Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) Read online

  I could not help a cry of horror. They hunched like goblins, but were larger, with gray mottled skin—as a charred piece of wood made wet. Lank strands of hair covered their heads; two filmy circles were the eyes, something like gashes for nostrils, and a snarling grin over fiercely jagged teeth. The creatures were loping … no, chasing; a lone man as prey was tearing through Dark Wood, desperation and dread wrenched from his pores. But there was no match here. The man was old; he had no hope of escape from those shadowed, grotesque forms, and so at last he did what all our villagers do when death claims life: offered his body in noble silence. Yet these hunters wanted none of that; they wanted the chase. Thrusting the old man forward, then dragging him down, abusing his body until his heart gave up for him and there was nothing left to do but rip up the flesh and scatter it into Dark Wood as an offering, the hand saved for last so it would bear the mark of the victor. And yet, what victory? What challenge? I was crying, I knew; I could feel the tears on my cheeks, but nothing more. Somewhere, Grandmama’s voice was saying out loud, “Closer, Lark. You must know the man.” And then there were more tears, gushing now because I hated to touch the dead fingers—it was too powerful, the fear and hate and violence … and somewhere I sensed a grinning smile yawning open, so malevolent that it made a thread of cold arch right down my spine. Closer, Lark were Grandmama’s words, commanding: the understanding that it must be done. And so my fingers touched the hand, and knew it belonged to Ruber Minwl. The old man would twice a year venture into Dark Wood to collect the skins of dead animals, those unwittingly trapped by the growing things that held them fast and starved them slowly. Ruber Minwl, the kind tailor who wanted such a loss of creatures not to be a waste—to use their skins for warmth and protection gave those useless deaths at least some purpose. And pulling back, I saw something else, something new: the glimmer of daylight, and more Troths. This time their hideous eyes were turned to Merith.

  And then I was on the chair, hunched and sobbing and sick, and Grandmama’s hands were at my temples, pulling the horror from my mind. The waves that had rushed in were now receding, seeping into her bay-dusted palms, the pressure great against my head until the black subsided and I’d stopped retching.

  This was always the aftermath—the miserable leftovers of a talent that separated me from others and kept me hesitant and shy. This was the dreaded consequence of having the Sight, the unique and, for me, unwanted ability to read energies—worse, to see, to feel histories and intent. Drawing knowledge from surrounding energy was the Sight—a rare gift, indeed. Only it was others who perceived this as my gift. I did not; it was my burden.

  The cold sweat would last awhile longer, so I curled on the chair while Evie put a shawl and her arms around me, whispering in sympathy, “I wish I could do what Grandmama can do for you. I wish I could take away this pain.” But she could not; she was too close to me for that. She hugged me instead while Grandmama went outside on the porch and clapped the powder from her hands smartly until the bad thoughts were shaken into the breeze and whisked away from our cottage. Grandmama washed her hands with fresh water from the well and returned inside.

  “Bravely done, Lark,” she said simply. “Bravely done.”

  “It’s too awful.” My teeth were chattering.

  “Yes. But at least now we have time to prepare.” They’d learned the story as I saw it. I have no memory of my voice when I am with the Sight, but I know that I speak what I see as it plays in my own mind. As for whatever decisions would be made about the threat of Troths, they would be discussed at the Gathering. Thank you, fox. I shivered. At least now we’d been warned.

  “Poor man,” said Grandmama. “Ruber Minwl did not deserve such an end.”

  “Raif’s grandfather,” Evie mouthed softly. Raif was a friend, a young man who I believed was in love with Evie. I could find a reason to touch Raif, to gain proof of his feelings, but I was too close to Evie to know if her feelings matched his; I could not read her as I did others.

  Thinking such thoughts eased the cold somewhat. I sat up a little straighter. Rileg saw his opportunity and weaseled his way between cousin and grandmother to lick my hand. I smiled at him, and his tail madly swatted the two women. He made us all laugh.

  Evie turned her attention to making a sleeping tea while Grandmama removed the hand. It was done. I would never see where she put it, but I knew that was the end of my apron. Favorite or not, I was glad both it and the dark thing were gone from the cottage, and the simple habits of bedtime rituals and kind good-nights were completed and bestowed untainted.

  Evie and I climbed the stairs to our attic rooms. Each night before retiring we sat on the bench on the landing, braiding our hair and gossiping, as any girls might, about the daily doings of the boys and girls of our age. Since I did not venture out of our property every day as Evie did, she held court with her information and I loved to listen. Evie’s voice is musical and sweet; her words slipped through and over me, little details added to her supper tales—enough to keep me smiling, picturing a happy and pleasant market day of bustling business and amusing folk.

  “Tell me more of Cath,” I asked her. “Did she find a way to put the daisy in Quin’s pocket?”

  Evie grinned. “Has Cath ever worked a spell properly the first time? Rather, we’ll soon see Quin’s infant cousin making moon-eyes at her.”

  I said with affected concern, “Then she will be disappointed. I do not think little Nalen will take his thumb from his mouth to steal a kiss.”

  Evie smirked, then shook her head. “ ’Tis well that Cath does not know Quin is sweet on Nance. What hex might she try instead?”

  “Poor Quin,” I mocked. “Serves him right for all his teasing.” Though truly, I’d want to spare my good friend from Cath’s suffocating attention. “Well, if she asks you for any hexes, Evie, tell her she must put walnuts in her shoes.”

  “Walnuts”—Evie looked as if she were seriously considering—“are an excellent cure for rheumatism.” And we giggled, a little more foolishly than we would on other nights.

  And then, maybe because Raif most likely would not have entered the conversation, or maybe because I was wondering what Evie had felt when she learned the hand was from Ruber Minwl, wondering if she herself would bring Raif the sad news, I blurted, “Are you sweet on someone? Would you sneak a daisy into a pocket?”

  “Lark!” Evie feigned her blush, I was sure, for she never blushed. “You ask for secrets.”

  “Nay, I only ask what you’d share with me. You would share this, Evie, wouldn’t you?”

  “Always. No daisies. There, I’ve told you. I’ve no wish to catch a heart by spell.”

  “Captivated instead by the pure magic of your presence,” I teased. “There would be many suitors to choose from, then.”

  Evie did not respond with humor as I’d expected. “Many? Nay, there should be just one.”

  “Then who should it be?”

  She was quiet, regarding me, her blue eyes taking a somber gaze. “Choose for me,” she said suddenly.

  I did not like this change of mood and so laughed at her gravity and how silly that seemed. “Me? Why so?”

  I’d teased too much, or touched a subject she did not like, for she was silent for a longer moment. But then, like a lamp lit to break the dark, Evie grinned and tugged my brown braid. “Because you have the Sight, dearest Lark. You will know. You choose the one I will love. I trust you—you’ll choose well.”

  I would always marvel at my cousin: how she could be so frank with her thoughts, yet betray none of her feelings. She’d spoken honestly, but if she was asking me to choose Raif, she’d given nothing away. I’d prove my suspicion anyway—I could learn Raif’s feelings, at least, and know for certain if he loved her. So, holding a hand to my heart with great formality and trying to sound very serious, I announced, “Then ’twill be so, Mistress Eveline. It nears our birthday, so for your gift I promise this: I shall use all the wisdom of the Sight to choose your love. A very grand ch
oice he will be.”

  “Just let it not be Nalen,” she said.

  We laughed; we’d not dwell on bad thoughts. The Gathering would not be for a day and one more; Evie was patient to wait, and I was relieved I’d have time to prepare to be in a crowd. Tonight we were content to chatter on these little bits of nothing. The sleeping tea had its effect; I was soon yawning.

  No magic in this house, just generous knowledge of herb and kin. We hugged good night.

  Sometimes dreams are portents, glimpses from the Sight of moments yet to come. Their impressions linger long after waking, coloring thoughts and feelings with anticipation. Such were my dreams that night.

  The young man stood tall, filling my gaze as I sat staring up at him, openmouthed, I was certain, for I’d never been so overwhelmed by someone’s beauty. He was perhaps two or three years my senior, strong and lean, with hair the color of chestnuts and skin burnished by sun and wind to a warm gold. He spoke my name, and I felt my breath catch when he smiled at me—a release, a joy, and something more. The way the lips curved against his white teeth plunged a longing so sharp through my belly that I gasped in my sleep, and I woke up.

  It was near morning; the sky was pale through the window of my room. I lay for a while blinking into the gray light, trying to hold on to what I’d seen—yet it was elusive, the face already slipping into that fate of dreams where details dissolve. The sage-green eyes glinted with flecks of golden brown and then faded; the chestnut curls were tossed by the breeze and then scattered.… Finally I hugged my pillow into my chest, to hold hard this new longing, to keep it close against my heart and not let it dissipate.

  We’d spoken of love last night—it must be why I was so enchanted with this fading image. And so I yearned, I imagined, and I drifted to sleep once more. A half sleep, I think, because I was able a moment—an eternity—later to pull from the next dream like an arrow released from a bow. I was across my room suddenly, huddling in the corner with Rileg snuffing at my cheek. I could not pet him, for my arms were wrapped tightly around my body, clutching now in instinctive protection. For in that half sleep I’d seen the young man again. And this time, with drawn sword, he slew me.

  No sign, this. This was simple truth.

  “ALL COME! ALL come!” It was Semel Lewen who rang the village bell for the Gathering.

  Our village is not large in number, but we filled the market square well enough, making a colorful group. Colors are like names here, and the colors we love become our signatures. Semel Lewen was the village dyer. He artfully blended ingredients from all the earth’s bounty—vegetables, leaves, nuts, and berries became the richest and most vivid hues in his pots, and the recipes for our particular favorites were recorded and labeled with our names. Then his wife, Carr, and her sister, Beren, would weave exquisite cloths with the threads steeped in his special concoctions. They were as enticing in market as Grandmama’s balms or Rula Narben’s sweets.

  Reluctant as I was to be in a crowd, focusing on the colored cloth was a way to keep from catching the gaze of too many eyes, friendly though they might be. A gaze is powerful, as is touch; I pull energy too quickly through those senses. So I watched the colors move and blend across the cobbled square. The flitting girl in the buttercup apron was the pretty, silly Cath. Tall and gaunt Kerrick Swan strode by in purposeful fashion in a pale gray tunic that was much like a dawn sky, whereas Raif, who stood tall in the center of the market square, wore the deeper blue-gray color of dusk.

  I could see Evie’s turquoise frock not far from Raif, and then her silver-blond plait. She was greeting people by the well, and I moved to stand close to her, smiling a little as I passed neighbors and friends.

  “Ahh, Lark! How good to see you!” This was Dame Keren Whim, one of the oldest members of the village. Like Grandmama, she was arthritic with age, but her eyes were still bright and her hearing was keen. I made my bow, as we do for those respected, and murmured my greeting. And then it was Thom Maker and Daen Hurn in brown and red, and others in varied colors all joining in for greetings. I backed up a bit before murmuring my hellos, until Benna Jovin laughed at me and pinched my moss-green sleeve, saying, “Lark is still our shy one. We can barely hear your sweet voice, my dear!”

  I laughed a little too, for she was right, but Evie, always at ease in crowds, brushed my hair from my shoulder and replied, “Powerful oaks from acorns grow. Lark must stay soft or she might burn us with her brilliance.”

  I blushed, but Dame Keren cast her bright stare at me and said, “Very true, Evie. Very true. Come, now, let us begin.” She and the two other oldest members of our village, both men, moved to climb the few steps to the wooden platform that was only brought out for a Gathering. We could see them clearly now above the heads of the villagers, even as they took seats on the three chairs. The rest of us settled to listen, some sitting, some standing, as they wished. I perched on the edge of the wide well, where I would have open space at my back. Evie stayed with me.

  It began as always, first with a small bow, hand to heart, to the eldest on the platform, then a gentle nodding once more to our neighbors. The eldest three might lead a Gathering, but it was understood that each and all were important. No voice would go unheard here.

  Grandmama then stepped up onto the platform to recount the tale of the hand. I did not wish to dwell on that memory, so my mind went elsewhere, thinking again on what Evie had just said. Loving as her words were intended, they were laughingly false. My hair was the color of acorns, but I was not the oak of proverb. And I certainly could not burn others with brilliance, though ’twas true that I took care to stay soft, Evie’s kind word for my reserve. Energies flowed through me like music. While a plant or animal’s energy was usually soothing to absorb, a person held so many conflicting emotions, tempers, and changing histories that I was quickly overwhelmed by their discordant and jarring pitches if I stood too close. To touch someone might bring up visions of things unbearable. I needed time to grow accustomed to an individual’s energy so that it would wane in potency—time that crowds and strangers could not give. Any market day, pretty as it was with its gaily colored flags and white tents done up with ribbons, was a challenge of endurance that I could but tiptoe through with hope that no one would engage, surround, or even jostle me. I’d learned not to go to market, not to greet strangers. And, as kind-spirited as the people were in Merith, too much of even good feelings was likewise dizzying and made me sick. The villagers accepted my distance, though they could not truly understand why I preferred—nay, needed—my solitude in the fields and gardens, where almost all things hummed sweetly low, and in harmony.

  I looked up over the thatched roofs that surrounded the square, taking a deeper, calming breath from the wide sky. I heard Grandmama’s voice rising and falling with her story, and the airy, whispered reactions like wind chimes floating up and away.

  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?”