Silver Eve

by Sandra Waugh

  “Do you not wonder at the ease with which you are saving Lark?”

  A bitter snort. How many times had Laurent suggested the same? I held up my bloody fingers. “What ease?” It seemed odd, then, that I’d only just seen my hands as pale and clean.

  He was shaking his head. “Change your fate, Evie. Be curious again. Ask the White Healer’s name. You have to see.” Raif repeated, urging, needing: “You have to see.”

  He held out his hand and I immediately reached up, trying to grasp it, feeling that need for him, for what once was, so very deeply. The bottomless ache, the same yearning the amulet inspired, that need to go home. I looked at Raif, thinking I could say it through my eyes if my voice failed, but then knew I had to say it out loud. He deserved nothing less. “I loved you,” I whispered. “I so loved you and I never told you.”

  He smiled. “I know.”

  And then, as if the woods came rushing forward, Raif was gone, receding into darkness.

  I sat still, my hand floating in empty space until I pulled it back.

  What do I not see, Raif? What do I not see?

  It occurred to me that there were no birds singing—where I thought the vision of Raif had brought the silence, it seemed the silence had been there all along. I looked down, unnerved by the quiet, then gathered up the plaits, rolling them into my frock so the whips would not sting my hands. I stood and walked back out of the grove.

  Laurent was waiting for me. A surge of emotion propelled me straight into his arms. “Have you finished?” he murmured against my hair, and I nodded. He lifted me up onto Arro, climbed up behind, and wrapped his arms about me. I crooked my head to look at him and smiled.

  The sun shone; I sat with my love. I held in my skirts the things to save my dearest friend. I could not be uneasy.

  We trotted off; the air and light so warm, I dozed in the peace of it. Arro seemed to know exactly where to go; Laurent’s hands barely moved on the reins. Laurent’s hands—so strong and capable, sun- and wind-tanned.

  And without Raif’s ring.

  I was almost asleep; I saw at first with only drugged curiosity. But then my eyes opened a little wider; I watched his hands. Watched how naked they rested in front of me. How they didn’t move at all.

  “Laurent?” I turned. “Where is the ring?”

  He was smiling down at me, his eyes so very blue. “Ring,” he repeated back.

  “The leather ring. That I left for you.”

  He kept smiling. “It is just as you wish.”

  As I wish? “Laurent…” There was something else.

  “Hush, love.” He kissed me. “We’ll be back soon.”

  And we were. Laurent was halting Arro before the White Healer’s cottage. I asked him as he helped me from Arro’s back, “Are you truly happy here?”

  Laurent brushed back a strand of hair from my shoulder. He leaned to kiss me again, warm and luscious and as real as anything I could need. “I’m here, Evie,” he murmured, smiling at me. “You are happy.”

  I was happy, though it didn’t erase Raif’s visit. I entered the cottage with my gatherings, seeing that all was sweetly the same: the fire in the hearth, Salva darning the yellow stocking in her little chair. The tabby cat sat on the hearthstone washing his paws. I looked to my left, to where my satchel hung at the door. I smelled oat bread and chicken stew.

  The White Healer stood at the table pondering his herb selection. He glanced up as I entered, eyed the lump in my frock.

  “Ah.” His eyes crinkled. “You have made the plaits, clever girl. Bring them here.”

  Clever. I smiled at the repeated compliment. I hurried to him, then unrolled the four willow braids from my skirts and let them drop onto the sedge-coated table. The White Healer looked at them, at me. “You found them easily?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. Was there any confusion?”

  I wondered if he suspected I’d been confronted, been conflicted, even. I shook my head. And then I worried he had magically sent Raif somehow, and I should admit that I’d been visited, been warned—

  Warned. I paused, my hand hovering at the willow braids.

  The White Healer said gently, “There is not much time. You need to do up the braids, weave them into a pouch. Now, my dear, while the willow is most potent.”

  I picked up the braids. My hands were trembling—shaking—just a little. Nervous, I thought. The way Lark would react in a crowd—

  I clenched my jaw. Lark. I would not lose focus. “Show me.” The old man smiled.

  ’Twas a simple weave—over, under, over, under. Four braids made for a small mat, and then the White Healer instructed how to loop a braid back on itself. In no time I had a smallish pouch.

  “Just the size for your shell,” the White Healer murmured, pleased. “Needles of hemlock and leaves of nightshade we weave in now. Poison to root out poison.” He sprinkled some of both into my palm. I pressed the dried bits into the braiding, so that the yellowish hue of the willow was interrupted with black. We added dark sprinklings from all the jars.

  “You said it would take on all the colors,” I murmured. “When?”

  “Patience. You will see.” The old man pointed to my satchel. “Bring the shell.”

  See. I shook off the word and retrieved my bag. The tabby cat finished his washing as I passed and gave me a doleful look.

  “Here.” The White Healer beckoned me back. “Here. You’ve not much time. Put it in all safe and sound.”

  Safe and sound. How comforting and strange that he’d used words I’d recently used. I took out the shell, centered it inside the willow pouch.

  And there it was, the little amulet nestled inside a weaving of healing willow and black poison.

  “Well done.” The old man nodded. He was sweating, a sheen of moisture over his temples and brow.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Powerful magic takes much focus, much concentration,” he murmured. “Salva.” He called to the white-haired woman without looking at her. “Bring her the jug.”

  I heard her behind me, creaking out of her chair, shuffling to a corner. Little noises so loud. The tabby yowled suddenly, and I jumped. Salva’s darning needle clattered to the floor. She murmured, “Not to matter.” And then the White Healer turned, saying, “We are nearly done, my dear. You must fetch water from the well.” Salva handed me the jug and I went out of the cottage, past Laurent, who smiled at me and said, “I am here.”

  The two little redheaded children were playing by the well; they ran off as I approached. I wondered that I’d never acknowledged if they were boys or girls, and that they were gone before I could decide. I dunked the bucket, drew it up, and filled the container. A shadow fell over the stones; ’twas a puff of cloud skittering across the sky, the first cloud in what seemed forever. I stayed for a moment watching, wondering at its speed when there was no breeze, but then the woman in the buttercup apron came out of the far cottage door to sweep her step and wave her hand at me.

  The same, I thought. A variation of the same task each time….A chill flickered through me. Raif. I frowned and hurried back to the warmth of the cottage.

  “Here,” I said, entering, and then stopped dead.

  Around me the pretty whitewashed walls were dulling, as if color was being pulled from the space. But the table, in shape, color, and size had intensified; the wood, brushed with the poison, was pulsing and vibrant. The powder was no longer a charcoal dust but swirls of color. The black things in their jars were pulsing too with glorious color.

  And the shell was glowing—a radiant, beaming white. A burst of brilliance.

  The old man was smiling. “Do you see? You have done exceptionally.”

  See. That word again—haunting, worrying. I could not feel exceptional, for it came back, what Raif had said to me: You have to see. I glanced around the room. All was still cozy and familiar: the size, the furnishings, the old woman, the old man, and the cat. Laurent outside. Things were in their pl
ace, things clean and whole and unharmed. Healer needs—nay, my needs. A sweet respite, a safe respite from the brutality that leached into our world. The only thing reminiscent of those horrors was my battered satchel. It rested empty and deflated on my hip. I felt a sudden ache at that. The shell shouldn’t be glowing so brightly, but nestled close to me.

  Where is your curiosity now, Evie Carew?

  “And now the final part of this spell making, my dear.” The White Healer pointed to what I’d forgotten I held. “Fresh water, my dear. ’Twill erase any impurities. You will pour it into the shell.”

  The cat was meowing—guttural sounds. I looked at the jug, then at the old man, confused. “You cannot purify with this. Water only cleans when running along its own free path.”

  The old man was taken aback. “What is gathered from that well is exceptional,” he insisted. And when I shook my head, he said a little more forcefully, “Who is the greater Healer in this room? Do you defy my knowledge?”

  “But well water is still water, and still water cannot purify. Every Healer knows—”

  He didn’t let me finish. “That you doubt weakens the spell. Pour the water into the shell, quickly before it is too late.” He took a sharp breath. “Attention to task!” Now there was no question that he was sweating; it trickled over his temple, beaded his brow.

  “You are worried,” I whispered, curious. “My doubt makes you anxious.”

  “ ’Tis not anxiety, ’tis effort!” he barked. “I bind this spell for you! You have not the strength enough in your resolve to ignite this cure. ’Tis I who hold it by my own power. ’Twill break apart if you do not hurry!”

  “Nay.” The word came out of me of its own accord. There was a shift; the room gave a little jolt. You have to see. Raif’s voice repeating, insistent in my ears.

  The White Healer peered at me. “You will not refuse, Guardian.”

  ’Twas the first time he’d called me Guardian. It sent a shiver down my spine, that tone, that name from his lips.

  That name. I gripped the jug a little closer, Raif’s words flowing back: Ask the White Healer’s name….

  I lifted my head, looked the old man straight in the eye. “What is your name?”

  My voice was hardly strong, yet seemed to crack like thunder, spawning a fury I’d never before witnessed. “You dare…” The White Healer’s face turned red, his eyes bulged from their sockets, and his mouth contorted—as if trying to hold back what he was compelled to admit by that simple request.

  I was fascinated. I said louder, bolder, “Tell me your name!”

  At that the old man’s mouth yawned wide, wider than humanly possible, and a sound erupted, huge and deep, tearing fascination into horror. A name! Unintelligible, unpronounceable. Like nothing I’d ever heard; it took my breath with fear, as winter sucks away breath with cold. It rocked the walls surrounding us, the floor we stood on, and crashed over us like a wave….

  A moment frozen in time forever—the moment before impact. The moment when I understood the old man was never whom I’d thought.

  He was a Breeder.

  I didn’t think—Healer instinct to protect. My hands flew up, bracing. The jug flung from my hands and smashed against the table, splashing its contents over the table, the nest, the shell.

  And immediately I knew what a terrible mistake I’d made. About everything.

  THE CAT SCREECHED and leaped upon the table; Salva lurched to grab it back. His claws scrabbled, scoring the wooden top as the old woman dragged him off, leaving bursts of light. Everything else on the table was turning a lurid black—not a pitch black, but a swirl of darkest color, massing, spreading, trying to bridge and smother those glowing striations. And there was laughter in the wake of that hideous release of name. Deep, bellowing laughter—laughter that was for me, at what I’d done. It wasn’t pure water that I’d spilled. It wasn’t water at all.

  I lunged for the shell, trying to wipe or shake the liquid off, but it was already thickening, like some brackish tar—not on the shell but over it, wrapping the nest in a little dome. I cried out—

  The laughter quit abruptly. “Stop!” the White Healer commanded. He grabbed my arm. It was the first time he’d touched me and we both gasped at how violently the effort was repelled. His arm flew back from mine and my own arm smacked against the table in powerful reflex. He tried to grab my skirts but the cat got in the way, hissing and swiping, so he shrieked, “Do not touch it! Do not stop the spell!”

  “What have you done?” I cried, wrenching away from him. “What is this?” I dug my fingers into the stickiness, struggling to pry the whole mess from the table, and crying out at the pain of it. The tar was resin, sap from some vile thing, yew by the smell of it, and the nest…the nest…

  You have to see, Raif had urged. And I was seeing, my eyes truly opening. Everything around me was dissolving, like rain washing mud from stone. Only here ’twas the stone dripping away, leaving behind muddy filth. The sweet room and everything beyond were melting before me.

  Raif was right. I’d seen what I’d wanted to see, what I longed for: the world to be as sweet as a sunny day in Merith and a White Healer to put everything right again. A little world invented from my own history, as if my mind had been gleaned, picked over for images—the dear cottages, the waving woman, the red-haired children, Salva…all creations stitched together from memories. And all wavered and blurred as I stood clawing at the table. I saw my hands, saw them as they truly were, covered in blisters and blood, and knew why minion grew beneath that willow tree. A warning I’d refused to heed. ’Twas black willow I’d collected the branches from—hukon. The most evil, deadly thing, and I’d cut and plaited and made a nest from it. I’d placed my amulet within and spilled yew resin to trap, putrefy, and seal the shell to the hukon so that it would shatter if I tried to separate them. Laurent had warned me that I could destroy the shell without knowing, and now I could not have done worse had I been the White Healer—

  No: Breeder.

  Still I tried, working at the nest while the old man tried to get past the cat. There should have been at least some grim satisfaction that he could not stop my efforts—but I was frantic, screaming, “Laurent! Laurent!”

  On some perverse cue there was knocking at the cottage door, even as the door was melting away. Between the smears of wood, exactly as I might wish him, stood Laurent with his beautiful smile and clear blue eyes, except he was slurring in horrid monotone, “I am here,” before he too puddled into nothingness.

  My breath caught, ripping out its first sob. Raif was right. Laurent didn’t belong. That was not Laurent, but some pretty doll I’d stuck into this dream repeating all the things I wanted to hear him say: of happiness and sweet endings—nothing that the Rider had ever promised. I should have seen. I didn’t want to see.

  “What have you done to me?” I shrieked at the old man.

  But he was shrieking as loud as I—half in fury that I was trying to abort the spell, and half in struggle with the scratching, hissing tabby. “What have I done?” He screamed back, “Look at yourself, Guardian! This was your will, your doing!”

  “Will?” It stunned me, spurred me. Any victory I’d assumed had led me exactly to where the Breeders wanted me. From the moment I made the Insight spell to quell my curiosity to this grotesque fabrication. Curiosity and need—they’ll strike you where you are weak. And so they had.

  But I could still fight for what little was left. I still had a Healer’s need to save.

  I said viciously, “That was not will. This is will!”

  And I ripped the poisoned clump free, dragged the nest up to my chest, the resin sticking my fingers to the shardlike hukon. I turned as the last of the cottage dissolved, revealing those barren salt flats that I’d trudged across days—or hours—or maybe only minutes ago. Imploding, all of it—this sick fantasy created to erase all the dark things was now erasing itself. The walls of the cottage were gone; the square was gone, the other dwellings gone. Whatev
er gentle sunshine I’d imagined turned to some harsh, gray bulk of clouds, leaving me with the Breeder, the cat, and Salva. Salva stood up as her chair melted away. She came to me, head down, saying, “Not to mind, mistress….” And then the yellow sock she darned was shriveling into something snakelike, a twisted, limbless muscle of putrid yellow, writhing in her grip. I stumbled back. Behind me the Breeder bellowed, “Nahlgruth!” Salva’s head whipped up so that I caught her eye for the first time: liquid and black. And then the eye was the only thing that remained of the old woman, for she was expanding into something huge and inhuman. Nahlgruth—the Breeder had named it, summoned a beast. It was growing, already towering above me in a shape I could not fathom: a gargantuan trunk, reptilian skin, a frenzy of worms sprouting from an expanding skull. That writhing thing was merging as part of a third appendage, a tentacle.

  And the Breeder laughed at me, hideous and cruel. “You cannot stop what you’ve begun! You will destroy the amulet!”

  “No!” I screamed back, desperate. “No!” The tabby sprang, yowling, and landed by my feet. It wound between my skirts then leaped away with a look behind.

  I ran after it. It had to be an ally, showing me the way. The Breeder shouted and the Nahlgruth thundered forward in response—so huge now, the heat of its breath carried straight to my back. I kept running. My hands stung, the resin bonding them to the hukon. I rolled and rolled the awful thing between my palms, trying not to let it fasten to my skin, for ’twould shatter if my hands were sucked in. “Wait!” I yelled at the cat. “Wait!” I was losing sight of him—a streak of rust between the dull of the flats and the sky. I stumbled once, falling hard on my knees, seeing that even my clothes I’d believed so clean were frayed and filthy, and stinking of the fire that the villagers of Haver had set. I picked myself up, unstuck my hands from the nest, and ran on.

  And I thought again: Raif was right. My yearning had kept me in this dream; it was what brought this ruined end. Be careful what you need, the seer had said. I’d been warned from the start.

  I laughed at myself, a horrible and ugly sound. If Harker had warned me, he had also contrived this—finding me at the drinking pool, offering me the possibility of a White Healer to beckon me forward, to open me to mistake, and to leave my one champion behind in drugged sleep. I was a fool. A fool!