His jaws gaped in a mirthless grin. Best way to trim the fat.
The ground was still frozen. He’d picked a sun-touched spot in the meadow, hoping for warmth, but was too early or too late. Late, was his gloomy thought. Marrowdell’s sun waned already. There’d be snow soon. He shivered and snarled.
Warmth, sudden and welcome. Efflet, winged and clawed and foolishly fond of snow, had left their hedge to cuddle against his withered side. Lifting his head, Wisp hurriedly looked around for any sign of the old kruar. Finding none, he accepted the small beings’ gift with a grateful sigh. Not that they’d be enough to keep him warm in winter.
Be warm he must. In the cold, dragonblood would first slow, then freeze solid like the revolting water in the river. Presumably also to thaw in spring, dragons being hard to kill, but none alive could claim to know for certain and Wisp wasn’t about to take that chance.
Or leave the girl unprotected.
He’d find a way. Shelter he had, though of crystal and wood. Until now, he’d visited the girl but briefly in winter, crossing back to the Verge as soon as possible to bask in its heat.
No longer. A growl rumbled deep in his chest, disturbing the efflet. The outside world had found Marrowdell once. It could again. If he had to dig a hole under the truthseer’s kitchen to stay close, live as he had among the turn-born, he would.
A moth shaped like a snowflake drifted near his face. ~I have news, elder brother. News!~
Wisp snapped before remembering the tiny creature could be more than it seemed. ~What news?~ he grumbled, annoyed to be relieved he’d missed. The moths, when not possessed, were prone to think anything worth recording.
~They are leaving, elder brother. Today!~
The dragon settled himself, rather smug. ~This is not news to me.~ The fair at Endshere was the final exchange with the world beyond Marrowdell before winter. He would feel better once it was done, especially as the girl had reminded him there would be letters.
Wisp sincerely hoped none were for him.
The moth managed to look disappointed. ~My apologies, elder brother. I should have realized he wouldn’t leave without your permission.~
~Who?~
~But you already know—~
The dragon parted his jaws meaningfully. ~WHO?!~
The moth landed at a safe distance, fussing with its plumes. ~The smith and the potter and the weaver and the milkmaid and the miller’s apprentice and the woodworker and the writer and the tiny one and the truthseer.~
Bannan was leaving Marrowdell?
More importantly, his warm and food-filled home?
~Oh, that,~ Wisp replied airily. ~I knew that.~
Fine news, indeed.
Then, the best news of all. The moth startled up and away; the efflet deserted at the same time, leaving his side once more exposed to the cold. They sensed what he did and dared not stay.
A turn-born approached.
Not just any turn-born. Jenn Nalynn. Wisp sent a little breeze throughout the meadow to gather soft dry grasses, stealing some from the nest of a sleepy rabbit who thumped fearlessly at him, being one of hers.
As, he thought with undragonish pleasure, was he.
TWO
THE MEADOW KNOWN as Night’s Edge nestled between Bannan’s farm, two of the Bone Hills, and the Tinkers Road, isolated from all but a lovely view of Marrowdell by thick hedges and the old trees—who weren’t trees, Jenn reminded herself, but the roots of neyet growing through from the Verge. That the valley was filled with such mysterious beings was still a delight.
That her meadow remained home to her favorite, her best friend, was something more than that. Had Wisp returned to his old life, hers would have been the poorer.
Though he could still be the most annoying, difficult, and stubborn . . . “I just want to talk to her.”
A warm breeze tickled her ear. “Why?” It tossed her bangs. “You’re talking to me, Dearest Heart. Am I not enough? Why am I not enough?”
Was that a hint of worry? “Nothing’s wrong,” Jenn assured him, rubbing her forehead. “I’ve some questions for Mistress Sand, that’s all.”
“Questions you can’t ask me? You can ask me anything.”
Oh, definitely worry—and a smidge of pique. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her friend was jealous. “Fine. I’ll ask you.” He’d made her a seat of dry grass, which was considerate, though the clumps of fur meant he hadn’t been as thoughtful of the rabbit, but she was too restless to sit. “Mistress Sand said the Verge touches more than Marrowdell—” this being a marvelous revelation she and Bannan had discussed many times. “All I want to know is if it touches—well, if it goes to—”
“Endshere.” Silver glinted in the air before her, and she felt a draft most likely from a wing. Wisp showed himself no more than ever, but Jenn had seen him both as a man, which had been her doing, and as he truly was. Claws like ancient bone, longer than her fingers, curved and serrated. A wiry beard below a long jaw of deadly fangs. Breath like steam; skin like finely woven silver chain. Eyes of deep, dark violet. One side, crippled, the other whole, but both wings entire and strong, a gift she’d oh-so-gladly given. “It does not, Dearest Heart,” he informed her. “If it did, what would you do?”
She hadn’t thought that far, to be honest. Jenn plopped herself down on the grassy seat with a sigh. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Be sure they’re safe. Watch over them.”
“See the fair for yourself.”
“I—” Swallowing her protest, Jenn lowered her gaze to her hands and searched her own heart. Was she still so shallow? No. “I’m uneasy,” she said at last, sure of that much. “Whether it’s because I can’t help them, or because I shouldn’t even if I could. Being turn-born’s—” What was it? “—confusing,” she finished, sure of that, too. “Wisp, I don’t know my limits. I don’t know how to find them without doing something I shouldn’t.” Oh, there was an understatement. “I need Mistress Sand.” She patted the ground. “Here.”
“The terst turn-born will not cross until Marrowdell warms again. Being sensible.” Followed by a snapsnapsnap that sounded like chattering teeth.
House toads felt the cold. They moved indoors, taking up residence under heatstoves and in front of fireplaces.
Her poor dragon. Despite today’s sunshine, the air had a nip to it that would soon be a freezing bite. Which she mustn’t alter, Jenn reminded herself sternly. Instead, she undid her heavy cloak—the lined one being saved for real winter—and held it out awkwardly. “If you’re cold—” she began, then shook her head and put the cloak aside. “Wisp. Come close. I’m warm enough for the two of us.”
Grass bent and crackled. She let him decide if and how, reminded of how it was easier to catch a wayward piglet if one sat quietly and let it come. With a piece of apple, piglets not being foolish, but warmth was something she most certainly could see wanting just as much.
Something pressed against her arm, then around her back, cool and hard as stone. More laid along her thigh, then a long something that wasn’t heavy but had odd sharp bits landed on her lap. Encased in dragon, Jenn spread her cloak over them both as best she could. “There. Isn’t that better?” Though it was; she could feel for herself. What had been cool and hard warmed more quickly than stone could, and she would, in fact, shortly be too warm for the cloak herself and possibly break into a sweat.
Which was fine. After all these years, she finally knew who and what her little breeze was. He could be harmed—hadn’t she done it? He could be lost—oh, how she’d feared it. Through it all, Wisp remained the bravest, truest friend there could be.
And deserved every kindness she could manage.
When the breeze found her ear again, it was decidedly formal, as if the dragon was slightly embarrassed to be, as Peggs would put it, snuggling. “If you truly wish to speak with the turn-born, Dearest Heart, I could convey your invita
tion. By word, not letter.”
Wisp, as Wyll, had learned all about invitations. As for the letter? “I understand,” Jenn said. Only turn-born could cross between worlds with more than themselves. What Wisp proposed was a meeting, but . . . “You said Mistress Sand wouldn’t cross into—oh.”
“The Verge is always warm,” the breeze informed her, implying something wrong with a world unable to make the same claim. “It would be a show of strength to demand to meet at your crossing.”
“My crossing?” Jenn echoed faintly. Did he mean the entrance to the Verge at the top of the Spine, where she’d crossed before? Where she’d faced—no, she thought firmly. He couldn’t mean that. It was much too close to the mad sei for even her comfort.
Not to mention some unfortunate rabbits.
The breeze found her other ear. “The terst turn-born would refuse, of course. They are not so brave as you, Dearest Heart.”
She felt anything but brave.
The dragon might have been talking to himself. “A meeting at their crossing would put you too close to their home. No, it should be on neutral ground. Where I cross. That will do. You don’t mind heights, do you?”
Worry about heights, when they were talking about crossing from one world to the next, where she would be away from all that kept her Jenn Nalynn and flesh?
Her heart filled with longing to do just that. And wasn’t now, with Bannan away, the perfect time to try?
Which now wasn’t. “Ancestors Forgetful and Foolish. Wisp, it’s laundry day. I promised Peggs.” A struggle once the air was so cold, and not something to avoid simply to go adventuring. “I can’t abandon her.” Not twice in a row.
What she’d unconsciously leaned against pulled away. As she caught her balance, the breeze chuckled in her ear. “Dearest Heart, do your duty while I do mine. There’s no knowing when I’ll find the turn-born to give your invitation. This day. The next. They travel the Verge, though never as quickly as I. I’ll bring word.”
Just like that, she was alone in the meadow. A disgruntled rabbit began stuffing grass in its mouth, the dried ends wagging up and down until it seemed to have grown a very odd and very large mustache. Jenn moved out of its way. “I’ve done it now,” she told it, relieved, if she were honest. The die was cast. She was committed to crossing into the Verge, to meet with its powerful turn-born.
Where the warmth of her reception could depend on a dragon’s manners. Or lack.
“Oh, dear.”
The steady beat of unshod hooves on packed earth was their drum, the creak of leather and occasional snort their sole heralds. Bannan was reassured by the care taken by the villagers beyond Marrowdell’s walls. They might have been ghosts moving down the mist-skirted Northward Road. Deer barely looked up as they passed; a young fox startled when they came around a bend.
Davi rode Battle, the extra burden nothing to the massive horse. His mother and Frann sat atop the cart load, a cozy nest having been made for them among the bundles and sacks; by midmorning, both were sound asleep.
Hettie and Tadd rode behind the wagon, holding hands when they thought no one was looking. They’d argued before setting out, she being large with child and he, to Bannan’s mind, understandably anxious. But the women hadn’t worried, most particularly her mother, who was the village healer, so how could the men?
Zehr walked more than he rode, admitting he hadn’t spent much time ahorse the last few years, but cheerful despite his sore backside. He held the reins of his wife’s mount as well, Gallie busy taking notes on the surrounding plant life, though it looked like all the rest to Bannan’s eyes. Tiny Loee, preoccupied with her thumb, dozed in a sling at her mother’s breast.
As for Bannan? After Scourge, Perrkin was a revelation: an honest, easy-paced horse who not only knew where they were going but wished nothing more than to please his rider along the way. He could get used to this, the truthseer decided, patting the aged gelding’s sturdy neck.
Though truth was, after they stopped for lunch, he was in some danger of joining Frann, Lorra, and the baby, nodding off, then waking with a guilty start. Scourge wouldn’t have put up with it, being expert at a jolting step or two if Bannan dared relax. Teeth through one’s tongue was an unpleasant and highly effective alarm on patrol.
Which he was, so the truthseer fought his grogginess. Going ahead a bend or two and riding back helped, but it wasn’t fair to Perrkin to ask him to travel the road more than the others. Instead, Bannan followed Zehr’s example and dismounted to walk every so often, the challenge of keeping up with the team’s long strides enough to keep his eyes open.
Not that eyes seemed much use. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on Scourge’s senses. Once the morning mist burned away, the sun dazzled. Now, afternoon’s first shadows stretched like fingers from under the pines, clawing at the road’s edge and hiding what they chose. His eyes played tricks, he thought, squinting.
Had he seen something?
Another fox, more likely than not.
The entire north, as much of it as he’d seen, consisted of steep-walled crags split at random by narrow, winding gorges. The road, like the tumbling water that sprang from cracks and seams, took the easiest path, winding anywhere the land could support it, ever-so-grudgingly sloping down to Lower Rhoth and civilization.
Toward Lila and home. He couldn’t wait.
Bannan frowned.
The Westietas estate had never been home; he’d left the Larmensu holding a boy barely grown. Home lay behind him, in a land of—of—roses and sunsets that were—what were they?—where moths who took notes—which, his frown deepened, moths couldn’t do.
Yes, he’d a farm of his own and soon, hopefully, piglets, but winter, he feared, would be long and lonely. If only he’d found someone in Marrowdell, as Lila had hoped.
Suddenly, his neck burned—or did it itch?
Bannan lifted his fingers to the spot and felt raised letters, hot as fire. As shockingly, at the touch, his memory cleared. “Jenn!” he cried, aloud and urgently, feeling the truth of it—of her—snap back into place.
He trembled, unable to credit he’d forgotten her, however briefly.
“‘Jenn?’” Davi glanced down at him, bushy eyebrows raised. “Who’s that?”
He meant it. The truth in the other man’s face was like a knife in Bannan’s heart. “Someone dear to me,” he managed. Someone dear to all of them, before they’d left Marrowdell.
What was happening?
“Maybe you’ll have a letter waiting,” the villager said comfortingly.
“I hope so.” The truthseer forced a smile, a smile he lost as he mounted Perrkin and sent him trotting ahead of their little group.
Ordinary sunlight crisscrossed the road, fallen leaves crunched rather than giggled, and what was wrong with him, that he’d any trouble at all remembering the love of his life? She’d kissed him this very morning. Held him tight then sent him on his way with one of her wondrous smiles.
He’d forgotten Marrowdell as well, at least everything strange and remarkable about the place.
Heart’s Blood. Bannan swallowed. One and the same, weren’t they, for wasn’t Jenn Nalynn now turn-born and magic?
Wen had warned him. Leave and no longer belong.
Ancestors Dreadful and Dire, he hadn’t thought it the truth.
Bannan twisted in the saddle. The others seemed unchanged and unworried. Because they couldn’t see the Marrowdell he did? Or was it because they’d lived there most of their lives, taking so much for granted they didn’t notice its absence?
Such questions died on his lips, unspoken, and he knew himself a coward, afraid to see the terrible truth in every face. That once beyond Marrowdell, even they forgot her magic.
He would not. Dared not. Ylings. They lived in the old trees—the neyet. The ylings had been left in the valley; the neyet grew throug
h from the Verge for their own reasons and, once, had sacrificed themselves so the turn-born could build a village. A village to attract people, ordinary people, to harvest the kaliia, the grain that also grew from the Verge and was tended by the deadly efflet.
Jenn Nalynn had hair of gold.
The kaliia was the reason for the mill, too, for the turn-born—however dangerous and powerful—happened to like the beer they could make from that grain.
He did too, come to think of it. Tasty stuff. To turn-born it was more, Jenn had told him, the brew being their way of bringing some of this world with them into the Verge, for they wouldn’t cross in winter.
Willingly would he drown in her eyes, their deep blue purpled by magic. Her smile took hold of his heart and made it sing. When she laughed, the world brimmed with hope and anything was possible.
The road, the crisp air, even the patient horse beneath him faded as Bannan thought of Jenn Nalynn; he started when Tadd Emms rode up beside him and said his name.
“Is something wrong?” As if everything wasn’t, the truthseer told himself grimly. Give him bandits. Anything but this betrayal.
“That’s what I came to see.” Though both twins showed their Naalish ancestry in a stocky build and tight black curls, with a sallowness to their skin despite its weathering, only Tadd had their mother’s dimples. They weren’t in evidence now, his features serious. “Hettie said you shouted a name she didn’t know.” After a quick, searching look at Bannan’s face, he smiled broadly and leaned back in the saddle. “Jenn’s. Jenn Nalynn. You remember.”
“How—?” How didn’t matter. Bannan’s relief was akin to pain. “I do. Now. But Tadd, I—I forgot her.” Said aloud, it sounded worse than impossible.
Tadd merely nodded, as if unsurprised. “What matters is you remember,” with certainty. “We’d bet, Allin and me. If you would or not. I told him a truthseer might.” His head tilted, like a curious bird’s. “You have, haven’t you? Remembered Marrowdell the way we do. Not only Jenn. All of it. The magic.”
A Play of Shadow Page 4