Scourge flicked his tail and moved back under the trees.
She hadn’t imagined the voice. It came as a breeze, like Wisp’s, but wasn’t the same. This voice had been deeper, with a strange roughness. Like something unused for a long time. Iron, left to rust.
He was Bannan’s. Why talk to her?
She’d grown up knowing Night’s Edge was her place, that Wisp wasn’t something to share with other children like a new rope or puppet. She’d thought him her secret, that only Peggs understood. She’d thought, Jenn squirmed inwardly, she’d thought herself special.
Apparently not. Here was proof.
Had Bannan needed a mount and wished his invisible friend into one? She grinned. It would explain Scourge’s grim disposition.
Nothing else moved, other than birds, the river, and a cloud shaped like a melon that floated from one crag to the other. Jenn didn’t move either, too tired to do more than slowly swing one foot in the air. She rested her head against the window frame and made a list. Wisp was Wyll and safe. Peggs had Kydd in her kitchen. Aunt Sybb finally had someone to entertain in Marrowdell who appreciated fine manners. Maybe she’d feel up to staying a few extra days. Roche—well, he’d always been annoying. She’d been called a lady.
A satisfying sum, all told.
Or was it?
Jenn looked toward the solitary house between the mill and the road. Simple on the outside. Simpler inside. The string of yellowed bear’s teeth draped over the mantle was the only ornament. There was a workbench covered in fletching tools under the window; bags of feathers hung from the rafter. A single fireplace sufficed, open on two sides. No bake oven or stove. When Uncle Horst wanted to eat something other than what he could toss in a pot, he went elsewhere and was welcome.
Nothing soft. No rugs or cushions. A bed, its straw mattress covered by an old woolen blanket. A chair, positioned to look at the door. A rack on one wall, where he kept the paired swords that so entranced children, the one long and curved, the other straight and the length of Jenn’s arm from elbow to fingertip. His other belongings were in the chest at the foot of his bed, as if he lived ready to leave at an instant’s notice. The sparse home of a confirmed bachelor.
But Uncle Horst—she mustn’t think of him like that—Horst hadn’t come to Marrowdell to make any home at all. He’d come to take Melusine back to Avyo and stayed, according to her aunt, because he’d made Melusine a promise. Because of guilt.
Or had he nowhere else to go, without his prize? She rubbed her bare forearms, suddenly chilled. Would he have been punished for failure?
Regardless of why he’d stayed, Horst was as much a part of Marrowdell as anyone here, his life woven through theirs. Suppers and winter evenings with the Nalynns. Clothing from the Treffs. Cheese and milk from the Ropps. He’d taught the Emms’ twins to ride on his horse. Helped Riss with the heavy work around Old Jupp’s place. Took the wettest, coldest nights for his turn tending the charcoal pits. In the ice-cold of midwinter, he’d head north on the road toward the barrens, to return with packhorses laden with hides and meat.
He’d made her a hat of soft white fur. Told them stories by the fire of the great herds of elk that wintered in the valleys, of the wolf packs that hunted them, of the people from the barrens, belonging to no domain or prince, who sang like birds and never stayed in one place. Nothing of Avyo. Only of now.
It was like Wisp and Wyll, Jenn thought with a pang. The Horst she knew and the one she didn’t.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Shaking her head in disgust, she twisted on the sill to glare at Roche. “Because this is where I come to avoid you.”
He stepped from the ladder to the ledge and leaned his back against the wall, thumbs hooked through his belt. “Because you like the road.” He tipped his head to the view beyond her, a lock of hair dropping over one eye. “I understand that. It’s the only way out of here. For either of us.”
He blocked the only way down from her perch, short of pushing him off. She resisted a childish urge to stick out her tongue. “Why would you want to leave?” All Roche did, as far she could tell, was to hunt as often as possible to avoid his share of work at his stepfather’s dairy. That, and bother her.
“Do you think I want to stay in this crotch of a village?” He spat at the wheel, missed, and shrugged. “You were born here, Jenn Nalynn. You don’t know what it was like, being taken from your friends, from your home. No one asked children. Father dragged us with him and put our names on settler’s binds, then left us here to rot.”
His father had died, not left. To a bitter boy, Jenn thought, what was the difference? To a baron’s son, how great had been their fall? “You’ve never said anything about this before.”
“You’ve never—” He stopped and thumped the back of his head against the wall, as if she tried all patience. “Heart’s Blood.”
“I’ve never what?”
His eyes burned through her. “Had a way to leave. I saw you with the stranger. I could tell what he wanted. A smile like yours, it goes to the heart of a man. You’ve only to lift your skirt to own him.” His breath came faster. “He’d take you with him. Who wouldn’t? But it doesn’t have to be like that—”
How dare he?! Shadows dimmed the sunbeams coming through the wall. A cold wind slapped Jenn’s hair against her cheek and fluttered the ties on her dress, a cold wind that smelled of ash. She welcomed how it drained the heat from her face.
When it reached Roche, he paled and swallowed but didn’t, or couldn’t, stop. “Jenn, listen to me. By the bind, I can’t go south of Weken, but there’s an old farmer in Endshere wanting to take in a couple as help. I’ve talked to him. If we work hard, last him out, he might leave it to us. Or I could apprentice to a trade there. You could work in the inn.”
His dreams, spilling out of control, snares to trap her. She didn’t blame him. How could she? She hadn’t asked Wisp, not properly, if he minded being in hers.
Wainn had been right.
The sun came out again, the wind died, and Jenn caught a whiff of roses. “Take me home, Roche.” She held out her hand in graceful request. “I’ve deserted Peggs too long.”
His fingers, callused and strong, clamped over hers. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“I heard.” She struggled for something to say that would be kind—and final. “Roche—”
“We can leave now,” he urged, taking her other hand, pulling her to her feet. “The stranger’s horse could carry us both. We’d be in Endshere and married before anyone’s the wiser.” His eyes traveled hungrily over her face. “Allin Emms will sulk for months.”
Was that what she was? A prize in their squabbling? They’d loved to outdo one another as boys; she should have realized that hadn’t ceased with beards and deeper voices. Feeling as though she tumbled down a hill, Jenn had to ask, “And your brother?”
“Fool can’t speak his mind. He doesn’t deserve you.” Roche jerked her hard against him, shifted his grip to her shoulders. “He can’t please you,” the words thick in his mouth. “Not like I can.”
What was he thinking? Or was he? This was hardly the way to entice her to leave Marrowdell with him—an offer she might have considered a few days ago. No, she realized, turning her face so his clumsy kiss slid wet along her jaw. She wouldn’t have considered Roche had he come on bended knee with all the grace of his noble father.
When he groped at her ribbons, she took advantage to quickly slip past him on the narrow ledge to reach the ladder. Before the fool could grab for her again and knock them both to the stones below, likely breaking legs if not heads, she suggested breathlessly, “You catch the horse. I’ve things to pack.”
As Jenn climbed the ladder to the raceway, then hurried to the stairs and up, she felt a twinge of conscience. Scourge wasn’t to be toyed with, that she knew.
Hearing Roche panting close behind took the twinge away.
Bannan untied the thong around the oiled leather wallet and unrolled it
. He pulled out his settler’s bind with its officious rustle of seals and waited for the reaction of those around him in the Nalynns’ overcrowded parlor. In Weken, it had been avarice or pity, depending on whether there was profit to be made from him, both concealed behind some lie.
Dusom and Radd leaned close to run their eyes over the document, but didn’t offer to touch it. They exchanged grim looks as they straightened.
“You’d think something would have changed,” Dusom commented.
Radd glanced at his sister. “Same prince.” He looked straight at Bannan, the oddest combination of hope and relief on his face. “That you’ve taken the bind says all we need to know, Bannan Larmensu. You’ve committed yourself to a future in a new land. I won’t say it will be easy, because it won’t. I can say it’s yours to make and you’ve found those willing to help, if you wish to stay in Marrowdell.”
The truth and a hand, freely offered, from someone who had such a wallet. They all did, here, each and every one. He’d been looking for such a place, without knowing it, and something tight and dark eased inside as he retied the fastening. Bannan found himself unable to do more than nod gratefully as he took Radd’s hand in a firm grip.
“Not so fast. You could have stolen that,” Horst challenged harshly. “Even if it is yours, everyone knows a royal easement can be had for the right price.” He turned to Radd. “We can’t trust him. I say he’s another motive for coming here.”
“One like yours?” Bannan guessed. Horst tensed; the others looked unaccountably shocked. Interesting. He tucked yet another puzzle away for later. “I’m sure you understand,” he went on smoothly, “what it’s like to be a retired soldier looking for a peaceful home.” As he’d hoped, that produced relieved nods and a few smiles.
Except from Horst. “Don’t think to look here,” he warned. “We’ve no room—”
“Nonsense.” The woman’s hat threatened the rafters of the Nalynns’ parlor as she worked her way in front of the others, nothing loath to use her elbows. She must have been listening from the kitchen; there was no other open space left.
From her chair, Sybb gave a gracious nod. “Bannan Larmensu, may I present Lorra—”
“Treff. Lorra Treff.” The woman glared at Horst. “I say we’ve room to spare. There’s the farm up the road.”
The road. Silver and liquid and . . . Bannan’s heart hammered in his chest.
Horst’s eyebrows shot up. “You can’t be serious, Lorra.”
“I most certainly am. Cynd tried to start a garden, but there’s no point without someone living there. The vermin steal any crop. As for the rest? A shameful waste, if you ask me. Why not give the place to this fine young soldier?”
Nods from most of those standing around, though a couple of faces were thoughtful.
“It’s a ruin,” Horst snapped.
“If there’s property available, I’d like to see for myself.” Bannan tried to contain his eagerness. “I’m not afraid of work.”
Tir coughed behind his mask.
One of the thoughtful was Radd Nalynn. He nodded and Horst made a sharp gesture of dissent. The two locked gazes; Horst looked away first.
“I’ll take you,” Radd promised. “First thing tomorrow.”
He wanted to go now. That urgent desire being totally inappropriate and likely to cost him any chance of living here in these people’s good graces, Bannan forced himself to relax. The farm and road weren’t going to disappear. “Thank you.”
The elderly man who’d brought the very fine, very old brandy—Wagler Jupp—lowered his ear trumpet and thumped his cane on the floor, barely missing someone’s foot. “Anyone against the allotment, speak up. No? Settled. The farm’s yours if you can keep it, young man.” Another thump. “Where’s lunch?”
Sybb rose from her seat before Lorra could speak, taking command of the room. “If our guests are ready?”
Bannan smiled. “We defer to our most gracious hostess.”
A dimple. “I’ll make you wait no longer.” A slight turn of her elegant wrist indicated the open door behind him. “We mustn’t waste what remains of Marrowdell’s lovely summer.”
He offered his arm and was rewarded with a charming smile. “My eldest niece is an accomplished cook,” Sybb confided as she nestled frail fingers in the crook of his elbow. “You’ll enjoy your meal. Although I trust you’re prepared to be the center of attention. Novelty’s rare here.”
Bannan covered her fingers with his own, feeling a warmth that wasn’t the brandy. “A pearl such as your good self would be rare in any domain, dear lady.” In Vorkoun’s halls he’d never enjoyed playing the courtier; with her, he did, very much.
“Most kind.” They went out on the porch.
He nodded at the luggage. “I trust you aren’t leaving soon.”
“I may linger.” Her eyes twinkled. “Marrowdell’s become much more interesting with your arrival.” They stepped to the turf, the rest following like some processional. “These are good people,” she assured him quietly. “A little crude, at times, but they have overcome great adversity and loss. But so have you.” The faintest hint of a question, exquisitely polite. The kind of question not to ignore.
Was he fit to be near her beloved nieces?
They walked around the house, and Bannan saw what had to be the rest of the village assembled and waiting. He bent his head near Sybb Mahavar’s. “Ancestors Witness, no dishonor sent me on this path.”
The fingers lightly pressed his arm. “Welcome to Marrowdell, Bannan Larmensu.” A wave toward the throng. She smiled, eyes sparkling, at his look of mock dismay.
Then he was in their midst.
It was, of all things, a summer picnic. The last time he’d sat to eat on a bright blanket, children laughing, blue sky overhead, he’d been a child himself. Lunch being served took precedence over curiosity and, seeing the abundance on the plank tables, Bannan didn’t hesitate to join in and fill his plate. A feast indeed.
He traded greetings, absorbed names, and kept watch for Jenn Nalynn. Those around him had been banished because of their heritage, but he was hard-pressed to find Naalish traits among these people. Perhaps the tighter curls of those with dark hair, or the slight sallow cast to otherwise well-weathered skin, but such could be found throughout Rhoth.
The largest family was the Ropps, responsible for the cheese, butter, and cream. Their eldest daughter, Hettie, had freckles and an infectious grin, not to mention strong arms from the cheese press. She walked around with a ewer of milk, somehow managing to be near Tir more often than not.
Who was doing his best to repair the villagers’ first impression of him, Bannan noticed. When Sybb offered her chair to the elderly Jupp, Tir had hurried to fetch her another from the house, blushing at her murmured thanks. He tolerated the youngest Ropps, the boy Cheffy and his sister, though they sat almost in his lap and stared, eyes wide, as he deftly tipped his mask to eat or drink. Though he’d left his axes in the wagon—at Bannan’s insistence—the big smith, Davi, had brought one of his own making to compare and the two fell into a deep discussion about strops and oils. The children wandered off to chase butterflies.
A succession of villagers came to exchange pleasantries with Bannan as the meal progressed. To each, he freely offered his version of events: Cheffy’s alarm, the fortunate timing, how anyone would do the same. Of greater interest was the news that he’d taken the settler’s bind and meant to farm. Though it went carefully unsaid, he gained the impression new blood was rare here indeed.
Little wonder, given Horst watched the road.
For his part, Bannan studied the connections among the villagers as diligently as he’d ever pored over a map of new terrain. Davi’s wife, Cynd—who’d brought a ham—was sister to Anten Ropp, linking those families. Anten’s wife Covie, tending the man from the river, had two sons by an earlier marriage. The oldest, Roche, was elsewhere. He was introduced to the other, Devins Morrill, the man who’d nodded a greeting to him in front of the mill. Devin
s proved painfully shy until conversation turned to his stepfather’s dairy cows. Bannan found himself with an invitation to inspect the new calves. The abandoned farm had a stout barn. Grazing for a cow, should he wish to trade his ox. The road? Nothing unusual about it. It was called the Tinkers Road. No one took it past the empty farm. Why would they? It was the tinkers’.
More and more interesting.
Desserts and fruit took the place of meat and cheese. He snagged a second thick piece of fresh baked bread before those baskets were whisked away, a delight after months of camp fare. Jugs of chilled cider made the rounds, along with pots of tea.
He received other invitations. Supper with Zehr and Gallie Emms, who had fine sausages. A tour of the forge from Davi, of the kiln by his formidable mother quickly followed by Frann Nall’s insistence he see her loom. Cynd Treff, the calm rock of that family, promising turnips for his larder. They’d extra.
Should he stay.
Bannan found it a recurring theme. Other would-be settlers had come, he learned, and left before, as Davi put it, mud could dry on their boots. The villagers were friendly and willing, even eager. They had, however, entirely reasonable doubt.
None more than Horst, who didn’t eat or drink with the rest. Instead, he took up station against the corner of the house where he could see Bannan and Tir at all times. The others let him be. Confident, perhaps, that the solitary soldier would protect them. Or was it habit? He had the impression Horst stayed on the outskirts at the best of times.
Let him. Stuffed, Bannan got to his feet, empty plate in hand. He’d noticed others taking theirs to the kitchen door and went to do the same, hoping to find Jenn at last, but Hettie spotted him and took it. “There’s another pie coming fresh from the oven. I’ll bring you a slice,” she promised and rushed away in a swirl of braids and bright skirt.
More? He’d have to let out his belt.
“Hello.”
Bannan turned to the voice, turned and froze in place. Standing before him, at the edge of the crowd but not part of it, was a most extraordinary man. “Hello,” he managed.
A Turn of Light Page 17
