A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Spotting Uncle Horst near the fountain, she beckoned urgently, relieved when he changed his path toward her. She sat on the rail and waited, as the breeze chuckled wickedly in her ear and a bee droned by.

  “Fair morning, Uncle,” she said as he neared. “Would you give me a leg up, please?”

  “Fair morning, Jenn.” Uncle Horst leaned the saddle he’d been carrying against the gate, hung the bridle and bags on it, then tilted his hat to consider Scourge. “Is something wrong with Wainn’s pony?”

  Jenn hopped from the gate to the ground and laid a confident hand on Scourge’s massive flank. His skin quivered, as if warning off a fly. “Bannan lent him to me,” she explained, dropping her hand to her side. “I’m bringing him breakfast. Not just his,” this quickly, in case Uncle Horst read some meaning she most adamantly didn’t intend he should. Or anyone else. “For Wyll and Tir as well.”

  “I see.” Which could, Jenn despaired, mean anything at all. His eyebrows rose. “I’ll help you with his tack. Where is it?”

  At the farm, of course. Jenn thought furiously. Hardly anyone used a saddle. There were but a handful in all of Marrowdell anyway; Horst had one for his gelding, the twins for working livestock in the hills, and the rest, the fancy ones brought from Avyo, had been impractical here. They’d been traded for more useful things before she was born. As for a bridle or halter? She doubted Scourge would accept one if she had it.

  She improvised. “He’s had special training.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Uncle Horst didn’t frown, but his long face grew serious. “Still, he’s no packhorse, nor a mount for someone used to ponies. If you want to ride, I’m happy to take you, Jenn Nalynn. Wait while I fetch Perrkin.”

  His gelding, who normally came trotting at the sight of Horst, could be seen peering from behind the shed at the end of the commons. He must share the cows’ opinion of Scourge.

  Two days ago—before so many truths intruded on her world—Jenn would have been offended at being treated like a child. Now, she found herself warmed by his honest concern and a little ashamed. “Thank you, Uncle,” she began, fighting what was, after all, childish disappointment. She could explore the path up the Spine another day, any day. It wasn’t as if she was leaving Marrowdell. Ever. “I—”

  A leg straightened, another curled, and in a bow more graceful than any mere man’s, Scourge lowered himself until his back was no higher than her shoulder.

  “That’s very special training,” Uncle Horst commented.

  “Isn’t it?” Jenn said brightly. Hands on his neck, she vaulted astride, Scourge heaving up beneath her as she settled on his back.

  Ancestors Named and Not, he was the size of a mountain. She hadn’t noticed before, being too busy with Wyll and the river. Catching her breath, she patted the saddlebags. “Time to deliver breakfast.”

  Uncle Horst had to remove his hat to look up at her. His hair was thin on top, she noticed with sudden concern and the creases around his eyes and mouth were deeper this morning than she remembered. When had he grown so much older?

  “Throw yourself off if he heads the wrong way,” he advised her. Scourge bent his neck around to stare at him. Uncle Horst stared back. “Show up without her,” he promised, “and it won’t be the ox we’ll roast at the harvest.” He sounded so grim she almost believed him.

  “We’ll be fine, Uncle,” Jenn replied, leaning forward to rub Scourge on the neck. A cloud of short brown hair was the result. Hair that stuck to her fingers. Hair she’d doubtless have over her skirt. “Ugh.”

  “Itchy,” said the breeze rather apologetically.

  “Say hello to our new farmers for me.” Uncle Horst opened the gate. Without further comment or hesitation, Scourge walked through, moving as though he carried uncooked eggs. The livestock in the commons settled for watching from a wary distance as his long legs swept her along the road she knew.

  To reach a road, Jenn thought eagerly, she’d never taken.

  She lifted her eyes to the rise of forest and meadow and bone-white stone across the valley.

  What would she see from its heights?

  The sun kissed Jenn’s toes, her knees, and most of her thighs as she rode, her skirt doing what skirts did in such situations. Since there was no one to see but the calves, who didn’t care, a pair of equally uninterested waterfowl, and whatever other birds flew by, Jenn didn’t care either. For a young lady her legs were, in Aunt Sybb’s opinion, scandalously tanned already, but you couldn’t help that, not if you forded a river daily and played in a meadow as often as you weeded the gardens.

  Riding Scourge, she could almost see over the hedge. If she dared Allin Emms’ trick, and rose to her feet on her mount’s back, she could. Why bother? What there was to see, other than ripening grain, old trees, and Bannan’s farm?

  The way to Night’s Edge.

  Had Wyll gone there yet? Had he seen?

  He hadn’t believed her, that their meadow had changed with him, become blackened and withered and dead.

  She wished she could forget.

  “So quiet.” The breeze, like Wyll’s but not, slipped from one ear to the other. “No questions?” Slyly. “I know the truthseer in ways his own mother didn’t.”

  Before Jenn could do more than blush, they reached the bend in the Tinkers Road. She looked for and found the opening in the trees. “That way!” she ordered, signaling the turn with her legs and hands as if she rode a real horse.

  Being nothing of the kind, Scourge stopped in his tracks. The breeze against her cheek was wordless and winter cold.

  “I just want to see what’s up there. We won’t be long.” Greatly daring, she drummed her bare heels against his ribs. “Please?”

  He shuddered, legs braced, ears flat. “Don’t ask me!” A wail of despair. “I beg you!”

  Leaves swirled around them as the trees leaned to listen. The air grew heavy and felt like storm, which wasn’t, Jenn thought with frustration, going to help anything, including the laundry. Perplexed, she stared at the path. Too narrow for a wagon. Mounted, she’d have to duck under some of the branches. Used, but not often. She could tell because the undergrowth had been kept clear, but runoff carved deep furrows in its red earth. Otherwise, the path was utterly ordinary. Except . . .

  Except how Wyll and now Scourge reacted to it.

  Or, a new curiosity, to something up there.

  Something they didn’t want her to see?

  Jenn settled on his back and dared a little pat. “We’d best go to the farm. They’ll want breakfast.”

  “Yes. Yes.” Scourge struck out at brisk, jolting walk, passing through the sunbeams that slanted through the forest.

  As Scourge wasn’t taking her where she wanted to go—she wouldn’t ask him to anyway, after hearing the dread in what he used as a voice—Jenn took Uncle Horst’s advice.

  She swung her leg over and slipped off.

  “Fool girl!” Scourge planted his hooves and tossed his head.

  “I won’t be long.” Before he could block her way, Jenn ran to the opening of the path. He half-reared, making a strangled sort of noise, but didn’t follow. She waved, feeling only slightly guilty. “Don’t forget to take the men their breakfast,” she told him cheerfully. Then she turned and started up the path.

  Bannan paused in the barn door, eyes drawn to the hill that bordered the Tinkers Road and walled this side of the valley. Bare stone, the color and smoothness of cream, rose from behind the line of trees. The morning sun revealed not a single imperfection, as if to warn against any attempt to walk that slope. At the height, the stone erupted in separate masses, swollen and curved, each girdled by the green of meadow and forest. No two masses were alike and, from this vantage, the largest three stood close, almost touching, sentinels against the sky.

  The path to that summit had tried to claim him, something he hadn’t dared mention to anyone, yet, let alone Tir. If no one else could see how the Tinkers Road flowed silver, what would they think if he said somethi
ng dark bled into it? That it had tried to lure him? That he’d almost been lost? Without a doubt, Tir would knock him on the head and drag him from Marrowdell. The villagers?

  No. What he’d seen was real, he’d swear to it, but he wouldn’t give them a dread that might be his alone. He needed to know more first. He’d hold Scourge to a full accounting, once the creature showed his long face. Bannan stretched and deliberately looked away from the hill to admire his mostly-new roof.

  Tir had gone inside, to brew more of his drink in lieu of breakfast. Feeling somewhat hollow himself, Bannan glanced toward the opening to the road. No sign of Jenn. Perhaps she’d not be able to keep her promise. Perhaps, he thought with rather more disappointment than breakfast warranted, she wouldn’t come today.

  It wasn’t as if they’d starve. They’d supplies from his wagon, plus what had come with Wyll yesterday. He’d learn to bake bread, once the oven was rebuilt. Biscuits in a fry pan, till then. Good campside food.

  Like chewing on bark, compared to the loaves from the Nalynn kitchen.

  It was early, Bannan reminded himself. Jenn would have chores of her own to do first. The garden being his next, he pushed through the tall grass to its supposed edge. There was a scythe among the shiny new tools in the wagon; they’d test its blade once the grass dried, later today. Well, he would. Bannan gave a rueful chuckle. He’d lost that bet on the ’stones the camp before Endshere. Tir wouldn’t let him forget who was to sweat over the scythe first, and, with the luck he’d had on the road, the plough and churn. Though without the ox, or a field of his own, or a milk cow, for that matter, he was safe for a while.

  The garden was a sea of lush foliage, doubtless all weeds. Still, Lorra Treff had said there’d been something planted this year. Bannan squinted, absently brushing grass seeds and spiderwebs from his arms, and grinned as he spotted promising color tucked here and there amid the greenery. Those had to be pumpkins. And long white pods that must be beans. Near at hand a veritable thicket of brambles held tempting clusters of dark blue berries. Despite his care, thorns snagged his skin and clothing when he reached for some; all the while little birds fluttered through with no trouble at all. His eyes followed one enviously.

  He found himself looking toward the break in the hedge, where a twisted figure stood alone, intent on something beyond.

  Wyll, awake after all.

  Bannan disentangled himself from the maze of branches, happy not to bleed in the process, and tossed the berries into his mouth. They were . . . for a moment he closed his eyes in rapture as he chewed and swallowed, using his tongue to pry tiny seeds from between his teeth. The rich heady taste was familiar indeed. Peggs’ pie. The garden held summerberries. His garden.

  He licked the last trace of sweet from his fingers as he approached Wyll. The dragon wore yesterday’s clothes, rumpled from sleep. His hair badly needed a comb Bannan doubted he knew how to use.

  Without turning his head, Wyll spoke first. “Jenn Nalynn is crossing the river.”

  Bannan didn’t question his knowledge. “And Tir’s boiling the kettle,” he said easily. “We’ll have tea ready for breakfast.” He stood beside the other, and looked out, seeing nothing more interesting than the narrow path between grain and trees. “I’m told that’s Night’s Edge.” By Scourge, which he didn’t think he should mention to Wyll, unsure of their truce.

  Scourge had called it something else, too. The way home.

  “Night’s Edge is the girl’s meadow,” Wyll corrected. “Past the field.” He lifted his good arm to point down the path. “It’s been our meeting place since her birth. She wants me to build a house there.”

  “I heard.”

  “Where we are to live as husband and wife.”

  “If she doesn’t change her mind,” Bannan observed pleasantly. Maybe he was the fool Scourge thought, but he’d be an honest one. “People do, my friend. You should be prepared.”

  Wyll turned. “I can only build it,” he replied. His brown eyes caught sparks from the sun—or from some silvering in their depths. “Perhaps you should be prepared as well, truthseer. Come. Let me show you where we’ll live.”

  Bannan followed, more than happy to explore. Rows of grain rose shoulder-high beside them, heavy tops bent and whispering without a breeze. No birds troubled it. Nothing moved, not a fly or busy ant, between stalks so evenly planted as to amaze. The poor ox had died of his trespass; the man and dragon stayed clear.

  Wyll didn’t pause. Bannan marveled anew how each slow step and drag, each carelessly powerful thrust and twist, moved that ruined body with no other help.

  Marveled, then abruptly understood. He’d been right to be reminded of the weary-eyed soldiers who hobbled Vorkoun’s streets, their crutches held like lovers. The dragon moved too confidently for his injuries to be new. “You weren’t maimed by Jenn Nalynn,” Bannan accused. “What happened to you?”

  “I led my kind in war,” Wyll answered without turning or hesitation. “In gratitude, they broke my wings and let me fall.”

  “Because you lost.” His mouth twisted as he thought of the marches and Ansnor, the years and blood spent for naught.

  “Lost? No.”

  Taken aback, the man fell silent, as perhaps the dragon intended.

  The morning sun pushed the shade of the old trees aside. It had already dried the lightly trampled grass underfoot. Wyll’s steps left rough smears and gouges. Avoiding those, Bannan’s bare feet found themselves in the tracks of someone smaller, someone who’d come this way often and alone.

  The notion of stepping where Jenn had stepped washed away all thoughts of war. Bannan found himself inordinately pleased.

  Lila. Oh, she’d laugh if she knew. Her little brother, who’d proclaimed himself—often and loudly—above such folly, to act like the worst moon-eyed, daft-headed . . . and not even care.

  Wyll reached the end of the grain and stopped as if he’d struck a wall. His hand flailed for support and Bannan hurried to take it, wincing at the other’s grip while he steadied him on his good leg. “What’s wrong?”

  “Night’s Edge!”

  Bannan lifted his eyes, and gasped.

  The grain field curved away toward the river in a smooth line, leaving them standing in the open and exposed. Left, the line of old trees continued, hiding the Tinkers Road and framing the long lowermost slope of the Spine. Ahead, another rise of the naked stone flowed down to the valley floor at his right.

  Heart’s Blood. His little farm lay where the two came closest together, like a finger curled toward a thumb.

  But it was what else lay between that had stopped Wyll and made the truthseer doubt his own eyes for the first time.

  “There’s no meadow here,” he protested.

  There—there at some distance stood more old trees, healthy and green. They made a narrow band of forest, wrapped around the nearer of the pale hills.

  Here, at their feet? Everything was dead and withered, save for a patch in the center where a torch might have seared and blackened the surface. Winter, before any snow, without any cold. Even winter held promise, Bannan thought desperately, but there were no pods of seeds hanging from these flower stalks, no buds on the little shrubs.

  Wyll pulled free of his hold, his twisted foot dragging through dead leaves. The smell of rot drifted up, thick and cloying.

  Not winter. Bannan pressed his forearm over his nose. Something worse. “What did this?”

  The dragon didn’t answer until he stood where the ground had been scorched.

  When he turned to Bannan, his eyes were brown and full of dread.

  “Jenn Nalynn.”

  Bannan’s heart hammered in his chest. The truth, but . . . “The wishing?”

  “It happened here, but this—I fled before this.”

  “‘Fled?’”

  Ignoring the question, Wyll frowned. “She told me Night’s Edge had changed. Had died. But why destroy it? Was she so angry at me?”

  “Angry women,” Bannan pointed out wit
h what he thought commendable calm, “throw things. Yell. Make life miserable for their brothers. They don’t turn a meadow into—” What did he see here? “—despair.”

  A flicker of surprise crossed Wyll’s face, then something softened in his eyes. “She couldn’t have known,” he said, with such profound relief Bannan wondered what the dragon had believed. “The result remains,” more sternly. “Her feelings have grown stronger. Such matter to expectation, but never have I seen this. Those of Marrowdell were fortunate it wasn’t worse.”

  Worse? “What do you mean?”

  “How could the sei intend this?” Realizing the dragon spoke to himself, the truthseer held very still. “With no contrary expectations to dispute hers . . . if her strength grows . . .” Wyll remembered his audience. “Turn-born rarely agree,” with a flash of silver, “for which all are grateful.”

  Bannan latched on to what he could understand. “Jenn wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “She wouldn’t want to,” Wyll said heavily, which wasn’t reassuring at all.

  Not considering where they stood.

  And what remained of Night’s Edge.

  Somewhere new. Somewhere different. Jenn hurried, her steps quick and light, tingling with the joy of it all. She wanted as much time as she could on the very top, this first visit. There’d be a wondrous view from there; she just knew it. And a meadow as lovely as Night’s Edge. Lovelier, if that were possible. It could be. There would surely be rabbits, this time of year. As well Scourge hadn’t wanted to come.

  She didn’t like to think how Night’s Edge had looked after the wishing. She didn’t want to go there, not until Wyll fixed it. He would; something else she knew. He’d make their special place the way it had been and should be, before he built his house there.

  Though the Spine was steep, its path politely folded back on itself time and again, each sharp bend offering discovery to the traveler. The air was calm and cool, the rare breeze free of opinion. The trees leaned so close their branches touched overhead and what sunlight came through dappled the ground, inviting a game. With a grin, Jenn jumped from bright spot to bright spot.