A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Both tossed their heads, crests rattling. ~We aspire to his greatness.~

  “We’ll see.” Turning away, he winked at Jenn. “Time to go.”

  She gladly accepted Bannan’s clasped hands, the saddle being very high from the ground in her estimation. He tossed her up and she put her leg across, glad to discover that, unlike the saddle she’d used for Wainn’s Old Pony, the one on the kruar’s armored back was kind to her skin and a comfortable fit.

  Bannan mounted as his kruar started to move, leaping astride with easy grace. A yling flew down and into his hair at the same time. Marrowdell’s troop would stay together, it seemed.

  Leaving Jenn wondering where to put her hands, her kruar’s crest being every bit as sharp up close as it had appeared from a safer distance.

  Suddenly the great body beneath surged into motion and Jenn grabbed frantically for the raised front of her saddle before she was left behind.

  She could swear the kruar purred.

  Bannan hoped Jenn hadn’t expected their first ride together to be peaceful and romantic, with them side-by-side and surely a stolen kiss or twenty. Not that he wouldn’t prefer it that way himself, but they weren’t on horses.

  Nor did kruar enjoy riders. In his experience, they enjoyed being given direction by those riders even less. Bannan had never fooled himself Scourge obeyed without question. The great beast gauged every situation by his own standards and either agreed with his rider.

  Or didn’t.

  These kruar were eager to complete their duty and be done with riders altogether. The Verge passed by in a blur of unexpected shapes and unnamed colors as they wove their way around obstacles that loomed in front.

  Or under. Or over. He couldn’t tell if the idiot beasts were deliberately choosing the most complicated path or if they couldn’t abandon their instinct to go unseen. They moved in uncanny silence as well. Not that he’d argue.

  What a kruar chose to avoid, Bannan did not want to meet.

  Within a few mad swerves, he lost sight of Jenn and her kruar. After another, he couldn’t be sure if they traveled uphill or down. The kruar hit a stretch where it could lengthen its stride; Bannan had to bend over the saddle to catch a breath. “Hang on, Jenn,” he muttered.

  ~Our elder sister wants me to tell you that she is hanging on and hopes you are too.~

  The toad. Bannan yelled into his sleeve, “You can hear her?”

  ~There’s no need to shout, truthseer.~ With some offense. ~Of course I can hear our elder sister. I can hear you, can I not?~

  Save him from toads. “Apologies, little cousin.” Hopefully, this meant Jenn wasn’t far ahead. “Does she see the crossing yet?”

  A darker voice, amused. ~We are there.~

  Bannan’s kruar jolted to a stop and he barely saved himself from lurching forward onto its perilous crest.

  Then the truthseer hung onto the saddle as perspective screamed and common sense failed. Look deeper, he told himself desperately, and tried, but not even his gift could grasp where they stood.

  Unless it was possible, in the Verge, to be within a single drop of rain.

  “Thank you,” Jenn told her mount, knowing full well it hadn’t been her skill—or tight grip—keeping her in the saddle through the violent ride.

  It turned its head to regard her with one red-rimmed eye. ~I do my duty.~ But not as gruffly as it might. ~This is the crossing.~

  She could feel it. Goose bumps rose on her skin, a reassuring reminder of what she was at the moment. In the Verge, it was too easy to forget. There was, however, one small problem.

  They were, quite plainly, inside a drop of mimrol. While Jenn was relieved not to be drowning—which was another, not-so-small a problem to consider—she couldn’t see how, or why, they were where they apparently were.

  “We’re in a drop.”

  The head swung back, the kruar unimpressed. ~Will you cross, turn-born?~

  Not without Bannan. As if the denial had been a summons, the truthseer, still astride his kruar, appeared in the drop with her.

  He let out a cry and pressed the heels of both hands into his eyes.

  “Bannan!” She kicked her kruar as she would Wainn’s Old Pony and, for a wonder, it stepped close enough to the truthseer’s that she could lean over and put her hand on his arm.

  An arm so tense it shook beneath her fingers.

  It was being here that upset him.

  So Jenn Nalynn wished them . . . there.

  They were in a drop.

  That fell,

  fell,

  fell . . .

  Bannan put his hand over Jenn’s on his arm, and prayed, “Hearts of my Ancestors, I’d be Behold—”

  Not to die, not to smash into the ground, not to stay small enough to fit inside a silver drop, not to drown—

  When none of those things happened, when what he felt next was rain on his own face, he opened his eyes one at a time.

  He still rode, but what had been kruar appeared now as a chestnut horse with a shock of black mane. Jenn, on a bay with black points, was beside him. Their “horses” stood knee-deep in a small round lake banked with stone, more stone forming a walkway bounded by stone walls whose tops disappeared into masses of shadowed leaves.

  The only opening in the walls was ahead, where the outflow from the lake, edged by narrowing walkways, slipped beneath an arched stone bridge. Huge lamps, like golden sentries, hung from the walls at intervals and their light caught in puddles and dark water.

  For it rained.

  Bannan held out his cupped hand, shocked when it filled with molten silver. Mimrol. Here?

  “Is this Channen?” Jenn asked, sounding as unsure as he felt.

  “It must be.” If for no other reason than he no longer used his deeper sight, an almost painful easing of effort. Bannan gave himself an inner shake. They had to move.

  Though where they stood deserved a second and third look.

  The lake was more a fountain, filled with submerged wide irregular platforms stacked one upon the other. The kruar were on a middle one. To Bannan’s left another two rose higher, but not out of the—was it water, or pure mimrol? A blend, he guessed, seeing how the pure silver drops that fell as rain slipped below the surface to gather, ever-so-slowly, on the platforms. Had the Naalish built them for this purpose?

  Or did the mimrol settle out thus, over time?

  He tipped his hand, watching the mimrol pour into the lake. Ripples spread from that point, but the silver stayed together, dulling slightly as it sank.

  “Bannan. Someone’s here.”

  Tir’d box his ears, Bannan knew, for letting himself be distracted by drops. Sure enough, a figure stood on the bank, hooded and cloaked, one hand holding a lantern on a staff. He—or she—appeared unsurprised to have horses and riders appear in the lake.

  The turn-borns’ arrangement.

  “Greetings,” Bannan said in Naalish, touching two fingers of his right hand to his left shoulder. The last he’d heard, it was still the salutation between persons intent on amicable business.

  The figure did the same. “All is ready for you, Keepers.” A man, and not a young one, by the voice. The Naalish turned and began to walk away.

  Jenn’s kruar lifted his head. “Do we follow, turn-born?” A breeze in Bannan’s ear, with a hint of puzzlement.

  “If this is the trusted person,” now his, the mare interested in Scourge, with a decided snap. “We were to follow only the trusted person. Is it?”

  That the kruar, on this side of the edge, were willing to speak in breezes—their other speech something he couldn’t detect outside the Verge—was a relief.

  That they were just as new to Channen?

  Wasn’t.

  Jenn drew another deep breath. The Verge had an array of smells, none of which her nose would have predicted
and several she’d seemed to “smell” with her eyes.

  Here? She might have stepped barefoot into the river, midsummer; somewhere in the reeds, where rot bubbled beneath her toes and everything was rich and dark, like a well-made pudding. There were kitchen smells, too, though faint, enough to make her stomach rumble in interest. She’d not eaten much, in the Verge. Hadn’t wanted to, there, but here?

  Here she was hungry.

  And rode a horse, or the seeming of one, which made her feel a great deal more comfortable than riding a fierce and armored kruar—which she still did, of course, but the camouflage was perfect down to the feel of warm hide.

  Ears flattened and Jenn stopped the inadvertent petting she’d begun. Not a horse.

  “We can’t stay here,” Bannan said quietly, but didn’t move, as if waiting for her to decide.

  The man in the cloak seemed harmless enough. After all, he’d expected them.

  No, she thought abruptly. He expected turn-born.

  This wasn’t like Marrowdell, where the turn-born could cross unseen, then pretend to come by an ordinary road and be ordinary. This was the heart of a city. Here, Mistress Sand and the rest arrived as what they were, relying upon this man and his kind to keep their secret.

  Insisting on it.

  This wasn’t the turn-born coming in friendship, and working together at the harvest, nor dancing till dawn to celebrate. What they did here was something very different and Jenn found herself more than uneasy and unsure.

  She found herself afraid. How could she act that way? What should she do?

  “We’ve been met, as promised,” Bannan reminded her, his voice calm and composed, his face a mask, and he couldn’t say what might be on his mind, she understood, for someone listened to them.

  A stranger.

  Worse and worse. Goodness. What would Aunt Sybb say?

  That standing still was for statues, not people with work to do.

  Jenn took a deep breath and steadied herself. She’d be herself, for weren’t the turn-born individuals? As for Bannan, who could be anyone he chose, why, anyone waiting here would surely assume he was turn-born. Who else could appear out of thin air and rain?

  Which was good and safe and important. Those who knew of the turn-born must believe Bannan one as well. If they didn’t—if they discovered a man could cross into the Verge and survive—

  With a wish, with a thought, she could make everyone believe. This was the edge, her domain, with no one here to deny her.

  Except herself. She’d vowed not to wish at people again. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair. Besides, they’d only just arrived.

  And she was hungry.

  OH, and didn’t she have a host of new questions for Mistress Sand, concerning the edge in other domains and how turn-born behaved in each and how people treated them?

  Bannan waited. At Jenn’s nod, he set his not-horse in motion with a louder, “We’re coming.” Hers followed.

  They were on some sort of platform submerged in the little lake, for their mounts climbed down with care. One step, then two. At that level, water as warm as a bath lapped at Jenn’s toes and she stretched out a foot to enjoy more.

  “Do not.” From her not-horse. From the way Bannan promptly brought up his feet, he’d received the same warning.

  Why? Jenn looked down. The water was almost black, either because it was a bit boggy or because the sky above them was obscured by low hanging cloud. Or both.

  The surface dimpled, as if something had floated near the top, watching them, then dove out of sight. A fish? Wen spoke to the fish in Marrowdell’s river, but Jenn hadn’t found them interested in talking to her. Just as well. She was very fond of pan-fried trout.

  Her curiosity about the water faded as they approached the bank, replaced by a real concern how they were to get out of the lake, the stonework rising over her head. As if to remind her what they rode, Bannan’s kruar bunched its hindquarters and sprang over that barrier like an ungainly rabbit, to land on the path beyond.

  Jenn held tight as hers did the same.

  Seeing Bannan dismount, she slipped her leg over and jumped down. “Thank you,” she told her not-horse, with a determined and respectful pat on his shoulder.

  The shoulder shuddered as if her touch was a biting fly, but the beast came with her like a mannerly horse as she joined Bannan.

  Lamplight caught on ripples in the water, reflections dancing overhead as they passed under the bridge. Something followed them, submerged in that mix of silver and tarnish. Several somethings. But they were small and in the water and Bannan Larmensu worried more about the dense foliage that overhung the wall where an ambush could wait.

  Lamplight and stone, water and cloud. He’d looked deeper the once and wouldn’t, he thought with a shudder, do so again if he could help it. Unlike Marrowdell, here the world of dragons overlapped this one as though in a mirror. What was ground and river there twisted above, topsy-turvy, within what was cloud and sky here.

  No wonder mimrol rained down.

  No wonder they’d had to fall to cross.

  The truthseer refused to consider the return journey.

  The bridge marked the end of the lake and the start of a canal that flowed away between stone banks, walkways, and walls as far as Bannan could see. Another bridge arched across in the distance. Here and there, planters—of the same ubiquitous gray stone—brimmed with greenery but if any were flowers, this seemed not their season. Looking up, he caught glimpses of lights in windows. Buildings loomed beyond the foliage that tumbled over the walls, indistinct and distant.

  Their guide kept a few paces ahead, the hem of his cloak sweeping the stone with each step. The hood was separate, Bannan noticed, and the fabric of both, though so dark a brown as to seem black, flowed like silk. The air being summer-warm, the lighter material made sense. Or the man’s raiment was designed to fold, quickly, into the smallest of bundles. A good disguise.

  How quick, suspicion. How unavoidable, old habits.

  How very welcome, both. What he’d learned as a farmer was of no use here. Jenn Nalynn walked beside him. She’d been shaken at first, and he couldn’t blame her, but rallied with courage. Now she looked around with the beginnings of wonder. Her first canal. First bridge. First city.

  In no way did he blame her, but Ancestors Dazzled and Distracted, a city had its share of nonmagical pitfalls and threats. They’d need to stay together.

  Then Bannan found himself distracted as the path widened, the wall replaced, here, by the formal entryway of a building, complete with tall paired doors and wide, shuttered windows. A sign hung over the doors, proclaiming this a private residence, and chains crisscrossed the doors, proclaiming it closed. Four columns stood waiting, the sort that would support an awning for shade. The awning was missing—not that Bannan could imagine a need for shade here.

  For privacy from above, perhaps.

  “This way.” The Naalish led them past the chained door to the opening to a narrow alley, hidden from view behind one column. Bannan had to turn sideways to fit and a horse couldn’t have passed through.

  The kruar followed without difficulty.

  Bannan reached his hand back for Jenn’s, more to be sure she was there than anything else. Her fingers squeezed his. Reassurance, that was.

  Older stone formed the alley walls, damp and eroded, as though all effort to maintain the buildings to either side went to what faced the canal. Moss grew in cracks, interspersed with the waxy yellow of butter fungus. There were lamps, head-high, their glow dimmed by matted cobwebs. That they held oil was unlikely. Magic, Bannan decided uncomfortably, but whose?

  “This feels like a trap,” observed a kruar.

  The other replied, “Who here would dare trap a turn-born!”

  Bannan felt Jenn’s hand tremble; she didn’t speak.

  The house to
ad squirmed in his pack, and was that a patpat on his ear? Ancestors Witness. Did they plan to ride him the entire time?

  Another squeeze on his fingers.

  The alley ended in stairs, steep and laden with filth that must wash down in heavier rains. Bannan let go of Jenn’s hand to use his own along the walls. Better the dirt than to slip himself and fall on her.

  They’d climbed one story, by his estimate, then part of another, when the hem of the cloak whisked away around a corner above. Bannan risked taking the four final steps two at a time, to spring a trap if one waited.

  But what waited at the top wasn’t a trap.

  It was another city.

  The people of Channen were wealthy beyond her imagining, Jenn concluded, if they could afford to let their city fall into such decay.

  Or were careless of its repair. After all, Devins and Roche were no great housekeepers themselves. If someone like them owned this magnificent stone staircase, a work of art in itself—

  No, even the Morrills would keep the steps clear of mud and dead leaves, though they might neglect to brush webs from the lamps. Jenn slowed to take a closer look. Each was a different sort of fish, the light coming from a globe of glass where a belly would be, with fins and tail and head of a greenish metal. They were ever-so-clever—

  “Jenn.”

  At the top, Bannan was beckoning her to hurry. “Sorry,” Jenn whispered to the kruar behind her, rather embarrassed to be caught gawking, but this was the most amazing and glorious place—under the dirt—she’d ever seen.

  Until she went up the remaining steps and realized she’d seen nothing at all.

  At the top was a small walled landing, cluttered with debris that crunched or slid underfoot, and roofed in drooping leaves larger than any Jenn had seen before. To the left of the landing was an arched gate taller than Bannan, made of black metal bars with a charming inset of flowers, also of metal.

  The gate was open, the truthseer holding it so, but Jenn barely noticed. She stepped from the gloom and filth of the landing onto what she recognized as glazed tile—the Ropps having two pieces they brought from Avyo and now used in their dairy—formed into a—a porch, she supposed, for they’d come out onto another level.