Silver Eve

by Sandra Waugh

  Laurent offered the water from his goatskin flask sparingly—a drink for each. He handed me some hardbread; I looked at it strangely—Healer instincts all twisted, awry. I’d forgotten about food and that I’d been famished. Now I didn’t even feel the bread pass my lips. I had to think to ask, “How are your wounds, Rider?”

  “Well enough.” There was a pause before he added, “We are on our own now, Evie, from here on. The bridge to Gren Fort has been taken out.”

  “The bridge.” I waited. Laurent offered no reason. I could not tell if he knew why the bridge was gone. Should I say what Lill had done? Tattle on a girl who’d been so bruised? She was angry and impulsive, but she believed she was protecting her home and her love. I’d behaved as impulsively by risking the Insight spell. Then my stomach knotted wondering if Laurent was protecting Lill by not mentioning her. I said faintly, “You do not ask about Lill.”

  “Why? She is not with you.”

  No emotion, not for either of us. The horn was blowing again. I called above it: “Does it not matter? What if Lill is lost? You do not want to turn back, to find her too? She’s a child.”

  He actually laughed. “Do not mistake the Riders as saviors. We kill trespassers in Tarnec—even a ‘child’ such as you describe. My duty is to you, to see you and the shell safe to Castle Tarnec.” It was disturbing how firm and clear he said it, competing with the noise: “Lill is not so young that she can’t find her way to the caretaker’s post.”

  Sacrifice for Balance. It did not feel right anymore; it did not feel a simple trade. Laurent, Lill, the dogs…I could not tame the emotions that were running through. Fear and anger, yes. But also need—an intangible, powerful yearning to pull something from this Rider. Whether it was love or mercy, I didn’t know. All of it was mixing together, hurting my gut, my heart. I wanted to slough off my skin and expose the pain, let the night air scrub it away.

  Above the horn came a whinnying cry. “And what of your horse?” I frowned. “Is he not important? He calls—”

  My voice fell away at the ugly look on Laurent’s face. “Arro,” he gritted, leaping to his feet. “Stay here.” And he was gone.

  I ignored that, was immediately after him, but I could not keep up. Laurent tore back over the rock, leaping jagged heaves with no mind to his injuries; I ran left to where the gap was easier crossed. A minute later I crested a little ridge and saw the scrub plain once more, dark and rough, the moon not up.

  But there were torches hoisted by the soldiers.

  Arro’s cry was terrified. The black steed lunged and bucked, corralled by the metal men who circled and prodded with their axe handles, who tried to catch hold of his reins, to force him away with them. They cared not about the dogs, nor even if I’d escaped, only that they had a new and better prize and intended to drag him back to Tyre. Rarer than any gem, the stranger had said. A horse would bring unimagined wealth and honor for a soldier, more so than any slave.

  Arro shrieked again and reared, towering above the helmets, his hooves striking and flinging two soldiers dead some lengths away. But one of their axes ricocheted back, winging wide to catch Arro full across the flank. He went down in a chorus of panic, the soldiers and I all screaming….

  But it was the Rider’s shout that shook the very earth.

  Laurent threw himself at the dark-armored bodies, knocking them back, striking them down. He was possessed by rage-strength, huge and terrifying, slashing his sword in every direction. Armor against flesh, one against many…The Rider managed to still two of the metal men, but eleven were left, and—as in a game of pins—they kept standing up. It was an impossible win.

  I didn’t think. I charged into the fray, yelling at the top of my voice, and launched myself at one of the soldiers. Surprised, thrown off his footing, he fell with me on top of him. I stabbed at the base of his neck for the immobilizing pressure point, but it was protected by that cursed armor. I banged on his chest plate, held down his arms, or tried to. But he worked for momentum, like an upturned, filthy sap turtle, rocking himself over until I had to jump before he crushed me. A blow from another soldier’s steel-cased elbow knocked me back flat. I scrambled up, a rock in hand, and lunged for another. If I’d felt anguish for the reaping hounds, ’twas no more. Energy was loosed, set wild in me. I would have killed if I could. Killed.

  Still, I was a gnat to these giants, a minor annoyance as they swung their weapons at Laurent. They flicked me away with barely a glance as I leaped at them, until one decided to rid himself of the pest. He raised his double-bladed axe over his head to slice me through, but Laurent’s sword caught him across the throat and the soldier went down, the flat of his axe glancing my shoulder. I stumbled out of the circle, arm uselessly numb, and dropped to my knees, gasping. And then I watched in horror as ten hulking masses of steel closed on Laurent. I shrieked his name with the same terror as Arro.

  It slowed, the battle, before my eyes. Sound ebbed to a distant howl, the clang of metal, the grunts and shouts and thudding of earth all blurred. It was an eternity for each axe to rise and crash down, for the swords to stab. A tumble of legs and arms and weapons played like a slow dance, silhouetted in the flickering light of the torches. Laurent was ever valiant, but he had no chance against ten. Furious attack became desperate defense.

  He would die, my Complement. He would die in this moment—saving Arro, saving me, while I watched useless.

  “STOP THEM!” I screamed it aloud; I cried it within. My fists were filled with the sand-dry dirt of the plain, which sieved between my fingers like in an hourglass shedding time. Stop them. Arro bled; Laurent suffered. Please…There was no Bog Hag, no gift to use, no Lark. And I was nothing, not Healer, not Guardian. Simply nothing.

  And yet…

  It began as a breeze. Some faint whisper that ruffled through the length of my hair and stirred my cloak. Then the breeze became sound—a whisper growing into a roar of shouts, cries, pleas—voices of a crowd, memories of pain. Something of it gave the soldiers and Laurent pause, a brief shudder, but they quickly fell back to their fight. The roar grew louder, and still they did not hear what I heard.

  Nor see. The air surrounding us was shimmering, thickening. A whitish haze against the dark…and something more. The haze was forming, coloring, resolving to figures—transparent, nearly, but figures in the shape of human, of animal and tree. Nay, they were human and animal and tree, advancing in mass toward the battle. One figure—a boy, carrot-haired, ginger-lashed—broke for a moment to turn and look at me and nod. And then I knew.

  Spirits of the recent dead. Those whom the soldiers had so brutally killed—humans, animals…the trees, even, which had been so painfully hacked and trampled and burned. Those ripped from any peaceful end were returning to exact revenge.

  Because I’d asked.

  I sat back hard, panting, watching these incandescent figures surround the fight; circle slowly. Step, step, step. An ominous drumbeat. My heart matched each thud.

  Growing in speed. Faster. Running now. Faster. A humming sound whined from the circle. Faster. Like a ring of mist, a whirling top, they blurred. Faster. A single, wild entity, racing. My hair was whipped from its braid; the torches spit fire, igniting the bone-dry brush. And still they spun ever faster, raising a wind of such force it trumped weapon and muscle. The mist pushed in, then soldiers—armor, axe, and all—were yanked from Laurent, sucked into the spiral and flung far off, disappearing into separate distances. The Rider was left in the middle striking at nothing.

  The wind slowed and the spirit mist feathered out, smothering the burning scrub and quenching all the torches but one—one flame spared so that I could see, bear witness to what I’d begged for. Then the mist collected around me, resolved once more into individual figures. I was on my feet, mouth open. Transparent faces, hollowed eyes, sheer branch and bough. The empty gazes all trained on me, poised…for something.

  “What…?” It fell out of me before I could gather any thought. Then I collected myself and b
owed hand to heart: “What can I give but my thanks?”

  The carrot-haired boy spoke. “Take us home.”

  I raised my head and looked at him. “Home,” he repeated, and the surrounding spirits echoed in ghostly voice, in shake of leaf. “Home.”

  Home. The word resonated long and needful, shuddering straight through me. They meant solace, not place, and it hurt to sense such yearning. On impulse I reached both hands toward the carrot-haired boy. “Ben,” I murmured, remembering the old woman naming him.

  It seemed to be what was wanted. Ben reached for my hands—a wisp of smoke brushing my fingertips. “From your lips, Guardian.” He smiled and was gone. One by one they reached for my hands, supplying their names, which I whispered back before they disappeared, Carn, Logan, Hurd, elm, badger, fern…Person, plant, and animal brushing by as if a single touch—my touch—could send them on their way, could send them home. This Guardianship seemed huge, suddenly, my hands connecting to the whole world and the stars above—the barest glimmer of the awesomeness of a primal force. Huge and beautiful, and cruel. This was not healing, and yet it was—I was helping these tragic-killed beings to cross the threshold into peace. The seer had said it; Laurent had said it: the one Healer. You allow only the passing of those who cannot be saved.

  And then it was done. The scrub plain was empty of spirits, quiet but for Arro’s panting.

  ARRO!

  I whirled. Only a breath of time had passed; Laurent was staggering to his feet, eyes on me, not understanding what had happened—except that the soldiers were gone and I was unharmed. “How…?” he began, but Arro made a sudden and terrible noise. Laurent dropped his sword and stumbled to his horse. I raced to join him.

  Swearing, he tore off his shirt and pressed it to the ugly gash that ran full across Arro’s flank. It was too long, too deep; Laurent could neither stanch nor hold the wound closed. Each heave of Arro’s breath seeped new blood. I’d never heard such curses. A strong connection between wounded and nurse would aid a healing process, but rage would make it worse. ’Twas bad energy, all of it, with no time to waste.

  I sank to my knees, put my hands over his blood-soaked ones. “Let me, Laurent. ’Twill be better if you hold—”

  “Let you what?” he gritted. “We do not rest here. We need to get past those ridges, find cover.”

  My jaw dropped. “Arro cannot be moved like this!”

  “And you cannot stay. You are too exposed on this plain. You will be tracked.”

  “How? The soldiers are dead!”

  “Not soldiers,” he growled. “Breeders. Whatever magic that was, whatever made those soldiers disappear, will bring the Breeders like a beacon.”

  “No magic,” I said under my breath. Then aloud, “If you worry for me, let me go on alone. Tend Arro here. Eudin and his posse scout these plains, they’ll find you, help you take Arro back to the fort—”

  “I stay with you, Evie Carew. There is no arguing.”

  “Arro will bleed out if we make him stand!”

  Laurent’s voice was bitter hard. “We will make him stand, for I’ll not leave him for vultures—winged or armored. There will be stones enough up on that ridge to…to cover.”

  “Cover? You bury your horse instead of mending him!”

  “It’s too late for mending!” he yelled.

  I yanked his hands away from the blood, squeezed them between mine, forcing him to hold my gaze. “No, Laurent. Arro will live. His life force is strong, just as yours is.”

  “I had the minion.” The words burned caustic. “What is there among this dead-dry scrub that can save him?”

  “Me,” I said fiercely. I scrambled up, shouted to the night sky, “Do you hear me? This horse will NOT pass!” I would not let Arro die.

  I had no herbs, no special medicine, but I had water from the goatskin and fire from the torch. I had my hands. And I dug into the Rider’s clever pack, finding a needle and twining. I held the goatskin over the flame, heating the water as best as I dared, then washed and cauterized the wound and stitched the thing closed. It was hardly neat, hardly delicate; the snorts of the horse were harsh. I worked as quickly as I could; Laurent paced.

  “Tell me what happened back on the plain,” he demanded abruptly. “How did we survive?”

  “Spirits,” I muttered, jamming my finger with the needle. “The spirits of those killed by Tyre’s soldiers. They’d not yet passed to death. They came to our aid.”

  “Our aid?”

  “Mine then,” I said grimly.

  “That’s not…” He was frustrated. “How?”

  I sucked my finger, spit out the blood. “I called them. Blame me.”

  He stopped his pacing. “What blame?”

  I would not talk anymore of death. I knotted the thread and bit off the leftover. “Finished,” I announced, wiping my hands with the hem of my frock. I laid them on Arro’s neck at his pulse, willing recovery. Laurent moved close, inspecting. I gave him a hard look. “You cannot say there was no time for this. No Breeders have come.” I didn’t mention the spying grackles.

  “Can he walk?”

  “We are not moving him. That will not help—!” I gasped as Laurent straightened, lifted me up by the shoulders, and walked me back a few paces. “Don’t! He needs rest!” If the Rider was furious then so was I, furious at the readiness to sacrifice his horse, his kindred spirit. I’d never felt such exasperation before, and his steadfast refusal to listen and barely contained fury were so completely against anything I’d ever witnessed in Laurent.

  But then I saw the Rider’s own hands so gently encouraging Arro to stand, how he braced Arro’s flank until the horse’s hooves were stable on the earth, the tenderness with which he brushed the forelock back. ’Twas breaking him, this decision, and yet he was going to let Arro die. For me. I’d not let it come to that.

  I took a deep breath and put my hand on his arm. “Rider—”

  “Let us go,” Laurent interrupted, freezing under my touch. “Move on in front where I can see you. I’ll assist Arro.”

  “Nay.” I swallowed his rejection, tucked feelings away. I would not care what the Rider thought or insisted. “We’ll both walk with Arro.” I shook his sleeve. “Together.”

  The Rider’s eyes bored through me then, harsh and cold. And bleak. He opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it and turned to collect his sword and pack and the single torch. We each threw an arm over Arro—I tried anyway, finally holding my shoulder against his great foreleg. And the three of us shuffled our way up rock and dirt in silence.

  —

  It was an ugly trek. Laurent was keenly, angrily vigilant. I kept my own eye out for the grackles, but there was nothing I could deem any sort of threat—except my thinning patience as he pushed the pace, and I resisted. Eventually the land flattened out, made it easier to travel, but the tension between us was already the heavier burden. “There is our cover,” Laurent grunted about some trees up ahead. “We’ll rest within.”

  The trees were dying—sad, bare boughs of larch and elm entwined overhead. After the exposed plain, though, even a skeletal canopy seemed protective. There was a trickle of water in a small hollow, a thick carpet of fallen leaves underfoot. We washed and watered the horse as best we could; Laurent soaked some hardbread for feed, and we helped Arro to lie down. I walked to the edge of wood where we’d left the torch, which forced Laurent to break our rigid silence.

  “Do not leave the trees!” he barked.

  “We need to make a fire,” I snapped back. “I’d hardly build it where everything is tinder.”

  “No fires.”

  “The water from the goatskin was barely hot before! I want to clean Arro’s wound again. Clean it better.”

  Abruptly Laurent stalked over to me, yanked the torch from my hand, and stubbed it dead in the dirt, leaving us in the faint sheen of moonlight. “Fires open paths for Breeders,” he gritted. “I know it too—”

  “Enough!” I shouted. “Must you force your sa
crifices, Rider? Look about! There are no Breeders! No wisps, no reaping hounds, no swifts!”

  “They come when least expected. And not always in violent forms.”

  “So? Let them come! Let us save Arro until they do!”

  “I save you!”

  He said it fiercely, with no regret. It stunned me a little. But his anguish beneath the anger expelled my own frustration in a rush of breath. Impulsively I reached out, knowing full well he’d jerk from me again, so I caught up his sleeve in a hard grip. “Laurent—!”

  “Do you think I don’t grieve my horse?” the Rider bit out. “He saved my life once and there is nothing I wouldn’t do to save his.” He inhaled harshly. “Except sacrifice you.”

  “Being a Complement means you’d let everything else die if necessary?” I was astonished. A little sickened. “Then I unbind you, Rider!”

  “It is not my—”

  I shouted, “I am no longer your duty! Go to Arro! You are free to do what is in your heart.”

  “Heart?” he yelled back. “Don’t you know what is in my heart?”

  We glared, jaws hard, my hand fisted in his sleeve. Not anger, but stubbornness. A standoff. What came next was my doing. He was there, this Rider, so haunted and beautiful and pained, and I couldn’t think anything but that I wanted him to not hurt—

  Nay. I simply wanted him. I released his sleeve, took his dirt-smeared face between my hands, and kissed him.

  Laurent gripped the back of my head, as if he could draw me in any closer, devoured the kiss like a starved one, and then broke free, hands to my shoulders, setting me a little away from him. His breath was ragged. “Lady—”

  “Don’t! Don’t call me so.” I reached for him and he took my mouth once more, before pulling back.

  “ ’Tis this moment.” He shook his head to clear it, his hands clenched tight. “ ’Tis but passion expelled by fear. I understand.”

  Passion. A feeling I’d hidden away, and yet it was there, mine to own, and I wanted it—wanted to feel this wild thing that shivered through me. My laugh tasted cold and sweet. “This is not from fear. Do not brush this away.”