Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec)

by Sandra Waugh

  “Yes!” My voice had risen, and the twelve men looked at me patiently. I quieted. “Well, maybe no. He made a valiant attempt to survive.…” The memories of his desperation were filling my thoughts now; my hand shook around the borrowed cup. “Dread,” I whispered. “There was terrible dread. But not at the end. At the end he stopped and waited with dignity.”

  Taran spoke for the first time, a silvery voice to match his gray eyes. “There is no fear in dignity. Fear is a reaction to a threat, when you do not think you know how to respond. Dignity is quite the opposite.”

  “But he could have fought with dignity as well, could he not?” I argued. “As you all do. A sword would have given him a chance, not a dishonor.”

  Once again there was the heightened pause—the silence between words and voices that meant more than could be spoken.

  “Did you ask Ruber Minwl what he wanted?” Laurent asked.

  “No.” And beneath this quiet, logical query, I felt suddenly silly.

  “Perhaps,” said Evaen, “you want Ruber Minwl not to be the victim in a sign meant for you. You do not allow our sacrifice.”

  Arnon said, “There will be others. It is a part of what we do. But you are a young Guardian. It is difficult to accept this at first.”

  “I am not too young,” I protested. It was true: my birthday and Evie’s was fast approaching. “I still want a sword. Then let the Breeders come find me with steel in my grasp.”

  Wilh chuckled and said, “Gharain, this must be your influence. Hardly the considerate creature we captured but three days ago, is she? There could be no harm in letting her pretend it helps.”

  “I agree,” said Marc with a grin.

  That deflated my desire somewhat, for in their humor the sword became a little toy. I looked to Gharain, wondering whom he would agree with, but he seemed wrapped in his own thoughts.

  Laurent said, “Lark, your power lies with no weapon. If you believe protection is through some object, then how do you learn to trust yourself?”

  “Am I to simply trust myself? As if that will be enough against these Breeders of Chaos?”

  “Yes.” Maybe just one spoke, or maybe they all said it. The answer was not what I’d wanted.

  There was a lull around the circle then. We’d finished our meal; we’d finished our talk. The fire crackled. We watched the flames jerk and tumble, the little green ones spitting beneath the orange glow; watched them with a resignation that this calm, however peaceful, was only temporary and that battle lay ahead. And perhaps in this lull we would not have learned that we’d been spied on and watched, or how great the extent of the Breeders’ powers, but that Arnon made the simple movement of reaching to adjust the fire. As he prodded at the burning pile, there came a horrid squeal, and one green flame snaked out suddenly like a whip and snared his arm, tugging him toward the blaze.

  With a shout, Taran threw Arnon back from the lash. And Dartegn cried out, “Gharain, move!”

  The green flames shot straight up from the ground with a loud hiss and crack. High and aggressive, they leaped sideways, streaking toward Gharain, reaching now to engulf him with fiery arms. But Riders were quick, pushing Gharain from his spot even as he somersaulted back. The flames did not touch him—as if on a leash, they could only fling so far before snapping back.

  I was far slower, screaming out only then, “Gharain!” and, “What is this?”

  They paid no attention to me. Laurent was shouting to all, “The ring! Make the ring!”

  And the men sprang up, circling the fire, this time with swords drawn, holding them tall before their faces, blades flat, so that the fire was reflected upon itself. Wilh, I think, had pushed me back and out of the circle, and so I stood watching them, breathless at the speed at which this was happening. The green flames were caught by their reflection—their own force being thrown back at them, becoming a boundary the fire could not cross.

  But it could not stay like this. Even at bay, the flames were intense; blocked by the swords, they spiraled together and locked—and, as if they held their breath and pushed, the heat from the fire became overwhelming. I felt the grass withering beneath my feet.

  Laurent called out to me, “Water, Lark! Get water!”

  Water. Of course, water. I turned immediately, running into the dark. Then I stopped, appalled. “I haven’t a pail! I’ve nothing to collect—”

  “Your cup!” one of them shouted. “Just one cup!”

  I turned back and grabbed it from where it had dropped. Then another—Cargh, I think—yelled, “Not the pond, Lark! Take water from the stream only!”

  And I ran, trying to remember in the dark which direction to find the nearest of the three streams—or any of the three. I was blind in this darkness; the brilliance of the flames had seared my vision. I ran wildly for a moment, and then stopped and closed my stinging eyes, forcing myself to remember that I could use the Sight. At first, the surprise and fright and haste of everything whirled chaotically inside. The need to be quick had made me frantic. Frantic—what the Breeders would hope for. I exhaled as slowly as possible, letting go of the wild thoughts, and taking in another deep, steady breath.

  And I could smell it. I turned left, took some ten paces, kneeled at the bank of the little stream, and dipped my cup into the bubbling water.

  The Riders were drawing from every strength they had to keep the fire at bay, faces fierce and turned away from the ghastly brilliance, but holding their swords true, pushing hard against the force of heat. I ran to them, one hand over the mouth of the cup to keep the contents from spilling, and when I neared, Gharain shouted, “Lark, now!” And I threw the tiny splash of water into the roar of flames.

  It was enough. In one explosive pop, the fire went out.

  The men let down their swords, breathing heavily. We all waited in silence while our eyes once again adjusted to the night.

  It was Laurent who spoke first. He was grave. “We should have anticipated—I should have anticipated this.”

  “What was this?” My own voice sounded hoarse and dry.

  Taran answered: “They reached through our campfire. They thought to eavesdrop, to learn of our actions. They sensed you, Lark; they know you are with us.”

  Someone muttered, “And Gharain.”

  But I only heard Taran. Horrified, I shouted, “I’ve brought this upon us again!”

  “No, Lark, don’t think that.” This was Dartegn coming toward me. “They would not have used force if Arnon had not touched the fire. He made a connection; they reacted and were exposed, and so they made an attempt to destroy us here.”

  “They can do that?” A twinge of hysteria squeezed my voice.

  “They have the amulets.”

  How I hated that simple, all-answering refrain! “Troths, swifts, earth rifts,” I choked, “Flame, flood, suffocation—what more will they do? What should it be next time: an attack by some beast running from the woods, or perhaps from that pond? Through a storm or wildfire—or will we just kill one another out of fear?”

  “Maybe all of those things,” Sevrin said darkly.

  “Balance may be adrift.” Dartegn tried to soften. “But remember that the Breeders cannot destroy the amulets by themselves. And attacks can still be defended.”

  Brahnt muttered under his breath, “Unless they are lucky.”

  “But they know where we are! What’s to stop them?”

  “Lark,” Laurent said evenly, “we are not without our own strengths.”

  “Strengths that they are trying to exhaust,” I muttered, more to myself. And then I looked to Dartegn, to ask something that frightened me more. “Why did you yell for Gharain? Why did the flames reach to him first?”

  But it was Wilh, behind me, who leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Maybe for the same reason you thought to ask this.”

  It was not a typical burn that circled Arnon’s wrist. Sevrin and Dartegn brought him down to the stream by the light of torches we’d staked at intervals in the ground—for
Laurent said that the Breeders could not work through such small bits of flame. Arnon’s wrist and arm were soaked in the running water over and over, and though the snake of flame had barely time to snare him, the skin above the joint was already swollen and puffy.

  It was his sword arm.

  Brahnt said as much to Laurent as they stood there watching Arnon. I stopped in my path to the water to listen.

  “They’ve hobbled one. Who’s to say that they won’t strike at each?”

  “They will,” muttered Laurent. His jaw was hard and his nostrils flared, angered with concern and regret. “This was my fault. I should have known better.”

  “We let down our guard,” said Brahnt. “With swifts attacking last night, we did not imagine they could gather strength again so quickly.”

  “They’ve the amulets; why would I think the Breeders’ power not strong enough for this? Take us down, one at a time. They’ll need no respite—”

  “None of us knows what their powers can do,” Brahnt returned firmly. “For they’ve not had the amulets in our lifetime. Nothing can be anticipated—nothing but that Lark is both greatest threat to the Breeders and greatest necessity. They want her.”

  Laurent nodded. “And so eliminate us. And Gharain? He made the bond, but is she vulnerable, or ineffective without him?”

  “Perhaps,” said Brahnt, who held a streak of cynicism, “Erema is a jealous lover.”

  So I was not wrong in my fears. Uneasy, I made my way to the stream, where Riders directed me to remove my boots and step in as they did.

  “It helps cleanse any remains of the attack,” said Taran, who splashed at his feet next to me.

  “Then why don’t we wash in the pond? This is but a trickle.” I could not help sounding cross. Anger made a good distraction.

  “A small cupful extinguished that fire,” Taran reminded me with a wry grin. “But, truly, still water can be manipulated, whereas flowing water is free of any distortion. It is pure power, neither good nor bad, and will erase the properties of certain spells, wash away magic—some anyway. You would do well to remember that.”

  I wished it would wash away emotion. “Is it erasing Arnon’s wound?” I muttered.

  He shrugged with another grin, but it was not an easy smile. And he left me to wash alone.

  EREMA STOOD BEFORE me, extraordinarily beautiful in blue-tinged light, a pungent odor of Troth and cold earth surrounding her. Her cape billowed in the darkness while her cavernous smile gaped with triumph and exultation.

  “Look what I have,” she was saying to me. “Look, Lark Carew, look what I have!”

  And she opened the cape she held close to reveal the Life amulet, the crystal orb, trapped in black webbing against her breast, where it reflected not the blue light but its own warm, though weak, glow.

  I lifted my hand to take the amulet but had no chance. Time was spinning and I spiraled with it, writhing in sudden agony. I could not turn my head; I could barely breathe. The Breeder of Chaos was laughing at my helplessness, saying, “It is mine!”

  Pain smashed through my body, roared through my ears as she called out in her exquisite voice, “Rider!” And then I watched in horror as, birthed from the rock on which she stood, emerged Gharain, rising from her feet as I’d seen him rising from the pool at Tarnec. He stood tall, facing me, his sage-green eyes gleaming blankly. And liltingly Erema sang, “Now, Gharain, finish what you began. Finish what you meant to do.” And with silent, final words, Gharain reached his arms over his head and brought down his sword against my brow. I called something to him, but the blade cleaved straight through anyway, clanging to its completion against the rock floor. There was no flash of white this time. The dark consumed me.

  “Lark.”

  “No!” I shouted, coming too sharply out of sleep.

  “Softly, Lark.” It was Cargh, very quiet, above me. “We should not wake the others; they’ve had their turns holding watch and must take rest. Come, Lark. We need your help.”

  I jerked upright, panting, rubbing my eyes and my sweat-damp face, sick inside at what he’d ripped me from: another dream, another death.

  There was a pause while Cargh watched me struggle. He pushed his blond hair back from his brow and said a little curiously, “I suppose I should not be sorry to wake you—but, please, will you come quickly?”

  I nodded and scrambled up, followed him, shivering, back to the stream, dismayed to see that Gharain waited there with Arnon. He smiled, but I did not return it. I looked instead to the patient.

  Arnon suffered. He sat hunched and rocking from the pain, saying politely enough through clenched jaw, “They thought you might have knowledge that we do not. I’m sorry that your sleep was disturbed.”

  “It was not sleep.” I moved past Cargh and sat down next to Arnon. He gave me a brief nod and then closed his eyes to concentrate on steadying breath. It was a wonder he did not scream—his arm extended straight out from his body as if he dared not let it touch anything. Swollen and discolored, throbbing hideously in the flickering light—this was my doing.

  I held my fingers just above the steaming, sickened flesh. Even so, Arnon flinched in pain. Poison reeked from his pores, pushing madness and fury through my open hand—the excruciating torture the Rider so stoically endured now licked along my bones. Arnon flinched again and I pulled back, stomach clenched in revulsion and dismay. He bore the wrath of the Breeders for me, and I could not help him.

  “I’m not a Healer,” I murmured, defeated.

  “But your cousin is,” said Gharain. “Might you have learned something from her?”

  I could not look at Gharain; I still heard his dream sword crashing through me until it rang against the stone beneath my feet; I saw his arms around Evie. I was sick from all this anguish. “You are Ilone’s brother; you know it is not study that makes one a Healer.” Then I said more loudly, “This is poison, not a burn. This—this is the Breeders’ play, as you call it, their spreading of evil. Those flames were green—” Finish what you meant to do, Erema had said. Gharain’s voice so clear in the garden: I meant to kill you.… Arnon saying, There will be others.… Did he expect it to be himself? Miserable, useless, I looked to Arnon, pleading apology. He nodded and closed his eyes once more.

  Cargh said gently, “Lark, you are not without gifts. Even if you lack a Healer’s hands, as Life Guardian you might have some knowledge, some ability that could help.”

  It was true enough. There should be, must be, something I could do to help. It was selfish to dwell on my own misery. I pushed away the ugliness and took a breath, trying to release worry, remembering how quick was the search for the stream that evening when I’d relaxed and allowed the Sight to open my senses. All the while the Riders remained patient and still.

  Trust, the king had said. Trust that you will know what to do.

  Slowly the scents of water and the green grass and rowan tree drew in and calmed me, and I breathed and the men waited silently—

  “The snowdrops,” I said abruptly. “Those tiny white flowers sprinkled through the grass.”

  The three turned their heads to stare at me through the dark. “Do you mean wicks?” Gharain asked.

  “Wicks, then. They pulled bad things from the Troth when he attacked me here. Maybe they’ll do that for Arnon.”

  “I have not seen wicks,” said Cargh.

  “Because they were shriveled by the Troth. But there might be more, somewhere that the beast did not spoil. We can spread out and search—”

  “Do you remember where?” asked Gharain. “The clearing is large.”

  “We’ll look! We can take torches—”

  But Arnon cut over me, insisting, “You must not spread out. Lark would be vulnerable.”

  Cargh turned to him. “We are all vulnerable now.”

  “We can wait for morning,” Arnon hissed through a sharp breath.

  “No,” I returned vehemently, “we cannot.” Arnon had little time. How long had the queen lasted?


  We grasped for ideas in anxious silence. The night hovered, hushed and poised, in the way it seems when things wait just behind the dark. I’d spoken of the Troth; now I felt its filmy eyes on me. I felt it on my fingers—its sluglike, spongy texture. And the reeking filth as well, which I’d felt consuming Arnon’s arm … I wanted to go back to the stream and wash the taint away.

  And, surprised, I said, “The stream!”

  “That was already tried—”

  “I know, Gharain, but if moving water cleanses, then let me gather snowdrops—wicks—the dead ones. I’ll wash them—they might be refreshed.”

  Cargh hesitated. “It is possible—”

  “I’ll go with Lark.” Gharain jumped to his feet.

  And the two of us took a torch and bent our heads over the grass, plucking up the brown and shriveled flowers, roots and all, as many as we could. I found my hands shaking, pulled between desire and fear, and the desperation in all this.

  “Will this do?” Gharain asked, showing me his handful under the torchlight.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” I fretted, holding out my own pitiful, crumbled bits. “I’m making a guess at all this. I don’t know if this will work.”

  “Simply having an idea helps Arnon. ’Twill keep him alert, hopeful.”

  “Hope is not a cure,” I hissed, frustrated. All of this was blind—I didn’t know what I was doing.

  “Right now it is all we have,” Gharain said grimly, and bent his head to study the ground.

  A few minutes more and we both held sizable enough handfuls. I ran behind him to the stream, taking care to be quiet for the Riders’ sakes. I dropped my small bundle of wicks on the ground with Gharain’s and kicked off my boots to step into the stream. Gharain kneeled on the bank and held the torch, silently handing me the clump of dead flowers. I plunged them into the little trail of running water, remembering how Grandmama would wash clover or blueberry blossoms—a gentle swish in the cold water and then lifting them up to let drip between opened fingers.

  Gharain leaned the torch forward so we could see.

  “Nothing,” I sighed. The wicks remained brown and lifeless.