.

  “To look on this now,” Trethe murmured, “we see how even within these solid walls of Castle Tarnec we too can be made vulnerable. All that is needed sometimes is to sow a little seed—of doubt, of impatience.” She paused. “Of desire …”

  Within the cloud appeared images, wavering into clarity. Gharain was there, saddling his horse with haste and galloping out of the Tarnec stables. There was energy in his posture, an expression of happy anticipation so unlike the hard-jawed responses I’d drawn from him.

  “A message came for Gharain, originating with a trader from the sea,” said Trethe. “Our merchants carried the words home to him: ‘She waits on the ledge,’ the trader had told them. ‘Tell Gharain she waits on the ledge.’ ” Trethe made a faint sigh. “Poor Gharain is of that age: restless, his yearning to love acute, just aching in his heart.”

  Images resolved again. Time had passed, for Gharain was there, dustier, disheveled, dismounting to stare in awe, at which the three of us squinted to gain better view. An apparition was before him, standing on a wedge of rock, someone in a hooded cape of dusky, swirling colors. Gharain was stepping nearer, and so too were we. The hood fell back, revealing the stunning lady with the brilliant smile, lush dark hair.

  “The lady of my dream,” I whispered.

  “Erema,” Nayla whispered back. “No lady, that thing! A Breeder. She read his desire, used his want as the way to gain passage into Tarnec.”

  It fell quiet at that, as we watched Gharain sink to his knees before this beauty. Her hand was outstretched; a mark of something was on its soft underneath. I shuddered, understanding then why Gharain had grabbed my wrist to study. I saw his eyes close and his head fall back. And then the images began tumbling one upon the other: Gharain reaching for the dark lady, a caress at which I had to look away. She, sitting before him on his horse, racing back to the castle, which shimmered into view—there, the courtyard, the entranceway, Gharain shouting something to all who gathered.… I felt Nayla’s flush as she reminded me, “We welcome all who reach the castle.”

  The smoke revealed a grand feast in the hall, where I’d met the king—a table longer than I imagined possible laden with bountiful trays of exquisite foods. Gharain was standing, lifting his goblet, toasting the lovely Erema opposite him. And there at the head sat the king and queen. The queen was indeed full of lovely light as Nayla had said, and the king was not frail as when I met him, but strong and lively within his aged frame. He looked at his queen with utter devotion.

  I sensed the room shift; Nayla and Trethe braced themselves. The queen was taking her goblet in response to Gharain, lifting it to her lips with a somewhat sad smile, swallowing her wine—and then the goblet was falling, falling as the queen fell and a great cry roared out. Gharain’s own wine spilled to the table, his face contorted. The guests rose in terrible unison, surging toward the queen, while Gharain stood frozen, staring in horror at his evil guest, and Erema smiled. The smile, once so exquisite, turned hideous and gaping, and then Erema took a step back out of the candlelight and simply melted from view.

  Trethe blew out the flame.

  Nayla spoke first. “Now you have seen it: the queen poisoned at the hands of an impostor who presumed to be our guest, who preyed on the heart and hopes of poor Gharain.”

  I was confused. “But the queen was smiling, as if she knew. As if she understood what she was about to do.”

  “If the queen understood the deception, then she chose to accept it,” answered Trethe. “You shake your head, Lady Lark, but sacrifices come in all ways.”

  “Perhaps it was the only way to expose the evil,” Nayla agreed. “A Breeder’s lure i
s strong. Woe to Tarnec if Gharain had remained under her spell. A worse outcome could have been.”

  I did not see it. But Nayla insisted, “A worse outcome. Look, now you are here, young and beautiful and capable. And you have claimed Gharain’s attention—”

  “Mayhap Tarnec had become too complacent. Mayhap it was time and the queen knew it,” Trethe interrupted flatly. She brushed her hands clean. “Destiny advances darkly, sometimes.”

  “It advances,” Nayla echoed, “whichever the reason. And while the castle was in uproar, our attention diverted, Erema stole away with the amulets.”

  “But if no one can hold the amulets except the Guardians, how—?”

  “Breeders can ensnare them,” answered Trethe, “if they use something made of hukon.”

  “Hukon!” Evie had said it about the severed hand. “It brands—it is the mark of the Troth.”

  “It is the mark of them,” Nayla whispered. “They use it for dark deeds. Poison, webs—”

  “The Breeders’ greatest weapon,” interrupted Trethe. “The black willow.”

  We all stopped—no talk nor movement. There was a little tingling across my chest; I should not have asked for this, opened this wound. At length, Trethe took the bowl from my hands, breaking the silence gently. “Do not be frightened. The Breeder has long gone.”

  But I was not shivering at the story; I was thinking of Gharain. To have found me on the ledge after he’d found Erema … “What he must have felt at such betrayal,” I murmured.

  “The betrayal is done. It is rather what he feels now,” said Trethe solemnly.

  “Revenge,” mouthed Nayla.

  Trethe halted her. “Best not to mention such a word.” She turned to me and said shortly, “Guilty is what he feels—guilty and alone in his agony.” She began arranging things on her table. She was weary of this dark talk.

  “Gharain is not alone,” Nayla said quietly as she walked me back to my room. “But he blames himself too deeply. He wants to make right his error.”

  Revenge. I knew she thought it. We were silent down the long halls. It was my doing, this shadow that had come over us. “It’s a wonder that you could welcome me at all,” I murmured at last.