Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (4 page)

The dream pushed into my mind then, unwelcome. I’d not slept again that first night, nor hardly the next one, lying awake instead, seeing nothing but the contorted face of the young man. And while I could not hold the first dream, the second one would not go away. Both nights it worked its way into my head and taunted me with the image that I was to die with such violence at the hands of someone hardly more than a boy.

This second dream was heavy with terror. The face swam up before me, powerfully handsome, but there was no beauty in this. He was high over me, as though I lay in the dirt, his features ferocious—anger, and a deeper horror that I could not fathom. He was shouting—I could not discern his words—and then he raised his sword high. It was meant to come down
on me, I knew it; I knew I was dead. A flash of white then wiped him out, and I was in the corner of my room, shivering and sick.

Signs. Dreams. I did not know what to do with my feelings.

“Lark!” A short whisper at my side.

I looked around and grinned briefly with relief to see Quin. His cheerful nature usually steadied me, his energy as simple and pleasing as any of Earth’s wild creatures. Quin was like a brother: both great comfort and merciless tease. But today there was no teasing. He plunked down on the well beside me, his reed flute dangling between his fingers. It was never far from his grasp.

“Lark.” He lightly touched the returning frown on my brow and whispered, “I’m sorry it was you who found Ruber Minwl’s hand.”

Not to Quin, not to anyone, could I admit I was thinking of those dreams of desire and death. I nodded back, unfortunately glad that there was a grim tale to cover my private distress, and Quin slung a comforting arm around my shoulder. We both turned to pay attention to the Gathering.

Murmurs of concern were running through the crowd. Heads turned to search for Raif, to offer sympathy. Raif stood tall off to the side, taller than most of our young men. He kept a tight rein on his feelings, staying quiet under the attention, though his jaw was clenched. I glanced at Evie, but her face gave nothing away.

“Mistress Hume, we thank you,” Dame Keren said to my grandmother as she left the platform. “This is a dark tale
indeed—one that reopens old wounds, and suggests new worry. I think we are in agreement that we must take seriously the fox’s bringing of the hand.” She looked around the open square. “That the creature did indeed want to warn us?”

General rumbles of “Aye” skittered through the Gathering. I watched various faces. No one doubted my recounting through the Sight; each was now struggling with the idea of the Troths returning. The younger villagers held expressions of hesitant curiosity.

One of the youngest asked aloud her query: Quin’s sister, Minnow, in her marigold apron, whom we cheerfully called Min, to rhyme with her older brother. She stepped to the base of the platform to be better heard and used her most grown-up words. “Are we to be certain that these Troths mean us harm? Perhaps … perhaps poor Master Minwl stumbled upon the Troths during their hunt?”

Dame Keren looked kindly down at the fourteen-year’d girl. I thought if anyone were to ask such an ignorant question, then it was good it was Min. Her fresh, freckled face with its rosy cheeks was endearing in its simplicity. And Dame Keren’s interest was sincere—all the elders took Min seriously.

Jarett Doun, another of the eldest, took the opportunity to speak. “My dear Minnow,” he said, easing his frail bones forward in the chair, “look about this Gathering. What do you see?”

Most eyes were on Min as she looked around, her cheeks even rosier under such attention. “I—I see my neighbors, Master and Mistress Wilhock; my friends, Cath and Druen; my
grandmother is over there; and my brother, Quin, is there on the well with Lark Carew—”

“Ah. Look again, young Min.
What
do you see?”

Many could answer for her, but she needed to search this out, to understand this for herself. The answer held a cruel truth; I felt a wave of sadness rush through the group, as if it was a pity the brutal memory was to be brought forth. Min stared and stared about, her lips moving as she attempted to solve what was clearly a puzzle. “I see the pretty faces of the young,” she said at last, “and the beautiful faces of the old. Is this right?” she asked brightly.

“Nearly, Min. Well done.” Now Sir Jarett stood, an auspicious gesture. “Here, indeed, are the pretty faces of our young villagers and the beautiful ones of our elders,” he called out. “But, I ask, do you not also see what is
missing
? Do you see any village members in their prime? No, you do not, for there are none. They were culled from our group by the Troths thirteen years ago. Not one remaining villager of childbearing years was left alive. Only those too old, and the young we had chance to hide, were … 
spared
.” The word was apologetic; not one of us felt spared by this loss. Sir Jarett paused and cleared his throat. “Or so we thought. In retrospect, I understand what has been done. They slew our children—your parents—and now look about: there is now a new age of parents upon us. The Troths may well believe the time has come to take those.”

There were loud gasps. Thom Maker marched to the front of the crowd, the little thatch of white hair on his crown bobbing above his short stature. “Wait, Sir Jarett! There is error in
your reasoning! The eldest of our grandchildren have barely begun siring families. This is too soon!”

Some nodded in horrified agreement, but then Kerrick Swan strode forward, his furrowed brow more deeply creased. “Thom, did they not take your parents some five decades back, as they took mine? We survived, but then they took our children! Fifty years, thirteen—there is no pattern to carnage. Troths are more beast than human; they hold no plan, they simply wish to kill. We are their blood sport. They want to watch us run.”

These were ugly thoughts coming from our villagers. Words of violence were awkward on our tongues, and to be forced to confront something we’d hoped to forget, something so appalling to our natures, made their very sounds shocking. Sadness blurred to a palpable unease, with worried murmurs rippling through the crowd; my own breath heaved a little faster. The sky seemed to darken.

“But we don’t run.”

A silence fell over the square. The oldest villager of all had risen from his chair. Farrin Rawl—the shepherd, the sage. The one who rarely spoke. “We don’t run from death. It is not in our nature.”

That pleased us. “Aye, Sir Farrin! Let them come,” said Kerrick. “If they look for sport, they will find none here!”

“My friend—” But the eldest man’s voice was temporarily drowned out by concurring shouts. A wonderful idea: the Troths would leave us alone because we would give them no
game. What should be feared? Relief washed through the group. This was a plan of action that involved no act at all.

But they made Ruber Minwl run
, I thought.
They made him run until he broke
.

“Lark?”

I looked up and realized that Quin’s arm was off my shoulder, that the entire Gathering was hushed, looking at me.

That was not my thought—that was my voice, quite loud.

“Lark?” Dame Keren repeated. “What did you see?”

I hesitated, looking down to avoid their eyes, but they waited. “I saw that the Troths inspired terror,” I said after a moment, knowing my voice was now most likely too soft to be heard. “Their brutality awoke such fear that he could do naught but run.”

Silence, still. Now I forced myself to look up at the villagers watching me, to search out Raif and plead an apology with my gaze. He did not need to know that part of his grandfather’s fate.

“Lark, are they near us now?” asked Sir Jarett quietly.

“Not yet.” I needed to clear my throat. “I think not yet.” I looked at Grandmama, who nodded; she’d left it for me to tell. And so I turned to Sir Jarett, eyes wide, a tiny detail from my Troth vision now looming enormous. “I saw the crescent moon at the sunrise.”

“Ah.” He nodded solemnly. “The old moon. And we are near full.…”

Anxious whispers, calculations. Ten days it was, between a
full moon and waning crescent. I could sense this added tension, the building worry, the feeble desire that I be wrong, but I was not wrong. I blurted, half apologizing, “It was quick what I saw, to be sure. But the Troths looked to Merith, and beyond, the sky was dawning and—”

Dame Keren said, very kindly, “We believe you, Lark. You would not recall this, my dear, but that terrible night thirteen years back, you sobbed uncontrollably the entire day before the attack. You—who had smiled your way through life before! We did not know then that you had the Sight, that you felt their presence as they neared. You, Lark, tried to warn us once, as you have again.”

But of what help was that? I feared what everyone feared: warned or not, we could not protect ourselves either way.

“My friends.” It was Sir Farrin. “I am misinterpreted.”

We all looked to him.

“We of Merith do not run. But I do not likewise imply that we should face the Troths, simply hoping we will”—he nearly smiled—“
bore
them into leaving us alone. I mean to say that we will not run, but rather stand and defend ourselves, and each other.”

If the villagers of Merith did not run, neither did they fight. There was a shocked pause, until someone called out, “With what, Sir Farrin?” It was Rula Narben, who made sweets for market. “I have but wooden spoons to stir the treacle.”

“Axes might do well,” muttered Perdy Ginnis. “Though I have just one.”

And already the crowd was looking to our blacksmith,
Mirk Jovin, as if he could promptly supply us all with necessary, wicked armament. As if we would be capable of using any. Mirk scratched his bald pate and shrugged his indigo-clad shoulders.

“Nay, we have few weapons. But—” Sir Farrin spoke a little louder, enough to make the crowd silent again. “But we have friends.”

Friends. I looked about at all my friends—really, at the entire village. I could not bear to think of Rula Narben, or Kerrick, or little wizened Perdy attempting to defend themselves with their nobly useless tools. My heart quickened, imagination running wild. They would be slaughtered, all of them. My dearest friends—how could I bear to see Quin facedown in his own blood? Or Evie’s silver-blond hair running red, and Grandmama—

“Lark!
Lark!
” Quin was hissing at me, his arm once again a comfort around my shoulder. “Your face! Your beautiful face! Do you sense something?”

I shook my head no, but too violently. Were we all feeling this helpless? I leaned into Quin, drawing from some of his warmth. People around us were murmuring, thinking aloud: which friends would come to our aid? Other towns and villages traded well with us, sipped ale with us, but would they fight for us? We had never been asked to fight on another’s behalf—we were a peaceable village; no one bothered to request our support. Would anyone come for us?

The town of Crene was mentioned, as was our neighboring village, Dann. I think Benna Jovin brought up the option
of Tyre, a city, fifty times as big as Merith. They would have soldiers.

The hum and buzz of ideas crisscrossed the Gathering. There was excitement now, the possibility of victory and an end to the lingering dread of Troths.… And then, one by one, like little bubbles bursting, the ideas fizzed out. Dann was as ill-prepared as we; Tyre was unfamiliar to us, and at least a fortnight’s journey away. What could we do in ten days?

Sir Farrin alone looked the least grave, calmly waiting for the murmurs to die. When it was finally silent, and perhaps when we felt most anxious, he spoke four words:

“There are the Riders.”

The Riders.

The energy from Quin’s arm changed. A little tremor of excitement passed through him and into me. I did not understand it, though. I had not heard of the Riders, nor, judging by the expressions in the crowd, had most of the younger folk. But the oldest villagers seemed to know. It was their pause that created the sudden weight to the atmosphere. An apprehension, almost, hovered wordlessly above our group.

Dame Keren was nodding slowly. I looked to find Grandmama’s face in the crowd. She was grave. Evie too had a thoughtful expression.

“Quin,” I murmured, “who are the Riders?”

He leaned close to my ear. “They are the twelve who might save us.”

That was of no help, but he did not offer more. Sir Jarett was
speaking. “They would come,” the elder was agreeing, almost to himself, but we hung on his words. “They would come.”

Min was going to ask about the Riders; I could see her heading toward the platform again, newly boldened by the attention given her first question. But her grandfather pulled her back, hushing her with a touch to her shoulder. I was sorry for that. I wanted to know as well about the Riders, yet the answer was lost in the sudden and tacit agreement that these dozen should be contacted apace. A quick, almost frenzied discussion ensued among the three eldest—which was the formal way of contact, where would it be done. Memories needed to be jogged as to the proper way of approach.

I watched it all, a little confused, a little disembodied, with Quin’s arm the only thing that seemed to keep me attached to the stone edge of the well. My mind was swirling back to my dream, miserably so. The young man’s face filled my view again, his horrified, furious expression distorting a once beautiful smile, and then the sword was flashing up, pointing to strike down, straight through my heart. I could not feel the stab, but before the flash of white mercifully wiped the vision, I could see the sword in great detail: the straight gleam of silvery metal, the intricately tooled handle with inlays of gold. It too was beautiful. It was huge.

“Lark,” Quin murmured. I looked up.

The Gathering was parting in the center, drawing back to create a circle. Milo Swan, Kerrick’s oldest grandchild, was walking into the middle, weighted under a wooden tub. He
had the stones. I’d missed the conversation, the agreements, the decisions, and we were suddenly at the stones.

It was time to choose who would carry the request to the Riders.