A Turn of Light (91 page)

Wyll didn’t budge. “I’m not sleeping in a hammock.”

“He’s with us,” declared Sand.

Tir’s unwelcome arm tensed. Not as drunk as he pretended, the warrior, nor about to relinquish him to the turn-born. Which was a waste of gallantry. Faced with a hammock? “I’m sleeping with them.”

“Hard work deserves a good rest na? We’ve room and bedding to spare, Tir. You’re welcome too.”

“That’s very kind, Mistress.” Tir stepped away from Wyll, now clearly concerned for his own situation. “But—”

“Very kind and generous,” Sand agreed in a voice to end any argument. “Riverstone will tell Bannan. All to rest well for tomorrow na? Come.”

Moments later, Wyll found himself standing in the trade tent, a blanket under his good arm, watching Tir.

The tent was lit by small trays of burning oil, set atop short metal poles arranged around the center trading area. The oil was mimrol, the poles of no metal found on this side of the edge, and Wyll found himself feeling unexpectedly at home.

He yawned. “I want to sleep.”

“Not yet.” The former guard, sober the instant Sand had bid them good night, was on some kind of hunt. He pulled apart piles of blankets, opened any unlocked trunks to rummage through their contents, and finally went on hands and knees to peer under the low table. He rocked back on his heels. “Ancestors Bound and Baffled. Nothing.”

“What are you looking for?” the dragon asked wearily.

“I’ll know when I find it.” With that unhelpful answer, Tir circled back to the trunks.

Wyll ignored him, sending breezes to collect the best of the blankets—yling work, like the tent and the turn-borns’ clothing—into a cozy nest away from any opening. After dealing with turn-born, he was tired, sore, and in a thoroughly foul mood, tonight, more than usual. That Jenn had been happy . . . that Sand wanted to help? He couldn’t deny those were to the good.

That a turn-born believed he’d want to be this futile?

The dragon snarled and made his way to his corner. The only thing worse would be if the old kruar found out . . .

“Hear that?” Tir padded noiselessly to the door opening. “Ancestors Witness, it’ll be those Ansnans. Up to some mischief in the dark.”

“They study stars,” Wyll said to be annoying.

“Horst, then, bringing his horse from yon field.” As Tir eased open the door flap, the dragon heard hoofbeats.

But a little cousin had watched the old soldier slip away from the rest, going for his horse and few belongings, abandoning his post. Wyll supposed Horst was out of Marrowdell by now. Regrettable. He began the arduous process of lowering himself onto the tempting softness.

“Heart’s Blood. What’s he—Wyll. Wyll!”

There’d be no rest till he answered Tir’s summons. Wyll straightened with an effort, and lurched across the uneven, too-soft floor of the tent. “What’s wrong?”

The other pointed.

Reluctantly, Wyll stuck his head into the damp night air. The white shirt shone in the moonlight. “It’s only Bannan.”

“On a stolen horse.” Tir’s voice was low and grim. “Where’s he going on it, that’s what I want to know.”

At the moment, he was going sideways, the horse sensibly unwilling to venture from its fellows in the dark, especially with kruar ahunting. Wyll grinned. Scourge’s rider, defeated by a farm horse? Even riding the way Jenn rode Wainn’s old pony, namely bareback and with a contrived rope halter, the outcome was inevitable. Sure enough, with a slobbery shake of its head, the horse settled into a resigned walk toward the commons gate.

The one leading to the ford.

“Do something,” Tir said in his ear, his breath rank. “Stop him.”

“Maybe Bannan wants his own bed too,” Wyll said nastily and pulled back inside.

He was grabbed by the shoulder and hauled forward again. “With an ax?”

Wyll shrugged himself free. He supposed the object strapped across Bannan’s back could be an ax, albeit a very large one. If he’d armed himself? “He goes for Jenn Nalynn,” he concluded aloud. Scourge claimed the truthseer had been lured by the Wound, like any turn-born. “If he takes that road by night, he won’t come back. I—”

“We have to stop him!” As Tir made to leap from the tent, doubtless to shout and cause a deplorable commotion, Wyll took hold of his belt. The man struggled, using very unkind language, but what a dragon chose to hold, he held.

Wyll sent a chill breeze to snap at the horse’s head. As the animal shied, Bannan and ax flew in the opposite direction. Satisfied, he released the belt and Tir staggered from the tent, with a glare over his shoulder, to help his friend to his feet.

The horse trotted away with a relieved snort.

The dragon headed back to his nest, slowly enough that the two men, arguing in furious whispers, entered the tent first.

Bannan threw off his friend’s hand, then saw Wyll.

He’d relish the dreadful pallor on the other’s face if they were enemies, though the cold determination in those eyes might give him pause.

If he were a man.

“You would die for nothing,” the dragon said bluntly. “The turn-born will search for her pebble tomorrow. Come and sleep.” Then he smiled, a very small smile. “I promise no more toads.”

“Toads—” from pallor to flush. “Heart’s Blood. You were there.” Bannan’s hand pushed through his hair, an interesting array of emotions vying for expression. Guilt won. “Wyll, I—” the words stuck in his throat.

“Sir?” Tir looked from one to the other. “What’s this about?”

“A blanket,” Wyll answered with wicked satisfaction. “He made Jenn Nalynn happy on it.”

For no apparent reason, Tir began to choke.

The truthseer’s face went bleak. “All that matters now is saving her.”

Had the man not listened? “Her happiness is—”

“Enough!” Bannan thrust out his hand as though to fend him off. “Leave be.” He lowered the hand and his voice, shaking his head. “Just . . . leave it be.”

There’d been no denying her happiness. What could have gone wrong? Wyll looked to Tir for an explanation, but the man’s eyes were on his friend, and strangely sad.

The girl was home, that much he knew. Safe in her bed, he guessed. Wyll shrugged. The truthseer must have displeased her or failed as a lover. He would have to make the effort himself, then.

“The turn-born search tomorrow,” he said again, firmly. “Get some sleep.”

He turned to his nest, only to stop in dismay. A white moth was perched atop his blankets, a strip of parchment at the ready.

“A visitor.” Bannan came to stand beside him, then went to one knee. “Marrowdell,” he greeted the moth, giving Wyll an expectant look.

As if they should talk to it. As if anything to do with the sei was a good idea or safe. Sand had the right of it. Had he the courage, the dragon snarled to himself, he’d squash the moth and take the consequences.

It took a different sort of courage to ask, ~ What do you want? ~

~ I bring questions, elder brother. ~ Spoken like the small thing it was. Wyll wasn’t ashamed to be relieved.

“It has questions,” he said aloud.

Tir had come close. Now his forehead creased. “Ancestors Blessed, does everything here talk?”

“Don’t scare it,” Bannan cautioned his friend.

~ Tell me, ~ the dragon ordered.

The creature fussed a little with its wings, giving Tir a decidedly worried look.

Wyll summoned his own patience. ~ Pray continue, little cousin. ~

Mollified, the moth consulted its tiny scroll. ~ ‘Who are you?’ ~ it said in the girl’s voice, sharp with fear. ~ ‘Why are you waiting? What do you want from me?’ ~

He tensed. The girl had confronted something.

The moth went on in its own voice, ~ Do you have the answers, elder brother? ~

The dragon scowled. ~ How could I? ~ he said irritably. ~ I wasn’t there. ~

The moth tucked away its parchment and fluttered into the air.

~ Wait! Who would know? ~ He sent a breeze to force it back. Blankets tossed, the tent walls strained against their pegs; unaffected, the moth flew through the open door and was gone.

The truthseer rose to his feet. “What happened? What were the questions?”

“I’m not sure,” Wyll admitted. “It overheard Jenn Nalynn. She asked: ‘Who are you? Why are you waiting? What do you want from me?’ Do you know the answers?”

“No.” Bannan looked to Tir. “Jenn knows about the turn-born. That can’t be it.”

“First Ansnans, now moths with mysteries.” Tir rolled his eyes. “Ancestors Bored and Baffled. To think, sir, I’d almost hung up my axes, this Marrowdell being such a peaceful place.”

“Tir—”

“Don’t have to say it. Sir.”

Bannan shook his head and put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “If I don’t, you’ll hound me for days. You were right. There’s peril here as well as marvels. Though I’m not sure your axes will help. Wyll?”

He was tired, sore, and wanted his bed. Nonetheless, the dragon stayed where he was, frowning at Bannan. “Jenn said nothing to you of this?”

The truthseer raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were there.”

“You took the blanket and ran.”

Tir coughed.

“No. We—no. Jenn said nothing about someone waiting.”

But a thought had struck the truthseer; Wyll could see it in his face. “What is it?”

“What’s up the Spine—how sure are you it stays there?”

Despite his ignorance, or because of it, the man asked a terrifying question. “The trapped ones are caught within the edge itself and can’t move,” Wyll replied. “Not in either world. Be grateful. The last time they but flinched and Marrowdell bears the scars.”

“What’s trapped?” Tir asked sharply. “Who?”

“He means the hills,” Bannan exclaimed, as if a puzzle had been solved. “The Bone Hills.”

“No, sir.” Tir stumbled back a step. “Moths can talk and dragons be men and yon river flow through the mill only when there’s grain to grind, but this is madness. They’re stone!”

“What they are, or were, or will be, only the sei know.” The dragon grinned wickedly. “Still want your axes?”

The warrior collected himself with a ferocious frown. “They’d make short work of you, that’s for sure.”

Not as he should be. Wyll bristled. “You—”

“Peace!” Bannan interrupted. “If the hills can’t move, what could?” he persisted. “This Wound. What is it?”

Another question launched straight at what was to be feared. Wyll couldn’t decide if the truthseer’s willingness to confront the worst was admirable or appalling. “The edge never healed in that place. What remains . . . what that means . . . no one knows. Those able to sense the Wound feel a profound dread.” He let them see his shudder. “Some are drawn. Those lured too close are not seen again. Dragons,” he hastened to add, “are not such fools.”

“Yon path up the hill?” Tir ran a hand over his bald head. “I’ve gone past it day and night. Seems ordinary to me.”

“Be glad of that,” Bannan told him. His eyes narrowed. “I’ve only felt it at night. Why?”

“This sun counters it. Darkness gives it strength. Both. Neither. What does it matter?” His leg pained him, but there was always pain. “Day or night. If you risk that path, you put yourself into the Wound and you won’t come back.”

“Jenn did.”

“Are you not hearing, sir?” Tir snapped. “You can’t go up there.”

“If the turn-born fail, we’ve no other choice!”

Grabbing the fool by the throat to draw him close, Wyll bared his teeth and wished for fangs. He ignored Tir’s attempt to intervene, ignored Bannan’s hands as they battered at him. He waited until both gave in and went still.

Then, staring into the truthseer’s defiant eyes, feeling his breath, he spoke with the hint of a growl. “I’ll find another. Jenn Nalynn is my life and my duty, Bannan Larmensu. For her sake, for yours, don’t attempt the Wound until I say it’s her last hope. Give me till the Great Turn. You know I speak the truth.”

The other couldn’t nod or answer, but some of the defiance faded from his eyes.

“Well enough.” Wyll eased open his hand and turned away, lurching in slow steps to his pile of blankets. He lowered himself down, used a breeze to draw another blanket over his head and body, and closed his eyes.

If the men murmured or moved, he neither noticed nor cared.

Tomorrow, he would cross.

For Jenn Nalynn.

TWENTY-TWO

B
REAKFAST DURING THE
harvest was early, hearty, and, above all else, full of excited chatter about the night before and the coming day.

Jenn picked at her plate, Peggs stared at hers, and Aunt Sybb kept lifting her mug of tea then setting it down gently, untasted. Up, down.

Only Radd Nalynn ate with appetite, but he did so in a forbidding silence no one dared break.

It was, Jenn thought, the saddest meal she’d ever forced down her throat.

Their father finished and pushed his plate away, rattling it over the cutlery.

Aunt Sybb put down her cup with a thud and splash of tea. As the rest of her family stared at her in shock, she said, lips thin, “At least we know.”

“Sybbie—” Her brother made a quelling gesture.

“Don’t you ‘Sybbie’ me, Radd Nalynn,” she snapped, eyes afire. “And don’t you sit there looking like this is the end of the world two days before your daughters’ weddings.” A nod to Jenn who tried to be inconspicuous. “And birthday.”

He scowled and stood. “I’m for the mill.”

She rose as well, her frail body straight and stiff. “All this time, we’ve waited in dread for Melly’s family to send someone else. We both knew her ring wasn’t proof. I wish Sennic had told us. He would have, but he feared you’d react like this—”

“He stole her body! He took her!” Radd’s anguished cry startled the house toad from its hiding place under the heat stove. “Don’t you understand? Melusine’s gone . . .” Jenn and Peggs sat, pale and still, as their father sank down and sat, hands over his face. “And so’s he.”

Ignoring the toad, Aunt Sybb came around the table and placed her hands on his shaking shoulders. “Not from our hearts. Never from our hearts.” She laid her cheek tenderly against his head. Her eyes found her nieces, then looked meaningfully toward the kitchen.

Peggs rose quietly, drawing Jenn with her. Once in the kitchen, she freed the curtain separating the rooms from its hooks and let it close.

Jenn sat on the ladder, her hands in her lap. Peggs stood by the sink and picked up a dish towel, then put it aside and went to trim the lamp. Sunrise was still but a lesser darkness behind the mill; late and later, with winter’s coming. Uncle Horst was no stranger to the dark or to sleeping outside.

It didn’t make it feel right, that he was out there. “He’ll go to Endshere,” she whispered. Find a bed, a hot meal.

Peggs’ eyes were suspiciously bright. “He won’t stop so close. I heard him speak once of Thornloe. It sounded like a place—a place he liked.”

The great port on the Sweet Sea. As far from Marrowdell as a Rhothan road could take him. “He could go anywhere,” Jenn said numbly. The world was too big.

“Ancestors Witness, we’re his family.” Peggs’ chin threatened to quiver, then she firmed it and gave a determined nod. “We’ll write. We’ll tell him to come back. We’ll send letters everywhere and surely one will find him. What’s wrong with that?”

Jenn had shaken her head. Now she grimaced. “We don’t know his real name; he won’t use the one we do. Uncle Horst lied to Mother’s family to keep me secret. Don’t you see? He won’t let himself be found by anyone. He’ll make himself—” she shivered as she said the word, “—vanish.”

“So he’s truly gone.” Her sister sighed and reached for her apron, tying it on with a quick sure bow. “Best we cook.”

Jenn blinked. “Pardon?”

Peggs gave a wan smile. “It’s what I do, Dear Heart, when I can’t fix the world. I make sure people are fed. Haven’t you noticed?”

She’d thought Peggs just liked cooking, which made it convenient for her not to, but this made such sense to her sore heart, Jenn rose to find a basket. “I’ll get turnips.”

And as they cooked, while Aunt Sybb consoled her grieving brother and the rest of Marrowdell roused to the harvest, she’d tell her dear and wonderful sister why there’d be only one Nalynn wedding on the Golden Day.

And why she must be with the tinkers, when the sun set on this one.

Warm soft lips moved over his eyes, nose, and mouth. She’d changed her mind and come to him and Bannan lingered in that wondrous waking moment until he realized those warm soft lips were also hairy.

He jerked up, furiously scrubbing drool from his face with a sleeve. The massive shadow that was the kruar’s head lifted away with an amused nicker. Tir rolled over with a snatch at blankets and a muttered, “Bloody Beast.” The pile over the dragon didn’t stir at all.

Scourge had pushed his front half through the door opening, in so doing lifting most of the tent wall free of the ground. Before he could do worse, Bannan tossed aside his covering and got to his feet. “Outside. And have a care.”

The kruar eased back out. He followed, rubbing his neck. The dragon hadn’t broken it; he could have, easily. Whatever Wyll’s seeming, no man had such strength. He’d have to offer thanks they were on the same side at the evening’s Beholding.

Dawn was near enough to dim the Mistress and hide the Rose. Lamplight glowed in the Ropps’ barn. Milking, he guessed, hearing a cow, and stretched with an involuntary yawn. Ancestors Weary and Worn, farmers slept less than soldiers. What life had he gotten himself into?

Closer at hand, their purr so low and intense he felt as much as heard it, the kruar mares stood together, chins on one another’s backs, tails slapping lazily.

“Mine.”

At the smug note to the breeze, Bannan’s lips twitched. “Did you leave any rabbits?”

“Rabbits, yes.” Scourge gave a purr of his own. “No wolves.”

At least they hadn’t gone for the village livestock, something he suspected had more to do with the kruar aversion to cattle than compunction. Was that why Marrowdell had no sheep?

A curiosity for another day. Bannan looked across the pond at the unlit Ansnan wagons, tucked against the tall hedge, and frowned.

Scourge bent his neck to follow his gaze. “Attack as they sleep,” he suggested cheerfully, eyes red.

Bannan laid his hand on the kruar’s shoulder, avoiding the fresh gashes. “We don’t want to attack them.”

“We do!” Scourge shook his head, drool flying, and showed his fangs. The mares lifted their heads and showed theirs.

He gave the bloody-minded beast an absent pat. “They may have what I need, old friend. A magic to cross into the Verge, if the turn-born won’t help.”

Scourge sidled from under his hand, turning to lower his head and stare. “What’s this?” The breeze was hot and fetid with menace. “That dragon tricks you to your death, so he may have her!”

“We’re both trying to save her. Wyll’s not the problem.” And might not be the only answer, he realized all at once. “What do you know about the Wound?”

The mares whined. Scourge lifted his head to aim one startled eye at Bannan.

“It’s dangerous to those who notice it and draws them to their death. Heart’s Blood, I know that much. I need more, Scourge. How to pass it safely—”

The breeze was chill enough to nip his ear. “You cannot. It bleeds.”

The miasma he’d seen with his deeper sight, staining the silver road, came from the Wound. That it was blood of some kind? Ancestors Aghast and Fearful, he wanted to deny it was possible, but if the Bone Hills were other than stone, anything was. Bannan steeled himself. He had to know. “Wyll told us the Wound was where the edge hadn’t healed. Is it a void?”

A lip curled in disdain. “You asked a dragon? They are oblivious to the ground until we pull them to our traps. Then, they care.” Scourge lifted a hoof, let it drop without sound. “Kruar miss nothing. At the last Great Turn, the sei caught something in a trap of their own. Something hungry for turn-born. Kruar were first to find it, stuck within the edge. We named it the Wound, for it bled into both worlds. We couldn’t—” the breeze turned pensive, “—reach the flesh.”

Bannan’s own crawled. “How can it be—how can it still bleed?”

Now he was regarded by the other eye, as if what he asked was so troubling, Scourge had to be sure of him. “My mates tell of changes during my exile. There came those able to feed on what the sei left in their trap. Kruar do not contest them.”

An undying creature, fed upon by what the fearsome kruar avoided. Jenn Nalynn, being lured to it. Grimly, Bannan raised his eyes to the shadowed Spine. “What bleeds can die.”

“Not always,” the breeze in his ear warned. “And sometimes, not at all.”

“Eggs?”

The dema lifted his plate with a pleased smile and nod. Despite his blue-black skin, Jenn had the impression Urcet blanched at the thought. The odemi, Panilaq and Kanajuq, weren’t at the Nalynn table or any other. Apparently they’d had too much beer last night and nothing would wake them, leaving their masters to wander from kitchen to kitchen in search of breakfast.

Unless, she thought worriedly, they’d come straight to hers.

“Is there more tea?” Urcet asked. He’d emptied a pot already, touching nothing solid. She hadn’t noticed he’d been much into the beer, but perhaps the tinkers’ unusual brew didn’t sit well on so foreign a stomach.

Or he hadn’t slept. She’d wished away Palma’s dreams and not thought of these men. Jenn glanced guiltily at Qimirpik, relieved to see he appeared his jovial self. He’d left off his hat, seeming well at home.

“I’ll get more,” she told Urcet. If he’d dreamed, so be it.

Hers had been dark. She’d tried to stay awake, to hold on to the smell of Bannan’s warm skin, the touch of his hands and mouth, the way she’d felt; she’d fallen asleep, to plunge into a nightmare where every time she reached for him, her fingers slipped over stone.

Aunt Sybb resumed the conversation paused by eggs and tea. “Last night had its pleasant moments,” she said delicately. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the upcoming festivities even more, though certainly our little village can’t match the Hac Y. You must be sorry to miss it.”

Jenn returned with the tea to see Urcet press fingers to throat and bow his head in gracious acknowledgment. “You know our ways, Lady. I’m honored.”

“The Mahavars regularly host merchants and diplomats from Eldad,” Aunt Sybb explained, giving her a nod of thanks as she poured. “The Hac Y celebrates intellectual achievement, does it not? Most admirable.”

“Thank you. Accomplishment should be rewarded.” Something guarded left Urcet’s face and he smiled for the first time. “Eld treasures scholars and inventors. During Hac Y, entire cities fly the banners of their most successful innovator. Structures rise in honor of the finest minds. I myself hope for the day—”

“And so you should,” Aunt Sybb slipped in adroitly as he paused for breath. “While our celebrations aren’t on such a scale, I daresay you’ve never attended a Rhothan wedding on the Golden Day Blessed by our Ancestors, let alone four at once.”

“I, for one, can’t wait.’ The dema waved a forkful of egg. “What do you say, Urcet? Collect the Celestial’s Tears, then dance the night away in the company of these sweet brides?”

Jenn fumbled the teapot. “‘Tears?’”

“Dema!” The Eld half-rose from his seat. “We agreed not to speak of this.”

Twin outbursts at her table, coupled with peril to the tea, drew Aunt Sybb’s eyebrows together in mute disapproval. Qimirpik merely chuckled. “Sit, Urcet. There’s no keeping secrets in a friendly little place like this, is there, good lady?”

“Quite impossible,” the lady agreed, bending a finger to indicate the teapot would be safer on the table, near her hand. “‘Celestial’s Tears?’ So your visit for the eclipse has a religious connotation.” She steepled her fingers, eyes aglint with implacable interest. “Do enlighten me.”

Jenn knew that look. It was the one she’d receive if late, or messy, or without shoes, and meant any explanation best be compelling. Hoping to stay for this one, she did her best to be unobtrusive, but Aunt Sybb glanced at her with another look she knew.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said faintly.

Once there, Jenn put a finger to her lips as her sister looked up, to let her know there was something worth overhearing. Not that they should. Aunt Sybb expected the pretense of privacy; when she entertained a guest in her parlor, though it was simply the front half of the room, the sisters would make sufficient noise in the kitchen to prove they weren’t listening or interested. More often than not, Jenn would slip out the kitchen door and run to her meadow, while Peggs busied herself with pie.