A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Had he not . . . “I owe him apples,” she said lightly. “A great many apples.”

  “Please save them for your sister’s pies. Having been a hero, he’ll be insufferable for days as it is. What is it?”

  Kydd had stopped. “I fear we’ve passed them.” He shaded his eyes to frown at the forest.

  Bannan knelt, one finger tracing something in the dirt, his eyes flicking here and there. “We’d need Tir to read this.” He rose, dusting his hand on a pant leg. “Luckily, Scourge is nosy, especially about trouble. If he’s not here, they aren’t. They must be ahead.”

  Ahead was where the crags closed in and folded the road between them. Jenn could see where the road bent to hide itself within smaller twisted trees. The river, to their right, had already plunged deep into its gorge.

  Ahead was where both road and river left Marrowdell.

  It didn’t matter if the road past the bend was the same; it didn’t matter that she hadn’t actually promised her father or Wyll not to leave. If she went that far, she’d have left Marrowdell too.

  Jenn gave herself a mental shake. A few steps along a road. She wasn’t leaving. Well, she would, and soon, but this wasn’t when.

  “Let’s go as far as the Northward Road,” Kydd proposed. “If we don’t find them by then, we’ll head back for horses.”

  The junction wasn’t far, Jenn told herself. Everyone said the Northward Road was closer to the village than Night’s Edge and she could walk to her meadow from home faster than Peggs could boil potatoes.

  It wasn’t far.

  But her heart thudded in her chest.

  For the first time since leaving Vorkoun and the guard, Bannan found himself retracing his steps. In his defense, they were Scourge’s steps and he was doing it for good reason. For a reason anyway.

  For a woman.

  A remarkable woman. Which was a good reason, he argued, wishing he couldn’t so easily picture Tir’s reaction. Instead, he kept his eye on their surroundings. The woman in question walked beside him in tense silence, no doubt worried about what might be ahead.

  Besotted idiots ruled by their pants or mothers, his sister had called the eager young men who’d flocked around when she was presented at Vorkoun’s court. Several to their faces. Lila had a low opinion of them—and of him too, when the occasion called for it—but would never suggest they be dealt violence for their misplaced ardor. A dunk in a cold fountain, yes.

  He didn’t know the people or the place, Bannan reminded himself. From what he’d seen of Marrowdell, eligible maids could be in short supply.

  There couldn’t be another with Jenn Nalynn’s radiant smile, anywhere.

  Not something he should think. Not while they were trying to save the current besotted idiot. Maybe not ever.

  What he should think about was risk. Nothing to be done about Horst except hope he was sane and wouldn’t shoot at them. Kydd and Jenn seemed to feel safe; somehow Bannan didn’t find that reassuring. He caught up to Kydd. “I don’t suppose you brought more than a dull dinner knife.”

  “I’ve this.” Kydd deftly freed a paintbrush from his shirt.

  Had that been a sliver of brown hide between the trees to his left? Bannan relaxed. “With such deadly blades at hand,” he suggested, “no wonder everyone took Tir’s entrance so calmly.”

  Kydd tucked away his brush. “Laugh if you like, Bannan. We’ve no need to arm ourselves. You’ll see. Horst patrols because that’s his nature, not because it’s needful. I suspect if any bandits arrived in Marrowdell, we’d feed them supper. The valley’s a safe haven.”

  Definitely brown hide. Scourge. Having shown himself to Bannan, the horse faded into shadow again.

  “No place is safe.” Distracted, Bannan spoke more harshly than he intended.

  Jenn glanced his way. “Why do you say that?”

  “Our friend was a soldier,” the beekeeper told her. He gave Bannan a measuring look. “Easterner, by your accent. Mellynne heritage by the first name, Lower Rhoth by the last. You came from the marches.” A conclusion, not a guess. “You’re a border guard. You and your companion.”

  “Were,” Bannan corrected. “We’re at peace now. Have you heard?”

  “News does find us.” A faint smile. “Dusty and worn by the time it does, mind you, but sufficient. The world doesn’t care about Marrowdell; we happily return the favor. News like that, though, has wings. When Anten was in Endshere, it was all the talk at the inn. The price of the prince’s new train.”

  “Vorkoun.” Bannan couldn’t keep the anger from the word. He didn’t try. “I hope it was worth it.”

  “As do we,” with unexpected grimness. “I do not diminish your loss or theirs,” Kydd continued before the truthseer could take offense, “but Vorkoun—in plain speaking, Eldad and Rhoth’s long-sought access to Ansnor’s mines—was far from the first coin spent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come, truthseer. Surely even in Vorkoun you’d have heard the names.” Something flickered in the beekeeper’s eyes. “They’re familiar to us. Or did you think it coincidence those most in favor of Ordo’s truce, from either house, own what we once had?”

  “The Fair Lease?” Bannan’s eyebrows rose. “You’re telling me the prince planned this from the moment he assumed the throne?”

  “Or before. He plays the fool, our prince, but behind it all has moved pieces across the board like a master. The irony?” Almost lightly. “Ordo tossed us from Avyo and indebted himself to his chosen barons for nothing. He’d feared our influence. That we’d side with Mellynne and oppose closer relations with Eldad, but—” a shrug, “—we’re Rhothan. Most, I’m sure, would have taken his side.”

  “You favor the truce?” Bannan was taken aback.

  “Freedom from conflict, however it happens, is the great step forward,” Kydd said simply. “For the generations to come, if not the one that suffers for it. If the rail binds the domains in peace, Avyo will be at the heart of something new, something larger than a prince’s ambition. Of course, the opposite could happen and history repeat itself. Mellynne might have ignored what happened to her children, but she could well take exception to a growing Eldad influence in the Rhothan capital. We live in interesting times, my friend. Or rather, outside of them.”

  Hadn’t the elder brother been introduced as the scholar? Bannan eyed the beekeeper. “What were you in Avyo?”

  “A student of our past mistakes and triumphs,” was the answer, with a short bow. “In short, I studied history, culture, and politics at Sersise University and would have done so as long as they let me. Which wasn’t long, alas.”

  The words said regret. The regret was a lie. “You don’t miss it.”

  “There’s more to learn in Marrowdell,” Kydd assured him, “than in all the universities of Rhoth or any other domain.” He added in the same tone, “Including a horse that skulks like a fox.”

  Bannan shook his head. “Poor Scourge. He’ll be mortified you spotted him. You’ve sharp eyes.”

  Kydd gave a modest shrug. “The painter in me.”

  Jenn was looking around. “I don’t see—”

  “Stop!” A figure leapt onto the road, hands out. SNAP-CRASH! came hard on the shout as Scourge launched from the brush on the opposite side to confront him.

  A second figure followed the first. Horst, shouting, “Don’t take another step!”

  Scourge snarled and lowered his head, keeping the two at a distance. Jenn frowned and started to walk forward.

  “Jenn. No!” Horst tried to dodge past Scourge, who snapped viciously at the air in warning. “Any further and you’ll die!”

  The truth! Without hesitation, Bannan stepped in front of Jenn and braced himself.

  “What’s come over you, Horst?” Kydd demanded, more shocked than angry. “Why are you threatening Jenn?”

  “Threaten—” Horst looked stunned. “I’d never—It’s not me, it’s—” Words forced themselves from his lips. “There’s a curse. On our Je
nn. On this road. If she goes any further she’ll die.”

  “Nonsense,” Jenn protested, walking around Bannan.

  Before she could take another step, the truthseer swept her up in his arms. Despite her startled struggle, he carried her several paces back toward the village before setting her on her feet, then kept his arms around her. “Believe him. He’s telling the truth.” His heart hammered in his chest. “There’s something deadly here. Deadly to you. Something we can’t see. You must believe me.”

  He stared wide-eyed over her head at the road, which, being a road, did nothing but lay there. A dried leaf tumbled across it. The sun stroked it with light. Shadows moved with the breeze. Dirt and tracks and nothing of harm.

  He stared and held Jenn Nalynn tight, afraid to let go.

  Everyone had gone mad. That was the only explanation. Since Aunt Sybb insisted you should be kind and humor mad people, Jenn stood still in Bannan’s arms, though she could barely breathe and her ear was crushed against his leather vest.

  Was Horst so desperate to keep her from her mother’s family that he’d lie? That he’d threaten her life?

  Threaten her . . . Jenn’s eyes narrowed . . . with his bow slung over Roche’s shoulder? She pushed with both hands. Bannan freed her at once.

  “Why are you carrying Horst’s bow?” she demanded.

  The two traded guilty looks.

  “So you’re on his side now?” she accused Roche. “Is that all it took?”

  He turned red. “It’s not like that. I’m here to save you!”

  “I’m here to save you!” Jenn wished the words unsaid the instant they left her lips, for pleased surprise wiped the indignation from his face. “We—” she added hastily, gesturing to Kydd and Bannan, “—thought Horst might kill you for trying to take me away.” Oh, that hadn’t helped.

  Sure enough, Roche smiled possessively. “You needn’t worry—”

  “You thought what?” Horst broke in, his face like ash.

  Scourge paced back and forth, a living fence, head low and very not-horse teeth and gums exposed with each snarl that rippled his lips.

  Loud, distracting snarls. Jenn scowled at the horse. “Stop that!”

  He swung his head around to look at her; she could have sworn with a mischievous gleam in his big dark eyes.

  “Heart’s Blood. Enough!” Bannan snapped.

  A hoof dug into the road and threw up a clod of dirt. Scourge shook his head and arched his neck.

  Bannan lifted an eyebrow. “Please?”

  With a final rumble, the creature acquiesced, moving over to the roadside and dropping his head to graze. Not, Jenn noticed, on grass. He appeared to be lipping up ants. With gusto.

  Roche went to take a step; Horst’s hand shot out to hold him in place. He nodded a warning at the now-peaceful Scourge.

  Who flicked his tail.

  “How could you think such a thing?” Horst demanded. “Kydd?!”

  His appeal to the beekeeper produced a grim, “You’re the one who warned us of Morrill’s intentions.”

  “My intentions?” Roche blustered. “Ancestors Witness, Jenn and I were running off to be married—”

  “We were not!” Jenn protested.

  “No, you weren’t.” Bannan’s voice was strange and cold. Kydd gave him a sharp look, then stared long and hard at Roche.

  “I had to tell the boy about the curse,” Horst said heavily. “I couldn’t take the chance you’d try to leave with him, Jenn.”

  “See?” Roche retorted. “There really is a curse. A curse on Jenn and this road. We saved your life.” This to her, as if it were all her fault and she should be grateful.

  He believed it.

  He believed a great many things that weren’t true, including what she was capable of, including what she wanted from life.

  “Liar.”

  Horst cupped his hands over his heart. “Ancestors Blessed and Beloved, I swear it’s true, Jenn. I’d hoped you’d never have to know.” He dropped his hands helplessly to his sides. “You can’t go beyond Marrowdell’s scars.” He pointed at the crags looming to either side. “Not and survive.”

  What “scars?” The crags were perfectly normal—their steep slopes riven by deep gashes, gashes filled with trees and hardy shrubs and loose rock—no different from any around Marrowdell. That was their nature, as the fields were flat and Bone Hills bare and smooth. First Wisp tells her not to leave, then her father, and now Horst.

  “I don’t believe any of this.”

  She would not.

  She took a step.

  “Please, Jenn. Listen.” Horst appeared caught between frustration and anguish. “For your mother’s sake!”

  Jenn stopped, the blood in her veins having turned to ice and everything being wrong. Everything.

  “Why can’t I leave?” she asked him, the way her younger self would have asked about the blue of the sky or the lack of a mother, believing there had to be an answer she’d understand.

  “Tell her, Horst,” Kydd urged. “Bannan’s a truthseer. He’ll know what’s true.”

  “I know the truth.” Wind caught at her hair, flapped her skirt against her legs. It tossed leaves and dust and smelled of lightning. Scourge’s head snapped up and he growled. The men traded uneasy looks.

  Jenn felt Bannan’s hands close gently on her shoulders. He stood behind her, silent and strong, no part of this yet offering support. As much for him as to confront Horst, she made herself go on, to say it. “I know the truth,” she repeated. “My mother died because of you. Her family sent you to force her back to Avyo and she ran from you and she died.” Wind howled through the tops of the trees; the sun dimmed. “As she died, she made you promise to protect me from them. Is this how? By making up lies to keep me here?”

  Rain wouldn’t be far behind. Driving, hard rain.

  Horst dared shake his head. “This has nothing to do with them. Ancestors Witness, Melusine—” he stopped and appeared to age before her eyes. “When we realized she’d—she’d run, I tried to find her. I was so afraid. We all were. The day was dying and it was cold, for so early in fall.” He shuddered. “I remember the cold.

  “Radd sent me after the tinkers, in case she’d left with them. He and the others looked in the village while I rode across the empty fields, aiming for the road. When I saw farm buildings, I checked there first, in case, and lost time trying to find a way through the hedge. Before I could, the light turned. I can’t describe it.” His face filled with awe. “For an instant, everything looked different, everything was strange. I was lost . . .

  “I heard a woman cry out. I couldn’t make out words, but I followed the sound. When the world became itself again, I was in the meadow, Melusine lying at my feet, barely alive, and there you were, eyes open and bright, not even crying. Your mother looked at me. Looked at me and said . . .”

  Horst swallowed and bowed his head. “She said, ‘I’ve little time. I’ve been promised, guardsman. My daughter will live despite you.’” The words came out flat and harsh, as if heard that way and forever remembered thus. “‘My daughter will live despite you, but only here. If she steps beyond the scarred hills, she will die.” He paused.

  Numb inside, Jenn couldn’t take her eyes from him. No one else spoke.

  He went on then, quietly, “She said to me, ‘The House of Semanaryas sent you to this result and to them the guilt. By my Ancestors’ Hearts, at my own heart’s end, I claim your life’s service. Stay with her. Keep her here and safe. Do this, and be forgiven.’

  “I stayed. How could I not? I stayed and you—you grew around my heart.” Tears glistened on his gaunt cheeks as Horst looked up at her, eyes pleading. “Please believe me. You must stay, Jenn. The promise made to your mother—Hearts of our Ancestors, Beholden are we—it saved your life then, I know it. It keeps you alive now. But only here.”

  Bannan’s hands tightened on her shoulders. Jenn didn’t need a truthseer to believe. She wished she did. But every dreadful word rang with
truth.

  She lived in a cage.

  Lightning flashed, striking the road, the trees, everywhere but where they stood. Bars of blinding light.

  Trapped, Jenn Nalynn tried to scream . . .

  Thunder answered.

  This body was useless, useless, useless! Wyll staggered and fell hard, face pressed to the wooden floor, and knew himself doomed.

  The girl was at the brink!

  A woman fussed over him, said things. When he pushed her aside, she ran off, calling for help. Whatever help she could summon would be as useless as he was.

  The very brink!

  He hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t guessed, hadn’t heard it in her voice. She’d prattled about seeing the world, but she always did. She’d never tried to leave.

  Until now.

  He should have known and stopped her. He was the guardian. His the duty.

  If she left . . .

  She had to be stopped, at any cost. ~ Here I am! ~ he cried, bile in his mouth, a mouth empty of fangs and useless too. ~ Here I am, helpless and weak!! ~ He’d lost pride so very long ago. ~ Be amused! Come mock me! I dare you!!! Come!!! ~

  I beg you, he added, only to himself. Any of his kind. Several had been willing to torment him in the river—surely at least one hated him enough to do so again. One strong enough to dare approach the very limit of the edge.

  One he could convince to act—

  Footsteps along the floor. Someone touched him, turned his useless body over, breathed into his face. Wyll pulled useless lips back in a snarl.

  “I’m he . . .”

  ~ . . . ERe ~

  “What’s wr . . .”

  ~ . . . ONg ~

  Words came at him, echoing through both worlds, overlapped and confusing. Astonished, Wyll struggled to see the speaker.

  Pale eyes. A wide mouth. Female. She had connection to his world . . .

  More importantly, her body worked.