Silver Eve

by Sandra Waugh

  “Harker.”

  His stare hardened. “You should stay far from him.”

  I pictured the old man, sadly lonely and in pain. “He’s harmless.”

  “Harmless?” It was almost barked. Laurent released me and walked away. “He is the cause of this.”

  “How? Why?”

  “Harker offered the Breeders something he should not have, something they parlayed into this new attack.” His tone was scathing. “I suppose he omitted that part of it.”

  I rubbed my arms, for his touch lingered. “Even so, why would he tell me to find a shell?”

  “I hope out of guilt,” Laurent muttered. “My lady, the shell you ask of—’tis an amulet, one of four which belong in the Keepers’ protection, safe in castle Tarnec. But because of that seer’s traitorous indiscretion they were lost to us, stolen by Breeders.” His mouth hardened. “They are scattered now, hidden, used to taunt us—”

  “What are these amulets?”

  “An orb, a shell, a stone, and a blade. They represent Life, Death, Dark, and Light; the primal forces.”

  I’d lost my own breath somewhere. “What—what do they do?”

  “They are linked together under the Keepers’ watch. ’Tis how Balance is preserved, the essential cycles of these forces protected. If the amulets are separated, the forces become unstable and all life is at risk.”

  “Why?” I shouted it, surprising the Rider. But I was suddenly angry at this blithe talk of battle, not wanting to believe such power could be so recklessly placed in trinkets: “Why so simple—that our lives can be risked because amulets are separated?”

  “Simple?” The Rider sneered. “You know nothing of the Keepers’ endless vigil!” He stalked off to wrestle some emotion privately, came back. His voice was even then, and more powerful for it: “Think how necessary this Balance, the ebb and flow of the primal forces, and yet we take it for granted; you, Healer, treat by it. A dawn, a dusk, a growing season, and a fallow one….We assume that each day, each year the cycles will repeat. Why? Because it must if we are to thrive. If one force dominates or disappears, we are undone. You’ve seen what’s happened in three months of drought, now imagine if it never rains again.”

  The words jerked out of me. “ ’Tis rain you speak of! Not light or dark…or death!”

  “No rain,” the Rider insisted, but softer. “The Breeders’ choice. Do you understand? The primal forces are what bind Nature to the Earth. They must be in balance so that Nature is in balance, the four elements—Earth, Water, Air, and Fire—in equal share. But in the Breeders’ hands the amulets become playthings.” His stare narrowed. “So yes, they can deprive water…if they wish.”

  I heard my little gasp, the full impact of the threat hitting like a physical blow. This drought was by design, a whim of malice.

  “You see it now, how they may toy with our lives.” Laurent came close again to murmur it: “They cannot destroy the amulets, but the Breeders can manipulate, use Nature against itself. Ravage the Earth and madden its creatures. They rise against us with a strength we’ve not seen for many ages. The amulets must be reclaimed if they are to be stopped.”

  I nodded, I think. Humor gone, anger gone. There was still that tingling at my shoulder, running through me like a thread of warmth—

  Laurent tilted his head, studying me. “I see it in your eyes—you hesitate. You’ve asked every question but the most essential. Shall I ask them for you?” And he was even softer: “Why do the Breeders look for you, Evie Carew? What calling was awakened by the bond seeking?”

  “My mark. It means something—something I didn’t know….” I faltered, thinking: the seer had reached for my mark, frightened by it, asking what it was I shared with Lark. I looked at the Rider with new concern. “My cousin. What is she in this?”

  He said, “Ask instead why your cousin was chosen to seek help for Merith.”

  “Because she received the signs!”

  “But who sent them, my lady?” When I shook my head he answered, “Lark was summoned by the Keepers, by those of Castle Tarnec, because we need her help. We need your help as well.” The Rider was so close; his nearness, what he was saying, made me catch my breath. “Each amulet has a Guardian, the one who can save or destroy it. Four amulets, four Guardians—our Guardians of Tarnec. They alone can find the amulets, return them, restore Balance. Lark is one such Guardian.”

  Lark—timid, sweet Lark. How could it be so? And yet there was sense in it.

  I whispered, “I know my cousin well enough, her connection to all things, to know that she is your Guardian of Life.”

  A single nod. Something was hurting my chest, making it hard to ask the next question. “And if Lark is the Guardian of Life, what, then, am I?”

  “You, my lady, are the Guardian of Death.”

  I FELT THE heat rising from throat to cheek. I moved away.

  “It is not what you think,” Laurent said behind me.

  “How do you know what I think?”

  “Because your eyes burned just then, before you turned, as if you wished it away. As if it shamed you.”

  “Not the calling, Rider, but the title.” That he noticed such detail unnerved me. “I am a Healer. How is it that I am Death’s Guardian?”

  “You speak it wrongly. As if you see death as an evil.”

  It burst out: “I’ve never seen death as evil! It is the necessary end to life!” And yet, since Raif, there was too much of it, so senseless and unnecessary. Death followed me—or I’d followed it, and now this young man had just draped it over me, crowned me with the word. I was galled by the idea. If a Guardian, why could I not have been the one for Light? Or even the one for Dark? Anything but Death.

  But Laurent said softly, “Not Death’s Guardian, lady, but the Guardian of Death, of Death’s amulet. Of course you are a Healer. You are the Healer. The one of ones.”

  “Harker called me that. You and he speak the same, and I thought him mad.”

  A snort. “Crafty, not mad. He spoke true. The Guardian of Death is the most powerful of Healers. You are the last stand between life and death. You allow only the passing of those who cannot be saved.”

  Only those who cannot be saved? The shock was physical. Frost bit through my spine, my knees quivered, something horrible burrowed in my gut. I felt brutal, suddenly, bursting into laughter and scorn: “Was I there to save the villagers of Bern, or any of the dying in other ruins I walked through? Was I there—?”

  To save Raif. I couldn’t say it out loud, though Laurent hesitated as if he heard it, understood. He said quietly, “But you can find the amulet, return it, and thereby save so many.”

  I sat down, hard, still laughing; I couldn’t seem to stop. “You make it sound easy.” Laurent shook his head at that, but I only laughed more. “Yes, of course. Why, certainly, Rider. Let us go to the waterfall, retrieve the shell, and so save—”

  Laurent said sharply, “Waterfall?”

  “Yes—a waterfall.” I wiped my nose, giggling, “Why? Was I not supposed to know that? Oh—yes, ’twas supposed to be hidden. The Breeders chose poorly if they meant so.”

  The Rider muttered, “How do you know?”

  “The spell. That is what it showed—a lake, a cliff with streams of waterfalls pouring down.” And then that too seemed ridiculously funny, and I was off, helpless in this drunken hysteria, completely disturbed by my behavior even as I laughed, shoulders heaving, even as I saw Laurent stride toward me, serious and urgent and purposeful, kneel in front of me to say, “Evie, you speak of Gren Fort. They are allies of Tarnec. To place the amulet openly, in safe environs—’tis too easy. Are you sure?”

  I gasped something, thinking I was saying yes. Laurent repeated hard, “Are you sure?”

  Then he was gripping my shoulders—the way I’d gripped the brown-bearded Rafinn to wake him from his panic. Now I was that frantic man and the Rider me, shaking me back to reason, making my skin burn under his touch, until the laughter fell out like p
athetic hiccups.

  “Enough!” I pushed his hands away. Exhaustion flooded in at his release, and I dropped my forehead on my knees with a shudder. Guardian of Death. I was needed—Harker and the Rider both said—and so be it. But retrieving a small shell seemed an overwhelming challenge, suddenly, like having to upend one of these oaks.

  I wondered what Lark had thought when she was told.

  Laurent did not apologize, only got up and moved off a few paces. He watched me for a moment before saying once more, “Cliff, waterfalls. You are sure.”

  “ ’Twas an Insight spell. It does not lie.” I sounded dull, remote.

  “Fair enough,” he decided, frowning. “I will bring you there.”

  I shook my head and sighed into my knees.

  Laurent came back to urge, “A day’s journey, perhaps less if we make haste.”

  “And then what?”

  I heard the pause, as if my ignorance still surprised him, or as if he did not trust the ease of the task. “Retrieve the shell,” he said at last. “Return it to its rightful place in Tarnec. One cycle of Balance will be restored.”

  “No.”

  “You are not still afraid of a horse!”

  I looked up. “I said no, Rider.”

  Another, sharper pause, and then: “Look at you, refusing transport. Or…is it that you refuse to help?” He was angry. “You cannot mean to be so foolish.”

  I lifted my head, barely. “I mean that I am tired, Rider.” The day of the spell, the night of wisps and Rider, and now this dawn of Guardianship were crashing down as one weight that I suddenly could not bear without sleep, rest, some moment to breathe. And I said it rudely: “Affix whatever reason you like; I cannot make any journey right now, be it with or without you.”

  Laurent’s jaw tightened, but then he simply nodded, retrieved his cloak, and threw it on the ground next to me in a space of dappled light. “My lady.” He gestured. It was less than gracious, but he did not mock.

  I crawled to the cloak, lay down, and turned on my side away from him. I did not know if he would share, but I left him room enough. I closed my eyes, glad I was too weary to think—

  But then, curious, I murmured, “Did Lark find her amulet?”

  “She did.”

  —

  Healers do not dream. We are too present-minded to be caught in the fabulous workings of sleep. I woke, though, disoriented. Something about the late afternoon play of light on the grass, the way the breeze ruffled through the green reminded me of Merith, of lying beneath the apple trees in late summer breathing in the smell of ripening fruit.

  He was leaning against the trunk of a tree, silhouetted in the shadow, chiseling some bit of wood with a small blade and pushing the hair from his brow with a careless gesture. He must have felt my eyes on him, for the blade paused. There was a heavy silence within the copse, as if even the birds had stopped singing.

  I said in a whisper, “Raif?”

  It was soft enough, yet the Rider heard it. He looked to me, shifting a little where the sunlight caught him. I sat up quickly and rubbed my eyes. Of course—’twas oak not apple, and the cloak was all wrong. Even his silhouette was taller, if I’d truly thought.

  Laurent went back to his wood. But I stayed watching him, wondering if I should apologize, and feeling strangely unmasked, like I’d accidentally shared a secret. Laurent was calm, intent on his work. His eyes were downcast. In the light, the differences between the Rider and Raif were more than obvious, but I went over each feature anyway. If he knew I studied, sorted out such details, he pretended ignorance.

  I had no reason to ask it right then: “The scar along your temple, Rider. How did you come by it?”

  “It was long ago.” Which meant I was not to pry.

  “ ’Twas healed by a White Healer, wasn’t it?”

  Laurent stopped whittling.

  “Man or woman?” Another question I had no honest reason for asking.

  But this one he answered: “Neither.” He offered nothing more, only put his blade away and stood, saying politely, “Our clothes have dried.”

  I collected my frock, pulled it on. It was stiff but sun-sweet. Laurent approached and held out the oak he’d been whittling—a spear, the point brutally sharp. My second spear in as many days. He said at my expression, “There is no Healer rule against defending yourself.”

  I took the spear. I could not help touching its tip, wondering what thing I’d have to stab to survive. I said a little hoarsely, “I need to eat something before we go. There should be acorns….”

  But Laurent was already holding out a piece of his own fare. “Hardbread is quicker.”

  I took that from him as well and wolfed it down in two bites, which seemed to amuse him. “Is there something funny, Rider?” I asked with my mouth full.

  “Only that you are as ethereally lovely as the faerie queen, my lady, yet so very…human in your actions.”

  That stopped me in surprise. “ ’Tis good for you, then, that I am no faerie, Rider Laurent,” I answered after a moment, swallowing. “I’ve heard they break men’s hearts.”

  “True enough.” He nodded and walked away. He pulled on his shirt, strapped his pack onto the saddle, and mounted Arro. I picked up my own satchel and cloak and followed. Then I went back and retrieved the spear.

  “I’ll sit behind this time,” I announced as he reached a hand. He swung me up behind him obligingly, and I was glad he asked no questions. It bothered me that he’d called me lovely, bothered me that he did not seem to know my retort was meant in jest and I did not want him to see me wrestle those thoughts. I hiked my frock above my knees and adjusted my seat. I tucked the spear into the saddle straps then tentatively put my arms around Laurent’s waist.

  “Where is this Gren Fort?” I asked against his shoulder.

  “South,” he called back. “The ancient quarries in the Westrun Downs. ’Tis a hidden colony carved into the limestone, set up as defense in a long-ago battle with the Breeders.”

  “How many battles between Breeders and Keepers?”

  His shoulder shrugged beneath my cheek. “Balance is always challenged.”

  —

  We left the copse far behind. I hung on, clinging tightly, deciding I’d chosen the worse option, pressed so against his back. A day’s journey, he’d said. Like this.

  Landscape blurred the same as my thoughts. Sometimes I spotted specific plants—the makings of a digestive, something for aches. I wondered at the fortification of the hardbread, that we did not need to eat again after such a small piece. The sun dropped, the downs skidded by. A tea…a poultice…Laurent’s hand was gripping my arm to keep me from slipping from Arro’s back, for I was no longer clinging to stay upright but lulled by the steady gait.

  But then Arro pulled up suddenly and veered hard left, pounding toward a flank of trees. We ducked under some branches and stopped. I turned, but Laurent squeezed my arm to signal silence and pointed up. Between the leaves the sky was peppered with crows, spiraling and cawing alarm.

  “Something’s coming,” I breathed. He did not need to reply.

  These woods were sparse. Laurent guided Arro into the thickest brush, then jumped down and lashed the reins tight to a branch. It was the first time the Rider had tethered his horse, I noted. “Stay—” Laurent began, looking up at me, then eyed my turquoise garb with a frown. He pulled me off the horse, marched me to a linden tree. “Can you climb?”

  I nodded. A hoist and I was up, then Laurent went back to Arro, unsheathed his sword, and took the spear, which he brought to me. “High as you can. Tuck up your skirts.”

  I climbed, one-handed, found a high branch sturdy enough to perch on, then looked for the Rider. He’d chosen a wide hickory at the edge of the road. He leaned his back against it, both hands on his sword, and went utterly still. I watched him, waiting, feeling my own heart slow, each beat echo. A fevered hush…anticipation pulled a bead of perspiration down my neck.

  There was a thrummi
ng—not ponies, but the heavy tread of feet, a clanking of metal. A half run, it sounded, steps synchronized. I saw Laurent lift his blade. I gripped my spear and craned forward to see.

  Soldiers—armored ones, ugly aberrations from a blacksmith’s fires. Helmets, breastplates, shoulder guards, and thick-fingered gloves; the shape of metal disfigured them, as if they wore their bones on the outside, all pitch-black and heavy and hard-edged. They hoisted weapons—flails and poleaxes and falchions—vicious examples of what I’d once seen demonstrated at a fair. And painted on the armor was something familiarly ominous: a circle within which there was a Z slashed through—the same brand that had been scorched on poor Ruber Minwl’s severed hand.

  Ten in all, hardly an army, though by tread alone they sounded tenfold greater. The road curved along the gathering of trees; the soldiers marched closer while the crows shrieked above in protest. Massive and purposeful, they strode with gazes locked forward, dust clouding up from beneath their boots creating the illusion they rode the air. I found myself clenching my lip, not daring to breathe, though their dust and sweat still found a way into my nostrils. Life force was strong in that sweat. Too strong—the emphasis was on force, not life.

  They pounded by, every branch shivering with their steps. I glanced down at Laurent; his head was turned, watching. Even after they disappeared he stayed fixed. Time passed. The crows stopped their noise and settled and still we held. I watched the light shift between the leaves, smelled the sweat dissipate. Finally I felt Laurent’s sword touch my sandal and I scrambled down.

  He took me by the waist to lower me from the last branch. I could feel his anger. “A forward guard from Tyre,” he said, frowning. “They scout.”

  “The battle is near? Now?” I asked, surprised. “Are they fighting the Breeders?”

  “Tyre is aligned with the Breeders.”

  “I thought…” But whatever thought I’d had trailed off as those words sank in: aligned with. Bile stung my throat. I knew the harsh rumors of that city, but it did not seem real that men would add their might to this darkness that was coming, would aid the thing that intended to destroy their world. ’Twas silly, plaintive, even, my question, “Why?”