A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Perhaps carved . . .

  He shook his head. Not yet.

  Jenn Nalynn’s latest letter lay on the pillow, waiting to be reread. He took it to the window, tilting the paper to catch the faint remaining light, though he knew every word.

  Dear Bannan

  To my shame, I used to look forward to the harvest and my birthday with such selfish joy I didn’t mind that it also meant Aunt Sybb would leave us for the winter. I confessed as much to Poppa today, while we swept the raceway. I thought he’d be disappointed in me, but he wasn’t. He said it had made it easier for Aunt Sybb to go, seeing me happy.

  How can I be happy now? I’m not that girl anymore. Everything’s complicated, right down to the welcome feast. Davi’s roasting your ox and wants me to thank you. I can’t bring myself to do that, since your animal’s dead because of Marrowdell. Because this place isn’t like the rest of the world.

  The world I’d hoped to see. Imagine it, Bannan. I could have met your sister, and seen Vorkoun for myself. Stood on every one of Avyo’s great bridges and heard seabirds on the Sweet Sea. Taken the old caravan road to Mellynne and beyond.

  I shouldn’t write all this. Aunt Sybb would say “don’t let regrets tarnish the future” and she’s right. But it eases my heart to share mine, as I hope sharing with me about Lila and your life has eased yours.

  Whatever my future holds, I shall face it. I take your courage as my measure, Bannan Truthseer, and vow to do what’s best for those I love, as you have.

  For that, for your example and the warmth of your friendship, I have no trouble thanking you at all.

  Jenn

  There was nothing on the other side.

  “Dearest Heart, you’re most welcome.” Bannan pressed the letter to his lips, then folded it carefully. Little wonder the air was chill tonight; Jenn was troubled, despite her brave words, and he wished with all his heart he was with her, right now, kissing any regrets from her lips.

  Which, however delightful a task, wouldn’t help. He was part of what troubled her. The image of the dead meadow swam behind his eyes, a reminder Jenn Nalynn was no ordinary young woman. He risked more than losing her, if the dragon was right. He risked them all.

  He kept her letters beneath his pillow, wrapped together in a square of faded yellow linen. Lila’d given him the token the day of their Blessed parents’ internment in the Larmensu ossuary, saying not a word about it, then or since. He’d recognized the fabric as from the dress their mother had worn out to the gardens and the stables, and to play with her children. To the precious scrap, Lila had clipped the plain and sturdy brooch their father had worn when working around the estate, the elder Larmensu more at ease dressed like any stablehand than the lord of an estate. Don’t forget who they were, those gifts said. And he hadn’t.

  Do what’s best for those we love, she’d said.

  And he would.

  Tossing the pillow aside, Bannan took out the bundle, unfastened the brooch, and added Jenn’s latest. Making sure it was securely pinned once more, he went to the chest at the foot of his bed, opened it, and laid the bundle gently inside.

  He’d sent his reply with Tir. Done what was best for Jenn Nalynn.

  Knowing that made it no easier to fall asleep.

  Jenn climbed into bed that night, and did her best to think, not about magic or pebbles or dire warnings, but about safe and, above all, ordinary things. Maple candy came to mind. The unpleasant but needful taste of Covie’s remedy, though that was too close to thinking of stomach aches and sunsets, so she thought instead, urgently, about the prickle of straw between her toes—

  “You’re in bed? I thought you’d be up writing. Did you light the candle for me?” Without waiting for an answer, Peggs went to the window and reached for a rose. Cupping a blossom in one careful hand, she took a long appreciative sniff. “What a night, Jenn. I told Kydd how very brave I thought he’d been to stay for his family when he was so afraid of Marrowdell. Isn’t it all amazing? Magic and old stories . . . I’m sure you’ll be fine. He thinks so too. And did you see the moon? It was astonishing. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen.” She began twirling around the room on her toes. “Only a day till everyone comes,” she sang dreamily. “Only a day until the harvest.” Her voice rose, “Then only four more,” a twirl, just avoiding the end of the bed, “till our weddings! And the end of your curse, of course!”

  “Hush,” Jenn chided grumpily. “You’ll wake Aunt Sybb.”

  Peggs stopped, fingers over her well-kissed and smiling mouth, eyes aglow.

  Her own eyes felt like gravel. Jenn flopped over on her stomach. “As for letters, I’m finished with them,” she informed her sister. “And tired.”

  “Your pardon. Good night, then, Dearest Heart.” Her sister hummed, but quietly, as she changed into her nightdress, then brushed her hair.

  Jenn rolled on her side. “I’ve nothing to say in a letter,” she insisted, “that won’t wait.”

  Peggs plumped her pillow. “Most reasonable.”

  Jenn flung herself on her back, arms outspread, and stared at the roof beams. “You think I should write.”

  Her sister blew out the candle and slipped between the sheets. “Move over. What I think isn’t the question. What will they think, if you don’t reply?”

  Jenn rolled once more to give Peggs her share of the mattress, and muttered, “I don’t care what they think. Men are a bother. Except Kydd and Wainn,” she added hastily. “And Poppa.” She drew a breath to continue the list.

  “Go to sleep.” A quiet chuckle. “Dream of dumplings.”

  “Warm, with butter and bits of bacon.”

  “There you go. I’ll make some tomorrow.”

  Jenn listened to Peggs’ peaceful breathing, barely louder than the crickets outside. She tried to think of butterflies and sunshine.

  Letters.

  Letters only made things worse.

  Wyll’s had been waiting on the window seat.

  be careful be careful be careful

  Do not speak to Strange persons when They arrive

  I will protect you and Always yours Be

  What did that mean? On the surface, someone new might be arriving. Being Wyll, she thought it more likely he admonished her against talking to Bannan and Tir at the harvest, which wasn’t at all necessary or nice.

  As for Bannan’s . . . When she’d collected it from Tir, for once the former guard hadn’t teased her.

  He’d somehow known.

  Her hand crept under her pillow, fingertips finding the cool smoothness of paper.

  Dearest Heart

  Forgive me if it slips out when next we meet. In the certain privacy of my thoughts, I call you by such tender names and imagine you smile. Yet a courtship by letter is no substitute for the trust and joyful knowledge gained from time spent together. I cherish every word you’ve written me over these past days. I do not count them as promises.

  As hope, yes. I dare hold that in my heart. I burn with it.

  Sweet Jenn, I beg you this once, do not reply. Let me hope with reckless abandon a while longer. Know that if you choose Wyll, I’ll be the first to step forward to wish you both every happiness.

  Know that I am here, if you choose otherwise.

  Bannan

  Both loved her.

  Neither could help.

  Neither should try.

  The next morning, when Tir came to breakfast, Jenn Nalynn had no letters for him to take.

  Wyll laid out his clothes, then awkwardly lowered himself to his mossy bed. Another night.

  He detested night.

  Night was dampness and chill. And danger. Nyphrit dared his door once he lowered his guard and slept. They were met and dispatched neatly by the little cousin to be sure, but that they dared approach at all . . .

  The vermin had learned his new weakness. He could no more harm the vile nuisances than he could break Bannan’s letter-writing fingers, satisfying as that might have been. The girl’s expectation held him fr
om worse than spilling ink.

  Small and weak, nyphrit. In numbers, they were a threat not to ignore.

  A moth fluttered in through his door, evading the toad’s hopeful lunge with a flick of its wings. The dragon eyed it suspiciously. ~ There’s nothing newsworthy here. Be gone. ~

  Instead, it settled itself on the seat of his discarded trousers. ~ I bring tidings, elder brother. ~

  The toad shifted to keep one bulbous eye on the moth, but wisely stayed silent.

  Wyll, being more sore than curious, didn’t bother to move or answer. He’d stood too much today, helping Tir and Bannan repair the larder. Why they wanted to store food in the ground was beyond him, but having such a store nearby was itself a pleasant prospect. Tir had given him a knowing look and suggested Bannan order a lock. He was welcome to do so. The dragon had no doubt he could open it.

  The moth took a scroll from its satchel and waved it delicately. ~ Are you not interested, elder brother? ~

  What interested Wyll, of a sudden, was the moth itself. He realized he couldn’t tell if he’d seen this one before, or seen only this one; unlike little cousins, moths looked and sounded the same. At the turn—he had no idea what they became, truth be told. The Verge didn’t hold their like, so he hadn’t cared.

  Nor had he cared why they collected their tidbits of gossip. Now . . . now he wondered.

  Wondering, the dragon pushed with his good hand and arm until he sat up. ~ Tell me your news. ~

  The moth unrolled its scroll. ~ It is not mine, elder brother, ~ the small thing demurred. Reading his scowl correctly, it hurried on, toes fussing along the scroll’s margin, large eyes dipping to read. ~ ‘Your penance remains.’ ~

  That voice.

  The toad cowered, eyes sunk into its head.

  Those words. Wyll’s blood froze. ~ What are you? ~

  ~ ‘Keep her from harm,’ ~ the moth read in a sei’s unforgettable voice. ~ ‘Your penance remains. Only you may know the truth.’ ~

  ~ That’s why I’m here, like this. That’s what I’m doing! ~ He dared rail against it, when he couldn’t against the sei. “I know my duty! I’ve set a guard. I’ve warned her— ~

  The moth might not have heard. ~ ‘Your penance remains. Ensure our peace, so long as she is as she is. Then, your penance will be complete.’ ~

  ~ ‘Is as she is?’ What does that mean? ~ he demanded, desperate. ~ Alive? Dead? I don’t understand! ~ He scrambled to his knee, arm outstretched. ~ Tell me! ~

  ~ ‘Remember. At the Great Turn, all is possible.’ ~ With that, the moth rolled the parchment and tucked it back in its satchel. Its wings twitched.

  ~ Wait! ~ The dragon threw himself forward, scattering moss and clothing and stacks of words. Crystal cracked as he fell, hard, the moth squeezing through his fingers and away. “Please!” He heard himself beg in his man’s voice and closed his lips in shame.

  The valiant little cousin leapt, too late. The moth disappeared into the night.

  The moth that spoke for the sei. As a sei.

  The moth that wasn’t a moth at all.

  Wyll curled into a morose ball, heedless of the damp from the broken crystal, of the mess.

  The Great Turn. When all was possible. When what was possible? What was the girl to be?

  They played games, the sei.

  He hadn’t thought they played them with Jenn Nalynn.

  The dragon snarled in impotent fury.

  Nyphrit slunk away in the dark.

  EIGHTEEN

  “ONE RARELY SEES such devotion to hemming.”

  Jenn glanced up at Aunt Sybb. “I want to do a good job,” she said. She eased her grip on the needle, surprised to find her hand cramped and sore.

  “There’s good, Dear Heart,” her aunt replied serenely, settling herself in her brother’s rocking chair after a cautious glance beneath in case of toads, her hands on a paper-wrapped bundle she’d brought from the parlor, “and good enough.”

  Her finest needlework might be more than the hem on a dish towel required, Jenn admitted to herself. “I’m trying to keep busy,” she explained. Today, the last and final before the harvest, was proving to be the longest she could remember. She’d done her chores—and some of Peggs’—with extra attention, then swept the mill floors until their father, normally pleased to have her underfoot, suggested she help her sister instead. Which she’d tried to do, but Peggs, for some reason, had picked today to clean out the stove and scrub that floor, humming happily all the while.

  Which wasn’t magic, but might be magic’s fault.

  Magic itself was proving decidedly uncooperative. Kydd hadn’t believed the words and tokens from his book had mattered, that she’d somehow wished Wisp into Wyll by herself. So this morning Jenn tried wishing a dish dry, to no avail. Next, she’d looked their house toad in its limpid brown eyes and made a supreme effort to wish it wings.

  The toad had fallen asleep.

  It was all most discouraging. How was she supposed to accomplish something magical five days from now, if she couldn’t put wings on a toad or dry a dish?

  As for wishing at people, which she apparently could do? After last night, she’d not do that again, thank you, especially not at people she knew and loved. It wasn’t fair, for one thing. It wasn’t, she was quite sure, at all proper. She didn’t need to consult Aunt Sybb to know what she’d say, if their dear aunt could bear to discuss magic in the first place. “Do nothing you’ll recall with shame.” She’d also say, “Now, Jenn Nalynn, how would you like that done to you?”

  Though the latter had usually been about wearing Peggs’ last clean shirtwaist or making faces at Roche.

  So no wishing at people, a resolution Jenn feared she’d made too late. If she didn’t know how she did whatever she did—if she did anything at all—how could she know what she’d already done? Could she really be sure what anyone said or felt or did around her had been their idea and not her wish?

  Her life hadn’t been the same since Wisp became Wyll. His hadn’t either, of course, and she was truly sorry about that, but the more she’d thought about magic itself, the more it’d seemed the wishing and that morning had been the start of it all. Hadn’t she’d wanted to have Wisp with her always, more clearly and powerfully than she’d ever wanted anything before?

  There’d been another moment like that, she thought, glancing at her aunt with guilty pride. The haggard, worn look of days past was gone completely and not even powder muted the healthy glow of the older woman’s cheeks. Her eyes shone like gems.

  And hadn’t she wanted, more than anything, for her aunt and Tir to be free of their nightmares?

  Another saying came to mind. “A person of good character rises above her weakness and uses her strength wisely.” Thinking it steadied Jenn. Whatever she’d done, however she did it, there’d been a moment when, yes, she’d made a choice. Not so wisely, in Wyll’s case, but if she was responsible, hadn’t saving Aunt Sybb and Tir from nightmares been very wise indeed? Bannan kept his friend; they kept the sure, loving counsel of their aunt.

  But what else had she done?

  Might do?

  Hemming was safer. A stack of safely hemmed towels sat on the bench beside her and Jenn gave the empty basket a glum look. “I’ve finished everything,” she complained without thought.

  Aunt Sybb’s well-drawn eyebrow rose skyward. “‘Everything’?” But before Jenn could say a word and get herself in more trouble, the older woman patted her bundle and chuckled. “Then I’ve chosen the right time to give you this, Dearest Heart. For your birthday.”

  Jenn took the bundle eagerly, only to hesitate, fingering the knotted string as she searched her aunt’s kind eyes. Had she been wrong? “You’re not leaving early after all, are you?”

  “Of course not!” Aunt Sybb ruffled like a distraught bird. “Ancestors Witness, wherever did you get that notion? You and your sister manage without me?”

  “We couldn’t,” Jenn replied vehemently, content again.

  “This is
simply of more use today. It’s a dress I’d intended you to wear on your first day as a grown woman.” She smiled gently. “Since you’ll be wearing a wedding dress that day instead, and have outgrown all others—yes, I noticed your legs, Sweetling, they’re hard to miss—I thought you’d like it for tomorrow night. For the Welcome Feast and dance.” At her blank look, her aunt’s smile spread, making soft creases beside her eyes. “Your young man will be there, will he not? Now open it.”

  Jenn needed no further urging. She untied and rolled the string, tucking it into a pocket. The heavy waxed paper crunched and crackled as she unfolded it with care. “Oh.” She lifted the dress, careful of the calluses on her palms.

  At once she could tell it was different from any she’d seen. From the high waist down, the feather-soft fabric was elegantly patterned in black and white, that pattern, when she looked more closely, being of tiny millwheels and sheaves of ripe grain, arranged in rows. She’d seen such delicate artwork in books. How was it managed on cloth?

  But there was more to wonder at. The dress was sleeveless. As if that wasn’t bold enough to make Jenn blush, the bodice consisted of narrow strips of bright red, white, and black silk that would flow over the shoulders to plunge between the breasts, meeting in a complex knot sure to draw the eyes before being freed as long twirls of ribbon.

  “The Nalynn colors, from when we had them. Now, it’s not modern,” Aunt Sybb told her, eyes bright, voice soft. “This was mine as a young woman. I wore it the first night I danced with my Hane.” She gave a little cough and went on more briskly. “I’d have given it to Peggs for her coming of age birthday, but it suits your coloring and she wanted a—” Her smile faded. “You are happy with it, aren’t you, Jenn? I assure you it looks much better worn.”