Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (5 page)

Milo placed the tub on the quickly provided stool. We would file past, reach in, and draw one of the smoothly polished gray stones—one for each member of the village over the age of fifteen. One of these stones had a small circle chiseled from it; the person who drew it would be the volunteer. One only would journey for help from the Riders, for in their world, it was remembered, one makes a friend. Two or more make a challenge.

It had been a very long time since our village had used the stones. They were brought forth for only the most serious of tasks; I’d never before been of age to be included. A rustle of anticipation passed over the group as we began to sort away the few youngest villagers and to form the line, each wondering: if chosen, would he meet the Riders or the same fate as Ruber Minwl?

And yet, there was no opportunity to choose. Raif Minwl strode to the front of the line and said commandingly, “Let me go. Let me bear the request.”

Surprised murmurs rose from the crowd now. I saw Evie watching from where she stood farther ahead in the line. Kerrick Swan said gently, “That is not how we do it, Raif.”

“I know,” he replied. “But let me go.”

And while the rustle and mutterings flickered through the Gathering, and all eyes focused on Raif, no one noted the black
speck hurtling across the sky. Even I was delayed in looking up; but then the hair on my neck pricked.

A raven, huge and glossy, streaked straight to us. It was only when he reached the square that people gasped and pulled back. He paid no attention to the villagers, diving instead for the tub of stones. It took but a moment, a flash of folded wing and strike of beak, and then the bird had selected its object and was back in the air. His wings flapped twice to bring him to where I stood; I had my hand out already, for I knew what was coming. The raven dropped the stone into my palm, whirled, and arced away, back toward Dark Wood.

There was no need to say aloud that I held the marked stone.

“NO, LARK!” I think both Evie and Quin cried it out at the same time.

“This—this is very odd!” Kerrick Swan sputtered in shock.

The eldest were all standing now, and somehow I’d become the center of the village circle. No one ever expected me to be the messenger; they knew my reluctance to leave home, my avoidance of strangers. This was a mistake, certainly. The barrage of comments and concerns was washing over me, through me—a telltale vibration of energy that would soon make me ill. I forced my focus to the stone, warm in my hand, my thumb filling its little hole in the center. Only when I heard Grandmama’s voice did I look up at the surrounding faces and realize I was shaking.

“We should consider whether we must abide by the raven’s
intention,” she called out. “Perhaps such a sign is merely a solicitation, not a requirement.”

“I’ll go instead!” shouted Quin. “I am quick and strong.”

If only you could
. A sign. Grandmama herself had named it.

Quin took a breath to continue, but Raif interrupted, facing him. “Nay, Quin, this is my task. It was my grandfather; the warning is mine.”

Then other members of the village, men and women alike, put forth their reasons why they should go in my place. Bravery from all of them while I stood in their midst, trembling, gripping the stone. I do not think they even saw me anymore, but they filled my senses. It was like market day now, all the noise and bustle of bartering for this task. The voices grew in fervor; my head swam. My hands went to my ears, hardly blocking the sensations, the little stone still crushed in my fist and pushing against my temple. The smell of the square intensified, the warmth of bodies exuding fragrances of sweat, of earth, of plant and mineral; the smell of the water from the well rose up and over me; the very cobbles of the square reeked of their dusty weight. I would be sick.

“Stop,” I gasped. “Stop!
Stop!
”

And then it was quiet. The villagers widened their circle around me. I could draw a breath again. I sank to my knees, uncertain of my balance.

“Lark.” It was Sir Farrin. “We care for your well-being.”

“I know it.” I’d not stopped shaking; my hands shivered against the pale cobblestones, and the stone rolled from my grasp.

Someone cried, “We motion to ignore the raven’s intent. Any number of us will go in Lark’s stead.”

“Go home, Lark,” Grandmama called out. “Your participation is not needed further.”

I forced my hands to be still. “No.”

“Lark, I will do this. Let me do this.”

It was Quin; it was Raif. I was not hearing them, but working too hard to look calm, to push out my words evenly, when I was everything but. “This is to be my journey.”

“Lark—”

“No, Raif!” I shouted, overly loud, shoving back from the young man who had stepped too close to me. “
Believe
me.”

He meant to understand; he pulled back a bit to make more space before saying gently, “Lark, you don’t have to go.”

“I wish that were true.”
I wish
. I clutched the marked stone again, gripping it as if it could anchor my body, keep me from splitting into a thousand shrieks of
no
. And I spoke as clearly as I could to all, raising my arm and holding the stone high over my head: “This, from the raven, is my
third
sign. And this—” I slipped my other hand into my bodice and drew out one of the three lark feathers I’d tucked there, holding it high. “This was the first. I am summoned. I am
bound
to seek the Riders.” My arms sank back to my sides and I looked at my grandmother, knowing she was remembering my dismissal of the third feather. It was hard to plead this truth; her face was so awful, reflecting my own fear. “It was meant to be so. You knew it before I did.”

An exhale of breath ran simultaneously through the crowd. There could be no more disagreement.

I took my own deep breath, then looked up with the bravest face I had. “Please tell me who the Riders are?” Then—and with, unfortunately, less certainty—I added, “And how I shall find them?”

The villagers turned to the platform. Dame Keren stayed standing, though the eldest men sat down again.

“There is little information, my dear,” she said. “A dozen men are they, rarely seen. The Troths are their enemy; that much we do know. They came to our aid those fifty years back, and saved us from complete devastation. But the last time we were … we had no chance.” This she finished softly. Pain never completely dissolves. I wondered back to her explanation about my tears those thirteen years ago, how she must wish she’d understood my cries. Dame Keren, the one villager whose color of choice was a lifeless charcoal, lost her six daughters to the Troths. One of them was with child.

“But fifty years!” I asked instead. “How can we know that the Riders still exist after all this time?”

“Oh, they exist,” she answered. “Once in a while we hear of things, little things that keep their legend alive.”

“Like what?” This was Min. She was as curious as I, as the rest of us.

“Stories sometimes filter between towns—the sound of hooves far in the distance, or the discovery of a hoofprint on a trail.”

“Ponies …,” I muttered, thinking how this could possibly hold importance.

“Horses,” Dame Keren corrected.

I had never seen a horse. I did not think any of the villagers of Merith had seen a horse. Ponies are not uncommon, but horses are the stuff of bedtime tales and children’s make-believes. A moment was needed for all of us to consider such an image.

And then darling Min spoke once again what we each were thinking. “And they would help us, these riders of
horses
?”

And, after fifty years,
old
. I kept this to myself. These old riders of horses.

“Yes, Min.” Dame Keren smiled. “I believe they will.” Then to me she said, though speaking out clearly as if to inform each of us, “Lark, it is you who must bring the flag to Bren Clearing. It lies a day’s walk past the northern edge of Dark Wood, between the Cullan foothills and the hills of Tarnec. You will know this clearing by the single rowan tree that stands in its center.” She paused before saying, “The journey there should take you all of two days.

“Once there you must scale the rowan and tie the flag to as high a branch as you can. Let it fly free. Wait there, then, by the rowan tree. It should be naught but two or three days more before you will be approached and can make your request. The Riders will remember Merith, and if not, they will still hasten to destroy a Troth.”

“This seems no great task,” I said with forced lightness. “If I am quick about it, I can perhaps save half a day.”

I could not fool Grandmama. I sensed her behind me.

“Dame Keren, please,” my grandmother entreated, her voice unbearably deep. “Lark should not go alone.”

Dame Keren answered with gentle authority. “Hume, it would be more dangerous should she be accompanied. It is their rule. You know this.”

“I know my granddaughter,” Grandmama answered back. “She is inexperienced in any journey. She can be easily overwhelmed with the Sight.”

But I shifted around to her and said as evenly as I could, “Grandmama, it will be all right. These are lightly traveled paths; I should meet no strangers.” I had no idea whether that was true, but I conjured a laugh, for she was shaking her head, and offered, “I can climb a tree far more nimbly than Quin.” As if agility could prove more convincing than a bound summons. As if I could prove to myself I could do this.

“Lark Carew.” Sir Farrin had risen once more, and he moved to look down at where I kneeled on the cobbles. I rose to my feet slowly. “Lark Carew, beware these things: Stay on the path. Light no fires. And, most importantly, do not venture into the hills of Tarnec. Past Bren Clearing is not of our dominion.”

“Then whose?” asked a voice from the crowd.

“The hills of Tarnec belong to the Riders, and they protect their secrets. A trespasser will be killed outright. Beyond those hills are the Myr Mountains. Troth territory.” He coughed abruptly. “No one, however, would make it past the hills.”

I watched him. We all watched him, wondering what this oldest man of our village had witnessed in his lifetime. The
shepherd’s charge, the powerful bond to grass, to rain, to sun … Nature holds many secrets, but she will willingly give them up to those who are patient, to those who watch and listen.

I wondered if Sir Farrin had ever seen the Riders.

“Heed those three rules and your journey should be safe, young Lark.” Then, his voice rising with strength I did not know he possessed, the oldest man said, “Let us give Lark our wishes for a good and quick journey, that her venture be the first step in protecting our beloved Merith.”

Every villager turned and made a bow to me, hand to heart, chin to chest. My gaze flew over the small sea of faces, breath catching in my throat as I saw Grandmama and Evie making the same acknowledgment as the others, this gesture suddenly separating them from me. Raif, Quin, Minnow, all of them giving me the tribute saved for our most respected. In this single moment, I felt a wave of kindness wash over me, surround me, and then let go.

The words came out hesitant and foolish. “Do I—do I go now?”

Dame Keren gave an encouraging smile. “The sun is but midway through the day. The sooner begun, the sooner ended, my dear.” Then, with less of a smile, she asked, “Are you ready?”

I tucked the lark feather back into my bodice and said more firmly, however false my conviction, “ ’Tis a beautiful day for a walk.”

Evie packed food for the journey in the small, thickly stitched satchel, which Grandmama had taught me to sew on: bread and cheese, a handful of hazelnuts, and dried apples. Grandmama poured a tiny bottle of the honeyed mead. “Just in case,” she said. My cloak was shaken and brushed and folded; it would do well as a sleeping blanket. I added a small knife and a water flask to the pack, and changed into my light walking sandals. Then Kerrick Swan arrived at our cottage, bearing the flag that I was to raise for the Riders, a long, trailing banner Carr’s great-grandmother had spun in a radiant hue of deep rose. “I imagine that it can be seen even at night,” I said, focusing on detail rather than departure.