A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Point is,” Devins lowered his voice, as if his brother might be hiding nearby, “he showed up home after barely half the night, shaking so’s he could hardly stand. He’d have lit every lamp we owned if I hadn’t stopped him. Never said a word—I’m guessing he dreamed.”

  She shot him a sober look. “You shouldn’t say that.” Was this what lay behind Roche’s restlessness? Why he’d wanted her to leave with him? “You don’t know.”

  “What I know, Jenn Nalynn, is there’s nothing else in Marrowdell that would make my brother turn tail.”

  Wisp had, which was hardly something she could tell Devins. Jenn changed the subject. “Will you work at the farm tomorrow?”

  “I offered,” he said, then sighed. “They don’t need me.”

  An enthusiasm she suspected came from the pleasures of a change of routine and the curiosity all the villagers felt for the new arrivals in Marrowdell, though Devins had also been eager to see the farm where one or more of his beloved calves might come to live. Wiser heads had prevailed to delay such an arrival.

  Scourge being here first.

  Jenn wasn’t interested in calves or anything but getting clean again. Leaves still rustled in her hair. The skirt would join next week’s laundry, between the road dust and soapy water from washing Bannan’s floor. She’d done her best with the scrub brush Covie had sent along. To remove the lingering stains would take hours with a sanding stone and there’d been no real wear on the planks anyway, other than scratches near one corner she’d thought might have been the bear but her father, disappointingly, said were most likely carelessness when the bed frame had been put in place.

  The bed Bannan had foolishly burned. Did the city bred not realize the effort obtaining a replacement would take? If they didn’t want to share, they’d need beds for Wyll and Tir as well. Tir claimed to prefer a hammock, but a hammock wouldn’t keep him warm in winter. Davi’d pointed out, in his thoughtful way, that the villagers had dismantled their wagons for lumber and Bannan had latched onto the idea, to the others’ quiet approval.

  He was determined to stay. That much was clear to anyone.

  He’d welcomed her to visit. To visit him, not just Wyll. Her feelings on that weren’t clear at all. Why did men have to complicate everything?

  “Marry me.”

  Jenn twisted around so quickly she almost fell off the cart and had to grab hold of the edge. “Pardon?”

  “Marry me.” Every faded freckle across Devins’ nose stood out, but he forged ahead, words spilling like milk. “I hadn’t thought about it much, not really. But today, working together on the farm—well, it makes a man think, all this talk of homes and futures. It’s time I had a family of my own. Shouldn’t I? I’m a grown man.”

  Saying didn’t make it so, Jenn thought, unconvinced. Nor did she believe a family was something one suddenly decided to acquire, like a new bull for the herd.

  As for marriage? An impulsive proposal on the back of a bouncing cart was in no sense or shape romantic, even if she ignored the part where he didn’t love her, nor she him.

  To Devins’ credit, if she said yes, he’d keep his word and be faithful.

  Unlike his brother.

  “I’m marrying Wyll,” she said gently.

  “Well, yes. So everyone says. But you don’t have to,” with urgent hope. “Once Roche leaves, I’ll have the house. You could sew curtains and I promise I’ll fix up the kitchen. Next fall, I could go to Endshere and trade some yearlings for a new stove, better than his—” the magnificent new appliance in Bannan’s wagon having stirred lust in more than a few hearts, “—and I’d give it to you for your birthday. Jenn Nalynn, you should marry me!” When she simply stared, speechless, a flush replaced the pallor. “Or not.”

  What would Aunt Sybb say? “Be patient,” Jenn told him. “I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

  Devins slumped forward, arms on his thighs, and sighed. “The only someone left in Marrowdell,” he said morosely, “is Peggs.”

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  The cart splashed through the ford and they stretched their toes to touch the water.

  He sat up again, eyes alight. “Does she want a family?”

  “Ask her yourself.” Jenn leaned into his bony shoulder. “I can tell you her heart’s unattached at the moment.”

  That, Kydd Uhthoff, for the tears in her sister’s eyes.

  Men.

  Aunt Sybb stood waiting on the porch. She never waited on the porch. Exchanging alarmed looks, Jenn and her father hurried up the path. “What’s wrong, Sybbie?” Radd asked anxiously.

  Her mouth was slightly pinched, one eyebrow almost imperceptibly lifted, and creases drew together the corners of her usually sparkling eyes. Which held a glint that could be best described as implacable. This was the face her nieces, in private, called her “only for love” expression, since it presaged when one of them had tried her patience to the breaking point, not that a lady of their aunt’s caliber ever broke, and a lecture was in the offing.

  As able to read his sister as either of his daughters, Radd took one look and said quickly, “I’ll go around the back to wash up.” He fled.

  Before Jenn could follow, her aunt crooked a finger to bring her closer. This was not in any way a good thing, since she needed to wash even more than her father, but she did her best not to fidget under Aunt Sybb’s regard and schooled her face to polite attention. What had she done?

  “Yes, Aunt?”

  “There are pies,” Aunt Sybb said grimly.

  Of course there were pies. She’d smelled them from the road; her mouth had been watering all the way to the porch. “‘Pies,’” Jenn echoed, hoping for a clue.

  “Pies,” the lady of Avyo repeated, in the same tone she’d used for “toad.”

  There were, Jenn conceded, an unusual number of pies cooling on the front windowsill, proof her sister had taken her advice to heart. But something in their aunt’s demeanor suggested both worry and exasperation, for once not aimed at her younger niece. “Is Peggs all right?”

  Aunt Sybb gave a faint, dignified sigh. The sigh that meant whatever wasn’t all right had breached all bounds of reasonable behavior and dealing with it was beyond a mere lecture.

  A sigh with which a younger Jenn had been unfortunately familiar. “Shall I take care of it, Aunt?” she offered, as she’d said all the times before. “The pies?”

  “Please do.”

  Jenn went inside.

  Peggs wasn’t in the parlor. Pies were. Pies crammed the table, replaced the flowers on the heatstove, and covered the trunk. There were pies precariously perched on the arms of the settee and, while none had dared their parents’ red and yellow lacquered hutch, pies sat on the chairs.

  Swallowing her dismay, Jenn hurried through to the kitchen, where she found her sister surrounded.

  Bowls of filling and pastry crowded each other, spoons sticking up like masts. Flour dust coated every surface, including the house toad who’d backed into the corner by the oven and puffed into an annoyed flour-covered ball. Steam filled the air. There were pies in the oven, pies waiting to be baked, and rounds of rolled pastry stacked like plates. In the midst of it all stood Peggs like some warrior queen, hair and dress plastered to her skin with sweat, apron long since abandoned, and fire in her eyes.

  The battle for Kydd’s heart—or at least his stomach—had been joined with a passion. Poor Devins.

  “I’ve been—” Peggs admitted, “—baking.”

  Shaking her head, Jenn wiped a dab of flour from her sister’s lovely nose. “We could smell pie all the way to the commons,” she commented.

  “But he hasn’t come.” Peggs hugged herself. “It’s been all day—”

  Their father appeared in the back door, toweling his face, and stopped in his tracks. “Ah. Pie for supper.” He tilted his head, apple cheeks aglow, a twinkle in his eyes. “And pie for breakfast. A few suppers and breakfasts.”

  Peggs’ mouth opened without sound,
then closed with a snap. Jenn knew that look. Their father wouldn’t have “pie for supper.”

  Though any cooking with the kitchen in this state would take Wyll’s sort of magic. “Let me change and I’ll help with the dishes,” Jenn told Peggs.

  Up in the loft, Jenn opened the clothes chest and rummaged for anything clean. Most of what fit her was hanging on the line or waiting for next wash day. Which might, she grimaced, need to come sooner. She borrowed one of Peggs’ everyday shirtwaists and found an old skirt of her own. The hem had been let out as far as it would go two years ago, which made it perfect now for crossing the river or playing in the meadow. She’d put it away this summer after Aunt Sybb noticed more than her ankles showed—a fashion acceptable in Avyo, where ladies had the option of silk hosiery or tall boots with gilded buttons, but not with bare skin.

  Bare skin. Jenn examined her arms, tanned below the elbows, elbows red from scrubbing the farmhouse floor. Most people would have red knees, but she had a habit of pushing the brush too fast and far which, as anyone knew landed you on your elbows. Something that happened most if anyone was watching. They’d taken turns at that. Wyll one moment. Bannan the next. As if they didn’t have chores of their own.

  She sat on the bed, skirt in her hands, and wiggled her toes.

  She’d watched them, too, through the window when she thought they wouldn’t notice. Wyll’s little breezes would unload each fresh cartload, Bannan would sort what was there and find a place for it. When her father returned, he’d helped Bannan scavenge planks for shelves from the ruined larder outside. A kitchen took shape around the fireplace. They’d shared the bucket lunch. Tomorrow Bannan’s new stove would be set up, sure to be a wonder.

  Tomorrow she’d bring breakfast, as soon as she could finish her chores here, then see what else she could do at the farm. The reward for a hard day’s work was content by night. Father’s saying, not Aunt Sybb’s.

  Content? She’d settle for falling into bed too tired to think. Except . . . she wanted to think about the path.

  Wyll had been so angry. Why?

  The path led up the Spine, that was all.

  Jenn shook her head. “It’s just a path.” Yet her heart beat faster. From that height, what might she see? Might she see beyond Marrowdell?

  Might her cage have a window?

  Roses nodded at her. Melusine’s roses, large and rich and red as blood. “You faced trials of your own, Mother,” whispered Jenn, her fingers circled. “May your heart give strength to mine.”

  Tomorrow, before breakfast, she’d see for herself.

  “Hearts of our Ancestors, we are Beholden for the food on our laps.” Tir spoke loudly and with vigor, his hungry eyes fixed on the thick slice of ham waiting on his plate. “And we would be even more Beholden if this fine young pig’s mother keeps popping them out.”

  Bannan hid a grin. Tir’s exhortations to the Ancestors were always colorful.

  “We are Beholden for new shingles on the roof, though a roof not needing shingles would have been better and saved all that time and climbing.”

  Colorful and rarely respectful. The dragon seemed fascinated.

  “We are Beholden—” with such fervor the plate balanced on Tir’s lap tipped dangerously, “—for the chance to work our fingers to the bone in this lovely dirt when we could have been living the life in a big city with women who don’t make wishes that change one thing into a t’other, women who—” in time gripping his plate between both elbows, hands still piously over his heart, “—are warm and willing and wear those little black—”

  Bannan coughed.

  “—However far we are apart,” Tir rattled off without pausing for breath, “Keep Us Close.”

  “‘Keep Us Close,’” Bannan murmured.

  They’d taken their supper to the fallen branch where he and Wainn had shared pie, chairs or a bench not on the list of immediate tasks. The roof mattered most, closely followed by windows and doors. The stove, last in the wagon, so first out, sat in pieces in the midst of what would be the kitchen side of the downstairs room.

  They sat in the warm sun and feasted on kindness. Leftover bread and onions from the lunch the men had brought to share from the village, the exceptional ham, and apples from his own tree. They hadn’t uncovered the bag filled with Vorkoun wine before hunger claimed them, but water from his well more than sufficed.

  His well. His tree. Bannan set his plate aside, discovering an appetite for more than food. “What do you know of Marrowdell’s past?”

  Wyll’s knife paused. He was adept with one hand, or good with blades, or both. “More than I care to,” he said, and stabbed a thick round of onion.

  The truthseer rested his arms on his knees. “The ruins to the north,” he began, undeterred. “What was there? What happened?”

  Tir grunted. “Best ask what’s wrong with this place,” he advised around a mouthful of bread. “No one’s lived here. Why’s that?”

  Wyll glanced at him. “You’ll know,” he replied, “or you won’t.”

  Glowering, the former guard shoved a chunk of ham into his already full mouth and chewed, a spectacle few could watch without feeling queasy.

  “The ruins?” the truthseer prodded. “I spotted them from the loft,” this for Tir’s benefit, not that he was one to take interest in an old forgotten structure unless the rubble made good cover. “It looked like there’d been towers once, on either side of the river.”

  “Men came and built.” Wyll’s eyes flickered silver and a breeze smoothed the bare soil in front of their feet like the sweep of a hand. Tir leaned forward with Bannan, absently keeping the food in his mouth with two fingers, as a line appeared.

  Then another. Lines that drew themselves, or were drawn by sharp little winds. Circles met ovals. Straight lines converged, then splintered outward. A crumb-seeking bird fluttered from a line aimed for its toes.

  The lines went deeper, sculpted, shaped.

  Until they stared at a shadow of the past.

  Thick spired masses, gilded with pollen, rose from the tops of facing cliffs, three on the left, two on the right. Beneath, rock had been hollowed away to leave wide openings staggered above one another, supported by graceful pillars. A petal-clad bridge of several levels, each with openings and arches, melded the two sides into a single structure, the whole held high atop the raging river on three improbably tall columns.

  Nothing close to the ground, as if the builders chose to be part of the sky.

  “Be a rare mess in winter,” Tir concluded, and settled back to work on his ham.

  Bannan stretched out his hand, but didn’t dare touch what was a true work of art, both in the soil and what had been. “What was it? Who were they?”

  A harsh breeze swept away petals and pollen, churning and scouring the ground. He gave an involuntary protest, staring up at Wyll.

  The silver in the dragon’s eyes faded to a somber brown. “The spark that set two worlds ablaze, truthseer. And they were fools.”

  “Psst.”

  Jenn looked up from the dishes. Her father had gone to the mill, after enlisting Cheffy to deliver pies around the village—excepting the Uhthoffs, of course. Her aunt and Peggs had taken to the porch, stitching by the last of the sunlight while Aunt Sybb instructed her errant niece on the perils of excessive pastry.

  “Jenn.”

  Avoiding the remaining pies, she leaned through the open kitchen window to find Kydd Uhthoff crouched awkwardly beneath the sill.

  He wore his winter Beholding coat, the heavy old velvet doubtless stiflingly hot, and looked to have shaved in a hurry, without a mirror to judge by the nicks on his jaw. Jenn scooped a cupful of hot sudsy water and held it at the ready. “What do you want?”

  As if she couldn’t guess.

  “I heard what you did. For Bannan and Wyll.” He started to rise. She warned him back with the brimming cup. “Jenn, please. Let me explain—”

  Jenn scowled at him. “You made my sister cry.”

&nbs
p; “I did?” Kydd’s eyes lit. “She did?” He hastily assumed a contrite expression. “I’m very sorry.”

  Jenn continued to scowl. “I’m not the one who needs an apology.”

  “I know. I’m sure. I—” Sweat beaded his high forehead. “I wrote one.” He showed her an envelope. “Please take—”

  “Jenn?” Peggs walked into the kitchen. “We thought we’d—what are you doing?”

  The beekeeper sank in the shadows, pressing a finger across his lips. With a pleading look, he handed her the envelope.

  Jenn dropped it in the dishwater. “Someone’s here about a pie,” she announced, and stepped away from the window.

  Kydd rose to his feet. Being taller than the window opening, he had to stoop to peer inside, which wasn’t at all dignified despite his fancy coat. She’d have felt sorry for him but for the way her sister’s face lost its color.

  “Pie?” Peggs repeated faintly. “Is that what you want?”

  His well-thought eloquence afloat, the beekeeper gripped the windowsill like a man drowning and shook his head.

  “Then what?” she asked.

  “You,” he gasped.

  The faintest pink, like an opening rose, touched Peggs’ cheeks. “Jenn, please take Aunt Sybb her cup.”

  “Are you sure?” Jenn asked suspiciously.

  The two hadn’t taken their eyes off one another. “Are you?” Kydd asked softly, leaning head and shoulders into the kitchen. His cuffs trailed in dishwater, but he didn’t appear to care.

  “Oh, yes,” Peggs answered, stepping closer.

  Jenn held her breath, her heart pounding. They were going to kiss. She knew it. Like in the stories . . .

  Peggs put a hand behind her back to gently shoo her away.

  Disappointed, Jenn grabbed the jug of cider and a cup, then left the two alone.

  She’d get the details later.

  Wyll watched night’s edge stain the Bone Hills. His wish-changed eyes found the blue soothing. The rest of him did not. He’d kept the girl safely distant from the crossing during each turn, safe and away from what she might see. Now, she meant to live beside it.