Bannan chuckled. “Wish I’d had her with me the first time.” He tested the girth, then gave the gelding a piece of carrot. “Ancestors Witness, Tir was less than no help at all.”
He was leaving Marrowdell and it was, Jenn told herself, reasonable and even right, for otherwise Uncle Horst would worry himself into trying to go with the others, none of them being soldiers. She mustn’t feel dismayed or disappointed or worried or anything but—for an instant, she paused, abruptly confused what she was supposed to feel, if not all that.
Helpful. She took hold of a tie string from Bannan’s pack and reached for the other.
Only to have him glance down at her with those too-perceptive eyes, a glow in their apple butter depths. His hand shifted to cover hers on the pack, warm and strong. “Thank you for understanding, Dearest Heart,” Bannan said, his voice quiet and soft. “Is there anything I could bring back for you?”
Jenn’s confusion faded. “Yourself,” she whispered, and smiled from deep within, loving the way his expressive face mirrored both joy and a rather delicious frustration. Louder, for Alyssa, “A bag of sour candies, if you please, for my father. Any flavor will do. He’s eaten all that Aunt Sybb brought, and they’re good for his throat.”
“Nothing more?”
“There’s no room for more,” she pointed out, turning practical. “You’ll have mail—” which was Uncle Horst’s job and meant something the truthseer should know and likely didn’t. Jenn checked to be sure Lorra Treff wasn’t in sight and Alyssa was safely behind Battle before whispering, “You mustn’t let anyone look in the mailbag once you have it. Davi’s burned Lorra’s letter to the prince, and she’d be most upset if she found out. Give the bag and Kydd’s honeypots to Cammi—” the postmistress, having a sweet tooth and kind heart, took the ’pots instead of a fee the villagers couldn’t afford, “—and she’ll give you any mail for us.”
Bannan chuckled. “A hazardous mission in truth, Dearest Heart, but one I’m willing to assume. Especially,” with a wink, “since I expect mail of my own.”
From his sister, he meant.
There could, Jenn swallowed, be one for her as well. She’d sent a letter to the Baroness Westietas with Aunt Sybb, a letter written in Jenn’s best hand—the fourteenth such, as she’d found herself muddled at every try—thanking her for the map. She’d added a line about the weather. Another about the bountiful harvest—mentioning food should reassure a distant sister—and a final line praising her brother’s courage. That had been the most difficult to compose. She mustn’t imply a worrisome need for bravery in Bannan’s new home, but Lila should know how much he was appreciated and valued.
She hadn’t found a way to say she would protect him, always.
And now he was leaving. “You will be careful,” Jenn told him, her voice thick. However capable he was, Bannan Larmensu was a man with a secret, a man who sought to leave behind his former self and occupation. Others would pay to find out, she was sure of it. “Promise me. There’ll be strangers. You’ll be staying—” with every intonation of ill repute and vile doings Aunt Sybb had ever managed to instill in a phrase, “—at the inn.”
Even if The Good Night’s Sleep was Palma’s and by all accounts a fine and proper place.
He kissed the tip of her nose, making her eyes cross. “I promise, Dearest Heart. It’s but a day’s journey on horseback. We’ll stay two nights at most, then be back. You’ll hardly—”
“Ancestors Blessed, we’ve caught you!” Uncle Horst came up the road toward them, a pair of packages under his left arm, makeshift crutch under the right. “Uncle Horst” he remained to her and to Peggs, but to the rest of the village he was now Sennic Nahamm, in honor of his wife’s Ancestors. He’d left his birth name behind long ago, and given his home to Hettie and Tadd, when he’d thought to leave Marrowdell.
Now he would stay, living with his wife, in her great-uncle’s home.
Riss Nahamm walked with him, fingertips on his wrist. Curls of red hair kissed her cheeks and brushed the collar of her coat. Both of them were smiling. As they should, Jenn thought a little fiercely. As they should.
For the gallant old soldier had believed himself unworthy of happiness since the day of Jenn’s birth, and Riss had loved him in secret all those long years. It had taken almost mortal wounds for him to accept her proposal.
And magic to save him, a turn-born’s magic.
The sun felt a little warmer at the memory. Which was, Jenn realized, a turn-born’s magic as well. She hurriedly thought about winter and snow and—oh, better still—washing day-old pots, that being a thought guaranteed to tame her impulses.
Bannan chuckled and nodded to the unharnessed team. “We’re hardly rushing off, my friend.”
“I’d prefer it if you did,” Uncle Horst replied, his keen eyes lifting to the crags to the west. “Ancestors Wary and Wise, the weather can change in an hour this late in the season. I trust you to advise Davi as—” he paused, “—adamantly as I would.”
Meaning that without firm support in any decision to leave early or turn back, the big smith would give in to his beloved mother’s urging and Lorra, despite living in the north this many years and ample evidence to the contrary, continued to believe storms would wait on her convenience.
A strong mind didn’t, Aunt Sybb would say, guarantee a wise one.
“Heart’s Blood. As I should,” gruffly. Uncle Horst put weight to his wounded leg. Riss bit her lower lip as the healed scars along his cheek and jaw whitened in pain.
“As I will,” countered Bannan. He made a circle with his hands over his heart. “Hearts of my Ancestors, I swear to bring them home safely.”
“Tadd knows what to watch for,” Jenn offered. He and his twin had spent the past few summers with the livestock in the surrounding hills. They’d quickly learned when to take cover.
“That he does, Dear Heart,” Uncle Horst conceded, then added with a nod. “As does our truthseer.”
He didn’t mean the weather.
“Then it’s settled, with our thanks, Bannan,” Riss said in her soft voice, her eyes suspiciously moist. “I’ve a favor to ask as well. My esteemed great-uncle would like this delivered to Palma. If you’ve room?” She took the first package from Uncle Horst and passed it to the truthseer. It was a leather portfolio, secured with thick drops of wax at every corner and loop. Old Jupp mustn’t trust anyone not to read what he’d sent.
Or he valued it, Jenn reminded herself. She’d come to respect Marrowdell’s eldest inhabitant; to like him, very much, truth be told, and to worry, a little. The former secretary of Avyo’s House of Keys had brought trunks filled with documents to his exile, many containing secrets the current prince would not want revealed. Over the years, Old Jupp had compiled the juiciest in memoirs he gleefully planned to have published after his death.
Jenn hoped Riss would delay that publication until the prince joined her uncle as one of the Blessed. Marrowdell might be several days’ travel from Avyo; it wasn’t beyond reach.
“My pleasure,” Bannan assured Riss. He tucked the portfolio deep inside a saddlebag, securing it before he came around to face Uncle Horst.
Who held out the second package. A slender one.
Something unhappy slid behind Bannan’s eyes and he gave a sharp shake of his head.
“Heart’s Blood! Don’t argue.” Leaning on his crutch, Uncle Horst used his free hand to strip the cloth wrap from what was, Jenn saw, his short straight sword. The one that had hung in its scabbard above the fireplace, by the bear claws, as long as she could remember.
The one for use on other men.
The gelding, Perrkin, lifted his graying muzzle and snorted with interest, being a soldier’s horse and aware.
“I’m not arguing,” Bannan said quietly. “I’m not taking it.”
“Where’s your warhorse? Without him, I don’t see you have a weapon.
”
Scourge wasn’t going? Jenn nodded to herself. She shouldn’t be surprised. Beyond Marrowdell, outside the edge, the old kruar was voiceless and forgotten. He’d suffered that life till finding his way home. Why would he seek it again?
For love of this man, that was why, though the great creature would hotly deny any such attachment. Which meant . . . “You didn’t tell him, did you?” she said.
Bannan half shrugged. “Even had I’d wished to, he and your dragon are off gallivanting.” His way of saying they’d crossed into the Verge, which dragon and kruar could do at whim.
Well, that was inconvenient. Or convenient, Jenn thought with a little frown, unsure how she felt about the timing.
Uncle Horst had no such doubt. “Ancestors Unwary and Undone,” he said roughly, thrusting the sword hilt-first at the younger man. “Every bandit worth the name knows Marrowdell travels to the fair, with goods worth stealing either way. The only reason they’ve never attacked is because they know me as well.”
It wasn’t a boast. Radd Nalynn, who well knew the measure of his friend, would make jokes about the wisdom of bandits, and the Lady Mahavar had relied on Uncle Horst to see her safely to and fro, until Tir Half-face and his axes took her service and his place.
Bannan—he’d been a soldier, too, a border guard and captain of others, including Tir. A life he’d left behind; skills he likely couldn’t. Why shouldn’t he arm himself? Wouldn’t he be safer?
The truthseer’s eyes found hers, as if she’d spoken aloud. “Swords end arguments,” he said quietly. “I’ve never found them to win one.”
Uncle Horst lowered the blade. “Trust me, Bannan Larmensu. The rabble who hunt the road will steer wide and clear if they see this. Or leave it here,” he went on blandly. “If it turns out you were wrong, I’ll see how it fits between your ribs.”
The truth, if ever Bannan had seen it in a face. Silently, he held out his hand for the sword, belting the thing to hang at his hip. A soldier’s weapon, as if there was doubt, free of gilt or tassel. The weight of it, the potential, changed his stance and darkened his mood. “I’ll not draw it,” he said, wondering who he promised.
“Ancestors Witness, now you look the part, truthseer, I doubt there’ll be need. I’d not cross you.” Spoken lightly, but there was something in the old soldier’s eyes when Bannan met them that said otherwise.
This wasn’t the leave-taking he’d planned, if he’d planned anything beyond being grateful if Jenn Nalynn didn’t object to his leaving in the first place. He glanced her way. She’d lost her smile, but managed a resolute nod. “We’ll be fine,” she said, to his unasked question.
“Ready, Bannan?” Davi’s deep voice brought up his team’s heads, and Alyssa laughed as a ribbon pulled from her hand. He’d the reins of the other riding horses in one big hand. Marrowdell would be left with Wainn’s old pony and a pair of weanlings.
Before the treaty calmed the border with Ansnor, the horses alone would have been a prize worth the risk of a sword. In Vorkoun, anyway. Perhaps Weken. Endshere and settlements farther north seemed oblivious to both the war and its end. Bannan supposed that was the way of the world.
“Ready when you are. We should get moving,” he added without looking at Sennic.
Davi chuckled. “Mother’s been saying that since breakfast.” He handed the reins to Jenn and Alyssa. “We’ll be off soon. C’mon, lads.” This with a cluck of his tongue as he guided the big draft horses with a hand on each massive neck. “Mother’s waiting.”
Two pairs of ears flicked back, then the horses stepped promptly into their traces.
The Emms appeared, with Hettie and Tadd, and the area under the apple trees quickly became a bustle of activity as bundles and gear were sorted out. Bannan lost Jenn for a moment, then spotted her in earnest discussion with her sister and Hettie. Lorra and Frann arrived, faces flushed with obvious pleasure. More and more inhabitants of Marrowdell joined the fray, voices rising with excitement. The leave-taking was an event, after all.
A moth landed on his shoulder. Bannan squinted at it. “Are you coming?”
It waved an absent feathery plume, preoccupied with writing on its tiny curl of parchment. The moths were record keepers. News bringers, at times. And every so often, astonishingly—Bannan looked up at the sweeping pale stone of the Bone Hills—the moths were part of the immense being who held Marrowdell and the Verge together. Or spoke with its voice. A meaningless distinction, according to the dragon, who discouraged questions about the sei.
Or had no answers to give. Bannan grinned. “Keep track of things while I’m away,” he requested, quite sure the moth would do so anyway.
To his surprise, it tucked away its parchment, moths having wee satchels for that purpose, and tiptoed along his shoulder to his neck. He held very still, despite the tickle, but couldn’t help but start when it scratched busily on his skin. Done, it fluttered away, and he could have sworn it laughed.
“It wrote on you.” Wainn Uhthoff had a gift for being unnoticed until he chose to be. He peered with interest at the truthseer’s neck.
“What?” Bannan lifted his chin to make that inspection easier.
“I can’t read,” the youngest Uhthoff reminded him comfortably. “I remember the words.”
Of all the books in Marrowdell, Bannan knew, even the ones Wainn’s uncle, Kydd, had shredded into a lining for his beehives years ago. Books of magic, from Rhoth and beyond. “I should have shown you Talnern’s Last Quest,” he said ruefully, “before the dragon got his claws on it.” His favorite novel had been thoroughly shredded as well; though returned, somehow neatly sewn back into the shape of a book, the words inside remained a scrambled mess.
Admittedly an entertaining mess. Neither he nor Jenn could read more than a line aloud to one another before bursting into giggles.
Wainn hadn’t moved. “These words belong to Marrowdell.” An uncharacteristic frown creased his forehead. “Wen said, if you leave, you won’t.”
If there was anyone closer to the Verge and its wild magic than a turn-born, it was Wen Treff, who spoke to toads and heard the secrets within a heart. Bannan felt the weight of the sword again, but it wasn’t that. Marrowdell objected to his leaving. Or warned him against it.
Why? A chill ran down his spine. To counter it, he clapped Wainn heartily on the shoulder. “Then I’d best come back, hadn’t I?”
The younger man didn’t smile. “Yes.” He turned and left without another word.
“What was that about?” Jenn asked, giving Wainn’s back a surprised look as she stepped close.
Bannan wrapped his arm around her, holding her slender warmth to the side without the sword, and pressed his face into her hair. “Hearts of my Ancestors,” he prayed silently, then stopped, terrified to have come that close to doubt. “I belong here,” he said instead, aloud. “I belong here and with you, Dearest Heart.”
“You’re doing the right thing.” Her arms, strong and comforting, wrapped around his waist. “The others are glad you’ll be with them. As am I.” A squeeze, then she slipped away. “After all,” her smile found his heart, “I’ll be here to welcome you home.”
Home, Bannan thought, almost dizzy with relief. That was the truth. Marrowdell was his home now and, moths and warnings withstanding, nothing would change that.
He wouldn’t let it.
A sliver of paper, touched by ink and fingertip . . . a drop of sleep, under the tongue . . .
And the dream unfolds . . .
Mean, the room, full of dust and cobwebs, its walls of rough stone and wood black with rot. There’s a shuttered window, curtained by a cloak.
A pair of lamps light a table spread with documents. A hand shifts them about, points to one.
Dim figures gather around. Heads shake. A fist comes down. Disagreement.
A finger pushes the document forward. Insistence.
It rains silver.
And eyes glimmer from the dark.
She’d let him leave. There’d been a heartbeat, an instant, when simply asking would have kept him here, with her. But duty must, when duty calls, as Aunt Sybb would say, and she’d known he should and must go.
That didn’t make it any easier.
So, having watched the precious caravan pass out of sight beyond the first bend of the road from Marrowdell, before the last echoes of hoofbeats and fare-thee-well’s faded from the crags, Jenn Nalynn fled before she could change her mind.
And stop them all.
She ran through the village and climbed the gate into the commons, past Wainn’s old pony, calling unhappily after his pasture mates, and the cows, half asleep as they chewed their cud in the sun. The far gate was open and the great sows, Satin and Filigree, didn’t look up as she passed, too busy rooting through litter for the last of the acorns. They were as good as a gate, being unwilling to share their treasure with anything else four-footed; their boar, Himself, being the exception, but he dozed in the Treffs’ warm barn with this year’s weanlings.
The riverside oak rattled its brown withered leaves as Jenn moved through its shade, being an opinionated tree. She didn’t pause. The water of the ford was shin-deep and bitterly cold, ice where it stilled among the brown reed stalks, but she didn’t gasp or slow. Nor was she at all surprised when the path to Bannan’s little farm came faster than it should, because Marrowdell knew where she wanted to be.
Night’s Edge.
And with whom.
In the air, he was death and danger and all things perilous. A dragon, once lord. Almost, not quite, lord again.
Silly younglings.
Wisp settled to ground, leaving such pretensions in the chill air. He’d survived his penance. He’d no interest in earning another. Let a new fool rouse dragonblood and stir the cliff holds to battle.
A Play of Shadow Page 3