neared.
“Nay, it is all right!” Brahnt shouted back, and I tensed again at that. He’d said as much to me after the flood, and neither time did he erase the gravity of the mood.
Gharain reached the three first, gripping forearms with each in salutation. I heard him mutter as we approached, “Careful. Don’t crowd her.”
Stern and serious looks from the Riders—eyes to me, to Rune, to Gharain, then back to me, with suspicious curiosity. Hardly surprising; I was both trespasser and frightful mix of mud and pine needles and wind-dried clothes. I heard one murmur, “Again?” before it was lost as Brahnt called out, “Lark, I offer you Taran, Dartegn, and Cargh. At your service.”
The Riders stayed where they were but bowed their heads to me briefly. From this distance I took none of their history, only their energy: a sensation of something both earth-rooted and pliant, the way wheat fields ripple in a breeze. They were strong-built, of differing ages, though all far younger than I’d first pictured. Cargh was blond; the others were dark-haired. Blue-eyed, brown, hazel—they had pleasing looks. None had Gharain’s chestnut curls and sage eyes.
“How?” asked Taran, his eyes on me.
Gharain was quiet. Brahnt grunted, “Later. Bring us home.”
There was a pause, a hesitation that swelled as the Riders waited. A flush spread along Gharain’s cheek. Gazes flicked back and forth in silence. Then Brahnt said roughly, “It is well. I believe it is well. I will account for this.”
“So be it, then. After you, my lady,” Dartegn announced with a sweep of arm, gesturing Wilh to move ahead.
Taran fronted the way up the path, and Wilh followed. The others filed behind, talking—of me, I assumed, but I did not hear their words. I was rigid and wide-eyed at the straight drop but an arm’s length away. Up and up we progressed. The castle was lost for a time behind the height of the cliff walls. And then it reappeared, much more huge and imposing. Windows, battlements, massive blocks of stone, all hanging, suspended, as if it would at any moment tip over on us. I caught my breath.
Wilh sensed my reaction. He laid a gloved hand over my hands gripping his saddle.
“Welcome to Tarnec,” he said.
WELCOME
WAS NOT enough of a word to describe our arrival. Many came running as we entered the courtyard through the towering oak gates—guards, groomsmen, men and women of varied rank and uniform. I held very still as the crowd gathered, waiting for the onslaught of sensations. But there were none, other than the pleasant buzz of conversation and motion. Wilh helped me gently down to the waiting arms of two servants, arms that passed no unpleasant visions. I’m not certain if I was more stunned at the ease I felt with the residents of the castle, or at the impressive structure itself; all of it was unreal. I turned to look back at the Riders—Wilh, Brahnt, and Gharain. They were dismounting, laughing, leaving their horses with affectionate slaps to the capable hands of grooms. And though he had no lead, Rune docilely followed the othersthrough murmurs and exclamations at his appearance. The white horse, it seemed, was already known.
If murmurs trailed me as well, I could not tell. I was whisked inside Castle Tarnec in the opposite direction that Gharain headed.
I wished it had not mattered.
I suppose the mere size of a castle implies that most things will be done on a grand scale, but I’d never seen anything so huge. The entryway alone was more than twice our cottage. The ceiling rose until it was lost in shadow; timeworn floors of stone stretched through arched doorways leading to places of mystery. I was carried—neck craning, trying not to miss any feature—through winding, tapestry-lined halls and into an airy room where I was at last set down.
It was simple and sparsely furnished, and lovely. A candelabra set with fat tapers hung from the soaring ceiling; slate floors were scattered with thickly woven
“Nay, it is all right!” Brahnt shouted back, and I tensed again at that. He’d said as much to me after the flood, and neither time did he erase the gravity of the mood.
Gharain reached the three first, gripping forearms with each in salutation. I heard him mutter as we approached, “Careful. Don’t crowd her.”
Stern and serious looks from the Riders—eyes to me, to Rune, to Gharain, then back to me, with suspicious curiosity. Hardly surprising; I was both trespasser and frightful mix of mud and pine needles and wind-dried clothes. I heard one murmur, “Again?” before it was lost as Brahnt called out, “Lark, I offer you Taran, Dartegn, and Cargh. At your service.”
The Riders stayed where they were but bowed their heads to me briefly. From this distance I took none of their history, only their energy: a sensation of something both earth-rooted and pliant, the way wheat fields ripple in a breeze. They were strong-built, of differing ages, though all far younger than I’d first pictured. Cargh was blond; the others were dark-haired. Blue-eyed, brown, hazel—they had pleasing looks. None had Gharain’s chestnut curls and sage eyes.
“How?” asked Taran, his eyes on me.
Gharain was quiet. Brahnt grunted, “Later. Bring us home.”
There was a pause, a hesitation that swelled as the Riders waited. A flush spread along Gharain’s cheek. Gazes flicked back and forth in silence. Then Brahnt said roughly, “It is well. I believe it is well. I will account for this.”
“So be it, then. After you, my lady,” Dartegn announced with a sweep of arm, gesturing Wilh to move ahead.
Taran fronted the way up the path, and Wilh followed. The others filed behind, talking—of me, I assumed, but I did not hear their words. I was rigid and wide-eyed at the straight drop but an arm’s length away. Up and up we progressed. The castle was lost for a time behind the height of the cliff walls. And then it reappeared, much more huge and imposing. Windows, battlements, massive blocks of stone, all hanging, suspended, as if it would at any moment tip over on us. I caught my breath.
Wilh sensed my reaction. He laid a gloved hand over my hands gripping his saddle.
“Welcome to Tarnec,” he said.
WELCOME
WAS NOT enough of a word to describe our arrival. Many came running as we entered the courtyard through the towering oak gates—guards, groomsmen, men and women of varied rank and uniform. I held very still as the crowd gathered, waiting for the onslaught of sensations. But there were none, other than the pleasant buzz of conversation and motion. Wilh helped me gently down to the waiting arms of two servants, arms that passed no unpleasant visions. I’m not certain if I was more stunned at the ease I felt with the residents of the castle, or at the impressive structure itself; all of it was unreal. I turned to look back at the Riders—Wilh, Brahnt, and Gharain. They were dismounting, laughing, leaving their horses with affectionate slaps to the capable hands of grooms. And though he had no lead, Rune docilely followed the othersthrough murmurs and exclamations at his appearance. The white horse, it seemed, was already known.
If murmurs trailed me as well, I could not tell. I was whisked inside Castle Tarnec in the opposite direction that Gharain headed.
I wished it had not mattered.
I suppose the mere size of a castle implies that most things will be done on a grand scale, but I’d never seen anything so huge. The entryway alone was more than twice our cottage. The ceiling rose until it was lost in shadow; timeworn floors of stone stretched through arched doorways leading to places of mystery. I was carried—neck craning, trying not to miss any feature—through winding, tapestry-lined halls and into an airy room where I was at last set down.
It was simple and sparsely furnished, and lovely. A candelabra set with fat tapers hung from the soaring ceiling; slate floors were scattered with thickly woven
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