A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Somewhere in there, Tir probably made sense. Just not to her. Jenn tugged gently at her hand. “I shouldn’t keep him waiting.” She lifted the pants.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Tir gave back her fingers and took the pants. “You get home. Your Wyll’s left to meet your father. He wasn’t interested in waiting till this afternoon, invitation or no, and—” grimly, “—you’ve some explaining to do.”

  She ignored the last part. “He can’t have gone already,” she objected, dismayed. Afternoon was when everything would be ready, and Radd would have shaved—something Aunt Sybb would insist upon—and she and Peggs both would be home and settled upstairs—another insistence, but where they could listen. “He shouldn’t—”

  “You’ve changed your mind?” Tir sounded relieved. “Not that I’ve anything against Wyll as such. Man’s seen his share of trouble and bears it better than most. But—” His voice trailed off as he looked at her. “You’re going to marry him.”

  Jenn stared at him. “Of course. Why would I change my mind?”

  “So last night meant nothing to you.”

  She blinked. “What about last night?”

  “Are you telling me you weren’t with Bannan?”

  “Why would I go to the farm?”

  “The farm.” Tir shook his head and, of all things, began to chuckle. “The farm? This is about the farm. Ancestors Witness, I should have guessed. So that’s where he spent the night.”

  He was the most confusing person. Jenn frowned. “Where did you think he was?”

  “I don’t tell you, young Jenn,” Tir countered, tossing the pants back in the wagon, “and you don’t have to tell me why you were in his wagon. Fair?”

  She wasn’t entirely sure of the bargain, but nodded.

  “Good. Now go home and keep your friend out of trouble.”

  That, she intended to do.

  Wagler Jupp was making his methodical way to the Uhthoffs by the time Jenn made it home. She couldn’t see Peggs. Or Wyll. Taking off her shoes, she tiptoed onto the porch and stopped by the open window.

  A breeze, warm and familiar, caressed her cheek. “Come inside, Dearest Heart. I’ve nothing to say you cannot hear.”

  Wyll might know all about Night’s Edge; he had a great deal to learn about her family. Starting with her father and aunt and their rules about who should be part of conversations. Jenn stayed right where she was.

  Rose petals dropped on her.

  “Nuisance,” she muttered, plucking them from her hair. She listened harder. No one was talking.

  Why weren’t they talking?

  “Jenn?”

  She looked up at her father, who stood in the doorway, not yet shaven. He arched an eyebrow. “You may as well come in.”

  After dumping his pack on the table, Bannan sorted the immediately useful from the rest. A strong thin rope. A bar of hard soap. Flint and steel. The half sausage and heel of bread, part of last night’s supper from Gallie Emms, he put aside, full, thanks to Wainn’s pie. Aside also went the rolled leather pouch containing his last few leaves of Vorkoun black tea, and the metal cup and bowl he’d used since entering the guard.

  He started with the rope, stringing it from the porch to the not-oak tree east of the house. He tested the tautness with a finger before tossing his bedroll over it. Not that he’d be doing laundry any time soon, but the line was ready.

  Next, Bannan tackled the windows and doors. The shutters on the front windows were secured by a wooden bar shimmed in place, easily hammered free. With the shutters removed, daylight and fresh air poured through the openings to fill the main room. He’d have to order the small glass panes, which meant measuring the opening. Later. Instead, Bannan took his ax to what remained of the front door’s seized wooden hinges. He leaned the door against the wall, then did the same to the back door. More air, more light.

  As for the hinges, the smith, Davi, should be able to make metal ones. Or he could order some from Endshere.

  He’d have to watch his coin, Bannan reminded himself. Maybe he could trade labor for the hinges.

  Inside, he freed a wide plank from the ruined bed and, starting at one corner of the main room, used it to push debris out the back door. What he couldn’t push, he carried, tossing it all into a pile. The work was heavy and filthy, raising so much dust he tied a wet handkerchief over his face so he could breathe.

  After the first pass removed the worst of it from the floor, Bannan tossed his makeshift shovel and broom up into the loft, pulling himself after. To his relief, its floor was solid, though strewn with droppings, old nests, and a neat pile of tiny bones that gave him pause. He swept everything out the open window at one end, then glanced outside.

  From here, he could see over the hedge to the north and past the wide fields that flowed gracefully along the river. Beyond the fields, a wild forest nestled against the Bone Hills. Beyond those . . .

  Beyond was a broad gap in the scarred north wall of the valley. The river split around the Bone Hills, he’d been told, with its greater flow leaving Marrowdell in an unnavigable cataract. And was that not mist, rising within the opening?

  The morning sun teased a rainbow from the mist, drew shadows along the eastmost side of the gap, and burnished the west with light. About to turn away, Bannan glimpsed a shadow that didn’t belong. “What . . .” He rocked back on his heels, one hand holding the window frame, the other his broom, and puzzled at what he saw until, abruptly, it made sense.

  Stone. The sides of the great gap weren’t cliffs; there’d been something there once, something built. Its stones were rounded now and broken, their edges blurred beneath shrubs, but the underlying structure was unmistakable once recognized. Sections of overhanging rock became the remnants of floor or roof. Openings stared back at him, hollow and dark, too square and level to be the work of water or ice or wind. “Ruins,” Bannan said softly. “But of what?”

  And why here?

  Whatever it had been was immense. He must ask Kydd. Perhaps, after the harvest, there’d be time before the snow to climb into those openings and hunt for traces of the builders or inhabitants, to take the Tinkers Road and explore the unseen end of the valley, time to . . .

  “Ah, Marrowdell,” he chuckled as he rose to his feet, gripping his broom. “You’re determined to keep me busy, aren’t you?”

  To everything, and every mystery, its season, Bannan assured himself, feeling the vast inner content of a man with a wealth of time.

  He went downstairs and surveyed the waiting mess. Having only the old bucket and pot, he should wait for Tir and the wagon, for all the supplies he’d purchased in hope of this future.

  But he couldn’t.

  Something drove him, as if he didn’t just clean a room, but cleansed himself. The sweat stinging his eyes had nothing of death or the threat of it; the blisters rising on his palms came from no weapon. He grew exhilarated beyond all measure; the water from his own well might have been the finest ale.

  His inexhaustible well. Bannan drew bucket after bucket, tossing water on the floor, going back for more. When his makeshift broom struggled to move what quickly became mud, he returned to his plank and scraped it to the door and out.

  When the worst of it was gone, he rinsed his sweat-drenched and filthy shirt and hung it on the line. Time to tackle the fireplace.

  Using his ax, he pulled what proved to be an old nest from the chimney. The twigs and down stayed in a reassuring clump and, when no movement of the damper brought more down, he squirmed beneath to look. Seeing daylight, he finished sweeping the opening clean, then started a small fire, holding his breath.

  The tinder caught with a playful crackle. Bannan fed it splinters he’d saved from the bedstead until he had a tidy little fire. Rushing outside, he watched anxiously for the first faint curl of smoke and heat rising from the chimney. Once sure it was safe, he added more wood, hung the water-filled pot on the pothook, and swung it over the flames.

  While the water heated, Bannan went
out back and set fire to the pile of debris from the house.

  He paused as long as it took to brew a cup of strong tea, taking it and the sausage on his slanted porch for his lunch. Birds sang to him. A bee droned by. Apples shone in the trees. His back and shoulders burned, his hands were raw, and had he ever been happier?

  So before he ate the sausage, Bannan Larmensu framed his heart with his fingers. “Hearts of our Ancestors,” he said solemnly, “I am Beholden for this food, for it will give me strength to improve myself in your eyes. I am Beholden for this work, for it has given purpose to my life. I am Beholden for the chance to keep Lila and her family safe by my absence. However far we are apart,” he finished in a husky whisper, “Keep Us Close.”

  Wyll had been given a stool, rather than one of the chairs. Not discourtesy. His twisted hip would make a chair painful, Jenn realized. For this formal meeting, the stool faced not the table, but two other chairs, one her aunt’s, one her father’s, set at the edges of the braided rug.

  When she’d walked in, her father had brought another chair, putting it to one end. Not with her family. Not with Wyll. She was allowed to be present, that chair said, but not to speak for either side.

  So Jenn sat, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight, the toes of her shoes together, and remembered not to chew her lower lip.

  Aunt Sybb gave her a look of approval before returning her attention to Wyll, who looked far more relaxed than her father.

  While her father, Jenn thought with an inward squirm, looked more like Wagler Jupp. Or Uncle Horst. His normally jovial face was drawn in stern lines and, when he spoke, there was no mistaking who was in authority here.

  “Before you arrived, Jenn,” he didn’t take his eyes from Wyll, “we made our introductions. Wyll was about to explain why he came with such urgency, rather than wait until this afternoon.”

  “As the invitation specified,” Aunt Sybb stated. She didn’t appear flustered or other than politely interested. Then again, Jenn thought with pride, she wouldn’t.

  Wyll ducked his head to one side. “I came to be with Jenn. Why should I stay anywhere else?”

  Aunt Sybb coughed delicately into her ’kerchief; above the lace, her eyes twinkled. Radd put his hands on his thighs and took a deep breath.

  Before he said anything she’d regret—or he would—Jenn jumped in. “Wyll. This isn’t Night’s Edge. There are different rules here. Rules you have to follow, like the rest of us. It was rude to ignore my aunt’s invitation. They had no time to get ready for you and Poppa hasn’t even shaved! You should,” she declared with great finality, “apologize.”

  Wyll struggled to his feet and tipped in a bow. “I ask your pardon.”

  Jenn would have taken his effort more seriously if a breeze hadn’t flipped the hair from her forehead at the same instant. She scowled at Wyll. He smiled back, taking his seat on the stool and stretching out his bad leg.

  Whatever had made Aunt Sybb cough struck her father next. When Radd could speak, his face wasn’t quite so stern. “We can, perhaps, dispense with some of the formalities.” He glanced hopefully at his sister, who nodded. “Good. Wyll. We’ve asked you here to talk about—” he hesitated, then surged ahead, “—the future. Yours and Jenn’s. I need to know your intentions, sir.”

  “I have no intentions,” Wyll replied. “I have duty. My duty is to stay with Jenn Nalynn as long as she lives, to keep her from harm and here. Is that what you need to know?”

  The room, though bright and airy, suddenly felt stifling. Jenn clenched her hands together and wished herself anywhere else, but she’d made him into this; there was no escape for either of them.

  “I need to know,” her father pressed, his voice gone harsh, “if you love my daughter.”

  Rose petals fluttered in through the open doors, swirled together in a cloud, then fell softly around Jenn’s chair and in her lap, covering her hands, her hair. Their scent filled the room. Jenn’s eyes shot to Wyll. There was something naked in his face, something vulnerable and sad. The next instant, it was gone. “I always have,” he said.

  Radd Nalynn’s throat worked. His eyes filled with tears. Aunt Sybb, who’d uttered a soft cry at the petals, reached for his hand. Hers trembled. “That’s all we needed,” he said at last.

  Wyll smiled.

  Jenn stood, shedding petals like autumn leaves. “I’ll make tea.”

  She made her way blindly into the kitchen. Found and filled the teapot. Gathered cups and cream and honey. Tried not to think. Tried not to feel.

  “Jenn.” Her aunt’s soft touch stopped her hand as she reached for the tray. “What’s wrong?”

  Everything. “Nothing,” Jenn said.

  “I see.” Aunt Sybb patted her hand. “We need biscuits.” She pulled out the tin, opened it, frowned gently. “Which we’ll have to bake, since Peggs keeps giving them away.” She closed the tin and gazed at Jenn. “Dearest Heart,” very gently, “too much has happened, too quickly. How can you know your own mind? That’s why it’s important to slow everything down. Give Wyll time. Give yourself time. You’ll see.”

  “I’ve made my decision,” Jenn said stiffly. “I’m marrying Wyll. I’m marrying him as soon as possible. On my birthday. The Golden Day. I’ll be nineteen and adult and no one can say otherwise.”

  “There’s no harm in baking first, is there?”

  “I—” Unable to argue, she picked up the tray. “I suppose not.”

  “Considering the necessary preparations,” her aunt continued relentlessly, “however minimal, we’ll need every waking moment. Your wardrobes alone . . .”

  She meant to stay. If will alone could do it, Jenn didn’t doubt she would. “You aren’t sleeping,” she protested. “Not well enough. You can’t—”

  “Ancestors Bloody and Unbowed!” Aunt Sybb drew herself up, a fierce gleam in her eyes. “I’ll drink myself to a stupor on your father’s cider, if I must, and if that fails, I’ll stay awake with toothpicks in my eyelids! Make no mistake, my dear niece. I will attend your sister’s wedding and yours, dreams or no dreams!”

  Setting down the tray, Jenn gathered her frail aunt in her arms. She closed her eyes tight, breathed lavender, and somehow didn’t cry.

  “We are Beholden for life’s trials,” Aunt Sybb said gently. “Facing them is what makes us women, not years or moon blood, and will give you strength, I promise. I’m proud of the woman you’ve become, Jenn Nalynn, and so should you be. Now,” a smile in her voice, “the tea?”

  The rug and floor were strewn with rose petals. Wyll supposed, having served their purpose, he should remove them, but did not. For Radd Nalynn—miller, father, brother—couldn’t take his eyes from them. Wyll supposed, having been accepted by the family, he could move from the torture of the stool, but did not. For Jenn Nalynn, twice cursed and turn-born, was making tea and would expect him here to drink it.

  Having no idea what mattered to these people, he would take no more chances.

  Radd’s eyes lifted. “You look young,” he said, his tone offering no clue if this was comment or accusation. “No older than I was, arriving in Marrowdell.”

  Was he? His kind lived longer than most; something he’d come to regret. Wyll shrugged his good shoulder. “This is how I am.” Their kind lived such a pittance of years. Maybe he’d die sooner as a man; the sei’s bent notion of mercy.

  “But not as you were.” Radd leaned forward, his words an urgent whisper. “You’re older. You were in the meadow when Jenn was a babe.” He’d gone pale. “Were you there—did you see how her mother—my wife—Melusine—did you hear—”

  “Here’s the—” Entering with a tray, Jenn stopped. She looked from one to the other.

  Radd straightened. “Tea!” he greeted with a cheerfulness even Wyll could see was forced. “Most welcome. I don’t suppose Peggs left us any sweets.”

  “We’ve made do,” his sister said, keen eyes moving between them as well. “Toasted biscuit with honey.”

  Jenn’s ques
tioning gaze settled on Wyll, so he answered. “Your father asked if I saw your mother die.”

  The tray, with tea, biscuits, and honey, dropped from her hands. Wyll, finding himself hungry, made sure it and its contents landed gently, and upright, on the table.

  They stared at him, not the tray.

  Wyll shifted, hating the stool and their attention.

  Jenn’s lip trembled. “Did you?”

  “No,” he said. “I wasn’t there.”

  Before Jenn, his penance had had another form, one without a kind child or meadow. He’d lived within the turn-borns’ enclave, in a hole beneath their dwelling, permitted out when they had need for his service: to clean wastes or fetch water, to hurry away wailing terst parents or stand watch at the gate, whatever they couldn’t make happen for themselves or chose not to. They weren’t cruel, but they forgot him, more often than not, being unused to a servant. They’d leave for an endless time. When they returned, he’d stare up through the floor boards, listening to their interminable debates about this expectation or that, and wait to be remembered. To have any use at all.

  Perhaps she saw the grim memory of it in his eyes, for hers grew soft. “There, then,” to dismiss both question and answer. “You can’t be comfortable like that, Wyll. Come stand by the table and I’ll pour you some tea. Father? Aunt?”

  Bemused, he let himself be treated as a man.

  THIRTEEN

  TO MOVE WYLL to his new home meant rolling the village cart from the Treff barn. The cart meant Davi rattling a grain bucket and bellowing “Come, Battle. Come, Brawl!” at the top of his substantial lungs to bring his team in from the commons. Either cart or bellow would catch the attention of everyone in Marrowdell, not that everyone hadn’t already guessed what was up when Radd Nalynn went to the forge instead of his mill.

  Davi’s cart was a simple, honest vehicle, as he called it, with a pair of shoulder-high wooden wheels wrapped in iron that were replaced by runners once the snow was deep. There was a strong flat bed able to carry bales, which enticed children aboard for a ride, or logs, which did not. The cart had been out yesterday, to haul the remains of Bannan’s dead ox from the commons gate.