Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (2 page)

It was a sign.

Our village of Merith enjoyed all whims of Nature, whether as harbingers of news or insignificant pranks. But things messengered or distinguished by animal were a more serious
matter, for they were signs, and if three signs were bestowed on a person, it meant that person was summoned, bound to a task, whatever the task might be.

Now a hawk had brought this—a sign made of my own namesake, even, as if he’d shaken his wing at me and said, “You, young Lark, may not ignore this.”

My first sign. But would I be summoned? And if so, summoned to what? Anxiety nipped at the edges of these thoughts, but I pushed them aside; I
would
ignore this. Grandmama might hold her suspicions, but not I—not on this beautiful day, not here within our peaceful, beloved cottage and grounds. A bound summons was rare anyway; the last one I could recall involved our neighbor Gaben Rawl, who was summoned to divine the placement of a new common well in Crene. Villagers chuckled that the sheep shearer was the one chosen to find water, but in truth Gaben had masterfully selected the spot to dig where no others thought to try.

If I were summoned, what would I, the shy granddaughter of Hume Carew, be asked to do? I was good only at working in our gardens. Maybe I’d have to find one of Gaben’s sheep.

The thought made me grin. And within this safe moment of a pristine afternoon, I took the lark feather from my pocket and held it up. “If this be the first sign, is there another?” I called out, giving a challenging stare over our land. “Am I summoned?” But the sky held no birds; the fields showed no creatures. I looked over to Rileg, who sprawled at my side.

“Well?” I asked him with a laugh. “Have
you
anything to give me?”

Rileg lifted his head, panted a wet grin, and licked my hand.

Grandmama had her meadsweet buds before the cloud nudged the sun. I returned to the fence to find the ghisane sprouting two new bush roots. I let Rileg worry at one of them while I tore at the other. Usually, I feel sorrow for weeds as I pull them, but never for the ghisane. Black-leaved and thorny, it is an evil little thing, like a spy from Dark Wood, ready to infiltrate and consume all beauty. Any bush roots must be pulled on sight and burned, and it is no easy task to get all of the bits from the earth.

Hard work did not bother me, nor any of my small family. We each had our talents—instinct-driven perhaps—and used them for good. In return, the earth was generous, creatures were fair, and we drew respect in our village. I liked the repetition of this quiet earthwork, the simplicity and comfort of the familiar. This day, like most summer days, the sun beamed down warm and encouraging, the breeze was soft against leaf and skin, and my fingers dug deep into the moist dirt. I was happiest at these outdoor chores, which kept me close to home and family, kept me far from crowds and strangers.

“Come, Rileg,” I said. It was late when I had finished. The original ghisane was at last uprooted; so were its volunteers, as well as four other bush roots I’d found. I’d lit the fire to burn them, done my silly superstitious dance to ward against more invasions—leaping with Rileg while he barked at my laughter—and scooped the ash to toss over the fence, back into Dark Wood.

That is when the second sign arrived.

The hush before something powerful occurs makes the hair prick on the back of my neck. My hair is heavy and long; the pricking runs like a cold breath across each strand. It was so as I stood there, ash in hand. The cold blew over my neck, and I looked unwillingly to the far edge of the field, at the fence bordering on the other side of the surrounding Dark Wood. A fox was there, his height not quite reaching the lowest railing. Rileg tensed beside me, quiet.

“Stay,” I whispered. Rileg sat like a stone.

I threw the ash, for it is not something with which to greet a visitor, and walked toward the end of the field. The fox came under the fence a few lengths and paused. There was something in his jaw. He met me halfway, dropped the wretched thing, and backing up two steps, waited for my response.

Had I been Grandmama or Evie, I could have looked at that thing in the grass without horror. But I am not of their Healer stoicism. It took a moment before I could speak.

“This is not your fault,” I whispered, a little hoarsely now. “I thank you.”

The fox inclined his head and turned, letting his beautiful tail spiral as he ran off.

With fingers that trembled, I undid the sash to my apron and took it off, using it to collect the object. I called to Rileg and he loped across the grass, elegant in spite of his missing limb. Together we left the field as the sun was setting.

“All right. It is time.”

The hour was late, and only now would we inspect the thing I’d brought home. Grandmama insisted when she saw my awful expression that the bundled apron remain outside, and that we continue with our evening meal and chores as usual.

“All will be well, Lark,” she’d said simply, and told me to set the table.

We ate our cress soup and oat bread, though I had little appetite; we listened to Evie’s tales from market, washed our dishes, swept the floor, and made all the necessary accountings in the ledger of the day’s profits and expenses as if nothing were different from any other evening. But then Grandmama took out the special bottle of honeyed mead and poured three thimblefuls—a swallow is all that is needed for fortification. And she said, “Get the apron, Lark.”

I retrieved it from the porch. Dark stuff had already seeped through the fabric. I liked that apron; I wondered if anything would take out the stain, or if I could even bear to wear it again. I laid the bundle on the kitchen table, atop an oiled canvas that Evie had spread.

“There, now, let us see what this is about.” Grandmama undid the wrapping, taking responsibility for whatever bad thing could enter our home. I winced as she spread open the cloth. Evie and Grandmama did not.

“The fox did not do this,” I whispered.

“One of our townspeople?” Evie mused, regarding the severed hand. “But why such a presentation?”

“I believe it’s more of a warning than a presentation,” Grandmama answered. “Look there: no ring on the finger.” Every male villager upon his twelfth year weaves his own unique strand of leather to wear on his left third finger. This hand belonged to someone who could have worn one for more than sixty years.

“Perhaps he was not from our town.” I still whispered. “A traveler, then?”

“Nay.” Grandmama answered to that too. “Look at the mark—the change of color on his finger, like a band. He wore a ring once.”

“But those bits of leather hold no value for anyone but the owner,” reasoned Evie. “Why would someone remove it?”

“Someone, or something. As I said: a warning.”

I looked to Grandmama, saw her face draw ever so slightly into an expression of concern. I looked over to Evie, my beloved cousin, who, rather than concern, held an open look of curiosity—the mind of a scholar. Like Grandmama, Evie could help most anyone in need. And if she could not, then it was not to be; the Earth was reclaiming her children and Evie was not pained. It was so with this hand. Gruesome as it was, Evie simply wanted to know what had happened.

“This hand was severed on purpose,” continued Grandmama. “No battle would yield so ragged a cut.”

Evie nodded. “Yes, but look—the fingers have scrapes and tears, and a nail missing. There was a fight.”

“Or at least he resisted.” Grandmama’s voice had dropped a bit, losing some of its musical quality. I took a shaky breath
at that, for there was foreboding now in her tone. “Let’s turn this over, shall we?” And on saying so, she took a corner of the apron and placed the orphaned hand palm down. The fingers curled under.

Grandmama’s intake of breath was awful in its depth. She stepped back, her gnarled fingers grabbing for the chair nearby. Evie and I immediately put our arms out to support her, but already she was upright and solid once more. I looked to the table, to the hand buckled upon it. It had been burned, the back of it—some sort of brand seared right into the flesh. For a moment I stayed still, letting the thimble of drink I’d swallowed work its soothing effects, drawing the last pleasure from the heat that ran up and down my throat. Then I made myself join Evie, who was bent over, inspecting the marking. Our hair fell straight, pooling together at the edge of the table in similar fashion—mine the bright brown of an acorn, hers the silvery color of the moon. We were like that: odd complements of each other. Cousins, born on the same day, in the same hour; single daughters of twin sisters. We had the same birthmark too, just above our left shoulder blades, an outline of a circle. I thought it was what made Grandmama gasp so, for a circle was crudely branded on this hand—but within this circle was a
z
, slashed through diagonally to connect the loose ends. Roughly done, and brutal.

I held my breath while I studied it. “It’s an angry mark,” I murmured finally. “The edges are still raw. And black. What makes it so?”

Evie said promptly, “The hand was branded with a hukon twig. ’Twill pitch both blood and skin a midnight black.”

“Aye, hukon,” confirmed Grandmama quietly. “It poisons from within. But hukon cannot be found here. Troths have done this.”

I flinched. We both looked at Grandmama.
Troth
was a name we’d heard few times in our near seventeen years, but it was enough. They were the feared horde of legend in our village, savage beasts of barely human form and mind. Two times past they had destroyed our town, killed our men and women. The last time our parents were among the victims.

“A warning indeed,” murmured Evie. She too drew back, and then looked at me. “Yet the fox brought it. I did not think Troths could pull favors from the woods’ creatures.”

I was shaking my head no, but it was Grandmama who said aloud, “I think the fox risked life to bring us this. This is his warning, to give us a chance to prepare.” Then, more softly: “Unlike the last time.”

Evie and I looked at her. Grandmama’s voice could give away much that her strong, stout body would not. She had survived the last massacre, as had we. But we were barely three years aged at the time; we held no memory. Grandmama had witnessed, had lived with the horror full on. She’d survived; she’d rebuilt; she’d raised us—as the other elder villagers had done with home and grandchild. Still, it was not something that could be truly forgotten or worn away with time.

“We must call a Gathering,” said Evie. “I will carry the news through market tomorrow.”

A Gathering. I hoped it was not necessary, for then the entire village would collect in the town square. Kind and friendly as
Merith villagers are, a Gathering holds too many people for me, too many energies whirling in one place.

But Grandmama agreed. “I think we must.” She paused then, as if to consider something, but maybe she simply hesitated for my sake. “First, we should learn more from this.” She gestured at the hand. “We must know for certain who this is.”

Grandmama looked over at me now, and Evie, understanding her, did as well. Grandmama said carefully, “Will you do this for us, Lark?”

Rileg whimpered from his bed by the fireplace. I nodded, but too slowly, and Evie reached out to grip my elbow. My touch will draw energy. Hers bestows it; she was giving me strength. Grandmama simply waited. She knew, perhaps better than I, what my reaction would be. She would help me when it was over.

Taking a breath, I put my hand to the severed one, whose story could only prove ugly as I reached to learn it. I did not need to place my palm close, nor even to concentrate; anger and hatred were already rising from the burn, coming in waves, turning the air black before my eyes. The comfort of the kitchen disappeared, and for the first time I saw Troths.

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.