Silver Eve (30 page)

Salva was in the corner darning her stocking, crooning little things, and over that I heard the old man entering. He settled on his stool by the fireplace, waited while I rocked the satchel. “My dear?” he asked after a time.

“I'm just…” I stopped, not knowing if I was laughing or trembling. “I've lost so much, made so many mistakes. I'm just so thankful to have this still.”

“Would you like to show me?”

After a moment I nodded. I straightened, undid the satchel, and lifted out the shell, holding it up for him to see. Little bloody streaks from the splinters stained my fingertips, but the shell was unharmed. All pinkish gray and nobbed. All as it should be.

The White Healer fixed his gaze. His eyes didn't crinkle; there was no humor. And when he spoke, his voice was husky: “The amulet of Death.”

“You know its history?”

“The legend of Tarnec,” the old man murmured. “Yes, I know it. Life, Death, Dark, and Light—the orb, the shell, the black stone, and the blade. Amulets of the primal forces protected by the Keepers of Balance. Immense power entrusted to simple items.”

“It looks like nothing in my hand,” I agreed.

“Not true. Not true.” He studied it for a while longer before saying, “My dear, you must finish my story: How is it that you have this amulet?”

I looked at him, looking at the shell. My shell. I said a little hoarsely, “I am the Guardian of Death.”

He smiled broadly and sat back a little on his stool, as if contented. “And so you are. And so you hold the ability to save your cousin within your hands.”

I leaped from the hearth. “You know? Why did you not say it?”

“Because you must acknowledge who you are first, my dear. Had I promised you something before you claimed your Guardianship, then any healing efforts would be weakened. There is far more power to be harnessed when one commits to one's
own
direction.”

It was beyond music, those words. “So you can craft a cure!”

The White Healer pulled back just a little. He tore his eyes from the shell to look at me. “No, my dear,” he said. “Your shell, your hands. You must do the crafting. But”—he smiled—“I will guide you.”

Grateful
—how many times, now, had I thought it? An ugly memory of Haver flashed through and I wondered that I could be so far removed from those terrible last minutes of being burned alive and the swift attack. The dark of the past seemed to slide away, weakened against the hope I now held. That I had the shell, still, and now the ability to save Lark…I bent my head again, unable to speak.

Only Laurent was missing. It cut then, hard, how badly I wanted to see him. I'd left him dust-worn and wounded. I remembered my last night with him, understanding how precious those hours—that we might never again feel so free of threat…of burden. And I wished he could know there
was
a place still free, wished we could share in the White Healer's peaceful little world.

“You look unhappy, my dear.”

I shook my head. In the corner I heard Salva murmur, “Not to mind. She misses someone.”

The White Healer considered me for a moment, his eyebrows twitching. He said a little sternly, “You understand of course that your mind must be clear of all concerns as you craft a potion.”

I looked away, nodded.

“Good. Then you might wish to answer the door,” he said.

“I'm sorry?” I asked. But the old man only gestured toward the door. I looked at Salva, who hunched over her stocking murmuring, “She misses.” I put the shell back in the satchel, shouldered it, and got up. The knock only came as I lifted the latch.

I know that I glanced back at the White Healer, as if to say,
How…?

But that is the beauty of magic. It didn't matter how. I had everything I wanted. I was in the Rider's arms.

“A SERIOUS TASK,
you understand. You must give over to the process with whole heart.
And
presence of mind.”

I stood with the White Healer in the herb shed, eyeing the shelves of ingredients. Energy burned through my body so intensely that I trembled. Happiness, excitement, things I could barely contain. I'd tried not to show it before my host—he'd been reminding me since we left the cottage: “Dedication begins with focus. How you fare with this work shall determine the success of the cure. Show that your intention is sincere.”

Dame Gringer had said that. I remembered thinking that when I prepared the Insight spell. I shivered deeper.

“See? Your mind strays.” The old man sighed. “I should not wonder. You are very young.”

Hadn't I felt so very old recently? I took a breath, then squared my shoulders to look taller. “I am ready.”

He gave his crinkled smile. “Well. You have potential.”

There were a multitude of ingredients to collect. The old man bade me take the ladder, to climb to the top shelves to search. I ran my fingers over the labels, naming as swiftly as I could, bringing down whatever he called out. Mostly the shelves were lined with herbs, but I spied jars with dried carcasses of reptiles and claws of birds—things I remembered seeing in Dame Gringer's books. They all seemed to merge after a while; I was up and down the rungs of the ladder, breathless, placing glass bottles in the willow basket we'd brought from his cottage without really acknowledging what I'd gathered.

“So many ingredients,” I said a little helplessly. I reached for an item from the basket. The tabby cat, who prowled around the basket like a surly guard, hissed at me, so I pulled my hand back.

“This takes serious effort to create,” the White Healer admonished. “Be patient.” But then he added brightly, “I think we've enough. Let us return and begin preparation.”

“Not here?” I asked. Grandmama never worked her concoctions in our cottage.

The old man sniffed and turned. “
So
much to learn…”

We were back in the lovely sunshine. Laurent was walking Arro over the far grass. The two redheaded children were playing by the well in the square. The woman in the buttercup apron stood at her door, waving. I waved back again, happily, wondering if she lived alone, wondering if she crafted spells inside of her cottage. Then I spied the White Healer far ahead of me. He'd moved fast. Was it but a moment ago we'd been in the herb shed? And neither of us had brought the basket—

“Here, mistress!”

I turned and promptly jumped. Salva was directly behind me, holding up the basket of ingredients, and then spilling it in reflex to my reaction. She immediately scrabbled to pack it back together before I could help her. “Not to mind. I will carry this.” And the servant hurried along to the cottage, the White Healer just ahead of her, the hem of his robe dragging in the dust. I dusted my own hands on my skirts, shaking my head a little and thinking what an odd pair. But then Laurent was there and I ran to hug him before racing on to the cottage, thinking then I should be happy to grow old here like Salva.

The White Healer was unpacking the basket, lining up the little bottles on the table. “Now then, shall we begin?”

I went over to study what I'd collected for him. “All dark,” I murmured. It was an obvious description. These were black herbs, little bits of leaf and twig each the color of night.

“True. Do you understand why?”

I shook my head.

“Dark for light,” he answered. “When all the dark colors are combined you will see how 'twill be brilliantly lit.”

I picked out a few of the names I recognized. “Nightshade, oxalis, poison sedge.” I looked at him. “Dark and toxic.”

He nodded. “Poison of one thing can erase the poison of another.”

“Even the deadly ones?” I picked up one of the vials. “This is yew.”

“Hukon is more deadly. Return that to the table, my dear.”

“I—” I was picturing the little island in Rood Marsh, the wisps….

“Pay attention!”

I flinched, confessing, “I made a spell with yew before I should have. Before I was ready. I've brought so much trouble upon everyone because of it.”

The White Healer looked thoughtful. Then he nodded once more and gently reached to take the yew from my hand. “But here you are, so perhaps it was a good thing to have done.”

I considered that for a moment, watching him rearrange the bottles, lift their tops and sniff, testing for freshness. “If I had not done the spell,” I murmured finally, “I might have accomplished my task without incident. I might have already reached my destination.”

“What destination, my dear?”

“I would have made it to Tarnec. I would be with the Rider.” That came out of me so sudden, so certain—and so contrary.

A stillness passed over the old man. I worried what he was thinking, that he would tell me to leave off the spell making because I could not focus. But after a moment he smiled his merry smile. “Was it not your original destination to become a White Healer? And here you are, learning the craft, even if your mind is not where it should be. Perhaps this way you accomplish both missions?

“But now to task, my dear,
this
task.” The old man pulled my attention back to the table. “Take three pinches from this one”—he indicated the sedge—“and crush the bits between your palms.” He watched me carefully draw the appropriate amount from the jar. “Very good. Rub hard, make a fine powder.”

A harsh smell, the sedge. Darkly pungent.

“Now spread it clockwise on the table.”

My hand tingled as I smoothed the powder, staining the wood a dark metal color. I paused for a moment to study the pattern. “How is it that a poison lays the base?”

“Poison oft protects the pure,” he replied, and he bade me repeat the step with three other poisons, all staining the wood.

“Does it work in the opposite,” I asked, “that you would take what was pure to make something foul?”

“ 'Tis curiosity that fouls work.”

Curiosity
cracked like a little switch. I pressed both hands to the table; the black stained them as well.

“There now, that was quickly done.” The White Healer was pleased. “Clever girl! Now you shall craft the container.” He pulled a little blade from his pocket. “Just beyond our hamlet is a grove of sweet wood. Find the willow tree there and cut twelve whips the length of half your height. From them you will braid four plaits and then bring them here.”

I nodded. The blade disconcerted me; it reminded me of Lill. But then, I'd also—finally—been complimented, so I dared not mention another memory since he would consider it a distraction. I waited politely.

“Go on, then,” he nudged. “Your Rider can assist you.”

I turned and left, almost tripping in haste. Salva bent over her stocking and murmured, “Not to mind, mistress.” The tabby hissed.

Laurent rode me out of the village. I wanted to say that Arro should still be recovering, that we should walk, but somehow we were already seated on the horse, Laurent behind me. Neither of us spoke—reminiscent of the first time I rode with the Rider.

And yet hardly. That was when suspicion was ripe between us. Now I was happy to sit so close. I leaned back against his warm chest, wondering how he'd tracked me here, how he knew the direction for the willow, and then wondering why I should care. Then the grove was just ahead and I forgot to ask anyway.

“The willow will be inside,” Laurent said when I dismounted, “beyond that clump of trees.”

“You do not go with me?” I asked. It was that same sting of disappointment as at Hooded Falls.

He took my hands. “You will come back safe, Evie. I will look to the horse.”

He waved and turned Arro, then trotted off a ways leaving me standing in a field of hip-high grass. I watched him, feeling a little strange, a little empty. Then I shook myself.
Attention to task.
Laurent was right to leave me, or I'd be fixed upon him instead. I turned and walked into the grove.

It was dark and cool within, bare earth beneath my feet, a heavy canopy above. I reached up and touched the leaves—leaves of all shapes and meanings splintering the light.

There was the pointed oval of the slippery elm—it stopped the voice. 'Twould be why the grove was so quiet. There was the dragon's blood tree of stiff bristles—its red sap stopped digestion. 'Twas a tree for arid lands and had no business growing in this verdant spot. And there grew the black locust, clumped with fragrant blossom on thorny branches. It could stop the heart.

A collection of trees to wither a soul. Hardly sweet wood as the White Healer called them. But perhaps, like the spell, poisonous trees together created a positive force that protected the pure….

For there, in the center of these dark trees, stood the willow.

Steep the bark in heated water; bring them back their ceded laughter
. A bit of Healer verse floated into memory. The willow: a tree encompassing love, protection, healing, and even a guide to passage for those who were dying, a tree that was earthbound yet sought water. It was a tree for both the Guardian of Life and of Death. And I thought with relief:
I am here; I am nearly done.

I approached the willow and sat down a little way from it, thinking that I should pay respect before I cut its branches. My fingers brushed over the bare ground, feeling little stubs of something. I looked down; my hand was resting on sprouts of minion. I stared at them, confused—I'd not noticed them before; it made no sense for minion to be growing next to a weeping willow—two healing plants did not need to share space. And minion grew in sun, not this dark shade. I touched a finger to one of them; my hand shimmered, white beneath the shadows. I brushed them again, and again my hand shimmered, white under what seemed so very black.

Attention to task.

The White Healer's words jumped out, bold and stern. I stood, wiped my hands on my frock, and went to the tree. I slipped the blade from my pocket and sliced off the twelve whips, measuring as required, then sat back down by the tree to braid the four plaits. They were sharp, making fine little slices along my fingertips; beads of blood smeared a pattern, reminding me of when I pulled the satchel from the rack—

Attention to task!
came the order. I made it a little song.
To task, to task…

It might have been why I didn't hear him, or perhaps he made no sound. But I felt a presence behind me, a sensation that I was being watched. I said, without turning around, “I am nearly done, Laurent.” And then, because there was no answer, I did turn around—

And I said something else:

“Raif.”