Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (10 page)

Brahnt made a low sound, like a whistle. “Maybe this is what stopped Gharain.”

But Gharain was already storming back, lashing out at that fiercely: “Only
once
will I be deceived by beauty.” Then he was before me, defiant and harsh, to prove so. “Speak! Why are you here?”

My eyes blinked hard against the early light, sick from the Sight, the three men swimming before me. Wilh and Brahnt kneeled close, studying; Gharain stood tall, eyes averted. Wilh was fair-haired and Brahnt was not; Brahnt was older than Wilh and Gharain together, and all in their own way handsome—though it was the one who demanded my confession who took my breath.

“You—you are Riders,” I said as no answer, hardly believing. I closed my eyes against the careening sky, insisting faintly, “It is not possible. You are too young.”

Wilh’s friendly laugh was unexpected. “This is from someone who looks barely old enough to be in a forest on her own.” Then, to Brahnt’s warning hiss, he answered calmly, “Just because I am not suspicious does not mean I am fooled.”

There was a long silence in which I could hear only my shallow breathing. The raw pain I’d sensed in Gharain now hung between all the Riders.

Riders
. I forced my eyes open. “I came to find you.” I couldn’t remember what I’d planned to say; tree branches and faces whirled above me. “My village needs help.… There are Troths.”

“Troths! At your village?” Brahnt snorted. “That is not possible. We beat their scavengers not seven nights back. They cannot regroup so quickly.”

“Not yet!” I was going to be sick. “But they will come.”

Wilh was curious. “Why would a village ask one so young to venture on such a journey?”

“They did not ask.” Then I added absurdly, for Gharain’s sake, “And I am not so young.”

That was ignored. “Not ask? A volunteer, then?”

“Are you alone? Were you appointed?”

These were not questions but interrogation—nothing that I was used to, nor could I answer anyway. My head reeled. I lay back down on the rock so that I could feel the cold of it, hearing Gharain swear again with impatience. How could they stomach the fight? How could they wield weapons as ferociously as Troths?

“She needs help.” This was Brahnt. I saw him through the fog squinting down at me. “Her hands—we don’t need to keep them tied. And wrap her cape more tightly; she looks cold. I’ll get her the drink.”

Pain, death, fear. The fear was the worst of it.

“Here.” It was Wilh, exchanging places with Brahnt. “Let me help you up.”

I flinched as he gripped my shoulders once more.
“Your—your battle.” The words stuttered out as he eased me upright. “It was very awful.…”

“They usually are,” Wilh answered calmly. He went to work at the knot in my binds. “Your horse,” he said with a nod thrown in Rune’s direction, “is concerned. Do you hear how he paws restlessly at the dirt?”

“He’s not mine,” I panted.

“He most certainly is,” murmured Wilh. “A horse claims his rider. Though this is … unexpected. There, now. Undone. I’m sorry for this.” He put a finger on one wrist. “A salve will make this better—”

I didn’t care. I pulled away and pressed my temples. My teeth chattered until my whole body shook. I lay back down. “My head. I cannot clear it.”

“Brahnt!” Wilh called. “Gharain!”

“Here.” It was Gharain’s voice close by. I tried to open my eyes again, wondering if he would look at me. He was wrapping something around my shoulders, something light and soft and comforting. His cloak. “She’s had a shock.” Gharain was turned to Wilh, who leaned next to him. “She needs warmth.”

His hand touched the back of my neck as he tucked in the cloak. I gasped at the jolt and his fingers jumped back. Still, he did not meet my eyes.

“This will help.” Brahnt had returned as well. He helped to prop me up against the rock and then held a cup steadily against my trembling lips, urging me to drink. I cannot say that I was graceful, but I managed to swallow.

I had never tasted anything like it before. The drink was
like warmed milk, rich and soothing, but there was a spice in it that I did not recognize—something slightly sweet, and likewise pungent, making it deliciously fragrant. I pulled the cup from Brahnt, ravenous for this medicine. It slid through my bones, slowing their shaking, and then cleared away the fog and eased my rapid breath. I finished it all.

Wilh and Gharain had shifted back, watching me. At least Wilh was. He leaned to touch a fold of the cloak to my mouth to wipe what I’d spilled. “Better now?” He smiled, his voice soothing.

I nodded. I gave him, even, a hint of a smile back, and looked to each of the men crouching there, cautiously hospitable to this trespasser. Calm now, the battle history done, I could feel only the energy they radiated. And it was good energy. Each with his burdens and prizes, perhaps, but it was good. It surprised me that I was not disturbed by them. A weathered seriousness was in Brahnt, something immensely sweet in Wilh, and something—however masked with anger—something terribly sad in Gharain.

He moved impatiently when Wilh leaned to me, snorting, “If she’s healed, then, might we
politely
ask why she’s trespassed?”

Aid was over. I relinquished the cup and cleared my throat. “I came seeking your help.” And then, remembering, “I have the sign—”

“The sign?” they asked in one voice. There was a heightened focus; the Riders drew close, waiting.

“In my pack. Here.” This must be the needed proof. I
shrugged the thing from off my shoulder and under my cloak. I began to open it, but Brahnt took my wrist and pulled my hand away gently and undid the loop and lifted the flap in my stead, withdrawing the deep-rose flag from underneath the remaining food packets and spreading out its length. There was an equal pause of breath between the three of them. They were disappointed.

“That,” said Gharain, not kindly, “is something that should be flying from the rowan tree in Bren Clearing. You are forbidden to come this far. You know it.”

“It was not my intention to trespass,” I answered carefully. “The Troth surprised me.” I told them as briefly as I could of the encounter and fight in Bren Clearing.

“The foxes bade you run to the hills?” Brahnt sounded disbelieving.

“You forget who is speaking,” Wilh answered for me, softly.

“Maybe,”
cautioned Brahnt. He studied the flag. “You are from Merith. You volunteered to make this journey?”

“No. I—I was summoned. I was bound to it.”

The Riders all turned to me. For a moment we faced off, three sets of eyes staring into a single, uncertain pair. And then I understood, murmured, “
My
sign …” I turned slightly, reached into the bodice of my dress, and pulled out the three feathers that I’d left tucked there. I laid the one the hawk brought me on the stone for their inspection, then added the other two as some heightened proof of it—my journey.

In the young light, the feathers were hardly special, hardly something for presentation—simple brownish objects, a little
weathered by the heat of my body. Yet the Riders did not laugh. Instead, there was a new hush in the already silent camp.

At length came, “Summoned, indeed.”

“The lark rises.”

Murmured portent from Brahnt and Wilh. Gharain said nothing. He simply reached out a tanned finger to touch the first feather very lightly. It shifted slightly on the rock and for a brief moment caught the gleam of dawn.

“You are Lark.” Finally, as he spoke, he turned and looked straight at me.

Into me.

I think Wilh and Brahnt stepped back. Or maybe they just disappeared in that expanded moment. And I think I whispered, “I am,” but I don’t clearly remember. What I remember is the color of his eyes. Gharain pulled my gaze with him as he stood up tall above me. I could not tear my eyes from his—their depth of sage green, glints of golden brown flecked within.

The light was rising, and with it a fresh breeze bringing the smell of the pine and eucalyptus. It caught Gharain’s chestnut curls and tossed them lightly.

“Lark,” he repeated, looking down at me. And he smiled.

My first dream.

BY MIDMORNING WE’D already passed two more of the great hills of Tarnec. We made easy speed on the horses. My frock did not allow me to sit over the horse as they did, so I hung my legs on one side and leaned back into Wilh’s chest—grinning madly half with terror, half with delight at this first ride—my hands gripping the pommel of his saddle. Brahnt followed behind us. Gharain rode ahead.

We were heading to Council—a Gathering, I was told. I expected I would be tried for trespassing, guilty as I was of it, and I didn’t resist. I needed their help and would beg my case there. The Riders were decisive, but there was nothing I sensed that made me fear them any longer. More importantly, they had sworn to me they would not let Troths destroy Merith. Whatever my punishment, I would believe that as truth.

This was not my intended way, bouncing lopsidedly into
the unknown, but I had completed my task. I’d found the Riders. I was no longer bound to a summons.

We cantered in single file, cloaks—rather than beards; I smiled—sweeping out behind us. I knew Rune followed last. Whatever Wilh had claimed about the horse choosing its rider must have been so, for since the previous night Rune had not been out of my sight. I wondered at the brown steed that Wilh rode, or Brahnt’s striking black mount, that these horses had chosen them. Certainly, Wilh sat, as did they all, like a part of the horse, with ease and assuredness. A few spoken words were enough to have the horses heading at swift speed toward their home.

When I asked what made it so, Wilh said, “Choosing is the horses’ right and their instinct, and so the camaraderie is pure. Riders protect the hills from poachers who would breed horses for sale, for such would distort the natural bond.” And then he said, “Rune, is it? You’ve named him well.”

Gharain’s stallion was the dappled color of smoke.

The dream man’s attention had been brief. He’d summarily handed me, pushed me almost, to ride with Wilh, and now I watched him leading us. I could not help but stare. A strong back, a long and straight spine. Gharain leaned forward into the stride, his head low, the curls blown back. Once or twice he turned to glance to his side and the slant of cheek stirred something inside of me. I could not help it. I could not shake the power of his smile. Gharain’s mouth was tense again, but I’d seen it differently—his face had lit as he spoke my name, as if he’d made some great discovery or some burden was lifted.
That light was gone now, shut and masked by something far more agonizing. Having acknowledged me, he’d turned his back—allowing no glimpse into his thoughts, allowing no smile. I was left to stare, haunted.

We stopped briefly before the sun reached full strength. A small stream careened between the trees, down from a height we’d not yet reached. Wilh took me from his horse and carried me to the water’s edge, setting me down so that I might drink and shake off the ride while the Riders guided the horses farther up the bank for their own rest. Rune stayed with me. I cupped handfuls of the clear water and Rune followed, air bubbling silver around his white muzzle. Then he took his head from the stream and snorted, blowing the cold droplets across my neck and making me laugh. Gharain was visible beyond Rune’s sturdy neck, purposefully turned away.

Brahnt came to offer me a helping of their food: cold meat and oatcake. I thanked him but refused, so he returned with what remained of my own supply—the slices of cheese and bread that had been carefully packed by Evie. As I ate, I looked down at my moss-green apron, brushed the crumbs from the beautifully colored weave. I thought of Evie saying such color could hide me if ever needed. It wasn’t needed now.

“It’s not much farther.” Wilh had come over. “We’ll arrive well before nightfall.”

I nodded.

“You did not share our meal. Was it not to your liking?”

“You did not expect a fourth in your group. I’d not take your portions.”

“Ah. Well, soon you’ll be able to rest comfortably. Your ankle will be tended.”

“Thank you.”

He was assessing me. “And your wrists.”

“Thank you.”

Wilh grinned and cocked his head. “Hmm. Considerate, extremely polite, a bit timid.”

This was nothing new, but I blushed anyway.

“And yet, not
timid
. You’ve courage enough to have made it this far from Merith.” He watched me, my cheeks turning scarlet. “Wary of us, then, I guess, and why not? We’ve frightened you with all of this.”

“And what is
all
of this?” I could be direct as well, he’d neglected to say.

But Wilh had turned, the smile leaving his face. He looked up the ridge to his horse, who was rearing abruptly with a harsh whinny. The other horses were pulling back too, white-eyed. And I turned to the stream with a gasp, for I understood suddenly what had brought their fear.

The little stream was expanding.

It started abruptly as a spurt of water, ripples coming to splash heavily at the edges of the bank, slivers of light leaping across the stream’s spreading surface. Wilh was rising to his feet, reaching his hand. Then the hill above was lurching—no, it was no more a hill, but a torrent of water rushing toward us. I heard Gharain yell for me to stand, but I’d no chance. Even as I shifted, the stream slammed into me, Wilh, and Rune, and the bank beneath us dropped away. Wilh was quick. He caught
my sleeve, and for a moment he had me, but then the sleeve tore and I was gone, caught up in the tumble, swallowing great mouthfuls of icy water. I do not swim as well as Evie, but even she could not have mastered this raging swirl—pummeled and tossed until which way was up was lost in froth. I could not even think to wonder where the others were flung.