A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Everything would be perfect.

  She heard leaves stir and opened her eyes. The asters and daisies nearest the old trees bowed toward her. Then the ones closer to her. And closer.

  “Wisp!”

  The familiar breeze tugged her braid and caressed her cheek. “Dearest Heart. You’re back. I’m so glad.”

  The breeze slipped along her arms to her hands, folded over the box. “What’s this? Did you bring me a surprise?”

  She’d promised to ask. Jenn braced herself. “If you could, would you be with me, Wisp? Always?”

  “Always. Always. Always.” The breeze began to whirl playfully around her. “What’s inside? Thistle?”

  It wasn’t quite a yes.

  Or was it?

  If it wasn’t, she had no hope of leaving, no way to fill the emptiness consuming her, no future.

  It had to be yes.

  Jenn tore the lid from the box, cried, “‘Hearts of my Ancestors, grant my heart’s need!’” and tossed the ash into the air.

  What had glistened silver by moonlight was black by day. The ash caught in Wisp’s whirl like thistledown, spiraling up and around. All at once, it came free and poured to the ground in front of her.

  No. Not the ground.

  The ash fell to outline a shape, strange and bent.

  “What is this?!” wailed Wisp. The shape moved as if struggling. On every side, wind ripped the heads from flowers, tossed dirt into the air, but the black stayed where it was—and then, began to squeeze inward.

  “What have you donnnnnee?!” A howl.

  “Wisp!” Horrified, Jenn dropped the letterbox and leapt toward him. She’d sweep away the ash. She’d stop this.” I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Flash! CLAP!

  As Jenn flinched, the black collapsed on itself and was gone.

  The echoes of thunder rolled into the Bone Hills and across the fields. Behind them, the air fell silent.

  Until even the birds hushed.

  “Wisp?”

  Where he’d been was a smoking ruin of burnt stems and scorched earth. Flower petals drifted down like cinders.

  Jenn took a step and stopped. “Wisp? Don’t hide on me. Please. I said I was sorry.”

  Nothing.

  “Wisp. Please? Come . . .” No use. He was gone. She knew it.

  From her feet outward, fall spread through the meadow. Stems drooped, flowers dried without seed. The bees fled and the birds flew up and away.

  Jenn fell to her knees and brought her fists to her mouth. Had she driven her best friend from her too?

  Or done far worse?

  Jenn Nalynn forded the river without noticing it. Climbed Marrowdell’s gate and ran through the commons without seeing how the calves cowered from her or the sows snorted in alarm. No one called to her as she rushed through the village. People saw her face and fell silent.

  She’d called Wisp’s name till she was hoarse. The only breeze had smelled of ash and dust and hadn’t answered.

  It wasn’t her meadow anymore. Not without Wisp. She couldn’t do anything there. She couldn’t be there.

  She wasn’t welcome.

  So Jenn ran, her still-wet skirt slapping her shins, bare feet pounding the dirt, and tried to think. Maybe, just maybe, Wainn knew another part of the book, a part that would tell her how to undo the wishing.

  Or another wishing, a better one. One that turned back time, changed decisions, mended shattered trust . . .

  She’d do anything to save Wisp.

  Steps from her rose-covered home, all the maybes and hopes failed her. Jenn stumbled onto the porch. The house toad leapt from Aunt Sybb’s luggage, landing with an offended grunt, and squeezed itself under the rocking chair.

  Jenn half-fell into the parlor, catching herself with a hand on the cold metal of the stove. She wasn’t surprised to find her father there, instead of at the mill where he should have been, nor her aunt or sister, whose expressions went from hope to shock at the sight of her.

  But why was Kydd Uhthoff at the table with them?

  “Jenn.” The tall slender man stood at once, giving that gracious half bow so natural to him and his family. “Please. Take your seat.”

  “Kydd brought back the plate,” Peggs said too quickly, rising as well.

  “The cookies were delicious,” he stated warmly. “Our thanks again. You’re sure my nephew was no bother.”

  “No bother. Wainn’s always welcome.”

  “Peggs makes wonderful pie,” Aunt Sybb volunteered.

  “I’d be happy to—”

  Their babble made no sense. Mute, Jenn looked to her father, who came to her without hesitation, taking her in his arms as though she was fragile. He spoke over her head, quick and firm. “Peggs. More tea. Kydd . . .”

  “I’ll take my leave, Radd. Ladies.” At the door, the beekeeper turned. “Unless—” his voice took an unfamiliar edge, “—there’s something wrong.”

  Wrong? Jenn looked at him, seeing concern in his face, and something else. Suspicion. Of what? He couldn’t possibly know. She trembled. Of course he could. Wainn, ever the innocent, might have told his uncle everything that went with the pie and cookies. Kydd would know how she’d used his nephew, how she’d learned about his secret library in the hives, which Aunt Sybb thought he’d got rid of and clearly hadn’t, which meant it wasn’t proper to own and surely not meant to share, and about the wishing . . .

  He couldn’t know about Wisp.

  He mustn’t.

  At the same time, his dark eyes searched hers and found some answer that turned them cold. For the first time in her life, Jenn realized Kydd Uhthoff was dangerous. “Who was it, Jenn?” he snapped. “Who upset you?” Then, making even less sense, “We heard thunder.”

  “No one.” Had they feared she’d be caught in a storm? So this wasn’t about Wisp or wishing. Her confused relief must have been plain, for Kydd relaxed. She might never have glimpsed another side to him, except for the oddest feeling she’d just protected someone. “I don’t feel well,” she added faintly, and buried her face against her father’s vest.

  He laid a comforting hand on the back of her head. “Good thing you came home, Sweetling. We’ll take care of her, Kydd. Thank you.” With weight to the courtesy, as if the two shared an understanding.

  “Good day, then.” When the footsteps on the porch ended, her father spoke quickly, “Sybbie—”

  “Bring her here.”

  Jenn found herself on the settee with Aunt Sybb, despite her dirty feet and wet clothes. For some reason, the older woman felt it necessary to take her hands and rub them between hers. She didn’t protest. Nothing seemed to matter.

  Peggs knelt, holding out a steaming cup. Her eyes searched Jenn’s, asked a question.

  Jenn shook her head, very slightly.

  “He said no?” Her sister frowned. “What—”

  Tears welled in Jenn’s eyes. “I—the wishing—he’s gone!”

  “Who said no?” Radd’s forehead creased.

  Peggs gasped, “You killed him?!”

  And Aunt Sybb asked with great concern, “The toad?”

  Great steaming mugs of tea. Warm flaky biscuits dripping with butter. Slices of pale cheese, fragrant apple, and sweet ham. Peggs could produce a feast from thin air.

  All wasted. The others had eaten earlier; Jenn doubted she’d ever want to eat again. The tea went down well, though. She wrapped chilled hands around her mug and nodded gratefully as Peggs offered more.

  Her sister sat. Her father and aunt, seated, waited. It wasn’t patience, Jenn thought miserably, so much as determination. None of them would leave her be without an explanation. They’d regard her with kind anxious eyes until she spoke or fell asleep on the settee. She supposed they’d keep watch while she slept, so as not to miss her waking again.

  There was no escaping the truth. Jenn stared into her tea. “I tried the wishing,” she said finally. “The one from the book.”

  “We both did,” Peggs sai
d at once, at her defense as always.

  Not this time. Jenn shook her head. “It was my decision. I used the ashes.” She paused to firm her voice. “I spoke the words.”

  “What ashes? What words?” Their poor father looked from one to the other of his daughters, perplexed. She couldn’t blame him. “Why?”

  “Jenn tried to turn a toad into a husband.” She cringed. Despite Aunt Sybb’s matter-of-fact tone, it sounded pure nonsense. “I wish you wouldn’t carry on so, child,” her aunt pleaded. “There are more toads.”

  She buried her face in her hands.

  “Sybbie,” firmly. “Peggs. We’re done with refreshments, thank you. Kindly clear the table.”

  “Radd—”

  “A moment alone with my youngest. Please.”

  “Place could use less toads,” Jenn heard her aunt mutter as she and Peggs collected the plates and trays, then walked into the kitchen.

  The settee creaked as her father sat beside her. “Now, Dearest Heart. Look at me.”

  She lowered her hands and obeyed. His normally apple-red cheeks were pale, and his throat worked as he swallowed before saying, “Was it your little wind? The one from the meadow?”

  Of all the things he might have said, nothing could have shocked her more. “You—you know about Wisp?”

  “‘Wisp?’ I knew something there kept you safe. Not its name. Wisp.” He almost smiled at her astonishment. “Heart of my Hearts, did you think I’d let you run off otherwise? What kind of father would I be?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her. Night’s Edge was part of her life, like her favorite cup or comforter. “How—?”

  “How did I know?” Her father hesitated, as if unsure where to start within a longer story, then gave a short nod. “When you were a baby, if you weren’t well, or became unhappy, all I had to do was take you to the meadow. The little wind would tickle your cheeks and you’d stop crying. You’d smile that wonderful smile of yours. I thought at first—” he sighed and tipped his hand over, “—whatever it was, it wasn’t there for me.” A chuckle. “For one thing, when it rained, only I got wet. It—Wisp—was there to look after you.”

  “He isn’t!” Jenn sobbed, the horrid words spilling out with her tears. “Not anymore! Poppa, I tried—I tried to make a husband. I tried to turn Wisp into a man. What I did hurt him. I could tell. Hurt him and—” she hiccupped, “—then he—he was gone!”

  Her father pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Hmmm.” He took his handkerchief and tenderly wiped her cheeks. “Don’t be too sure of that.”

  Jenn blinked. “Why?”

  “Marrowdell’s little curiosities are stronger than they appear. And so, my little princess,” he put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head, “are you.”

  The mist was slow to leave the road; the sun slow to find it. Bannan eyed the wagon’s hard seat with distaste. Going around the back, he pulled out Scourge’s gear and gave a short, quiet whistle between his teeth.

  Tir settled the yoke on the drowsy ox and glanced his way. “Scouting ahead, sir? Very sensible. There could be half-naked bandits lurking in the woods. Or bears.”

  “I’ll take my turn in the wagon,” Bannan promised. “Where’s that—” He stopped and grinned at the loud trot coming up the road they’d traveled yesterday. No horse was as noisy as Scourge when he meant to be noticed. Sure enough, a moment later, he came into view, neck flexed and legs prancing. Making an entrance.

  “They were only bandits,” Tir pointed out dryly, eyes bright above the mask. “Probably armed with farm tools.”

  Scourge broke into a thunderous run straight at him. The poor ox bawled and tried to pull sideways. Tir stood his ground. The horse plunged to a stop, mane and tail flaring, his hooves almost touching the small man’s boots. “Farmer bandits,” Tir repeated, chin up. “With rusty pitchforks.”

  A hoof slammed into the ground.

  “If you two are done,” Bannan commented. “I’d like to get started.” Tir’s shrug and Scourge’s snort were equally expressive. He hid a smile.

  Riding was better. Not only did Scourge demand a good part of his attention, being nothing loath to dump him on the road if ignored, but the saddle’s higher vantage let him see over the trailing mist. Not, Bannan thought ruefully, that he knew what he was looking for.

  Something new.

  Something different.

  The horse’s eager strides left the ox, wagon, and Tir behind in short order. Bannan waved as they turned the next bend.

  The road didn’t merely take them north; it climbed, slowly but surely, through steep, broken hills. The evenings were already cooler, easier for sleeping. He wouldn’t miss the cloying heat of Vorkoun’s nights. Winters would be harsher here; they’d been told few traveled once the snows hit. Fine with him, Bannan thought, envisioning a snug little cabin, evenings by a fire, a book. He’d brought some, planned to ask Lila to send more once he had a place of his own.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Scourge snorted and pretended to shy, a tower of muscle waiting an excuse to explode. Bannan grinned, keeping his seat with ease. “Too slow for you?” All at once, he was impatient too. The future lay ahead. He took a handful of mane and dug in his heels.

  The horse’s leap would have snapped his head back, if he hadn’t leaned forward the instant those legs tucked beneath Scourge’s haunches. The leap turned to a surging run and the road became a blur. Trees lost their shape. Bannan pressed his cheek against the hot mighty neck and half closed his eyes, letting the motion consume him, as safe as he could be. Scourge might throw him in a fit of pique; he’d not let him fall.

  So when, a short time later, he found himself flat on his back and gasping for air, Bannan was understandably shocked.

  He glared up at Scourge. The horse was standing, legs braced, where he’d decided to stop and launch his rider.

  “Idiot beast!” Bannan finally managed to sputter.

  Scourge ignored him, head high, nostrils flared.

  Not good.

  Bannan forgot the parts of his body that would undoubtedly not want to ride in the wagon later and lifted his head for a wary look around.

  Just ahead, their road was joined by another, narrower and heading more west than north. No threat there. His eyes searched the rest of their surroundings. Trees and moss. Rocks and road. The same as every other stretch they’d passed since Weken. Rough terrain, impossible to move through with any speed or numbers. “What is it?”

  Scourge relaxed, shaking his head and neck until dust flew. Birds sang. A bee buzzed past, taking the western road.

  Bannan rolled to his feet, feeling bruises but nothing worse. He’d landed on dirt, hadn’t he, though gray-pink boulders jutted everywhere, guaranteed to crack a skull. “You’re up to something,” he accused.

  The horse gave him an innocent look, the only evidence of wrongdoing the rein left hanging after Bannan’s flight over his head.

  Tir’s act was more convincing. Tir of the light fingers, who had uncanny luck with nillystones if unwatched. Tir, left well behind by their now-foolish gallop. They’d best go meet him, Bannan decided, his mood soured, and started toward the horse.

  Scourge took a deliberate step back, a familiar wicked glint in his eye.

  Bannan stopped. “Don’t you dare,” he warned in a pleasant, don’t alarm the horse, tone. The idiot beast would turn contrary here and now, when he’d been the fool and come away without water or food, armed with naught but the short eating knife at his belt.

  When Tir caught up? Oh, he’d never hear the end of it.

  That great head swung toward the western road. A restless hoof tapped rock.

  Was that his game? “We’re not,” Bannan said firmly, “going that way.”

  Scourge growled a singsong protest.

  “No.”

  The horse’s head lowered until his nose neared the ground. The rein trailed temptingly in the dust.

  He readied himself, hands loose at his
sides. “Easy, boy.”

  Scourge snorted as if stung and bolted. Risking his feet, Bannan lunged for the rein as the huge body rushed by. He grabbed it and held.

  Leather and buckles gave way with a snap, leaving him flat on his rump for the second time.

  Bridleless, Scourge thundered down the little road, tossing his mane, tail up and proud.

  In an instant, he was gone.

  Bannan leaned back on his hands to consider how best to skin his four-footed betrayer when he returned. Perhaps it was time for that overdue gelding. “Should have brought a normal horse,” he told his deserted surroundings. Tir wasn’t alone in his doubt of Scourge’s usefulness on a farm.

  Not that he’d brought Scourge. The beast was his shadow, impossible to govern or leave behind.

  Until now.

  Bannan got to his feet, brushed off the worst of the dust, and retrieved the remnants of the bridle, wrapping the long rein over elbow and palm as he pondered his options. Wait, he supposed. Tir and the wagon would be here eventually. A long and thirsty eventually, given the ox’s lethargic pace.

  Then what? Leave Scourge?

  “Serve you right,” he muttered, with a pensive gaze down the road the horse had taken. Less used than the Northward, but with signs of proper maintenance. Dead limbs didn’t lean over it. Low spots had been recently filled. Which meant . . .

  “Someone at the other end.” He couldn’t see much more; the cleft through which the road ran bent sharply.

  Whatever had drawn Scourge, the creature would return in his own good time or not at all. The world would be a smaller, more ordinary place without him. Bannan felt a lump rise in his throat and he shook his head. No. He wouldn’t believe Scourge had abandoned him.

  He was about to turn back to wait for Tir when the rising sun peeked over the crags behind and flooded the road with light.

  Making it beautiful.

  What had been dark, moody trees became open forest, with glades beneath. The packed dirt warmed to reddish brown. Birds twittered and a heavy throated heron passed overhead.

  A heron. He sniffed and nodded. Water ahead. A great deal of it.