A Turn of Light (52 page)

His feet crushed grass and scarred the moist soil. In his world, by now he’d be descending the steep winding path to his sanctuary, surrounded by clean, windswept rock. Unlike the little ones, like the kruar, as dragon he could cross at whim. The temptation to leave Marrowdell for the Verge choked him, but he would not.

Perhaps could not, as man.

The sei had left him the small magics, their potency now stripped by the girl’s expectation. He’d no wish to learn what else he’d lost, and more sense than to challenge those who’d sent him here. If he could cross, his kind would be delighted to drop him in the foul river again, or worse.

So, in the girl’s world, Wyll lurched through purple asters and golden grass, startled a rabbit and found bees. He lurched until something told him, here, and bade him stop.

Birds regarded him silently, then ignored him to be about their business.

The sun warmed his coated shoulders and stretched his shadow along the ground.

Yes. Chancy, trying to find a place here, that was there, but he knew where he was—or would be.

Safe inside the blue shimmering walls.

Home.

How pathetic he’d become, to have the sei’s unpleasant hovel mean that to him.

He wasn’t home, but this place was more his than any other in Marrowdell. Wyll took off his borrowed clothes and left them in a heap, as he’d left the villagers’ unwanted gifts at the farm.

For a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to feel the air and sun the way they should feel, smell the meadow’s scents as they should smell, but it was hopeless. He wasn’t what he should be.

Still, it was pleasant, being here. Better than the dark. Peaceful. Warm. He settled himself on his clothes, having no desire to be damp, and set about his daily tasks as if this were a normal morning, and he, his normal self.

As if he waited for Jenn Nalynn in their meadow.

Lying back, good arm behind his head, Wyll sent tendrils of air seeking and gathering. The ylings were foolishly fond of flower petals to sew into their cloaks, and would risk themselves coming down to collect them. He plucked a few petals here, a few there, until the air sparkled with tiny specks of gold and purple and white, then lifted them above a neyet and let go.

Leaves rustled. He heard giggles and the scramble of small toes over bark.

Not a single petal made it to the ground.

Efflet, for their part, would shred any flowers that dared sprout within their fields and had no vanity, beyond a sensible fastidiousness about their claws. Serious, dedicated folk.

Wyll sent a breeze racing through the kaliia, tossing it this way and that. Almost at once, several stalks began to sway with more than their own weight as efflet, unseen in this light, clung to their tips and rode the waves. They didn’t giggle, as ylings, but whispered their glee among themselves, ever so quietly.

Doubtless nyphrit lurked in shadows, anxious for darkness, ever hungry. They weren’t his concern, being cheerless and grim and grateful only for his inattention.

For himself, Wyll idly gathered ripe seeds, those with fluffy white tufts or crisp parchment wings, and made them spiral into the sky until he couldn’t see them with these eyes and higher still, so the wind of this world would find them and take them—anywhere. He did it for the girl, who mustn’t and couldn’t leave, and for himself, who wouldn’t.

And because it was fun. His lips curved in the hint of a smile.

A smile that froze.

She was near. Coming to Night’s Edge!

She mustn’t, not alone. She mustn’t see the ruin and think it her fault.

Even if it was.

Wyll struggled to his feet, remembered to reach for his clothes. Before he could dress, her anger lashed over him, a sharp, cold wind that stank of rot. Her angry shout struck like a blow. “You’re not my father—or my aunt!”

Good. Blame him. There was nothing she could do to him he didn’t deserve, but Marrowdell mustn’t be ravaged. Her guilt then he couldn’t bear to imagine. Wyll hunched against the bitter cold and waited for worse.

But the echoes of her fury tangled in the neyet and faded. He felt the sun’s warmth again and took a careful breath.

Such a good heart, she had.

Such a fragile protection.

She mustn’t learn how dangerous she was.

Wainn, who knew him, knew her as well. Unlike the truthseer, who understood discretion, he’d come perilously close to telling her too much truth. Wyll snarled to himself. Had he been able, he’d have ripped out Wainn’s throat in that instant; what was one life against the safety of all?

How could he, regardless? Their lives—her life—depended on the girl’s innocence. Her heart was so honest and full. How could she be happy here if she learned Marrowdell expressed her turn-born passions and expectations, if she knew how easily her moods could destroy those she loved?

And if she tried to leave . . .

She must be happy. And stay.

A bee circled Wyll’s head. Ordinarily they knew better, since he was prone to spin their chubby bodies. Not to their harm; the girl liked honey and flowers. They’d buzz with such extravagant frustration until set free. Ordinarily he couldn’t resist.

He felt the girl leave Night’s Edge. Where would she go? The kruar played a docile steed to steal her attention; the truthseer, a storybook prince to win her heart. Being neither, all he could do for her was act.

She’d asked him to build a house in Night’s Edge.

He’d try here.

But how?

Wyll sank back on his clothes. Listless breezes combed the meadow and brought dried grass to pile around him. A nest like a bird’s wouldn’t serve Jenn Nalynn. Frustrated, he shoved it aside and his hand slipped on something cool. Something that cracked.

And wept.

A crystal?

The small ones couldn’t cross from the Verge into Marrowdell. Yet here one was, weeping its tears into the meadow. Wyll brushed grass aside and one became more.

And more. Before his astonished eyes, crystals grew up through the soil, grew and spread and locked one to the other until they encompassed a space, with him at its center, as large as the Nalynns’ parlor. He could see the meadow still, though it was like looking through an empty pickle jar. Inside, sunlight became rainbows and glints of iced fire. The last few crystals laced like fingers overhead, leaving an opening wide enough for a dragon to fly free.

Wyll snarled. Didn’t they know what he’d become?

Didn’t they know they’d imprisoned themselves within the Verge, like the neyet?

Why were they here?

~ Fools! ~ he railed against them. ~ You’ll break in the first storm and leave me anyway! ~

The world seemed to pause.

SNAP! CRACK!

He flinched and cowered as the neyet around the meadow suddenly went mad, raining branches and twigs until the sun itself was blocked and silence filled the dark.

A dark, Wyll was startled to realize as he cautiously moved, not filled with the tears of shattered crystal, nor pieces of broken neyet. Or bone.

~ Elder brother! I will save you! ~

~ I’m unhurt. ~

This assurance did nothing to stop the frantic, ineffectual scratching outside his—whatever this was, it wasn’t a prison.

~ Hold. ~

With the greatest care, Wyll stretched fingers of air to learn the shape of his new surroundings. ~ Move aside, ~ he warned the little cousin. A door, a door for a man, that first. He flexed.

Crystal cracked, leaving the inevitable tragic puddle. Wood—for the neyet was now that—creaked aside. Sunlight flooded in . . . followed promptly by the little cousin, who stopped in the damp opening to blink at him.

Wind that wasn’t his doing, wind that came of invisible wings, whooshed in past the sunlight and toad, wind laden with—of all things—moss. Small handfuls, all a claw could manage, but soon there was a floor, deep and soft. Efflet.

They’d nabbed a visitor for him as well, untimely in both daylight and the proximity of a possibly hungry little cousin. What appeared in this world as a large white moth tidied its wings with a momentary fluster, then bowed. ~ What news, elder brother? ~

Like a yling but not; the way a sei could be a dragon, but not. Marrowdell’s moths were drawn to the affairs of others as this world’s were to flame, an equally risky predilection for something frail and easily eaten.

~ We have a home! ~ the little cousin proclaimed, puffed as large as it possibly could without splitting its sides.

The messenger dutifully made its record, using a filed nail on a miniscule piece of well-scraped parchment. Done, the parchment was rolled and put with others in its satchel, then the moth, carefully avoiding the prideful toad, fluttered up and away through a gap in what was, Wyll supposed, his new ceiling.

He had a home.

Complete, it appeared, with house toad. He eyed the little cousin warily. ~ I trust you’ll have a burrow. ~

~ May I? ~ It rocked on its stomach. ~ I am honored. I will do my utmost to protect our home, elder brother! I— ~

~ Yes, yes. ~ Wyll waved at it. ~ Go. ~

~ I must first relay a message to you, elder brother. From Jenn Nalynn. ~

Wyll leaned forward on his elbow, though it pained him, to put his eyes level with the toad’s. ~ Do you mock me? ~ With menace. ~ You cannot speak as she does. ~

It didn’t flee, though it shrank into itself and went pale. ~ We cannot speak, but we understand. Our elder sister taught us. ~

There was no such thing, not in this Marrowdell. Either the little cousin had gone mad or it bestowed the title on something else. Or someone.

It had to be the annoying woman from the mill, who could make herself ~ heard ~ albeit in a crude and painful fashion. The one, Wyll frowned, who’d refused to fear or help him. Why did she meddle in matters beyond her kind? ~ Wen. ~

~ Yes! ~ The toad perked up. ~ Our elder sister. She is wise and good and— ~

~ I will hear the message, ~ Wyll declared magnanimously, sitting back to be more comfortable.

~ Yes, elder brother! I am renowned for my oratory, and shall convey Jenn Nalynn’s every word, while striving to capture each intonation, with complete description— ~

The dragon bared a man’s teeth.

~ Though in this instance, a summary will assuredly do. ~ The toad blinked. ~ ‘Very sorry. Not upset. Will make it up to you.’ Then she kissed me. ~

The girl’s apology he’d felt for himself. Faced with the toad’s wide lipless mouth and warty skin, Wyll couldn’t bring himself to believe the rest, though little cousins were the most honest of creatures. ~ She kissed you. ~

~ I can describe— ~

~ That won’t be necessary. ~ The perfect lips of Jenn Nalynn were for her glorious smiles, not to bestow favors on a toad. He stifled a snarl and made an effort to be courteous. ~ I thank you for your oratory, most admirable and inestimable little cousin. Make your burrow nearby. Where ~ he warned ~ I won’t step in it. ~

The toad waddled about, then hesitated.

~ What? ~

It waddled back to face him. If something so squat could look anxious, it did. ~ I would be honored to prepare eggs for you, elder brother. If you might happen to have . . . ~ It stopped, seized by an agony of manners.

Wyll was amused. Though they would never admit it, what small magic little cousins possessed dealt with the wishing of one thing into another, which meant having the thing in the first place, and there was a numbing nicety of rules involved in that. To make an egg required a pebble given to that toad by someone who wanted an egg, which was all well and good for brown or grey or black pebbles but caused an anguish of morals for the toad presented with one of the white pebbles they so desired for their queen’s throne.

They were very good at making gems too, but those required the heart of a nyphrit killed by the defender of a home, and it lacked honor to encourage invasion simply to garner more gauds. Luckily for the little cousins, the villagers slept with open doors all summer and nyphrit weren’t at all bright. He supposed this little cousin would do well; his home had no door to close.

~ I will take my meals with the truthseer, ~ Wyll decided. Jenn Nalynn would concern herself with pebbles and eggs when she came to live here.

If she did not . . .

The air held rain; their home needed a roof. He set himself to that task next.

And refused to consider the future.

SIXTEEN

“Y
OU KISSED A
toad?” Peggs wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tell Aunt Sybb.”

Jenn peeled another potato for the pot. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”

“Of course.” Her sister dutifully counted off on her fingers, “You didn’t kiss Bannan, though the moment was there. Nor did you kiss Wyll, who is, or was, a dragon. His sad condition isn’t your fault, which is good news, and Tir has dreams, which isn’t. You rode that giant whatever it is, Scourge.” Smile disappearing, Peggs leaned forward and shook an admonishing finger under Jenn’s nose. “And went into the Bone Hills.”

Her list hadn’t included the pebble or disappearing path. Jenn hadn’t dared speak of them. Not because her sister would be horrified, and rightly so, but because words would make it all real again. What if she felt that dreadful craving? What if—

“What were you thinking?”

Jenn blinked. “When I kissed the toad?” she asked brightly.

The finger tapped her nose. “No, Dearest Heart,” Peggs persisted. “The Spine.”

“I thought I’d found a way to see what lay outside Marrowdell, without leaving,” she answered truthfully, and had no trouble adding a deep, unhappy sigh. “But there was nothing to see.”

“Then no need to tell Poppa—or Aunt Sybb—about that either.” Her sister gave her a quick one-armed hug. “What matters is you’re home, safe and sound. You are, aren’t you?” She tugged Jenn’s braid to make sure.

“Home to stay,” she affirmed with great feeling.

Her sister gave her a searching look, then nodded in satisfaction. “Glad to hear it.”

They pared vegetables in companionable silence. A gentle, steady rain had settled over Marrowdell, closing a curtain of peace around the village. All that could be seen through the kitchen window was the corner of their garden and the first of the bean poles. She’d made it home before the rain and in time to help Peggs in the kitchen. Radd was at the mill; Aunt Sybb took a nap, for once not restless or snoring. There might never have been strangers. Or wishes.

Or a curse.

“I like it at home.” Jenn chose a plump young turnip to threaten with her little knife. “I know what I’m doing here.”

“Away from them, you mean.” Peggs, having the large knife, wisely rescued the turnip and her sister’s fingers.

No need for names.

“Them and . . .” Jenn vented her frustration on a carrot, sending crooked pieces flying. “Them.”

“Maybe it’s time you told the Ancestors.” Looking up from the turnip she was cutting into even little cubes, Peggs chuckled at whatever she saw on Jenn’s face. “Couldn’t hurt, could it?”

The tradition was to unburden oneself of secrets at the Midwinter Beholding, to greet the return of longer days with the Ancestors firmly on your side, well-informed of any and all transgressions. And hopes. It was about hope too, and Jenn had poured all of hers into the frosty air above their mother’s bones each and every year she could remember.

Ancestors were supposedly beyond grief. Jenn had always imagined their mother enjoying her role as Blessed, watching her family grow, tending them with her love.

Each and every year, had Melusine heard her futile hopes, and wept for her cursed daughter?

“I’ll think about it,” Jenn said faintly.

“Good—”

“Hello!” Hettie appeared in the kitchen window, holding a dripping shawl over her head and shoulders. “Time for a cuppa?”

Peggs wiped her hands, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Of course. Kettle’s hot. Come in.”

As she bustled over tea, Jenn helped Hettie hang her damp shawl near the oven to dry. She leaned close to whisper, “I haven’t told her.”

Hettie sent her a grateful look, and squeezed her hand. “Such a good heart,” she whispered back. “Do stay. I’d like that.”

Usually the elder two gently shooed her upstairs. Pleased, Jenn nodded.

With Aunt Sybb abed in the parlor, they closed the curtain between the rooms. Jenn hopped up to perch on the counter, Peggs took a seat on a lower rung of the ladder to the loft, and Hettie settled on the flour barrel. They took their cups. Hettie rolled hers back and forth between her palms, her round pleasant face unusually serious.

Peggs considered her best friend, then said quietly, “What is it, Hettie?”

“You look so happy.”

Jenn had to agreed. Her sister’s contented bliss filled the kitchen like a warm fire on a cold night; it was impossible not to smile at her.

Twin roses bloomed on Peggs’ cheeks. “I am,” she admitted. “You’ve heard then. About—about Kydd.” The uncomplicated joy when she said his name made Jenn glad—and a little envious.

“A Golden Day wedding, no less.” Hettie chuckled at Peggs’ look of dismay. “Dear Heart, did you honestly think to keep that secret? Lorra Treff’s beside herself. If she could find a husband for Wen in time, you can be sure she would. Ancestors Witness, the woman would make one and fire him up in her kiln, if it’d work.”

Peggs very carefully didn’t look at Jenn.

Jenn very carefully pretended not to notice. She sipped tea, thinking of Wainn, who she was sure would marry Wen, then smiled into her cup, thinking of Wen, who she couldn’t imagine would bother with a wedding, even for her mother. For the peace of the village, she hoped Lorra remained unaware of the leanings of her daughter’s heart until becoming Blessed herself, which was a naughty thought she must admit to her own Ancestors when the time came.

“I’d hoped to tell you myself,” Peggs told Hettie, chagrined. “You’ll stand with me, won’t you?”

“As if I’d let anyone else. But what of our Jenn?” The milkmaid turned to Jenn with a smile. “Who’s to stand with you?”

Jenn’s mouth opened and closed like one of Wen’s fish. She vaguely recalled a list of Aunt Sybb’s with names that had something to do with various roles at the wedding and who’d be best suited—or who had suitable shoes, she wasn’t sure—but she hadn’t paid attention, preoccupied by the novel concepts of husband and home.

“We haven’t discussed such details yet,” her sister said diplomatically. “But that’s not what’s brought you out in the rain, is it, Dear Heart?”

“No.” Hettie bent her face to pay close attention to her tea. Strands of golden brown hair undampened by rain curled in the steam until tiny ringlets kissed her cheeks. The Nalynn sisters waited with outward patience, though Jenn was close to twitching when Hettie finally raised her head. “I’m with child.”

Peggs took a calm sip of tea. “Tadd’s or Allin’s?”

Jenn gaped at her sister.

“Doesn’t matter,” Hettie shrugged. “There’s but one I’d want, if he’ll have us.”

“Tadd, then,” as matter-of-factly as if they discussed turnips. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“That you did, Peggs.” Hettie’s broad smile dimpled her cheeks. “You were right. He’s ever so much sweeter.”

They were older, they were friends, and at ease with each other in a way, and concerning matters, Jenn couldn’t pretend to match. Face hot, she slipped down from the counter. “I’ll just go upstairs—”

“Jenn’s kissed her first toad,” Peggs announced, straight-faced.

Hettie’s eyes twinkled. “Did he kiss you back?”

Picturing the patient toad, Jenn had to giggle. “Alas,” she exclaimed, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead, “he had no lips.”

The curtain pulled aside. A becapped and sleepy Aunt Sybb blinked at the three of them.

“What’s this about a toad?”

“Which is why I put pebbles out for the toad, sir.”

At the moment, Bannan couldn’t have cared less about the toad, pebbles, and any eggs to follow, though normally he would have been delighted to solve another Marrowdell mystery. “You told Jenn to leave.” The words felt like broken glass. “To leave and stay away.”

“Yes, sir. I did. Sir.” Tir stood at parade attention, ready and willing to be chastised, though by the glint in the eyes above his mask he considered himself firmly in the right and willing to stay at attention however long it took his former captain to admit it.

“Stop that,” Bannan grumbled as he stripped off his shirt and tossed it over the line. “This isn’t the guard.” He dipped his hands, wrists, and forearms in the water, then brought handfuls to his face. Taking his time, he cleaned sweat and dust from his neck and chest, under his arms, then finished by pouring the rest of the bucketful over the back of his head. He tossed back his wet hair and ran a rag over his face, feeling stubble. Time for another shave.

Tir hadn’t budged.

Heart’s Blood. The man was incorrigible. The truthseer glared. “How long?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“I’ve a name.” He wasted his breath; the habit would take years to break, if ever. As for Tir . . . he hadn’t told the truth, or not all of it. Chewing on that disquieting fact, Bannan reached for his shirt.

As he pushed his head through, he grinned with sudden delight. Of course! “Why, you old romantic!”

“Pardon?”

“I beg yours, old friend. Ancestors Witness, you couldn’t have managed things better. Wyll can’t go to the village, can he? But I’ve errands. Many errands. I’ll need to go there at least once a day.” Errands meant the opportunity to take supper at the Nalynn table. Jenn might wear that pretty dress, with the little birds on it. They could sit on the porch . . .

“Best if I do any errands.” The “sir” hung almost said; Tir hadn’t relaxed a muscle. “While you stay here and farm.”

“You—I—” Losing his temper wouldn’t help, not if experience was any judge. With an effort, Bannan unclenched his teeth. “Why,” he grated, “should I agree to that?”

Tir locked his gaze beyond the truthseer’s right ear. “I promised the young lady you would. Sir.”

He’d rushed matters, in the stable. Jenn needed time, time to learn her own heart, to choose between him and Wyll, or accept neither. All of which made sense, of a sort, and Bannan was inclined to agree, except for one thing. This hadn’t been her idea. This was Tir’s incomprehensible meddling.

Clouds had tumbled into the valley; the air promised rain. Marrowdell listened to Jenn’s heart; she was troubled, he decided. Clasping his hands behind his back, Bannan studied his too-helpful friend. The man intended to outlast him and usually could, there was the rub. They were bound to get damp. “I suppose begging’s out.”

“Demeaning, sir.”

“I could knock you flat.”

“Unlikely. Sir.”

Without so much as a blink. This was serious. “What about Wyll?”

“I expect you’ll tell him, when the time’s right.”

“Oh, I will?” The dragon was not going to be pleased.

Tir, equally aware, had the temerity to add, “I’d take it as a kindness, sir, if you didn’t mention my involvement.”

“I’m sure you would.” What good was knowing truth from lie when Tir refused to say a word that mattered? “Heart’s Blood,” Bannan swore, losing patience. “Enough, do you hear? Where’d this come from? You know I care for her.” More than he dared say. “I’m no villain—”

Light blue eyes shifted to his, ice in their depths. “You’re a moonblind calf—Sir—and that’s being right charitable.” Tir shook his head in disgust. “I may not see Marrowdell the way you do, but Ancestors Witness, you’re not seeing her.”

But he did. Words trembled on his lips. How her eyes were endless pools . . . how her smile transformed everything and he’d give anything to have her smile at him . . . how pure light filled her slender form.

Ancestors Tormented and Torn. Tir was right. He was bedazzled.

And glad of it. “Don’t speak ill of Jenn Nalynn to me,” Bannan warned. “Friend or not, don’t you dare.”

“I’ll say what needs be said, Sir,” countered Tir as harshly. “Always have. Always will.”

The two glared at one another. Bannan pressed his lips in a thin line, then grudgingly circled one finger. Make your point, that said.

“Granted she’s a pretty thing and kind, with a smile to warm a stone’s heart—”

“Jenn smiled at you?” Bannan flushed, ashamed of his envy. He was hearing the truth; what he felt about it didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. “Go on,” he said grimly.

“That’s not all she is, sir, is it? Like her Wyll isn’t just a crippled soldier. There’s more, and it’s not simple and it’s not safe.” The first raindrops reached them, beading Tir’s bald pate. Neither man moved toward shelter. “Like this place.”

“You saw something,” the truthseer guessed, growing uneasy. “When you went down the road to find her.” Was what he’d seen—that dreadful ooze from the forest—able to harm others after all? Had he put Tir in danger too?

“I saw the girl and that lad coming from the path, normal as could be—other than his carrying a lamp midmorning.” Tir touched a suggestive knuckle to his head. “Why?” His eyes narrowed as if sighting a target for his ax. “That’s why the fuss this morning. Something’s wrong up yon hill. The way the lot of you were carrying on—I should have known it was about more than a girl falling off a horse!”

It was Bannan’s turn to evade. “I told you of the curse. Jenn’s not to leave Marrowdell.”

“Ah, so we come to it,” Tir announced with dour satisfaction. “Not to leave. For whose sake, I ask you?”

The obvious answer, the answer of a mother’s love and life for her child, died in Bannan’s throat. He’d seen Jenn Nalynn’s power. He couldn’t ignore its implications. Tir was right. Was the curse to keep Jenn safe?