A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

  In complete agreement, Bannan warmed his hands under Perrkin’s saddle blanket as long as he could, then gave the aged gelding a cheery pat. Home it was. When had he last felt such anticipation at the word? Then again, he’d never had someone, not just some place, waiting.

  “There you are,” Palma said, ducking under Perrkin’s head. Apparently the morning wasn’t cold enough, in her estimation, to require more than a lacy shawl around her shoulders. She smiled and pressed one of the small packages from the basket over her arm into Bannan’s hands. “Something for the trip.”

  A hot and fragrant something. “My thanks,” he said most sincerely.

  “Please give my thanks to Master Jupp, would you?” Palma shook her head, black curls bouncing. “I’d hoped to send some of my manuscript back with you, but it’s not ready.”

  “You’ve the winter to work on it, then.”

  Her smile was replaced by a small, worried frown. “Winter’s harsh on our elders. Bannan, after what’s happened to Frann Nall, I worry about Master Jupp, at his greater age, living in Marrowdell. We’d make him welcome here. Please tell him so.” Then—innocent of what she said, because hadn’t she forgotten too?—she added, “Marrowdell has nothing we can’t offer here, and better.”

  Which wasn’t true. It had magic. It had dragons, and house toads, and a silver road flowing between living hills that marked doorways to another world. It had Jenn Nalynn.

  Heart’s Blood, without the moth, he’d have forgotten too. He’d have urged Frann to stay here, would have headed south after Lila, would have lost . . .

  Everything.

  Warmth on his neck, ice in his heart, Bannan thanked his Ancestors once more. To Palma, he bowed. “I will tell him of your generous offer. However, I suspect,” he smiled at her, “he’ll be more interested in reading your manuscript.”

  She blushed but, given the newly determined glint in her eye, Bannan knew the book would be finished and in Master Jupp’s hands the moment winter eased again. Ancestors Hale and Hearty, the elderly gentleman best stay in good health or Palma would have his head.

  A commotion broke out, horses shifting with alarmed whinnies, voices shouting: “Get away!” “Move!” “Heart’s Blood! Bannan!!”

  Only one thing could possibly cause such a stir.

  Scourge.

  Hastily returning his package to Palma, Bannan bolted for continuing shouts. He should have told the warhorse that plans had changed. If the idiot beast thought the villagers were somehow stealing what he’d been ordered to protect, there was no telling what he’d do.

  A shout louder than the rest. “I’ll have you made into sausage!!”

  Lorra? Worse and worse.

  He dodged Hettie’s mount and suddenly stopped, as stunned as the rest surrounding the cart.

  Frann lay amid a wealth of blankets, Scourge’s massive slobbery head in her lap, while Lorra, swearing like a soldier, flailed at the rest of him with her hat. Frann appeared unconscious, and the great beast?

  Was humming.

  The sound was deep, running along the nerves. The hair on Bannan’s neck stood on end and, though he’d never heard it before, he knew it for what it was.

  A warning.

  Amazed Scourge had tolerated her this much, Bannan grabbed Lorra around the waist and carried her bodily out of range of the warhorse’s back hooves, earning a few curses and swats of the hat in the process. Ignoring those, he handed Davi his mother and turned back to the cart.

  In Marrowdell, he could ask the bloody beast to explain himself. Here, unsure how much Scourge even remembered of himself, he supposed he’d have to treat him as a horse.

  A very large and disturbed horse, who’d somehow found it necessary to climb half into a loaded cart to be close to a sick woman.

  It wasn’t, Bannan thought, sorely puzzled, the sort of thing Scourge did. Eat someone or something helpless, yes.

  He went to the front of the cart and climbed onto the driver’s seat, hands open. To his relief, Frann seemed in no immediate danger, other than being afflicted by hair and drool. Scourge had placed his front hooves to either side of her; though it looked as if he’d rested his heavy head on her chest, it was held slightly above her. Muscles strained along the beast’s shoulders and neck. Sweat steamed.

  Dripping on poor Frann.

  “Idiot Beast,” Bannan said firmly. “Get off!”

  Red-rimmed eyes glared. Scourge flattened his ears and his lips rippled over fangs.

  Humming, as he had at Lorra.

  Heart’s Blood. Could it be? The truthseer sank to the wooden bench, holding up a hand to ask patience from those watching. After all their years together, something new.

  For some reason—making sense only within that narrow skull—was Scourge protecting Frann from the rest of them?

  Ancestors Compassionate and Caring. He’d have smiled, if it wasn’t for the real danger posed by those great hooves and fangs. His tone free of any challenge, Bannan tried again. “No one’s harmed Frann. We’re taking her home, where she belongs, so Covie can look after her. Or we will,” he corrected, “once you get off, you great lump.”

  An ear flickered, then nostrils flared, showing red. Unconvinced, that meant.

  Growing desperate, Bannan circled his fingers over his heart. “Hearts of my Ancestors, I swear we mean her no harm. We need you to guard her on the road home. There could be,” with all the sincere innocence he could muster, “another bear. Or bandits.”

  He hadn’t realized how intimidating the hum had been till it stopped.

  Lips closed. Rage left the eyes. Neck curved in a noble arch, Scourge, Protector of the Helpless, stepped off the cart.

  Lorra Treff smacked him across the rump with the remains of her hat. She climbed in with Frann and glared at Bannan, still on the driver’s seat. “Well?”

  “Ready to go,” he assured her, jumping down to let Davi take his place.

  As Bannan mounted Perrkin and reclaimed his package from Palma, everyone bound for Marrowdell falling into their traveling order around the cart, Scourge pranced ahead, unaffected by hats or mutters about sausage stuffing. Soon enough, he’d melt into the forest alongside the road.

  Bannan hoped.

  The question of why the great beast had defended Frann would have to wait for Marrowdell, where he’d once more have a voice.

  Scourge explain himself?

  Bannan settled into the saddle, appreciating the gelding’s easy gait, and chuckled.

  He’d not bet on it.

  If the lack of towel on the Emms’ door handle wasn’t clue enough, the marvelous smell of rich hot pudding Jenn inhaled when she stepped into the kitchen prepared her for Peggs being there and waiting, lanterns lit.

  If not for her sister’s pounce and the tight hug that followed. “Sorry I’m late—” Jenn squeaked with what breath she had left, her arms around her sister in an equally fervent embrace.

  For hadn’t she left the world and returned again?

  And missed supper.

  “I’m fine, Dear Heart,” Jenn said with quick remorse, feeling Peggs tremble. “Wisp stayed with me and Mistress Sand did come. She answered so many of my questions—” though not all, and few to any comfort. “You know how I am once distracted,” she finished disarmingly.

  Another close-to-painful squeeze, then Peggs pushed her away, keeping a grip on her shoulders. She studied Jenn’s face, her eyes huge and dark. “Ancestors Tried and Troubled. Distracted in your meadow’s one thing. You were in the Verge!” A hard shake. “Late? I’ve been terrified. I’d have come after you if I’d known how!”

  “You mustn’t think that! Where I went, you can never follow.” Jenn couldn’t help the harshness of her voice. It was more than the truth. “I have to know you won’t try. Ever. Promise me.” She waited for her sister, now grim-faced, to nod before going
on more calmly, “You mustn’t fear for me there, Peggs. Not like this. The other world is strange and beautiful—I wish I had your skill with a brush, but we don’t have the colors, not here. As I am strange, now, and no longer just your sister.” She cupped Peggs’ face in her hands, rising on tiptoe to press a quick kiss on her nose. “But I’ll always be your sister.”

  “Will you always come home?”

  Words like the tolling of a bell. “If you cook me supper,” Jenn countered, making it light. She sniffed and pretended to follow her nose to the covered pudding. “Especially my favorites.”

  “Dearest Heart.” Her sister shook her head, not quite smiling, then did. “What isn’t your favorite?”

  Jenn made a face. “Liver. Are you ready to hear what Mistress Sand had to say?” She set about making tea for them both, the familiar movements easing her heart when what she had to say, what she now knew, did anything but.

  Peggs sat at the Emms’ table, her eyes bright with curiosity and more than a little dread. “Not in the least. Don’t let that stop you,” she added, determined. “I want to know.”

  Oh, she’d guessed that. Jenn took a deep breath and managed to smile over her shoulder. “I’ll start with the mask.”

  Explaining about the mask took them to a second cup of tea, as Jenn had to talk around mouthfuls of delicious and steamy pudding. Peggs poured for them both, her forehead creased in thought. “I’ve not seen such a light,” she confirmed. “Could you make your own mask, here?”

  “I’ve no idea how. They’re magic of some kind.” Jenn wrapped her hands around her cup. “Let’s hope Mistress Sand is able to make me one, or I won’t be visiting anyone else.”

  “Unless you stay your woman-self,” Peggs pointed out, ever quick to the point. Then laughed. “Listen to me. Talking about magic and your Verge as if I know.”

  “It’s new to me too.” Jenn toyed with her next spoonful.

  “Dearest Heart.” Her sister sat again, and reached to touch her hand. “You learned something more troubling than turn-born masks and etiquette. What is it?”

  They’d made a promise to one another, not to keep secret what was important, and this was. Jenn put down her spoon and fished the crumpled ball that was her list from her pocket, pressing it flat on the table. She rested her fingers on the paper. Fingers of skin and whatever strangeness lay beneath.

  “Mistress Sand said there was no knowing about me, because all other turn-born are terst and—and different.” Jenn’s cheeks warmed. “She told me how it is for them.” The rest stuck in her throat, as if the words couldn’t decide the proper order.

  “‘It—?’” Peggs echoed. Enlightenment dawned on her lovely face and she blushed, a little, too. “Well?” She coughed and went on firmly. “How is ‘it?’”

  Like eating or breathing or dashing to the privy or anything else of flesh and blood, instead of glass and light.

  “A memory, made real.” Jenn turned her hand palm up. Life creased and callused the skin. Faint scars marked her latest misadventures with paring knife and turnip. A woman’s hand, like any other’s in this world, with its own history. What Mistress Sand had told her? Words could be scars, too, and these she doubted would ever fade. “‘Memory, for a turn-born, is its own expectation.’ Magic, Peggs.” Saying it aloud, to her sister, eased something tight inside and she looked up, grateful. “I remember what I was, before. How I felt. What I felt. I expect to feel and do just as before.” She picked up her tea and took a deliberate swallow. “So I still can.”

  “‘Still can?’” Peggs went ghastly white. “What do you mean?” She snatched Jenn’s hands, pulled her around so they faced one another, knees almost touching. “That you could—you might forget?”

  “Only if I let myself,” Jenn said simply, though it wasn’t simple at all and terrifying to consider.

  Mistress Sand had been clear on that point. The turn-born who let themselves forget they were once flesh inside as well as out soon forgot all else. She’d shrugged as if it was of no consequence, and perhaps it wasn’t. Those who forgot made no more expectations. Ultimately, they vanished . . .

  . . . as if forgotten themselves.

  “I won’t,” she vowed, ever so glad of Peggs’ warm grip, of the concern writ in those expressive eyes and mouth, of being with someone who couldn’t forget to breathe. “This is what I am and intend to stay. Mistress Sand said so long as I think of myself as a woman—” Jenn squeezed her sister’s fingers. “—I’ll be one. Besides,” she managed to lighten her tone, “I’m to be an aunt.”

  Peggs had that look, the one where she was thinking things all the way through. Jenn waited.

  Finally, her sister let out a long breath. “Ancestors Blessed and Beloved, you’ll be a wonderful aunt.” She added serenely, “But not a mother.”

  The first question on her list. Mistress Sand had been startled; Wisp, of course, hadn’t cared.

  Hearing the answer—though hadn’t she known as soon as she’d learned she was no longer flesh but its memory?—Jenn had been numb. Numb then. Numb now. She supposed she might be upset eventually, but what hit hardest and first was the reminder of what she was now. If she was honest, she’d had no desire for a baby of her own, being too busy learning to be an adult.

  Until denied.

  Aunt Sybb had written, in her latest and wonderful letter, that there was no one truly childless, who had family and friends, and no one ever loveless, who loved those around them. While she couldn’t have known—or could she?—Jenn had taken comfort in those words. Because she did love those around her, with all her heart.

  Jenn looked at Peggs. “‘But not a mother.’”

  “Well enough,” her sister nodded. She let go of Jenn’s hands to give her knees a quick little pat. “Ancestors Witness. I suppose you can’t stop your moon potion, though it’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  Jenn felt her mouth fall open and closed it, before saying with great care, “Pardon?”

  “If you must remember yourself as you are,” her astonishing sister said, quite as if they discussed the cooking of turnips, “it stands to reason you’ll bleed at your moontime if you don’t. Take it, that is. Unless you could forget just that bit?” She sounded hopeful.

  Peggs had started her on the potion this past fall, with a more complete explanation of its use than whispers or Hettie—whose dislike of its taste had provided ample demonstration of its effectiveness—had hitherto provided. Taken diligently, moon potion not only prevented unsought births but reduced or even eliminated a woman’s moontimes—a boon particularly in winter, when the cold discouraged bathing.

  “I wouldn’t know how,” Jenn responded. Even if she did, convenience hardly seemed worth the risk of forgetting. She grinned. “Besides, you’d be jealous.”

  Her sister laughed. “I would indeed.” A keen look. “Feel better?”

  “I do,” Jenn said and did, much to her surprise. She picked up her list. “I didn’t get to ask about the other turn-born—what their lives are like in the Verge.”

  “Maybe you’ll see for yourself, once you have your mask,” Peggs said, clearly having decided the Verge, despite its strangeness, could be approached as any other well planned social foray. Sure enough, “Did Mistress Sand enjoy the honey?” When Jenn nodded, her sister beamed. “I’ll make you a basket next time. With pie.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Peggs’ pie could melt a heart, let alone improve a disposition, and she’d not send one unless confident her dish would return safely.

  Magic of its own.

  “Pie it is.” Jenn tucked away her list, the better to hug what surely must be the best sister anyone could have.

  And to leave the matter of certain other questions, and their answers, for the return of Bannan Larmensu.

  After gaining a promise to be informed when her sister again left this world, and another promise to return in
timely fashion, Peggs left, satisfied at last. The Emms’ house toad hopped out from beneath the cookstove, warm from Jenn’s supper, and settled on her feet.

  “I do want to go back,” she confessed. “I’ll be very careful.”

  ~And not late again.~

  Good advice, from an honorable source. Jenn chuckled. “I agree.” At least until she knew Peggs wouldn’t worry. Or, she thought pragmatically, had the new baby to fuss over instead of her sister. “Being on time, though. It’s not going to be easy.” Sitting in the Emms’ very nice, ordinary kitchen, filled with sights and smells—and chores—she’d known all her life, all Jenn could think of was how wonderful it had been to be somewhere new. Wisp’s blue home, the weeping crystals, and even the narrow rock crevice were the most exciting things she’d seen since, well, since she’d last been in the Verge. “There’s so much there!”

  ~Did you see any of us, elder sister?~

  She bent over to meet its unblinking regard. “No. Should I have?”

  The house toad deflated slightly. ~Perhaps not. Turn-born, if you forgive my saying—~ She had to nod before it would continue. ~—are best avoided. But we can tell that you, elder sister, are not the same.~ This last added in haste and with such sincerity Jenn could hardly take offense.

  Though she was, now, curious. Curious was better than longing for another world, and ever so much nicer than worry over being more memory than real. Easing her toes from under the toad, she slipped from the chair to sit on the floor in front of him. Or her. With toads, “it” did seem the safer pronoun. “How so?” She’d not thought to ask the toads, who were full of caution and cared most about Marrowdell, any of her questions.

  It blinked at this. ~You are different, elder sister.~

  Jenn made sure she was comfortable. This could, she suspected, take a while. “Because I’m from Marrowdell or because of what—of what fills me.”