A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

“I insisted we leave, at once, but no one took me seriously. Everyone was exhausted and heartsore. They told me to be grateful. That the Ancestors were kind and generous and I should be properly Beholden.

  “How could I be? I was terrified. When nightmares drove the other families away, I claimed they were warnings. When Wainn remained unconscious, I blamed Marrowdell, not his injuries. By the first harvest,” a grimace, “I’d made myself such a nuisance, the village voted to tell Dusom to shut me up or send me away.”

  There was fire in Peggs’ eyes. “No Nalynn would do that!”

  “No Nalynn did.” Kydd smiled slightly. “But most of the rest. I didn’t blame them. I’d no evidence, no proof. Life was hard enough; they couldn’t accept what made it easier might be tainted. Of course I couldn’t abandon my family, so I pretended to recant, to be content, all the while ranting in private to my poor, patient brother.”

  He’d been like Riss, Jenn thought. Unhappy, but bound to stay. Worse, since he’d been afraid too.

  Kydd continued, “Then, one night, I translated an Ansnan history text that described a terrible cataclysm in the north. It claimed priests wishing a path to the stars had brought down their wrath. Only a few escaped to flee south. They were named the star-touched, for though they were clearly mad, they were said to possess real magic.

  “Magic. The north. And a cataclysm. I concluded it must have taken place here, in Marrowdell,” he told them, eyes bright with remembered triumph. “The hills bear scars of the right age. I found what I believed were ruins.”

  Ruins Bannan had seen. Amazed, Jenn barely kept still.

  “I had proof at last, that this place was too dangerous for us. I presented it to Duson and argued there could be another disaster at any time. He agreed with me, for once. Then,” the beekeeper’s eyes softened, “my brother asked me two questions. If we dared move Wainn, where could we go? And, if we died here, by magic or winter, what better place for our bones than with Larell’s and Ponicce’s?

  “The answer to both was nowhere else. We were stuck here, trap or not, and from then on I stifled my fears. I waited and watched, expecting disaster.”

  “How dreadful!” Peggs took Kydd’s hand in both of hers. “But—you don’t feel that way now. How did you—what changed your mind?”

  “The tinkers arrived. They . . .” he paused, his gaze seeming to turn inward, his mouth working without sound.

  As if the words twisted away from him. “What did they do?” Jenn asked uneasily. “Kydd?”

  His face cleared. “They were happy to see us,” the beekeeper replied, which might have been the answer he’d first tried to give, or not. “They explained Marrowdell had been made by those who cared about the welfare of the lost or exiled, to be a new home for those with peace in their hearts. Best of all, Master Riverstone was able to heal Wainn.”

  The youngest Uhthoff rolled over to gaze up into the apple tree. “So I could tell you, Uncle. That Marrowdell was a good place and safe and we should stay.”

  Kydd reached out his free hand to tussle his nephew’s hair. “The first words from your mouth.” He ducked his head for a moment, as if overcome, then lifted it, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Marrowdell gave you back to us. I’d been wrong to fear its magic. Since then,” a shy smile, “I’ve been entranced.”

  Wainn, speaking out. Wen, refusing to. “Because Marrowdell is magic,” Jenn said, eyeing the apple trees, sky, and ground suspiciously. But they remained ordinary.

  Like Kydd, Bannan had seen Marrowdell’s magic right away. Well, she’d lived here her whole life and hadn’t, which surely proved she wasn’t magic at all. Greatly relieved, she picked up her tea.

  “Well, then,” Peggs said, so firmly Jenn paused, cup at her lips, to give her sister a worried look. “How do we make it stop bothering Jenn?” As if “it” was lumpy flour or mud on the floor.

  Wainn frowned. “She should stop bothering Marrowdell.”

  Kydd frowned. “That’s hardly—”

  “It’s Jenn Nalynn’s fault,” the younger Uhthoff insisted, uncharacteristically stern.

  “It isn’t!” her sister protested.

  “He’s right.” Jenn put the cup down, her hand unsteady. Wen had said she’d put the village in danger. That she’d tried to go where she shouldn’t. “The wishing worked because I did it. Because of—” she couldn’t say the word, “—something about me.”

  “Yes, Jenn,” Kydd agreed, his voice gentle. “I believe so.”

  “And that horrid pebble,” Jenn said miserably. “It’s my fault too.”

  “I see no other answer,” he agreed, his voice gentle. “After all Marrowdell’s done for us, I can’t believe it suddenly means you harm. The pebble—or what it represents—must have something to do with your—” Peggs nudged him, “—special nature.”

  “You mean magic.” She sighed. They were wearing her down with their belief, preposterous as it seemed. “I try to find something safer to wish for,’” she admitted. “Every night I try. But it’s getting harder.”

  Her sister stroked her hair. “Sunset’s the worst.”

  “Sunset.” The beekeeper’s gaze sharpened. “When the toads hide.”

  “Toads?” Peggs repeated blankly, so like Aunt Sybb Jenn would have laughed, but couldn’t. The toads had come to her rescue, but they hadn’t been happy with her. Not at all.

  “Marrowdell’s sunset is important,” Kydd said. “The toads aren’t the only ones who avoid it.”

  Wainn yawned. “Because sunset shows what’s real.”

  “If you’re lucky,” his uncle qualified. “And they let you see them. At first, I couldn’t, unless Wainn was with me. Even now, I rarely catch more than a glimpse. They’re careful.”

  “Who are?” Peggs’ eyes widened.

  “We aren’t alone,” Jenn explained. “Bannan told me. In his letters.” Which was no reason to blush, but she felt her cheeks grow warm anyway. “He says sunset’s when he can see all manner of wonderful creatures.” She’d tried to look for them herself, only to be disappointed. Lately she’d felt too ill to bother. Maybe she should hide at sunset too. At least then no one would see her discomfort.

  “He sees the truth,” Kydd nodded, unaware of the troubled turn of her thoughts. “Marrowdell is home to a host of other settlers, Dear Hearts, small and secretive. Some stay near us, as if we give them purpose. I believe—I hope—we have one as well, whatever it may be, that lets us earn Marrowdell’s gifts.”

  Toads who traded pebbles for eggs. Guardians for the grain.

  And dragons. Not so small, but very secret. What was their purpose?

  “Wisp,” she said uncomfortably, feeling a chill in the lengthening shadows. “He’s looked after me.”

  “Yes,” Kydd agreed, trading glances with Peggs. “At first, we all wondered that Radd let you go off on your own. Horst wanted to follow you, but Radd wouldn’t permit him. He swore Marrowdell protected you.”

  Wisp’s purpose.

  His duty.

  She was that to him?

  Jenn had thought the agonizing emptiness at sunset was the worst she could feel. That learning the world wasn’t what she thought, nor was she, the most frightening. Not so.

  Now she must question a friendship as much part of her life as the sky or ground below it. The words were like slivers of ice in her mouth, or was it turning cold again? “He didn’t have to be my friend to do that. Why did he?”

  Kydd lifted his hands helplessly. Peggs shook her head.

  Wainn bent his neck and regarded her upside down. “You became his.”

  About to object this was no answer, Jenn hesitated. Wainn blinked peacefully. She’d learned to pay attention to everything he said; it always made sense, if not right away.

  She had become Wisp’s friend, hadn’t she? However it had started, whatever Wisp’s reason for being with her, their friendship was real. In her heart, she knew it was. Jenn found herself able to smile, a little. “Quite the friend I turned out to be,”
she said weakly. “Look what he is now.”

  “Still yours,” Peggs assured her.

  Despite her so-called magic. It’d be easier to believe if she could see it. An extra finger or toe. Better yet, a rainbow of feathers in her hair, or hair that stayed clean.

  In stories, people with magic were powerful and wise. She was neither, though admittedly she could be willful. Jenn sighed to herself. Aunt Sybb wouldn’t approve of sulking over the state of things just because it displeased her. But she hadn’t wanted magic. All she’d ever wanted was to leave Marrowdell and see the world.

  Why wouldn’t Marrowdell let her go?

  Peggs, Kydd, and Wainn waited, patient and kind. A bee droned by, impatient and busy. Twilight was upon them. Shadows crossed their legs and cooled their toes.

  Finally, Jenn held out her hands, palm up. “What should I do?”

  Kydd ran his fingers through his hair, a rueful look on his face. “I wish I knew. My learning proved worse than useless here. That’s why I tore up my books and used them in the hives.”

  “After I read them,” Wainn pointed out. “I have all the words, Uncle, if you ever want them again.”

  Now that was magic worth having, Jenn thought enviously.

  The beekeeper smiled. “For which I thank you.” His smile faded as he met Peggs’ eyes, then Jenn’s. “You trusted me and came to me for help, Dear Hearts. I’m sorrier than I can say to disappoint you. Perhaps the tinkers—?”

  “Don’t be sorry.” The youngest Uhthoff rolled over to regard him. “No one can help Jenn Nalynn now. It’s her fault.”

  Peggs uttered a soft cry of distress; Kydd’s face darkened. “Nephew!”

  “It’s all right,” Jenn said quickly, though her heart plummeted in her chest and it wasn’t. It wasn’t right at all. “Wainn’s just—just being—” Wainn, which should mean gentle and perceptive and often confusing, not this, not terrifying. “—honest.”

  “Honest or not, that’s no way to speak to a friend come for our aid,” the beekeeper snapped. “I expect better of you, young man.”

  She couldn’t remember Kydd raising his voice in anger, least of all to his beloved nephew, but Wainn paid no attention. He looked directly at her, his eyes unfocused as though he listened to what only he could hear.

  “Help yourself, Jenn Nalynn,” he told her. “Your chance comes at the Great Turn. Seize it. Only you can.”

  Having made this startling pronouncement, the youngest Uhthoff jumped to his feet with a boyish grin. “I’m going swimming,” he said cheerfully.

  “Wait—” He couldn’t leave yet. Not when he seemed to know more than anyone.

  Wainn took her outstretched hand in both of his and went to one knee beside her. He brought his face to hers until their cheeks touched and all she could see of him was a brown eye framed by thick dark lashes. He smelled of roses.

  “You found the way no others dared,” he whispered, his breath warm on her neck. “Take it again when the time comes, Jenn Nalynn. Marrowdell will show you. Take it again and be your magic. Be brave and of good heart.”

  He lightly kissed her ear, then pulled away. “We believe in you.” With that, the remarkable Wainn Uhthoff rose, gave a short unself-conscious bow, and walked into the growing shadows. To swim, presumably.

  Jenn held very still, for once understanding all too well. Marrowdell expected her to go back up the Spine. She certainly didn’t want to do that again.

  Other than the treacherous part of her that did.

  “We believe in you too,” Peggs said, having heard only Wainn’s final words. “You aren’t on your own, Dearest Heart, and never will be. You have me. And Poppa and Aunt Sybb. Wyll—”

  “And me,” Kydd jumped in.

  Peggs sent him a warm glance, then looked to Jenn. “You’ve us on your side, dear sister, and hope. Wen told you, didn’t she? Wish for what’s safe and wait. Be patient. You have what you need inside you—this magic. You can do whatever you must. I believe it.” And, as if she had magic of her own, warm yellow porch lights began to wink through the trees, lit one by one. Marrowdell, settling itself for the night. Jenn heard soft voices and the lowing of the cows as they came to be milked. Someone sang. A lovely voice, a quiet, wistful song.

  Riss Nahamm, Jenn thought, waiting for Horst, wishing her life and loves were different. For the first time, she felt envious. Life and love seemed so simple. She had to worry about magic and pebbles and . . . Help herself. Which meant, like Riss, keeping a secret. Only hers was dangerous. She couldn’t let her sister or anyone, especially Wyll who would be angry, know she had to go back. They’d try to stop her.

  Or worse, try to come with her.

  They mustn’t, she vowed, feeling much older than almost nineteen. The Spine wasn’t safe.

  Wainn was right. She was on her own.

  “Jenn?”

  She’d been silent too long. “You are the best sister, Peggs,” Jenn said, finding a smile. “You’re right, of course. Everything will work itself out.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” Peggs countered. “We don’t know what’s happening to you or why.”

  “This is Marrowdell,” Jenn insisted. “Kydd’s right. We shouldn’t doubt our own home.”

  The beekeeper looked as unconvinced as her sister. His eyes searched her face. “This sunset business will likely worsen as we approach the eclipse,” he commented. “Covie has a stomach remedy. It might lessen your discomfort.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Jenn assured him. Their concern warmed her heart, it was true, but at what cost? They couldn’t help; they shouldn’t try. And shouldn’t they be happy? The moon was rising, the orchard peaceful and secluded.

  The perfect place for lovers to meet. If only they’d notice each other more than her problem . . .

  She wished they would, with all her heart.

  The air softened and warmed, rich with the scent of roses. Her sister and Kydd moved perceptibly closer within the dappled shadow of the apple tree, their fingers intertwined, eyes on one another.

  Which didn’t mean she’d done something magic, Jenn thought with only the tiniest twinge. They were, after all, in love. She got to her feet, brushing off her skirt “I promised Poppa I’d stop in at the mill on my way home—” she began truthfully, since she also needed to pick up Bannan’s latest letter, Tir having taken his supper there.

  Both waited for her to finish with distracted, if fond, impatience.

  “—I’ll tell Aunt Sybb you’ll be home later,” she finished.

  Jenn’s smile faded once she left the pair. She walked by the still-busy hives without noticing the bees that bumped into her. She stepped out on the road without feeling the cool earth underfoot.

  Distracted herself, but oddly, not by magic or pebbles.

  She should, she decided rather desperately, have kissed Bannan Larmensu when she had the chance.

  With each flash of the knife, the shavings thinned, curling as they drifted to the floor. Bannan rubbed his weary eyes with the back of his hand, but didn’t straighten from his crouch over the wood. Almost finished.

  Carving had passed many a tedious hour at camp. Some whittled, eyes on nothing at all, tinder accumulating between their boots. Others shaped arrows or walking sticks or forks. A few, like Tir, took dark pleasure in crafting faces to use as targets.

  No words. No names. Nothing the enemy might find and pass to informants in Vorkoun. Regardless, everything went into the last fire before breaking camp, with the same care devoted to burying refuse and scuffing footprints. Anything to conceal numbers and intent, to hide.

  Their enemy, naturally, did the same. In the marches, such was life.

  A life, Bannan reminded himself, he no longer lived. A man without enemies was free to leave his mark in the world. Encouraged to do so, in fact.

  He rubbed his thumb over the edge of the rose. By lamplight, it looked well enough. Returning to the initials beside it, he pressed the little knife carefully into the wood, deepen
ing the J’s lower curve. Next and last, the N.

  There.

  A moth fluttered to perch on one leg of the overturned bench, its head bent to examine his work.

  “What do you think?” Curlicues had proved beyond his skill, but he’d done, he thought, a fair job, especially on the heart that held both rose and initials. Tradition held that to be the most important part anyway.

  The moth reached into its satchel and solemnly removed a parchment no larger than a shaving. With an infinitesimal claw, it scratched away at that tiny surface, giving him an affronted look when he tried to peek at what it wrote. “Your pardon,” he apologized, retreating to a more polite distance.

  If it recorded him as possessed by hope and dread in distractingly equal measures, he couldn’t deny it. Carving a sigil of love was one thing. To do so under a bench? A coward’s choice, surely. What was he thinking? Ask Jenn Nalynn to sit on it and rejoice in private? “Lila needn’t know,” he advised the moth, though he’d no idea who or what read its little reports.

  To be fair, his sister always understood what truly mattered; as often as not before he did.

  Tease him over it? Oh, that’d she’d relish.

  The moth finished and flew away. Bannan set the bench safely on its legs, hiding his love, and blew out his lamp. Night was settling around the edges of the farm, its shadows tucking in the trees and flowers. Something dipped and dove over the garden.

  Something that giggled.

  Smiling, Bannan waved a greeting, then yawned.

  He went inside, leaving the door ajar; the village habit and a courtesy to his house toad, who was later than usual coming in tonight. Shrugging off his leather vest, the evening having turned chilly, he hung it on its peg, then climbed the ladder to the loft. A gentle breeze came through the open window, fragrant and cool.

  Bannan readied himself for a good night’s rest in what was, at last, a proper bed. The mattress might be straw, but it boasted imported silk sheets and two thistledown pillows. The sheets and pillowcases were slightly worn and bore the initials of Lila’s sons; he valued them more for that.

  The truthseer ran his fingers across the headboard. The wood from the wagon was rough, but could be, Tir had claimed, sanded and oiled to a fine finish.