A Turn of Light (98 page)

The servants were awake and alert this time. Panilaq took herself to the middle wagon, by the rattle of dishes to prepare the requisite Ansnan hospitality. After a surly glance at Bannan, Kanajuq stirred to drop the metal stair and open the door to the largest wagon, going ahead to light a lamp, then climbing out again.

“Welcome, welcome,” Dema Qimirpik said cheerfully, lifting his robe as he bounded up the stairs.

A step at a time, Bannan followed behind. He passed through the door, bare feet sinking in lush carpet, and found himself within what was more salon than wagon.

The roof arched well over his head, crowned in glass to admit the witness of stars. The rest of the ceiling was painted black, but that color was obscured beneath the gilt of handwritten prayers.

The rest of the wagon resembled the interior of a ship. Other than the curtained windows to either side and doors at each end, every bit of wall space was in use. Ornately carved cupboards and racks lined the tops; below were narrow worktables cluttered with star charts and papers and instruments. Cushioned benches waited before each, hinged to fold away.

A wider, luxuriously padded bench under the rightmost window housed the three odemini, belted in place. The dolls, Bannan was glad to see, faced the now-closed curtain.

Under the left window was a gleaming dining table, hinged as well, but presently extended into the middle of the floor. A pear-shaped lamp sat centered on the table, its wide lower half encased in gold filigree, its upper a network of crystal and faceted red gems. The light it cast was pleasant, though reflections danced over the walls with their steps. Two elegant chairs, upholstered in red and gold velvet, stood waiting, as did a pair of fluted glasses.

What was Ansnan and what was Eld?

“Sit, sit.” The wagon rocked and reflections jiggled as the dema took his own suggestion and claimed a chair. “Panilaq!” he bellowed, pounding a fist on the table. The lamp rattled. “Pardon the delay,” this as Bannan sat and pulled his chair to the table. “My odemi are worthy and diligent, not quick. Pani—!”

Before Qimirpik could finish his second summons, the old woman climbed into the wagon, a tray in her hands. The deep carpet kept her to an anxious shuffle, the tray tipping so its contents, a large glass carafe and platter, slowly slid to one end then the other with each step. Bannan held his breath, but miraculously, she made it to the table.

The carafe proved full of wine, the platter a less-than-artful arrangement of soft white curds surrounded by brown crisps. A dainty bowl of salt had been forced into their midst. Panilaq filled the waiting flutes before weaving her way out of the wagon.

“Ah.” The dema surveyed the offering with patent delight. “My colleague—” he wrinkled his nose, “—prefers I not bring out Ansnan fare. But I trust you’re familiar?” With that, he set the salt bowl between them.

Bannan moistened the little finger of his left hand in his mouth, then dipped it in the bowl. Deftly scooping curds on a crisp with his other hand, he took a generous bite and immediately sucked the salt from his finger. Timing in the mouth was crucial. Done well, the salt tamed the bitter spice of the curd while the crisp’s heat flared, a pleasant, if eye-watering sensation. Done poorly? The only recourse was to spit the awful combination out; even so, the foul taste would linger for days.

The truthseer chewed, swallowed, and smiled at Qimirpik. As Captain Ash, he’d learned the trick of it to lull Ansnan captives. Now, he did the same to impress his Ansnan host. He should have bet Tir on the likelihood of that.

Having taken his own first taste, the dema touched the rim of his glass to Bannan’s. “Before I ask what you want of me,” he said, “allow me to apologize. I’m not a worldly man, Bannan. My attention’s been here,” a finger to his head,” and there,” a gesture to the night sky revealed through the ceiling window. “I was wrong to speak lightly of the marches and of your city. It was a long and bitter conflict, won by no one. My presence here, as your former enemy, must seem an insult. That, I deeply regret.”

The truthseer regarded the Ansnan, then touched his glass to the dema’s and took a sip. The wine was dry and strong, with a harsh bite to it. Much like history, he thought ruefully. “I thought I’d come far enough to leave the past behind,” he confessed, giving truth for truth.

Qimirpik nodded. “The stars have seen what we wish forgotten. It’s my belief they remind us at the least convenient time.” He leaned back, arms crossed over his ample belly, and asked calmly. “Are we still enemies?”

Bannan half smiled. “I doubt, good dema, we ever were.”

“Excellent. Because I must confess,” with a contented sigh, “I like this Marrowdell of yours. I’d be sorry to leave a moment sooner than I must.”

“You’ve slept well,” the truthseer deduced, unsurprised. There was something about the other man, a lightness of spirit, that suited the place.

“Better than I can remember.” Qimirpik’s affable features took on a guilty cast. “Unlike poor Urcet, who was afflicted by terrible dreams. He plans to take a sleeping draught rather than risk another such night.” The dema sipped his wine, then added keenly, “We’re being tested, aren’t we?”

The truth wouldn’t daunt this man, Bannan judged. “In a sense. Not everyone can live here. Those who can, sleep free of nightmares.” Or have Jenn Nalynn’s magical help, he added to himself. “The dreams will worsen. Your companion may demand to leave.”

“Urcet?” Qimirpik’s face eased. “Nothing would please him more than to believe he faces a trial. His deepest desire is to prove himself.” A chuckle. “I have no such ambition.”

“To come this far,” Bannan probed, “unarmed and trusting a truce with its ink barely dry? If not ambition,” he looked the other in the eye, “then what?”

In answer, the dema rose and went to a cupboard, taking out a rolled parchment. After Bannan lifted their wineglasses clear, he spread it on the table, using the carafe and salt bowl to hold it flat.

It was a print of a painting, marked with neat scholarly notes along the margins. The buildings were stylized, the lettering within the art so old-fashioned as to be illegible to Bannan’s eyes, but he recognized the subject without difficulty. The dragon had carved the likeness of those soaring towers from dirt and flower dust, before wiping them away with a breeze.

“Pick a height in Ansnor, you’ll find a refuge perched there, full of those seeking to be closer to the stars. Some are older than recorded history, others last but a single avalanche, but in truth, Bannan, almost all are small, modest structures. Unlike this.” Qimirpik’s ink-stained fingers stroked the parchment. “The Great Refuge of the North. Generations labored to build it. The rich impoverished themselves to see it done. Understand, Bannan, this wasn’t a retreat, where petitioners could seek peace and solitude for their worship. No, this was built in a place rich in magic, to use that magic. My forebears saw themselves the equals of the Blessed Celestials and demanded entry to paradise.” His hand flattened over a tower. “Little wonder they came, in the end, to utter ruin.”

As dragon and kruar had settled the Verge, drawn by its power, those ancient Ansnans had settled the valley that would become Marrowdell. Neither outcome, Bannan thought uneasily, had led to peace. “A mistake made once mustn’t be repeated,” he urged. “If that’s why you’ve come—”

“I’ve no wish for magic or power.” Qimirpik took his seat, his eyes lifting to Bannan’s. “I’ve come for something harder to find.” A wistful smile. “To believe again.”

The truthseer narrowed his eyes. “Here, among Rhothans.”

“Where else? The course of my life—” the dema stabbed his chest with a finger, “—was set when I replied to a heretical Rhothan astronomer. I realized this Dusom Uhthoff must live where we’d challenged the Celestials and was willing to scandalize my fellow demas to satisfy my curiosity. But—” with a charming shrug, “—as the years passed, my distant friend showed me a love for the stars could be—should be!—free of self-interest and presumption. Our arguments, and there were many, drove me to discoveries I couldn’t have imagined. The status I now enjoy among Ansnan’s scholars, I owe to him.”

The truth, but not all of it. “And your loss of faith,” said Bannan.

Qimirpik sighed. “I don’t blame Dusom. Prayers failed me, those I sought for reassurance bickered and contradicted themselves. Smoke from steam engines dimmed the stars above my refuge and where were the miracles? The Celestials tested me and I despaired of them. Then came Dusom’s invitation to come here, to view the eclipse. I had hope again. So here I am.”

“To perform more magic. How will that restore your faith? This rock you plan to summon . . .” Bannan let the words trail off as he refilled their glasses, his every sense tingling.

“Urcet can have the Tear.” With that unexpected assertion, the dema paused for another crisp and curds, pulling his salted finger from his mouth with a satisfied pop. “It’s why he came and how I could. As for me, Bannan? I shall bare my soul to the Celestials during the eclipse, here, where my predecessors committed their heresy, and ask forgiveness for their crime and my doubt. I dare not hope. I will not falter.” He carelessly rolled the parchment then tossed it aside. “But none of this is why you’re here, is it?”

Ansnan and enemy. Meeting a gaze as wise and kind as his father’s had been, the truthseer put aside the last of his anger and abandoned pretense.

Jenn Nalynn had said it. There was another way.

Bannan Larmensu leaned back, and lifted his glass to Dema Qimirpik. “I’d best start with the dragon . . .”

Efflet carried him over the river, an awkward and painful process Wyll was glad to have done before the others awoke. He’d crouched in damp grass by a hedge until the sun peered over the crags, unwilling to confront the Wound by dark.

And found himself with unwanted company.

The kruar mares passed him with nary a glance, though the last wrinkled her snout and sneezed. Behind them trotted the one Wyll most wished to avoid this day.

The old kruar, being his obstinate self, stopped in front of the dragon, dipping his head to regard him. ~ Why are you here? ~ He snorted dubiously. ~ Is there a threat? ~

~ Why I’m here is my business. Don’t you have horse work to do? ~ Wyll added evilly. He wrinkled his man’s nose, sure any smell came from the blood drying on the kruar’s sweat-stained hide. ~ Bathe first. ~

Scourge didn’t take the offense he’d hoped. Instead, his big head came unpleasantly close, nostrils flared with interest. ~ You’re up to something. What? ~

~ If you’re lucky, ~ the dragon sneered, ~ it’ll kill me. ~

~ I’ll end your miserable life when it suits me, ~ the kruar said pleasantly. A mare paused by the river to glare back at them, nickering a summons. Scourge rumbled a reply, then, ~ Explain. I won’t leave until you do. ~

~ Stay, then. ~ The dragon pushed by his ally, lurch-stepping his way down the road. ~ I promise not to die in a less than satisfactory manner. ~ Which wouldn’t be rid of him. ~ I need fresh clothes, ~ Wyll added sourly.

~ Bathe first! ~ Snorting at his own joke, the old kruar abandoned him, splashing across the river.

Finally.

Wyll gave his attention to the road, wary of ruts, careful to set his good foot where it was flat. A fall would cost precious moments.

The girl was running out of time.

The dragon snarled at the Wound and kept his distance as he passed. The opening was bright and welcoming at this time of day, slanted sunbeams giving the lie to the dark beneath the trees. Bright, welcoming, and untrustworthy. He twisted to face it, uneasy until it was well behind.

Abandoned only for a day, the farmyard felt emptier than that, as if Bannan had never come or as if he’d never be back. Wyll hunched his shoulder and avoided looking at the porch and the house and the new larder door, though his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten.

Easier to hunt, hungry.

Turn-born walked the road behind him; he heard their voices and steps, took care not to be seen. They’d take their own path and he wished them success.

Rely on it? He’d depend on nyphrit first.

Beyond the barn was the hedge, beyond the hedge, the kaliia field to be harvested tomorrow. The girl’s path linked each with the next, ending at Night’s Edge. Wyll took it, trampling grass and wildflowers, sweeping aside webs, and startling a rabbit that stopped to stare, nose atwitch.