by Sandra Waugh
Thought lingered and drifted. For a while I felt not much beyond two things: I’d found the amulet, and Gharain was alive. Beyond that was the poison, spreading, creeping, dulling my senses, and killing my body. But I could breathe still, labored as it might be, and I took the breaths with as much depth as I could.
Clean air, fresh scent—the ground close to my ears humming in harmony, sun sliding higher, light warming over my body. And I was lying next to my heart’s desire.
I smiled then, for my own little victory. I’d championed against my last dream. I would go out in the arms of Gharain, holding pure the memory of his love for me—never have to exchange that love for friendship, never have to witness him give that love to someone else. It was a sweet way to die.
The earth was drumming. A thudding that shivered the dirt and stone and made the sparse grass shimmer. And then I heard the hooves, pounding across the land, swift and powerful. I forced myself to look—
I was wrong. It would not end my way.
Rune. The white horse was there—soft nose against my cheek, folding low so that I might drag Gharain across his wide back and fall over him myself. I hesitated, though, curled tightly around my desire to keep this moment close—as I had the very first time Gharain appeared in my dreams. That point of recognition, where dying turned to rescue, was stabbing through me more huge and sharp and unbearable than any poison. For with it came the recognition that I wasn’t ready to let Gharain go. So help me, I would never be ready.
And yet, my wants had never been part of this journey; if so, I’d never have embarked on it. And the journey was not done. I had to finish; I had a task to fulfill. I slowly uncurled, let go my hope. Sacrifice—I’d not expected it to take this shape.
“Carry us to Merith,” I murmured, and Rune reared up, patient as I tugged Gharain into some haphazard position. I pulled off my pack and knotted it around Rune’s neck like a collar where it would stay safe.
Gharain’s head fell against my shoulder. He mumbled something unintelligible and let his arm fall around me.
To Merith. I closed my eyes.
“Evie will heal you,” I whispered. “She’s beautiful, and wise. You will love her so.”
I meant to say All will be well, but I couldn’t.
MAGIC IS A wonderful thing. It can transform a creature, protect a village, empower an ordinary soul. It can transport a white horse with his riders swifter than a wish. It can take away pain. Sometimes.
We’d leaped the distance to Merith unaware. Amid the burned rubble of the market square, Gharain had been gently lifted from Rune’s back, as had I. We were brought to Grandmama’s cottage, which had barely missed the battle’s wrath; the herb shed and field, like many in the village, were burned flat. The Healers went to work, mending bone and muscle and drawing the poison from my blood. These were no easy tasks, skilled as Grandmama and Evie were. A day and a night and a day and several more were anxious vigils over our broken bodies. But there is magic too in the hands of Healers, and with knowledge and patience it may be applied for the best outcome. And so it was with us.
But no magic, no matter how expert, can heal a broken heart. True, it can be masked or it can be diverted; heartbreak might even be forgotten using magic—but it is never healed. That sort of healing only the person can do for herself.
I do not know how to heal.
There were no dreams while I recovered. Time ceased for a while, I think. I was told later that it took far longer to be cleansed from the stab of one hukon tip than the repair of all the abuses to Gharain’s body. But that is the vileness of hukon—the poison turns blood black; a victim’s body must be drained of the filth, leaving her to a long, unconscious recovery. And the wound is permanent, the victim vulnerable. Hukon leaves its taint forever.
I wonder too if there was a part of me that did not wish to wake, to witness the one dream that was yet to become reality. But, inevitably, and rather simply, the light crept into my chamber window one morning and my eyes opened. I saw my room for the first time in what seemed ages, and drew in a deep breath of the familiar scents. I pushed at the sheets that were tucked around me, struggling, for they seemed tucked too tightly, before realizing it was I who was ridiculously weak.
It came back to me then, my dream, and I knew I was here at last. I could wish that I’d been wrong, I could wish that I had died instead of this, but I could not change what I’d seen, and—by that very reason of having seen—so given my gift to Evie: to choose her love. I’d promised, and a promise is never broken.
I lay there for a time, thinking up these wishes to make it less agonizing. But there was nothing to be done, and so I tugged the sheets back and forced myself to stand on the floor and walk to the window, where the glorious sun was spreading over the fields and lawn, and a lark was shooting from the grass to arc like a spray of water against the sky. And I smiled at that, before turning my gaze to the garden path where Gharain and Evie were walking so closely together. He was whole again, beautiful and strong—so much time had passed. Time spent with Evie.
I would be happy for them; I would, I insisted. But there my smile faded—they had paused, their arms brushing, and my heart was tearing in two. I could not prevent its rupture any more than I could prevent Gharain’s arms going around Evie and her returning the embrace. And heartbreak leaves no ability for one to stand straight. I slipped to the floor, or rather, more likely crashed, for my dream had ended there, and I did not know that Grandmama and Rileg would come stumping and scampering up the stairs after hearing me fall.
Rileg! He snuffed at my face, he licked my hand, he panted and slobbered all over me until I opened my eyes and put my arms out to hug him, which I did with all the enthusiasm I could muster. Grandmama stood patiently by the door while I wept and laughed into Rileg’s fur, happy at least for this wonderful lame companion, whom I’d missed.
Rileg finally plunked down on the floor by my side, and I pushed myself up to a sitting position and looked at Grandmama. Her face had not changed, though it felt like years since I’d seen her. She had that look on her face. The knowing one.
“And here you are,” she said.
“I’m glad to be home.” My long-unused voice was hoarse. Home. I wasn’t certain it felt so anymore.
Grandmama nodded. And then she added, “Bravely done, Lark.” It was as simple as that, our welcome. But then, Grandmama was a Healer. She expressed little through emotion and much through her touch.
“Tell me of Merith?”
“Few villagers were lost, though each brings its own sadness. The square and cottages we will rebuild. Fields and gardens will regrow. We have you to thank, Lark, for sending the Riders in time to save most.”
“It was not,” I said, shrugging a little, “what I expected.”
“Things never are.”
And then I asked, “Is it safe?”
Grandmama knew I meant the amulet. She inclined her head, and I felt a small relief. “It is safe, whatever it is. Your pack is still on your horse. He would not allow anyone to touch it.”
Though no one could have tried. I asked another question: “The Riders?”
“They have returned to their realm, all but the one. They knew you and your friend were healing; they would not stay beyond that.” She added, to stray the topic, “The horses, you know, caused a great stir once the battle was done. The village youths lined up to have a chance at currying their coats.”
But I did not hear such inconsequential words. All but the one, she’d said of the Riders. My friend. I knew it, of course. Still, it hurt.
She moved into the room and helped me get to my feet. I felt her hands on mine—warm and worn, capable always of making me feel better. And yet my throat was choked.
“Will you go downstairs?” Grandmama asked me.
“I think I’d rather stay here for a bit.” I moved a little shakily to sit in the single chair in the room. I could feel the sun through the window there without being able to see anything but
sky.
She nodded again, accepting what I wanted. “They’ve been waiting to see you,” she added, moving to the door. “Evie and the Rider.”
“I know.” I mustered the pleasantry: “ ’Twill be so good to see Evie.”
I couldn’t help my voice. It made Grandmama pause. “Lark,” she said a little roughly, for her own voice was hoarse. “We cannot stop things from changing. Heartbreak will be borne. You must trust that.”
Trust. How often I’d heard the word. I must have made a noise, or a movement, for Grandmama came back to me. She laid her hand on my head, and for a moment I rested my face against her apron front. She smelled of honey and lavender. I would cry if I breathed.
“Lark—”
But I took her words and forced them out this time. “All will be well, Grandmama.” I gave her a brilliant smile.
I did go downstairs sometime after Grandmama left, holding hard to the handrail and careful not to trip over Rileg, who could not be more thrilled to escort my every step. Dreading or not, I’d wrestled with myself long enough. Gharain and Evie would be on the garden paths still, hidden somewhere in all the beauty. I had to find them, hear their happy news, and go on.
Go on. How does one go on? I wondered. I looked at the garden I stood in. These were the cutting beds, the ones closest to the cottage, in full bloom now, so deep into summer. They were for pleasure’s sake, for delighting the eye with winsome color—mallows, lilies, maribels, and glenn. These were blossoms that I would pause at every morning to place a finger on—to touch their loveliness for memory. I’d have to find that loveliness again, for there was none today.
And then Gharain was there, coming toward me at a run, his face alight with that smile, and I froze.
“Lark!”
It was a barely drawn breath, his word, his shout of gladness to see me awake and standing. I shook myself, blinked stupid tears away, and focused on choosing stems for the kitchen vase.
“Lark, you are up at last! I saw you at the door.” He’d reached me, arms out. “I waited—”
I broke in without looking, taking a step away so his hands fell back to his sides. “You’ve healed well, racing toward me as you did. I’m glad.”
There was a pause. Gharain said somewhat curiously, “I was broken and you brought me out of there. How you did it …” He took a breath, and I think he looked away for a moment. “You saved me again.”
I nodded. I would shrug this off; I would look matter-of-fact. “Always, Gharain.” There. That was simply said.
“Both times you pulled me … from out of the earth.” Now his voice changed, and I knew what would come: the words would soften and deepen and he would thank me, and I could not bear that. I moved a little down the path and inspected the garden borders.
“Lark.”
It made me angry that I could not yet return his gaze. This was silly. I was young, able. I’d brought back the Life amulet; I could claim much satisfaction. And I was in the gardens of my beloved cottage, in my beloved Merith … even if it had not the same feeling.
Gharain followed me. “You pulled us both out of the mountain, Lark, and your wound was far more serious.”
I shrugged it off. “Obviously, then, not so serious. You see that I am well.”
“The hukon—”
“The hukon will be in me always. ’Tis a simple fact.”
“Hardly simple. But you will do better in Tarnec.” Gharain said it with certainty. “You will be safe there.”
I shook my head. “I am home, Gharain.”
That seemed to throw him, soft as I’d said it. “You will not return to Tarnec?”
“No.” It was cruel of him to ask such a thing. I reached to snap a mallow from her stem, but then I didn’t want it. My hand dropped, useless.
“Why?” His voice hardened. “Look at me, Lark.”
“No. I am choosing flowers for the kitchen vase.” I forced myself to grab the mallow again.
“Fine.” He nearly bit the words: “We shall pick your flowers, and then you will look at me and tell me why you won’t go back—”
“Go back!” I said it as lightly as possible. “To be sure, ’tis unnecessary; I’ve done my task. Rune will carry the orb safely from here.” I added ungraciously, “You’ll be well accompanied.”
Gharain turned and paced away, holding tight to some emotion. He came back, saying “Then here, Lark, take some pink things and some blue,” tearing a few random stalks and pushing them at my hands. “Don’t let them fall like that. Here, here are some others.”
“Stop.”
“Why?” He was not angry, but I could see his hand shaking slightly. Or maybe that was because there were tears brimming and everything was shimmering. He was grabbing fistfuls of stems now, piling them in my arms.
“Stop, Gharain. Please. I do not want anything to put in the vase, I—”
“Why?”
I could not hold back the tears. “Because there is no pleasure in these any longer!” And then I could neither hold back the words: “Because you fill all my senses and leave no space for anything else.”
“Lark—”
It came out on a sob. “All of this made me happy once. This—the flowers, the herbs. I should look forward to weeding the gardens, even pulling the ghisane, but I don’t. It feels gray and sad now, and—and I hate that! I hate that you’ve ruined this for me.” I threw my armful of flowers on the path and turned and walked away. I’d never exploded so in this dear cottage. My voice was all wrong for this place. I was wrong for this place.
“Lark. Lark! You leave us like this?”
Us. Again. I forced myself to walk back to him, to look up at him through the silly tears and clenched teeth, and grit out, “I am sorry. Trust me that I am happy for you. I truly am.”
“Happy for me? What are you speaking of?”
“Do you have to make it worse by forcing me to say it? I told you of Evie; I knew it long, long before this morning. The dream’s been made real now; the choice is done, and—and even if I behave this foolishly, trust that I am all right. I will be all right.” I paused for breath. “There. ’Tis out now, finished. You’ve no need to tell me anything yourself.”
“Your dream? You saw us?”
Stupid tears! “Yes! Only now I am doing everything that I promised myself I would not!” And I ran off, forgetting that I’d no energy to run.
Gharain was behind me before I stumbled, his hands on my waist pulling me close, and I think we both cried out at the shock. We went down on the ground, I within Gharain’s arms and worse for that.
“Don’t!” I was savage. “Don’t! It’s not fair.”
“Not fair!” he growled at me. “Don’t struggle so!”
“It’s not fair to Evie—” Nor me.
“What has this to do with Evie? What do I care if Evie sees us?”
“Stop it!”
“Evie knows, Lark!”
“You told her?” I pushed at him. “Why? She need not know! Gharain, what we shared—it was only for that moment. She’s suffered already; she does not need—”
“She knows, Lark, I said. She’s very happy for us!”
That shocked me into silence.
He said fiercely, “Why would she not be happy? She loves you.”
“You don’t make sense!”
“I don’t make sense? Or for some mad reason do you not want to hear this? I told Evie what I felt for you, I told her I would take you back with me to Tarnec, and she was happy!”
I was sobbing now. “It can’t be helped. The Sight chose you for her. And your arms were around her. You leaned to kiss her, and you were so full of joy.”
“I leaned to whisper in her ear that I love you!” He was furious. “Is this what you meant? You saw us embrace in a dream, and you thought I was to be with Evie?”
I suspected later that Gharain would have shaken me if I had not been recovering from the hukon. “I told you: you can misinterpret what you see! You, Lark! Bearer of the S
ight!” He said this through clenched teeth and was not gentle as he held me. “I love you. How can you think anything less?”
“And what of Evie? I cannot hurt her! You are to be her love.”
“Me? Why are you so committed to being so blind? You cannot make my choice. And Evie does not love me; she loves someone else.” His voice changed and sobered. “Loved. She loved someone else.”
I wept against his arm, long, shuddering sobs that gathered up the past days and threw them out of me with each heaving breath. I wept for Merith, for the queen, for the foxes and Twig and the long-witnessing rowan tree. I wept for the loss of the amulets, and then I wept for Raif and for Evie. Gharain waited through it all, never letting go, until the sadness was emptied and what remained was the exquisite knowledge that this young man held me—that he might hold me forever. This man. This Rider. My Complement. And when I finally raised my head, sobbing laughter now rather than tears, he looked at me with that beautifully curving smile and said, “Did I not tell you that our connection ran deeper than a single touch?” And he brushed the wet from my cheek with the lightest sweep of his thumb.
“You did.” I nodded and kissed him with a desire that held no more regret.
I found Evie trimming haricots in the kitchen. One look took my breath; I had to sit down. Her eyes, her lips, her skin, her hair were all as lovely as I remembered. She even smiled with great joy when I entered the room. And yet, she was a pale memory of her own beauty. If love had filled me whole, the loss of it had drained her.
I reached across the table, and she gave me her hands. Usually hers warmed mine, but it was no longer so. And for the first time I could sense Evie from touch, as if she were no longer too close to me to read her. Something had changed—if no less love between us, then a separation. We watched one another for a time without speaking.
“Raif,” I finally murmured, and she nodded.
“I’m so sorry, Evie. I tried—I couldn’t help him.”