A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  A toad rode her shoulder, half-tucked within her wild mass of hair, its eyes limpid brown and wise. Wyll spoke to it. ~ Little cousin. Who is this? ~

  Pleased to be addressed, the toad yawned to display its fine rows of teeth. ~ Elder brother. In this moon cycle, I made thirteen eggs. I caught fifty-three crickets and a squirrel. No foul nyphrit lived to enter my family’s home. I matter to Marrowdell. ~

  A useless body; now a worthless ally . . . Wyll fought for calm. The little cousins were as quick to take offense as they were proud. ~ Important and accomplished cousin ~ he praised hastily. ~ I need this woman you’ve brought. Her help. Can she be trusted? ~

  Somehow, the woman in question heard. “What c . . .”

  ~ AN ~

  “I d . . .”

  ~ OO ~

  Wyll winced. “Let the little cousin speak.” To his relief, she nodded.

  The toad’s eyes sank into its head and popped out again. ~ Why would a dragon need help? ~

  ~ As you plainly see, I’m not myself. ~ Had he jaws, Wyll thought, he would close them on its smug little body and then see how cooperative a little cousin could be. ~ Tell me about her! Quickly! ~

  Offended, the toad pulled back into its hiding place within her hair. ~ HELP ME! ~ Wyll shouted after it.

  The woman knelt beside him. “My name is Wen. What can I do?”

  The girl was too close . . . too close . . . “Stop Jenn Nalynn from leaving Marrowdell,” he gasped and pushed this Wen with his better hand. “Tell the soldier—the one who guards the road! Hurry! Hurry!”

  Instead of hurrying, she relaxed and gave a serene smile. “Do not worry. Jenn won’t leave.”

  “She’s almost past the edge now!” Wyll snapped. Pompous toads and inane women. Was his life to end in nonsense? “I beg you. Go. I—I can’t do anything like this. You’re the only chance. Find him. Tell him! He has to stop her before it’s too late!”

  “Calm yourself. She’ll stop herself and come back. You’ll see. Leaving isn’t what she wants.”

  What were the sei willing to sacrifice simply to punish him? The immortals had no sense of proportion. Wyll felt tears leak down his face and struck out. He missed the woman; his fist splintered wood. He struck again. Again!

  His fury and despair didn’t trouble her. She looked away and half closed her eyes, sniffed the air. “There’s a storm coming.”

  Had something of power heard his plea?

  Or was this his true penance, to watch helplessly as worlds were consumed around him; to be powerless, while the decision of one brought ruin to all. To be like those who’d suffered when he and his kind last went to war.

  Sei were nothing if not blunt in their justice. Blunt and cruel.

  A gust through the glassless window. Dust rose, wood rattled. It stole the warmth from his skin. A second gust slammed shutters against the wall and toppled a broom. The room darkened until all he could see of the woman was her motionless silhouette.

  This was no natural storm.

  The daisies had given fair warning. Jenn Nalynn had come of age.

  Lightning flashed, again and again and again. Despair. Rage.

  Turn-born indeed, Wyll told himself, deafened by thunder. As if there’d been doubt.

  As if there’d been any hope at all.

  NINE

  JENN LED THE way through the downpour, glad the torrential rain made it impossible to talk or listen, though less happy about the state of her second-best dress. Mud smeared the little white birds of her hem, her yellow ribbons hung bedraggled, and at some point the ornate braid had finally collapsed, leaving strands of hair over her shoulders.

  Not pretty at all.

  Easier to worry about a dress.

  Easier to worry about anything but what she’d learned.

  She was cursed?

  Ignorance, Jenn despaired, was its own bliss. If she hadn’t learned of wishings, and changed Wisp into Wyll with ashes and words, she could disbelieve.

  But she had, so she couldn’t. So she was. She truly would have died, had she taken one step too many. Jenn Nalynn. Young, healthy, and cursed.

  What was Peggs going to say?

  Their father had known. Now his distress over her plan to leave with Aunt Sybb made sense, as did his desperate plea for her to stay.

  She sloshed through a puddle. Being cursed was bad enough. What about the rest? Her mother had spoken of a mysterious promise. By who—or what? Aunt Sybb had hinted, back when Jenn wasn’t quite as well behaved as she could be, that each child, particularly naughty ones, might receive the personal attention of a Blessed Ancestor. A younger Jenn had thought that unlikely, since the Ancestors must have more interesting people to spy upon, people in cities or tall ships, but she’d not argued. Had their aunt been right all along? Did she have a—a watcher? Or more than one? If so, did they argue like the Treffs?

  The corner of her mouth tried to smile.

  But it was all she could do not to shudder at the closeness of her escape. Not escape, she reminded herself, with a rush of inner warmth. Rescue. Because of one man.

  The rain went from downpour to drizzle.

  Jenn lifted a streaming mass of hair aside to peer around at Horst.

  His hair was flat against his scalp. Raindrops had caught on his eyebrows and stubbled cheeks. He wiped his face and met her eyes. His held a dreadful grief.

  Quickly, she dropped the hair and looked ahead.

  The drizzle lightened to a fine mist.

  Jenn found herself stopping.

  So be it.

  She took a deep breath and turned.

  Horst halted. They all did. Roche and Kydd, Bannan and Scourge; though Scourge’s big hooves almost clipped Roche’s heels. He snorted amusement as the man scrambled out of his way.

  Horst. He waited patiently as she searched his worn, lined face for the uncle who liked honey in his tea but couldn’t bring himself to that extravagance midwinter when supplies ran low. She’d sneak a dollop into his mug when he wasn’t looking; he’d take a sip and act surprised. Not that he ever was, she supposed.

  The uncle who did so much for the village, quietly, tirelessly, and even more for the Nalynns. Who swept the mill floors and worked through the harvest; who kept their bins full of charcoal and woodpile stacked. Did her chores when she forgot time in her meadow. And always . . . guarded the road.

  Not out of shame, Jenn realized, her final doubt fading with the storm.

  She could almost see the moment, feel as her mother had felt. Melusine must have looked at this honorable solder, seen him stricken by guilt, and known the only thing he could accept from her was a task. A penance. At the same time, she had to know the duty she claimed would lead him to love her daughters as she did. That she’d given Horst her family.

  Her mother had saved him, Jenn suddenly understood, as surely as she’d saved her.

  And what had she done? Jenn searched Uncle Horst’s patient face and wanted to shrink. He must have been horrified to hear about Roche’s scheme to take her away. He’d had to chase after the younger man. Not for some vengeance; she was ashamed she’d believed that.

  “You gave Roche your bow to keep the secret from me, didn’t you?” she concluded out loud. Not that it would have worked. Roche wasn’t Horst; the only secrets he kept were his own. “When I followed you, you had to tell me to save my life.”

  “I saved—” Roche gave a startled, “—yip!” and shut up.

  Bannan looked innocent.

  Ignoring both, Jenn gazed wonderingly at Uncle Horst. “You’ve been saving my life, all my life. I never knew.”

  “We’d hoped, your father and I, foolishly perhaps,” he admitted slowly, “that you never would.” He gave a defeated shrug. “It was to be our gift, Jenn Nalynn. That you’d live free of shadow.”

  The mist cleared, replaced by tendrils of steam where sunbeams found their way through broken cloud and began to dry the sodden road.

  “Heart’s Blood! We’re almost at the gate,” R
oche exclaimed.

  Of course they were, Jenn thought. Had he no sense of distance? She offered her hand to Uncle Horst, her family and protector. Her smile came from somewhere deep inside, somewhere that held those she loved.

  From her heart.

  His mouth trembled. He took her hand between both of his, as if it were fragile or beyond price, then bowed to press his lips ever-so-gently to the back of it.

  Once again, the sheer joy of Jenn Nalynn’s smile took Bannan by surprise. Once again, it wasn’t for him. If it had been, he thought with a pang, he’d be as overcome as the old soldier. And wouldn’t kiss just her hand.

  Bannan stopped himself right there.

  He wasn’t alone in reacting. Kydd smiled fondly and nodded to himself. Roche—

  Roche ran his tongue over his lips and consumed her with his eyes. Unbidden, Bannan’s fingers reached for the hilt of the sword he’d left behind.

  Scourge shook his head and neck. Drops from his wet mane showered them all. As Roche let out an oath and Jenn laughed, the horse blew noisily and gave Bannan a look that said, as plain as if he’d spoken, that there were fools and there were dangerous fools and he’d best be sure which before he made one of himself.

  “Dry clothes await,” Kydd announced happily, waving at the village.

  They were indeed almost to Marrowdell. Or had Marrowdell obligingly brought itself closer to them?

  Not to them.

  To her.

  Jenn’s smile might warm his heart, but Bannan’s curiosity caught fire. Curses and promises made to a dying mother? Ordinary stuff compared to his wild surmise. Could it be true? Could he really have grasped when and why certain things occurred here?

  The storm. Yes, yes, he told himself, it was the season for swift, deadly storms and here the hills hid their approach. He and Tir had been soaked more than once on the Northward Road. But this storm? This had seemed like despair.

  Hers.

  As for the road? He trusted his senses. There was no doubt it took less time to travel when they knew where they wanted to be.

  Not they.

  Jenn Nalynn.

  Bannan wanted to laugh with the sheer impossible joy of it.

  A thoroughly nonmagical figure tipped back his broad farm hat with a finger as he straightened from his slouch against the gatepost. Tir, no doubt waiting to berate him for whatever foolish risks he thought Bannan had taken this time. What would he say if he knew the greatest wore a pretty blue and white dress and splashed barefoot through the puddles, one small hand tucked in Horst’s bent arm, the other in Kydd’s, for all the world as if they returned from a pleasant outing?

  If it were true . . . could it be true? Bannan’s head whirled. Who else would know? He dismissed Horst and Roche at once. The two were too blinded by their own feelings for Jenn Nalynn to see her.

  Wainn, Bannan nodded to himself, quite sure. He’d lay coin the uncle did as well.

  If it were true . . . if the road and sky and who could guess what else answered this woman’s whim?

  He should be terrified.

  He should grab his wagon and friend and haul their future back up the road as quickly as the sluggard ox could pull it. That’s what Tir would do. Be sensible and run.

  He didn’t want to run. Bannan searched himself and found no fear at all, only excitement and that burning curiosity. Perhaps he wasn’t afraid because neither road nor leaf showed any scorching; the ferocious lightning hadn’t so much as singed a hair; not even that lying Roche’s, more’s the pity.

  Or was it because she didn’t know herself? Jenn’s face was as open and honest as any he’d seen. The storm had shocked her too; she’d been afraid of the river. She was no more powerful than any other farm maid; she was, nonetheless, something far more.

  Heart’s Blood. He was half besotted already. With the place and the maid.

  Not something to share with Tir, presently scowling more than usual. Bannan whistled distractedly under his breath as they neared, doing his best not to look inordinately cheerful.

  “How’s the wagon?” he asked, looking past to where it stood, canvas littered with debris but taut. Good thing. Depending on the state of the derelict farm Radd was to show him, he might be sleeping in it to start.

  “Better than the ox,” Tir replied, so grimly Bannan felt a chill and the others paused. “You. Horst. What hunts your fields that can drop a grown bull in his tracks?”

  Roche frowned. “What was he doing in the grain? A calf on its first legs knows better. It’s not harvested yet.”

  The truth. Another Marrowdell oddity. Bannan didn’t need Tir’s glower to tell him this one wasn’t to be ignored. “What happened?”

  “Seems he took fright in the storm, sir, and crashed through the hedgerow into yon field. Though that’s not where we found him. He was left gutted and bled, as nice as you please, by the gate leading to the river. With no tracks to show how or who.” Above the mask, Tir’s eyes were chips of ice. “The villagers would like your permission to finish butchering the meat.”

  Horst and Kydd exchanged the slightest of glances. Tir picked up on it; so did Bannan. “You know.”

  “The crop’s protected,” Kydd admitted with obvious reluctance. Horst pressed his lips together, refusing to be part of any explanation. “From the first green sprout until harvest. Anything that trespasses—dies. Anything.”

  Bannan trusted his potential neighbors had planned to reveal that small yet crucial detail to him before he committed to life here. He glanced at Scourge, who raised his head and looked supremely uninterested. They’d have to be clear on where to chase rabbits—although if the fields didn’t allow rabbits either, that might not be a problem. “Protected by what?” he asked, before Tir could.

  “Whisperers.” Roche lowered his voice conspiratorially. “That’s what Dev and I call them. Can’t see them. But if you lie on the ground, close to a row . . . at night . . . you can hear them moving about.” Jenn’s surprised look brought a defensive, “I’m not lying.”

  “I know,” replied Bannan. Anywhere else, he’d scoff at invisible guardians. Here? Where the road through the valley every-so-often gleamed silver and flowed? “So if we don’t trample the grain—and who would—” he said heartily, to reassure the air around them, “—we’re safe.”

  He thought Tir’s eyes would pop out of his head. To forestall the inevitable outburst—his companion not being prone to belief in anything he couldn’t hit with an ax—Bannan moved his index finger in a tiny circle. In a pub, the sign meant “we’re surrounded; stop insulting the locals.” On patrol, deep in the marches where a false move cost lives, it meant “not here, we’re being watched.”

  “Trample grain? Then where’d that lovely bread come from, I ask.” Tir patted his stomach. “Fool ox.”

  Kydd looked relieved, Horst wasn’t fooled, and Tir lied through his teeth.

  Bannan gestured grandly to the wooden gate. “As you said, dry clothes await.”

  And a conversation he couldn’t avoid, Bannan thought ruefully.

  Tir was not going to be happy. Not at all.

  Uncle Horst lengthened his stride and left them to head for the mill. There could be storm damage, but Jenn guessed, with an oddly detached calm, that he hurried to prepare Radd Nalynn. Their secret was out. What would her father say?

  She wasn’t sure herself what she thought, not yet, not about anything. Well, she was sorry about the ox, though puzzled it hadn’t known better. She was sorry to have sounded alarms over nothing, and sorriest of all for herself. No, she should be sorriest of all for poor Wisp, now Wyll.

  Her nerves felt scraped raw; all she wanted was Peggs.

  As for Roche Morrill . . . Jenn gritted her teeth and calmed herself with the image of him landing rump-first in the commons pond between Satin and Filigree. Preferably on his new bow.

  Unaware, the cause of her irritation walked beside her, not too close but bestowing meaningful looks she refused to meet. She could almost hear the c
ogs turning in Roche’s head. She’d come to save him; she’d said so. He’d take it as encouragement, no doubt. That she could deal with, though it might come to a dunking, but there was worse. He’d spoken his intention to marry her in front of Kydd, Uncle Horst, and Bannan. He didn’t understand Kydd. He respected Uncle Horst. He detested Bannan. They hadn’t taken him seriously; she certainly hadn’t.

  As her aunt would say, public humiliation teaches no one to sing.

  Jenn wasn’t too sure what that meant, but she was sure of Roche’s temper once humiliated. Unlike his brother, who’d rant loudly a moment, then forget why he’d been angry, Roche would appear unaffected. But inside? He’d savor a slight, devise what he considered suitable retribution, and, when his victim least expected it, spring his trap.

  To this day, she doubted Allin Emms knew who’d spread warmed pine resin around the privy hole that winter night. He’d come close to frostbite before being found and cut free. All because—according to Peggs who’d had it from Hettie who’d teased it out of Devins—all because Allin had claimed the last dance with her months before at the harvest, a dance Roche believed promised to him.

  Which it hadn’t been. He was an awful dancer, who held too tight and bounced too much.

  Roche could spend the rest of his life with the sows, for all she cared. She did care about his spite. Roche wouldn’t go after Kydd or Uncle Horst. He wouldn’t dare. But the stranger would be fair game.

  If Bannan planned to stay, he should be warned.

  Which meant talking to him.

  Jenn felt her cheeks grow warm.

  Worse, it meant talking to him in private.

  Ancestors Blessed.

  She hadn’t been able to so much as look at Bannan, not directly, not since . . .

  Her shoulders tingled where he’d gripped them in support. If she closed her eyes, she could feel where his arms had wrapped around her, hear his heart . . . Her own pounded, remembering. How could his touch affect her like this?

  What did it mean?

  She had to talk to Peggs.

  Kydd spoke. “Hello, Wen.”

  Jenn glanced up in surprise. Wen Treff stood in the middle of the lane to the mill, hands in her sleeves, patiently waiting. Her hair was in its usual mad cloud around her head, so she’d escaped the storm. For all she apparently cared; her feet were in one of the innumerable puddles.