A Turn of Light (42 page)

“We are Beholden—” with such fervor the plate balanced on Tir’s lap tipped dangerously, “—for the chance to work our fingers to the bone in this lovely dirt when we could have been living the life in a big city with women who don’t make wishes that change one thing into a t’other, women who—” in time gripping his plate between both elbows, hands still piously over his heart, “—are warm and willing and wear those little black—”

Bannan coughed.

“—However far we are apart,” Tir rattled off without pausing for breath, “Keep Us Close.”

“‘Keep Us Close,’” Bannan murmured.

They’d taken their supper to the fallen branch where he and Wainn had shared pie, chairs or a bench not on the list of immediate tasks. The roof mattered most, closely followed by windows and doors. The stove, last in the wagon, so first out, sat in pieces in the midst of what would be the kitchen side of the downstairs room.

They sat in the warm sun and feasted on kindness. Leftover bread and onions from the lunch the men had brought to share from the village, the exceptional ham, and apples from his own tree. They hadn’t uncovered the bag filled with Vorkoun wine before hunger claimed them, but water from his well more than sufficed.

His well. His tree. Bannan set his plate aside, discovering an appetite for more than food. “What do you know of Marrowdell’s past?”

Wyll’s knife paused. He was adept with one hand, or good with blades, or both. “More than I care to,” he said, and stabbed a thick round of onion.

The truthseer rested his arms on his knees. “The ruins to the north,” he began, undeterred. “What was there? What happened?”

Tir grunted. “Best ask what’s wrong with this place,” he advised around a mouthful of bread. “No one’s lived here. Why’s that?”

Wyll glanced at him. “You’ll know,” he replied, “or you won’t.”

Glowering, the former guard shoved a chunk of ham into his already full mouth and chewed, a spectacle few could watch without feeling queasy.

“The ruins?” the truthseer prodded. “I spotted them from the loft,” this for Tir’s benefit, not that he was one to take interest in an old forgotten structure unless the rubble made good cover. “It looked like there’d been towers once, on either side of the river.”

“Men came and built.” Wyll’s eyes flickered silver and a breeze smoothed the bare soil in front of their feet like the sweep of a hand. Tir leaned forward with Bannan, absently keeping the food in his mouth with two fingers, as a line appeared.

Then another. Lines that drew themselves, or were drawn by sharp little winds. Circles met ovals. Straight lines converged, then splintered outward. A crumb-seeking bird fluttered from a line aimed for its toes.

The lines went deeper, sculpted, shaped.

Until they stared at a shadow of the past.

Thick spired masses, gilded with pollen, rose from the tops of facing cliffs, three on the left, two on the right. Beneath, rock had been hollowed away to leave wide openings staggered above one another, supported by graceful pillars. A petal-clad bridge of several levels, each with openings and arches, melded the two sides into a single structure, the whole held high atop the raging river on three improbably tall columns.

Nothing close to the ground, as if the builders chose to be part of the sky.

“Be a rare mess in winter,” Tir concluded, and settled back to work on his ham.

Bannan stretched out his hand, but didn’t dare touch what was a true work of art, both in the soil and what had been. “What was it? Who were they?”

A harsh breeze swept away petals and pollen, churning and scouring the ground. He gave an involuntary protest, staring up at Wyll.

The silver in the dragon’s eyes faded to a somber brown. “The spark that set two worlds ablaze, truthseer. And they were fools.”

“Psst.”

Jenn looked up from the dishes. Her father had gone to the mill, after enlisting Cheffy to deliver pies around the village—excepting the Uhthoffs, of course. Her aunt and Peggs had taken to the porch, stitching by the last of the sunlight while Aunt Sybb instructed her errant niece on the perils of excessive pastry.

“Jenn.”

Avoiding the remaining pies, she leaned through the open kitchen window to find Kydd Uhthoff crouched awkwardly beneath the sill.

He wore his winter Beholding coat, the heavy old velvet doubtless stiflingly hot, and looked to have shaved in a hurry, without a mirror to judge by the nicks on his jaw. Jenn scooped a cupful of hot sudsy water and held it at the ready. “What do you want?”

As if she couldn’t guess.

“I heard what you did. For Bannan and Wyll.” He started to rise. She warned him back with the brimming cup. “Jenn, please. Let me explain—”

Jenn scowled at him. “You made my sister cry.”

“I did?” Kydd’s eyes lit. “She did?” He hastily assumed a contrite expression. “I’m very sorry.”

Jenn continued to scowl. “I’m not the one who needs an apology.”

“I know. I’m sure. I—” Sweat beaded his high forehead. “I wrote one.” He showed her an envelope. “Please take—”

“Jenn?” Peggs walked into the kitchen. “We thought we’d—what are you doing?”

The beekeeper sank in the shadows, pressing a finger across his lips. With a pleading look, he handed her the envelope.

Jenn dropped it in the dishwater. “Someone’s here about a pie,” she announced, and stepped away from the window.

Kydd rose to his feet. Being taller than the window opening, he had to stoop to peer inside, which wasn’t at all dignified despite his fancy coat. She’d have felt sorry for him but for the way her sister’s face lost its color.

“Pie?” Peggs repeated faintly. “Is that what you want?”

His well-thought eloquence afloat, the beekeeper gripped the windowsill like a man drowning and shook his head.

“Then what?” she asked.

“You,” he gasped.

The faintest pink, like an opening rose, touched Peggs’ cheeks. “Jenn, please take Aunt Sybb her cup.”

“Are you sure?” Jenn asked suspiciously.

The two hadn’t taken their eyes off one another. “Are you?” Kydd asked softly, leaning head and shoulders into the kitchen. His cuffs trailed in dishwater, but he didn’t appear to care.

“Oh, yes,” Peggs answered, stepping closer.

Jenn held her breath, her heart pounding. They were going to kiss. She knew it. Like in the stories . . .

Peggs put a hand behind her back to gently shoo her away.

Disappointed, Jenn grabbed the jug of cider and a cup, then left the two alone.

She’d get the details later.

Wyll watched night’s edge stain the Bone Hills. His wish-changed eyes found the blue soothing. The rest of him did not. He’d kept the girl safely distant from the crossing during each turn, safe and away from what she might see. Now, she meant to live beside it.

Doubtless both turn-born and sei would blame him for that.

The kruar stood too close, an unpleasant wall of sweating hide. Any protest would please his obnoxious ally, so Wyll ignored him. The hordes of big-eyed flies that lifted with each slap of the kruar’s long tail were harder to dismiss and that tail best not come near. His tolerance had limits, already strained by their conversation.

Tail slap. ~ You gave no oath. The villagers have no say in what you do. ~

~ I must stay. ~ Were there flies in the kruar’s hairy ears? ~ Thus you must guard the road. Our common purpose— ~

The kruar snorted. ~ I’ll guard it here. ~

Infuriating creature. ~ Our common purpose is to protect the girl. She sleeps in the village. ~

~ Where she is safe. She no longer tries to leave. ~

~ But the road— ~

~ I’ve heard what travels that road next will be cows. Go yourself. ~

Night’s edge. Though he couldn’t see it from the farmyard, Wyll imagined the turn washing over their meadow, finding flowers. It drew the efflet from the kaliia; they left their fields and approached him here, only to mill uncertainly, wary of the kruar.

He didn’t blame them.

Without curiosity, Wyll watched the turn slip over his hand, then his body, finding no other shape. What the truthseer claimed to glimpse was mere memory, done and gone and lost. Unless the sei chose otherwise.

For his part, the kruar shifted uneasily as the turn scoured away the lie he wore, of hide and mane. Scars flared to life along his naked skin. His kind, grateful as Wyll’s own, as gentle, had ripped away his armor, that vanity of the warrior sect. The light’s passing followed his neck’s curve and found the ragged stumps of its once-impressive crest.

Wyll averted his gaze.

The turn passed to the road and ylings threw themselves in the air to dance.

A heavy hoof struck the ground. The scent of dying grass caught Wyll’s attention. The home he was to share, like the one last night, had been built of such unwitting corpses. The turn-born played with those weaker as wantonly as the sei, he thought dourly, and with less reason.

~ They wanted me forgotten, ~ the kruar crooned. ~ And almost I was. Years beyond count, I roamed without voice or purpose, unseen for what I was, until I began to forget myself. ~

Wyll glowered at his unwelcome companion. ~ Would I could forget you, too. ~

Would he could forget himself.

The kruar snorted with amusement, as if he’d heard the thought rather than the words. ~ Lucky for us both, I saw myself in a truthseer’s eyes. Not this— ~ Skin shuddered from mane to tail, dislodging flies. ~ Not what the rest of his kind would see—but enough to remember what I am . . . ~

~ Yet Bannan doesn’t see you as you are. ~ This being a sore point.

~ As he does you? ~ Another snort. ~ He sees what he needs to see. I’m of home and family. Once he finds the courage to leave those behind, he’ll look deeper. Not before. ~

So out of pity, his old enemy avoided men’s eyes, hiding here through the turn when his truthseer couldn’t help but see him as he was. The fool was no more immune to fondness than he.

~ I can’t go into the village, ~ Wyll insisted, returning to their argument. ~ You must watch the road. ~

~ No. I must protect my truthseer. ~

~ I mean him no harm, ~ Wyll said wearily.

~ You’re no threat ~ the kruar pointed out with wicked joy. ~ She pulled your teeth. ~

~ Then explain yourself. ~

The kruar lowered his head until hot breath, unwelcome and foul, entered Wyll’s nostrils. No joy now. ~ You know what touches the road between here and the village. ~

The path to the upper meadow. The Wound between worlds.

Yes, he knew. They all knew. The Verge was stitched in place and held solid, like the scars along his body and the kruar’s. Everywhere but along the Wound. There, the puncture between had cut too deep to ever heal. The turn-born shunned that path for good reason. The Wound sought them, lured them.

Kept them.

He’d heard a turn-born speak of a labyrinth within, a maze in which their kind became lost. Maze, trap, or gaping mouth. Wyll didn’t care which. Those fool enough to enter the Wound, from either world, were never seen again.

The girl had looked into that dread opening. Had looked and been drawn. He’d known the day would come when, like all turn-born, her passions grew beyond the fancies and frets of a child, and her expectations gained true force. But he’d hoped, the girl being of this world, confined to her sun’s light, that the Wound would never catch her attention.

He’d stopped her in time. It had been in time. He had to believe that.

~ What of it? ~ Wyll demanded, rubbing the ache in his ruined side. He heard Bannan call to his friend. They’d pulled lanterns from the wagon, lit them to fend off the dark. Didn’t they know the meaning of rest?

~ On his way here, last night, the truthseer saw the Wound. He was seen and he was called and only I saved him! ~ The neck arched with pride.

Bannan could see his true nature. It was possible he could see the oozing sore in the forest as well. The rest might be kruar nonsense, or might not. The turn-born were the ones who claimed only they could be lured, that others stumbled into their doom.

Turn-born, in Wyll’s experience, were not always truthful.

Neither were kruar, with their magic of misdirection and guile, their preferred attack an ambush. ~ Nonsense, ~ Wyll said with calculated scorn. ~ You must be mistaken. ~