“Horst’s lent Wyll his home,” Riss supplied. “I was at the mill when it was proposed,” she added quickly.
“Of course you were,” her uncle said blandly. “And where shall the worthy Horst lay his head the meanwhile, hmm?”
Riss lifted a shapely eyebrow and said, her tone matching his, “It’s summer. I’m sure he’ll manage.”
Peggs looked from Old Jupp to his niece, frowning ever so slightly for no reason Jenn could see. This was all taking much too long, she fussed inwardly, and the longer it took, the worse it was going to be asking Bannan to leave.
Perhaps her concern wasn’t as discreet as she’d thought, for Old Jupp rose to his feet. “The summer cloak. My hat. Quickly, Riss. And a proper satchel, if you please.”
Riss looked astonished, but hurried to obey. In short order, she produced a faded green cloak from a chest and the tallest imaginable gray hat, free of bird droppings, from a box. The satchel took a moment’s rummage under the bed while her uncle tapped his canes impatiently.
In cloak and hat, his silver trumpet tucked in his belt and the satchel carefully hung from a shoulder, Wagler Jupp was a different man. Jenn and Peggs bobbed another curtsy. He tipped his head slightly in regal acknowledgment, careful of the hat, then scowled and stabbed one cane at the door. “Out with you! I’ve important business to conduct.”
Jenn and Peggs fled to the porch, stopped, and looked at each other.
Nodded once.
Then both took off, skirts held above their knees, running in opposite directions.
Bannan’s eyes shot open. He gazed up at unfamiliar, cobwebbed rafters. Remembering, a laugh bubbled up, warm and triumphant. He rolled eagerly to his feet. “Day’s wasting!”
Not quite day, perhaps, but dawn winked through every gap and opening in the little house. By the mess surrounding him, he hadn’t made much progress at all, last night. But today?
Today was his.
This was his.
Bannan wanted to run outside and shout. Instead, he took a thoughtful sip from his half-empty flask. There was the sticking point. No point tidying the place further if there wasn’t water to be had.
Proud at being sensible, he went into his pack for the short shovel and an ax, grabbed those and his confidence, and set out in search.
Moonlight was forgiving; sunlight showed the truth. The roof he’d judged mostly whole proved mostly holes, with few good shingles left. More to keep Tir busy, Bannan chuckled. The welcoming porch tilted along its length to disappear under the sod. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. It’d have to be dug out and new foundation stones added. Doubtless there’d be more to do. He’d wanted work, Bannan thought cheerfully as he explored behind the house.
Not everything needed repair. He was delighted to find the privy’s roof intact. After hacking dew-wet grass and a prickly shrub from in front of the small building, he pulled open the door. “Of all things—” he exclaimed. Inside was clean and dry, with solid, sweet-smelling wood and nary a web, just like the Nalynns’—something he’d attributed to Radd’s care for his home. If this was Marrowdell’s contribution to its inhabitants, he was all in favor.
Wait till he showed Tir, who’d done his share of latrine digging.
Marrowdell’s other welcoming gift? A perfect day. The air was fresh and dry, with a nip to keep it lively. The fields were free of mist, the sky a dome of blue. Bannan resumed his search for the well with a happy whistle, only to stub his boot toe on the door to the larder, half buried in leaves. The door, or what remained of it, had been torn from its hinges years ago. Likely the bear. He took a cautious look inside, ax at the ready. Leafy debris, more empty nests, the remnants of plank shelving. No bear.
A new door could wait. He’d nothing to store anyway. Bannan grinned. He would. Those were indeed apple trees and he hoped for berry bushes in what had proved to be the farmyard’s garden patch, albeit weedy and overgrown. He’d no idea how to preserve fruit. Or weed. Or anything else.
He did know who to ask.
Later. Next, find the well.
Bannan took a few more steps, kicking at the grass.
“Fair morning!”
He looked up to find Wainn Uhthoff sitting on a large fallen branch, a pie balanced on his lap. “My first visitor,” he smiled, pleased beyond words. “Fair morning to you!”
“I brought pie.”
Fresh too, by the steam coming through slits in the golden pastry. Bannan’s mouth watered. “Thank you. I hadn’t thought about breakfast.”
“Peggs makes the best pie.” Wainn regarded him. “How did you sleep, Bannan Larmensu?” With emphasis, as if his comfort held some vital import.
In spite of the hard floor and musty room, all Bannan remembered was putting his head down and being at peace. Yesterday had been full to the brim; he probably could have slept standing up. He stretched with a grin. “Never better.”
Wainn’s eyes lit. “Wen was right. You belong!”
At his honest joy, a lump filled Bannan’s throat. He didn’t dare speak. Instead, he smiled and reached for the pie.
It was apple. Like the water in the village fountain, it was better than any apple pie he’d tasted before, the filling creamy and warm and fragrant, the pastry a confection that melted on the tongue. They ate it in thick wedges they somehow juggled to their mouths, a task made harder by the way Wainn would laugh at him, and he’d have to laugh back. Little brown birds, dark-eyed and bold, hopped around their feet, quick to pounce on crumbs.
A splendid breakfast, Bannan decided, licking the final sweet trace from his lips. “You’re right,” he told Wainn, passing him the flask. “Peggs makes the very best pies.” The sun was fully up, drying the dew, warm on his shoulders. Too full to move right away, in his heart as well as stomach, Bannan leaned back against the branch and asked as idly as he could, “Did you see Jenn this morning too?”
When Wainn didn’t answer, Bannan glanced at him. The usual smile was gone, replaced by a troubled look; the first he’d seen on the other’s face. “What is it?”
“She should have waited,” low and dismayed. “She should have asked Wyll first.”
The truth. What did it mean? “What’s wrong?” Heart’s Blood, he’d never have left Tir with the not-man if he’d thought there was any risk. Bannan found himself on his knees, facing Wainn, hands ready to take hold and shake him. “Tell me!”
“Bannan,” with profound concern. “Jenn didn’t sleep well.”
“‘Didn’t sleep . . . ‘” Bannan rocked back on his haunches. His sleep. Now Jenn’s. He couldn’t doubt Wainn, but why this? Perplexed, he ran one hand through his hair. “She was upset yesterday,” he ventured. “Did your uncle tell you what happened?”
“Yes.” Wainn brushed crumbs from his homespun pants. Eager birds rushed to his bare feet and he stood awkwardly, not to startle them. A flash of wise hazel eyes. “It hurts to need what you can’t find. Jenn is unhappy.”
Bannan’s heart thudded in his chest as he remembered how the road had swept them with her, how wind and lightning had answered her despair. Wyll’s twisted body. What did “unhappy” hold in store for the rest of them? He felt a chill despite the warm sun. “Will there be a storm?”
“Why would there be a storm?” Seeming as changeable as weather himself, Wainn smiled brightly as he tilted his head to study the clear sky. “This is a good day for laundry. That’s one of my chores.”
“I thought—” Had he been dazzled by Marrowdell, by Wyll, by her smile? “I thought Jenn had—that she could—” Finding no words for the impossible, Bannan shook his head. “There’s something special about Jenn Nalynn, isn’t there?”
“You are the truthseer,” with touching confidence. “You see her.”
“What I see . . .” What did he see? Eyes that held every color of the sky. A smile whose mere memory touched his heart. “Light,” he said finally. “I see—I see light.” Which made no sense at all.
But Wainn nodded. “You see Jenn.”
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“That doesn’t explain what she can do!”
The young villager offered the empty plate to the birds. “She can’t make pie.” He rose, licked his thumb, and gave Bannan another too-wise glance. “Jenn Nalynn doesn’t do. She is.”
A riddle. Like Marrowdell itself. Bannan pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. “I should be afraid,” he muttered to the light-splattered darkness. “We all should.”
“Father says fear makes people stupid.”
Surprised into a laugh, Bannan dropped his hands. “It does indeed.” He regarded Wainn fondly. “Then I promise I won’t fear Jenn Nalynn. Though I hope the weather stays fair. I’ve work to do. Starting with locating my well.”
A nod. “I’m thirsty.”
Bannan tipped the empty flask. “Sorry.”
Wainn smiled. “That’s good. The well waits to be needed.”
“You know where it is?” He hadn’t looked for help; he was more than happy to receive it. “I’ve had no luck.”
“Why do you need luck?” Wainn asked curiously. “You’re a truthseer.”
“I am at that.” Bannan shook his head. Where had he left his good sense? “Thank you, my friend, for reminding me.”
He turned and looked at the farmyard. Saw overgrown grass. Saw where he’d trampled it. Bannan looked deeper.
The path near the road flowed silver.
Lavender shot through the sky.
And there it was. A hint of cobalt in the grass, between house and garden. He’d walked over the spot more than once, Bannan thought wonderingly.
Trusting what he’d seen, he went to the hint and began to dig. It took the shovel, ax, and Wainn’s help to pull out the weeds and chop through the thick sod. He was soaked with sweat and most definitely thirsty when the shovel clanged against stone.
Switching to his hands, Bannan quickly felt along the stone to where it met another and another. Once he had the well’s proportions, he grabbed the shovel and dug on the other side. Faster and faster.
At last, he uncovered a ring of precisely set stones, like the one in the village but half the size. A pavement surrounded it, yet to be fully cleared. Within the ring? After removing the last handful of wind-shifted dirt and leaves, Bannan leaned forward eagerly.
Only to be disappointed. “There’s nothing here.” The well was no deeper than his arm, floored in ice-blue stone like polished marble, all of a piece. As dry to the touch now as it had been for years, by the dust his fingers streaked aside. “I can’t stay here without water,” he said miserably.
Wainn, who’d been watching a butterfly, chuckled. “It waits to be needed,” he said once more. As if Bannan should know.
The truth.
Could it possibly be that simple?
This was Marrowdell.
Bannan ran his hand over the cool dry stone, then unstoppered the empty flask and lowered it into the empty well.
Water burbled and bubbled forth in answer, right through the stone.
He could scarcely believe his eyes. Water rose over the flask, filling it; it rose over his hand, chill and refreshing as a winter morning; it rose over his arm until it reached the lip of the surrounding stones. Then stopped.
Lazy rings crisscrossed its surface. The sky sat there, girdled in stone, his rapidly numbing arm thrust in its midst.
Bannan pulled out his arm, and the full flask. “It worked! Wainn—did you—?”
Wainn was gone. As was the pie plate. The toad, however, sat on the stones beside Bannan, considering him with huge brown eyes. He laughed and toasted it with the flask, taking a long, deep drink. The water coursed down the inside of his throat with each swallow, soothing, restoring, delicious.
Marrowdell’s welcome.
Where was Tir when he needed him? Or Jenn? Anyone, other than the mute toad, to share this with? “Scourge!” Bannan bellowed. The not-horse had to be thirsty by now. “Scourge. Look! Water!”
When no dark ugly head appeared in the doorway of the barn, he went in search, flask in hand and no few backward glances to be sure the well was still there and still full. Why hadn’t more people settled in Marrowdell, when it offered so much?
He refused to think about last night and the perilous nature of the road. Wainn hadn’t mentioned it; somehow, he’d never found the moment, or the words, to ask. Every place had its cliff. You avoided its edge, that was all.
Bad winters, he assured himself, undaunted. Nothing wrong with being snug inside for a few months. He’d learn how to use his new tools. Make furniture. Beat Tir at ’stones. Read. How he’d longed for time—with lantern and roof—to read. He already knew which of his favorites he’d reread first.
The barn was empty of life, save for swallows dipping in and out and through. Bannan walked inside, appreciating its cool shade. A warm day to come. Hopefully, given the state of his roof, the first of several dry ones.
An empty, ordinary barn. A wide corridor ran end to end. There were three good-sized stalls to the left, with wooden hayracks and half doors, shuttered fast, that would open toward the sun. To the right, a low pen suited to piglets, a sturdy storeroom—the door locked in some fashion or stuck—an abundance of wooden pegs for harness, and the ladder to the loft. Admittedly, he was no farmer, not yet, but there had to be room here for all the stock he could handle, as well as their winter feed.
Empty. Bannan’s brows knit together. The farmyard had gone wild. The house had sheltered a host of wildlife, as had the larder. Why not the barn, with its open door? It hardly needed sweeping, as if not only mice, but dust avoided the place.
Something else about the earthen floor caught his eye. Bannan crouched to brush fingertips over long parallel tracks. Wagons. None of the impressions looked recent, but Tir could tell more.
Another puzzle. He, Bannan told himself with determination, would solve this one too. In the meanwhile? He pushed up his sleeves. He had a bucket and broom. Now he had water.
Time to clean house.
Not any house, he reminded himself with an inner thrill.
His home.
Spying, Jenn was sure, was neither mature nor polite. Their aunt would be horrified. A good thing neither she, nor Peggs, planned to get caught.
Easier for Peggs, who could always pretend to be on her way to visit Hettie and didn’t have to deal with Uncle Horst’s distaste for shrubbery or anything that might hide more than a squirrel. His was the only home without at least a berry bush or convenient barrel nearby.
But there was, Jenn discovered to her delight, Bannan’s wagon. The back flap had been left open, doubtless to air after the night’s damp. She wasted no time climbing inside and working her way forward to where she should be able to see in a window.
That is, she tried to work her way forward. The wagon was packed tighter than pickles in a jar, with not a speck of room wasted. Jenn squirmed over boxes and bags—apologizing under her breath when something went “snap-grissh” under her knee—and wiggled between hanging sacks.
A breeze followed her, chilled her cheek, and snarled. “Why are you here?”
Scourge.
Jenn twisted around to find his long horse face in the wagon with her. “Go away,” she whispered, shooing him with her free hand. The other held back the hanging lamp threatening her head.
His nostrils flared. “Are you a thief?”
“No!” She hurriedly let go of the lamp, ducking to avoid its swing. “Go away.”
“Are you hiding?”
“I’m doing nothing wrong.” Well, she was, but poor manners should hardly matter to a creature as dangerous and unpredictable as Scourge. Who’d threatened Wyll, something she didn’t forget. “This is between me and Wyll.”
“Whom you plan to marry.” A deep chuckle in her ear. “You could do better. Anything breathing would be an improvement. A toad—”
Jenn blushed furiously and flung the lantern at him.
Scourge dodged out of sight, then his head reappeared and shoved so deeply into th
e wagon something else in a bag went “snap-grissh.” “You come out.” The breeze became a howl in her ear. Those terrible jaws snapped near her shoes. “Out now!”
Voices, from outside. “I can’t,” Jenn pleaded. “They’ll see me.” That most of Scourge protruded from the wagon might look normal; given any chance at all, Wainn’s pony would happily push his head and neck through an open kitchen window, not that Scourge was the sort, she was sure, to try for a loaf of bread cooling on a shelf. “I just want to hear Wyll’s answer to Father’s invitation,” she confessed.
His head disappeared again. Jenn was afraid to move.
A breeze tugged her hair. “Toad.”
The not-horse was insufferable. Hearing no more voices, Jenn eased her way to the back of the wagon. Maybe she could slip out—
“Why, hello.”
Or not. “Hello, Tir.”
With his mask in place, she couldn’t tell if he was angry or surprised to find her in the wagon. Maybe she could blame Scourge—claim he’d chased her inside.
“Man can’t find his head with his hands in the morning,” Tir said confusingly. Worse, he winked. “So, what’d Bannan send you after?” To her dismay, he gripped the back of the wagon, preparing to climb in, though there was hardly room for her alone.
Jenn hastily closed her hand on something and brought it up between them. “His—” She held a pair of pants. Could she blush any hotter? Worse, they weren’t homespun, like those everyone wore—including Bannan. These were black leather, soft and supple. She imagined how they’d look and discovered—oh, yes—her cheeks could flame. “I’d better go.”
Tir helped her down, his eyes searching her face. Once she was on her feet, he kept hold of her hand. “Heart’s Blood,” he muttered with a sudden fierce scowl. “How old are you, girl?”
“I’ll be nineteen this harvest.” Jenn clutched the pants, wishing she dared pull her hand free.
“Eighteen, then.” He showed no inclination to let go. She was amazed to see a tinge of color rise up his neck and pinken his ears. “Eighteen and promised to himself, over there. What was Bannan thinking? Not that he was, I’ll warrant. Not with his brains, at any rate.”
A Turn of Light Page 29
