Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (12 page)

“But what of the Council? I was brought here for that.”

“Council will be tonight,” the woman said. “You shall rest and heal first.”

Nayla was her name. She announced herself my attendant, and with brisk efficiency directed my arrival. Trays placed here, towels stacked there—she helped me limp to the bath, shushed a young girl who was pointing to my shoulder, and
asked brightly, “Found on the hills, were you?” I’d barely nodded before buckets of freshwater poured over my head,
warm
freshwater.

“A spring-fed pool, my lady, but our kitchen fires burn directly below it,” Nayla explained, then turned a stern eye to my filthy hair. I gave over to the luxury of assistance. Not even at market day had I been so close to so many people at once, and yet here their touch showed nothing disturbing, simply the soft hum of tranquil energy as they scrubbed me clean with soaps and oils, unfamiliar but enticingly perfumed.

“Colraigh and elspen,” said Nayla with a nod when I murmured something about it. “They take to water. In it their scent expands. Some are growing just outside.” She tsked, “Pine sap,” and scoured my elbows.

I looked out at the girls drawing the water, running along a footpath leading to the wide pool. The garden was enormous; one wing of the castle must have been built to surround it. The deep-green lawn was bordered by white flowers—not quite the shape of roses—jumbling up the stone pillars spaced evenly along the cloister. Ivy and boxwood draped and bordered as well—a tease to conceal stone and space. This was not what I’d imagined. The directions to Bren Clearing had not included this.

At last, cleaned of three days’ travel, I was dried with a sheet of linen warmed by the sun and helped from the tub. The other assistants withdrew with their buckets and bath while Nayla lifted a gown from the bed. “For sleep,” she said just as I yawned, and exchanged the linen sheet for this. “Now come sit by the window and eat something while I attend to your ankle.”

There was stew, hard cheese, and bread. There was fruit, and some sort of cake with a sugared icing. I sat back with a handful of blackberries, not quite relaxed but lulled anyway into the afternoon, breathing in the scent of those pretty flowers, feeling the shifting sun glint here and there across my face while Nayla unwound neat folds of linen strips into a brass bowl that she’d warmed in the fireplace. She poured in two tinctures, and I watched their clear colors turn deep violet as they mixed. A rich scent wafted up from the shallow depth. Pungent herb and dark flower—I thought, almost, that I knew it, but then the memory was gone.

“Minion, stonecrop, and thyme,” Nayla said, catching my faint frown. “Heat releases their power.”

“Heat releases the healing properties of these herbs,” I mused sleepily. “And water releases the scents of colraigh and elspen. What else?”

The maidservant laughed, pointed at the pretty flowers climbing in the cloister pillars. “The scent of the bell roses. They soothe and heal as well.”

Piece by piece, Nayla wrung out the linen and wrapped my ankle. There was a pleasant heat, and then I felt a tingle swirling my ankle, reaching deep. I nearly jumped.

Nayla nodded. “The healing begins.” Then she nodded again with approval at my yawn. “And that is the tea having its effect. Come take your rest.”

Cloud-soft, I told Nayla, sinking into the bed. Sunlight streamed through the green leaves in the cloister, making dappled patterns of shadow over the white comforter; a light
breeze stirred the shadows and ushered in the sweet smells of the garden—

“Wait!” I said, rousing as I heard her collecting her things. “Water, fire, and air you have told me. But what growing things are enhanced by the earth?”

“My lady, it does not work the same for Earth,” Nayla responded, though she was now by the door. “With Earth, it is what
we
do that enhances its bounty.”

“I don’t understand.”

“But you, my lady? Do you not? ’Tis a cycle: plants harvested from the earth heal us. And it is we who, in turn, affect the earth. What we give to Earth encourages her ability to provide for us.”

“What—provide what?” I murmured. I was nearly out. “What do we give?”

It was so sweetly said, my lashes flicked down. “Love.”

I dreamed of home. I dreamed of things I loved: the smell of cut grass, lilacs blooming, the nudge of Rileg’s cold nose. I dreamed of the comfort of Grandmama’s plump and sturdy embrace, Quin’s laugh, and Evie’s fair gaze. I dreamed of Gharain’s smile.

But then another, terrifying smile consumed all, yawning huge and black and greedy, whispering,
“There you are.…”
I woke with a gasping jolt.

Shadows had deepened across the room, but the rich scent of the bell roses lingered still, a reminder of how distinctly my life had changed in a single day. The sweet dream was gone.
Home was gone. I sat up slowly, hugged my arms around my knees to clasp what was familiar.

As if she’d waited to hear me stir, Nayla bustled in, arms laden with a splendid-looking gown. “A pleasant sleep I trust, Mistress Lark?”

Maybe enchantment could be broken if confronted. I fixed her with a severe glare. “Tell me: Am I magicked? Is this a spell?”

Nayla laughed at me. “Now that would be a most difficult task: to weave all of this into a spell.” She nodded at the room, the garden beyond, and, I assumed, the entire realm. “Too exhausting” was her pronouncement. She draped the gown on the chair and proceeded to light the candles. I scrutinized each motion with suspicion, but the tasks were too ordinary to be working enchantments. Finished, Nayla turned, hands on hips, wondering that I waited. “Time to rise, my lady; the king waits to meet you.”

King
. My mouth fell open. “But there was to be a Council! Of the Riders.”

“And so there is. A Council and a king. Here, now, I’ll take the wrapping from your ankle.” Since I’d not moved, Nayla came and drew my foot from beneath the tangle of bedclothes. “It’s dried quite nicely,” she murmured, inspecting the linen strips. She pulled a tiny blade from her pocket to cut them away.

“But
king
!” I’d imagined a simple circle of the dozen Riders, out of doors … a bonfire, maybe. “There is no need, surely! I’ve asked only for help, for a village too insignificant in size to merit the attention of a
king
.” Even as a trespasser, I too was
insignificant; this could not be necessary. I wondered how enormous the king would be, how opulent his throne. Someone so powerful would overwhelm the Sight. What terrible history would he pass?

“Do not fret so, or I might nick your skin.” Nayla sawed at the stiffened cloth patiently until it split up my ankle and came away as one piece. Then she looked up at me. “All will be well, Mistress Lark. There, now. Try out your foot.”

All will be well
. Grandmama’s words. I wiggled my ankle back and forth. Healed, no pain—nothing that could help to postpone or protest. I should have thanked her, but I did not.

“Very good,” she pronounced. “Now, then. Let us have you dressed.” She walked over to the chair and waited for me to obligingly follow. Off with one gown, on with another—she was leaving me little time to hesitate, to think on what was coming.

“A good color, I think. Come, my lady, take your look and say that you approve.” Nayla had turned me so that I faced the looking glass while she did up the buttons. A rare, full-length view. I stood tallish and slight-framed in the candlelight, a reflection too beautifully tinged by the flickering gold to be believable. Hip-length hair, serious brow, and skin, already tanned from the sun, now glowed. Even my brown eyes were dusted with golden light. I blushed and focused on the exquisite gown. Moss green: a bodice of braided ribbons stitched together with gold and copper threads, skirt and sleeves in richly soft velvet. Nayla’s nimble fingers made quick work of the tiny loops at the back.

I was suspicious too that this would fit so well, be of my favorite color. But the maidservant shrugged as she stood behind me, busy. “We have clothes to spare for our guests. I chose well, did I not? You look quite lovely.”

“Very opportune, these spares.”

Nayla finished the top button. I could feel her smile all the way through her fingers. “No spell, my lady,” she said with a little pat to my shoulder. “ ’Tis exactly as you see it. Come, now. Let us get you to the hall.”

The passages glowed with torches ensconced in iron fastenings hung high above the tapestries. I counted them as we walked, abandoning the task after thirty, for there was much to look at, to wonder at. The stones held spatters of onyx and mica; I brushed my fingers against the hewn blocks, over the rough or smooth breaks. Then my hands crossed the tapestry borders, silk and woolen threads adding layers of lush texture. I drew in warmth; I drew in a richness of time. There was history here, ancient, deep, and powerful.

I do not know how long we walked or how many turns; it seemed, at least, a complex distance. But suddenly we were before a set of enormous doors of oiled oak, carved in intricate pictures—spirals of vines, leaves, fruits, richly darkened with age and what must have been countless years of polish. Pulled by guards who stood within, they opened wide before us.

I gasped.

A golden glow from what seemed a thousand candles flooded the enormous room with brilliant warmth. More tapestries—these as wide and tall as our cottage—hung from
the walls, gleaming in the flickering light. Stories played out on these weavings, green and gold tales of fantastical creatures, enchanted groves, and exquisitely blue magical lakes. Bits of vermilion stitching shone so radiant in the candlelight the color alone seemed to heat the room.

Along one length of wall stood a line of carved wooden seats, six of them, all unique, all empty. Other than that, the room was bare of furnishings, and of people. Or so I thought, until my gaze traveled to the far end, where two great fireplaces burned brightly, between which stood a grouping of men—the Riders, I imagined; there were twelve together—and four women. Gharain stood with them, I knew immediately. And there was one more: a tall, slight, white-haired figure seated in an oak chair centered on a slight platform, his hands resting on something he held in his lap. Not as opulently presented as I’d anticipated, but I did not doubt this was the king. One of the Riders shifted his stance, and I saw there was a second chair. This, like the rest, was empty.

“Go on,” said Nayla, turning to me with a smile. She stepped to the side so I was exposed.

The group faced me, and my heart shrank. More strangers to meet, more histories of violent battles—the bombardment on my senses would begin even before I had to admit my trespass and beg for help before this king. My fingers gripped the edges of my velvet sleeves.

“Go on,” repeated Nayla. “Your Council.”

She left then. The great doors shut.

GO ON.

They watched me. The king, Gharain, the other Riders—all eyes on me as I hesitated. Even from this distance I sensed the strength present here. A good strength, but so powerful I had to catch my breath.
Do not let it overwhelm
, I charged silently. And then just as silently, I reminded,
Ninny
. I took a deeper breath and walked forward, eyes to the ground, trying not to see how small I was in the enormous room.

Gharain stiffened. I felt him brace just as I braced, knew that he looked away while the others watched me approach. His rejection stung, but then the whir of the group’s energies overtook—the inevitable charge and spiral, surrounding and singing into my body. I faltered again, not from any discord but because I was
not
being made dizzy by their hum. Unusual
and unreal in its ease, I’d stumbled because there was nothing to ward against.

“Come forward.” The king’s voice carried across the hall, propelled me center before the platform. I kept my gaze down, bowed as I assumed I must.

He did not demand, but neither was it a request: “May I see you.” I gathered courage, raised my eyes to the withered man in the chair.

A smile hinted at the king’s mouth. Lines were etched there, finely drawn, intricately webbed lines that spread out along his paper-thin cheeks. He was old—no, he was ancient. His hair was brilliantly white, with only a strand or two of gray that matched his velvet robe—a sweet gray, like a rabbit’s fur. My gaze strayed. The borders of his robe were trimmed with silvery threads, which sparkled a bit when he breathed. His hands rested on a book in his lap, a handsome, smallish, leather-bound thing tooled with inlay on the cover—a circle threaded with filigree—as ancient-looking as the fingers that touched it, and yet unworn … or unused. I thought of the fluttering books that the ugly Harker had leaped for in his panic to claim them. This one rested so still beneath the king’s wrinkled hands—

“Your eyes,” the king insisted gently.

I looked again to the aged face, to the clear, piercing stare under the white brows. I recognized then the connection: these eyes were Gharain’s eyes, green with those flecks of golden brown, earth-colored and warm. The gaze went deep, straight into my very center. Yet it was his faint smile that was
unnerving. It hinted at both sadness and, more strangely, hope, as if he recognized me as well.