A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Not tonight.

  “Fair evening, Bannan Larmensu,” Jenn said with a saucy curtsy. Her eyes were aglow too, full of life and, yes, that was mischief, he was sure of it.

  “And to you,” with a full bow. Her feet, he noticed, were charmingly bare. “May I have this dance?” as he rose.

  Her hand slipped into his. “If you can keep up, good sir.”

  From then on, time was measured in laughter and the trill of pipes. At one point, Uncle Davi scattered the dancers, carrying both niece and nephew on his broad shoulders, everyone clapping as the children giggled; at another, Radd and his sister took the floor alone for a lovely waltz that brought tears to no few eyes. Later, the grooms, wedding bands around their waists, were urged into the center to show off their dancing prowess. Bannan wasn’t surprised when the elated beekeeper leapt higher and longer than either of the younger men.

  Every so often and not often enough, the pipes would slow and someone sing. Jenn would drift into his arms and lay her hands on his shoulders; his hands would find her warm waist and their eyes would meet. They may have moved to the music or stood like statues; he neither knew nor cared. More than once, not often enough, his head would lower or she’d rise on her toes and their lips meet in a sweet, stolen kiss.

  But the night wasn’t endless. A bell rang, right when he least wanted an interruption, and the music stopped. “Midnight supper,” Jenn told him, taking his hand to pull him to the tables.

  Which wasn’t, Bannan thought, what he hungered for. He pulled her into the nearest welcoming shadow and planted a far more satisfactory kiss on those warm and willing lips. Then another. And another. And suddenly, somehow, the ground wasn’t moving under his feet as ground should, but sliding away and taking them with it.

  Leading to a breathless state of things involving a sturdy tree trunk or was it a bench? There were uncooperative laces that gave just before being broken, followed by the disappearance of his shirt and a feverishly tender mutual exploration and . . .

  Heart’s Blood, what fiend invented such undergarments?!

  Laughing, Jenn Nalynn pulled him to the soft grass to show him the trick of it.

  And some time after that, the air filled with the scent of roses as Bannan Larmensu discovered what it meant to give everything of himself in love . . .

  To someone who joyously did the same.

  Jenn woke and smiled. Whatever the day and fate brought, last night had been everything she could have asked. And more. She turned her head to see Bannan lying beside her. He hadn’t commented on the blankets or pillows until they’d been well used indeed.

  Her smile deepened. Peggs had told her of this private spot, hidden by the mill and hedges; as Aunt Sybb always said, it was best to be prepared. She lifted her arm, shedding rose petals. Those had been a gift.

  She looked up to check the sky. Overnight, the old trees had leaned close to roof their little bower. Seeing her attention, the branches spread apart.

  The stars were dim. Almost dawn. Her long-awaited birthday.

  And time.

  It was a wish she’d made before and often. A simple thing. To slip away unnoticed while her father and her sister and her aunt slept, so she could run to Night’s Edge and Wisp before anyone insisted on breakfast or chores. Sometimes it had worked. Sometimes, she hadn’t made it through the kitchen door.

  That was before she was magic.

  Now Jenn Nalynn made the same wish, without doubt or hesitation.

  After such a perfect night, you deserve to rest.

  Don’t notice me.

  She could feel her magic flooding Marrowdell with peace, pouring through windows and doors, finding its way into tents and wagons. Bannan sighed contentedly and rolled over, his arm leaving her stomach.

  Jenn rose, shedding more petals, and pulled out the clothing she’d brought stuffed in a pillow. Her plainest shirtwaist, her too-short skirt. Her hair she braided with flying fingers, but as she tied the laces on her shirt, her fingers lingered on well-loved skin and she smiled to herself, then at Bannan.

  There was no time to waste. She intended to be on the Spine before anyone woke. The baby would probably rouse first, though like everyone else, tiny Loee had stayed up for the dancing and late supper.

  The turn-born? Marrowdell was hers. Catching them asleep might not be fair, but she’d not have them interfere.

  As plans went, she’d hopefully thought of everything, but as Jenn started to leave, she discovered she hadn’t. The house toad, clearly not the least asleep, took another waddling step forward, then stopped. It blinked and yawned to show its sharp teeth, then settled on its belly. ~ What’s needful, elder sister? ~

  Jenn put her finger to her lips, then pointed to Bannan, hoping it understood. She dug her hands into her skirt pockets, hoping to find . . . yes. She put the pebble, ordinary but white, near the toad.

  It turned to watch her leave with a soulful expression, but didn’t argue.

  Don’t notice me.

  Jenn made her way through the village. The mill was dark, as was Old Jupp’s place. Her father was in his hammock, snoring gently. Roses turned with a rustle and slip of leaves as Jenn hurried past, but made no other comment. The toad and roses might be awake, but the horses stabled at the Emms’ weren’t.

  Don’t notice me.

  Jenn dipped her finger in the fountain, then paused to wash her face in its cool clear water, drying her hands on her skirt. Candles guttered in their bowls, the odd lamp glowed faintly, and their light helped her avoid the occasional tankard and overturned plate. The chairs were still out, though empty, the festivities clearly having continued long enough for those usually obsessed with tidiness to leave it all for morning.

  Don’t notice me.

  All quiet at the Uhthoffs, but she started when Devins’ whistling snore echoed through the door of his house. The Ropps and Treffs slept as soundly as the rest and Jenn climbed the gate to the commons, holding her wish firmly in mind, daring to think of nothing else.

  She passed the caravan. Passed the sows, asleep with their heads on their boar. She didn’t so much as glance at the tinkers’ tents, instead looking where she had to go.

  Which was just as well, because otherwise she’d have tripped over Tir Half-face.

  He lay on his sleeping roll, axes clasped in his hands, in front of the gate to the ford. Bannan’s precaution, Jenn decided as she stepped around him. Hers, she thought, was simpler.

  Don’t notice me.

  Over the gate and down the slope. The great oak shivered as she passed, but not enough to rouse Wainn and Wen, asleep in its branches. They’d waited for her and she loved them for that.

  And wanted them safe.

  Jenn stepped into the river. With the milling done and the gate closed, the water was its normal placid self; the work of an instant to wade to the other side. Once across, she paused to look back.

  Everyone she loved was there, asleep and safe. Dawn was a promise beyond the crags, its first glimmer like the lifting of a curtain. She nodded, took a deep breath, and turned to face the Spine.

  The road was a pale sliver quickly lost in darkness, but Jenn didn’t hesitate. Her feet knew it, though laden wagons had crunched its stones and changed its ruts. This was her road and with each step she went faster or the road shortened, for before she’d taken three deep breaths she was there.

  At the path to the Spine.

  Like something wicked leaving on a light to tempt a weary and not very cautious traveler, that being a story Jenn would have preferred not to remember at this moment, needles of early sunlight stabbed through the dense undergrowth, illuminating the way.

  That was to the good, she told herself. It was a rutted, twisty, and sometimes untrustworthy path. Light could only help her climb faster.

  She took a step, then another, feeling that she didn’t so much enter the Wound as leave Marrowdell behind.

  Well, if this was to work, Jenn thought determinedly, that’s what she must do.
r />   She held up one hand as she walked, in case of webs, but there were none.

  Just rustling.

  Not like the roses but nasty and furtive, more and more from either side and she remembered the red-eyed squirrels in the trees that hadn’t quite seemed right. She put all her will into her wish.

  Don’t notice me.

  But they did.

  ~ Elder brother! Elder brother! ~

  Wyll snarled. He’d finally found a position that hurt less than the others and this was his reward? He refused to open his eyes. ~ Leave me be. ~

  Blissful silence. Then a toad landed in the middle of his sore ribs. ~ WAKE! ~

  His hand aimed for its throat, but the little cousin, being wise or more alert, leapt away. Something began to stir in the dragon’s oddly dulled mind. ~ What’s happening . . . ~

  ~ She went alone! She’s in the Wound! ~

  Fully awake, Wyll struggled to his feet. The turn-born lay in their beds, unconscious or asleep, though light came through the windows of the tent. He thrust himself through the door flap to find Tir lying on the ground by the gate and no one in sight.

  When he thought of Jenn Nalynn, of that warm and special feeling that told him where she was and how, his head turned to face the Spine. She was there, and afraid.

  The little cousin squatted nearby, understandably pale.

  ~ How long? ~

  ~ I came as quickly as I could, elder brother. I tried to wake the truthseer, but couldn’t. ~

  She’d put them all to sleep. All! Except . . . ~ Why was I affected and not you? ~ Wyll demanded, offended.

  ~ Perhaps ~ it temporized hastily ~ because you are a man in shape, elder brother. ~

  This useless body had betrayed him.

  No longer.

  Wyll sent breezes surging through the valley. ~ AWAKE! ~ he commanded.

  One rolled Tir from his bed into the gatepost. As the man awoke with a curse, another breeze startled the livestock awake, the old pony leading a short-lived stampede. A baby cried and roses snapped and voices began to shout.

  Though sorely tempted, Wyll merely shook the tinkers’ tent.

  He’d done what he could here. Now to see what he could do there.

  Ignoring Tir’s shout, the dragon went through the gate, splintering the cedar rails. He drove himself into the river, falling forward, struggling up with a snarl and spit.

  Then was lifted!

  Efflet!

  Claws gripped him everywhere and they flew with all the urgent speed their small bodies could manage. ~ Brave little cousins! ~ he praised as they carried him along. ~ Find her! ~

  Before it was too late.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  MICE.

  But like no mice Jenn had ever seen. Their gray naked shapes came out of the shadows, dropped from branches, mewling and whining and whimpering in their eagerness to attack. The size of yearling pigs, they rose on their haunches between slow steps toward her and flexed their claws, red eyes hot with hate.

  Nyphrit. That’s what Wyll called them.

  Whatever they were, they hadn’t attacked yet. There was nothing for it but keep on, so she did, twisting and swerving to avoid them. The path fought her too, the ground slimy and uneven. Whatever magic helped her get this far abandoned her now.

  Jenn started to run.

  The nyphrit crowded close, catching at her skirt, scratching her legs, but couldn’t keep up. She turned the first bend in triumph.

  And stopped, her heart in her throat.

  The creatures filled the passage ahead. She threw a panicked look behind. They’d left a narrow path open.

  A trap or an offer to let her leave?

  One began to move toward her, drool dripping from its open jaws. Others followed. Closer and closer.

  Magic. She had magic, but what good was it if she didn’t know what to do? Create a storm? She could be that afraid, if she let herself, but then what? A storm great enough to kill them could bring the trees down on her too, let alone what might happen to Marrowdell.

  A trick or lure. If she could think what they’d want more than her and wish it, but they drooled as if starving and looked to her for their meal—

  Then the first leapt! Jenn threw herself to the side, but it wouldn’t be enough. She was going to fail, right here, because she’d—

  With a grunt the creature convulsed and dropped, an arrow bristling from its side. Squealing in fury, the others backed away, but didn’t leave.

  Uncle Horst stepped into the open and notched another arrow. “This way!” he ordered. “I’ll hold them.”

  He’d stayed to guard her. She’d wonder how he could be awake later. Her relief to see him mixed with her fear until she put a stop to both. “I can’t go back.” Jenn got to her feet. “I have to reach the top.” Before he could object, she gave him the truth. “It’s what my mother promised.”

  “Where’s Scourge?” Bannan demanded, dressing as he half ran.

  Tir had made the choice to find him. Whether that was the right choice remained to be seen, he thought grimly. Using her magic, Jenn could already be at the top. Alone.

  “Haven’t seen his bloody majesty since he and the ladies took off again last night. But Wyll’s gone after her.”

  For all the good a toothless, crippled, dragon-turned-man could do. Bannan took the axes Tir proffered and thrust them into his belt. Wyll would do what he could, he knew, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with magic. They all would.

  Why, Jenn?

  He should have guessed. Should have known. She’d such courage. She’d never risk anyone else.

  The first person to fool him, the truthseer told himself bitterly, and she’d done it with the truth.

  Their hasty passage through the village was noticed. Kydd came to them still doing up his shirt; as others emerged from their homes, their sleepy curiosity quickly become concern, then alarm. Before any more could follow, Bannan stopped and put out his hand. “Keep them here.”

  “Where’s Jenn?” the beekeeper demanded. “The eclipse’s started.”

  Bannan shot a look to where the sun hung just over the crags. He couldn’t see any change, but took the man’s word. “She’s gone ahead. We’ve no time to waste. Explain what you must, but—” he grabbed a fistful of the other’s shirt and stared into his eyes, “—everyone stays here. Swear it.”

  Kydd nodded grimly, understanding, the truthseer knew, far more than he’d said. “Go.”

  Releasing his hold, Bannan clung to one thought. Jenn Nalynn. He pounded down the village road, Tir at his side, vaulting the gate in one smooth motion. He heard what sounded like cheering from the direction of the caravan, but didn’t bother to look.

  Mistress Sand stood outside the turn-born’s tent. “Save my Sweetling!” she shouted.

  The far gate was next, lying in ruins. Bannan looked a question at Tir.

  “Dragon.” His friend tossed his mask aside and drew his axes with a wicked twist to his gaping mouth. “Let’s not be outdone.”

  Splashing across the river, their feet hit the other side as one. Wishing for his sword and pistol, though Ancestor’s Witness, as well wish for his entire troop, Bannan drew his axes and focused on nothing but speed.

  It wasn’t far to the cursed path, but before they reached it, there came a splintering crash and groan, as though half the forest fell at once. Bannan grabbed Tir and pulled him back as leaves and branches rained down on the road.

  It took a heartbeat. When the air cleared, they looked at one another in dismay. The opening was now blocked by a twisted mass of wood.

  “Find another way,” a calm voice informed them.

  Bannan and Tir turned around. “Wainn?”

  He stood as if he’d been waiting for them, his pole with its dangling lamp in one hand. “Those old trees aren’t like the rest,” he confided. “Wen says they’ve gone mad, being part of the Wound. They want to stop you.”

  “Where do we go then?” Time was wasting. Bannan could feel it. �
��Is there another path? I can’t let her cross alone!”

  Wainn tipped his pole at the forest. “Go up.”

  Climb that jagged slope, through the wild growth of old trees. Mad trees.

  Tir followed his appraising look and paled. “Sir. You can’t, sir. We’ll cut a way through.” Going to the jumble of wood, he attacked the nearest branch with his treasured axes.

  Had they every ax in the village at work, it would take days to clear.

  Having one hope left, Bannan brought his fingers to his lips and gave a soundless whistle.

  Scourge had always heard it, had always come. It had been the one surety in his life, that whistle and his oldest friend’s answer.

  And, just when Bannan was about to despair, there came the thunder of hooves.

  “I’ve two arrows left,” Uncle Horst said quietly. “And this.” He patted the short sword at his side.

  The arrows spent had brought them to the next bend. His aim was unerring and, with each new death in their midst, the cowardly creatures had given way. But not far and not for long.

  The Great Turn was coming. Jenn felt it crawling through her flesh. “I have to do this, Uncle.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “You don’t. Please—”

  He shook his head, as she feared he would. As she’d known he would. “When I let fly this time, start running. Don’t look back, Dearest Heart.”

  Jenn swallowed and nodded back. Standing on her toes, she kissed his grizzled cheek, then gave him room.

  The old soldier moved ahead, notched his bow, and let fly. “Run!”

  Her feet obeyed before she could be afraid. A nyphrit fell, bowled back into the others by the arrow’s force. As she ran into that gap, another arrow whistled through her hair, grazing her cheek, to plunge full in the throat of the next creature lunging for her.

  “For Melusine!” There was a flash of light beside her. A sword dipped and came away bloody.

  As the nyphrit converged, snarling and howling, on this new threat, Jenn ran through. Two strides, three.

  Heart pounding, arms pumping, she dodged and ran and did her best, not thinking of what happened behind her.