Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (23 page)

Cargh said gently, “Lark, you are not without gifts. Even if you lack a Healer’s hands, as Life Guardian you might have some knowledge, some ability that could help.”

It was true enough. There should be,
must
be, something I could do to help. It was selfish to dwell on my own misery. I pushed away the ugliness and took a breath, trying to release worry, remembering how quick was the search for the stream that evening when I’d relaxed and allowed the Sight to open my senses. All the while the Riders remained patient and still.

Trust
, the king had said.
Trust that you will know what to do
.

Slowly the scents of water and the green grass and rowan tree drew in and calmed me, and I breathed and the men waited silently—

“The snowdrops,” I said abruptly. “Those tiny white flowers sprinkled through the grass.”

The three turned their heads to stare at me through the dark. “Do you mean wicks?” Gharain asked.

“Wicks, then. They pulled bad things from the Troth when he attacked me here. Maybe they’ll do that for Arnon.”

“I have not seen wicks,” said Cargh.

“Because they were shriveled by the Troth. But there might be more, somewhere that the beast did not spoil. We can spread out and search—”

“Do you remember where?” asked Gharain. “The clearing is large.”

“We’ll look! We can take torches—”

But Arnon cut over me, insisting, “You must not spread out. Lark would be vulnerable.”

Cargh turned to him. “We are all vulnerable now.”

“We can wait for morning,” Arnon hissed through a sharp breath.

“No,” I returned vehemently, “we cannot.” Arnon had little time. How long had the queen lasted?

We grasped for ideas in anxious silence. The night hovered, hushed and poised, in the way it seems when things wait just behind the dark. I’d spoken of the Troth; now I felt its filmy eyes on me. I felt it on my fingers—its sluglike, spongy texture. And the reeking filth as well, which I’d felt consuming Arnon’s arm … I wanted to go back to the stream and wash the taint away.

And, surprised, I said, “The stream!”

“That was already tried—”

“I know, Gharain, but if moving water cleanses, then let me gather snowdrops—wicks—the dead ones. I’ll wash them—they might be refreshed.”

Cargh hesitated. “It is possible—”

“I’ll go with Lark.” Gharain jumped to his feet.

And the two of us took a torch and bent our heads over the
grass, plucking up the brown and shriveled flowers, roots and all, as many as we could. I found my hands shaking, pulled between desire and fear, and the desperation in all this.

“Will this do?” Gharain asked, showing me his handful under the torchlight.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” I fretted, holding out my own pitiful, crumbled bits. “I’m making a guess at all this. I don’t know if this will work.”

“Simply having an idea helps Arnon. ’Twill keep him alert, hopeful.”

“Hope is not a cure,” I hissed, frustrated. All of this was blind—I didn’t know what I was doing.

“Right now it is all we have,” Gharain said grimly, and bent his head to study the ground.

A few minutes more and we both held sizable enough handfuls. I ran behind him to the stream, taking care to be quiet for the Riders’ sakes. I dropped my small bundle of wicks on the ground with Gharain’s and kicked off my boots to step into the stream. Gharain kneeled on the bank and held the torch, silently handing me the clump of dead flowers. I plunged them into the little trail of running water, remembering how Grandmama would wash clover or blueberry blossoms—a gentle swish in the cold water and then lifting them up to let drip between opened fingers.

Gharain leaned the torch forward so we could see.

“Nothing,” I sighed. The wicks remained brown and lifeless.

“Try again,” he suggested. “Hold them there a moment longer.”

And I dunked my hands again into the shallow stream and let the fresh water run between my fingertips. The night was cool, the water cooler still, but it felt good. Some of the anxiety dissipated, washed downstream. I thought of Nayla saying we offered love to the Earth and in return it was bountiful. I thought of the pleasure of digging my hands into earth to plant, to weed, and what it offered back—

“Lark?” Gharain said gently.

I lifted out my hands, shook the water away.

Gharain tipped the torch again. The wicks were not as brown, nor as shriveled as they were before—the water did seem to have drained the Troth’s presence out of them—but they were still limp, lifeless.

“Oh,” I murmured, disappointed.

“It was a good try.” Gharain touched a hand under mine cupping the wilted flowers.

I gasped. The energy ran between hands, and the wicks suddenly sprang to life—the leaves and flowers plumping and greening before our eyes, even as they fell from our shocked grasp.

We laughed aloud, quickly clamping hands over our mouths lest we wake anyone. And then our eyes met—equal gazes of thrilled surprise.

He affected me, he’d said. The strike of lightning, the extinguishing of visions, and now the power to burst life into something that seemed dead, all from his touch—

I had to look away. I had to remember. If not love for Evie, Gharain was still the one who would kill me.

Gharain cleared his throat. “Arnon.” We rose quickly.

To our dismay, we’d not found a cure. It was impossible to make a paste, a poultice, or anything else from the wicks. They’d sprung back; now they would not crush or be ground smooth, and they popped out from any wrappings we tied onto the silently agonizing Arnon. We tried laying the individual stems along his arm, but though he claimed he could feel a healing chill at their touch, they rolled off his skin immediately. It would have been comical if Arnon’s pain had not been so deep.

“Some magic,” growled Cargh. It was the first time I’d seen him out of sorts.

“There must be something else to this,” Gharain said, exasperated after so many attempts. “If we could but stick them to his skin.”

Cargh snorted, but I said quickly, “Sap will work. From the rowan.”

“No,” the three men decreed simultaneously. “The rowan is sacred,” continued Cargh. “No branch may be stripped from it.”

“Then I’ll ask for one.” And I was away, running to the rowan. They let me go alone.

Within the wide boundary of its branches, I paused.
Wait
, I told myself.
Wait
. Time was scarce, but I could not make a request of the tree with the jumble of emotions tearing through me. I put my hands against my mouth, breathed hard into them, and flung my hands away, again and over again until I panted, sweating and empty. Only then did I wipe my palms on my
leggings and step forward to place them on the smooth, gray bark, listening to the ancient music few could hear. I thought of Arnon, and the ugly hukon that had killed the queen, trapped the amulets, and threatened the fragile balance that brought life to this Earth.

And then I whispered, “Please help.” I looked up into its dark canopy. “An offering?”

Silence. The rowan’s song—like distant bells—whispered through the leaves. My fingertips pressed against the horizontal etching of lines running up the trunk, feeling its hum running into my fingers—

A wave of energy spilled through—a power from eons of seasons, of standing watch over this magical clearing. I was not the first to ask of the rowan, for I felt the presence of many others who’d stood beneath this tree entreating help long before my time. Voices of anguish, fear, and even, sometimes, greed. The roots ran deep; the leaves branched high—connecting earth and sky to this place where a small being could stand and make a request.

And the tree spoke to me.

Bring light into dark
.

There was a rustle in the branches high above, and through the leaves dropped a twig at my feet.

Smiling, I pressed hand over heart and bowed to the rowan, picked up the gift, and ran back to the others.

The twig was fresh, covered in young, fine hairs and rich with oil. Neither Cargh nor Gharain spoke, but Arnon gave me a grateful look.

“I don’t know if this will do anything,” I warned him quietly.

“But you tried, and I thank you.” His voice was very tight.

The sap was smeared as lightly as possible, and the wicks we laid in rows up his arm—and they held. Arnon took a deep breath and said it was not so bad anymore. I didn’t expect that any of us believed him, but after a few moments his tightly clenched eyes relaxed and his head tipped to one side in some sort of rest.

It was all we could do for now. Cargh claimed he’d take the watch and told us to go back to sleep for the last hour or so; I went to the stream to wash my hands.

And I washed and washed, and tried to erase everything I’d seen from Arnon and dreamed about Gharain—of death and pain and heartbreak, of the Breeders of Chaos wreaking destruction over all. Somehow, finding the Life amulet would help make this stop, but now I didn’t even know if I would live long enough to recapture it.

Gharain had followed me. He bent and rinsed his hands—we both worked silently. Even from his distance I could feel him like a shock, warm and vital. Despite everything I’d foreseen, my desire still burned.

I had to end this terrible, futile need.

I sat back on my heels and faced him. “Laurent said no truth should be withheld,” I began, then gritted my teeth, meaning to be bolder. “This connection between us pulls me strongly. But …”

My voice fell away; Gharain had met my gaze in the dark.
For a moment we were frozen in place, eyes locked. The air stilled, and the water at our feet was the last remaining sound jingling over the stones.

And then Gharain stood up, took two steps toward me, and pulled me to my feet, his touch charging through my arms.

I think time stopped. He would kiss me; his mouth dipped to mine. And all the rumors I’d ever heard of first kisses—a sweet press of lips, shy glances, and a stolen touch—this would be none of these. This would be fierce and full and all-consuming. And this would shatter me—a million pieces of desire, and despair. I could not have that kiss. I had to look Evie fair in the eye someday.

I shoved him back, stumbling from my own force. He reached out to catch my arm, to right me, but I found my footing and jerked my arm away.

“Lark!”

“Why? Why would you do that? You said yourself we must be strong!” My hands went to my cheeks; they were fiercely hot. “I promised myself not to let you—you
burn
in me so deeply. And then you do
that
, and it ruins every resolve!”

“And so you push me away?”

“Yes!”

That surprised him. “Yet you speak of our connection—”

“Not through a kiss! You cannot kiss me!” I clenched my fists again.

He said roughly, “A kiss is the most powerful of touches. Of
connections
.”

“You cannot want this—
me
.”

“And why can’t I? Deny that you want me.”

I ignored that. “For two profound reasons, Gharain!”

“All of two?” He was mocking in his defense. “And those being …?”

“That you are meant for another. And, that you will kill me.”

He disregarded the first reason. “Kill you? How?”

“By sword.”

He laughed. “I already tried that. Fate thankfully intervened—”

“Rune intervened,” I interrupted to correct. “But fate will ultimately have her way. It is what I have foreseen.”

His breath exhaled harshly. “No. That cannot be. Our destinies entwine—
merge
, not destroy. You know this as well as I.”

Destinies entwined. It hurt to hear that, and it was likewise thrilling. I didn’t want to remember that he was destined rather to fall in love with Evie, kill me. Still, if I focused on those agonizing truths, I might find strength enough to keep away. “You don’t want me.”

His smile was devastating. “You’re wrong. It’s all that I’ve wanted. I’ve fought myself from the beginning. I didn’t want to believe I deserved—”

“No! Don’t say it!” I was fierce. “There is no beginning—it’s too late! It’s always been too late.” There was a tiny, miserable pause. “I have the Sight, Gharain. It does not lie.”

“But maybe it can be misinterpreted.” He growled this; I’d hurt him. Gharain turned and stormed off, kicking over a torch as he passed it. The flame went out.

Misinterpreted? If only I had. For just a moment I clung to that possibility—that I’d erred. But no flash of white had protected me from this sword strike; it had sliced straight through. And I’d promised Evie, and Gharain had held her so close.…

“Maybe,” I whispered after him. “But not if you’d seen what I’ve seen.” And not if you’d promised.

It was good that he was going to kill me. At least all this pain would be short-lived.

A RUSTLE, A thump, a shout, and a shriek of absolute terror woke us in the early dawn.

“Arnon!” I gasped, eyes flying open.

But it was not Arnon. In a flash, the Riders were up with swords raised, all pointing to where I lay stunned and blinking sleep from my eyes. It occurred to me that I was about to be cleaved in half by eleven warriors at once, but I suppose my new dream of death left me less than concerned at the swords raised over my head. This was not the way I was going to die.