A Play of Shadow (4 page)

Meanwhile, for the first time in her life, she’d have an entire house to herself. Oh, and wasn’t that an interesting notion? Hospitality was a homeowner’s joyful duty, according to Aunt Sybb. Surely Bannan would accept an invitation for tea. She’d have to get one of Peggs’ pies . . .

If they bothered to eat at all.

Flushed by new and delightful possibilities, Jenn carried Gallie’s sausages to where Davi’s cart waited on the road. Battle and Brawl, yet to be hitched, stood dozing while Alyssa Ropp plaited their manes. The young girl stood tiptoe on a rickety stool, wobbling to keep her balance as she deftly worked ribbons into the stubby braids. “Fair morning!”

“Fair morning to you, Alyssa. Ancestors Sneaky and Sly,” Jenn added with a laugh. One of the two packhorses tied loosely to the big cart had slipped her head under the tarp at the back to rummage about. Before she found something to her liking or, worse, broke one of Lorra’s pots, Jenn put down the sausages and moved the horse out of mischief’s way, giving her a pat of consolation. “Seems everyone’s impatient.”

“I wish I could go,” Alyssa confessed. “Cheffy says Endshere’s buildings are taller than the mill. And painted pink!”

Her only slightly older brother having relied on descriptions from their grown stepbrothers, Devins and Roche Morrill—the latter once notoriously untruthful and only recently, Jenn remembered with a small twinge, made just as notoriously honest—she doubted the last detail, but smiled anyway. “Next year, perhaps. You know Hettie’s counting on you both to help in the dairy while she and Devins are away. I’m sure she’ll bring you something special.” Devins would be lucky to remember his own name, she thought, should some lass go so far as to smile at him, being painfully shy away from his beloved cows. Hettie would have to keep him from hiding in the stables.

“I’m sure Bannan will bring you something special, too,” the kind-hearted child offered. “Here he comes now. You can ask him.”

“But Bannan’s not—” Feeling as though she moved through syrup, Jenn turned to look around.

To see the truthseer, dressed for the road, leading Uncle Horst’s gelding from the commons.

It was all very reasonable. “Sennic asked me to go in his place,” Bannan explained as he saddled Perrkin. “And I’ve purchases to make for winter.”

“Endshere makes the best boots in the world,” Alyssa piped in over Brawl’s neck. “With bells and curled toes. Cheffy said so.”

“I’ll be sure to take a look,” he replied solemnly, though boots he owned, sturdy new ones, with furred tops for warmth. He’d shown her.

His dark hair, usually loose to his shoulders, was tied back. He’d shaved but not with the fragrant soap she liked. In riding leathers and a handsome brown coat of doubtless modern cut, he no longer looked the farmer at all. Or was it the set of his shoulders?

He was leaving Marrowdell, for only a short time, and she would not, must not, dared not, let herself feel anything but helpful. “Have Frann check any deal you’re offered,” Jenn cautioned stiffly. “They know better than to cheat her.” “They” being anyone not of Marrowdell, to hear Lorra tell it.

Bannan chuckled. “Wish I’d had her with me the first time.” He tested the girth, then gave the gelding a piece of carrot. “Ancestors Witness, Tir was less than no help at all.”

He was leaving Marrowdell and it was, Jenn told herself, reasonable and even right, for otherwise Uncle Horst would worry himself into trying to go with the others, none of them being soldiers. She mustn’t feel dismayed or disappointed or worried or anything but—for an instant, she paused, abruptly confused what she was supposed to feel, if not all that.

Helpful. She took hold of a tie string from Bannan’s pack and reached for the other.

Only to have him glance down at her with those too-perceptive eyes, a glow in their apple butter depths. His hand shifted to cover hers on the pack, warm and strong. “Thank you for understanding, Dearest Heart,” Bannan said, his voice quiet and soft. “Is there anything I could bring back for you?”

Jenn’s confusion faded. “Yourself,” she whispered, and smiled from deep within, loving the way his expressive face mirrored both joy and a rather delicious frustration. Louder, for Alyssa, “A bag of sour candies, if you please, for my father. Any flavor will do. He’s eaten all that Aunt Sybb brought, and they’re good for his throat.”

“Nothing more?”

“There’s no room for more,” she pointed out, turning practical. “You’ll have mail—” which was Uncle Horst’s job and meant something the truthseer should know and likely didn’t. Jenn checked to be sure Lorra Treff wasn’t in sight and Alyssa was safely behind Battle before whispering, “You mustn’t let anyone look in the mailbag once you have it. Davi’s burned Lorra’s letter to the prince, and she’d be most upset if she found out. Give the bag and Kydd’s honeypots to Cammi—” the postmistress, having a sweet tooth and kind heart, took the ’pots instead of a fee the villagers couldn’t afford, “—and she’ll give you any mail for us.”

Bannan chuckled. “A hazardous mission in truth, Dearest Heart, but one I’m willing to assume. Especially,” with a wink, “since I expect mail of my own.”

From his sister, he meant.

There could, Jenn swallowed, be one for her as well. She’d sent a letter to the Baroness Westietas with Aunt Sybb, a letter written in Jenn’s best hand—the fourteenth such, as she’d found herself muddled at every try—thanking her for the map. She’d added a line about the weather. Another about the bountiful harvest—mentioning food should reassure a distant sister—and a final line praising her brother’s courage. That had been the most difficult to compose. She mustn’t imply a worrisome need for bravery in Bannan’s new home, but Lila should know how much he was appreciated and valued.

She hadn’t found a way to say she would protect him, always.

And now he was leaving. “You will be careful,” Jenn told him, her voice thick. However capable he was, Bannan Larmensu was a man with a secret, a man who sought to leave behind his former self and occupation. Others would pay to find out, she was sure of it. “Promise me. There’ll be strangers. You’ll be staying—” with every intonation of ill repute and vile doings Aunt Sybb had ever managed to instill in a phrase, “—at the inn.”

Even if
The Good Night’s Sleep
was Palma’s and by all accounts a fine and proper place.

He kissed the tip of her nose, making her eyes cross. “I promise, Dearest Heart. It’s but a day’s journey on horseback. We’ll stay two nights at most, then be back. You’ll hardly—”

“Ancestors Blessed, we’ve caught you!” Uncle Horst came up the road toward them, a pair of packages under his left arm, makeshift crutch under the right. “Uncle Horst” he remained to her and to Peggs, but to the rest of the village he was now Sennic Nahamm, in honor of his wife’s Ancestors. He’d left his birth name behind long ago, and given his home to Hettie and Tadd, when he’d thought to leave Marrowdell.

Now he would stay, living with his wife, in her great-uncle’s home.

Riss Nahamm walked with him, fingertips on his wrist. Curls of red hair kissed her cheeks and brushed the collar of her coat. Both of them were smiling. As they should, Jenn thought a little fiercely. As they should.

For the gallant old soldier had believed himself unworthy of happiness since the day of Jenn’s birth, and Riss had loved him in secret all those long years. It had taken almost mortal wounds for him to accept her proposal.

And magic to save him, a turn-born’s magic.

The sun felt a little warmer at the memory. Which was, Jenn realized, a turn-born’s magic as well. She hurriedly thought about winter and snow and—oh, better still—washing day-old pots, that being a thought guaranteed to tame her impulses.

Bannan chuckled and nodded to the unharnessed team. “We’re hardly rushing off, my friend.”

“I’d prefer it if you did,” Uncle Horst replied, his keen eyes lifting to the crags to the west. “Ancestors Wary and Wise, the weather can change in an hour this late in the season. I trust you to advise Davi as—” he paused, “—adamantly as I would.”

Meaning that without firm support in any decision to leave early or turn back, the big smith would give in to his beloved mother’s urging and Lorra, despite living in the north this many years and ample evidence to the contrary, continued to believe storms would wait on her convenience.

A strong mind didn’t, Aunt Sybb would say, guarantee a wise one.

“Heart’s Blood. As I should,” gruffly. Uncle Horst put weight to his wounded leg. Riss bit her lower lip as the healed scars along his cheek and jaw whitened in pain.

“As I will,” countered Bannan. He made a circle with his hands over his heart. “Hearts of my Ancestors, I swear to bring them home safely.”

“Tadd knows what to watch for,” Jenn offered. He and his twin had spent the past few summers with the livestock in the surrounding hills. They’d quickly learned when to take cover.

“That he does, Dear Heart,” Uncle Horst conceded, then added with a nod. “As does our truthseer.”

He didn’t mean the weather.

“Then it’s settled, with our thanks, Bannan,” Riss said in her soft voice, her eyes suspiciously moist. “I’ve a favor to ask as well. My esteemed great-uncle would like this delivered to Palma. If you’ve room?” She took the first package from Uncle Horst and passed it to the truthseer. It was a leather portfolio, secured with thick drops of wax at every corner and loop. Old Jupp mustn’t trust anyone not to read what he’d sent.

Or he valued it, Jenn reminded herself. She’d come to respect Marrowdell’s eldest inhabitant; to like him, very much, truth be told, and to worry, a little. The former secretary of Avyo’s House of Keys had brought trunks filled with documents to his exile, many containing secrets the current prince would not want revealed. Over the years, Old Jupp had compiled the juiciest in memoirs he gleefully planned to have published after his death.

Jenn hoped Riss would delay that publication until the prince joined her uncle as one of the Blessed. Marrowdell might be several days’ travel from Avyo; it wasn’t beyond reach.

“My pleasure,” Bannan assured Riss. He tucked the portfolio deep inside a saddlebag, securing it before he came around to face Uncle Horst.

Who held out the second package. A slender one.

Something unhappy slid behind Bannan’s eyes and he gave a sharp shake of his head.

“Heart’s Blood! Don’t argue.” Leaning on his crutch, Uncle Horst used his free hand to strip the cloth wrap from what was, Jenn saw, his short straight sword. The one that had hung in its scabbard above the fireplace, by the bear claws, as long as she could remember.

The one for use on other men.

The gelding, Perrkin, lifted his graying muzzle and snorted with interest, being a soldier’s horse and aware.

“I’m not arguing,” Bannan said quietly. “I’m not taking it.”

“Where’s your warhorse? Without him, I don’t see you have a weapon.”

Scourge wasn’t going? Jenn nodded to herself. She shouldn’t be surprised. Beyond Marrowdell, outside the edge, the old kruar was voiceless and forgotten. He’d suffered that life till finding his way home. Why would he seek it again?

For love of this man, that was why, though the great creature would hotly deny any such attachment. Which meant . . . “You didn’t tell him, did you?” she said.

Bannan half shrugged. “Even had I’d wished to, he and your dragon are off gallivanting.” His way of saying they’d crossed into the Verge, which dragon and kruar could do at whim.

Well, that was inconvenient. Or convenient, Jenn thought with a little frown, unsure how she felt about the timing.

Uncle Horst had no such doubt. “Ancestors Unwary and Undone,” he said roughly, thrusting the sword hilt-first at the younger man. “Every bandit worth the name knows Marrowdell travels to the fair, with goods worth stealing either way. The only reason they’ve never attacked is because they know me as well.”

It wasn’t a boast. Radd Nalynn, who well knew the measure of his friend, would make jokes about the wisdom of bandits, and the Lady Mahavar had relied on Uncle Horst to see her safely to and fro, until Tir Half-face and his axes took her service and his place.

Bannan—he’d been a soldier, too, a border guard and captain of others, including Tir. A life he’d left behind; skills he likely couldn’t. Why shouldn’t he arm himself? Wouldn’t he be safer?

The truthseer’s eyes found hers, as if she’d spoken aloud. “Swords end arguments,” he said quietly. “I’ve never found them to win one.”

Uncle Horst lowered the blade. “Trust me, Bannan Larmensu. The rabble who hunt the road will steer wide and clear if they see this. Or leave it here,” he went on blandly. “If it turns out you were wrong, I’ll see how it fits between your ribs.”