Silver Eve

by Sandra Waugh

  Because of my mistake.

  Lark took her friend’s hand gently from her wrist. “Thank you, Ilone.” She shifted the book on her knees, considered it once more. “This is beautiful,” she said, touching a finger to the filigree. I saw it then: the amulet shaped there, the shell. My book, my fate, was in her lap. Lark looked up and flashed a grin at Ilone, the same grin she might have given me any night at home as we braided our hair before bedtime—the coconspirator, the listener, the sharer….Dearest moments that were all gone from us.

  Ilone was silent. Lark took a deep breath and slowly opened the cover. The leather crackled. However old, the book had rarely, if ever, been opened.

  “Here is the first page again,” Lark whispered, lifting the book so she and Ilone both could see. “The one we are allowed.” And she lifted it a little to read….

  “Moonlight on water brings Nature’s daughter….” Her voice was sweet, so unlike Harker’s or Laurent’s reciting.

  “First page only,” Ilone pleaded low. “Why can that not be enough?”

  Lark ignored her and turned the page slowly, carefully. She murmured, delighted, “Merith!”

  Ilone leaned over to see. I’m not certain if what played there were words or pictures. Mayhap it was both. But Lark was turning pages, recounting bits of my history: “Evie is making soap with Grandmama! There she is at market….” Laughing: “Oh, the thing with Hurn’s cow!” And more hushed: “There’s Raif….” The events were revealed slowly; still it seemed not many before she halted: “She makes the spell. Yew and minion and goat’s milk.”

  Ilone’s hands were clenched. “ ’Tis an Insight spell.”

  “Now I will look further to see what will come.” It was hushed, this. Even I—with gaze only—could sense the darkness of this moment, the ominous pall that was seeping into this space. Lark shut the book suddenly, then ran up the stairs, Ilone after her. “I will not read there,” she called back. Somewhere farther on she stopped, panting for breath. “Halfway up, halfway down. Neither in the castle nor the amulets’ keep.” And there, leaning against a wall, Ilone a few steps beneath her, Lark pulled open the book. She was trembling now, the place she’d opened was random, as if she wanted to do something quickly and be done with it. She gasped, “Laurent! He’s torn by a waterfall!” Lark scanned quickly, murmuring, anxious, telling Ilone, “They’ve put the amulet where Evie cannot return from unless Laurent sacrifices himself. He’ll die; she’ll lose him! She’s begging for help, Ilone! She has never done that!” And Lark’s voice caught in horror. “There’s another girl there. She’s raging that it’s Evie’s fault—she means to push her…!”

  Ilone was asking something, but it was lost, for suddenly there was a cracking sound, like rocks flinging together, and then the book was gone from Lark’s shaking hands.

  The young women looked at each other, shocked, then went tearing back down the stairs—Lark flying ahead of Ilone all the way back to the keep.

  “They’re gone! Ilone, all the books are gone!” came her cry.

  Ilone tried to follow but was thrown back once more by the invisible barrier. “Lark!” she called, pushing herself up. “The loan is broken!”

  Lark was back, running past her up the stairs. “We have to save them, Ilone,” she gritted.

  Ilone ran after her. “Them? The books?”

  “No! Evie! Laurent! You! All of Castle Tarnec!” Lark stopped abruptly, her back to Ilone, shuddering. “Laurent will die. Evie will be killed. The amulet will be lost. She needs help. She won’t survive without it.” Lark started up the steps. “We won’t survive.”

  “What can you do?”

  “She’s in water,” Lark called back. “Water is Death’s medium—I can use it, Ilone! I know one from those realms who will help us. I have to find Trethe….”

  And she was gone around a curve in the stairs, and then I was no longer seeing through Ilone’s eyes but being pulled back from the stairs, from the castle, from the great precipice on which the castle towered, and flung back into the night sky where the stars shimmered and crowded in so brightly.

  I WAS ON the ridge, sprawled flat. Harker was grinning his nasty little grin. He popped the cap back on his head, singing under his breath, “Where are you weak, little Guardian? Where are you weak?” The tune shivered through my spine.

  “Seer.” I panted. “Why do you show me this?”

  He snorted. “You say it, but still you ask. Seer!” And he sang louder: “Seer, seer. The seer, the holder of fates. Mine to know.”

  I rolled to my knees, tried to get my feet under me. “Was it you who gave the books to Castle Tarnec?”

  “Gave?” Harker shouted, “I was forced! They are my books! Mine! Never given! But now the girl of Sight, the Guardian, the queen”—he spit it—“has broken the loan, and my books are lost.” He roared, “NO!” and then broke down in sobs. “I want them. I want them back.”

  “What can be done?” I gave up the effort to stand, still dizzy, wiped my hands on my undershift. “Lark said as well that they are gone.”

  “And they call me the fool. They are lost, not gone! You should be vanished too if your book of Fate was truly gone.” He turned, anger focusing his words. “This is your doing, Healer, naïve Guardian; ’twas your curiosity. You made the Insight spell, because you needed to know what I had not told you. But I did tell you! I told you everything you had to know. And yet you were not satisfied; you needed more to quench your curiosity! Now look what you have done!”

  I stared at him. I didn’t understand; I was horrified to understand.

  “The queen saw you in that Insight spell. She knew you’d laid yourself open to harm, and so she chose to look at your fate to see. And there you were, begging for help.” He barked an angry laugh. “You’ve ruined it for all! She will die and the amulets will never return! Serves you right!”

  “Harker, no!” I gasped at his grotesque joy. “You cannot mean that!”

  “You do not believe? Look!”

  He tore his cap off his head and thrust it at me so that I had to look into it once more, had to spin back into the dark and stars and castle. I was seeing through Ilone’s eyes again—she was crowding into a room along with a tumble of people all vying for a look, all crying, “Make way! Give space!” Between shoulders and heads I recognized Gharain, limping, thrusting through the doorway led by another man whom I remembered as another Rider. Ilone worked her way forward, coming to stand by that Rider; he took her hand. There was a bed; an older maidservant waited there. And there was Rileg, Lark’s beloved three-legged dog.

  And then I could see why Gharain seemed uneven. He was carrying Lark, hurrying as he could to the bed, laying her gently down. Lark’s eyes were open, but her face was ghastly white. Her fingers gripped at Gharain’s shirt. He did not let her go but kneeled on the bed and pulled her close. Ilone was moving, coming to lean over Lark, placing her hands on Lark’s sweat-beaded forehead. Rileg hopped onto the bed and nudged his nose into Lark’s side.

  Worry enraged Gharain. “Was it the Bog Hag? Did she do this?” He turned on the maidservant. “How did the Hag come, Nayla? Was it Trethe—did she conjure her?” But Nayla was silent, shaking her head, wringing her hands. Gharain barked, “Speak!”

  Ilone shushed him, but Nayla burst out, “ ’Twas not the Bog Hag, Master Gharain. She had no reason to do the queen ill.”

  “Why was that thing here, then?” And Nayla could only shake her head.

  “Shall I find the creature?” asked the Rider standing near Ilone, and Gharain shouted, “Yes!” He was beside himself in fear and fury, but I saw his hands soft in Lark’s hair.

  The other Rider leaned to Ilone and placed a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll leave now,” he said. But Ilone gripped his sleeve. “Dartegn, wait. There’s no need.” She looked up at Gharain. “ ’Tis not the Hag, brother. Look.” Ilone pulled Lark a little onto her side, then undid the lacing of her gown and tugged it off her shoulders. Nayla cried out. The left shoulde
r was rashed red. I knew what it was. The wound she suffered made by the hukon—’twas inflamed; the poison at work once more. Ilone slid the sleeve a little lower, and there it was—the small pinprick made by the hukon spear—a black spot just above the circle of her birthmark. Already it oozed green-gray pus.

  “Breeders.” I didn’t see who whispered it. Maybe it was only in my own head. But ’twas what we all singly understood.

  Ilone turned to Nayla. “Please get Trethe.” And Nayla hurried from the room while Ilone looked at Gharain and Dartegn. “The books of Fate,” she said. “I could not stop Lark from looking. ’Tis why she summoned the Bog Hag for help. She saw Laurent and Evie dying, the amulet lost. She made the Hag bring Evie some tokens so that they could survive. That we all could.”

  Gharain and Dartegn’s faces were terrible. I felt as dark as they—and yet I could only brace as Ilone braced as she admitted, “She broke the loan. She altered fate.”

  There was an ominous murmur in the room, then Gharain gritted, “Whose fate?”

  “ ’Twas Evie’s book she opened.” Ilone grabbed Gharain’s shoulder as he made a sharp move. “You cannot be angry, brother. Lark was only saving us by doing so. Her cousin had crafted a spell.”

  “What of it? Spells are done every day!”

  “Evie is not a White Healer, the spell was not hers to make. It exposed her to the Breeders.” She tugged at Gharain, forcing him to turn from Lark, rushing a little to keep his focus. “Why do you think the swifts attack us now? They’ve kept us inside these walls for a day—and will continue if they can. The Breeders are keeping us occupied, keeping us from interfering as they track the Guardian!”

  Nayla was back in the room, a rail-thin elderly woman following. Gharain yanked from Ilone, growling, “What is this, Trethe?”

  His temper did not cow the old woman; she approached with head high, declaring, “Yes, I brought forth the Bog Hag, at the queen’s insistence. We bound the miserable thing to a task. There was no harm done; the queen has that right—”

  “Look at her!” Gharain shouted.

  “That is not the Hag’s doing,” Trethe returned evenly.

  “Who then? What can we do?”

  “Gharain,” Ilone broke in, “Lark insisted the consequences were to be hers. She made herself vulnerable.” She looked at Trethe, who nodded. “The Breeders have opportunity now—they are reaching through her wound.” She paused, then, knowing what would come. “Since Lark already returned her amulet, she chose to sacrifice in hopes she might save the Guardian and Laurent—”

  “Don’t!” Gharain was fierce. “Don’t say it! It will not happen! You will do something, Ilone. You are my sister, her friend. You are a Healer. And you, old one,” he cried to Trethe. “You have the skill. You will make her well.” His gaze flicked between the two, then he begged. “You have to.”

  Ilone said, “Gharain, we cannot cure hukon. No one—”

  “Don’t!” ’Twas brutal, his voice. Even Dartegn shifted a little to shield Ilone. “Go! All of you! Go away!” Most in the room whispered off while Gharain pulled Lark up and hugged her close to his heart.

  Trethe remained very calm. “We can keep the queen from slipping, Master Gharain. Ilone and I together.” She moved forward, took Lark out from Gharain’s arms, rested her gently back on the bed, saying, “You must trust that we will do everything we can. We’ll not let her die.”

  She wouldn’t. Whoever this Trethe woman was, she and Ilone would work as deftly as Grandmama and I had when Lark returned to us first wounded. They’d taken our role as Lark’s family. They would protect their queen better than I had my cousin.

  “Let us look in the books,” Dartegn was saying. “Let us get back the amulets, all of them together, now before—”

  Ilone stopped him. “The books are vanished, all. They are”—she gestured at the window—“out beyond, somewhere. If they are in Harker’s possession again, I do not know. But if not, then they are vulnerable to anyone who wants to manipulate the Guardians’ fates.” She turned. “And so all our fates.”

  Gharain slammed his fist against the wall. “Damn the books!” Then, in whispered anguish as he looked down at Lark, “Damn me.”

  —

  I was pulled from the room, the castle, and night sky, sent reeling into harsh morning light, where Harker thrust his face close to mine. “This is what you’ve done!”

  I put my hands against the ridge, trying to find something stable to hold, fighting to breathe. “I didn’t know, Harker! ’Twas but a simple spell!” Devastation would drown me. “I didn’t mean any harm!”

  “Harm? My books are lost! Your cousin queen is poisoned!”

  “No!” I was wild. “They will save her!”

  “The Breeders have struck you where you are weak, little fool Guardian! If curiosity kills a cat, then so too will it kill everyone because of you!”

  “Stop it! Stop it!”

  But he didn’t stop. The hideous little man was writhing in his strange mix of anger and glee. “This is you! Your fault!”

  I screamed, “Then I will fix it!”

  Harker turned and limped off. “Tell me!” I pushed myself up and stumbled after him, refusing to be ignored. “Tell me how to fix this!” I grabbed at his filthy sleeve, taking both of us off balance. “I will not let my cousin die!”

  “Hukon has no cure,” he hissed back at me.

  “I don’t believe you! You hold people’s fates; you know their futures! Surely you’ve seen one!”

  “I do not know what happens, Guardian! How would I know, my books are lost!” He gave a pitiful whimper and pulled away from me. “My books. My books.”

  Lark was dying, the books were vanished, the amulets unlinked. I turned and stormed away, heart pounding. Behind me desolate sobs from Harker. My hands clenched against the noise. Against the pain—

  I blurted with sudden force, “I will find your books, Harker. I will return them if you help me heal Lark.”

  The sobs cut away abruptly. “I cannot help you heal her—”

  “Harker!”

  “You do not listen, Guardian of Death!” And then he made me listen by waiting to speak. My fingernails scored my palms, his silence was worse than the crying. Finally the seer tilted his head. “I cannot help you, but there is a White Healer—”

  I ran to him. “Where?”

  As if he could doubt my determination: “Too far from where you are headed.”

  “That doesn’t matter!”

  “Not matter? What of your amulet? What of your handsome man?” And then coyly, “What of the wounded steed?”

  I hesitated, then said fiercely, “I go alone.”

  Harker jumped a little, then came close to look me straight in the eye, to read my intention. “You will,” he announced softly. “I see. ’Twill be your secret.”

  “Tell me where.”

  He stayed soft. “South to the sea, Guardian, to the last spit of land that curves sickle-shaped. You will know the White Healer.” His hands stabbed out, cupped as if he was begging, eager now for me to hurry. I studied him back, eye to eye. And suddenly curious.

  “Why do you help me, seer, when what I’ve done has made you miserable?”

  The seer blinked. “Because you helped me once. Because you were kind.”

  I turned and ran down the ridge to gather my belongings. And then I heard him bleating piteously, as though he was sorry for saying it: “You were kind. You were kind!”

  —

  Laurent was still sleeping, but Arro’s head was up, his passive eye clear and alert to my step. I stopped to watch, to hold the moment. The stand of dying trees was the same, the bird still sang alone. The sun had not moved more than a hand’s width from the horizon. Nothing had changed.

  Except for me. I’d changed. Not a fortnight ago I’d stood at the edge of Rood Marsh wondering what to do with the Rider and his horse—I’d not wanted companions, I’d wanted to die. Now I was standing here just as wrecked, heart ripp
ed and guilt shredding every breath, only now I wanted to share. I wanted to live. I shut my eyes. Hard. If I could just recapture the beauty and peace of last night, nestle myself safe within…

  A moment, ’twas all. I opened my eyes and looked down at what I held in one fist: valerian—roots and all—and a cinder stone. There was no question what I was going to do; I just wished that it did not have to be so.

  I went to the edge of the trees and built a tiny campfire. Dead leaves flamed bright and quick, and in short time I was boiling water inside of Laurent’s small cup. I drank the first hot cup myself, breaking off a piece of Laurent’s hardbread as a meal. Then I set to boiling the second cup, crushing the valerian roots to steep in it. I smothered the fire and carried the drink back under the trees.

  “Arro looks better.” Laurent was awake, sitting up stiffly.

  I nodded. “And you look in pain.”

  He grinned. “Last night took its toll.”

  There was mischief in his tone; I tried to match his grin as I handed him the cup. “Well, then. This will help.” It wasn’t quite a lie.

  “You should not have looked for water without me,” he chided. Then, at its heat, a double exasperation: “No fires, Evie.”

  “It’s done. The fire is out.”

  He took a swig of the tea, made a face. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I am, Rider.” I walked to Arro, unwilling now to meet Laurent’s eye, wishing he’d just swallow the brew in one quick gulp. “You have your balm, we Healers have our roots. It will ease the pain.”

  “Balm at least tastes good.”

  “ ’Tis not sweets I make.” Sound light. Be easy. “Drink it. You can rinse your mouth after.”

  Laurent snorted. Pain or not, he was relaxed, in a merry mood, and I ached to share it. Instead, I cleaned Arro’s wound with unnecessary detail, waiting for the Rider to finish.