A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The truth wouldn’t daunt this man, Bannan judged. “In a sense. Not everyone can live here. Those who can, sleep free of nightmares.” Or have Jenn Nalynn’s magical help, he added to himself. “The dreams will worsen. Your companion may demand to leave.”

  “Urcet?” Qimirpik’s face eased. “Nothing would please him more than to believe he faces a trial. His deepest desire is to prove himself.” A chuckle. “I have no such ambition.”

  “To come this far,” Bannan probed, “unarmed and trusting a truce with its ink barely dry? If not ambition,” he looked the other in the eye, “then what?”

  In answer, the dema rose and went to a cupboard, taking out a rolled parchment. After Bannan lifted their wineglasses clear, he spread it on the table, using the carafe and salt bowl to hold it flat.

  It was a print of a painting, marked with neat scholarly notes along the margins. The buildings were stylized, the lettering within the art so old-fashioned as to be illegible to Bannan’s eyes, but he recognized the subject without difficulty. The dragon had carved the likeness of those soaring towers from dirt and flower dust, before wiping them away with a breeze.

  “Pick a height in Ansnor, you’ll find a refuge perched there, full of those seeking to be closer to the stars. Some are older than recorded history, others last but a single avalanche, but in truth, Bannan, almost all are small, modest structures. Unlike this.” Qimirpik’s ink-stained fingers stroked the parchment. “The Great Refuge of the North. Generations labored to build it. The rich impoverished themselves to see it done. Understand, Bannan, this wasn’t a retreat, where petitioners could seek peace and solitude for their worship. No, this was built in a place rich in magic, to use that magic. My forebears saw themselves the equals of the Blessed Celestials and demanded entry to paradise.” His hand flattened over a tower. “Little wonder they came, in the end, to utter ruin.”

  As dragon and kruar had settled the Verge, drawn by its power, those ancient Ansnans had settled the valley that would become Marrowdell. Neither outcome, Bannan thought uneasily, had led to peace. “A mistake made once mustn’t be repeated,” he urged. “If that’s why you’ve come—”

  “I’ve no wish for magic or power.” Qimirpik took his seat, his eyes lifting to Bannan’s. “I’ve come for something harder to find.” A wistful smile. “To believe again.”

  The truthseer narrowed his eyes. “Here, among Rhothans.”

  “Where else? The course of my life—” the dema stabbed his chest with a finger, “—was set when I replied to a heretical Rhothan astronomer. I realized this Dusom Uhthoff must live where we’d challenged the Celestials and was willing to scandalize my fellow demas to satisfy my curiosity. But—” with a charming shrug, “—as the years passed, my distant friend showed me a love for the stars could be—should be!—free of self-interest and presumption. Our arguments, and there were many, drove me to discoveries I couldn’t have imagined. The status I now enjoy among Ansnan’s scholars, I owe to him.”

  The truth, but not all of it. “And your loss of faith,” said Bannan.

  Qimirpik sighed. “I don’t blame Dusom. Prayers failed me, those I sought for reassurance bickered and contradicted themselves. Smoke from steam engines dimmed the stars above my refuge and where were the miracles? The Celestials tested me and I despaired of them. Then came Dusom’s invitation to come here, to view the eclipse. I had hope again. So here I am.”

  “To perform more magic. How will that restore your faith? This rock you plan to summon . . .” Bannan let the words trail off as he refilled their glasses, his every sense tingling.

  “Urcet can have the Tear.” With that unexpected assertion, the dema paused for another crisp and curds, pulling his salted finger from his mouth with a satisfied pop. “It’s why he came and how I could. As for me, Bannan? I shall bare my soul to the Celestials during the eclipse, here, where my predecessors committed their heresy, and ask forgiveness for their crime and my doubt. I dare not hope. I will not falter.” He carelessly rolled the parchment then tossed it aside. “But none of this is why you’re here, is it?”

  Ansnan and enemy. Meeting a gaze as wise and kind as his father’s had been, the truthseer put aside the last of his anger and abandoned pretense.

  Jenn Nalynn had said it. There was another way.

  Bannan Larmensu leaned back, and lifted his glass to Dema Qimirpik. “I’d best start with the dragon . . .”

  Efflet carried him over the river, an awkward and painful process Wyll was glad to have done before the others awoke. He’d crouched in damp grass by a hedge until the sun peered over the crags, unwilling to confront the Wound by dark.

  And found himself with unwanted company.

  The kruar mares passed him with nary a glance, though the last wrinkled her snout and sneezed. Behind them trotted the one Wyll most wished to avoid this day.

  The old kruar, being his obstinate self, stopped in front of the dragon, dipping his head to regard him. ~ Why are you here? ~ He snorted dubiously. ~ Is there a threat? ~

  ~ Why I’m here is my business. Don’t you have horse work to do? ~ Wyll added evilly. He wrinkled his man’s nose, sure any smell came from the blood drying on the kruar’s sweat-stained hide. ~ Bathe first. ~

  Scourge didn’t take the offense he’d hoped. Instead, his big head came unpleasantly close, nostrils flared with interest. ~ You’re up to something. What? ~

  ~ If you’re lucky, ~ the dragon sneered, ~ it’ll kill me. ~

  ~ I’ll end your miserable life when it suits me, ~ the kruar said pleasantly. A mare paused by the river to glare back at them, nickering a summons. Scourge rumbled a reply, then, ~ Explain. I won’t leave until you do. ~

  ~ Stay, then. ~ The dragon pushed by his ally, lurch-stepping his way down the road. ~ I promise not to die in a less than satisfactory manner. ~ Which wouldn’t be rid of him. ~ I need fresh clothes, ~ Wyll added sourly.

  ~ Bathe first! ~ Snorting at his own joke, the old kruar abandoned him, splashing across the river.

  Finally.

  Wyll gave his attention to the road, wary of ruts, careful to set his good foot where it was flat. A fall would cost precious moments.

  The girl was running out of time.

  The dragon snarled at the Wound and kept his distance as he passed. The opening was bright and welcoming at this time of day, slanted sunbeams giving the lie to the dark beneath the trees. Bright, welcoming, and untrustworthy. He twisted to face it, uneasy until it was well behind.

  Abandoned only for a day, the farmyard felt emptier than that, as if Bannan had never come or as if he’d never be back. Wyll hunched his shoulder and avoided looking at the porch and the house and the new larder door, though his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten.

  Easier to hunt, hungry.

  Turn-born walked the road behind him; he heard their voices and steps, took care not to be seen. They’d take their own path and he wished them success.

  Rely on it? He’d depend on nyphrit first.

  Beyond the barn was the hedge, beyond the hedge, the kaliia field to be harvested tomorrow. The girl’s path linked each with the next, ending at Night’s Edge. Wyll took it, trampling grass and wildflowers, sweeping aside webs, and startling a rabbit that stopped to stare, nose atwitch.

  Did it wait for her?

  In case, he sent a little breeze to drop clover flowers at its feet. The fool creature leapt into the deeper grass and was gone.

  They knew better than trust him, though he’d not harmed any since she’d come into his life. He still frightened rabbits, Wyll thought morosely, if nothing else.

  Night’s Edge. He threw himself forward and ash swirled around him. Small sticks protruded from the ground, snapping underfoot like bones. Forced to throw his arm over his mouth or choke, the dragon kept moving, eyes half shut. Nothing had grown. He’d come to be sure.

  Perhaps he’d hoped.

  But their meadow was lifeless and Jenn Nalynn was doomed, unless those beneath notice could find a way.


  Step, twist, push forward. Step, twist, push forward. His man’s body was awkward at best and a trial to move over uneven ground, but worked. Here. Refusing to think further, Wyll made his way through the gap in the neyet to the hidden field, then turned toward home.

  There. A glitter where one shouldn’t be, marking a cave of crystal and dead wood, carpeted in moss. Stray words were stuck here and there inside, remnants of his letter-writing. He’d gaze at them, pondering the nature of “woolly” and “checkerwork” and “enchantment.” There were words he doubted and words that made him curious. Some were amusing to say. “Rapscallion” was a recent favorite.

  ~ Welcome, elder brother. ~ The house toad, able sentry and busybody, another favorite word, peered from under an aster. ~ Is there something you require? ~

  He required his proper form. That being beyond a little cousin’s magic, Wyll ignored the question. He took another step and paused, feeling his way.

  Yes. Here. The crossing.

  ~ Elder brother? ~ with deep apprehension. ~ What are you doing? ~

  ~ What I must. ~

  He could do this, or fail. There was but one way to know.

  He didn’t need to see, to find where he’d once belonged, but to cross? As dragon, he’d stood here and simply left Marrowdell behind.

  As man?

  Only turn-born could carry more than themselves. Wyll removed his shoes and shed his clothing, dropping the encumbrances carelessly to one side. The little cousin hastened to take position near the pile, either confused or sensing a task it could undertake.

  Wyll drew a breath scented with flowers and growing things, let it out again, and between the in and out of air . . .

  He crossed.

  No flowers where he stood. No flowers and the ground was tipped and the sky was falling and he collapsed with a scream onto naked rock, overwhelmed and struggling to understand what was wrong.

  He’d crossed as a man. That was all. Calming himself, Wyll forced open his watering eyes, determined to see.

  Colors were colors but others were tastes. Touch sang in his ears and shivered his bones, while the sound of his own breathing scalded his skin. He stood, or tried, and something moved, or did it fall? With a flinch, he fell again, hard.

  This body lied. It couldn’t be trusted. Wyll rose to his feet again, weaving because nothing assured him what was up or down.

  So be it. He knew. He knew this place better than any other. The expanse of orange and green and nameless color were hills and flats and distant plains. What appeared ribboned stone above, threatening to fall and crush him, were the roots of Marrowdell’s kaliia showing through the sky and harmless.

  The effort to reconcile knowledge with what he saw and felt was like being remade and, for a fleeting instant, Wyll dared imagine his man’s form wouldn’t last here, away from the girl.

  But as the Verge shook into its familiar shape around him, he remained the same.

  Shape didn’t matter. Form couldn’t. Once he believed where his foot would land, he moved it, twisted, and wrenched himself along the stone rise. Not to where the river of mimrol curled and flowed, for that led to the turn-borns’ crossing. Not to the steep, winding path to his sanctuary. There was no point hiding.

  He was here to be found.

  Wyll chose a place where stone met sky to wait, relishing the wind needling his bared skin almost as much as the plunge into cloud below.

  Before long, air pulsed against him, driven by great wings.

  Dragons.

  They rose from the clouds, descended from the sky, circled him at a cautious distance. Silent, for a welcome change, though he supposed they were at a loss, seeing him thus.

  One swooped, the wind from her wings knocking him perilously close to the edge. Daring. Stupid. They were, Wyll reminded himself, much the same. He sent a wind of his own, knocking her back and into two of her fellows. The three roared and clawed at one another as they tumbled, pulling apart short of the clouds to regain the sky.

  At a more respectful distance.

  Questions began. ~ Why are you here? ~ ~ Why are you that? ~ ~ What do you want? ~

  Wyll waited for silence to return. Some settled below, clinging to the stone, fanged heads twisted to keep him in view. Others rode the air, scaled sides catching the light, so many the sky glistened like the surface of a great ocean.

  Glorious, his kind.

  When they weren’t fools.

  Once sure of their attention, Wyll bared his teeth. ~ You’ve carried me before. Carry me now! For all our sakes, I must reach the base of the Wound. ~

  Those on the stone launched themselves with wild cries of dismay. Those in the sky spun and whirled, colliding with one another in a mass confusion of wings.

  ~ COWARDS! ~ he roared after them, but to no good. The dragons fled as if he actually could hurt them.

  As if he would.

  He should have known. Beardless younglings. They’d found him entertaining in his fall and stayed to watch, but hadn’t they scattered from any threat? A dragon worth fearing wouldn’t come near him, wary not of him—not anymore—but of the sei’s interest.

  There was no help here.

  So be it. Wyll turned toward the Wound. It loomed above all other thrusts of stone, linked at its foot to this and other hills by a crooked, rock-strewn ridge. That was the way, for those with two strong legs. A day’s walk, if not an easy one, for the terst turn-born.

  For him . . . he started walking. It would take what it took.

  ~ Why are you here? ~

  Knowing that voice, Wyll twisted around as one last dragon climbed onto the flat with him, claws cracking the stone. Emerald green, with awkward limbs and malformed head, the sei settled on its haunches, regarding him with flat golden eyes.

  He stared back, too afraid to so much as blink.

  Again, deep enough to shake bone. ~ Why are you here? ~

  The little cousins were braver. The truthseer. Jenn Nalynn, the bravest of all. Thinking of her, Wyll found he could speak. ~ I’ve come to save the girl’s life. ~

  The sei’s head turned improbably on its neck, its expression like the old kruar’s when puzzled. ~ At the Great Turn, all is possible. ~

  The moth had said the same. Wyll scowled. Riddles, when he needed answers. ~ Why wait? You showed her the pebble, knowing what she was. She suffers. Let her have it now! ~

  The head snapped upright, misshapen jaws agape in threat.

  He braced himself, but nothing prepared him for the speed of the sei’s pounce. Claws dug in, ripping through skin at shoulder and thigh, taking hold deep in his flesh. Wings unfurled, the sei launched itself into the air, with Wyll hanging below.

  To drop him for his impudence. He waited for death.

  But the claws gripped, blood sliding over his skin, and the first heavy beat of wings brought a surge of hope. For whatever reason, it was taking him to the Wound.

  There’d been a time he’d dreamt of flying. This painful jerking through the air was nothing like his memories of riding the wind. The sei, lacking grace, forced its way through the sky. They followed the ridge and Wyll watched for the turn-born, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  The gathering of dragons wouldn’t have frightened them; the arrival of the sei must have sent them scampering for cover.

  He didn’t need them. His plan was to find a fallen pebble and leave it at the crossing for Sand to bring to Marrowdell, that turn-born being the only one he halfway trusted. In his darkest dreams, he’d not thought to ask a sei to help.

  In his darkest dreams, he’d not imagined entering the Wound itself, but instead of slowing to land where the ridge met the upthrust stone, the place where pebbles, white and otherwise, should lie waiting, the sei’s wings beat harder and faster, taking them straight at that stained cliff.

  Before they hit, its body tilted and began an impossibly steep climb. His useless arm and worthless leg scraped and banged against the uneven rock, but still the sei climbed. The wall glistened
with something dark.

  Or was it white?

  Still it climbed, entering a cloying fog that burned his nostrils. The thick stuff swirled around the beating wings. Something dire gibbered and shrieked in the distance; the dragon snarled in answer, thoroughly outraged.

  Better to be dropped, than a plaything of the sei.

  Anything was better than to be brought here, to the Wound itself, where even turn-born weren’t safe and no dragon dared fly. A clean fall, from this height, might do what it hadn’t before. He might die this time. Wouldn’t that annoy his old enemy?

  Before he could struggle free, they broke through the fog and reached the top.

  As the sei flew slowly over featureless bare rock, dread filled Wyll until he could hardly breathe, not that the air wasn’t already foul. Because he saw nothing, meant nothing.

  Dragons knew in their bones. The greatest danger didn’t show itself. Didn’t roar or give warning.

  It struck.

  Then the landscape changed. Ahead, neyet ringed eruptions of familiar pale stone, their wooden arms woven into a fence. Or was it a wall?

  Where their broad bodies entered the ground, for the roots of these were in Marrowdell, things prowled, slipping between gnawed branches, flashing teeth before they ducked from sight.

  Nyphrit, naked and gray. Larger than any he’d seen and in greater number.

  Something oozed outward from each encircled stone, between the neyet, dark where it flowed into cracks and fissures, opalescent where caught by light.

  The sei groaned and spasmed, driving its claws deeper in his flesh.

  Needful agony he could endure; this was insult. Wyll growled in protest and, for a wonder, the creature’s grip eased slightly. ~ What are you showing me? ~ he demanded.

  ~ At the Great Turn, all is possible. ~ With this unhelpful reply, the sei aimed for the largest of the stones.

  Seen from above, their arrangement matched the mounds of Marrowdell’s Spine, though not their shape. This one, in that world, would be the centermost. The path to its summit was here a crooked line of rock descending from empty sky. The edge was perverse.