Silver Eve (13 page)

And then I saw: fishing skiffs were neatly tethered some paces downriver by a small dock. The dock stood stick-legged in a dry portion of the riverbed, the boats beached. I left a soldier and thrust out into the river, wading toward its center, judging. Neck-deep, maybe more—was that deep enough to carry a heavy-weighted boat? The villagers paused to watch me. “Does it stay deep?” I yelled. “How far does it go?”

Someone called back, “These are the only shallows for many leagues. It goes on to the sea.”

“Those!” I called then, pointing at the boats. “We need two of those!” And Laurent was running with two of the children to the dock, cutting the moors and dragging them into water. Then he too was wading chest-deep in the river and pulling two boats behind.

“What is all this?” one of the men growled from the shore. “What do we need the skiffs for? Take their weapons! Finish them!”

“No!” I shouted from the water. “No! Do not kill them!”

“Not kill?” I'd sparked a little fire—murmurs of unrest. “An' what? Have 'em come back again?” “They'll slaughter us—” “Nay, they'll torture first—”

“No! Do not strike first.” I slogged toward the beach. “It makes you no better than they!”

“Who counts the order of strikes?” The shouts were piling up. “Who are ye ta say?”

“Others will come at you with greater force!” I cried. “They'll show no mercy!”

“And these metal men won't? I've nothin' left but my anger!”

“My home is burned!” Others shouted in agreement: “They killed my son!” “My da!”

I saw a figure—the youngest of the old men—make the first break from the pack and race for the soldiers' weapons we'd piled. He pulled the first thing he could, some wicked-looking axe.

Laurent was already on shore, unsheathing his sword as he ran. “You will not strike!” he commanded. “The lady says we spare them.”

“Lady! What
lady
makes demands?” The man raised the axe over his head, stumbling under the weight, and swung it at the nearest slumbering soldier. I screamed. It was worse, this, than the terrified little group with the Troth. Those villagers had been frightened into inaction, but these would take their fear straight into the slaughter of sleeping men.

The Rider was faster than I could have imagined. Laurent sprang with a rounding kick, sweeping the man's feet out from underneath and bringing him down at the side of a soldier.

“
This
lady.” Laurent panted, his sword tip at the man's throat. He whirled back, sweeping the blade at the restless group. They shuffled back nervously, and he pointed at me. “We do as she says.”

Someone had the temerity to ask, “Who is
she
?”

Laurent said, before putting his sword down, “She is the one who will save us.”

We bound the soldiers' hands and laid them in the boats, six in one, seven in the other, then pointed them downriver. We watched the boats slide away, firelight glinting on the sterns. The villagers were silent; I was the only one who wanted this mercy. One by one we scrambled back to the top of the gully, hoisting the children, hand to hand, pulling, pushing….

There were more cries at the sight of Arro. Laurent told them to calm, but for naught. There was too much shock and now distrust to react any way but frightened. One old man, though, broke through the group and stepped nearer.

“A horse!” he exclaimed softly. He went to Arro, reached a tentative hand to his nose. Arro gave a soft bluster. A few of the children immediately reached to do the same but were yanked back. “Yer a Rider?” the old man asked, turning to peer at Laurent in the dark. “I heard o' ye. Never seen one o' yer kind, though. It bodes ill fer us.”

“You have time, yet,” Laurent said, then called out to all: “Bury your dead. Melt the armor into shields; take the weapons. Then move on. Tell others what has happened. Prepare.”

“Do they come back?” a woman asked.

Laurent adjusted the saddle. “If you band with other villages, you have more of a chance. Learn Tyre's weapons; learn to defend.” He turned to me, murmuring, “We have a journey, my lady,” and lifted me onto the saddle before mounting. Laurent gathered Arro's reins and stepped him sideways. “Use this time wisely!” he called to the villagers. “Food, shelter, and protection.”

And then Laurent urged Arro into a canter while I caught my arms around his waist, and we were away.

He was angry, his back stiffly slanted away from my cheek. “You wanted to kill them,” I called out. “The soldiers. You wanted them dead too.”

A nod. Terse and final.

But I did not let it go. “
Why?
Why kill?”

He let Arro run and turned his head; a gleam of moonlight caught the edge of his cheek. “There is no good that will come of keeping those soldiers alive. They will return; they have to. Soldiers cannot go back to Tyre without slaves or they themselves will be forced to the mines. So do not think you've spared anyone, my lady.”

“But they have no weapons, no armor now!”

“Them or the next wave. Tyre is a bastion of Breeders. They will not be stopped.”

I was stunned. “And so you kill and they
still
come? Then why not tell those poor villagers there is no point? Why bother giving them hope?”

“Hope is what keeps life worth something!” He was furious; he reined in Arro and turned fully in his seat, gritting out, “What would you tell them: Chaos is upon us? How do you beat Chaos? That struggle is
forever.
” I felt his breath—short, hard. “Few should bear that burden. 'Tis better to give these folk something to fight: soldiers and famine. Things they
might
defeat. Things that have an end.”

He nudged his steed forward. I had no retort; it upset me that this different view of violence opened a cavern between us. But there was something else, something that bridged the cavern that bothered me more. “You accepted my way of it, Laurent. You are angry and disagree, and yet you let me spare the soldiers, helped me tie them to the boats.”

He did not turn again to answer, but his breath sighed. “You are the Guardian, I am the Complement. Ultimately, I must trust your choice.”

And then we rode on. How many miles, how many hours, I do not know, except that we did not stop again. Anger drained. Thought drained. I fell asleep against his back; he held my wrists tight around his waist to keep me upright. Somewhere it occurred to me that the Rider had used
Complement
not as a description but a title.

Healers do not dream. But I remember the soft thudding of hooves, the brush of wind, and finally the smell of water, as if they were vestiges of some other world unlocked when my eyes closed. And then I felt hands lift me down and the wrapping of something warm and soft.

I missed leaning against Laurent.

'TWAS THE COMFORT
that woke me. I lay still for a time, feeling the give of goosedown beneath, blinking at the rafters above.
Rafters.
How long had it been? A roof
and
a pillow. Light streaked in, there was a steady rush of water….It lulled me back to sleep until I woke again, this time with a start.

Room, bed, rushing water—incongruous after months of wander and drought. I got up, pulling the quilt with me since my clothes, I saw, were gone, and went to the window—not a true window, but a narrow, open rectangle cut into stone as thick as the length of my hand. I wedged my shoulders into the space, and peered out, down, then jerked back, heart hammering.

A moment to catch my breath and prepare, and then I peeked out again in awe: I was midway up a steep limestone cliff—some manmade territory within a manmade quarry, forced into the landscape by ages of stonecutting…and from where water sprang like leaks in a bucket.

Gren Fort.

From what I could see 'twas part of a wide, curving quarry filled with waterfalls. Above, below, from thin trickles to great torrents, waterfalls were everywhere. The spray was shot through with sun colors, rainbows shimmering in the mist. They spilled into some inaccessible lake far below while the fort itself was hewn right into the rock, halfway up, halfway down. It snaked along the idiosyncrasies of the rock cutting, so was built in levels—stone steps, wooden ladders, narrow footpaths, and rope bridges leading between stages and portions. The zigzagging passageways scored the face of the limestone like teeth.

I turned around and looked again at the room I slept in, realizing 'twas all cut from stone, even what seemed like rafters were merely stained to appear as such, and the ceilings and walls only looked of yellowing plaster because the limestone was so pale. A dugout. A cave. Spare; function without detail—as if no one was meant to grow attached to this as a home. I wondered how many years Gren Fort had taken to carve, when the Keepers fought the Breeders from this hideout from which they could attack then disappear, and how they'd kept so hidden these years. I thought of the image of Tarnec that also appeared in my Insight spell, and how earth and rock seemed an important place for Keepers' dwellings. They built from things that could not be undone. Solid, and purposeful—

Like Laurent.

His name burst into my thoughts, more dizzying than the height. I shook my head to clear it. For better measure, I stuck my head through the window and studied the fort again. A young girl was hurrying along a narrow edge, balancing a tray of food. I yelled,
“Take care!”
There was no railing—to fall from the steps would be a dead plunge to the rocks and lake so far below. But she paid no mind, whisking up a set of narrow steps with no eye to me or to the drop.

The girl disappeared into an interior tunnel. Moments later she was at my doorway—no place to knock, for there was no door. She smiled, doe-eyed and shy, bobbing a curtsy, making the stiff little braid at the back of her head bounce. She was not as young as I first thought, maybe only a year or so behind me. But she was all lightness and fine bones; she seemed a child.

“May I put this down, please?” she asked, holding out the tray. I nodded. Bread and goat butter and fresh-pressed juice—peach, I thought. My mouth watered at the sight. I'd not eaten for more than a day—strange that I didn't remember until this moment. When had a Healer forgotten to eat?

The girl entered almost on tiptoe and set the tray on the footstool, the only bit of furniture besides the bed. I hiked up the quilt, plunked down on the floor, and attacked the food.

“Thank you,” I managed between bites. The bread was dark-crusted, studded with fruit and hickory, and dry as sawdust. But I worked through half the loaf before I slowed and considered the girl who kneeled by the door quiet as a mouse, politely waiting.

I wiped my mouth. “This is Gren Fort?”

She nodded.

“How many are here?”

“Seven families founded this dwelling.”

“So small…” Even Merith had twenty households. Seven hardly seemed a worthy amount to defend a fort.

But she laughed at me and her mouselike posture evaporated. “Small? Seven families over seventy generations! But, I suppose 'tis what you think, for the fort can only support a hundred people at a time. The rest are spread out”—she waved a hand—“somewhere. Anyhap, you'll see everyone at evening meal. You are supposed to be left alone to rest for now.”

I was done with resting. “How long was I asleep?”

“You arrived in the wee hours. It's past noon now.” She jumped up. “I can show you where to wash if you're ready.”

“Please, the—” I stopped, suddenly awkward. I'd not expected to ask news of the Rider, the question came of its own accord and foolishly so. We'd argued through our time together, I should be relieved he was not here. I swallowed and said carefully, “I came with someone else.”

“Oh!” The girl jerked, her face going bright pink. “You did! But he sleeps still.” She made some bashful gesture with her shoulder. He's very han—very tall.”

“He is.”

'Twas how I said it: spare of emotion, while she ducked and blushed. It surprised her. She cocked her head and studied me. “You're not wed or you'd share his room. Are you…Do you know him
well
?”

“Not at all.” I swallowed. That was mostly true.

“I thought so.” The girl shifted a little closer and whispered conspiratorially, reverently, “He is one of the
Riders.
”

Her little move relieved me, made me grin, for she reminded me then of silly Cath from Merith and her flirting, rapturous infatuation with each of the young men of our village in turn. Even so, I wouldn't acknowledge Laurent's looks or share impressions in front of this girl any more than I might have gossiped with Cath about Raif. I changed the subject. “Tell me something of yourself.”

“I'm Lill. I help out in the kitchens. Now
you.
” She insisted rather than asked—I'd failed her thus far with my studious disinterest in Laurent, and she was waiting to be impressed.

“Evie. I'm a Healer.”

That brought a smile. “I baked that,” she whispered, nodding at the bread and flashing a sly little glance from the corner of her eye—waiting for a compliment. Lill was dark-haired and very pale, pixielike with her pointed features and slant to her wide eyes, and the way her braid scraped her hair so tightly back behind her ears. Cath had auburn curls, was peach-plump and syrup-pretty. Lill was a different sort of pretty, more haunting, richer.

Something twisted hollow in my stomach then, sending a strange little burn into my shoulder blade, into the circle of my birthmark. A longing, maybe, but I wasn't sure exactly what I was longing for. I was thinking of Cath and Laurent and mixing home with here. But Lill was not the Cath from home, and this was not home, and what was home anyway?

“Well?” Lill nodded at the bread again.

“Yes. Oh. Thank you.” I said it blandly, and Lill only looked further disappointed. So I buttered another hunk of her bread and stuffed it in my mouth. “
Truly
delicious.” I chewed hard, willing her to smile again. This was so unlike me—the neediness, the discomfort, the feigning to please another.

I drank up the juice and wiped my mouth against my arm, looking at the streaks of dirt and blood dried there. The strands of hair falling over my shoulders were filthy gray.

“You said I could wash?”

She jumped up. “I'll take you. It's a bit of a trek, but it's too impractical to hike buckets around here to fill any tubs.”

“I don't mind.” I unwound myself from the floor slowly, still stiff from the riding and tangled in the quilt. “Is there anything to wear? I've no clothes.”

“They're drying,” Lill answered. “Just bring that. Come.”

So I followed her, quilt and all. We went through the little doorway into a dim tunnel, down three steps, and out onto the path. The sunlight dazzled; the drop was dizzying. Lill noticed none of it as we proceeded. She chose an upward route and ran lightly up the narrow steps on her rope-soled shoes, turning around often to stare at me. I tread far more carefully, aware of her curious gaze and the steep pitch…and the utter treachery of the bulky wrap. We wound our way up the face of the quarry, working sideways, climbing behind walls of waterfalls and up ladders and stairs until we came to a wider, flat path where we could walk side by side.

We stopped there to let two women pass. They had cropped hair and were dressed alike in weighted shirts of linked metal and deerskin leggings similar to what I'd seen Lark wearing. One carried a bow and quiver, the other a short sword in her belt. They cast sharp glances at me, nodded at Lill, and strode by, withholding whatever conversation until we were out of earshot.

I turned to Lill. “Who are they?”

“Gren guards,” she said with a shrug. “Couldn't you tell?” When I shook my head, she added impatiently, “The weapons and chain mail, silly.”

“They're prepared for battle—? Oh, for goodness sake, Lill, what
is
it?” I could no longer take her staring.

“Why do you not know chain mail and ask of battle? Weren't you just in one?”

There was a pointed little thrill behind her question, expecting that I'd give a violent account for the blood and dirt that was dried all over me. I shook my head.

“Oh.” Lill sighed. “Well, there's talk of great battles brewing, that we are at war with a very dark evil. I was hoping you'd been in a scrap or two. After all, you were traveling with a
Rider.
They don't come down from their hills unless something needs fighting.” And then there was new eagerness in her tone: “You know the Breeders and their collaborators are massing, don't you? Breeders are our
greatest
threat. I heard that the Keepers are waking the Guardians and mustering all allies. The Guardians—have you heard the legends? They've not been awakened for ages and ages! We'll need all our might to push back the enemy this time.”

If the Guardians were no secret, was I supposed to admit that I was one? Lill would be disappointed to learn it. I was all questions and boring answers for her, hardly as wondrous as she imagined. “I've heard this as well,” I said as neutrally as possible, wishing suddenly that Laurent was with us. “But I've seen no battle.”

Lill sighed again. “I suppose that's why the blood rinsed out of your clothes so easily; battle blood is harder to remove. They were washed this morning, I saw—Oh!” She was onto a wholly different subject. “Your
clothes
! How can there be such
blue
?”

“Indigo and alum,” I said. “Common enough. Haven't you any?”

She shook her head. “We don't have such colors.”

“But you are surrounded by blue!” I waved at the falls.

Lill shrugged. “Not like that. Colors are drab here.” She skipped ahead, pointed to the wall of rock, and up. There were clever terraced plantings running up the sides of the quarry: narrow levels stacked up the length of one long waterfall (espaliered fruit trees at the bottom, then vegetables and berries above in decreasing size), close enough for the chiseled troughs to catch the constant spray of water. A rope ladder ran up the other side as access to the gardens. High above us a man was working; his legs hooked into the weave of rope as he leaned far out to cut some lettuces. He stuck them in a large pouch and hiked himself farther up.

Lill was used to the acrobatics and paid no mind, coming back to grab my arm and move me on. “We only dye from onion and spinach—all greens and yellows and browns.” She groaned. “So dull! I remember being surrounded by color once….”

“You didn't grow up here?”

She shook her head. “Refugee. Some of us are not descended from the founding families. I was rescued ten years back. There was a battle then. Not like this one coming, but…” Lill shifted suddenly before I could ask about it and changed her tone. “Healers are supposed to know all the workings of plants and minerals. Tell me which plants would make someone sweet on me.”