Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (13 page)

“Lark Carew.”

I’d not shared my full name. “Yes.”

“Daughter of Meilsa, granddaughter of Hume.”

“Yes.” A shiver ran up my spine. How did he know?

“You will be seventeen years on the seventeenth day after the midsummer mark.”

“Yes …”

“And you carry the sign.”

The sign. I shook my head, gulping. “No, I am sorry. I do not remember what happened to the feathers. I must have left them back in the forest. The Riders saw them—Wilh and Brahnt, and Gha—”

“That is not the sign I speak of. You carry a mark on your body. The mark of Balance.”

At those words the entire room seemed to hold its breath. I looked back in surprise.

“The mark on my shoulder—” I swallowed then, to say more clearly, “The mark on my shoulder blade?”

“The mark of Balance,” the king repeated.

“ ’Tis only a small circle. An outline. It is not unusual. My cousin has the same mark—”

“But you bear the Sight. You hold connection with Earth’s creatures.”

I protested, “And she is a Healer. She is far—”

“The sign. We must see it, Lark Carew.” There was no pause to wonder if I would agree to this. “Ilone, if you would.”

A young woman broke from the group where she’d stood partnered with the Rider I recognized as Dartegn, and crossed the distance to me with a light step. Her dark brown hair fell almost as long as my own, rich against the ruby color of her gown. She took my hand with an encouraging smile—passing no frenzy of sensation—and drew me up onto the platform before the king. I was meek in her hands: letting her push me to kneel and turn me just so, letting her pull my hair from my shoulder and expose my back to the scrutiny of the king—to all, for all eyes were fixed on this mark. My mark.

“Just one,” Ilone murmured, undoing a single button, and the sleeve was slipped down.

It is not that a mark on one’s skin should be considered insignificant. Many carry a brand of some sort, birth-given, directing their paths—for good or bad. Evie and I liked that we shared a similar mark, but we’d paid little attention to these small things we could not see.

Ruber Minwl bore a mark too, when he died
, came a sudden, vicious memory. We do not always wish for the brands we are given.

“Lark …,” Ilone said, nodding toward the Riders.

Gharain had stepped forward from the group, some acknowledgment having passed between himself and the king. For whatever reason he was singled out, it was an unwelcome designation. And, quiet and stiff as he was, the young Rider’s voice held true desperation. “Must I?”

The king said nothing. Gharain closed his eyes. Some agony flickered across his brow, so heartbreaking that I caught my
breath to see it. Then his eyes opened, focused on some far-off detail, and he slowly walked to where I kneeled. I watched him not look at me, watched him move with deliberate purpose, with an expression of pained resignation—a dutiful servant ready to perform a loathed task.

I had the horrible thought that he was going to draw his sword.

My eyes flicked back to Ilone. She shook her head. “It is just for a moment.”

And then Gharain was there and Ilone bent my shoulder to him. My head went down, but I turned my face so that I could see out of the corner of my eye his right hand reach out. He had a mark too, on the back of his third finger just above the knuckle. It was a tiny scar, whiter than the rest of his skin—a cross of two even lines. And he was placing his mark against mine. I felt the light touch, the warmth of his skin—

A shock of brilliance burst through me. I screamed. My back arched, throwing my face into the light of the thousand candles. Their glow exploded through my vision, and something gripped me—a power beyond all I’d ever seen or felt before. A homesickness, a pain of the deepest level, ripped into my heart, simultaneously washed smooth by an ultimate, exquisite burst of joy. It was need, and it was need fulfilled.

I tipped from the small platform onto hands and knees, gasping for breath. The move broke Gharain’s touch, and almost immediately the color, the heat, and the explosion inside were dimmed. I tried to rise but my arms were jelly.

“Is she strong enough for this?” Ilone asked the king.

“She is,” he replied.

It was a terse exchange. I quit any attempt to stand and stayed crumpled on the stone, looking at the company in the room. They all stood straight, nearly severe in their attention and surprise. I looked at Gharain, caught his stare. He was as shocked as I. His face was lit with the heat of the touch, radiating a power and beauty so extraordinary. It was the release I’d seen before when he’d smiled my name.

I was hoarse. “What is this? What—what has happened?”

“You are awakened, Lark,” answered the king. “You are proved.”

My entire body was tingling, charged as if by lightning. I looked up at him. “What is proved?”

“That you are who we hoped.” His hand brushed across the book he held—striking because it was the first time, I think, that he’d moved. But then, to my utter shock, his hand went to his heart and he bowed—the traditional Merith acknowledgment of respect. Every member of the attending group followed his gesture. “We welcome you home.”

“This—this is not home.” The tingling was expanding. “I am from the village of Merith, sent to request that your Riders protect us from approaching Troths.”

“We know of your village. We know you seek our help, but it is we who have need of yours.”

“
My
help?” What meant any of this? The group stood, calm and silent, while waves of something huge seeped through body
and mind, building in force—not painful, but powerful and uncontrollable. “I’ve nothing to offer.”

The king simply looked at me, waiting the way the Riders did up on the ridge, as if I had something of importance to say, to impart. I stood, trying not to tremble.

“You wish to go,” he said. He read what was in my mind.

“Yes! I wish to go home!” Home. I saw our cottage. I saw Grandmama and Evie and Rileg. The waves of energy heightened, and a rush of sound raced in that I pushed against. I saw myself weeding in the garden, fingers deep in the rich earth—

“You do not lose these precious things. Look deeper, Lark. Trust yourself. What else do you see?”

“How do you know?” I cried, gasping at this strange force. “How do you know what I see? How do you know me?” And yet I
was
looking deeper: before my eyes my garden expanded, opened, flashing rapidly the changing seasons, my hands in the dirt dug deep and gripped stone, and the stone became the walls of Castle Tarnec—

“Lark,” the king called out above the roar in my ears. I clamped my hands over them to shut out the vibrancy of all of it, closed my eyes. “You have lived your life with the Sight as a burden. Too sensitive, you shy from people to avoid absorbing their energies, good or bad, shy away from yourself even, to hide from what might expose your own energy, your own power. And yet now you stand where you belong, believing you should be frightened of Tarnec, bracing against what does not hurt you, confused that you suffer no discord, that here the
people do not jar your senses, that
this
is the place where you are in tune.”

He paused then, before claiming, “I hear you, Lark. I know you. For it is you we summoned. And you are home.”

“Summoned! It was for the Troths!” I cried. “I don’t know what to do with this! I don’t know what this is!”

“Listen,” commanded the king. His aged fingers smoothed over the book he held, then pulled open its front cover, so very, very carefully. He brought it up close to his eyes; Ilone drew one of the standing candles near so he could see. And then he read, with a lilt that was ancient and not his own:

It echoed through the silent hall.

“These words are the beginning,” the king finished. “But it is enough. We have found you.” He added softly, “You have the mark of Balance, and the Sight, and the white horse chose you.” He closed the book gently, pressing on the cover as if to seal it for good. “We have been waiting for you, Guardian.”

There was absolute silence in the room. Every eye watched me, watched for some reaction.

I turned and ran.

GHARAIN WAS THERE. I never even saw him move. He was simply there, his hand closing on my arm to stop me, with all its power and warmth and glorious energy shooting straight through my body, grounding me to the spot.

“Stay,” he said. “Stay.”

Fierce regret, terrible need. They warred in Gharain’s expression before he looked away, refusing my gaze. The doors, with a creak of hinge and clanging of iron latch, were opening for me. I could go if I wanted. I drew a great breath. Relief? Surrender? I wasn’t certain.

Gharain released my arm; I’d stopped tugging. I turned around, taking those few steps back to the others, not even sure why—except, maybe, to please the young man who’d done nothing but hate me from the start. And maybe to apologize; I certainly couldn’t help them.

But the king was not upset. He smiled at me. “You run when you have no need, Lark. Do not fear your own power. These energies are your guide—the Sight is your understanding.”

I straightened. “You called me Guardian. You say I am proved, that those words claim me as the one you summon, who will help you, as if that”—I pointed at the book—“holds your answer. And yet you ask me to trust myself. So believe this: I trust myself enough to know I cannot be what or who you look for. I am no Guardian.” It was a noble enough denial.

Still, he ignored it. “We know it to be so. What was written is our clue, you might say, a clue shared with us so that we could find you. And you are proved, through your mark.”

“And I say that my mark is not special, and that is a book from which you have read but a single verse. What is the rest? May I see?”

The king’s hands quivered slightly, splayed as they were on the book, but he shook his head. “It is unnecessary, for you already see,” he said.

The seer had said something like that in my dream; I felt my cheeks grow hot at the echoed refusal. How reasonable the king was with this outrageous claim of guardianship! But then, truthfully, I could not reject it outright. I said, a little hoarsely, “I cannot change my mark, but at least tell me how you came by this … 
clue
?”

“Call it payment, perhaps.” The king’s eyes left mine, only briefly, flickering to the young man standing so rigidly at my side. I turned.

Gharain said abruptly, “May I go?” It was hardly a request.
There must have been some slight nod from the king, for Gharain turned on his heel and strode from the room. He would have broken through the doors if the guards had not still held them open. It’s what I had wanted to do. He told me to stay and yet he’d left.

I looked to the king. He was watching Gharain’s departure, his face a mixture of something like sadness and patience.

“He needs time,” he said to all without apology. Then, with a completely different tone, he called for some refreshment to be brought and smiled again.

“Lark, I may not show you the book, but I will show you something else that explains your purpose among us. Come close.”

I did so, kneeling once more at the feet of this aged king. The remaining company turned to better hear him. They must have known their history, but seemed to wish to hear it once more.

And yet I was wrong. It was not words they waited for. The king shifted, tipping the book a little so the gold filigree caught the candlelight. He reached for my right hand, taking my index finger to guide it along the thin circle etched in the book’s cover. Three times he had me trace it, then placed my finger in the center of my left palm and had me retrace the circle three more times. The king cupped my upturned palm, lifted it so all could see. I gasped. A spark of light jumped in its center and steadied, a little glowing flame that held no heat.

The king said to me, “Life, Death, Dark, Light. What are they to you?”

Maybe it was a challenge. I felt suddenly like Min, when she stood before the Gathering wondering what meaning to put to our faces. I knew enough about life and death from Grandmama’s and Evie’s healings; I knew enough from my own daily chores in the gardens. Still … I looked at him, looked again at the little flame of light, and answered carefully, “Life and Death are a cycle for Nature’s creatures. And Dark and Light are a cycle as well—the way night follows day follows night. ’Tis like a cycle within a cycle. It is the working of Nature.”

“It is what
sustains
Nature.” The king took the flame in my palm between his thumb and forefinger and drew with it a circle. It stood vertical in my hand, a glowing loop. “The cycle of Life and Death,” he said. Then he pulled the flame horizontally, threading another circle, saying, “The cycle of Dark and Light.” It hovered in my palm for a moment, this outline of a sphere, then the king cupped both hands around mine.

“Life, Death, Dark, and Light,” he said, “are the four primal forces. They are what bind Nature to the Earth. Linked as they are, these forces create essential cycles in Nature, cycles that must be equally balanced so that Nature—all of the Earth—may thrive. Balance, you see, is the root of what supports our existence.” He looked down then and smiled at me.