A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  As Bannan looked down, he saw two truths.

  Her smile was the most joyful thing he’d ever seen.

  And the man in her arms?

  Was no more a man, than Scourge was a horse.

  They’d used him as a plaything, flexed their might on the river’s foul water, lingered in the girl’s world for no higher purpose than amusement.

  How they loathed him, his kind. Wisp shivered in the girl’s arms, barely conscious. He’d earned their spite. This penance of the sei settled nothing, accomplished nothing. It left him alive to remind the rest. This is what defeat looks like. This is failure’s cost.

  See what happens.

  They hadn’t meant to kill him; they hadn’t cared how fragile his body’d become. He’d have welcomed death, if it meant peace.

  How weary he was of it all.

  The girl’s arms tightened around him, her body the only warmth he could feel.

  Duty had kept his head above water. Duty had reached for the strap. Had held on.

  Wisp opened his fingers and let the leather float away.

  Everything went dark.

  SEVEN

  UNDER OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES, the dramatic appearance of a stranger, especially astride a huge horse ugly enough to pull a tinker’s wagon, would have claimed all Jenn’s attention. Now? She vaguely knew he’d dismounted to stand by her in the trout pool, that he wanted something, but she had to hold Wisp. He’d be swept away otherwise.

  The stranger pointed to shore.

  Of course. Jenn nodded and tried to move, but Wisp, though not much bigger, was limp and far too heavy. Thankfully, the stranger saw her difficulty. He lifted Wisp from her and heaved him over one shoulder. Jenn struggled to her feet, her clothes sodden with water, and tried to help. Instead, she slipped and would have fallen, but the stranger had her arm. He waited, supporting them both, until she was steady again.

  Meanwhile the horse splashed close and stood with unusual patience. Jenn leaned on his flank; the best she could do was keep out of the way. The stranger eased Wisp up and over his horse’s neck, then stepped into the stirrup and mounted behind. He reached for her.

  She shook her head. The waterfall roared like a cheated bear; the river could come alive again and attack. Three would be too many, even for such a big, well-muscled animal. Instead, she grabbed the stirrup leather and held on, smiling reassurance at the stranger. The shore was in reach. After all this, they couldn’t fail. Wisp would be safe.

  He had to be.

  The stranger frowned, but didn’t delay to argue.

  They were no longer alone; others waited on shore. The horse arched its neck, as if intending to protest their presence, but the stranger soothed the animal, kept him moving forward at a pace Jenn could match.

  Life could be measured in such steps, counted by effort, summed by will. She didn’t know why walking out of the river was so much harder, but Jenn didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

  When her father rushed to her, when Peggs was there and more, when faces she knew and loved surrounded her and the stranger and his ugly horse . . .

  . . . only then did she dare believe Wisp would be safe.

  Bannan Larmensu, man of no home, would enter the village of Marrowdell a hero. Explaining this to Tir would take some doing, and doubtless involve an incredulous stare or two, but for the moment, he rode the happiness of the villagers. For the woman, it appeared, was a favorite.

  The man lying limp over Scourge’s withers, something the horse acknowledged with an unsettled twitch every so often? He was something else again.

  They’d thrown a blanket over his naked, shivering flesh, but the villagers didn’t know him. That was plain.

  The woman did.

  But did she know what he was? There was the rub. His family’s talent, to see the truth of a thing, had never put him in this position before. To know a liar, yes. To know Scourge was special, of course. But now, when Bannan looked at the man lying limp in front of him, he saw beneath the blanket, the chilled skin, the gooseflesh. He saw . . .

  What?

  Shadows. Blurred images. Nothing stayed sharp, nothing stayed until he could understand it. But there was another shape beneath the man. A shape more real than the seeming under his hands. That, he knew beyond doubt.

  As he knew he’d stay here, in Marrowdell, until he understood.

  Going up the path to the road proved easier than the plunge down. Now that they weren’t about to fall forward to their deaths, Scourge placed each hoof with such ponderous care it was a wonder the villagers behind them had patience to wait.

  The man was limp. Unconscious, he believed. There were fresh wounds on the body: deep cuts and abrasions leaked blood, and bruises bloomed beneath the skin. The river journey hadn’t been kind. Despite Scourge’s care and Bannan’s hold, there’d be more bruises from this rescue, but there was no gentler way to get him to safety.

  Not that this man was used to gentle, Bannan thought grimly. The river damage was nothing, compared to the rest. The body in front of him had war carved in it.

  Another mystery added to the shape. How had he survived such injuries? No healer of Rhoth or Ansnor could have put a body this broken back together.

  Scourge gave the final heave up to the road, stepping into sunlight. As if he’d never thrown his rider, run off, or disobeyed, he moved forward a few smooth steps then came to a careful halt at Bannan’s command. He was relieved, though in truth it wasn’t the first time the war mount had carried wounded from battle. The fat pony and gelding, reins in the hands of the boy, lifted their heads but didn’t try to bolt.

  Bannan waited for the villagers to climb the path. First came a tall, dark-haired woman, followed by a man with his arm around the shoulders of the woman from the river. Concern and a shared shape to the mouth and eyes of all three said family. A sister, likely the father. Horst was on their heels, followed by a giant in a smith’s apron.

  Horst wasted no time. “Is he dead?”

  “No!” The woman from the river pulled free.

  “Your swimmer will be fine,” Bannan assured her. “Unconscious. His wounds need tending.”

  “We’ll take him to the mill,” the father ordered. “Davi, your cart?”

  The smith shrugged. “It’d take too long. You—” a nod at Bannan, “—can get him there before I could catch up my team.”

  Horst pressed his lips together. Bannan didn’t need to be told his opinion. He wasn’t welcome in Marrowdell and neither was his burden.

  “Would you? Please?” The woman laid her hand on Scourge’s neck, a familiarity the normally testy creature accepted without a flinch. Blood stained her blouse and skirt, none of it hers despite the torn sleeves and scratches on her arms. Her eyes were the rare blue that darkened with emotion; as she gazed up at him, their color was almost purple. Younger than he’d thought by her pinned hair and mature demeanor, with round, pretty cheeks and a strong but delicate chin.

  Younger and with a mouth he wished would smile for him.

  “A pleasure.” For a wonder, his voice sounded normal. “Where’s the mill?”

  The question appeared to startle her. Had she never been asked directions before? “That’s the way to the village,” she told him, pointing down the road. “You’ll see the mill.” Her hand left Scourge’s neck to hover over the motionless form of the man. As if she longed to touch him, but dared not.

  “I’d better go,” Bannan said. She nodded and backed away.

  The rein had tumbled over the waterfall. No matter. Scourge was well used to answering to legs and weight. When, Bannan reminded himself, he felt like it. At the moment he did, moving ahead when asked, stepping with fluid grace along the dirt road.

  Trees lined it. Larger than he’d expect this near a settlement, where wood would be in demand. Old. Now that he had time to pay attention, he frowned and craned his head, staring as they passed. Old and . . . odd.

  The cliffs towering to either side of the narrow gap weren’t quite rig
ht either. Unlike those he’d passed on the Northward Road, these were riven by deep fissures from top to base, all running east to west. Again, odd. If he didn’t know better, Bannan thought uneasily, he’d swear the stone had been raked by giant claws.

  Scourge walked on, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

  Until they passed beyond the trees, and the great steed snorted and stopped, tossing his head as if startled.

  Bannan gently urged him forward, startled himself.

  The valley spread before him, a feast for the eyes. Closest, a trim little village, its gardens and orchards fenced by tall hedges, its buildings surrounded by flowers the like of which he hadn’t seen since Vorkoun. The river, here tame and lovely, ran alongside a tall mill. It meandered from the west, drawing a serpentine line through wide fields of lush, waving gold. To either side, the torn cliffs, like scarred arms defending a treasure.

  “Marrowdell,” he whispered. The ordinary, made extraordinary.

  The road forded the river, then ran through magnificent hills of smooth ivory stone, forested at their base. More of the trees that weren’t quite right. Not only that . . .

  . . . for an instant, the landscape took on a different shape, the sky another, nameless hue. The road became silver and liquid and took him by the heart. He had to race along it, meet what lay in the distance . . .

  “Come no closer!”

  Bannan blinked, finding himself on the russet road again. He brought his gaze back to the village and the people gathered before its open gate. People who weren’t smiling.

  Ah, yes. They were hardly a sight to engender confidence. Blood from the injured man—who likely appeared a corpse—ran down Scourge and soaked his own shirt. He lifted empty hands for the second time this day. “We need a healer.” Scourge, seeing his way blocked, began to rumble in threat. Idiot beast. Bannan dug a toe into his hide, then gave those waiting his best smile. “Horst sent us.”

  At the name, the small crowd parted at once and everyone urged him through, hands gesturing. He kept smiling and hoped they’d keep their distance from Scourge’s hooves.

  And let him travel their silver road sooner than later.

  The stranger’s horse took such giant strides Jenn fell behind at once, too worn to run alongside. She eyed the pony wistfully as it passed, but Cheffy was too excited to notice. He drummed his heels constantly, which didn’t affect the pony’s plodding pace one bit. He’d had his adventure and wanted his pasture.

  Without the old pony and Cheffy’s warning, Wisp would have died. It didn’t bear thinking about. Apples and pie, Jenn vowed. As soon as she could.

  Her father and sister caught up to her, along with big Davi Treff. “You’re sure you aren’t hurt?” The kindly smith looked ready to sweep her up in his big arms and carry her home.

  “I’m sure. The blood—it’s not mine.” The stains on her clothes were from Wisp. She’d never seen anyone hurt like that; the worst had been when Tadd Emms had cracked his head on ice and he’d spent two days in bed nursing a lump like an egg. She wasn’t hurt, but she wasn’t right. Jenn stumbled and Peggs put an arm around her shoulders.

  “Horst!” Radd called before she could protest. “A ride for Jenn, if you please.”

  At the summons, Horst swung his gelding around and came back to offer his hand. “Jenn?” Like Davi, he looked concerned. Concerned and kind and familiar.

  Were those feelings real? Was he?

  Horst wasn’t the family friend she’d known all her life; he couldn’t be, not until she’d heard the story of her mother’s death from his lips, not until she understood him. Jenn threw a desperate glance at Peggs, who, though doubtless having the same thoughts, could only shrug.

  “Thank you.” She accepted Horst’s hand and stirrup, but avoided a direct look into his face. Once she was settled, Horst urged the gelding to catch up to the stranger—something the horse protested with pinned back ears and a jolting trot. At least it wasn’t far to the village.

  The village with Wisp in it.

  Wisp who was—for the first time, the reality of it sank home—who was now a man.

  The stranger’s horse stood outside the mill, given respectful distance by the others. Jenn rushed through the big open doors and took the stairs to the loft, Horst behind her. Her father kept a pallet bed in one corner, to use during the long nights of milling. Surely they’d take Wisp there.

  Yes! His still form was lying on the pallet, Covie Ropps by his side. None better, Jenn told herself. Not when it came to stitching wounds or making poultices. Given the tendency of her children, grown and young, to scrape knees and bump heads, Covie’d had plenty of practice. Not to mention the cows.

  Wisp wasn’t a child or cow. Jenn didn’t know what he was. But if Wisp as a man could be hurt, surely he could be healed.

  Riss Nahamm held a basin and steaming kettle at the ready. With no open flame permitted in the mill, she’d have brought the water from her kitchen. Dusom Uhthoff and Zehr Emms waited at a short distance, their attention divided between the stranger on the bed and the one who stood in the sunlight by the open gantry door, his idle hand on one of the ropes used to hoist the heavy bags of grain, his gaze over the village and the valley.

  Jenn hesitated as Horst went past her to the other villagers. Much as she longed to rush to Wisp’s side, the older women didn’t need her crowding them, nor would they understand her interest. Worse, what if he awoke, saw her, and . . . what would he say?

  What should she?

  All consequences she wished she’d thought about, before wishing at all.

  Jenn let herself be drawn to the stranger instead, who surely deserved more than to be left waiting. His clothes were as blood-soaked as hers. And as wet, from the growing puddle around his boots.

  Another advantage to bare feet.

  “I haven’t—” Jenn began when she reached him. He turned and she lost whatever else she’d planned to say.

  He was younger than she’d thought. His face had fooled her, set and stern during their crisis, and weathered save for pale skin where he’d recently shaved a beard. In tinker fashion, his hair fell loose to his broad shoulders, unlike the men of the village who kept theirs neatly trimmed to the collar. Dark wavy hair, with pine needles stuck in it. Hers likely held the same.

  Dark hair and darker eyes. No, his eyes were like apple butter, dark brown with a warm amber glow in their depths, a glow that grew more pronounced as he returned her scrutiny.

  Despite the settler shirt, homespun pants, and leather jerkin, this was no farmer. She could attest to the strength of his lean body, his quickness, his courage. The farmers she knew were strong and could be quick, if need be. She didn’t know if they were brave—she thought so.

  But the man in front of her, he was different.

  Roche Morrill had injured a fish hawk with an arrow; he’d claimed to be shooting at a goose, but she’d never believed it. His stepmother, Covie, had nursed it to health. The stranger reminded her of that hawk, wary by nature.

  “—haven’t thanked you,” she finished.

  “No need. You are most welcome.” A wide smile transformed his face and sparkled in his eyes. For the first time she noticed the subtle lilt he gave some words when he spoke. Different from the voices she knew. So were tinkers’, who rarely paused when they spoke and used a breathless “na” to indicate a question. That was confusing. This, she quite liked. “Though I believe it’s our friend over there who owes us.” A half bow. “My name is Bannan Larmensu. And yours, brave lady?”

  She’d never been called a lady before. Or brave. Or, for that matter, encountered anyone who hadn’t known her name since she was little. “I’m Jenn,” she offered almost timidly. “Jenn Nalynn. This is my father’s mill.”

  “Greetings, Jenn Nalynn. You don’t get many visitors, do you?” Bannan observed, his smile fading. When she looked a question, he nodded to where Horst stood talking with the other men in urgent, low voices.

  “In Marrowdell? No. T
he tinkers and our aunt from Avyo. Years ago, a couple from Endshere who knew Anten thought they’d settle here but only stayed a night. You’re—” the most handsome stranger she’d ever met? Not something to admit, not when she planned to travel the wide world. Jenn temporized, “You’re the first visitor who’s rescued someone.”

  His gaze touched Wisp, then came back to her. “The others don’t know him.” He lowered his voice. “You do.”

  Jenn nodded. “He’s my friend. My best friend.”

  “Are you why he almost drowned?”

  “I—” Her protest died in her throat. “In a way,” she admitted miserably.

  “Ah.” With a wealth of meaning to the sound. “A lover’s quarrel.”

  Jenn scowled. “No. It’s not—” like that? Or was it?

  “It’s not?” For some reason, this brought back Bannan’s smile. “Don’t worry. Whatever happened, you saved his life. Your friend will thank you.”

  She hoped so.

  He glanced past her. “My turn for introductions.” He nodded a greeting to the three approaching, his expression turning bland.

  Horst. Jenn stiffened. She couldn’t help it and knew Bannan noticed.

  “Surely I’ll get supper,” he said lightly.

  Supper?

  He meant to stay the night. Which was good, wasn’t it? Bannan Larmensu, being awake and interesting, would take attention from Wisp. She’d have time to think. To plan. Not to mention eat. She’d missed breakfast and lunch. “Of course you’ll get supper,” Jenn found herself saying. “Has someone looked after your—” she hesitated. She’d seen the teeth snap over the rein; what he rode didn’t belong with their livestock.

  “Horse,” he supplied, as if daring her to say otherwise. “No need, thank you. I’ll take care of him. Scourge is shy with strangers.”

  Shy? “As you wish,” she murmured, tensing as the three villagers stopped in front of them. She realized he couldn’t know their names either and introduced them as Aunt Sybb had taught her, gesturing to each in turn. “Bannan Larmensu, this is Dusom Uhthoff, Zehr Emms, and—”