Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (39 page)

I turned then and moved a little apart. I did not deny his words, but I needed a moment to let them sink in. To my side the orb pulsed its steady light. I had done that. I had brought the amulet home. Whatever uncertainties and fears had thrilled through, determined to wreck me, I endured. I’d brought it home.

I shifted, then stared, startled, because I saw there were other items in the room. A narrow bench had been hidden by the size of the font; four books were placed side by side upon it. For all the intricate crafting of the amulets’ font, this was quite spare in comparison, almost too simple.

The king knew my thought. “This keep was never intended for them.”

“These are the Guardians’ books,” I said, “which hold their destinies. Is this how we find the others?”

“Guardians awaken when crisis demands,” he reminded me. “They don’t know it yet, of course, but they are ready to be wakened, just as you were. The books are not necessary, but they do hasten discovery. And since they were loaned to us for this purpose, we should not ignore the opportunity. Read only the first page, the single verse that begins each book. It will hold the clues for your search. Aid the Guardians as you can.”

I walked over to the bench. The books lay so simply, so harmlessly on their makeshift shelf. There was my book, with the orb etched on it. The covers of the other three books
were also etched: a shell, a stone, and a small, slightly curved blade. The books were beautifully made—the gilding on the edges, the smooth leather bindings—and yet they were not ornate; there was no fanfare to these lives, or the fates held within. And what were those fates? I wondered. How did they merge and intertwine with mine? Would the amulets each be returned and Balance restored? And if I opened to any page, would it speak of beauty or horror?

“It is not for you to read ahead, Lark,” the king whispered solemnly to quench my curiosity. “Leave them the freedom of choice. That is the honor of Balance.”

And what would be their choice when faced with the magnitude of the task—would they believe they could do it any more than I had? Poignance. Hope. That much I could feel from the books. Beyond that … “I have seen them, these Guardians,” I murmured. “They are young. We are all so very young.”

The king smiled. “Worry will not help them. Trust yourself.”

I laughed a little. “That was what Twig said.”

“A wise gnome, I’d say.”

My eyes widened. “You sent him,” I whispered. “You helped me through. The moonstone, the ally token, the things you meant to give to me—”

His smile broadened, though he shook his head. “The rowan tree is our friend. She helped me help you. Lark, remember Twig’s words:
Your truth will be your greatest aid
. The ally token was your truth. The voices you heard were carried within your own memory. You trusted yourself.”

I said, almost breathless, “The ruby drop that Twig gave me, that the Bog Hag wanted, which allowed me to step through to the Myr Mountains. Was it the Bog Hag’s tear?”

“A tear, but not hers. The last red drop of our queen’s blood, before the hukon turned it black.” The reverence was plain in his voice. “Our Guardian of Life is the essence of all things of this Earth. Her blood is every being’s blood. We must preserve a single pure drop to return to the rightful harbor so that souls will not be left in Chaos. Life returns to Death, Lark. Ever Balance.”

“You hadn’t intended to give it to me.”

His eyes crinkled. “It was my charge to return the drop, but since you took, shall we say, a shortcut to the Myr Mountains, I thought you might need such an offering to help you through. The Hag will carry it home.”

The Bog Hag. I’d crossed through one of Death’s realms to reach the Myr Mountains.

The king was murmuring, “The last pure drop of your blood was saved as well.”

“How—how do you know that my blood was still pure? I was in the mountains forever, it felt; how is it possible it was not completely tainted?”

“Because you would be dead.” The king looked at me very calmly. “Lady Lark, the queen was of great age; she had not your youthful strength.”

I asked what I’d always wondered: “Did she know?”

He made a faint smile. “Remember that we willingly make our sacrifices.”

“But then she
let
Erema steal the amulets!”

“Unless the amulets are destroyed, war will ever wage between Balance and Chaos, for even Balance must be balanced,” he reminded me. “And yet Tarnec was breached so easily this time—perhaps the queen understood that a new era of Guardians was necessary, that the Keepers of Tarnec as well must strengthen to their task.” He waited a moment before saying, “The Life Guardian keeps watch long after the other Guardians have passed on. She knew a strong successor would be needed. She trusted you.”

And now it was his time. The king was fading before me. My hands reached out reflexively to draw him back, to shake him into solid form, but he pulled away from me a little with a heavy step, leaning hard on his cane. My voice went shrill: “That is made of hukon!”

The king turned his head to me with a wry grimace. “Balance is necessary, even when it seems a burden.” He raised a gnarled finger to point at me. “You carry yours within.”

I could feel the scar as he said it. The hukon stab would never be healed.

He looked up then, this king—eyes closing and a beautiful smile making his face glow. “Complement,” I heard. He was going to her.

“My love, my Life …,” he said very softly, and faded from sight. The hukon stick fell sharply to the ground, the crystal bursting into a thousand shards of flame and burning the evil wood to ash before I’d had time to catch my breath.

Done. I was Tarnec’s queen.

It was dark when I reached the top of the stairs. The hour was very late, for I passed no one in the corridor. I walked back to my chamber, pushing open the heavy door with a heavy heart, glad then when I saw Rileg, the fire in the hearth, and some tea keeping warm nearby. I scratched Rileg’s ears, took up my cup, and sat for a while watching it, waiting for the liquid to shiver, to prove I trembled at the challenges ahead, the way I’d crumpled, shivering on the cobblestones that day in Merith. But I did not tremble.

Nayla had left me a sprig of minion next to the teapot, a faint scent of honey and mint. And then I noticed something else on the tray. I gathered them with the minion, got up, and turned to the door to the garden.

He was in the pool; I knew he would be. The water made the lightest rippling sound from his swim. I walked along the footpath. The candlelight in the windows glowed golden, but the stones were silvery under starlight. And then Gharain was rising from the water, pushing his streaming hair back with his hands.

He took a deep breath. “The king …”

I shook my head. And then I ran to him, and he reached for me over the stone edge of the pool and clasped me in his warm, wet arms as I kneeled on the stone to claim his embrace, whispering, “I am sorry.”

“It is all right,” he murmured. “I knew this would be. We all knew it.”

I pressed my forehead against his chest. “I feel I should weep for him, but I’m not sad. He was happy to be with his Guardian again. His queen.”

Gharain drew away from me then, but only slightly—enough to look into my eyes and brush my now-damp hair back from my shoulder. And then he smiled his beautiful smile and said, “
My
queen.” And he kissed me.

That brought the tears up, but only a little, only from joy. Gharain kissed my mouth, my cheek, my jaw, and my neck, letting his fingers trail over my collarbone to my shoulder blade, where he turned me slightly so he could press his lips against the small black point hovering just above my birthmark. A mark of light and of dark burned into one flesh.

“I wish I could take this scar from you,” he whispered against my skin.

“It is mine to bear.” I reached for his face, to draw him back to my gaze. “We each make our sacrifices.” And I laughed a little that I’d said that. Tarnec had its influence.

He nodded. And then, perhaps in response, he said, “Laurent left earlier this evening. He’s gone to find your cousin.”

“Evie … 
Laurent
? Why?”

“Maybe he’s just making sure that no Breeder finds her first.”

Our birthmark. A bond seeking. A Complement to be determined. “Gharain! I never told her of it: of our marks, what I’d learned in Tarnec, the amulets, none of it! I never had the chance—I never thought she’d be gone. Oh, what sort of queen
am I that I’ve left it all undone?” I leaned my head into his shoulder. “I am …” And I laughed a little. “To say that I am awed by what has happened is to simplify all feelings.”

Gharain kissed the top of my head. “You are strong, love. And you are not alone.”

It made me remember what I still held in my fist. I opened my hand to show Gharain. “Look what Nayla left for me.”

The objects were small and my palm was shadowed, but there was a glitter from them nonetheless. Gharain’s finger brushed the minion flower first, briefly, murmuring, “The most powerful of healing herbs. That is for you.” But then he touched the two rings, which lay as sparkling circles against my skin, and said, “You understand what these are.” Gharain raised his eyes to catch mine as I shook my head. “They are gifts. Gifts from the Earth—precious metal mined from her stores, passed from Life Guardian to Life Guardian. Look closely.”

He cupped his hand beneath mine and raised it so we could both look at the delicate things. They glittered, catching the starlight, and warming from our completed touch. Crafted from strands, seemingly of a spider’s thread—strands of brilliant gold and copper, woven in an intricate, webbed design, no wider than a blade of grass and almost as thin.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

“It is a sign of the Keepers and their allies,” Gharain whispered back.

The weaving design—like what the young men of Merith made from leather. Allies, all. I took the smaller of the rings and slid it onto my finger. It was warm—like a blade of heat
that ran from my finger and into my whole body. Simple and whole.

I held the other ring out to Gharain. “Rule with me.”

He smiled, and after a moment lifted my hand, pressed a kiss by the remaining ring, and closed my fist over it. “I will. But Tarnec needs its queen first.”

And then he released me and glided to the other side of the pool, where he walked up the steps, grinning—because he knew I watched him—and pulled on his leggings and shirt.

“Come,” he called out. “The dawn is nearly here. Let us watch it together.”

And so we passed once more through the quiet halls, our bare feet silent on the paving, and stepped out onto the back terrace, which circled Castle Tarnec to where the cliff dropped away. We faced northward first, to see the Myr Mountains still dark as night. Then we turned, walking to where we could look east at the sun piercing its first rays over the hills of Tarnec, watching the new light flood over the pale canyons and green valleys. We gazed south—where Merith nested at the foot of Dark Wood, and the Cullan foothills and Niler marshes carved out their empty and crowded spaces. And last we turned west, to see the wealth of the land behind Castle Tarnec—grass and tree, stone, field, and cottage refreshed in the morning light. A pale moon was just setting beyond the rise of woods. I wondered which direction Evie had chosen.

And then the morning was waking the birds—their songs were pealing through the air, and my eye was caught by something shooting up from the ground to catch the first light.

“Look!” I cried. “Look, there, how the lark rises against the dawn!”

Gharain turned to me; I could sense him watching me, his beautiful smile curving his mouth.

“I see her,” he said.

IT IS TRUE that this story was born in the field behind my house, where beauty and magic grow faster than I might try to mow them back. But that this story became a book is due to the collective life breathed into it, and so I owe heartfelt thanks …

To my agent, Jenny Bent, who took a seed and coaxed forth a bud, and to my editor, Diane Landolf, who nurtured that bud into blossom. That you both believed so wholeheartedly in this story leaves me speechless.

To my friends in my writers group, the dynamic trio of authors—Tatiana Boncompagni, Melanie Murray Downing, and Lauren Lipton—who so carefully critiqued the way-too-many installments with keen eyes, warm hearts, and good humor.

To those who paused in their own creative pursuits to go beyond the call of friendship, sisterhood, and spousal duty
by accepting armloads of pages with enthusiasm and offering incredible support along the way: John Gahl, Lisa Worth Huber, Lisa Klein, Jacklyn Maddux, Kathy Waugh, and Jonathan Stern. And those who lent their artistic talents: Deborah Chabrian, Ed Martinez, and Melanie Kleid.

To my family at large—my mother, Diana; my father (in memoriam), Hillary; my sister, Kathy; and my brother, Lawrence, who shared the growing up in a house where creative expression was a given.

And to my family at home—Jonathan, Christopher, and Jeremy—who all graciously accepted my setting up camp on the most prominent chair in the house because it is my favorite place to write. I love you.