Moonlight slipped through the open doors. Softer now and lower. Peaceful, with its job done. A pale moth, large as his hand, followed a moonbeam through the ruined window to flutter here and there near the ceiling, before coming to hover close to his face. Moth? Each wingbeat sent a faint aroma of spice. Each leg bore a golden boot, and a tiny satchel locked with a jewel hung from its body. It flew off again, out the window, on whatever tasks a moth undertook here.
Here, Bannan thought. Marrowdell.
He smiled as he closed his eyes.
Home.
After opening the window, Jenn eased back into bed; Peggs rolled over but didn’t wake.
Why hadn’t she waited?
She pressed her warm cheek against the pillow, wide awake though so tired her bones hurt. The evening should be cool, not midsummer hot; what little air slipped through the window hardly helped.
Her churning thoughts didn’t, either. This was all her fault. Wyll’s poor body. The arguing among the villagers. Their father’s worry. Peggs’ fright. The rush to be married. If only she’d waited a day to do the wishing . . .
If only she’d met Bannan first . . .
Would she have wished at all?
A treacherous, unworthy warmth filled her. But wasn’t Bannan noble? And brave. Strong. Handsome, too, no denying it. Those gorgeous eyes, with their apple butter glow, could melt a heart at ten paces. He smiled well and often, and laughed. She quite liked his laugh and the way he spoke. She quite liked everything about him, including how he made her feel.
If she’d waited . . . it wouldn’t have changed a thing, Jenn told herself, and tried to believe it. Bannan might never have come to Marrowdell, had he not rushed to Wyll’s rescue, and Wyll wouldn’t have needed rescue—would he?—had she waited.
She’d consoled herself in duty to her friend. An easier duty, if Bannan left on his own. Now, it’d be her fault—hers and Wyll’s—that he couldn’t stay. How could he? There was no room for him in the village, no timbers suited to new buildings, nothing new in Marrowdell, ever.
A tear dampened her pillow. Jenn tried not to be selfish. She tried her very best. But as sleep claimed her, the image behind her eyes wasn’t Bannan or Wyll or her meadow.
It was a map, edges shriveling as they caught fire, burning until it was ash and the world it promised was no more.
Wyll knew himself exhausted. After collecting his weapons, the old soldier had given him his bed: a caution he understood and a courtesy to keep him where they wanted. But to lie there, helpless, and expect to rest? “Another round.” He pushed half his pile of nuts at Tir, who’d none left. The man cheated at every opportunity; he’d returned the favor.
“Not without a fist of ale,” Tir yawned. “Losing’s no pleasure dry, let me tell you. You like ale?”
“I know what it’s for.” What would the man think of the rush and numbness that came from not from drink but from roaring at the top of one’s lungs? Of pouring out sound and fury until the weaker cowered beneath wings and rocks shook loose from the cliff tops? Now, that was intoxication. “I’ve read,” Wyll said dryly, “a great many books.”
“Ancestors Dull and Dubious.” The man shook his head. “That’s plain wrong. We need to introduce you to the real thing. Another night,” he yawned as he swept the worn white and black ’stones into their sack. “’Nuff’s enough.” The house toad, whose avid gaze hadn’t left the playing pieces throughout their game, abandoned its place beyond the lamplight. Tir pulled in his feet with a jerk as it waddled past their table. “Heart’s Blood! Was that here all the time?”
Wyll watched the toad go out the open door. “The little cousins have a fondness for pebbles.” When the man scowled and shoved the sack deep inside his shirt, he added, because the little cousins had a right to their prickly pride and he wouldn’t see them maligned, “They aren’t thieves.”
Tir looked unconvinced, but didn’t argue. He yawned again. “It’s me for my bedroll and you for bed.”
The bed. Wyll glared at the unsettling object. “I’ve never used one.”
“Never slept in a bed?”
At no point in the game had the man seemed hard of hearing. Cunning and interestingly devious, but not deaf. “Not like this.”
“Ah.” Tir scratched at his beard with two fingers and a thumb, eyes narrowed in thought. He’d left off his foolish mask. “There’s no trick to it,” he said at last. “Head on the pillow, if there’s one. Blanket atop. ’Cept on a night warm as this. You’d cook. Be too hot,” he clarified, as if Wyll wouldn’t grasp the concept.
“Play again. I’ll let you win.”
“Sorry. I’ve had my excitement for the day.” Tir scrunched his scarred forehead. “Anything you need before I go?”
Stupid man. What he needed was his sanctuary, its impenetrable walls tight around him. He couldn’t defend himself, like this. Not against his own kind. Not against those here. Wyll’s hand wanted to make a fist; he lowered it to his thigh and spoke as calmly as possible. “Do you trust these people? Should I?”
Tir’s eyes traveled to the open door and the darkness beyond. “Bannan’s likely found himself a soft spot,” he muttered incomprehensibly. To Wyll, “Stay here.”
And he left.
Without the man, it was worse. The room widened, its windows and doors gaping wounds, and Wyll imagined wingbeats. His kind. They didn’t like to fly on hot moist nights. They liked him less. He stood to turn and turn, unsure where danger might strike first. Unsure what he could do, any more, if it did.
A loud thud made him turn again, so quickly he lurched off balance and had to clutch one of the bedposts to save himself.
Having dropped a roll of blankets in front of the door, Tir spread them with a kick of his foot. “That should do,” he said gruffly. “Mind you blow out the candle. Bloodflies’ll come to a light.” He plopped himself down in his clothes and boots, an ax to each side in easy reach, and threw an arm over his face. “You’d best not snore. Or talk in your sleep.”
“I don’t know,” Wyll admitted.
“It’d be my luck,” Tir mumbled. “G’night.”
Caution Wyll understood. This?
This was the girl, bringing him thistledown and silly secrets.
This was the truthseer, pulling him from the river. Kydd, bringing clothes.
Kindness. They gave it so freely.
They wouldn’t, if they knew him.
Wyll blew out the light. Without a word, he lay on the bed like a man, his head on the pillow as he’d been told, and closed his eyes.
TWELVE
WAGLER JUPP’S HOME stood alone within the village. An unclipped hedge separated it from the Uhthoffs, the road and common gardens from Horst and the Nalynns. The world at large was held at bay as much by the temper of its occupant as the looming crags beyond.
As a rule, Jenn Nalynn gave Old Jupp as much space and as little conversation as she could, while remaining properly respectful. He was, after all, the most elderly resident of Marrowdell, having been by every account ancient before taking the settler’s bind with his nephew Riedd Morrill. He’d refused the prince’s so-called “Kindness,” the small home and stipend granted those family members too old or infirm to settle a new land. Jenn had heard it said, by her own father, no less, late at night when he and his friends were in their cups, that Old Jupp had survived the journey and subsequent winters because bile pickled his flesh long ago.
In Avyo, Wagler Jupp had been important, the Secretary to the House of Keys, privy to goings-on both public and highly secret. He’d come to Marrowdell with a wagonload of locked chests filled, not with useful clothes or tools, but documents. Who they were to impress, or embarrass, so far from the capital, Jenn couldn’t imagine. They’d grown musty and old along with Jupp, who must, she thought, take some comfort from their mere possession, for he kept the chests in his home. Not that she’d been inside more than the once, when at six she’d run through his door to hide during a game of seek.
Being summarily ch
ased out by an irate Jupp, waving his canes and trumpet at her, had left Jenn with no desire to visit again. Ever.
So, of course, here they were, at the foot of the step to Old Jupp’s narrow porch, because, according to Aunt Sybb and their father, there could be no one better suited to deliver their family’s all-important invitations to Wyll and Kydd than the former secretary himself.
Jenn thought their choice had more to do with Old Jupp having napped through Wyll’s ill-timed demonstration of his powers and being absent at last night’s meeting, thus being more likely to agree, but if her elders preferred to invoke such convincing arguments as respectability and neutrality, who was she to argue?
“Do I look all right?” Peggs fussed again. To Jenn’s chagrin, her once-serene sister who’d hummed herself to sleep was—by day and with family involved and matters taking a serious turn and whatever should she wear?—a bundle of nerves.
Obediently, Jenn cast a critical eye. Being anxious brought Peggs’ huge eyes to life and planted roses on her cheeks. Her thick black hair coiled above her head, emphasizing her graceful neck; a confection so full of pins Jenn doubted they’d get them all out again. Her sister wore her second-best dress, its lace bodice tied with brilliant red ribbons, topped with one of Aunt Sybb’s soft city shawls. She’d found stockings and her shoes gleamed with polish.
Good thing the mud had dried overnight.
In the basket on Peggs’ arm was a twist of the sausages Old Jupp supposedly favored, fresh-baked biscuits, and a jar of berry preserves. There would have been a pie, but Wainn Uhthoff had shown up at breakfast with a wide smile and charming expectation. Peggs had given in, in Jenn’s opinion, far too easily; at this rate, they’d run out of pie before her sister was officially betrothed.
Peggs almost bounced in place. “Well?”
“You look perfect. Very ladylike,” Jenn pronounced. She wore her third-best dress, which was really her last-best and only choice; she’d no intention of wasting her very best on what was a delivery and it didn’t fit all that well across her bosom anymore regardless. Her toes objected to the shoes, a concession to their aunt, and, as for how she felt today?
Impatient to have done, Jenn told herself. Impatient to start whatever new life she must. Like pulling a splinter; best suffered quickly.
Peggs gave her a suspicious look. “‘Ladylike?’”
“Mature. Elegant.” Jenn tried not to roll her eyes. “What more can I say?”
“I wish you’d let me put up your hair.”
Jenn lifted the creamy pair of envelopes, with their press-waxed seals. “Shall we?”
No one else closed their doors in summer. Jenn crossed the porch with Peggs, wincing at the noisy clack of their shoes on the wood, and rapped on the door as her aunt had instructed. Two firm knocks, then wait.
Anywhere else, she’d shout hello through the opening and wander in. Well, at the Treffs there was no shouting, because Lorra and Fran expected some modicum of manners and if a calm voice couldn’t be heard above whatever was happening, it wasn’t a good time to intrude anyway.
The door opened. “Fair morning, Peggs. Jenn.” Riss Nahamm wiped her hands on her apron and smiled. “What a nice surprise.”
Riss was, after Peggs, the loveliest woman in Marrowdell, with skin like porcelain and rich red hair, streaked with white above her ears. Jenn considered it likely she’d been the most beautiful woman in all Avyo before growing old. Being Riedd Morrill’s cousin, thus of Mellynne descent, had brought her here with the rest. Being unmarried and of kind heart—and, in Jenn’s opinion, courageous—she’d moved in with their great-uncle, to care for him in his declining years. Not a life to envy.
To prove the point, a loud and querulous, “Who’s that at this unseemly hour?!” came from inside. “Send them packing!”
“Good morning,” Peggs said hurriedly, thrusting the basket into Riss’ arms.
Their aunt had been exacting in her instructions. Jenn steadied her sister with a look and showed the envelopes. “We’re to ask a favor of Master Jupp, Riss. May we come in?”
Riss’ green eyes shone. “Please.” She lowered her voice as she gracefully stepped aside for them to enter, “You’ve picked a good time. He’s quite cheery this morning.”
Jenn braced herself and led the way, doing her best to smile.
She remembered the interior as dark, full of terrifying, half-seen shapes. Finding it anything but, Jenn realized with a twinge of conscience her younger self must have surprised the old man while he slept. No wonder he’d chased her out.
This was a bright, dignified space. Sunlight streamed through the windows, but couldn’t compete with the lamp glowing on the table. It was unlike any Jenn had seen, of blue-black metal, ornamented with gold scrollwork, that rose from a heavy stone pedestal like a man with outstretched arms. The head and body formed a tall urn, doubtless for the sort of oil brought in from Weken, since each outstretched arm supported a beautiful clean flame enclosed in frosted glass. A dozen thick glass prisms, longer than a finger, dangled below.
The frosted glass bore designs that allowed the warm yellow light to pass. Jenn peered closer, fascinated, then stifled the urge to laugh. The designs were of dancing women. Naked, dancing women.
With parasols.
The giant lamp presided over sheets of paper, stacks of paper, bound bundles of paper, and quill pens. There were pens in cups, pens in pots. From the curls under the table, several had recently been sharpened. On the only open bit of tabletop lay a page half covered in the finest black lettering she’d ever seen. It put Aunt Sybb’s elegant cursive to shame.
The walls were lined with chests, large and small. Two others formed the table’s supports. An oiled tarp hung across the ceiling overhead, one end tipped so any leaks from an untrustworthy roof would flow to a bucket tucked to one side. There were other practicalities in the room Jenn judged Riss’ work, a tidy little kitchen to one side of the fireplace, a curtained-off corner for Old Jupp’s bed, and neatly darned socks hanging from the rafters. A ladder led to the loft, doubtless Riss’ domain, but she had her place in the main room, too. An inviting pair of chairs sat side-by-side near the sunny window, accompanied by more small chests, themselves tables, each with its small lamp and a well-read book. Beside the leftmost were baskets filled with colorful skeins of thread, and a large embroidery hoop stood in reach, a piece of white cloth stretched taut and waiting. The seat cushions were tapestried with fanciful animals. Big-eyed toads on the one. Birds on the other.
The bedroom curtain, now that Jenn looked closely, was also a tapestry, a summer scene done in subtle greens and blues. There were tall buildings set in gardens and bridges of stone, like those she’d seen illustrated in books, arched over a wide peaceful river. Ships with colored sails plied the water.
“Avyo,” Riss said with a small smile, noticing her attention. “What I recall of it, anyway. Uncle, you’ve visitors.”
Wagler Jupp sat at the table, quill poised above the half-filled page as if determined to continue his train of thought the instant he was rid of them. His trumpet lay to one side and he didn’t reach for it. He was scowling so fiercely his thick gray brows threatened to tangle together.
This was “quite cheery?”
Jenn kept her smile and, feeling silly, bobbed in place in what she hoped resembled the curtsy Aunt Sybb had taught them. Peggs followed suit, more graceful by far.
Riss shook her head. Instead of raising her voice, she went over to the old man, put one hand on his shoulder and leaned close to whisper in his ear. He looked suddenly interested and put down his pen. “You’ve letters for me?”
Jenn didn’t hand over the envelopes. “We’ve a favor to ask, Master Jupp,” she said.
“Give me my letters!” An age-spotted hand thrust out. “Hurry, girl.”
Peggs dipped another desperate curtsy. “Our father asks if you would do us the honor of presenting these to—” she turned bright pink but continued, “—our suitors.”
“What’d she say? What?” Riss gave him the trumpet and Jupp put it to his ear, aiming the end like a weapon at Peggs. “What’d you say? Be quick.” His free hand thumped the table; the prisms swayed from side to side, sending rainbows around the room. “I’ve no time to waste.”
“Uncle’s writing his memoirs,” Riss informed them. A dimple formed in one cheek, though she spoke seriously. “He’s reached the controversy surrounding Prince Ordo’s coronation—”
“‘Controversy?’ It was a travesty!” Old Jupp’s eyes glittered. “Who could possibly mistake parrots for doves, I ask you? Doves are filthy, but parrots? They take aim! Do you know how many hats were ruined that day?”
“A pivotal moment in our history,” Riss said soberly.
Her uncle stared at her. His breath caught with a wet rasp, his eyes bulged, and the trumpet began to shake wildly. Was it some kind of fit? Old people had them, Jenn had read. Which wouldn’t please their aunt or father. From Peggs’ ashen face, she feared the same or worse.
Old Jupp erupted in a bellowing laugh. “Pivotal! You should have seen their faces,” he sputtered joyously. “All those pompous, pious, prince-licking hangers-on, with parrot dung dripping down their heads. Best day of my life, that was. One of the very best.” He laughed some more, then smacked his hand on the page. “Right here, ladies. The sum of their antics and idiocies. Should get me skewered and boiled in oil.” He grinned wickedly, showing very few teeth. “I plan to die first and spoil all their fun.”
“Uncle,” Riss chided, then chuckled fondly.
Life within the Jupp household, Jenn realized somewhat dizzily, was nothing like she’d imagined. “Please, Master Jupp.” She held out the envelopes. “Would you deliver these for our family?”
Taking them, he turned them over in his hands to examine the seal. Their father had produced a thick ring they’d never seen before to press the imprint into the wax, so grim during the process, neither daughter had dared ask. “Important business, I see. Young Uhthoff I can find. Where will this newcomer, Wyll, be?”
A Turn of Light Page 28
