A Turn of Light (53 page)

Or to keep that power here?

“That meadow—or what’s left of it. Tell me that doesn’t fright you.”

“We don’t know—”

“Who does?”

Whoever promised Melusine her daughter would survive. The Ancestors, in his experience, weren’t active in the affairs of the living. So who? Or what?

They didn’t know.

The rain chose that moment to come down in steady sheets, soaking their clothes, enclosing them in formless gray. They could be standing anywhere, Marrowdell a memory, his farm a long-lost dream. Bannan felt a pang, as though he’d failed some unspoken vow.

“There’s the other thing,” Tir went on, relentless as a blade diving for an exposed throat. “Why the dragon? Horst and her family’s what’s kept her safe, by all accounts, not him. Ask me, it’s like having an army keep a mouse from the cellar. A trap’d work better. Unless, sir, it’s not a mouse in question at all, and the rest of us who need protecting.”

There was no harm in Jenn Nalynn; he’d swear it with his last breath. That didn’t make her safe.

He didn’t care. Tir was a worrier, inclined to see trouble before anything else. Well and good in the marches, but little wonder Marrowdell’s marvels confounded the man. “You may be right, my friend, and see more clearly than I,” Bannan conceded generously, then half smiled, tasting sweet rain on his lips. “But it’s too late for me, I’m afraid. My heart’s found its home, here in Marrowdell, and its hope, with Jenn Nalynn. So come, Tir.” Heartily. “Let’s go in and drink to our bright future and the answers to all riddles.”

“The drink’ll be most welcome, sir,” low and unhappy, “but I’ll be honest. There’s no future for me here, bright or otherwise.”

The rain was warm; nonetheless, a chill fingered Bannan’s bones. “What haven’t you told me?”

“Sir.” Tir’s shoulders curled as if under a weight and he wiped his forehead with an unsteady hand. “Bannan. I can’t stay. Not another night. Not even for you.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ve—I’ve dreamed.”

“I thought the toad kept you awake,” Bannan said, feeling thick-headed. First, warnings about Jenn, now this? What next, reading portents in tea leaves?

“The dream did that.” Tir’s eyes filled with fear.

The truth it was, but the sun rising in the middle of the night would make better sense than this man being afraid of anything, let alone a mere dream. “A nightmare . . . ?”

“Worse.” Tir’s voice was flat and toneless. “Jenn knew. She said these ill dreams are what Marrowdell does. Those who can live here, like you, Bannan, don’t suffer them. Those who dream can’t bear to stay. It’s why the villagers doubted you at first. There’ve been others who came to this valley, who wanted to live here. None of them lasted a night.”

Wainn had worried about his sleep. He’d known. Were these dreams a test of some kind? Bannan struggled to understand. “You believe Jenn’s responsible—that’s why you sent her away?”

“No, sir,” Tir protested with reassuring quickness. “She was sorry for me. The dreams drive her aunt, the Lady Mahavar, back to the city each fall. Poor brave woman.” He shuddered, raindrops sliding down his mask. “They say the dreams are hardest to ignore near yon strange hills,” so low Bannan had to strain to hear, “and not even the villagers dare sleep here. It’s true. I nodded off an instant and . . .” Another shudder. “It wasn’t as bad that first night, in the village. Jenn’s to ask her father if I might sleep in his mill. It’s all I can do.”

Enough of this. Bannan threw an arm around Tir’s shoulders. “We’ll do better, I swear. Now for that drink,” he announced, pulling his friend toward the house. The ground where the porch had stood was a puddle, fed by runoff from the new roof, so they splashed through what quickly became mud.

Jenn’s clean floor stopped them in the doorway. Bannan wiped his bare feet with a rag. He found and lit his brand-new oil lamp, the other two having been smashed in the wagon. By that warm light, his new stove gleamed, ready for use, though he didn’t see any pots unpacked. The ornate black door of its oven being as yet unhinged, the house toad had made itself at home inside and was presently asleep.

While Tir pulled off his boots, Bannan went to the stack of bags. Only one was open, but he was pleased to find it held what he sought. He turned, a bottle in each hand. “On one condition.”

Tir pulled off his mask and scratched his beard with fingers and thumb. The skin below his eyes was bruised from lack of sleep. He’d been too caught up in his new life to notice, Bannan thought bitterly. He’d failed his friend.

Perceptive in his own way, Tir managed a hoarse chuckle. “It can’t be besting me at ’stones, sir,” he said. “Can’t be done.”

The truthseer offered a bottle. “Tell me why you sent her away. The whole truth.”

Tir pried free the cork with his knife. Doing the same, Bannan waited.

His friend lifted his bottle. With the ease of long practice, he poured a goodly amount into his ruined mouth, head tilted so none dribbled out, then swallowed, throat working, eyes closing in reverence. When done, he gazed at Bannan. “To give a letter time to reach Vorkoun. And get a reply.”

Bannan almost choked. Vorkoun? “You’re writing Lila? Whatever for?”

“To save you, Sir,” with some impatience, as if the task might not be worth the effort or was, as Bannan had claimed earlier, too late. “The baroness has the sense in your family, pardon my saying—”

Bannan took another, longer pull on his bottle, waving Tir past what was, after all, entirely fair.

“You listen to her, even when you argue like mad cats. Better than you listen to me, Ancestors Witness.” Tir paused for more wine, then gave a decisive nod. “The baroness’ll see the right of things. She’ll know if you’ve stones rattling loose in your head or not.”

The man had thought it through. “Go ahead,” Bannan said cheerfully, making himself comfortable on a folded blanket, his shoulders against the wall. “For that matter, I owe my dear sister a letter of my own. I trust you won’t mind sharing the courier’s pouch.”

Giving the bed a dour look, Tir crouched on his heels near the fireplace. He poked up the fire, then grinned sideways at Bannan. “Not if you pay, sir.”

Their shared laughter filled the room like light, leaving an easier feeling, and the men settled to talk as old soldiers were wont, without thought of time.

A mostly empty bottle loose between two fingers, Bannan leaned in his doorway to watch Tir Half-face shoulder his pack and leave the farm. He refused to think it farewell. Radd Nalynn would take his friend in, he had no doubt. Tir had promised, fervently after the second—or had it been third?—bottle, to return the next day.

If he managed to spend the night in Marrowdell.

The rain had stopped; fat drops lined the roof edge, threatening unwary heads. Though well before sun’s set, the lingering heavy clouds hurried twilight and Tir seemed to vanish beneath the old trees between one step and the next. Pouring the dregs of wine on the muddy ground, Bannan said with feeling, “Keep Us Close,” and hoped he was heard.

A shadow moved across the farmyard, large and dark.

Scourge. “It’s the Bloody Beast!” Bannan cheered rather unsteadily. “Off to watch Tir’s back, are you? Good horse!”

The breeze along his cheek was damp and chill. “I do not follow Tir. I go to guard the road as the dragon can’t.”

Bannan straightened with a jerk, the bottle dropping from his hand. “Guard against what?”

“Those who may come.”

If there was a risk—he turned too quickly, cursing as he staggered and had to grab the doorframe. His free hand stabbed past the barn, to where the Tinkers Road curved out of Marrowdell. “Who guards that? The other road.”

“There is only one.”

Which wasn’t right. Well, it was right in a sense, but not right when it came to tactics, though it was unfair to have to argue tactics after—two, yes, two bottles each, which wasn’t much for a soldier, but they’d been rushed . . . and maudlin, Tir leaving and all . . . and supper—he hadn’t had supper, come to think of it. Tir Half-face could drink like a fish and never show it, which wasn’t the point.

The point being tactics. Bannan steadied himself. Why was he arguing tactics with Scourge, who should know better? “You can’t,” he stated slowly and with extra care, “guard one end of a road and ignore the other. What if they—” he stressed the word, though he’d no clue who “they” might be, other than a worry of his strange not-a-horse companion’s that was now his, which wasn’t what he’d hoped for in any sense, “—come from there?” Another extravagant stab up the road. There. Perfectly sensible.

“There is no road beyond the valley,” Scourge informed him, as if he was supposed to know such things and was being ridiculous. “Not in your Marrowdell. That’s the turn-borns’ crossing.”

There certainly was a road, a well-maintained road, and roads, the truthseer knew, went places, even roads that sometimes flowed like silver water. So did crossings, which was a new word and as distracting as a feather to a kitten, but Bannan held to his concern. Rather than argue and be further confused, he switched targets and waved toward the Spine, the white of its rock stark against the clouds. “What about—what about—that, then? There’s something,” with conviction, “wrong with that.”

“Only to fools who venture there.” With amusement.

“Oh. Well, then.” Bannan pushed himself straight, keeping a cautionary hand on the wood. “We’re fine. You go guard everybody else then. Fine job. Good horse.” He really should find the bottle he’d dropped, but it was getting dark. Or was it getting purple?

He blinked owlishly. “Sun’s setting,” he announced, relieved by how clear the words sounded. When he’d had too much wine, he had trouble letting go of “s’s” which was singularly hilarious under the right circumstances and in the right company, but having had too much wine would not be a good thing tonight. Because . . . “I’m here alone,” he realized. “Tir’sss left.” He licked his lips and tried again. “Tir left and he sent away Jenn. He sent away Jenn!” because it was very important Scourge know.

And the shadow that was Scourge paused.

Encouraged, Bannan heaved a deep, heartfelt sigh. Then another. “Wyll’ssss. . . . gone someplace too. I dunno where. Being a dragon, I sssupposse. Now you—you’re leaving me. Isss juss me, now. Me alone. By myself. That’s—” he proclaimed with great seriousness, “—alone.”

Before Bannan knew what was happening, Scourge was in his face. Without a word, not that words were what the not-horse used, the great beast lowered his head and shoved him, hard, with his nose. “Hey!” As he staggered back into the house, Scourge ducked through the doorway and followed, giving well-timed pushes with his nose until Bannan toppled.

Onto the mattress that was his bed.

“The floor was clean!” he protested.

Scourge was already gone.

As Bannan tried to sit up, something heavy plopped on his chest and pinned him in place. He craned his neck to find himself nose to nostril with the house toad. “The road’s not a road,” he informed it.

Unimpressed, the toad yawned toothily and settled itself.

Dropping his head back down, Bannan closed his eyes. The bed slowly spun with him in it, a familiar sensation after so much wine, but he found himself strangely content.

The others might leave him.

Marrowdell had not.

When and where families sat to supper in Marrowdell followed a comfortable routine. On days of hard shared labor, such as the harvest, lunch became the heftier meal, taken together close to the work. When families were busy at their own tasks, suppers were their time to gather and share the day’s Beholding. The smells emanating from those kitchens could be a torment to anyone tardy to his or her table. Especially, the joke went, if you sniffed what the Ropps had burning on their stove—that family being prone to distraction—before savoring the tantalizing aromas from the Nalynns’.

Jenn wrinkled her nose. There was an aroma coming from Tir Half-face, who sat between her and Peggs, but she wouldn’t call it tantalizing.

Aunt Sybb, fingers circled as she prepared to give the Beholding, gave her a glance that meant however a guest might smell was not to be acknowledged in any way.