A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The man’s breath stank of the tinkers’ brew, his surprise was feigned—nothing else in Marrowdell moved as the dragon did—and as for waiting? It was, Wyll realized with real surprise, a rescue.

  “Beer na?” Sand chuckled. “Sorry, friend Tir. Riverstone’s about to put in the corks. The harvest’s just begun.”

  “Too right.” Tir draped his arm around Wyll’s bent shoulders. “It’s time I showed my friend here where he’s sleeping. C’mon, Wyll. They’re stringing hammocks between the trees. S’all cozy.”

  Wyll didn’t budge. “I’m not sleeping in a hammock.”

  “He’s with us,” declared Sand.

  Tir’s unwelcome arm tensed. Not as drunk as he pretended, the warrior, nor about to relinquish him to the turn-born. Which was a waste of gallantry. Faced with a hammock? “I’m sleeping with them.”

  “Hard work deserves a good rest na? We’ve room and bedding to spare, Tir. You’re welcome too.”

  “That’s very kind, Mistress.” Tir stepped away from Wyll, now clearly concerned for his own situation. “But—”

  “Very kind and generous,” Sand agreed in a voice to end any argument. “Riverstone will tell Bannan. All to rest well for tomorrow na? Come.”

  Moments later, Wyll found himself standing in the trade tent, a blanket under his good arm, watching Tir.

  The tent was lit by small trays of burning oil, set atop short metal poles arranged around the center trading area. The oil was mimrol, the poles of no metal found on this side of the edge, and Wyll found himself feeling unexpectedly at home.

  He yawned. “I want to sleep.”

  “Not yet.” The former guard, sober the instant Sand had bid them good night, was on some kind of hunt. He pulled apart piles of blankets, opened any unlocked trunks to rummage through their contents, and finally went on hands and knees to peer under the low table. He rocked back on his heels. “Ancestors Bound and Baffled. Nothing.”

  “What are you looking for?” the dragon asked wearily.

  “I’ll know when I find it.” With that unhelpful answer, Tir circled back to the trunks.

  Wyll ignored him, sending breezes to collect the best of the blankets—yling work, like the tent and the turn-borns’ clothing—into a cozy nest away from any opening. After dealing with turn-born, he was tired, sore, and in a thoroughly foul mood, tonight, more than usual. That Jenn had been happy . . . that Sand wanted to help? He couldn’t deny those were to the good.

  That a turn-born believed he’d want to be this futile?

  The dragon snarled and made his way to his corner. The only thing worse would be if the old kruar found out . . .

  “Hear that?” Tir padded noiselessly to the door opening. “Ancestors Witness, it’ll be those Ansnans. Up to some mischief in the dark.”

  “They study stars,” Wyll said to be annoying.

  “Horst, then, bringing his horse from yon field.” As Tir eased open the door flap, the dragon heard hoofbeats.

  But a little cousin had watched the old soldier slip away from the rest, going for his horse and few belongings, abandoning his post. Wyll supposed Horst was out of Marrowdell by now. Regrettable. He began the arduous process of lowering himself onto the tempting softness.

  “Heart’s Blood. What’s he—Wyll. Wyll!”

  There’d be no rest till he answered Tir’s summons. Wyll straightened with an effort, and lurched across the uneven, too-soft floor of the tent. “What’s wrong?”

  The other pointed.

  Reluctantly, Wyll stuck his head into the damp night air. The white shirt shone in the moonlight. “It’s only Bannan.”

  “On a stolen horse.” Tir’s voice was low and grim. “Where’s he going on it, that’s what I want to know.”

  At the moment, he was going sideways, the horse sensibly unwilling to venture from its fellows in the dark, especially with kruar ahunting. Wyll grinned. Scourge’s rider, defeated by a farm horse? Even riding the way Jenn rode Wainn’s old pony, namely bareback and with a contrived rope halter, the outcome was inevitable. Sure enough, with a slobbery shake of its head, the horse settled into a resigned walk toward the commons gate.

  The one leading to the ford.

  “Do something,” Tir said in his ear, his breath rank. “Stop him.”

  “Maybe Bannan wants his own bed too,” Wyll said nastily and pulled back inside.

  He was grabbed by the shoulder and hauled forward again. “With an ax?”

  Wyll shrugged himself free. He supposed the object strapped across Bannan’s back could be an ax, albeit a very large one. If he’d armed himself? “He goes for Jenn Nalynn,” he concluded aloud. Scourge claimed the truthseer had been lured by the Wound, like any turn-born. “If he takes that road by night, he won’t come back. I—”

  “We have to stop him!” As Tir made to leap from the tent, doubtless to shout and cause a deplorable commotion, Wyll took hold of his belt. The man struggled, using very unkind language, but what a dragon chose to hold, he held.

  Wyll sent a chill breeze to snap at the horse’s head. As the animal shied, Bannan and ax flew in the opposite direction. Satisfied, he released the belt and Tir staggered from the tent, with a glare over his shoulder, to help his friend to his feet.

  The horse trotted away with a relieved snort.

  The dragon headed back to his nest, slowly enough that the two men, arguing in furious whispers, entered the tent first.

  Bannan threw off his friend’s hand, then saw Wyll.

  He’d relish the dreadful pallor on the other’s face if they were enemies, though the cold determination in those eyes might give him pause.

  If he were a man.

  “You would die for nothing,” the dragon said bluntly. “The turn-born will search for her pebble tomorrow. Come and sleep.” Then he smiled, a very small smile. “I promise no more toads.”

  “Toads—” from pallor to flush. “Heart’s Blood. You were there.” Bannan’s hand pushed through his hair, an interesting array of emotions vying for expression. Guilt won. “Wyll, I—” the words stuck in his throat.

  “Sir?” Tir looked from one to the other. “What’s this about?”

  “A blanket,” Wyll answered with wicked satisfaction. “He made Jenn Nalynn happy on it.”

  For no apparent reason, Tir began to choke.

  The truthseer’s face went bleak. “All that matters now is saving her.”

  Had the man not listened? “Her happiness is—”

  “Enough!” Bannan thrust out his hand as though to fend him off. “Leave be.” He lowered the hand and his voice, shaking his head. “Just . . . leave it be.”

  There’d been no denying her happiness. What could have gone wrong? Wyll looked to Tir for an explanation, but the man’s eyes were on his friend, and strangely sad.

  The girl was home, that much he knew. Safe in her bed, he guessed. Wyll shrugged. The truthseer must have displeased her or failed as a lover. He would have to make the effort himself, then.

  “The turn-born search tomorrow,” he said again, firmly. “Get some sleep.”

  He turned to his nest, only to stop in dismay. A white moth was perched atop his blankets, a strip of parchment at the ready.

  “A visitor.” Bannan came to stand beside him, then went to one knee. “Marrowdell,” he greeted the moth, giving Wyll an expectant look.

  As if they should talk to it. As if anything to do with the sei was a good idea or safe. Sand had the right of it. Had he the courage, the dragon snarled to himself, he’d squash the moth and take the consequences.

  It took a different sort of courage to ask, ~ What do you want? ~

  ~ I bring questions, elder brother. ~ Spoken like the small thing it was. Wyll wasn’t ashamed to be relieved.

  “It has questions,” he said aloud.

  Tir had come close. Now his forehead creased. “Ancestors Blessed, does everything here talk?”

  “Don’t scare it,” Bannan cautioned his friend.

  ~ Tell me, ~ t
he dragon ordered.

  The creature fussed a little with its wings, giving Tir a decidedly worried look.

  Wyll summoned his own patience. ~ Pray continue, little cousin. ~

  Mollified, the moth consulted its tiny scroll. ~ ‘Who are you?’ ~ it said in the girl’s voice, sharp with fear. ~ ‘Why are you waiting? What do you want from me?’ ~

  He tensed. The girl had confronted something.

  The moth went on in its own voice, ~ Do you have the answers, elder brother? ~

  The dragon scowled. ~ How could I? ~ he said irritably. ~ I wasn’t there. ~

  The moth tucked away its parchment and fluttered into the air.

  ~ Wait! Who would know? ~ He sent a breeze to force it back. Blankets tossed, the tent walls strained against their pegs; unaffected, the moth flew through the open door and was gone.

  The truthseer rose to his feet. “What happened? What were the questions?”

  “I’m not sure,” Wyll admitted. “It overheard Jenn Nalynn. She asked: ‘Who are you? Why are you waiting? What do you want from me?’ Do you know the answers?”

  “No.” Bannan looked to Tir. “Jenn knows about the turn-born. That can’t be it.”

  “First Ansnans, now moths with mysteries.” Tir rolled his eyes. “Ancestors Bored and Baffled. To think, sir, I’d almost hung up my axes, this Marrowdell being such a peaceful place.”

  “Tir—”

  “Don’t have to say it. Sir.”

  Bannan shook his head and put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “If I don’t, you’ll hound me for days. You were right. There’s peril here as well as marvels. Though I’m not sure your axes will help. Wyll?”

  He was tired, sore, and wanted his bed. Nonetheless, the dragon stayed where he was, frowning at Bannan. “Jenn said nothing to you of this?”

  The truthseer raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were there.”

  “You took the blanket and ran.”

  Tir coughed.

  “No. We—no. Jenn said nothing about someone waiting.”

  But a thought had struck the truthseer; Wyll could see it in his face. “What is it?”

  “What’s up the Spine—how sure are you it stays there?”

  Despite his ignorance, or because of it, the man asked a terrifying question. “The trapped ones are caught within the edge itself and can’t move,” Wyll replied. “Not in either world. Be grateful. The last time they but flinched and Marrowdell bears the scars.”

  “What’s trapped?” Tir asked sharply. “Who?”

  “He means the hills,” Bannan exclaimed, as if a puzzle had been solved. “The Bone Hills.”

  “No, sir.” Tir stumbled back a step. “Moths can talk and dragons be men and yon river flow through the mill only when there’s grain to grind, but this is madness. They’re stone!”

  “What they are, or were, or will be, only the sei know.” The dragon grinned wickedly. “Still want your axes?”

  The warrior collected himself with a ferocious frown. “They’d make short work of you, that’s for sure.”

  Not as he should be. Wyll bristled. “You—”

  “Peace!” Bannan interrupted. “If the hills can’t move, what could?” he persisted. “This Wound. What is it?”

  Another question launched straight at what was to be feared. Wyll couldn’t decide if the truthseer’s willingness to confront the worst was admirable or appalling. “The edge never healed in that place. What remains . . . what that means . . . no one knows. Those able to sense the Wound feel a profound dread.” He let them see his shudder. “Some are drawn. Those lured too close are not seen again. Dragons,” he hastened to add, “are not such fools.”

  “Yon path up the hill?” Tir ran a hand over his bald head. “I’ve gone past it day and night. Seems ordinary to me.”

  “Be glad of that,” Bannan told him. His eyes narrowed. “I’ve only felt it at night. Why?”

  “This sun counters it. Darkness gives it strength. Both. Neither. What does it matter?” His leg pained him, but there was always pain. “Day or night. If you risk that path, you put yourself into the Wound and you won’t come back.”

  “Jenn did.”

  “Are you not hearing, sir?” Tir snapped. “You can’t go up there.”

  “If the turn-born fail, we’ve no other choice!”

  Grabbing the fool by the throat to draw him close, Wyll bared his teeth and wished for fangs. He ignored Tir’s attempt to intervene, ignored Bannan’s hands as they battered at him. He waited until both gave in and went still.

  Then, staring into the truthseer’s defiant eyes, feeling his breath, he spoke with the hint of a growl. “I’ll find another. Jenn Nalynn is my life and my duty, Bannan Larmensu. For her sake, for yours, don’t attempt the Wound until I say it’s her last hope. Give me till the Great Turn. You know I speak the truth.”

  The other couldn’t nod or answer, but some of the defiance faded from his eyes.

  “Well enough.” Wyll eased open his hand and turned away, lurching in slow steps to his pile of blankets. He lowered himself down, used a breeze to draw another blanket over his head and body, and closed his eyes.

  If the men murmured or moved, he neither noticed nor cared.

  Tomorrow, he would cross.

  For Jenn Nalynn.

  TWENTY-TWO

  BREAKFAST DURING THE harvest was early, hearty, and, above all else, full of excited chatter about the night before and the coming day.

  Jenn picked at her plate, Peggs stared at hers, and Aunt Sybb kept lifting her mug of tea then setting it down gently, untasted. Up, down.

  Only Radd Nalynn ate with appetite, but he did so in a forbidding silence no one dared break.

  It was, Jenn thought, the saddest meal she’d ever forced down her throat.

  Their father finished and pushed his plate away, rattling it over the cutlery.

  Aunt Sybb put down her cup with a thud and splash of tea. As the rest of her family stared at her in shock, she said, lips thin, “At least we know.”

  “Sybbie—” Her brother made a quelling gesture.

  “Don’t you ‘Sybbie’ me, Radd Nalynn,” she snapped, eyes afire. “And don’t you sit there looking like this is the end of the world two days before your daughters’ weddings.” A nod to Jenn who tried to be inconspicuous. “And birthday.”

  He scowled and stood. “I’m for the mill.”

  She rose as well, her frail body straight and stiff. “All this time, we’ve waited in dread for Melly’s family to send someone else. We both knew her ring wasn’t proof. I wish Sennic had told us. He would have, but he feared you’d react like this—”

  “He stole her body! He took her!” Radd’s anguished cry startled the house toad from its hiding place under the heat stove. “Don’t you understand? Melusine’s gone . . .” Jenn and Peggs sat, pale and still, as their father sank down and sat, hands over his face. “And so’s he.”

  Ignoring the toad, Aunt Sybb came around the table and placed her hands on his shaking shoulders. “Not from our hearts. Never from our hearts.” She laid her cheek tenderly against his head. Her eyes found her nieces, then looked meaningfully toward the kitchen.

  Peggs rose quietly, drawing Jenn with her. Once in the kitchen, she freed the curtain separating the rooms from its hooks and let it close.

  Jenn sat on the ladder, her hands in her lap. Peggs stood by the sink and picked up a dish towel, then put it aside and went to trim the lamp. Sunrise was still but a lesser darkness behind the mill; late and later, with winter’s coming. Uncle Horst was no stranger to the dark or to sleeping outside.

  It didn’t make it feel right, that he was out there. “He’ll go to Endshere,” she whispered. Find a bed, a hot meal.

  Peggs’ eyes were suspiciously bright. “He won’t stop so close. I heard him speak once of Thornloe. It sounded like a place—a place he liked.”

  The great port on the Sweet Sea. As far from Marrowdell as a Rhothan road could take him. “He could go anywhere,”
Jenn said numbly. The world was too big.

  “Ancestors Witness, we’re his family.” Peggs’ chin threatened to quiver, then she firmed it and gave a determined nod. “We’ll write. We’ll tell him to come back. We’ll send letters everywhere and surely one will find him. What’s wrong with that?”

  Jenn had shaken her head. Now she grimaced. “We don’t know his real name; he won’t use the one we do. Uncle Horst lied to Mother’s family to keep me secret. Don’t you see? He won’t let himself be found by anyone. He’ll make himself—” she shivered as she said the word, “—vanish.”

  “So he’s truly gone.” Her sister sighed and reached for her apron, tying it on with a quick sure bow. “Best we cook.”

  Jenn blinked. “Pardon?”

  Peggs gave a wan smile. “It’s what I do, Dear Heart, when I can’t fix the world. I make sure people are fed. Haven’t you noticed?”

  She’d thought Peggs just liked cooking, which made it convenient for her not to, but this made such sense to her sore heart, Jenn rose to find a basket. “I’ll get turnips.”

  And as they cooked, while Aunt Sybb consoled her grieving brother and the rest of Marrowdell roused to the harvest, she’d tell her dear and wonderful sister why there’d be only one Nalynn wedding on the Golden Day.

  And why she must be with the tinkers, when the sun set on this one.

  Warm soft lips moved over his eyes, nose, and mouth. She’d changed her mind and come to him and Bannan lingered in that wondrous waking moment until he realized those warm soft lips were also hairy.

  He jerked up, furiously scrubbing drool from his face with a sleeve. The massive shadow that was the kruar’s head lifted away with an amused nicker. Tir rolled over with a snatch at blankets and a muttered, “Bloody Beast.” The pile over the dragon didn’t stir at all.

  Scourge had pushed his front half through the door opening, in so doing lifting most of the tent wall free of the ground. Before he could do worse, Bannan tossed aside his covering and got to his feet. “Outside. And have a care.”

  The kruar eased back out. He followed, rubbing his neck. The dragon hadn’t broken it; he could have, easily. Whatever Wyll’s seeming, no man had such strength. He’d have to offer thanks they were on the same side at the evening’s Beholding.