Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) Read Free Page B

I’d prove my suspicion anyway—I could learn Raif’s feelings, at least, and know for certain if he loved her. So, holding a hand to my heart with great formalityand trying to sound very serious, I announced, “Then ’twill be so, Mistress Eveline. It nears our birthday, so for your gift I promise this: I shall use all the wisdom of the Sight to choose your love. A
very
grand choice he will be.”
    “Just let it not be Nalen,” she said.
    We laughed; we’d not dwell on bad thoughts. The Gathering would not be for a day and one more; Evie was patient to wait, and I was relieved I’d have time to prepare to be in a crowd. Tonight we were content to chatter on these little bits of nothing. The sleeping tea had its effect; I was soon yawning.
    No magic in this house, just generous knowledge of herb and kin. We hugged good night.
    Sometimes dreams are portents, glimpses from the Sight of moments yet to come. Their impressions linger long after waking, coloring thoughts and feelings with anticipation. Such were my dreams that night.
    The young man stood tall, filling my gaze as I sat staring up at him, openmouthed, I was certain, for I’d never been so overwhelmed by someone’s beauty. He was perhaps two or three years my senior, strong and lean, with hair the color of chestnuts and skin burnished by sun and wind to a warm gold. He spoke my name, and I felt my breath catch when he smiled at me—a release, a joy, and something more. The way the lips curved against his white teeth plunged a longing so sharp through my belly that I gasped in my sleep, and I woke up.
    It was near morning; the sky was pale through the window of my room. I lay for a while blinking into the gray light, tryingto hold on to what I’d seen—yet it was elusive, the face already slipping into that fate of dreams where details dissolve. The sage-green eyes glinted with flecks of golden brown and then faded; the chestnut curls were tossed by the breeze and then scattered.… Finally I hugged my pillow into my chest, to hold hard this new longing, to keep it close against my heart and not let it dissipate.
    We’d spoken of love last night—it must be why I was so enchanted with this fading image. And so I yearned, I imagined, and I drifted to sleep once more. A half sleep, I think, because I was able a moment—an eternity—later to pull from the next dream like an arrow released from a bow. I was across my room suddenly, huddling in the corner with Rileg snuffing at my cheek. I could not pet him, for my arms were wrapped tightly around my body, clutching now in instinctive protection. For in that half sleep I’d seen the young man again. And this time, with drawn sword, he slew me.
    No sign, this. This was simple truth.

“ALL COME! ALL come!” It was Semel Lewen who rang the village bell for the Gathering.
    Our village is not large in number, but we filled the market square well enough, making a colorful group. Colors are like names here, and the colors we love become our signatures. Semel Lewen was the village dyer. He artfully blended ingredients from all the earth’s bounty—vegetables, leaves, nuts, and berries became the richest and most vivid hues in his pots, and the recipes for our particular favorites were recorded and labeled with our names. Then his wife, Carr, and her sister, Beren, would weave exquisite cloths with the threads steeped in his special concoctions. They were as enticing in market as Grandmama’s balms or Rula Narben’s sweets.
    Reluctant as I was to be in a crowd, focusing on the colored cloth was a way to keep from catching the gaze of too many eyes,friendly though they might be. A gaze is powerful, as is touch; I pull energy too quickly through those senses. So I watched the colors move and blend across the cobbled square. The flitting girl in the buttercup apron was the pretty, silly Cath. Tall and gaunt Kerrick Swan strode by in purposeful fashion in a pale gray tunic that was much like a dawn sky, whereas