A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Urcet folded the paper with care, first, returning it to its case. “I’ve the tokens.” He didn’t offer them.

  Kydd rested his elbows on the table and put his artist’s hands together. Pressing lips to fingertips, he regarded the Eld, then leaned back. “What’s the price, these days, for a dragon’s heart?”

  A . . . ? Horrified, Jenn was about to object, but something gleamed in Kydd’s eyes and she held her tongue.

  “No more than its worth,” Urcet said smoothly.

  “I’ve no doubt you paid far more than that,” the beekeeper assured him. “They saw you coming, good Urcet. Dragon’s heart? A chicken’s. A goat’s. You’ve fallen for the oldest ploy out there. Impossible ingredients for impossible magic.”

  “You lie.” The Eld closed the brass case. “You seek to discourage me. To stop me casting this rite and bringing magic to my people.” He thrust himself violently from the table. Apples spilled. “I will not be denied!”

  As quickly, Kydd was on his feet. “Cast it as often as you want,” he suggested, ice to the other’s heat. “I guarantee nothing will happen, other than possibly the relief of gout, for what you’ve brought is a word-for-word translation of the Rhothan wishing to that purpose. I suggest, good sir, Dema Qimirpik is not so much a fool after all.”

  The two men glared at one another.

  There was not to be a brawl in the parlor, the night before her sister’s marriage, especially not a brawl between her sister’s betrothed and a man half again his size. Jenn stood, welcoming the sudden bite to the air, glad to see the Eld lose his certainty and stare at her in dismay. “You’ve come to a place you don’t understand,” she told him sharply, “to take what isn’t yours. While I admire scholarship, I suggest, good sir, you’ve a great deal to learn.”

  Kydd ducked his head and smiled as the air warmed again.

  Urcet looked, if anything, more alarmed, but met her eyes without wavering. “It is plain that I do, Jenn Nalynn,” he conceded, touching his throat. “If you wish me gone from Marrowdell, I will depart before the sun sets on this day.”

  Before the turn. If only he’d brought real magic. A rite with words and tokens to let her cross into the Verge.

  But he hadn’t. And if all the dema could do was summon a pebble, he couldn’t help either.

  Send them away? That was hardly fair. Jenn sighed and gave herself an inward shake. The two men stood watching her, each with his own intensity, and whatever happened tomorrow, as Peggs would say, today had to be finished first. Which meant tonight’s dance, a thought that lightened her spirit, a little.

  “Ancestors Witness, the more dance at a wedding,” she said to Urcet, “the better. Please stay for the eclipse and enjoy what else Marrowdell has to offer. I’d not have such a distinguished visitor leave thinking us poor hosts.”

  His mouth worked, as if something about this struck him more deeply than she’d expected, and he touched his throat with the fingers of both hands before turning and walking out the door.

  Kydd bent to kiss her forehead. “Well done, Dear Heart.”

  “Was it?” She sank into the nearest chair. “He’ll be angry at the dema.”

  “Protest being found out?” The beekeeper grinned. “I suspect Urcet will do a fine job of observing the eclipse and otherwise avoid magic for the rest of his visit with us. After all, he’s met the real thing.” With a satisfied bow to her.

  Seeing his relief, Jenn knew she mustn’t spoil the feeling or this night, though as far as she could tell, matters weren’t at all resolved. “Magic doesn’t do dishes,” she said practically. “I’ve promised Peggs I’d clean up—” she began to smile, “—and hide anything breakable before you take over the kitchen. And don’t worry. Poppa’s promised to finish at the mill in time to join the feast.” For, with this being the harvest dance, everyone would eat together.

  He pretended a look of horror, but couldn’t hold it, breaking into a laugh. “Ancestors Witness, I’ve no intention of missing a chance to prove myself.”

  She rose and touched a finger to his heart. “You already have.” Lightly said, not lightly meant.

  Kydd caught her hand in his. “Not until you’re safe,” he declared. “Whatever tomorrow brings, my new sister, you won’t face it alone.”

  He was wrong. As Jenn gazed into his earnest face, that certainty settled around her heart, sure and oddly comforting.

  Alone was how she would be.

  “I couldn’t ask for a better brother,” she told him. “Be ready after breakfast. Now, enough of this. Go.” She smiled. “Tomorrow’s your wedding.”

  “Three weddings. And your birthday. Peggs’ arranged the gifting to be before the ceremony, so—” All at once he blushed, looking years younger. “Ancestors Forgetful and Slow. That’s a secret. Was a secret. Pretend to be surprised?”

  It was silly and sweet and so far from what occupied her thoughts that she was too startled to answer right away.

  “Peggs hopes to make you happy. We all do.”

  “I’ll be properly surprised,” Jenn assured him.

  If she was there.

  “What’s that about?” Tir sat straighter, though the mound of stalks shifted under his weight and the wagon was moving at a clip that said Battle and Brawl were equally aware their work was done once they reached the village.

  Bannan saw what had caught his friend’s sharp eyes. Roche and Kanajuq were using sledges to hammer in supports for the small wagon, it having been moved to the center of the most open part of the commons, the telescope wrapped in protective canvas. He sagged with relief. The dema must have done as he’d promised and found some way to keep Urcet from the Spine.

  “I’d say they’ve decided to view the eclipse from here.”

  “Ancestors Gullible and Taken, glad I didn’t bet on it.” Taking off his hat, the other wiped his bare head. “Rarely seen a man as set on his way as yon Eld. Going up there was all he’d talk about. That and his best friend’s sister—”

  “Tir.” Absently. It should be good news, but Bannan felt a shiver of doubt. “What—”

  Not a shiver. A breeze had slipped down his neck. A breeze that whispered, “Come! Now.”

  The dragon, and in no good mood.

  “A summons from Wyll,” the truthseer advised his friend, sliding down from the pile. “Keep an eye on them,” he added as Tir made to follow, pointing to the caravan. Scowling, the former guard settled back.

  The wagon behind was pulled by kruar he’d driven yesterday. Seeing him on the ground, the mares did their best to run him down, snorting their amusement. Evading their rush, Bannan bowed, then turned and made his way across the commons, urged by breezes that nudged him along as if there was no time to lose. However alarming that was, he kept to a walk, not about to rush headlong with everyone watching.

  Wyll stood outside the tent nearest the river; not the one assigned them for sleeping, but where Jenn Nalynn had gone to be helped through yesterday’s turn and would do so again today. Bannan threw an involuntary glance over his shoulder, but the sun rode above the Bone Hills still.

  As he approached, he saw Wyll was without his boots and wore an ill-fitting shirt and pants. Moreover, his face, hands, and feet bore the scabs and yellowing bruises that, in a man, would be days-old wounds. He held his good hand cupped to his chest, as though over a pain.

  What had happened yesterday?

  Worse and worse. Tossing aside the pitchfork, Bannan lengthened his stride.

  “Inside,” the dragon said aloud when he was close enough, leading the way into the tent.

  They’d prepared for the turn. Despite the sunny afternoon, the pole lamps set around the centermost mat were lit. There was a low table at one end, with Sand in her accustomed place behind it, and the stack of blankets made ready, on which Jenn Nalynn would lie. For now, the little white dog claimed it, tail covering its black nose, eyes alert.

  Riverstone stood to one side, outside the lamps. Flint sat in a far corner, knees drawn to
his chest and head down.

  Something was wrong. Something new. “What’s happened?” Bannan demanded.

  “The Wound almost claimed them,” Sand answered. “By day.”

  “It strengthens—” Riverstone began.

  “Weakens,” Wyll interrupted. “I’ve seen for myself. I know the truth.”

  There was no pebble on the table, no sacks, only an ewer and cups. They’d failed, Bannan thought bitterly, no matter the excuse.

  “What truth na?” she asked grimly.

  Wyll lowered his hand. A bedraggled moth sat on the palm, pinned by his thumb over a wing. “Do you know what this is?”

  Sand made a dismissive gesture. “A pest with too much curiosity. Don’t waste our time, lord of dragons.”

  “Imagine it much larger.” Wyll held out the moth. “Imagine it filling a sky.”

  There was something implacable in the dragon’s voice, a note Bannan hadn’t before heard. That, or something in his face drew Sand to her feet. She came around the table to stare at the moth.

  Then gasped and stepped back, her face filled with horror. “Sei!”

  “It can’t be,” Riverstone objected, coming forward.

  “Yet is.” Wyll released the moth. After tidying its wings, it flew to perch on the stack of blankets, the little dog jumping out of its way. The moth took out its parchment, clearly intent on recording what happened next. The turn-born stared at it.

  “A sei in Marrowdell,” the dragon continued. “Most of it lies between but this,” a flick of fingers at the moth, which lifted its plumes as if startled, “this much is here. To spy. To interfere. Above all,” he said heavily, “to summon help.”

  “Help?” Bannan looked from Sand to Wyll. “I thought they were gods.”

  Sand shook her head. “Sei are powerful beyond our knowing, yes, and act as they choose, but they are no more gods than is a dragon. What do you mean, help na?”

  “What we’ve named the Wound—what almost claimed you today,” with a disdainful curl of his lip, “is a sei, caught in the edge. It’s dying and calls to the turn-born for help, but you don’t listen. If you do, and go to it, you die, because what’s killing it—” Wyll bared his teeth in what wasn’t a man’s smile, “—will kill anything else.”

  Scourge had told him this much. “What’s up there?” Bannan demanded.

  “Nyphrit.”

  The name meant nothing to him, but it did to the turn-born, who exchanged quizzical looks. “Such are a threat to little cousins,” Riverstone argued.

  “These are like no nyphrit you’ve seen before, in dreadful number. They could clean the meat from a kruar before it screamed.” The dragon smiled. “Only a sei could have endured this long.”

  “Go on,” Sand said grimly.

  “Kruar, dragon, turn-born. We’ve each had our part of the truth, but never all of it. Until now.” It wasn’t triumph giving Wyll’s voice such compelling strength, the truthseer thought, but despair. “I saw it for myself, carried there by a sei who told me, ‘The girl is the promise and last hope.’ They’ve known since her birth. The one trapped here helped her survive; the others, helpless here, made me her guardian.”

  It wasn’t a game. These beings, whatever they were, had meddled in Jenn Nalynn’s entire life. “To what end?” Bannan asked harshly. “Did they tell you?”

  “They told me,” a grimace. “‘At the Great Turn, all things are possible.’ The dying sei needs Jenn Nalynn to cross and save it. If she does, she will live and the Wound be healed.” The dragon pressed his lips together, as if there was more.

  The truthseer would have asked, but Sand spoke first. “Save a sei na? We couldn’t do it. How could our Sweetling na?”

  “We must help her. All of us.”

  The truth.

  Against hordes of whatever nyphrit were, in another world. The truthseer shook his head, not in denial but protest. “What can we do? What can Jenn do? This is unfair, Wyll. She’s—” he stopped himself. Jenn Nalynn was many things; helpless wasn’t one of them.

  That didn’t make her a slayer of monsters. Or the savior of one.

  Flint rose to his feet, eyes and mouth ablaze. “We hold the edge as much as any. Do more! Why are we lured to our deaths na? The sei could have explained. Told us what to do. Why not na?! Are we not worthy na?!”

  The turn-borns’ attention, and Wyll’s, snapped to the moth. Sand gave a dismayed cry.

  The dragon laughed.

  “What did it say?” Bannan looked from one to the other. “Tell me!”

  Flint and Riverstone shrank back. Sand cowered.

  “This sei blames them,” Wyll answered with grim satisfaction. “When first called to hold the edge, to help it, the turn-born were afraid and refused to listen. All of them.”

  Meaning they’d agreed. The truthseer stared at Sand. “Is that what you wished? Not to understand it?”

  She knew what he meant, but spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “I wasn’t yet born, but even if I’d been there, truthseer, I wouldn’t know. What we do, whatever we’ve done na? Becomes part, becomes real. For us as much as the Verge.”

  “To undo this na?” Riverstone shrugged. “We could do more harm. We dare not.”

  “Still afraid,” the dragon accused. “What use are you?”

  “Enough. I’ve this.” Bannan pulled the pouch from his belt and held it up. “It’s Ansnan magic, to call Jenn’s pebble from the Verge to Marrowdell.”

  “Useless. The girl does as much in her sleep.” Wyll looked at Sand. “We need your help—all of you. She can’t do this alone.”

  “Hello. I thought—”

  They turned.

  “—I’d come early.” Jenn Nalynn stood in the opening to the tent, framed in sunlight, or did sunlight pour through her? Her gaze went from him to the dragon, paused thoughtfully at the moth, then came to rest on the turn-born. “I’m glad to find you all here. We need to talk about tomorrow.”

  Wyll’s eyes were silver and hard to meet, but his anger wasn’t at her. Mistress Sand looked unhappy, which might be about her. Riverstone and Flint? Aunt Sybb would say the pair looked rattled; they hadn’t found her pebble either, Jenn decided. Bannan, though he smiled to see her, was pale under the harvest dust.

  She’d interrupted an argument; easy to guess the topic. Jenn came into the tent and sat on the stack of blankets beside the moth. It tucked away its parchment and stepped on her offered hand, walking up her arm to her shoulder. “The others are on their way. And Peggs. We don’t have much time.” The turn. Would she feel it the rest of her life? “We need a plan.”

  “Yes.” A careless wind swept through the tent, stealing pillows from the tinkers’ beds. Wyll settled on the resulting pile with a satisfied grunt. A breeze tickled the hairs of her neck, then found her ear. “They’ve been humbled. Hurry, Dearest Heart, before they remember their pride. Get their aid.”

  She didn’t smile, but she gave him a warm look.

  The turn-born sat more slowly. Bannan hesitated, then sat as well, his eyes intent.

  “My my my.” Sand clicked her tongue. “Tomorrow na? Your birthday. Three Golden Day weddings, though not four,” with an unreadable glance at Wyll. “Our farewell. You’ll come here, to be safe, during the Great Turn. What more needs be said, Sweetling na?” she asked. “Besides what you’d like for a treat.”

  Pretend, Sand suggested. Pretend to be carefree and happy, before slipping away from her family and friends to die.

  “You think I’ll fail,” Jenn accused. She’d come knowing what she must say, and what she mustn’t. She dared not lie, not that she would, but if she was to save herself—if she was to save them—it started now. “I won’t fail. Not if you help me. Please tell me, Mistress, what is a sei and how does one save it? For tomorrow I will cross.”

  Wyll half smiled. Bannan looked to Sand as if to remind her he’d know the truth. Flint shook his head and went off to sit in a corner.

  Sand pursed her lips and glanced at
Riverstone.

  “You’re sure what you saw na?” He pointed to the moth on Jenn’s shoulder. At Sand’s nod, he sighed. “Then what we know is yours, Sweetling. Turn-born do not dispute what a sei desires.

  “As for the rest . . .”

  The turn came and went. Knowing what to expect hadn’t helped. Nothing could. Seeing her beloved face disappear before his eyes, fading beyond even his deeper sight, had been like losing her there and then. Peggs had sobbed in silence; Wyll had fled the tent, his face terrible to see. When it was over, what remained of Jenn Nalynn was nothing more than light within a shell if he looked too closely. For all that, despite it, she rose and thanked the turn-born with courtesy and grace, the only one of them able to speak.

  Bannan found Wyll by the gate, staring at the Spine. The dark blue sky hung behind the bleached stone like a curtain, hiding that other world. A world he’d see for himself tomorrow.

  “Jenn’s gone home with Peggs.” Needing the support, he leaned his arms on the top rail. “I have to believe . . .” He coughed the huskiness from his throat. “With her courage, anything’s possible.”

  A breeze tore through the mighty oak by the ford, rattling acorns and rustling leaves. Its branches creaked a protest; the little wind subsided.

  “No, it’s not fair,” he agreed, resting his chin on his arms. Bannan turned his head to gaze at Wyll. “You held something back. What?”

  “What I can say, I have. What I can’t changes nothing.” The dragon’s eyes flared silver. “Jenn Nalynn must succeed.”

  They’d made what plans they could. He and Wyll would wait at the tinkers’ tent; Jenn would be there as soon as she could slip from home. According to the turn-born, all she need do was seek her pebble. The edge was weakest between the tallest mounds of the Spine; step there during the Great Turn and she’d cross into the Verge. By holding Bannan’s hand, she’d bring him with her.

  How to save the sei? They’d exchanged helpless looks, then shrugged. Hopefully, it would tell her how. As for how to fight through hordes of slavering nyphrit . . .

  “We could use some help.” The kruar and the terst turn-born wouldn’t risk the Wound; Jenn wouldn’t risk her family and friends. Just as well, in his soldierly opinion. Fear of any kind worked for the enemy.