And if he imagined that glorious smile would follow? Well, he was a hopeful sort, wasn’t he?
“Fair morning, good sir.” The young bride from Endshere smiled back as she handed him a bowl of bread. They’d met before, in her family’s inn. Not her doing, or her family’s, that bandits had trailed them up the Northward; their good wishes had been truthful. No, his bet was on a shifty pair at a corner table, remembering their too interested eyes.
From the sparkle in hers, she remembered him well enough. “Thank you,” the truthseer said. “Palma, isn’t it? Bannan’s my name. Congratulations.” He gave a courtly little bow and she blushed. News of his settling in Marrowdell would return with her and her new husband, no doubt, to spread with every visitor to their inn. “I’ve a farm over the river now,” he continued blandly. “I’ll grow turnips. Turnips and beets. Ancestors Dutiful and Diligent, you can’t have too many turnips.” He circled his fingers piously over his heart. “Mainstay of life, turnips. Though beets have their place in the diet. Can’t do without—”
“So true,” Palma interrupted, her smile grown fixed. She hastily pressed a spoon in his hand, then waved him along as though shooing away a fly. “Stew’s in the pots.” Her attention turned hopefully to the next in line.
Hiding a grin, Bannan moved aside.
There were two barrows with stewpots, with tea and more food on the end of a wagon. Most of the village stood around in little groups, bread bowls in hand. On the way to fill his, the truthseer overheard Davi say to Clay they’d made good progress, despite the morning’s slow start, then Zehr explaining to Anten how he’d rather be here than home while Gallie coped with both sons getting wed on the same day.
Bannan knew himself in no hurry for that day to arrive, especially now, with, Ancestors Battered and Bent, Ansnans and an Eld in Marrowdell planning something that could scare a dragon. Tonight’s Beholding would express his sincere hope the Ancestors had no further surprises in store.
The quality of this meal would be no surprise, he was sure. “Fair morning, Peggs,” he greeted, eagerly holding out his bowl.
The elder of Radd’s daughters looked up with a pleased smile. “Bannan. How are you finding the harvest?”
“Ask me tomorrow,” he grimaced and put a hand to his back. “Here I thought farming was the easy life.”
Peggs laughed as she ladled stew into his bowl and handed it back. “You won’t be the only one sore,” she comforted. “Enjoy your lunch.” When he couldn’t help but look around, her smile faded. “Jenn’s with Wyll.”
“Then I’ll see her another time.” He’d no right to be disappointed, having pushed the dragon to talk to Jenn Nalynn. Bannan lifted his bowl appreciatively. “My thanks, Peggs.” He turned to go.
“Bannan, wait.” Peggs waved Riss to her, giving her the ladle. “I’ll be back,” she assured the other woman, then nodded for him to come with her, away from the rest.
Mere paces from the tall hedge, Peggs whirled and stopped him in his tracks, her eyes flashing. “Do you love my sister?”
As daunting as her lady aunt. Bannan didn’t blink. “With all my heart.”
“Hmm.” She studied his face as intently as if she were the truthseer, nodding as she came to some decision. “Bannan, Jenn’s in trouble. Wainn says no one can help her, but—” her lip trembled then firmed, “—but I refuse to believe that.” Said fiercely, for all she kept her voice low. “You must try. Please.”
He tensed. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s—no, best you see for yourself,” she told him. “Be with her at sunset. What’s happening—it happens then, and getting worse, I know it. Yesterday, Jenn hid from me. From everyone.” She reached out, an unconscious gesture, not quite touching his arm. “I haven’t gone to Wyll. He’s a bit—excitable—when it comes to Jenn, and I’m not sure he could help. Not this. I think—I hope you can, truthseer.”
“I’ll go at once,” Bannan declared hoarsely, ready to run to the village. “Where is she?”
“Wait.” Her fingertips, cool on his wrist, held him in place. “For sunset. When the light changes everything. Jenn’s told me you see it, Bannan. What the rest of us don’t. Another Marrowdell.”
“I do.”
Eyes dark with worry, Peggs said what sent a shiver down Bannan’s spine. “Hearts of our Ancestors. When you look at my sister then, I hope you’ll see her still.”
It wasn’t cowardly, Jenn Nalynn told herself, not to want to be seen at less than her best. Or shirking, since wasn’t the hardest part of taking lunch to the fields when the pots and baskets were full and heavy? Peggs and the others wouldn’t need her on the way home.
And their father did. He’d smiled with pleased surprise to have her back so soon and, being cheerfully oblivious to her second-best dress, straightaway sent her upstairs to help make ready.
Alone in the light-filled and airy attic, it didn’t matter if her cheeks were flushed or her feelings were a horrid jumble sure to show on her face. Nor would she encounter Bannan Larmensu.
Which she mustn’t, not yet. She wasn’t ready.
Hard enough being calm as it was.
In a short while, right here, the milling would commence. The pulley assembly would slide along the greased roof beam, ferrying grain to the bin. From the bin, like a golden waterfall, the grain would plummet through an opening in the attic floor into the hopper. From the hopper, carefully controlled by Radd Nalynn, it would splash down to the millstones and be ground into flour. The flour, in turn, would flow smoothly down the chute to the cool basement and be bagged.
Filled, the bags would be hooked to a moving strap to be pulled back up to the attic. So long as all ran smoothly, the process wouldn’t stop while there was light.
To make sure the pulley was ready, Jenn gave its ropes a little tug.
To make sure the weather didn’t change in some untoward fashion, she sat in the opening, looking out over the village, and tried, very hard, to be serene and at peace.
“Easier said than done,” she said morosely, letting her bare feet swing in air. As for her duty, to be happy?
She could be, and was, happy for those who were happy themselves. That wasn’t what Wyll meant, but she couldn’t decide to be happy herself. It didn’t work that way.
A moth walked around the beam to rest on the sill’s edge, keeping within her shadow. She offered it a finger; it shifted out of reach, but didn’t leave.
“It can’t be every feeling,” she assured the moth. If it was, there’d have been no end of thunder or unseasonable air or rain when there shouldn’t be. Ancestors Blessed, Aunt Sybb would have noticed by now.
Perhaps only unusual feelings could manifest. New or very strong ones. In her everyday life, other than frustration or being angry at Roche, she couldn’t remember ever having very strong feelings.
Until her grief in Night’s Edge.
Her despair on the road.
Such feelings were dangerous. Jenn shuddered. She might not be happy, but she wouldn’t, absolutely wouldn’t, be dangerous. She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, and did her best not to feel anything at all.
The moth took tiny careful steps across the wood, within her shadow, to climb a fold of her skirt. Once there, it stopped and fussily tidied its wings, its big dark eyes aimed outward as if she was nothing more than a safe and handy perch.
Oddly comforted, Jenn leaned her head against the beam and closed her eyes. She needed to control her magic, like the other turn-born. Wyll promised to teach her once they left. But he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know she couldn’t wait that long.
The river babbled close by and roared in the distance. Nearer, birds called one to another and people did too. Wainn’s old pony sent up a plaintive whinny every so often, missing Battle and Brawl despite an orchard crowded with new and old friends.
A heart wasn’t always sensible. Hers ached for what it couldn’t have, too.
“Jenn!” Radd’s voice rang up the stairwell.
“Get ready! The grain’s here.”
Jenn sprang to her feet, hurrying to swing out the hoist, glad to leave thoughts of love and her perilous magic behind.
And let the mill’s begin.
A trickle, like a finger, found the raceway first. More followed as the opened gate beckoned, darkening the stones, pushing leaves aside. Damselflies clung to waving reeds, then leapt into the air as the now-impatient water flattened all in its path.
While in the mill, the stones waited.
Water lipped the great wheel, slipping beneath and past and out. It kept coming, rose higher, and began to press. Inexorably, steadily, the wheel answered.
It turned full circle for the first time in a year and kept turning.
In the mill, gears passed the motion with a brisk clap of wood to wood. It became a dance as the runner stone began to spin above its partner, grain joining in at the behest of the tapping shoe.
Something banged in unwanted rhythm and Jenn’s father gave the opposite side of the wooden case a sharp two-footed kick to settle it. Peace restored, he went back to working the stick and shoe that controlled the flow of grain from the hopper. His eyes were almost closed. Eyes mattered less, he’d say, than ears and nose and touch. After a few minutes, he was satisfied with the flow and left it to run. He crouched to open the little door on the side of the case, catching warm flour in his palm. Jenn watched as first he closed his fist, then opened his hand flat and sniffed. Not done, he rubbed the flour with a finger, then moved a pinch consideringly between thumb and finger, all while every part of the mill shuddered like something alive.
He held out his hand. Taking the flour, Jenn dutifully repeated his actions. The flour was silky smooth. She sniffed. No hint of scorched grain. “Perfect,” she decided.
Radd grinned. “A fine start. Tadd?”
The twin stood over the opening to the basement, where the leather strap drew its waiting hooks up and past. “All’s moving well, Master Radd.”
“Then I’d best go,” Jenn said, kissing her father on his already floured cheek.
She ran down the stairs. Tir nodded a greeting, his attention on the gears and wheel. She’d heard his surprised “Whoop!” when the water first arrived in the dry raceway, but didn’t think it polite to remind him of his earlier disbelief. Some things in Marrowdell had to be seen.
She’d expected Tir. She stopped in her tracks, disturbed to find a turn-born standing by the flour chute. Chalk smiled, but didn’t try to speak. It was noisy down here, between the slap of the wheel, the clapping gears, and the stones’ rumble overhead.
A hand fell on her shoulder. Jenn started and turned, to find herself staring up at Master Riverstone. His blue eyes glittered.
Or did they glow?
Somehow, she made herself see the familiar friendly face of the tinker. She forced herself to return his smile, then pointed to the bag filling at the end of the flour chute as she ducked neatly from under his hand. Her task was to attach the next empty one and reopen the chute; Chalk’s to remove the filled bag, tie its top, then hook it for transport upstairs.
But Master Riverstone got there first, gesturing he’d take her place. He half-shouted, “Sand wants to see you, Sweetling.”
What could she do but get out of the tinker’s way and nod? She wasn’t afraid, Jenn Nalynn thought desperately. She loved Mistress Sand. She wasn’t . . .
She was . . .
A chill wind whistled through gaps in the mill wall, startling Tir. It died as, together, the turn-born looked at her and shook their heads.
Jenn fled up the stairs.
Something was happening to Jenn at sunset, Peggs had told him. Something he must see for himself.
Did he dare?
The turn, Wyll called sunset, when light from the Verge slipped past that of this world, exposing what couldn’t hide. Bannan had seen for himself, been charmed by Marrowdell’s fierce toads and little wonders and flowing silver road.
He’d seen Scourge, as familiar as home and family, become something strange and old and distant. He’d watched tinkers become turn-born and seen the grief in a dragon’s eyes.
What would he see tonight, if he dared look at Jenn Nalynn?
Nothing to alter his heart, the truthseer vowed to himself, digging his fork in the waiting grain. He’d glimpsed how light could fill her slender form, how her eyes shimmered with magic. As for her smile . . . oh, he’d witnessed its joy, if not yet earned his own. By any light, this world’s or another’s, how could she be anything but glorious?
Bedazzled he might be; for all their sakes, he mustn’t be blind. If Peggs worried, she had reason. If Wainn believed no one could help Jenn Nalynn, that reason was dire.
Tonight, at sunset, he’d see for himself.
The sun being high overhead, all Bannan could do for now was to stop worrying and pitch. He’d liked to have worked close to Wainn or Kydd, either of whom knew more than he of magic and Marrowdell, but any chance of that would have to wait. The younger Uhthoff continued as the driver of Davi’s horses, and his uncle stayed on the wagon.
The harvest progressed swiftly. Just as well. This closest field to the village was also Marrowdell’s largest. Its southern edge followed the river, bending toward his farm; to the north and west its border was marked by a narrow forest of the old trees. Behind those rose the long, low sweep of the Fingers. The closer they worked, the louder the muted roar of the mighty cataracts beyond those Bone Hills. The sun made rainbows above where the crags split to let the water leave the valley.
Between those ruined towers. Ansnan towers, Bannan reminded himself grimly.
Allin and Devins arrived on an emptied wagon, gleefully ordering their brothers back to take a turn spreading stalks in the lofts. Kydd, Zehr, and Anten hopped down to pitch grain, Kydd offering his place to Bannan with a grin. The truthseer, shortly doing his utmost simply to avoid being buried in stalks, willingly traded back.
Which was how, by late afternoon, Bannan found himself paired with Horst. Having prided himself on keeping up with Tadd and Roche, he found himself speedily outmatched by a man twice his age. Horst dug in his ’fork as grimly as if he plunged it in an enemy’s beating heart and whipped stalks through the air with a vengeance.
A man running from a secret. Wiping his brow, Bannan considered what else Horst was. An outsider, here. A man of war. They had that in common and more.
When Horst paused at last, forced to wait for the next wagon, Bannan approached. He received a curt nod.
It wasn’t a welcome. Given Horst’s mood, the truthseer hadn’t expected one. “How soon are you leaving?” he asked bluntly.
Horst’s head jerked around. “I don’t recall my business being any of yours.”
“It’s not,” Bannan agreed. “But we share an interest in Jenn’s safety.”
That grim pale stare locked on him. “What’s this about?”
Making sure no tinker was close by, Bannan leaned on his pitchfork and lowered his voice. “There’s something you need to know . . .”
The inside of Mistress Sand’s tent smelled of sun-hot canvas and beer. Jenn let the door flap drop behind her. It had been down when she’d arrived, with Mistress Sand’s white dog sitting guard outside with no friendly look, but she’d heard her name called and couldn’t very well stand outside after that, not without showing as an indecisive shadow on the wall.
The inside of the tent was stiflingly hot, which it shouldn’t be. There was a clever vent at the peak to let out heat and window flaps tied open on all sides. Jenn froze on the entry carpet, abruptly convinced what she felt was temper.
“Sweetling.” The turn-born didn’t rise from her seat. A chest had been set as a table in front of her, laid with a black-and-white-checked cloth. On it were two of Lorra’s new cups and a round tray bearing seven small wooden boxes, each carved with a different letter. “Sit.”
Another of the tinkers’ folding chairs had been set across the table from Sand. Jenn unlocked her knees and made
her way to it. She put her knees and feet together and sat very straight, her hands folded on her lap.
They were alone.
“I know,” Jenn said quietly. “About you.”
“Very little,” Sand snapped, “if it comes from that dragon.”
“Enough,” she dared say back.
“Ah.” The turn-born leaned forward to take the nearer cup, nodding at the other. “Drink with me, Jenn Nalynn. Tell me this ‘enough’ you know.” Sunlight, filtering through the tent walls, was no match for the hot glow that replaced her eyes and mouth.
Jenn took her cup in both hands, taking a swallow of what was, as the smell promised, the tinkers’ fine beer. But instead of being cool and refreshing, it coursed down her throat like fire. She sputtered and coughed.
“Tastes different now na?” Sand finished her mouthful with a smack of her lips, her face returned to normal. “My poor Sweetling.”
And suddenly the air in the tent wasn’t hot, but pleasant. Jenn caught her breath, eyes watering. “Why?”
“Again.”
Rather than argue, she reluctantly raised the cup and took the smallest possible amount on her tongue, then swallowed.
It burned as before, but, now that she was ready for it, the sensation was strangely pleasing. Jenn took a braver mouthful and felt the fire all the way to her stomach. There it settled, a warm glow; a comfort, where she’d been so empty. “What is this?” she demanded, staring into her cup.
“The same we brew each year.” Sand put hers on the table. “It’s you who’ve changed, Jenn. Riverstone thought this would be your time. I disagreed; you’re so young.” She gestured at the boxes. “Still, we prepared. Now, Sweetling. Tell me what you think you know.”
Jenn licked her lips. “You and Master Riverstone, all of you. You’re not tinkers. You’re turn-born.”
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