Silver Eve

by Sandra Waugh

  “The spring is close?” he asked, wanting to talk.

  “Just over the ridge.”

  “I wish you’d wakened me.”

  “Your sleep was beautiful,” I said, being very busy. “I couldn’t disturb it.” Finally, from the corner of my eye I saw him drain the cup, then set it on the ground. The cloth stilled in my hands. I exhaled slowly. These were the last moments the Rider would trust me.

  “Evie,” he was saying, “by now you should know better than to go off alone.”

  “I was not alone.” I pulled myself together, wiped the last bit of dried blood from the stitches, and put the cloth down. I didn’t have to avoid any longer. The valerian was finished two breaths ago; Laurent had perhaps twenty more before he sank. “The seer, Harker, was there.”

  “Harker.” The merry mood was gone. “Has he followed you?”

  I shook my head. “He won’t.” Then I turned to the Rider. “You told me the seer showed the Breeders something he shouldn’t have. What is the story of Harker and his books?”

  A shrug. “Harker is one of seven sentinels who are responsible for the books of Fate. Every person’s story is in their keeping. They are sworn never to share the books, so that no one can manipulate outcome by learning of something before it happens.” Laurent paused to swallow against the sour aftertaste. “But Harker was seduced by a Breeder; he betrayed his post, allowed a book to be read, and so the amulets were stolen. As recompense, the books of the four Guardians were loaned to Castle Tarnec.”

  “Loaned, but not allowed to be opened?”

  “Only the first page of each.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Call it the gift of a shortcut. We lost the amulets because of the seer, so in turn we may use the clues provided in the beginning of each book to find the Guardians. It gives us an advantage over the Breeders, small as it may be.”

  Five breaths, at least, he’d taken. “Lark disobeyed the agreement,” I said. “The seer told me.”

  Laurent hesitated. “You should not trust him.”

  “Perhaps not, but you trust me.” I could barely say it.

  A sixth breath. A harsh one. “Then the books are relinquished.” He shook his head.

  I asked, “Are they destroyed?”

  “No.” Another shake of the head. He was trying to clear it. “If they were destroyed you would never have existed.” He squinted at me. “But pages that are not yet set, not yet lived, could be burned or ripped out. And then the person whose fate they hold would die.”

  Lark and I were both alive, which meant the books were somewhere—but unprotected. What time did we have left? “The Breeders have used Lark’s act to reopen her wound,” I said. “The hukon is infecting her again.”

  “Breeders,” Laurent echoed a little dully. “ ’Twas the queen’s choice that let them in. Our last queen did something of the same….” He sat for a moment, pondering. “Why would she disobey?”

  “For me,” I said. “I asked for her help. She gave me things to save you.” And much more, I realized.

  The Rider stared. His reactions were slowing, comprehension fuzzing. What did it matter, then, what I told him? “The knife,” I murmured. “And the minion. She sent them. At Hooded Falls.”

  “The queen shouldn’t have done it.” Laurent struggled to focus. “She should have let me be.”

  “Would you say that if what she did saved me?” I asked softly. I saw him frown, try to work out his thoughts. I said, “Lark helped me—for all of us. Now it is my turn to help her.”

  His eyes flared briefly, understanding. “You are not going to Tarnec….” Then he said sharply, “The amulet—”

  “Will be returned after I find a cure for the hukon.”

  “Evie.”

  “Do not say there is no cure. There is something—there must be something. I will not let her die because of me. I cannot.”

  Laurent’s eyes flicked to Arro. He stood shakily. “Then we go.”

  “Arro would not survive the journey; you know it. I will not let you sacrifice him anymore than I will let Lark sacrifice herself. Not for me.”

  “None—nonetheless, Evie…” Laurent was staggering, trying to reach for his sword. “I will go. Regardless of sacrifice.”

  I said it softly: “I disagree.”

  Laurent looked at his hands; they’d fallen limply to his sides. He looked at me. “What did you do?” His knees gave out; he dropped hard to the ground, all the while staring at me. “What did you do?”

  “It is but for sleep. Just sleep.” Our last moments. My voice burned my throat. “When you wake tomorrow wait a second day and then Arro will be strong enough to walk. Go home to Tarnec. Watch for me. I will come.”

  “Harker…”

  I thought, then, that Laurent would show anger, vague as it might be. That he’d insist I not be foolish enough to trust the seer. But there was none of that.

  “I will find you, Evie,” he said. “Know that I will find you.”

  I shook my head. I’d been careful to give no clue. “No, but you will try. After all, you are my Complement,” I whispered.

  “Complement.” And then it was done, Laurent fell on his side, Arro neighing in warning, and I ran to the Rider, held his head, kissed his face. Longing flared, hot and bright. “I’m sorry,” I murmured against his lips. “I’m sorry. ’Twill be all right, ’twill just take a little longer. But Lark and Arro will be safe.”

  I smoothed the curls back from Laurent’s brow, laid his cloak over him, washed out the cup, and arranged his pack to be at the ready—an apology of sorts. I stroked Arro’s neck to calm him. I pulled on my frock and my sandals, then took my own satchel and looked at what remained inside—the lark feather and the shell. One meager, one huge. I picked up my cloak, which had acted as our bed. It was ripped and worn but it was still worth the cover…and more so the memory. Then I went back and took Laurent’s cup. He had the flask and I had nothing.

  But I left him the leather ring, pulling it from my thumb and sliding it on the little finger of his left hand. Proof I would return.

  I stood. South to the sea, Harker had said. I looked at Arro, who eyed me reproachfully. “I’ll not fail you,” I told him, then walked away.

  That Laurent would try to follow me I had no doubt. But he had a horse he could not ride and I had a full day’s head start.

  I COULD SMELL the sea. Even a league away, the scent came creeping up. Salt and tin and earth decay…and something more, something fresh and cold and dark and alive.

  Tales were told at market of the incessant sweep and drowning of tides, of rowboats standing nearly on end against a crest of wave, of finned beasts the girth of a cottage—tales that were meant to awe and leave giddy with imagined horrors.

  But I held no such fear. The closer I came, the more I hurried to see it. The hills flattened, trees gave way to grass, then marsh grass, and then wide salt flats, where I took off my sandals so my feet could slap along the silver-dried mud, where little holes and bubbles exposed secret hiding places.

  ’Twas good that some creatures lived under mud. They survived, at least. All along my four-day journey were remnants of things killed by a heartless sun. The landscape was dry, the ground hard underfoot. I hadn’t seen fresh water since the last moonrise.

  The flats shivered to a dust, then dust turned to sand—white and fine and scrubbing away the silver from between my toes. A sharp clean smell; when I looked close I saw little bits of shell, not unlike mine, crushed into the sand.

  But then all those thoughts were erased in one sweep, for the sea appeared just over a dune. I sank to my knees in the wispy grass and stared. Stared at the froth and foam curling into shore, stared at the blue-gray swells heaving all the way to the horizon—the way a blanket is shaken before it is folded. I’d never seen anything so extraordinary as that blue color, never breathed anything so extraordinary as salt air. It made my body hum.

  The sand ran west to a tall rock outcropping that jutted far into the sea, bloc
king that side of my view, but to the east it stretched on seemingly forever—a thin, curved trailing of sand. And all of it was empty. I should have been disappointed, impatient at least, that I saw no village, no person, that the White Healer was not there waiting for me. But I was near; I had to be. And the sea was captivating. For a moment—if just for a moment—I had to feel what that water was like.

  I jumped up and ran down to explore—to dip my feet into the crisp cold, to splash. It was different, heavier than fresh water. The salt dried quick and white-rough on my legs by the breeze, and I laughed.

  I ran back up the beach, pulled off the cloak and frock, dropped them with my sandals and pack, then ran straight back into the sea, shrieking with delight. Chest-deep I waited for a wave, gasping at its size, hugging my arms close. It cocooned, then crashed over me.

  So alive, the sea! It was all the waters: running and still. Incessant motion, silent depths—’twould both clean away ills and keep them. It buoyed, tossed, and teased with its surf. I swam quick strokes, skin tingling from the minerals—I could sense them too in the sea’s weight, in the smell. My hair slipped like silk over my arms, down my back, billowed out pale against the blue. Glorious sea, glorious release. Water is Death’s medium, Lark had said. My medium.

  Release was brief. I swam for shore, slogged up the beach as the stiffening breeze dried my undershift solid and my hair in ropes. Then I stopped and squinted. Far off on the sands a person stooped, rummaging through my things. It was a man I saw, wraith-thin. I’d expected a woman.

  “White Healer!” I started to run. “White Healer!” Then I saw his hands at my pack. “No! Stop!” I cried. “You’ll get hurt!”

  The man stopped, looked up. His mouth worked and he pointed at me, but his voice did not carry. He turned and grabbed for the satchel.

  “Do not touch it!” I yelled. “Stay back!”

  An explosion of light and sound. Sand flew, stinging my eyes and lips. There was nothing to wipe it away with, for my fingers and shift were coated with salt. I stumbled up the beach, rooted blindly for my frock, cloak, anything to help, then sat, spitting and scouring the sand from my face. Then I grabbed for the satchel to check that the amulet was unharmed. I looked around. There was no one—no one tossed, or cowering…or dead. I scanned the rock outcropping. ’Twas the only thing the man could have disappeared to. He must have sprinted in terror.

  I sighed. No White Healer, just a starved man scavenging for food, of which I’d none. But I looked at the outcropping again, thinking there was some flicker of movement. I tugged on my dress and sandals, shouldered my satchel, and tied my cloak, then trudged toward the rocks. I faced into the wind, which blew stronger now. The salt made my skin itch.

  I was wrong: ’twas not the man huddled in the shadows there, but a child. A scrawny, dark-haired girl, dressed in rags. Her face was pressed hard into the rock. I kneeled down, already sensing it: poison of some sort. The girl burned with fever.

  I turned her gently. She wasn’t more than five years, pale, eyelids fluttering, her stomach gruesomely distended. I felt for the pulse in her limp wrist—rapid and light. Then I shifted around my satchel so that it hung over my back and picked up the girl. This needed curing beyond what my hands offered.

  She was fragile, nearly weightless. I climbed up the outcropping carefully to avoid her limbs brushing the satchel. We gained the top, then started down the other side—

  A village spread below us at the edge of the tide. The remains of one anyway. The cottages were all gone except for a scattering of walls and door frames jutting from mounds of sand. Whatever had destroyed the town was done and done quickly. But ’twas not from any incinerators. There were no signs of fire, no burned-out carcasses of homes. No soldiers.

  There were signs of life, however: lean-tos made from rubble, makeshift doors from blankets. A thin line of smoke trickled skyward. None of it looked hopeful.

  The girl in my arms twitched, propelling me down the face of rock.

  “Hello!” I cried, nearing the first curtain of blankets. “Hello?”

  Movement. Draped covers pulled back, folk stepping from underneath. Dark-haired, pale and freckled skin pulled taut over heavy features, clothing filthy and threadbare. Adults, all, except for one boy who was barely seven. They offered stares for welcome.

  “This child. Is she one of yours?” I held out the limp girl for all to see, though they looked only at me. “Please, is she yours? Anyone?”

  There was a general uneasy shuffling. Finally one woman jerked forward, almost tearing the little thing from my arms before pulling back. “Mine,” she mumbled.

  Mine—like Harker and his books. I followed her. “Your daughter’s ill. She’s eaten something bad.”

  “Nothing to be done.”

  “Let me try.” I looked around for any kind of support from the crowd. Traumatized, maybe from the loss of their dwellings or their obvious hunger, they stared mutely back. I turned to the mother more firmly: “Please. I can help.”

  There was silence, but then the boy offered, “Duni was at the ’stools up by the riverbed.”

  “Toadstools,” grunted an old woman. “That’s the end of it. Put her down at the water’s edge. Let the sea take her out. That’ll keep them satisfied.” Duni’s mother nodded and headed off.

  “Wait!” I yelled. The mother froze briefly, but then walked on. I had to run to catch up with her, already splashing to where the waves foamed. “What are you doing?” I grabbed her arm, pulled her back with me. “Your daughter can be healed!” I called to the crowd, “We have to move quickly!” Then I lost patience beneath their dull stares and demanded from the boy: “What color toadstool? Brown or yellow or red?” I hoped he didn’t choose red.

  “Yellow,” he answered.

  “There’s time, then.” I chose a face from the group. “You. Tell me if there is milkweed somewhere near.” He nodded and I ordered: “Go and collect the fattest pods, four of them. Hurry.” He lurched away. “And you.” I picked the boy. “Where there’s milkweed there will be the orange butterfly. I need you to catch one. Don’t kill it. Just cup it in your hands and run back here.”

  He nodded but an older woman grabbed his shoulder. “Let him go,” I snapped at her. “Or go yourself.” I turned to another, gesturing at the trail of smoke. “I see a fire lit over there. We need fresh water at the boil.” Then, at their hesitation, “Now!”

  Two others stumbled. “Come with me,” I said to Duni’s mother, and marched off toward the smoke, thinking how silly it was that they all stood stupefied. As if the death of a child was standard and I the greater curiosity, as if mending ills was not something they understood.

  And maybe it wasn’t. They had no stores of food, let alone herbs, and no effort made, it looked, to replenish. The small fire burned bare in what had been a kitchen hearth—chimney gone, walls gone, nothing repaired. I bit my tongue and directed the action—a pot for water, a blanket for a bed, building up the fire—urging people who seemed so reluctant to aid. They were hampered with disfigurements. Crooked limbs, scar tissue, things that might have been easily treated. Ailments of all kinds were left ignored—healing not even attempted.

  Duni’s mother laid the child on a blanket. I stuck the pot of water on the embers, asking: “What town is this?”

  Finally someone muttered, “Haver. It was Haver.”

  Was. “What happened?”

  A pause and then someone blurted, “The sea witches took it from us.”

  “Sea witches?”

  “Come up in a big wave three moons ago. They took our homes; they took the rain. They ruin us.”

  I turned to look at them. Witch rang false in my ears. A blame word when something was not understood. I wondered if they’d heard of Breeders.

  “I am sorry for your suffering,” I said instead. No one replied.

  The man was back, suddenly, handing me four plump milkweed pods, and shortly after came the boy, with his hands cupping a large butterfly. I asked
for a container; a chipped cup was produced. I had the boy open his hands on the ground and turned the cup upside down on the sand, trapping the insect. I begged another cup, then remembered I still had Laurent’s. I took it out, split the pods, squeezed the milk into it, and added some of the boiled water.

  “Prop the girl up,” I directed. “Open her mouth.” There was hesitation, but I said fiercely, “Do it. Time grows short.” And then I dribbled the hot drink between the girl’s lips. She started and gagged, and the attendees watched in eerie silence. I said, “The milkweed will expel the poison. Keep her upright.”

  I was effortlessly capable—scrutinized for it, I knew. I dribbled more until the cup’s worth was gone, then used the boiling water to wipe Duni’s fingers clean of any residue of toadstool and had them turn her on her side. Moments later she began to heave and retch, bringing up the bits of yellowed cap and stem. Duni sobbed, the mother moaned—more from fear than worry, I thought. Then all of the villagers joined in with the mother as they watched; a faint, discordant hum that wafted up and surrounded us.

  “ ’Tis just a stomach’s worth,” I explained over the noise. “There’s no lasting harm.” I lifted the other cup, releasing the butterfly, and held it up to show. “Do you see the stain left by the butterfly’s wings? ’Twill make her fever break.” I poured more of the boiled water into the cup and swirled it; the water turned faintly orange. “Here,” I said to Duni. “Drink this up.” She whimpered, wasted and wide-eyed; the mother had a grip on the girl’s arm that must have hurt. I smiled, cajoling, “Drink. ’Twill taste sweet. The butterfly has left you a bit of its magic.”

  The hum broke at that. I pushed the cup into Duni’s hands in spite of her mother’s grip, tipped it for her, and watched that she drank the whole thing down. There wasn’t a sound—the villagers waited, riveted. The child dropped the cup, rubbed her brow, which was already sweat-beaded, and sat up a little straighter on her own. She even managed a tiny belch and a faint smile. Her mother snatched her up and moved away.