A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Doubtless both turn-born and sei would blame him for that.

  The kruar stood too close, an unpleasant wall of sweating hide. Any protest would please his obnoxious ally, so Wyll ignored him. The hordes of big-eyed flies that lifted with each slap of the kruar’s long tail were harder to dismiss and that tail best not come near. His tolerance had limits, already strained by their conversation.

  Tail slap. ~ You gave no oath. The villagers have no say in what you do. ~

  ~ I must stay. ~ Were there flies in the kruar’s hairy ears? ~ Thus you must guard the road. Our common purpose— ~

  The kruar snorted. ~ I’ll guard it here. ~

  Infuriating creature. ~ Our common purpose is to protect the girl. She sleeps in the village. ~

  ~ Where she is safe. She no longer tries to leave. ~

  ~ But the road— ~

  ~ I’ve heard what travels that road next will be cows. Go yourself. ~

  Night’s edge. Though he couldn’t see it from the farmyard, Wyll imagined the turn washing over their meadow, finding flowers. It drew the efflet from the kaliia; they left their fields and approached him here, only to mill uncertainly, wary of the kruar.

  He didn’t blame them.

  Without curiosity, Wyll watched the turn slip over his hand, then his body, finding no other shape. What the truthseer claimed to glimpse was mere memory, done and gone and lost. Unless the sei chose otherwise.

  For his part, the kruar shifted uneasily as the turn scoured away the lie he wore, of hide and mane. Scars flared to life along his naked skin. His kind, grateful as Wyll’s own, as gentle, had ripped away his armor, that vanity of the warrior sect. The light’s passing followed his neck’s curve and found the ragged stumps of its once-impressive crest.

  Wyll averted his gaze.

  The turn passed to the road and ylings threw themselves in the air to dance.

  A heavy hoof struck the ground. The scent of dying grass caught Wyll’s attention. The home he was to share, like the one last night, had been built of such unwitting corpses. The turn-born played with those weaker as wantonly as the sei, he thought dourly, and with less reason.

  ~ They wanted me forgotten, ~ the kruar crooned. ~ And almost I was. Years beyond count, I roamed without voice or purpose, unseen for what I was, until I began to forget myself. ~

  Wyll glowered at his unwelcome companion. ~ Would I could forget you, too. ~

  Would he could forget himself.

  The kruar snorted with amusement, as if he’d heard the thought rather than the words. ~ Lucky for us both, I saw myself in a truthseer’s eyes. Not this— ~ Skin shuddered from mane to tail, dislodging flies. ~ Not what the rest of his kind would see—but enough to remember what I am . . . ~

  ~ Yet Bannan doesn’t see you as you are. ~ This being a sore point.

  ~ As he does you? ~ Another snort. ~ He sees what he needs to see. I’m of home and family. Once he finds the courage to leave those behind, he’ll look deeper. Not before. ~

  So out of pity, his old enemy avoided men’s eyes, hiding here through the turn when his truthseer couldn’t help but see him as he was. The fool was no more immune to fondness than he.

  ~ I can’t go into the village, ~ Wyll insisted, returning to their argument. ~ You must watch the road. ~

  ~ No. I must protect my truthseer. ~

  ~ I mean him no harm, ~ Wyll said wearily.

  ~ You’re no threat ~ the kruar pointed out with wicked joy. ~ She pulled your teeth. ~

  ~ Then explain yourself. ~

  The kruar lowered his head until hot breath, unwelcome and foul, entered Wyll’s nostrils. No joy now. ~ You know what touches the road between here and the village. ~

  The path to the upper meadow. The Wound between worlds.

  Yes, he knew. They all knew. The Verge was stitched in place and held solid, like the scars along his body and the kruar’s. Everywhere but along the Wound. There, the puncture between had cut too deep to ever heal. The turn-born shunned that path for good reason. The Wound sought them, lured them.

  Kept them.

  He’d heard a turn-born speak of a labyrinth within, a maze in which their kind became lost. Maze, trap, or gaping mouth. Wyll didn’t care which. Those fool enough to enter the Wound, from either world, were never seen again.

  The girl had looked into that dread opening. Had looked and been drawn. He’d known the day would come when, like all turn-born, her passions grew beyond the fancies and frets of a child, and her expectations gained true force. But he’d hoped, the girl being of this world, confined to her sun’s light, that the Wound would never catch her attention.

  He’d stopped her in time. It had been in time. He had to believe that.

  ~ What of it? ~ Wyll demanded, rubbing the ache in his ruined side. He heard Bannan call to his friend. They’d pulled lanterns from the wagon, lit them to fend off the dark. Didn’t they know the meaning of rest?

  ~ On his way here, last night, the truthseer saw the Wound. He was seen and he was called and only I saved him! ~ The neck arched with pride.

  Bannan could see his true nature. It was possible he could see the oozing sore in the forest as well. The rest might be kruar nonsense, or might not. The turn-born were the ones who claimed only they could be lured, that others stumbled into their doom.

  Turn-born, in Wyll’s experience, were not always truthful.

  Neither were kruar, with their magic of misdirection and guile, their preferred attack an ambush. ~ Nonsense, ~ Wyll said with calculated scorn. ~ You must be mistaken. ~

  Foul breath, now the rude snap of jaws in his face. ~ Would I care to protect him otherwise? ~

  ~ It astonishes me you care at all. ~ Wyll pushed the kruar’s snout aside.

  Sullen silence. That had struck a blow. He smiled to himself.

  ~ If the truthseer is lost, ~ the kruar said with rare cleverness, ~ she will look for him. ~

  Wyll wished for fangs. As well wish for a return to his youth and the chance to make any of a lifetime of choices again. He’d make the same mistakes, of course. Penance made him aware of his flaws; it couldn’t remove them.

  As for the truthseer, how was he to watch the man’s movements? He could hardly keep up with him during the unpacking. What mattered was Jenn Nalynn. Wyll snarled. ~ Let him protect himself! ~

  The kruar threw up his head and glared, a rumble starting deep in his chest. Before either could do or say anything Wyll was sure to regret, a rustle from the ground distracted them both.

  Two pairs of limpid brown eyes peered up from the grass, followed by plump bodies as the toads worked themselves into the open. ~ Elder brother, ~ one said courteously as it settled on its toes. ~ Lord General. I have myself accounted for one hundred and four mice, fourteen squirrels, and a clot of nyphrit from this home. My companion provided thirteen eggs and caught fifty-three mice and a squirrel in this moon cycle. We matter— ~

  The kruar lifted an impatient hoof.

  ~ —permit us to assist you, ~ it finished hastily.

  A tail slapped. The toads gazed longingly after the disturbed flies, but didn’t move. ~ Useless creatures, ~ the kruar dismissed them. ~ Leave your betters be. ~

  More to annoy his ally than because he thought the toads of use, Wyll asked, ~ Assist in what way, most accomplished little cousins? ~

  ~ Watch the truthseer, ~ offered the second toad. ~ Alert you to danger, ~ said the first. ~ Be your eyes, ~ they said together.

  Spies. Adept ones at that.

  ~ Why would you do this? ~ the kruar demanded, ever suspicious.

  Wyll felt curiosity stir at the question. Why, indeed? Little cousins weren’t so conceited that they risked themselves in the affairs of others. They kept close to their burrows, a safety left solely for the reckless pilgrimage to add their hard-earned pebbles to the white throne they built their queen. They believed she would join them, could they but demonstrate their worth.

  Generations labored in vain. The reigning queen knew nothing of her lost subj
ects and had not the power to cross the edge to them even if she did, but he’d never been so cruel as to destroy their hope.

  ~ Bannan Larmensu belongs here, Lord General, ~ the bold first toad. ~ As do we. ~

  The second, ~ As you do not. ~

  Wyll prepared to lift the toads out of reach, but the kruar snorted its crude laugh. ~ We do not, ~ he agreed equably. ~ Brave little cousins, to speak so honestly. Have you more honest things to say? ~

  Their eyes popped in and out, but they knew better than answer.

  ~ Enough, ~ Wyll pronounced. ~ Watch the truthseer. While my esteemed ally guards the road, you will tell me if Bannan strays where none should. ~ He shifted, wary of letting his side grow stiff. The twisted leg would fail him, if it could. The villagers had provided a cane. He had no use for it, unless on the kruar’s thick skull. A cane could break or be taken, like any help that came from others.

  Yet here he was, taking help from his ancient enemy and from those once beneath notice.

  The girl’s doing, Wyll grumbled to himself, feeling all three stare as he lurched away, done with them. She’d made him weak and needful.

  She was worse than the sei.

  The coming night would be interminable. The way Bannan and Tir worked, they’d collapse before playing a game with him. This close to the crossing at Night’s Edge, his kind need only pay attention to reach him, should they want amusement.

  Mist collected under the hedge, fingered the trees, mocked him as he made his way to the door. Damp, dark, horrid night. He hoped the men would work late, with lanterns blazing.

  Regardless. He’d endure, as he endured all else.

  Jenn Nalynn would return in the morning. She’d promised to bring breakfast.

  The food didn’t matter. Dawn didn’t matter.

  Having her near again, did.

  The peace he found in her company was her trap; this flesh, her cage. Why had he set the kruar to guard the road? He should have begged the creature to rip out her throat and be done.

  Before he had to learn if he still could.

  What a sorry state he was in, Wyll thought as he lurched to this night’s bed and fell atop it. He reached morosely for blankets; pulled one over his head.

  Sorry indeed, to no longer trust himself.

  FOURTEEN

  WAINN LAID HIS arms across his pony’s saggy back and considered Jenn with a thoughtful crease between his eyebrows, as if he knew full well why she wanted to ride this morning instead of walk. Which he couldn’t, so she smiled and gave his pony another brisk pat. “He looks well rested.”

  The old pony turned its gray muzzle to regard her with one white-rimmed eye, then turned away, hairy lips working at air. A person who forgot apples, that said, was a person beneath notice.

  Wainn shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jenn. When he likes, he will carry the children.” He put his cheek against the bony spine, watching her with one eye of his own. “He doesn’t want to carry you anymore. You’re too heavy.”

  “But—” She hadn’t been too heavy last spring; to be kind, the pony had been that much younger.

  Jenn Nalynn curbed her frustration. She’d snuck downstairs before dawn to do her chores as quickly as she could. The day’s greens were picked and ready, with a bit of weeding thrown in; she’d replenished the kindling and refilled the kettle before anyone stirred; and put on the porridge. She would have surprised Peggs by having the day’s loaves in their pans, ready to rise, except just in time she noticed a few weeds mixed with the greens, the trouble with being in the garden before the sun, and had to sort those first. She did, however, manage to scamper out to the hedge and collect more eggs for breakfast, having boiled all they’d had to take to Wyll, since his toad would be unlikely to provide so soon and she’d promised, after all, to bring breakfast to the farm.

  Once everyone stirred, Jenn had helped serve the table, whisking the plates out from under noses the instant she could, which may have been too quickly, since she’d had to return her father’s mug because he’d wanted a second cuppa and her aunt pronounced herself dizzy. She’d been so very helpful, her sister had thrown up her hands with a laugh and pushed her gently out the door, after adding yesterday’s baking to the eggs in her sack.

  All for naught. Had she been able to borrow Wainn’s old pony, Jenn would have had time to do her exploring before being expected at the farm. She sighed.

  Wainn smiled. “Why don’t you ride him?”

  “Who—?”

  He nodded toward the hedge.

  Scourge, hipshot and eyes half shut, stood on the other side, dozing in the shade of the Ropps’ barn. He wasn’t easily seen; the giveaway was the line of offended cows glaring from their gate, the warhorse being between them and being milked. Had he wanted to annoy them?

  “I couldn’t,” Jenn said slowly.

  Could she?

  He’d let her climb up with Bannan in the saddle. Those long legs would make short work of the road. Why, on a horse like that, she could make it to the upper meadow and be down again before Wainn’s old pony could make it halfway up the Spine. She gave the pony an absentminded pat. “I should move him anyway,” she murmured. “For the cows’ sake.”

  “You should be careful, for ours,” Wainn said soberly.

  Before she could ask what he meant, he walked away with his old pony, one arm over its shoulders, their heads tipped together as if they conversed. She hoped about apples and not the folly of curiosity, because she couldn’t stop, not if she would.

  The cows, sensing an ally, crowded her heels as Jenn went to the milk gate, lowing with disappointment when she slipped through and carefully closed it behind her. “Hettie will be here soon,” she assured them.

  Scourge didn’t budge as she approached. He might have been asleep.

  But wasn’t. A breeze tickled her ear. “Second choice, am I?”

  Jenn hoped no one noticed her start. “You’re very good at hiding,” she said, coming close. Scourge wasn’t merely larger than Wainn’s old pony, he loomed. “May I ride you? Please,” she added as his eyes snapped open, something red in their depths. She lifted the saddlebag. “I’ve breakfast for those at the farm. For your master.”

  The breeze turned chill. “I’ve no master.”

  He certainly had opinions. “Your rider, then,” Jenn corrected impatiently. “Bannan. Will you take me to him?”

  The great head lowered, flared nostrils snuffling at her neck and shoulder, lower still to nose the bag. “Where’s my breakfast?”

  “Not here.” Jenn put the bag behind her.

  “I like rabbits.” Suggestively.

  Her eyes widened. “You are not,” she retorted, “eating my rabbits. Ever.”

  Scourge jerked up his head to glare down his long nose. She glared back. Finally, the breeze in her ear whispered, “How shall I know which are yours?”

  Jenn paused. Tempted as she was to claim every one, she couldn’t. After all, she liked foxes too. And hawks. Rabbits were like each year’s piglets. Adorable, fun, and, unluckily for them, delicious. “Don’t eat the rabbits of Night’s Edge—of my meadow.” She owed them protection; they were foolishly bold in her company. “And . . . please don’t eat any rabbit while I’m watching,” she added meekly.

  He snorted; she took it for agreement and relaxed. “Will you let me ride?”

  “Breakfast. Mine.”

  The cows lowed in growing desperation. Jenn’s eyes wandered to the Ropps’ barn and she grinned. “How do you feel about cheese?”

  Scourge’s lips were like Wainn’s old pony’s, without the gray whiskers. The anticipatory tongue that licked those lips—dark red, narrow, and forked—was not.

  Jenn listened at the barn door. All quiet, except for the impatient cows. That was strange. Hettie should be shaking grain into the troughs with Devins and her mother, laughing about something as they prepared to milk. Cheffy and Alyssa had the chore of bringing the empty buckets, and those two couldn’t be quiet if they tried. Jenn shru
gged and pushed the door aside along its greased wood rail.

  Inside, the barn was cool and dim, the air redolent of fresh straw and sour milk. Milking stalls lined one wall, windows open to the lovely morning. Bunches of drying thistle flowers hung from the rafters, waiting to be pounded fine and used to curdle milk. Ripe cheese would be in the spring house, that being pressed under stones in the Ropps’ kitchen, but Jenn was after something else.

  Across from the stables, on the wall warmed by the sun all day, hung yesterday’s bags of curds, dripping whey into a lined trough. The trough tempted each spring’s set of piglets to extraordinary feats to escape their pen to reach it and Hettie was forever chasing them out. Just as well, Jenn thought, Wainn’s old pony wasn’t a clever piglet, or there’d be no safe apples.

  Jenn nodded politely to the Ropps’ house toad, squatting in a sunny patch. It puffed itself into an indignant ball, patently disapproving of their presence. She couldn’t help that.

  She’d taken a few steps inside, Scourge eagerly following, when voices made them stop. Well, she stopped and the not-horse bumped into her, but gently.

  “—who’s the father?” The far door burst open, letting in a broad swath of light and Covie Ropp.

  Hettie was close behind. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Don’t look at me!” This from Devins as he entered with them. The three stood, blinking in the relative dimness of the barn, not yet aware they weren’t alone. “She’s my sister!”

  “Stepsister. You wouldn’t be the first to cast eyes where it’s handy.”

  Hettie and Devins cried a dismayed “Mother!” at the same time.

  During this charged exchange, Jenn tried to edge back out the way they’d entered, but Scourge wasn’t moving. “Someone’s been rutting where they shouldn’t,” the breeze in her ear dark and amused. “My guess is here. Stables bring it out in people. I blame the cows.”

  “It wasn’t Devins,” Hettie’s voice cracked. “Or Roche. Can we leave it at that?”

  They’d notice her at any moment. Jenn tried to look small.

  “No!” More gently, “Dearest Heart, why weren’t you using the moon potion I gave you?”