But, oh, how she longed to go.
“No. No. No!!!” The breeze tossed dust in her way, tossed leaves and petals, tossed grit and small stones until a whirlwind followed the cart and swept into her face.
She cried out, shielding her eyes.
“Don’t look there! Don’t notice! You must not!”
The cart lurched to a rocking halt. The whirlwind ended. Jenn dropped her arm and spat dirt from her mouth as she twisted to glare at Wyll. Her “Why?” died in her throat as she met eyes of molten silver.
“Speak no more of it.”
There was an “or else.” Jenn felt it, believed it. A shiver traced a path down her arms, trembling her fingertips. He’d never used such a tone with her before. She stared at this shape that was her oldest, dearest friend, who would be her husband, and refused to be afraid. “Yes, we will,” she said firmly. “I want to—”
“Jenn!” Her father hurried around the back of the cart, Tir close behind, “What happened?”
Bedraggled hair hung over her shoulders, full of shredded leaves. She wiped grit from her face and shook off her skirt. “Bit of dust.”
Both men looked at Wyll, who gazed back with eyes of innocent brown.
“I’ll walk from here,” Jenn added, hopping down.
It felt a momentous thing, to turn her back on the path. She could still see it, if she closed her eyes, climbing the steep slope, twisting up and up to the meadow above.
A contrite little breeze tried to pluck leaves from her hair. In no forgiving mood, Jenn slapped it away and went with her father and Tir, to walk the rest of the way beside the horses.
A dragon. No, Bannan corrected himself, the dragon. The word conjured memories of children’s stories and naughty limericks. Dragons were ancient. Dragons were deadly. Above all, dragons were myth.
Weren’t they?
In Marrowdell, he thought wryly, perhaps not.
In Marrowdell, perhaps they appeared as crippled men and traveled in wagons.
The slow, steady clop of hooves, the jingle of harness rings, said the wagon was close. Bannan sat on his slanted porch and rested his chin in his hands, eyes on the gap in the trees, to wait.
Depictions of dragons scarcely agreed. Immense or small? Scaled or feathered? Did they fly or crawl? Four fingers or five or none? The Dragon’s Nose Pub in Vorkoun boasted a carved snout protruding above the door, complete with horns, wattle, and a snaggle-toothed grin.
The glimpses he’d had of Wyll were nothing so sure. Ancient, in some way. He nodded to himself. Deadly. Without doubt. He supposed the rest didn’t matter, now that the dragon wore a man’s shape.
Would he stay in it?
There was a question worth asking.
Big Davi appeared in the gap and waved a greeting. Radd and Tir were with him. Bannan stood eagerly as the big draft horses followed, heads bobbing in unison, tawny manes catching the sun.
But instead of his wagon, they pulled a simple cart, loaded with a few baskets and Wyll.
Because his wagon was designed for an ox, Bannan assured himself. Because they’d brought only what he needed first. Because . . .
What he feared wouldn’t be true. Not till he heard it.
Swallowing what was too bitter for disappointment, Bannan went to greet them.
“Fair morning—” he stopped, startled when Jenn peeked at him from behind her father, eyes haunted in a filthy face. She looked as though she’d fallen from the cart and been dragged through shrubs. “If you wish to freshen up,” he went on, trying not to stare, “there’s hot water and soap inside.”
The faintest shake of her head. Her eyes were more than haunted. They were purple with regret and he sank into their depths, losing all sense of what he’d asked.
“You’ve water?” Radd asked, sharp enough to shake him free.
Proudly, Bannan stepped to one side and held an open hand toward his well, full to the brim and surrounded by clean stone. There was no missing it, especially since he’d trampled the grass on this side.
Radd and Davi exchanged unhappy looks. They’d hoped he’d failed on his own, Bannan realized, heart sinking further. He glanced at Tir, who returned a resigned shrug and stuck his thumbs through his belt.
The signal for “battle ready.”
If only battle could win this day.
The cart shook as Wyll rolled off, contorting his body into a stand with a pained grunt. He made his way, each lurch-step across the thick grass and uneven ground almost, but never quite, a disaster, until he reached Bannan. “Greetings, truthseer.”
The villagers looked as miserable as he felt. “Tell me,” Bannan said roughly. “Why have you come?”
The dragon smiled.
“To evict you. And exile me.”
The homely washline upset Jenn most. She tried not to look at it. Less than a day, and Bannan had settled tighter than a broody toad in a burrow. It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair that Wyll smiled, either. She’d have to speak to him about hurt feelings.
Bannan, today dressed like any villager in homespun pants and shirt, the unlaced throat showing skin still damp from washing and sleeves rolled up, wore what Aunt Sybb would call a “proper face.” Nothing showed but calm, polite interest, as if they discussed nothing more dreadful than the care of hooves or how best to cool bread.
But this was dreadful, and not fair, and she—she wasn’t going to stand here and let all their futures grow from such a poisoned start. “What Wyll means,” Jenn stated in her best no-nonsense voice, “is that he hopes you have room for him. Here.”
“‘Room?’” Bannan echoed, his proper face cracked by astonishment. “With me?”
Everyone looked astonished. An aster near her feet spun on its stem until its head popped off; she ignored it. She was right. This was better. “Yes. Until—” Jenn thought furiously, aware the others were staring at her as if she’d turned purple, “—until he builds a new home. Our home,” she finished in triumph. “There.” She pointed past the overgrown garden, over the hedge and grain, to Night’s Edge.
The air stilled, thickened. Considering. Jenn set her jaw and waited.
A butterfly fluttered like laughter around Bannan’s head.
Then two.
She saw the corner of his mouth twitch as the butterflies danced in his face. “I’d be honored,” he said solemnly.
Two became a cloud. He disappeared behind wings of yellow, black, and brilliant violet, somehow keeping still as they patted his eyelids and perched on his ears.
Jenn gave Wyll a stern look; he returned an innocent one she didn’t believe at all. The butterflies freed Bannan after one last swoop. He watched them leave and she didn’t relax until he chuckled. “This will be interesting.”
Her father smiled broadly. Tir frowned. Ever practical, Davi patted Brawl and said in his deep, calm voice, “Best we unload the cart and give my lads a drink. There’s more to move, yours and Wyll’s.”
“Tha—” Bannan broke off. “Interesting, indeed,” he finished with a grin.
Jenn turned with the rest to see the cart’s contents stacked neatly on the grass, Uncle Horst’s ax on top and the toad nowhere in sight. Wyll gave a modest bow. “The least I can do.”
This earned him a too-thoughtful look from Tir, but Jenn didn’t care. If Wyll was helping, he was happy with her solution too. She quite liked the idea of building her own home.
If not so much the idea of living in it.
Time for that when the time came, she told herself.
Davi led Battle and Brawl to Bannan’s well. Leaving Tir and her father to take a count of missing shingles, Bannan came up to her. “Kindly done, Jenn Nalynn,” in a low voice.
Jenn was glad he thought so. She looked at Wyll, who pretended interest in the roof discussion. “You’ll let me know if he’s any trouble,” she told Bannan. “He’s not used to houses. Not yet.” A breeze flipped hair in her face.
“Neither am I.” A wry smile. “Tir will have his han
ds full.”
Returning his smile, she pushed back her hair and found leaves. Leaves and grit. They covered her clothes too. She sighed inwardly. He must, she thought ruefully, think she was never clean.
Be judged by your deeds, her aunt would say. “I’ll help,” Jenn promised. They’d need a kitchen, sooner than not. Especially with the repair work. “I’ll bring breakfast tomorrow. I’ll come as often as I can.”
“To see Wyll.”
Why did it sound like a question?
Because he waited for a reply, eyes warm and steady on hers.
Truthseer.
She couldn’t say a word. She didn’t dare. Wyll answered the truth to everything, which caused trouble enough, thank you. She wasn’t about to be judged by Bannan. Not on this.
Not when she didn’t know the truth herself.
At her continued silence, Bannan smiled. She tried frowning; his smile widened. “Visit whenever you like, Jenn Nalynn,” he said, amusement making the unusual lilt to his words more pronounced.
Then he turned to invite Wyll inside, saying something about the main floor and how he’d already decided to sleep in the loft, but they’d need to see what Tir preferred, and did he snore?
Jenn didn’t pay attention, busy frowning at the back of Bannan’s head.
The porch was crooked. It wasn’t broken. The windows were broken, but not crooked. All her life, she’d gone past this house, the barn, its little farmyard, without notice or care. Now their need overwhelmed her, as if their neglect was somehow her fault. It wasn’t. The valley had a way of taking back what wasn’t used or wanted and no one in Marrowdell had needed this place.
Until Bannan.
Jenn watched the cart leave for its next load. She turned, sending a longing glance over her shoulder at the gap in the hedge that led to her meadow, then straightened her shoulders and walked to the house. Stay here and help. Go home and do her chores. Everything was a tangle; anything she did had such consequence, it was a wonder she was willing to breathe. If she’d known this was what being adult was like, she wouldn’t have wished so hard for her nineteenth birthday.
“Heart’s Blood. Wyll! Stop!”
They couldn’t be fighting already. Jenn hurried inside, fearing the worst. She halted in the doorway.
Inside was . . . spotless. The floor planks glowed as if freshly sanded, the fireplace might never have had a fire in it, and the rafters? Jenn could never keep ahead of the cobwebs at home, though she tried. These rafters might have been freshly built.
A shiny pot hung from its gleaming black hook.
In the midst of this unexpected magnificence, Bannan and Wyll stood, nose-to-nose. Neither acknowledged her. “Put it back as it was,” the truthseer ordered grimly.
“Why?” A little breeze nudged a pack along the floor, leaning it just so against the wall by the fireplace. Wyll’s smile was smug. “Think of it as my contribution.”
For some reason, Bannan continued to glower. “Go build your own house. Leave mine alone.”
“Fool.”
“You heard me. Put it back!”
Jenn squinted as dirt, dust, and cobwebs whirled in through the open windows, draping themselves wherever they’d been and dulling the floor. “Heart’s Blood!” Bannan swore again, jumping clear as pieces of wood flung themselves through the back door to assemble as half of a makeshift table leaning against the mantel. Soot swirled down the chimney to coat the fireplace and pot.
On its way out, the breeze dented the pot and toppled Bannan’s pack, spilling its contents over the floor.
Jenn bit her lip, trying to keep a straight face.
“I swear it looked better than this,” Bannan muttered, shaking his head. He pulled a sticky clump of web from his hair and tried to flick it from his fingers. Twice.
That did it. She burst into giggles.
The two stared at her. Bannan’s lips quirked to the side. “I suppose I deserve that.”
“You do,” Jenn agreed.
The offended silver in Wyll’s eyes faded. He stood in the bare dusty room like the house itself, broken and neglected. She’d done it again, hadn’t she? Committed his life to what she thought best, without asking. Bannan’s too. Jenn sighed. When would she learn?
Wyll’s gaze rested on her. “Dearest Heart?”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I should have asked you first—both of you.” She gave a little shrug. “I didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t fair.”
“It was quick thinking,” Bannan said with an approving nod that warmed her heart. “I, for one, am grateful.”
“Because the arrangement benefits you, truthseer. I gain nothing from it.”
Oh, Jenn knew that tone. Wyll hadn’t forgiven Bannan for rejecting his “contribution.” He was going to be, as her aunt would say, difficult. Something she recalled Wisp excelled at being, especially when she wanted him to play her way and he’d refused. “We gain a house in Night’s Edge,” she argued, eyeing Wyll. “You can do it, can’t you? Build a house?”
“Like this?” Wyll glanced at the massive logs of the walls and moved his good hand in dismissal. “No. The neyet owe me no favors.”
Bannan caught the odd word too. “‘Neyet?’”
“What the villagers call the old trees. The neyet gave themselves once, to create the structures of Marrowdell. They would not be inclined to do so again.”
What was he talking about?
Bannan spoke first. “Why?”
The question brought a smile to Wyll’s face, a smile Jenn wasn’t sure she liked. “They learned that to become wood, they must die.”
Jenn didn’t think Wyll had answered the “why” Bannan meant, but from his wary expression, the truthseer didn’t plan to ask again, not right away.
“We’ll use something else when the time comes,” she said brightly, more concerned with the present than the opinions of trees. “Davi will be back soon with the next load. We should finish cleaning in here.”
Wyll’s eyes gleamed. “My way or yours, truthseer?”
“Both, if you please,” Bannan conceded with a short bow. “Leave me the floor and fireplace for pride’s sake; the rest I’ll gladly leave to you.” He looked up. “Oh, and there’re some old nests—”
“Done.” And it was, as fast as Wyll could say the word. He was like that, Jenn nodded to herself, when not making a point. Quicker than the eye could follow.
She rolled up her sleeves and tied her mess of hair back with the twist from her pocket, as if she could get dirtier moving dust. “I’ll take care of the floor.”
So now he lived with a dragon. Shaking his head in wonder, Bannan went for water, only to find Scourge by the well.
“I don’t suppose you approve.”
Scourge slobbered a mouthful of water and regarded him with placid eyes, every bit the horse. Without thinking, Bannan gave him a friendly pat. Coarse brown hairs stuck to his fingers, fair warning of the annoying clouds to come as the creature’s coat readied for winter. “Touch early for the fall shed, isn’t it?”
The breeze whispered in his ear. “Itchy.”
“What would you do without me to groom you?”
“Itch.”
The fall shed transformed Scourge from shadow to night, his dull brown hide turning almost black as the dark skin beneath showed through. He became almost handsome, or thought he was, tending to strut more than usual, but was prone to shiver at night until his heavy undercoat finished its regrowth. All of which involved hours of Bannan leaning on a brush while the not-horse burbled with pleasure. Hours he no longer had, if he was to get the farm ready for winter.
Bannan smiled. Scourge was notoriously averse to being handled by strangers, but he’d permitted Jenn’s touch. She’d offered to help, hadn’t she? A farm maid surely knew how to groom a horse. “I’ll ask Jenn Nalynn,” he decided aloud.
Well pleased, he dipped the buckets, old and new, into the well. She wasn’t sure, so she wasn’t Wyll’s, not yet. All w
as fair. The more reasons he could find to have her here, keep her near, the more chance he had—
Low and grim in his ear, “What kind of fool have you become?”
He patted Scourge again. “The hopeful kind, old friend. The hopeful kind.”
News of what Aunt Sybb called a “proper and civil settlement” arrived home long before Jenn, since she and, in the afternoon her father, stayed to help Bannan and Wyll while Tir and Davi plied back and forth with the cart. On his first such trip, Davi’d stopped to tell his mother the situation, she’d told Covie, and that was that.
On the cart’s final trip, too tired to do more than glance wistfully at the mysterious path, Jenn leaned against Devins’ bony shoulder and half-listened as he told her how Zehr had cleverly cobbled together a hitch to let Davi’s team pull Bannan’s wagon, their last trip for the day. He and Anten had lent their hammers to the most urgent repair, shingles for the roof, then helped pull the old porch free so the foundation stones could be reset.
Help that wouldn’t have been offered yesterday, before Bannan proved himself. Finding the well hadn’t been the only test. “So much for Roche,” Devins declared with the satisfaction of a bet won. “I told you what he said about Bannan sleeping the night, didn’t I? Said he’d believe a house toad could talk first.”
Jenn gave a noncommittal shrug. The Morrill brothers—and the twins—gambled on anything and everything, their passion unaffected by stakes of acorns instead of coins. She grinned to herself. Except for the time Himself had gobbled Allin Emms’ hidden stash, said plundering made possible by a carelessly latched gate. The blame had fallen on a protesting Roche, though truth was, Hettie, being annoyed by their latest game, had led the delighted boar to the hiding place.
“Roche tried to sleep there himself, just this spring.”
Doubtless intending to annoy her the next morning, as she walked through the farmyard to Night’s Edge. Jenn swayed with the motion of the cart and grumbled, “Has he nothing better to do?”
A Turn of Light Page 32