A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Who grinned, unrepentant. “He wanted to warn us someone was coming.”

  Wyll approved, that meant. Of—of—but how could he? Her thoughts flew. Because he didn’t want to marry her, that was why, which would be sad in a way but really for the best. Or was it because he was a dragon inside and thought differently about . . . about what shouldn’t, she began to frown, have been discussed by the two men—maybe three if Tir’d been there—in a tent! “What exactly did you—”

  She stopped as Aunt Sybb approached. Bannan stood and bowed.

  “A fair night, Bannan. Jenn, dear—” The lady paused, looking from one to the other. “Your pardon. Am I interrupting?”

  “We were just—what’s wrong?” she asked in sudden alarm, for Aunt Sybb’s hem was dusted with flour, her shoes red with mud, and her eyes were full of worry.

  “Your father. I can’t find him. He has to eat.”

  Bannan was quick to offer his arm as the elderly lady wavered on her feet, helping her to sit. She murmured her thanks and looked up at Jenn.

  Who flushed with guilt. How had she not noticed her father’s absence? Too concerned with herself, that’s what. “I’ll take him a plate—”

  “He’s not at the mill.” Almost fretful. “He wasn’t at home. You have to find him.”

  Jenn took her aunt’s hands in hers, dismayed to find them ice-cold. “I know where he’ll be,” she assured her gently. “Please. Rest here.”

  “Go,” Bannan told her, sitting beside Aunt Sybb. “I’ll find Peggs and see both safely home.”

  She nodded gratefully and left.

  First, to gather some help.

  By lamplight, the roses were blood red and black, trailing over the lines of roof and wall, nodding overhead. She’d need a ladder to reach one; not that the flowers would let themselves be picked.

  “I’m here for Poppa,” Jenn whispered. The roses bent to regard her. “He thinks Melusine’s gone and it’s breaking his heart.”

  Leaves rustled.

  She lifted her hands. “He needs you.”

  There was a snap somewhere in the darkness overhead, then a single bloom tumbled down. It landed, dew-damp flower and stem, across her palms, and had not a single thorn. Jenn closed her eyes and breathed in its heady scent. “Thank you.”

  Holding the rose, she walked through the circles of light cast by porch lamps, then left those behind. The soles of her feet knew the road, her urgent will shortened it; she arrived at the opening to the ossuary within heartbeats and wasn’t surprised at all.

  The path was dark, but a glow lit the end. As Jenn went toward it, she heard a sound she couldn’t place at first, then did.

  A shovel?

  She stepped into the opening, uncertain what she’d find.

  A man stood waist-deep in Melusine’s resting place, her name writ in lamplight across his bent back, sod and clods of dirt splayed around him like battle wrack. As if sensing Jenn’s presence, he slowly straightened and turned. Sweat and tears streaked the flour on his face into a savage mask, and she didn’t know who he was.

  The scent of roses floated in the air, more than one rose, more than a hundred. Jenn took a desperate, deep breath. Saw him do the same.

  All at once, the stranger’s face became her father’s beloved one, though gaunt and worn. Leaning on the shovel for support, he looked up at her as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Jenn?”

  Rose in hand, she slid into the hole. “Oh, Poppa.” She took him in her arms and held tight. “We’ve worried,” she scolded through her tears. “You missed supper and Aunt Sybb went all through the mill looking for you. I told her I’d find you.”

  He held her then, patting her back gently. “You found me being a fool. There there. You shouldn’t have climbed down, Dearest Heart. Look at your dress. Come now.”

  They helped each other out of the hole and collapsed, more than sat, on the dirt-splattered meadow grass. A moth landed above Mimm Ropp’s bones, but offered no comment. A pair of eyes reflected the lamplight; a house toad sat nearby. Comforted, Jenn handed her father the rose.

  Taking it, he closed his eyes and inhaled slowly.

  “Poppa, didn’t you believe Uncle Horst?” she asked carefully.

  Her father let out his breath and gazed at her, spots of red appearing on his cheeks. “I wasn’t looking for your mother’s bones.”

  “Then why?”

  “Her ring. She wore it, always. The thought of it in the ground . . .” His voice shook.

  True, one properly buried bones, not belongings; Rhothans did, Jenn reminded herself, newly aware there could be other ways considered equally respectful by those who followed them. “Maybe Uncle Horst wanted to leave you something of her, here,” she ventured.

  “Who knows what went through his thick head?” but gently said. “I’d hoped to find it. You and Peggs have so little of your mother and now, now we’ve less than we thought. Your pardon,” this in a more normal voice. “Excuse the rambling of a foolish old man. I’ve troubled you and my dear sister for nothing.”

  Radd’s hands were filthy, the nails were broken and bleeding; he hadn’t just used the shovel. The hole he’d dug was deep and dark, its sides crumbling, and what soil showed in the light was riddled with small brown stones aglint with gold. To find a ring in that?

  Bannan believed. “‘What magic really is,’” Jenn repeated softly.

  Despite her father’s protest, she jumped into the hole where her mother’s bones had been and reached down, fingers touching the dirt.

  And dared to believe too.

  Her fingers closed over something small, cool, and smooth. She froze in place, afraid to look in case she was wrong.

  “Jenn?”

  Holding her breath, she straightened and held out her open palm. A ring lay there, its intricate weave of gold glittering in the light, its tiny roses with their ruby hearts sparkling as if new.

  Eyes aglow, Radd Nalynn plucked a rose petal and used it to pick up the ring then enclose it, safe from the dirt on his fingers. He trembled as he tucked the tiny bundle inside his shirt.

  He helped Jenn from the hole, keeping her hand in his. “Ancestors Dear and Departed. You’re so like your mother, Dearest Heart. It gladdens my heart you’ve her gifts too.” He smiled at her puzzled look. “Melusine could find whatever was lost; bring what was lost home again. She brought us to Marrowdell. It wasn’t an accident,” gently, as if she’d objected, but she hadn’t. “We came where she belonged. Where we all did.”

  So she wasn’t as she was by a turn of light, not entirely. Some of her magic, maybe the best of it, was part of her.

  “Come, Poppa. We’d best get back,” Jenn said, feeling lighter than she had for days. “Aunt Sybb’s waiting.”

  He grimaced. “Wait till Sybbie sets eyes on the pair of us.”

  Nothing was different, but everything was. Jenn giggled and the moth lifted into the air. Her father laughed. When they finally stopped, gazing at one another, she saw signs of a new peace in his face.

  “If we hurry,” she suggested, “we might make it home before she does.” Which they surely would, if she helped shorten the road.

  “You go ahead. I can’t leave this,” he said ruefully, nodding at the hole and dirt.

  About to help, Jenn glimpsed movement. Three toads came to squat by the first in the lamplight. A rustle in the hedge promised reinforcements. “It’ll be looked after, Poppa,” she declared.

  With a curtsy to Marrowdell’s toads, Jenn Nalynn took her father home.

  Bannan Larmensu found Dema Qimirpik under a trestle table. His legs, at any rate. They were bare, as were the Ansnan’s feet, and flailing about as the man attached to them attempted to crawl in farther. Given the dema’s proportions were more generous than the table’s, the mood of those watching ranged from perplexed to amused. The few items on the table had been hastily rescued.

  The truthseer looked for Urcet. The Eld stood at a distance and, by his expression, would prefer to be an
ywhere else, with anyone else. Embarrassment at his colleague’s antics or impatience?

  A satisfied grunt, a perilous tip of the tabletop that had more than a few grinning, then Qimirpik wriggled out. Though it was educational to discover that a dema wore skin and nothing else under his formal robe, what mattered was revealed hanging stoically from his hands.

  A house toad.

  The spectators’ mood changed in a flash. “Let it go,” someone ordered gruffly. “Leave it be,” from another.

  Qimirpik’s smile faded. “I mean no harm,” he protested, holding the creature gently to his chest. The toad stretched a long and lazy foot, otherwise unperturbed. “It’s remarkable—so large.” He appealed to his unsympathetic audience. “The eyes—they’re unusual—”

  “Put it down!” This, sharply, from Gallie Emms.

  “He won’t hurt it,” Bannan said to the villagers, taking pity. “Unusual and revered, good dema,” he told the man. “I suggest you observe Marrowdell’s toads from a distance.”

  “As you wish.” With great care, the dema bent to lower his captive to the ground. The house toad struggled free just before it touched, hopping back under the table with an offended croak.

  Crisis averted, the evening’s last stragglers broke apart, heading for their homes and bed. Bannan stayed by the dema. He’d seen Aunt Sybb safely off earlier with Peggs, both concerned over the miller, and known he could do no more. The tinkers had gone to their tent at the same time.

  Slick as butter, Tir Half-face appeared beside Urcet with two cups and a bottle. Bannan didn’t care where his friend had obtained the brandy and hid his satisfaction as the pair left together, presumably after a comfortable spot to enjoy the fine drink.

  “My thanks.” Qimirpik brushed at his robe. “I intended no offense, but it’s difficult to avoid mistakes when one travels. Local customs, mores, strictures. Stars above, I swear they multiply the farther I go from civilized climes. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  Bannan’s smile faded.

  The dema gave him the briefest of looks, then deliberately went back to fussing over the hang of his pleats. “Have I mentioned I’m good with dialects?” he continued. “A hobby. Your friend with the mask—from the hills of Upper Rhoth, without doubt. The tinkers are something of a puzzle, I’ll admit, but I’ll solve it. I always do.”

  Perhaps not this one. “What have they told you of themselves?” the truthseer asked curiously.

  “Little enough,” admitted the dema. “Those of that profession aren’t the most forthcoming, of course, but these have traveled well beyond what you’d expect, that I’d swear to.”

  True, if not in the way he likely meant. Bannan lifted a brow. “How do you know?”

  “Observation, my good Bannan.” Qimirpik tapped a finger beside his eye. “The bracelet Mistress Sand tried to sell me? Such amber is found in Mellynne’s foothills, nowhere else. Master Riverstone’s pipe? Ah, I’ve seen one similar but once, and that owned by a fellow dema whose family came from a valley so far to the east, I vow, it’s hard to credit you’re still in Ansnor. The people are white as snow and bray like asses instead of laugh, stars be my witness. You don’t believe me?”

  Settling his hip against the table, Bannan grinned. “They’re traders,” he argued, beginning to enjoy the man despite himself. “Bangles and pipes change hands, move from place to place. It’s not surprising.”

  “Not like the surprising Jenn Nalynn, hmm?”

  At the abrupt switch, the truthseer tensed before he could stop himself. Grateful for the lamplight, he managed a casual, “In what way?”

  “Why, the good lady speaks Ansnan as my mother taught me!” Qimirpik slapped his thigh and nodded. “Moreover, Urcet claims her grasp of Eldani, a difficult tongue to master, is beyond reproach. To find such talent and scholarship hiding in a crude—forgive me, but we’re men of the wider world—farm village? A crime!”

  “The villagers are well educated,” he replied mildly. Jenn Nalynn, in his hearing, spoke only Rhothan, and that with a charming accent reminiscent not merely of Avyo, but of that city’s elder citizens. She also spoke to toads. In Rhothan, not toad. Whatever toad might be.

  Magic? Bannan smiled to himself. If so, it was clever magic indeed. At a guess, Jenn had wished to understand and be understood, rather than try to learn the languages themselves. The turn-born, with their oddly accented Rhothan, must have chosen the other path. Or could they? he thought suddenly. Could they agree to change something about themselves? If not, they’d be forced to learn the language of Marrowdell the ordinary way.

  “An interesting group, in truth.” The dema’s gaze sharpened. “And you, my good Bannan, late of Vorkoun, late of her guard, and once of her nobility. You’ve arranged for my esteemed colleague to be preoccupied for a reason. Shall we retire to the comfort of my caravan to continue our conversation?”

  Fairly caught, the truthseer stood away from the table to bow. “Lead on, my good dema.”

  The servants were awake and alert this time. Panilaq took herself to the middle wagon, by the rattle of dishes to prepare the requisite Ansnan hospitality. After a surly glance at Bannan, Kanajuq stirred to drop the metal stair and open the door to the largest wagon, going ahead to light a lamp, then climbing out again.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Dema Qimirpik said cheerfully, lifting his robe as he bounded up the stairs.

  A step at a time, Bannan followed behind. He passed through the door, bare feet sinking in lush carpet, and found himself within what was more salon than wagon.

  The roof arched well over his head, crowned in glass to admit the witness of stars. The rest of the ceiling was painted black, but that color was obscured beneath the gilt of handwritten prayers.

  The rest of the wagon resembled the interior of a ship. Other than the curtained windows to either side and doors at each end, every bit of wall space was in use. Ornately carved cupboards and racks lined the tops; below were narrow worktables cluttered with star charts and papers and instruments. Cushioned benches waited before each, hinged to fold away.

  A wider, luxuriously padded bench under the rightmost window housed the three odemini, belted in place. The dolls, Bannan was glad to see, faced the now-closed curtain.

  Under the left window was a gleaming dining table, hinged as well, but presently extended into the middle of the floor. A pear-shaped lamp sat centered on the table, its wide lower half encased in gold filigree, its upper a network of crystal and faceted red gems. The light it cast was pleasant, though reflections danced over the walls with their steps. Two elegant chairs, upholstered in red and gold velvet, stood waiting, as did a pair of fluted glasses.

  What was Ansnan and what was Eld?

  “Sit, sit.” The wagon rocked and reflections jiggled as the dema took his own suggestion and claimed a chair. “Panilaq!” he bellowed, pounding a fist on the table. The lamp rattled. “Pardon the delay,” this as Bannan sat and pulled his chair to the table. “My odemi are worthy and diligent, not quick. Pani—!”

  Before Qimirpik could finish his second summons, the old woman climbed into the wagon, a tray in her hands. The deep carpet kept her to an anxious shuffle, the tray tipping so its contents, a large glass carafe and platter, slowly slid to one end then the other with each step. Bannan held his breath, but miraculously, she made it to the table.

  The carafe proved full of wine, the platter a less-than-artful arrangement of soft white curds surrounded by brown crisps. A dainty bowl of salt had been forced into their midst. Panilaq filled the waiting flutes before weaving her way out of the wagon.

  “Ah.” The dema surveyed the offering with patent delight. “My colleague—” he wrinkled his nose, “—prefers I not bring out Ansnan fare. But I trust you’re familiar?” With that, he set the salt bowl between them.

  Bannan moistened the little finger of his left hand in his mouth, then dipped it in the bowl. Deftly scooping curds on a crisp with his other hand, he took a generous bite and immediately sucked the sa
lt from his finger. Timing in the mouth was crucial. Done well, the salt tamed the bitter spice of the curd while the crisp’s heat flared, a pleasant, if eye-watering sensation. Done poorly? The only recourse was to spit the awful combination out; even so, the foul taste would linger for days.

  The truthseer chewed, swallowed, and smiled at Qimirpik. As Captain Ash, he’d learned the trick of it to lull Ansnan captives. Now, he did the same to impress his Ansnan host. He should have bet Tir on the likelihood of that.

  Having taken his own first taste, the dema touched the rim of his glass to Bannan’s. “Before I ask what you want of me,” he said, “allow me to apologize. I’m not a worldly man, Bannan. My attention’s been here,” a finger to his head,” and there,” a gesture to the night sky revealed through the ceiling window. “I was wrong to speak lightly of the marches and of your city. It was a long and bitter conflict, won by no one. My presence here, as your former enemy, must seem an insult. That, I deeply regret.”

  The truthseer regarded the Ansnan, then touched his glass to the dema’s and took a sip. The wine was dry and strong, with a harsh bite to it. Much like history, he thought ruefully. “I thought I’d come far enough to leave the past behind,” he confessed, giving truth for truth.

  Qimirpik nodded. “The stars have seen what we wish forgotten. It’s my belief they remind us at the least convenient time.” He leaned back, arms crossed over his ample belly, and asked calmly. “Are we still enemies?”

  Bannan half smiled. “I doubt, good dema, we ever were.”

  “Excellent. Because I must confess,” with a contented sigh, “I like this Marrowdell of yours. I’d be sorry to leave a moment sooner than I must.”

  “You’ve slept well,” the truthseer deduced, unsurprised. There was something about the other man, a lightness of spirit, that suited the place.

  “Better than I can remember.” Qimirpik’s affable features took on a guilty cast. “Unlike poor Urcet, who was afflicted by terrible dreams. He plans to take a sleeping draught rather than risk another such night.” The dema sipped his wine, then added keenly, “We’re being tested, aren’t we?”