Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (9 page)

Then my hearing softened and was funneled from a place far away, and thoughts swirled to another distance so that nothing seemed to matter anymore. My vision floated away too, and suddenly I was looking down at my body sprawled on the grassy ridge like a cloth doll, hair and cloak tossed every which way. And I saw that the pressure pinning me was Rune. He lay over me, his great forelegs pawing at the dirt as he worked to keep himself from crushing me, to bring himself upright. His great haunches flexed and pulled, and then he was up, standing over my limp body, with his muzzle against my cheek, nudging at me. And the dream man was striding back down to the ridge, sheathing the sword he’d just wiped against the grass, glaring at Rune and coming to pause by my head, staring hard down at my face for a moment with an unfathomable expression.
Abruptly, he reached an arm back in a wide sweep and sent his palm slamming down hard into my shoulder.

I gave a great gasp of breath, felt my lungs fill with cool air, and I was suddenly looking up into his painfully beautiful face.

My shoulder ached.

“Your breath was knocked from you,” he said, as a curt and by no means apologetic explanation for his action.

I didn’t speak, disoriented and dumbfounded. Three moments ago he’d stabbed his sword down on me. Now he’d brought my breath back.

And for no purpose. There was no attempt to include me in conversation. He was turned, staring at Rune now with incredulity. He opened his mouth as if to ask the horse a question, and then shut it, lips clamped tightly over whatever thought he’d had.

“Get up.” He ordered that of me without looking.

I stayed motionless, and he swore again angrily: beautiful voice, beautiful face, beautiful smile—hostility piercing all, like little stabs from his sword. How old—nineteen years or twenty, perhaps? His anger aged him.

“Get up!” he demanded again, still without looking at me. He was busy with something tucked into his belt. A cloth.

I did not wait for a third command. I sat up and pushed into the grass to rise, then groaned as pain seared through my ankle. “I cannot—”

“Don’t say a word!” He whirled on me, exclaiming with fury, “I
will
kill you if you do.”

My eyes were wide, waiting for him to take his sword. He
turned back, the anger now making him clumsy. He fumbled, not for the sword but for the cloth, finally pulling it free with another oath. He turned back in my direction. “I said to get up!”

But I was frozen in place, unblinking. To my right I heard Rune pawing at the sod.

The dream man caught, then fought my gaze. Whipping his head away, he muttered something under his breath. Then he reached down and, taking the cloth, wrapped the thing around my eyes and knotted it at the back of my head. The moonlight disappeared. Rune snorted. A leather braid was lashed around my wrists next. It was not his belt, I noted with odd detail. It was too thin, too cutting.

Not gently, he pulled my arm to drag me up, and I yelped at the warm shock of his touch, dangling there in his strong grip, caught by the force of it. Maybe my ankle was broken and the dark and the unbalance made me dizzy, but his touch was what truly stunned—an energy both delicious to my senses and fraught with a terrible pain.

“What—?” The man was ready to shake me into standing straight; his hand trembled with the impending force of it. But suddenly he stopped. He must have looked at my foot, for I sensed him stoop over. Then he straightened. In a heartbeat, I was off the ground and tossed over his shoulder like a sack of barley. My hood fell over my head. The pack I wore slipped and banged against his back, but he didn’t flinch. The young man merely brushed my cloak away from his face, gathering it along in his grip, and started to walk.

I wish that I could say I struggled. Or that I argued. I wish, even, that I could say it was my Merith upbringing that inspired some sort of silent dignity in the face of trauma. But there was nothing noble in my action; I merely lost consciousness. I remember sensing from his grip a piercing anguish, and a fleeting glimpse of a cup of spilled wine—remnants of some terrible story. Then exhaustion, pain, hunger, fear, and the simple act of hanging upside down brought blood rushing to my head too fast. It seemed to boil in my ears, and then there was nothing.

It was very quick. I should have told him he’d no need for the blindfold.

Jarred awake, laid back down on solid earth, something soft between me and a wedge of rock—a blanket, or my cloak. I remembered the cloth being knotted around my eyes and the man from my dream, but little else. I could not feel sun on my face. My mouth was dry; taste was nothing. I could smell moss and stone and good, dark earth. I smelled a fire burning low. Yet that described every place I could think of. I could as well be in Merith.

But were I in Merith, I would not be blindfolded and bound, nor would I hear so rapid and heated a conversation as the one that fired just above my head.

The dream man had companions—angry companions. This was no Merith.

I was scared. Nay, panicked. The desire to be home, for this to be unreal, burned with sudden, terrible fierceness. I clenched
my teeth hard against it, against any groan, any movement, and pretended unconsciousness to be invisible.

“We take no prisoners, Gharain!”

“I know.”

The dream man’s name: Gharain. He—the one in terrible pain.

“You should have put her to death already,” the deeper voice filled in with a horrifying pronouncement. “Dragging her with you has only prolonged her misery. And yours, it seems.”

Gharain was sharp. “What mean you by that?”

“Look at you!”

He snorted. “I cannot.”

“I’ll look for you, then.” This was a different voice, mild and amused, and younger, like Gharain’s. There were three men here. “Your eyes stare hard and wild. You breathe heavily—”

“I carried her, Wilh.”

The first man laughed. “As if you could be winded by that!”

True. He’d lifted me as if I had no weight.

“—and you pace like a wolf!” Wilh continued, but seemed to lose his smile. “On all accounts, Gharain, this has shaken you. Why bring this on? It should have been over immediately. With no look back.”

“Then let’s be done and quickly.” The first voice was brusque and emotionless. “This brings no pleasure.”

“Aye,” said Wilh. “Gharain, it was your charge. You must do the task.”

“I cannot.”

I closed my eyes behind the blindfold, grateful for those
words, but relief was sinkingly brief. Wilh ignored his refusal. “Our law, Gharain. Trespassers must be killed.”

“I know that well,” Gharain returned fiercely. “And I—I cannot.”

The first voice broke in, angry now. “Gharain, for you to do this again—”

Gharain swore at that. “I will
not
repeat my error, Brahnt, and do not think I do this for myself! Look! Look there, beyond the circle of firelight. Law or no, look at what stopped me!”

There was a pause, a rustling, the turning of heads and bodies to witness something. Two sharp intakes of breath, then Wilh and Brahnt stumbled over one another’s words in surprise.

“The white one—!”

“Is it he? How?”

“He prevented me, Wilh. He leaped between my sword and her body. I swear, had I not jumped back, he would have struck me dead with his hooves or I’d have killed him in her place.”

“What?” Brahnt scoffed, unwilling to believe. “He leaped from nowhere?”

“ ’Twas no accident,” Gharain said flatly. “ ’Twas protection—he protected her. He’s still protecting her; he’s followed me here.” A pause, and then a sigh almost. “As if he’s … 
chosen
. I could not ignore this.”

The other men were considering this. I was too. The flash of white in my dream had not been the moment of death. It had been Rune saving me.

“Chosen of white,”
Wilh seemed to quote. “This makes for a unique dilemma. We should hold Council—”

“Wilh!” Brahnt interrupted. “Do you not smell Troth on him?” He must have turned to Gharain. “You found Troths?” he demanded.

“Yes. One. He was quickly dead.”

“She brought the beast, then. White stallion, or no, the girl has trespassed; she must be done away with here. Now.” Brahnt was adamant. “If you will not do this, Gharain, then I will in your place. The horse will not be harmed. I will not miss.”

I had no time to react. There was shuffling of footsteps, nearer to me suddenly, and the rasp of metal sliding from leather. And just as suddenly Rune neighed harshly. A clatter of hooves sounded by my head.

Wilh said, “Put your sword away, Brahnt!”

“What is this?” Brahnt swore under his breath. “The elusive one—guarding like a dog!” I did not hear him resheathe his weapon. I dared not breathe, biting the inside of my lip to hold steady.

“Like it or no, Brahnt, there is reason in this,” answered Wilh. “If the steed has indeed chosen her.”

“
Chosen
is but a word. Our
laws
are to safeguard these horses,” Brahnt stressed. “And leave no trespassers to tell tales.”

Gharain made a hard sound, but Wilh exclaimed with frustration, “But it is the
white
steed. And this but a single girl!”

There was a terrible pause at that, as if a single girl could do much harm. Wilh offered instead, “If we are uncertain, let’s unleash her wrists and leave her pointed toward Tyre.”

“And if she brings the dark city dwellers back?” Brahnt demanded. “If she shows them the way? Or what if the horse
follows her? Would you have him appear in Tyre? Never mind his fate there; consider the poachers who would soon invade our hills to steal them all.”

The voices stopped. My blood went to ice. It took no special gift to know what they were thinking: put out her eyes, and she cannot find her way back.

“Then there are only ugly choices.” Wilh’s words sank like stone.

Silence followed until Gharain said hollowly, “I should have done the deed. I have brought distress upon us again.” His voice was turned to me. “I am sorry.” Kind words that were cold.

But it was Brahnt who swore again and walked away. “No. We are done. I have no stomach for this anymore. I understand you, Gharain. The horse, a girl. It makes us no better than Troths.”

“So? Cut her loose and, what, blind her? You have stomach for that?” Reprieves were fleeting. I swallowed back a whimper, held my breath—

“Nay, Wilh, that is neither my aim. She cannot leave.”

Not leave! But I had to leave; being spared was not enough. Even now there was a new scent in the air; my head shifted ever so slightly, breathing it in. Dawn was fast approaching, bringing worry of time wasted. One night was already lost. I needed to find my way back to Bren Clearing quickly, and to break free was daunting at best. The binds alone would take hours to sever, and they had horses, and swords—

“She is awake,” Wilh said suddenly.

In a flurry of sounds, hands reached and grasped my shoulders, my waist. I was pulled to sit upright, my back pushed against hard granite, surrounded by the men, who leaned close.

“You!” Brahnt’s voice was purposefully harsh. “What have you listened to? What have you witnessed?”

“Nothing!” I gasped, spitting back a piece of hood that fell against my mouth. “I—”

Gharain interrupted from farther back. “You were spied on the peak, watching.”

Fingers tightened on my shoulders. Wilh and Brahnt were closer to me now, leaning in. I smelled horse and leather and the scent of the Earth’s riches borne on the wind. I felt their energies, pulsing through fingertips, through breath. It was strong energy, two at once, yet unlike the shock I was used to from strangers. But I sensed a history that did shock, a violent conflict. My breathing quickened.

“Tell us what you saw,” Brahnt demanded.

“I did not see you!” I cried out, tensing. Images from their touch were in my head now: a flock of ravens shrieking across a stark sky, smoke filtering through trees and a sudden rush of bodies pounding by, innocent people caught in a horrific battle. Their faces crammed against my own, eye to eye, haunting looks of terror—

Gharain shouted, “Not us!
Them!
”

“What ‘them’?” I was crying the words without thinking. “Please! You are too close!” The gnashing of a Troth’s sharp teeth sliced across my gaze, and I jumped. There were shouts now, the people screaming as they ran. Swords and blood and
hooves and the roar of fire; men on horseback, Riders, arcing their weapons. Troths like gray moths, smothering bodies, leaping for throats—animal or man, it did not matter which. The air stank of blood. “Too much!” I sobbed. And then I don’t know what I was saying, for the words were for the images and the images were too brutal to hold.

At some point, the hands released me. The men shifted back and let me fall over on my side. I rubbed the cloak away from my cheek so the hard rock beneath could grate my skin and take me somehow out of that darkness.

“Is this sorcery?” demanded Brahnt. “Is she possessed?”

“No.” Awe slowed Wilh’s words. “This is not possession; ’tis the
Sight
. She saw our battle—seven days have passed, yet she recounted it as if it happened now. What—not willing to believe it was our touch? Then let us know.…” I felt Wilh’s hand brush my cheek, shimmering new images. I heard Gharain swearing as I screamed.

The hand was wrenched hard away from my face.
“Stop!”
Gharain tore from the group, footsteps fading.

Wilh made a move to follow, but Brahnt hissed, “Let him be.”

“The
white
horse
chooses
the girl; now she shows something of the
Sight
—”

“You might use those words, Wilh, but it can be simple coincidence. Do not be so quick to suppose anything good in this.”

Hands reached for me again, but more gently this time. They turned my face from the rock and brushed strands of hair
from my mouth. “Hold still,” Wilh demanded. “You won’t be harmed.” But I struggled anyway, fearing him, fearing visions, until he pushed my hood back, pulled the blindfold off, and let go. “There, that’s all,” Wilh said more gently. He sat back, regarding me.