Silver Eve (23 page)

Growing in speed. Faster. Running now.
Faster.
A humming sound whined from the circle.
Faster.
Like a ring of mist, a whirling top, they blurred.
Faster.
A single, wild entity, racing. My hair was whipped from its braid; the torches spit fire, igniting the bone-dry brush. And still they spun ever faster, raising a wind of such force it trumped weapon and muscle. The mist pushed in, then soldiers—armor, axe, and all—were yanked from Laurent, sucked into the spiral and flung far off, disappearing into separate distances. The Rider was left in the middle striking at nothing.

The wind slowed and the spirit mist feathered out, smothering the burning scrub and quenching all the torches but one—one flame spared so that I could see, bear witness to what I'd begged for. Then the mist collected around me, resolved once more into individual figures. I was on my feet, mouth open. Transparent faces, hollowed eyes, sheer branch and bough. The empty gazes all trained on me, poised…for something.

“What…?” It fell out of me before I could gather any thought. Then I collected myself and bowed hand to heart: “What can I give but my thanks?”

The carrot-haired boy spoke. “Take us home.”

I raised my head and looked at him. “Home,” he repeated, and the surrounding spirits echoed in ghostly voice, in shake of leaf. “Home.”

Home.
The word resonated long and needful, shuddering straight through me. They meant solace, not place, and it hurt to sense such yearning. On impulse I reached both hands toward the carrot-haired boy. “Ben,” I murmured, remembering the old woman naming him.

It seemed to be what was wanted. Ben reached for my hands—a wisp of smoke brushing my fingertips. “From your lips, Guardian.” He smiled and was gone. One by one they reached for my hands, supplying their names, which I whispered back before they disappeared,
Carn, Logan, Hurd, elm, badger, fern…
Person, plant, and animal brushing by as if a single touch—my touch—could send them on their way, could send them home. This Guardianship seemed huge, suddenly, my hands connecting to the whole world and the stars above—the barest glimmer of the awesomeness of a
primal
force. Huge and beautiful, and cruel. This was not healing, and yet it was—I was helping these tragic-killed beings to cross the threshold into peace. The seer had said it; Laurent had said it:
the one Healer. You allow only the passing of those who cannot be saved.

And then it was done. The scrub plain was empty of spirits, quiet but for Arro's panting.

ARRO
!

I whirled. Only a breath of time had passed; Laurent was staggering to his feet, eyes on me, not understanding what had happened—except that the soldiers were gone and I was unharmed. “How…?” he began, but Arro made a sudden and terrible noise. Laurent dropped his sword and stumbled to his horse. I raced to join him.

Swearing, he tore off his shirt and pressed it to the ugly gash that ran full across Arro's flank. It was too long, too deep; Laurent could neither stanch nor hold the wound closed. Each heave of Arro's breath seeped new blood. I'd never heard such curses. A strong connection between wounded and nurse would aid a healing process, but rage would make it worse. 'Twas bad energy, all of it, with no time to waste.

I sank to my knees, put my hands over his blood-soaked ones. “Let me, Laurent. 'Twill be better if you hold—”

“Let you what?” he gritted. “We do not rest here. We need to get past those ridges, find cover.”

My jaw dropped. “Arro cannot be moved like this!”

“And you cannot stay. You are too exposed on this plain. You will be tracked.”

“How? The soldiers are dead!”

“Not soldiers,” he growled. “Breeders. Whatever magic that was, whatever made those soldiers disappear, will bring the Breeders like a beacon.”

“No magic,” I said under my breath. Then aloud, “If you worry for me, let me go on alone. Tend Arro here. Eudin and his posse scout these plains, they'll find you, help you take Arro back to the fort—”

“I stay with you, Evie Carew. There is no arguing.”

“Arro will bleed out if we make him stand!”

Laurent's voice was bitter hard. “We
will
make him stand, for I'll not leave him for vultures—winged or armored. There will be stones enough up on that ridge to…to cover.”

“
Cover?
You
bury
your horse instead of mending him!”

“It's too late for mending!” he yelled.

I yanked his hands away from the blood, squeezed them between mine, forcing him to hold my gaze. “No, Laurent. Arro will live. His life force is strong, just as yours is.”

“I had the
minion.
” The words burned caustic. “What is there among this dead-dry scrub that can save him?”

“Me,” I said fiercely. I scrambled up, shouted to the night sky,
“Do you hear me? This horse will NOT pass!”
I would
not
let Arro die.

I had no herbs, no special medicine, but I had water from the goatskin and fire from the torch. I had my hands. And I dug into the Rider's clever pack, finding a needle and twining. I held the goatskin over the flame, heating the water as best as I dared, then washed and cauterized the wound and stitched the thing closed. It was hardly neat, hardly delicate; the snorts of the horse were harsh. I worked as quickly as I could; Laurent paced.

“Tell me what happened back on the plain,” he demanded abruptly. “How did we survive?”

“Spirits,” I muttered, jamming my finger with the needle. “The spirits of those killed by Tyre's soldiers. They'd not yet passed to death. They came to our aid.”

“Our aid?”

“Mine then,” I said grimly.

“That's not…” He was frustrated. “How?”

I sucked my finger, spit out the blood. “I called them. Blame me.”

He stopped his pacing. “What blame?”

I would not talk anymore of death. I knotted the thread and bit off the leftover. “Finished,” I announced, wiping my hands with the hem of my frock. I laid them on Arro's neck at his pulse, willing recovery. Laurent moved close, inspecting. I gave him a hard look. “You cannot say there was no time for this. No Breeders have come.” I didn't mention the spying grackles.

“Can he walk?”

“We are not moving him. That will not help—!” I gasped as Laurent straightened, lifted me up by the shoulders, and walked me back a few paces. “
Don't!
He needs rest!” If the Rider was furious then so was I, furious at the readiness to sacrifice his horse, his kindred spirit. I'd never felt such exasperation before, and his steadfast refusal to listen and barely contained fury were so completely against anything I'd ever witnessed in Laurent.

But then I saw the Rider's own hands so gently encouraging Arro to stand, how he braced Arro's flank until the horse's hooves were stable on the earth, the tenderness with which he brushed the forelock back. 'Twas breaking him, this decision, and yet he was going to let Arro die. For me. I'd not let it come to that.

I took a deep breath and put my hand on his arm. “Rider—”

“Let us go,” Laurent interrupted, freezing under my touch. “Move on in front where I can see you. I'll assist Arro.”

“Nay.” I swallowed his rejection, tucked feelings away. I would not care what the Rider thought or insisted. “We'll both walk with Arro.” I shook his sleeve.
“Together.”

The Rider's eyes bored through me then, harsh and cold. And bleak. He opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it and turned to collect his sword and pack and the single torch. We each threw an arm over Arro—I tried anyway, finally holding my shoulder against his great foreleg. And the three of us shuffled our way up rock and dirt in silence.

It was an ugly trek. Laurent was keenly, angrily vigilant. I kept my own eye out for the grackles, but there was nothing I could deem any sort of threat—except my thinning patience as he pushed the pace, and I resisted. Eventually the land flattened out, made it easier to travel, but the tension between us was already the heavier burden. “There is our cover,” Laurent grunted about some trees up ahead. “We'll rest within.”

The trees were dying—sad, bare boughs of larch and elm entwined overhead. After the exposed plain, though, even a skeletal canopy seemed protective. There was a trickle of water in a small hollow, a thick carpet of fallen leaves underfoot. We washed and watered the horse as best we could; Laurent soaked some hardbread for feed, and we helped Arro to lie down. I walked to the edge of wood where we'd left the torch, which forced Laurent to break our rigid silence.

“Do not leave the trees!” he barked.

“We need to make a fire,” I snapped back. “I'd hardly build it where everything is tinder.”

“No fires.”

“The water from the goatskin was barely hot before! I want to clean Arro's wound again. Clean it
better.
”

Abruptly Laurent stalked over to me, yanked the torch from my hand, and stubbed it dead in the dirt, leaving us in the faint sheen of moonlight. “Fires open paths for Breeders,” he gritted. “I know it too—”

“Enough!”
I shouted. “Must you force your sacrifices, Rider? Look about! There are no Breeders! No wisps, no reaping hounds, no swifts!”

“They come when least expected. And not always in violent forms.”

“So? Let them come! Let us save Arro until they do!”

“I save you!”

He said it fiercely, with no regret. It stunned me a little. But his anguish beneath the anger expelled my own frustration in a rush of breath. Impulsively I reached out, knowing full well he'd jerk from me again, so I caught up his sleeve in a hard grip. “Laurent—!”

“Do you think I don't grieve my horse?” the Rider bit out. “He saved my life once and there is nothing I wouldn't do to save his.” He inhaled harshly. “Except sacrifice you.”

“Being a Complement means you'd let everything else die if necessary?” I was astonished. A little sickened. “Then I unbind you, Rider!”

“It is not my—”

I shouted, “I am no longer your duty!
Go
to Arro! You are free to do what is in your heart.”

“Heart?” he yelled back. “Don't you
know
what is in my heart?”

We glared, jaws hard, my hand fisted in his sleeve. Not anger, but stubbornness. A standoff. What came next was my doing. He was there, this Rider, so haunted and beautiful and pained, and I couldn't think anything but that I wanted him to not hurt—

Nay. I simply wanted him. I released his sleeve, took his dirt-smeared face between my hands, and kissed him.

Laurent gripped the back of my head, as if he could draw me in any closer, devoured the kiss like a starved one, and then broke free, hands to my shoulders, setting me a little away from him. His breath was ragged. “Lady—”

“
Don't!
Don't call me so.” I reached for him and he took my mouth once more, before pulling back.

“ 'Tis this moment.” He shook his head to clear it, his hands clenched tight. “ 'Tis but passion expelled by fear. I understand.”

Passion.
A feeling I'd hidden away, and yet it was there, mine to own, and I wanted it—wanted to feel this wild thing that shivered through me. My laugh tasted cold and sweet. “This is not from fear. Do not brush this away.”

“Evie, you are not yourself.”

“You do not know me!”

Laurent hesitated. I saw his hand twitch to reach for me then drop, my heart dropping with it. “This is how the Breeders toy with us,” he said abruptly, and turned to the woods to listen. He walked a little ways. “By all accounts they should have found us.”

“And neither are Breeders the excuse.” My tone was changed again—another emotion to cloud it, the sharp bitterness of rejection. “You once said I hold something so tight. But so do you. It makes you push me away.”

There was a terrible pause. I stared at his hard back, watched a tremor flick across his shoulders and his hands clench. “Rider—”

“You were over his body,” he gritted, head bowed.

It took a moment—Laurent was staring at his fist, and then I realized he was not speaking of his horse but a far different memory.

Raif.

“You were undone,” he whispered. “I killed the Troth, rode past—I saw you.”

“I know.”

“No,” he hissed, eyes fixed on his fist. “You do not understand. I
saw
you.” Head up, he took a harsh breath. “You burned straight into my soul.”

He would not turn. But his words hit, drop by drop: “You…do…not…know.”

I stared at him.
You do not know.
Like raindrops fizzing on parched earth, those words, exploding life—it sprang into my head then the picture of what I'd so badly wanted to erase: that horrible day, that moment of death, of running for Raif…and Laurent's eyes on mine. 'Twas only a catch of stares, only the briefest of moments. And yet—

“You mourn your Raif,” he was saying. “I would neither taint nor damage that memory.”

And yet.
Laurent's eyes—that look as he galloped past in the smoke and grit. I remembered it there in the dark, dry night as vividly as if it were yesterday: something that was never acknowledged yet never forgotten, something the old seer had warned of and the Insight spell exposed. It was Laurent I'd seen. Eye to eye, soul to soul. The image burst from memory as if it
had
to be exposed. And now here we stood, spinning in reverse—I uncovering feelings and Laurent burying them deep.

“Taint?” I whispered. “How can you taint when you fill me with
this
?” My hand was already pressing against my heart. “I
love
you. I have loved you since that moment, even if I did not claim it then.”

We stood apart, silent. Then hoarsely Laurent said, “You have his ring.”

I started, and then laughed at the simplicity of misunderstanding. “ 'Tis Raif's ring, but not as you think!” I reached into my satchel, pulled the ring from it, held out my hand. “Look at it, Rider: Raif's
grandfather's
ring. I choose to keep it for them both, as memory, as honor. 'Tis a symbol of love, yes, but 'twas never betrothal.”

Laurent's shoulders heaved once, hard. “You say you knew in a moment. I know what comes from moments.” He was warning me, himself, us. “But it has to be real. I could not bear this as regret.”