Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) Read Free

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.
    And then I was on the chair, hunched and sobbing and sick, and Grandmama’s hands were at my temples, pulling the horror from my mind. The waves that had rushed in were now receding, seeping into her bay-dusted palms, the pressure great against my head until the black subsided and I’d stopped retching.
    This was always the aftermath—the miserable leftovers of a talent that separated me from others and kept me hesitant and shy. This was the dreaded consequence of having the Sight, the unique and, for me, unwanted ability to read energies—worse, to see, to
feel
histories and intent. Drawing knowledge from surrounding energy was the Sight—a rare gift, indeed. Only it was others who perceived this as my gift. I did not; it was my burden.
    The cold sweat would last awhile longer, so I curled on the chair while Evie put a shawl and her arms around me, whispering in sympathy, “I wish I could do what Grandmama can do for you. I wish I could take away this pain.” But she could not; she was too close to me for that. She hugged me instead while Grandmama went outside on the porch and clapped the powder from her hands smartly until the bad thoughts were shaken into the breeze and whisked away from our cottage. Grandmama washed her hands with fresh water from the well and returned inside.
    “Bravely done, Lark,” she said simply. “Bravely done.”
    “It’s too awful.” My teeth were chattering.
    “Yes. But at least now we have time to prepare.” They’d learned the story as I saw it. I have no memory of my voicewhen I am with the Sight, but I know that I speak what I see as it plays in my own mind. As for whatever decisions would be made about the threat of Troths, they would be discussed at the Gathering.
Thank you, fox
. I shivered. At least now we’d been warned.
    “Poor man,” said Grandmama. “Ruber Minwl did not deserve such an end.”
    “Raif’s grandfather,” Evie mouthed softly. Raif was a