A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  If the tinkers were coming, why, so would Bannan Larmensu, whose letters crackled and burned.

  And Wyll would come too, she added to herself firmly. The harvest drew everyone to the village.

  “Are you sure?” whispered a sly breeze, as Scourge daintily lipped her offering. The eggs were in their shells; he preferred them crunchy. “Are you like Wen, and understand the little horse?”

  “If it isn’t them,” Peggs countered, “it’ll be Uncle, with the twins and the livestock. In which case you,” as she took the empty plate from Jenn and patted Scourge’s neck, “need to be somewhere else.”

  The villagers had grown accustomed to Scourge, though few heard him speak. The old kruar was particular. He spoke to Peggs, but not Aunt Sybb, which was just as well; Wainn but not Kydd, much as the beekeeper longed to ask questions; Tir, of course; and Gallie Emms. For the first few days, Gallie had endured more than her share of Scourge’s attention, the great beast having discovered she was the source of his beloved sausages. Loee being the size of a rabbit, her mother’d kept a wary eye on her baby when Scourge came begging, but it hadn’t taken long before everyone realized it was more a case of protecting Scourge. Whenever Loee’s tiny fingers clamped on one of his fetlocks, he’d stand paralyzed and trembling until someone took pity on him and coaxed the baby, who thought this a fine game, to let go.

  It was such a sight, Jenn had written Bannan about it. He’d replied he couldn’t wait to see for himself, but it did explain how he and his sister had survived crawling through the paddock. Tir, who might have teased Scourge unmercifully on the matter, could not, having been trapped himself for the better part of lunch by Loee’s unrelenting grip on his little finger. With the current batch of sausages now safely locked in the smokehouse, Scourge had returned to pestering soft-hearted Peggs.

  “I am somewhere else. I am here. Tir warned me there will be cows on the road. I avoid cows,” the breeze assured them with a chill nip. “Revolting, smelly things. I don’t see why you allow cows.”

  “You like cheese, don’t you?” Peggs observed.

  The answering purr was so deep it rattled cups. “Do you have more?” hopefully.

  “None to spare.” Her sister swept off her apron and hung it from its hook. She paused, her eyes searching Jenn’s face. “I missed you at supper yesterday, Dearest Heart,” she said, meaning, because Peggs was the most perceptive of sisters, sunset.

  “I wanted to finish before dark,” Jenn replied truthfully. “I was fine,” she added, glad when Peggs looked more at ease.

  And not as glad when Scourge turned his great head, to regard her in silence.

  “Fine,” she insisted.

  “Well, then,” Peggs nodded. “Are you ready to go, Jenn? We’d best hurry, if we don’t want to be last to the gate.”

  Last would suit her, this once. Jenn decided she’d be even happier if everyone arrived and settled and totally ignored her, until, until . . .

  Imagination failed. She’d just find a way to speak to Mistress Sand alone, avoid Bannan, and be with Wyll, that was all. As for tonight . . . there’d be dancing. There was always dancing. Risky, that. She’d best break a toe—really break one, if necessary—

  “Coming?”

  Jenn followed her sister into the parlor, gloomily eyeing the legs of chairs for their toe-breaking potential.

  Aunt Sybb looked up from her writing desk, quill poised in midair. Her smile faded as her wise eyes searched Jenn’s face. “Not so happy as we’d hoped, I see,” she said quietly. “You look exhausted, Dear Heart. We missed you at supper last night. Is something wrong?”

  If ever their beloved aunt must be saved from knowing too much about Marrowdell and magic, this, Jenn decided, was the time. But what to say?

  “Jenn’s dress,” Peggs volunteered, doubtless realizing it too. “This one, not the lovely one you gave her, Aunt.”

  Jenn attempted to look concerned and not puzzled. Her dress was fine. Welcoming the tinkers was an event and those who wouldn’t head into the fields today prepared for the occasion. Peggs wore her third best, while Jenn, after an exhausting turmoil over her choices, since her new dress must be saved for the dance and her third best was too short, had given in and put on her second best, with the little blue birds and new white ribbons.

  “Not all the stains came out,” her sister said meaningfully, gesturing at the skirt, which was perfectly clean and even pressed.

  Clever Peggs. “It’s terrible,” Jenn said. She gathered a handful of fabric and held it up. “I shouldn’t be seen in it.”

  “Indeed.” By what effort their aunt hid her astonishment, Jenn couldn’t guess, though Aunt Sybb was surely more accustomed to her youngest niece being oblivious to stains on her knees, elbows, and nose, let alone a hem. “You’re welcome to stay with me, of course.” She lifted her quill, then added calmly, “I expect there’s no reason for your young man to be anxious upon his first return to the village.”

  She hadn’t thought of Wyll’s feelings. Or Bannan’s, for that matter. Jenn smoothed her skirt, fairly caught. “Thank you, Aunt, but I should be there,” she replied. “To be sure they—he—so everyone’s happy.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Aunt Sybb gave them a fond smile. “Now off with you. You don’t want to be last.”

  They weren’t. When Jenn and Peggs stepped from their porch, Alyssa and Cheffy were still squirming by the fountain while Hettie straightened their collars, and, as the sisters passed by the Uhthoffs’, Wainn stepped out with his father and uncle.

  Once, Jenn would have waved then hurried on, determined to beat everyone to the gate. When younger, if she’d managed to sneak out, she’d be sitting in the oak by the river already.

  This time, she stopped. Peggs gave her a grateful look.

  The three walked up to them. “Fair morning, dear ladies,” the eldest Uhthoff greeted. They aged well, Jenn decided as they returned greetings. Master Dusom’s dark hair had grayed over his temples but remained thick, and he moved with the same courtly grace as his younger brother and son. If not for a slight bookish stoop, he would have stood a little taller than Kydd. His eyes fooled many a student, Jenn thought as she smiled at him. The lids were half closed most of the time, as if Master Dusom were sleepy or unaware, but the eyes glinting through those slits were fiercely intelligent and missed not a thing.

  Meeting those eyes, Jenn remembered she hadn’t actually asked Kydd not to tell his brother. Had he? She couldn’t tell.

  Meanwhile, Kydd had taken Peggs’ hand and the two stood gazing at one another in mute wonder, as if they met for the first time. Jenn coughed impatiently and Master Dusom chuckled. “To the gate?”

  She nodded and started toward the commons.

  “Not that one,” Wainn informed them.

  “So this year it’s the twins first,” his father said cheerfully. “I believe you owe me a week’s dishes,” with a smile at his brother.

  Having gathered her courage for Wyll’s sake, Jenn felt cheated. “Do you think so?”

  Wainn frowned, so slightly she almost missed it. “They’ll be here soon,” he said, which wasn’t terribly clear, and started walking the way Jenn and Peggs had come.

  Hettie called, “Wait for me!”

  Peggs hesitated. “Go on,” she said to Jenn, “I’ll keep her company.”

  Because the twins were coming home, and Hettie had something to say to one of them. To Tadd. “I’ll wait too,” offered Jenn with a sigh, though she loved being there when the livestock first lifted their heads, smelling home, and began to low and neigh and call to the family they’d left for the summer.

  Kydd smiled, still holding Peggs’ hand. “And not be first?”

  He teased her. Jenn eyed her future brother-by-marriage, who now knew all about her, or more than anyone but Peggs, and decided being teased was a good sign. “Never,” she retorted, and ran to catch up with Wainn, who hadn’t delayed.

  In fact, he was in a hurry. She skipped and half jogged to
keep with him as they passed Old Jupp’s house. “You don’t have to go so fast,” she told him. “We’re ahead of everyone else.” They weren’t the only ones impatient for the new arrivals, she noticed. Riss stood on the porch, shading her eyes with one hand. The morning sun poured down the road, making it all but impossible to see what moved on it.

  She waited for Horst.

  Who should rush to take her in his arms, Jenn thought with a pang. Instead, she just knew, he and Riss would nod civil greetings to one another, then Uncle would deliver the mail from Endshere and help settle the livestock. He’d inform Aunt Sybb about her escort and take part in the harvest. He’d stay busy and in sight and forbid himself the longings of his heart and hers until certain of privacy.

  Which wasn’t fair.

  Tir Half-face emerged from the mill to stand beside Radd Nalynn, eyes as wary as if he was part of the village and the twins, newcomers. They’d get along, Jenn knew. Allin and Tadd were friendly, curious sorts. They’d be coaxing stories from Tir the first chance they got, and always had some of their own.

  Wainn stopped at the open gate. “Here we are,” he announced.

  “And first.” Satisfied, Jenn clambered to the top rail and sat, swinging her bare feet. No doubt Horst and Roche had told the twins the news; when had there last been such an eventful summer in Marrowdell? The farm, now in Bannan’s capable hands. Tir at the mill. Wyll—though they may not have said all there was about Wyll. Last and not least, the upcoming weddings. Considering what the twins had been up to with Hettie, they’d no reason to be disappointed that the Nalynn sisters were officially spoken for, though one twin was completely out of luck. “Do you see them yet?” she asked impatiently, shielding her eyes to squint down the road.

  Wainn looked up at her. “Who do you think is coming, Jenn Nalynn?”

  “Who—” she broke off. Why wasn’t he smiling? She gripped the railing, suddenly unsure of her seat. “Who is?”

  He shook his head. “Scourge should have guarded the road.”

  Another fair morning. Having spent a restless night listening for he knew not what, Bannan was up at the first hint of dawn. He was determined to be ready before the tinkers, or Wyll, could claim his attention. Nine days as a farmer had left him scruffy and unkempt; he’d shaved, what, twice? Jenn Nalynn deserved better. If she noticed. Of course, she’d notice.

  What if she didn’t?

  The day being here at last, he’d find out, wouldn’t he?

  Stoking the fire in his stove, Bannan filled his larger pot with porridge and put it on to cook, then dumped in the last of the dried spiced fruit from his and Tir’s travel rations. What was he saving them for, if not guests? The black wizened bits might not look appealing, but they’d plump nicely and add flavor.

  The kettle was already hot, and the truthseer made himself a mug of tea, then poured hot water into his shaving cup. Towel over his bare shoulders, cup and mug in his hands, and shaving kit under one arm, he headed outside.

  The kit was pure luxury, an oblong box of dark wood with a hinged lid, its outer surface inlaid with rare light woods. The fanciful design echoed the Larmensu crest, with fox faces peering out between stylized sunflowers. Bannan propped it on an upper limb of the fallen branch, a convenient height, and opened the lid. The mirror reflected blue sky and a jaw in dire need of attention.

  The kit held a razor, its blade folded into a shell handle, strop, brush, and shaving stick. A farewell gift from his nephews and he’d thanked them gravely. Since they were too young to shave or shop, or to understand he was truly leaving and why, he’d known it came from Emon, the boys’ father. They’d looked one another in the eye, he and the baron, and needed no words. Bannan opened the kit the first day on the road, once beyond Vorkoun’s walls and eyes, and had managed to cut himself no more than three times whilst removing his beard.

  Practice helped, plus respect for the splendid edge. He passed it along the strop before using the brush and hot water to draw a fragrant lather from the shaving stick he’d saved till now. Once that precious commodity was used up, he’d have to obtain whatever soap the men of Marrowdell used. Unless Jenn liked him smelling like a Vorkoun baron, Bannan thought cheerfully as he applied the warm lather to his cheeks, neck, and chin. In that case, he’d send for more, whatever the cost.

  He drew the blade to his chin, wiped it clean on the towel, then prepared for the next pass.

  “What’s that smell?”

  The blade halted above where his pulse beat near the skin. “Do you want me to slice my throat?” Bannan asked mildly, that pulse hammering a little more as he resumed shaving.

  Wyll’s face appeared beside his in the mirror. “Not before breakfast.” The dragon squinted. “I’m glad I don’t need to do that.” His small reddish-brown beard remained as neatly trimmed as the first day they’d met. “Does it hurt?”

  Bannan pretended to scowl. “If you want breakfast, let me finish.”

  If he’d hoped Wyll would leave him in peace, he’d misjudged the other’s curiosity. Helping himself to Bannan’s mug of tea, Wyll leaned on the branch nearby and watched intently. After a moment, a breeze found Bannan’s ear, chilling the lather. “You survived the night. I’m impressed.”

  So, not about the shaving. Bannan finished his right cheek and glanced at Wyll. “The tinkers were fine company. We got along famously.” He wiped the razor. “They’re joining us for breakfast.”

  A flash of silver. “‘Us?’ What did you tell them?”

  “Only that you’re my neighbor and occasionally helpful around the farm.” He looked back into the mirror to shave his left cheek, stretching his lips to the side. “I assume they know the rest.” There. Done and he hadn’t nicked himself, despite distraction.

  His distraction watched him rinse the razor, then bring up the ends of the towel to wipe the remaining lather from his face. “I brought back your comb,” Wyll said without warning, and produced the missing item from inside his jerkin.

  The dragon had looked tidier lately. “Keep it,” Bannan told him. “I’ve another.” He dropped the brush into its cup, closed his kit, then went to the well to splash cold water on his face and neck. Half-done, he stopped. Heart’s Blood.

  He straightened to stare accusingly at Wyll. “It wasn’t just the comb. Talnern’s Last Quest. You took my book!”

  “I can’t bring that back,” the other said calmly. “I used the words in my letters.”

  “Ancestors Twice Put Upon and Tormented, Wyll, it was my favorite!”

  “Then you should have put it somewhere safe.”

  The disgruntled truthseer washed up without another word, then smiled into his towel. ’Quest was a daring adventure; its prose was, to be charitable, lurid. The poor dragon must have had quite the struggle to express himself from it.

  Bannan tugged on the leather thong to free his hair. “If you need anything else, ask me first.”

  Wyll had a charming smile when he chose. “I’ll try to remember. I do need breakfast.”

  “Speaking of breakfast, where are the tinkers?” The barn’s big door remained closed. He hadn’t cleaned and greased its wooden rail yet, so how they’d managed that without a racket, he couldn’t guess.

  “Meddling in the lives of others.” Wyll lost his smile. “Have you not seen?”

  A fair morning, with almost no dew, and a sky that promised heat. Somehow, Bannan knew the dragon meant more than weather. He glanced around the farmyard, finding nothing out of place. “What ‘meddling?’”

  “The efflet fled for good reason. Their kaliia lies dead.”

  This, he had to see. Bannan left Wyll to follow him indoors. He rushed up the ladder to the loft and looked out his window.

  “Ancestors Blessed.”

  The grain, shoulder-high yesterday afternoon, now lay in tidy rows. All of it. Radd Nalynn hadn’t been joking.

  It should have taken days and sweat. A potent magic. More, a magic used to a particular purpose. Why? The obvious answer was t
o help the villagers.

  He wouldn’t have lasted a week in the marches if he’d accepted the obvious.

  Feeling cold inside, Bannan shrugged on a shirt, then went back downstairs to consult the only expertise he had.

  “They did it from inside the barn?” he began.

  Wyll poured himself tea. “Now that they are within Marrowdell, they can do as they choose. Though why this?” A lopsided shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine would be.”

  The truth. Bannan’s heart sank. “I thought you knew all about them.”

  “I was their servant, not their fellow.” A glint of feral silver. “Despite the birth of Jenn Nalynn, I’ve avoided being here with the turn-born, nor was I interested in their doings.” The silver faded. “Until now.”

  The truthseer clawed hair from his face and scowled. “That’s not very helpful.”

  “What is not na?”

  Bannan flinched. The house toad, hitherto asleep by the back door, leapt out and away. Prudent creature.

  Wyll merely glanced at Mistress Sand. “My efforts in the kitchen,” he said smoothly.

  Recovering, the truthseer gave a short bow. “Fair morning, Mistress Sand. Allow me to introduce my neighbor, Wyll. I spoke of him last night.”

  “So you did.” Her eyes glittered like frost. “Wyll, is it? I can see why you’d like to be carried to the village.”

  They weren’t friends. Until this instant, Bannan hadn’t realized they might be enemies. And here he was, stuck between them.

  Wyll smiled. “Mistress Sand. I can see you’re a kindly woman, gracious to grant a favor to those less able.”

  Shadows loomed in the doorway behind the tinker, who hadn’t yet stepped through. Her companions, silent and watchful. The dog peered between booted feet, equally wary. The air fell still.

  Except for a restless breeze that rattled the cutlery.

  “Come in, come in,” Bannan said hastily, before things went further out of hand. “Fair morning, all. I hope you—” Did turn-born sleep? Did they dream? “—were comfortable,” he finished lamely. “There’s porridge in the pot.”