A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Tir’s Beholdings tended to lengthy grumbles about the food and weather or, lately, the condition of the Northward Road and his, Bannan’s, mind. “I’d be grateful,” Bannan half-grinned.

  “What I’d be grateful for is a look inside yon bloody beast’s head.” Tir nodded at Scourge. “What was that nonsense in the mill? I’ve seen him do daft things, but nothing like that.”

  The beast in question tilted back an ear, then gracelessly lowered himself into a puddle like the brat he was to roll with grunts of delight, hooves flailing in the air. When he finally lunged to his feet, he was thoroughly coated in red mud and as thoroughly smug about it.

  “You’ll stay that way,” Bannan warned him. The only thing Scourge loved more than a mud bath was the endless grooming to get him rideably clean again. He’d purr himself to sleep and, given any opportunity, be back in the mud the next day.

  As for Tir’s question, he’d been asking himself the same thing. Bannan gazed at Scourge. “For a being who can command the air,” he suggested smoothly, “a horse can’t be much of a challenge.”

  This garnered the full-on glare, complete with teeth and forelock toss, of Scourge at his most insulted. Point made, the horse strutted away, though mud-speckled haunches did little for his offended dignity. Bannan refrained from comment.

  He waited until Scourge was safely beyond the hedgerow. “When Scourge charged into the mill—let’s say to my rescue—”

  “He has before.”

  “He has indeed.” Bannan leaned forward. “What troubles me this time, Tir, is Scourge went straight for Wyll. He couldn’t have seen what happened.”

  “They know each other, sir. That was plain enough.” Tir’s blue eyes held a chill. “Know and hate. I was sure there’d be blood.”

  He’d been sure too, just not whose. “None of it makes sense. If Scourge came to Marrowdell to pursue an old foe, why help me save—what is it?”

  Tir had come erect, tugging his mask into place, another mask sliding behind his eyes. “Company, sir.”

  Horst and Kydd, with Wyll between them. They didn’t offer support; he didn’t appear to need any, lurch-stepping his way around puddles, taking his time, his head held high. Like any of the maimed veterans Bannan had known, too young to be betrayed by their bodies, dealing with blindness or missing limbs with an ease borne of tiresome practice and the certainty of nothing better ahead.

  He was caught by an incongruity that slipped away before he could name it.

  “Think they’ll send us all packing at once?” Tir tried not to sound eager.

  And lose the silver road, the wondrous hills, the farm?

  “We’ve nothing to pull the wagon,” Bannan answered, for the first time glad the poor ox hung from a butcher’s hook. “Scourge certainly won’t.”

  “Bannan. Tir.” Horst was polite and expressionless. His duty face, Bannan judged, the one he’d show no matter what he was called upon to do.

  In contrast, Kydd was wan and tense, understandable in a man courting one sister and likely feeling the frowns of the other, Bannan thought sympathetically. “What can we do for you?” he asked.

  “Wyll’s to spend the night in my home,” Horst said.

  “There’s a meeting this evening at the Emms,” Kydd elaborated. “For villagers.” The words drew a line. To his credit, he looked distressed.

  A meeting doubtless to discuss the not-man’s alarming abilities, during which they wouldn’t want him unwatched. “We’d be glad to help Wyll settle,” he offered. “Tir and I are sleeping by the wagon anyway.” Thus keeping all the strangers in one place, as far from the other homes as possible. He’d have done the same.

  Horst nodded gravely. Kydd tried too hard not to show relief. “Gallie’s sending a supper.”

  Aloof to all this, Wyll studied Tir, a scrutiny the former border guard bore with growing discomfort. Finally he snapped, “What?”

  “Why do you wear a mask?” the other replied.

  “It covers this.” Tir jerked the metal down.

  “To what purpose?”

  Tir scowled and scrunched his face into a grotesque shape. “So I don’t scare children.”

  Wyll appeared puzzled. “The young respect the marks of battle.”

  While he enjoyed the rare spectacle of Tir speechless, Bannan took pity. “Why don’t you save Gallie the trip and fetch our supper?” he suggested.

  Tir gladly escaped, though he made sure to replace his mask and glare at Wyll first. Kydd hesitated, then took his leave as well. “Ancestors Baffled and Beloved.” Bannan said in earnest. “I don’t envy him tonight.”

  “The meeting concerns you as well. Kydd will speak in your favor,” Horst said bluntly. “As will I.”

  The good regard of a man like this was not given lightly. Pleased, the truthseer gave a small bow. “My thanks.”

  “You acquitted yourself well.” The old soldier rubbed one hand across his face then shook his head. “I wish I could say the same. This has not been a good day. My past—it’s not something I’m proud of.”

  Bannan recognized the signs. The confession of a tightly held secret could burst a dam inside a man, spilling forth everything hidden. The relief was intoxicating, if temporary and, as Vorkoun’s truthseer, he’d taken full and heartless advantage, time without number.

  If there was more to Horst’s past, despite his pity, Bannan knew he shouldn’t be the one to hear it. Not until they were neighbors, or, better still, friends. “Scourge took the battle honors today,” he said with deliberate lightness. “Best wait till you see my skills—or lack of—around a farm. Tir’s taking wagers. I believe he’s betting on the plough to win.”

  Horst gazed toward the gate and the road beyond. Lines deepened around his eyes and mouth, then he said in a voice already distant. “I won’t be here. I leave with the Lady Mahavar.”

  He meant for good.

  Bannan frowned. Having confessed, did Horst mete his own punishment? “You don’t belong in Avyo,” he protested, certain of that, though he scarcely knew the man. “Jenn understands what you’ve done for her and why. You belong here.”

  Horst gave him a sharp look. “Do I, truthseer? That welcome was based on duty. Duty I’ve fulfilled. Why shouldn’t I go home?”

  Wyll, who’d been gazing around as if seeing the village for the first time—as well he might be, through a man’s eyes—looked at Horst. “You guard the road.”

  “From what?” the soldier demanded. “There’s been naught but honest settlers off the Northward in all the years I’ve patrolled. Marrowdell’s safe. The Nalynns too. Melusine’s family knows she’s dead, Radd and Peggs are beyond reach within their binds and this valley. Jenn?” His voice softened. “I promised to keep her safe. Well, now she knows of the curse and will mind herself. Duty done, I say. High time I went back to my life.”

  His life was here.

  Horst lied with courage, yet revealed one truth. In the marches, he’d have leapt on that slip. Here? Let it pass, Bannan told himself. What business of it was his, why this man chose to leave?

  Horst had earned a smile from Jenn Nalynn.

  For her sake, then. “You say they know Melusine is dead,” Bannan made himself say the words. “How did you prove it? Surely Radd buried her here.”

  “He stole her body and gave it to a bear.” Horst whirled to stare at Wyll; the not-man merely smiled. “Not that he let the bear keep it.”

  “Then you took what was left to Avyo.” It was more than clever; it was flawless. “The Semanaryas mourned a daughter killed by an animal, not childbirth. No wonder they haven’t come for Jenn. They don’t know she exists.”

  “Heart’s Blood. You sound like you admire what I did,” Horst said harshly, his throat working. “I defiled the resting place of a Blessed!”

  More often than not, those killed in the marches rested where they fell, unless dragged away by wolf or bear. “You did what you had to do,” Bannan countered. “Show me a bone in Avyo’s ossuaries that hasn’
t been shoved here and there, or put in a box to suit some descendant’s whim.” He gentled his tone. “Horst, you saved Jenn. You fulfilled your duty to the Semanaryas and gave them back their daughter. I see no shame here.”

  “And when Radd Nalynn learns all that’s buried in Marrowdell is a ring? That I lied when I demanded a token for Melusine’s family as proof of her death? That he pours out his heart to an empty grave?”

  By saving everyone else pain, the man took it all for himself. “Ancestors Lost and Misplaced. Does it matter where they are, if they hear us?” Bannan paused, then said simply, “Tell Jenn.”

  “I’m not the man they think I am.” A muscle jumped along Horst’s jaw. “I’ll not stay to watch that man die.”

  “You underestimate her.”

  “I won’t chance it. I can’t. I ask you respect that, Bannan. Don’t tell Jenn, or anyone else, my intentions. Let me play the uncle and leave in peace. It’s better thus.”

  “It is not better.” Wyll’s eyes flickered silver. “You must not leave Marrowdell.”

  “Can you stop me?” Horst challenged. A fretful breeze swirled around his head, then rushed through the nearby garden to flip leaves in a temper, doing nothing worse than expose the warm gold of ripening pumpkins and startle a butterfly. “I see not,” the soldier concluded with a grim smile.

  The silver faded, not the temper. “Fool. You see and understand nothing. Go. Abandon her.” Wyll lurched away, entering Horst’s home without host or invitation. The surly breeze followed, shoving the braided doormat aside.

  Bannan glanced at Horst. “I’ll keep silent. I’ve a feeling he will too.”

  The soldier offered his hand. He gave his own, and received an unexpectedly warm grip. “Welcome to Marrowdell,” Horst said in a low voice. “Most welcome, Bannan Larmensu.”

  Moved, he put his hand on the other’s shoulder. “For my part in events, I’m sorry.”

  Horst went still; his set and weathered face like those of the carvings along Vorkoun’s eastern wall: nameless warriors confined to their alcoves and the attention of pigeons.

  “I was always to leave,” he said at last. “Now I know when.”

  Aunt Sybb sat in her chair, her best black shawl adjusted just so, the polished toes of her shoes showing just enough from beneath her lavender skirt to remind those without shoes of the significance of their lack no matter how muddy it was outside and how unsuitable city shoes were for mud, and lifted one dainty finger. At this admonishment, the sisters fell silent and exchanged glum looks.

  “So,” Aunt Sybb said. “He wasn’t a toad.” This had become something of a sticking point. “Ever?”

  Jenn held back a sigh. Her aunt, while insisting there was no such thing as a curse, had professed herself satisfied that the question of Jenn’s leaving for Avyo had been, however oddly, settled. She’d dismissed Horst’s terrible secret, attributing that airily to the reckless hearts of lonely men who took too much on themselves, this with a stern if sympathetic look at her brother. Toads, however, were another matter. “No, Aunt. Wyll was never a toad.”

  “Then what was he?”

  “I—” Admitting she didn’t know wasn’t likely to go well. “My friend from Night’s Edge. The meadow.”

  “Yes, dear, we’re aware of that. But what was your friend before you made him into a man?”

  Safer. Jenn stared at her hands, neatly folded in her lap. Better off. Happier. “He was a little breeze,” she said after a moment. “He could always do things. Move the air. Talk to me. Nothing like—nothing like what happened to Bannan.”

  She hesitated and Peggs noticed. “But?”

  “Wisp chased Roche home once. He didn’t touch him,” she added quickly.

  Their father lifted his head. He’d been silent since walking in the door and taking a seat at the table; had listened as she and Peggs did their best to explain what had happened to their aunt. Well, thought Jenn, she’d tried to explain and Peggs had been difficult. Until Jenn brought up the beekeeper, which had made her sister almost impossible.

  “He protects you, Jenn,” Radd said heavily. “Without hesitation. Without regard to anyone else. Therein lies the problem. With his powers . . .” he let his voice trail away.

  “I’ve told him not to harm anyone.” She believed Wyll, but how to persuade the rest? “He hasn’t been—it was only this morning, Poppa. You haven’t talked to him yet.”

  “Quite right. You must speak to the young man, Radd.” Aunt Sybb pursed her lips, then gave a nod. “As soon as possible, given such a public—” her eyes touched on Jenn, who blushed, “—announcement.” Peggs’ turn next. “And display. Both young men.”

  “Sybbie—”

  “Aunt!”

  Their bastion of right was unmoved by either outburst. “A formal visitation would be best,” their aunt went on, as if instructing her household in Avyo. “A meal is too personal and we certainly can’t have Peggs cooking. I shall ask young Hettie to wait on us. Surely her mother has a pair of shoes to fit the girl. A platter of cheese and fruits. Some sweet biscuits. There really must be cordials. Do you have any cider left? It was reasonably convivial.”

  Jenn wasn’t sure whose eyes were widest. Their father’s normally apple-red cheeks had gone the color of eggshells and Peggs seemed short of breath. “I saw two jugs in the larder,” she said helpfully. The storm had ended lunch before they’d been brought out. There wouldn’t be beer until the harvest.

  “Excellent. I shall write invitations, of course.” Aunt Sybb paused, then, delicately, “I assume your friend will have no difficulty?”

  “Wyll can read.” Jenn smiled. She’d take favorite books to enjoy on a sunny afternoon and Wisp would flip the pages. They’d sound out the words together when she was younger; once she could read for herself, he’d read along. Sometimes he’d keep reading by himself, while she made daisy chains. Every so often, he’d grow frustrated with the obtuseness of a character and lift the book into the air, threatening to shred it into pieces. He never did.

  “Radd, dear. Whom do you suggest deliver them?”

  “Enough! This is foolish, Sybbie. On a day like this—” his voice broke. “How can—”

  The tiny woman in the birch chair sat straighter, if that were possible, her eyes fixed on her brother. “It is precisely on a day like this we must act as Nalynns. As family. Do I wish you’d confided in me from the start? Of course, for your sake, dear brother. But as our beloved grandmother would say, once a ship’s passed the fourteenth bridge, there’s no point chasing it.” His lips quirked. “I trust there are no more secrets?” She waited until he gave a tiny shake of his head. “Well, then. You’ve daughters who’ve proclaimed their affections. Did you honestly expect them to wait for a more opportune time or one of our choosing?” Gently. “Radd, we urged them to follow their hearts. It’s up to us to support them.”

  He gave her a doubtful look. “This is how? With invitations.”

  “The invitations,” she said primly, “are but the beginning, if all goes well. We’ve a great deal to do.”

  She’d said “we.” That had to mean . . . Jenn burst out, “You’re going to stay!”

  “Sybbie, you can’t.”

  “Tsh, Radd.” The smallest of dimples. “I managed a fine nap this afternoon. I believe the cider we had with lunch proved a most beneficial soporific, and shall take a cup before bed tonight.” She offered her hands to her nieces. Peggs and Jenn exchanged delighted smiles as they each laid a hand in hers. Cool and soft, never callused, hands which nonetheless wielded strength. “I must—I shall remain as long as I can, Dearest Hearts,” their aunt asserted, gazing fondly at them. Her eyes suddenly widened. “Ancestors Blessed and Blissful! We might make the Golden Day!”

  The rest of the Nalynns exchanged puzzled looks.

  “As I thought. Marrowdell is on the outside of the world.” Aunt Sybb tsked her disapproval. “The twentieth of Haveral? The autumnal equinox of this most favored year of our Blessed Ancestors?
The best halls were booked ages ago. Every handfasted couple in Rhoth and Mellynne wants to be wed that day.”

  “On my birthday?” Jenn blurted. “Why?”

  “The eclipse, of course.” Aunt Sybb squeezed their hands. “Imagine, Dearest Hearts. To be wed on the most auspicious day in our lifetimes. Not that I,” she added firmly, “adhere to the old ways, most of which came from Mellynne in the first place and look where that put us. But traditions have their reasons, that I truly believe, and what better reason than the Ancestors’ wish for long life and good fortune?”

  Jenn knew what an eclipse was, though she’d yet to see one herself; Master Dusom, who owned a little brass telescope that collapsed into itself and who knew the name of every cluster of stars, made sure Marrowdell’s children had a solid grasp of the heavens. To have such a fabled event on her birthday? A few days ago, she’d have tingled with delight.

  Now?

  Now it was like the closing of a trap, with even the sky conspiring to order her life.

  Radd coughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There are matters to be settled. Serious matters.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Still, there’s no harm in planning ahead. I trust you’ll provide me with a list, dear sister?” He laid his hand over Jenn’s; reached across the table for Peggs. “You’re both sure, now. Peggs?”

  She blushed but managed a bold, “I’m sure, Poppa.”

  “Jenn.” His hand pressed warm over hers. “Wait,” as she opened her mouth and hesitated. “Don’t answer. We’ll go ahead as you wish. See how it comes out. How’s that?”

  She should be sure. Wanted to be.

  Wasn’t at all.

  How did he know? Jenn wondered, and searched his kind face.

  “Now,” Aunt Sybb said, reclaiming her hands. “I think it’s time we discussed dresses.”

  “That, I’ll leave you to, dear ladies.” Radd rose and went around the table to his sister, bending to kiss her cheek, his hand lingering on her shoulder. “Mind your aunt,” he told his daughters with mock ferocity.