A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Bannan knew better. She’d found love and peace with the otherwise dreadfully earnest Westietas, who adored her and their sons, Semyn and Werfol, and spent what time his duties in the House left him at home. He was ashamed, now, to remember on his leaves doing his utmost to entice his sister away, rather than share her with his nephews or brother-in-law.

  “Channen?” Jenn prodded.

  “Yes.” He thought quickly of the Westietas’ home. “Channen nourishes the greatest artisans of Mellynne. Emon brought back astonishing works. A fountain of flame.” The favorite of his nephews. “A painting that sings like a bird if you whistle at it.” Lila’d moved that into a rarely used room. Bannan smiled to himself.

  What else? Though she endured jewelry only when necessary, his sister was never without the Mellynne necklace Emon had given her. She’d bring the unusual pendant to her ear when she thought no one watched and smile at what it whispered.

  That wouldn’t impress Jenn Nalynn.

  But he guessed what might. “Best of all,” Bannan concluded, “a globe—a map—made from semiprecious stones collected from each domain.” He watched her closely. “You can touch the world.”

  Her lips formed a perfect “O” of delight.

  Bannan, torn between kissing those lips and Ancestors take the consequences, or riding to Vorkoun to fetch the globe even if he had to bribe guards, sneak through the gardens, and steal it—however likely that was to find him jailed or worse—grinned like a fool. Wait. He could send Tir to do it. Better still, he’d write Lila and beg for the globe, or one like it. He’d send the letter with Horst, when he left with the Lady Mahavar—

  Jenn’s mouth snapped shut and her eyes clouded. “I should go.” She made another futile attempt to brush hair from her shirtwaist then gave up. “I’ll leave you to finish.”

  “‘Finish?’”

  “Itchy,” the breeze hinted.

  “Of course.” Bannan sketched a little bow and added with no shame at all, “I’m sure Tir’s desperate for your help by now—to unpack the kitchen.”

  “Oh.” She’d thought to go home, he could tell. Being good-hearted, now she wouldn’t.

  Good-hearted, but not so unaware as he’d hoped. Jenn raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have Wyll clean my clothes, then.”

  He refused to be jealous. “If he can,” Bannan challenged cheerfully, “I’ll ask him the same favor.”

  A dimple, surely that was a dimple.

  Then she was gone.

  Scourge snorted.

  Bannan listened to her quick little footsteps as she left the barn, then shook his head as he applied the scraper to Scourge’s hide. “You don’t have to say it.”

  “Then I won’t.” The breeze was sly. “A little higher. Back a bit. Not there. There!”

  He pretended offense. “However did I manage all these years without your advice?”

  “Barely. Now you’ll do better.”

  Better he did, enough that Scourge soon fell silent, other than his deep burbling purr. His ears slowly drooped and his lower lips swung loose, until he looked more like a horse—a very content one—than usual. Bannan took his time with the scraper and glove, cooling his own blood in the pleasant monotony of grooming. A while since he’d done a thorough job, he thought with some guilt.

  He took the finishing brush and swept it over Scourge with long, firm strokes, bringing up a shine. Then, because it had been a while, he exchanged the large brush for the silly little one at the bottom of his kit. It had been Lila’s favorite as a child, festooned with white daisies. He’d borrowed it to use on Scourge. She’d let him keep it, after a brief but memorable skirmish that covered them both in mud—she’d won—and saw them stand at dripping attention in the kitchen to await parental justice—though she’d coaxed Cook into giving them fresh tarts while they waited, so it had been, overall, a most worthwhile afternoon.

  Ancestors Witness, he missed her.

  Bannan went to Scourge’s head and held the soft little brush near one nostril until it twitched with interest. He smiled and began to gently brush the long muzzle. The flat cheeks were next, then the velvet around the half-closed eyes, Scourge cooperatively lowering his head. The finale, the spot sure to send the not-horse into a stupor, was underneath, between the cheeks. He reached.

  Then hesitated. What was that odd shadow?

  Bannan squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re the same,” he said desperately. “You have to be.”

  “I am what I am.” The breeze slipped along his jaw to whisper in his other ear. “It’s you who’ve changed, Bannan Larmensu. Boy to man. Man to truthseer. Soldier to what now? Lovelorn farmer, without a sword. I hardly recognize you.” Sharper. “See me.”

  Slowly, Bannan opened his eyes. He took a deep breath and truly looked at Scourge, as he’d looked at the dragon, as he’d looked at toads and chests and Marrowdell’s fickle road. “Heart’s Blood!”

  He ran a trembling hand over what should be flawless, gleaming black. Should be, but for what he finally saw beneath.

  Scars, white and old, coursed like bolts of lightning over Scourge’s muscular body. There wasn’t a spot free of them that would fit Bannan’s palm. The deepest etched the broad chest and up over both shoulders, as if he’d worn a harness of fire. By his lips were more. And where his mane arched high along his neck?

  A series of sharp, flat edges marked the curve, like so many broken swords.

  Tears stung the truthseer’s eyes. “You idiot beast,” he whispered.

  “You see at last,” the breeze said, amused.

  “I—I don’t know what I see.”

  “An old kruar, marked by one battle too many.” The stamp of his great hoof was like a call to arms, but his soft nose found Bannan’s hand. “Your gift—and your father’s—let you see past what your world made me. For that—for the chance to stay myself—I gladly served your family. And now,” his head lifted, “I am almost home.”

  Almost. “Isn’t Marrowdell your home?”

  “You know it isn’t.”

  He did.

  He finally understood.

  There wasn’t another way to see Marrowdell. There was another Marrowdell to be seen. One of dragons and—“Kruar.” The word left a tingle on Bannan’s tongue. “I want to know more.”

  “You know more than most,” Scourge told him, but with an amused snort. “Ask the turn-born your questions, Truthseer. They may or may not answer. They may or may not lie. That is their nature.”

  “What are they?” Bannan asked. “How do I find them?”

  “Don’t worry.” The breeze chilled his ear. “They’ll find you, soon.”

  There were no rabbits or birds, nor anything for either to eat or live in or hide beneath should they return. Arms hugging her middle, Jenn Nalynn stood in Night’s Edge, abandoned and alone, and worried.

  Where was Wyll?

  What had happened to their meadow?

  Most troubling of all, why had he left it like this?

  Was he still angry with her for being disobedient? If so, she had a right to be angry back.

  “You’re not my father—or my aunt!” she shouted into the rising wind. It turned sharp and cold around her, like winter’s early scout, and spilled her words across the empty meadow, their anger lost in forlorn, unanswered echoes.

  The way Wisp’s name had faded, when she’d called for him after the wishing, when she feared he was gone, not just for a moment, but forever.

  Right there. That had been the place, where the ground was scorched and black and dead.

  But Wisp wasn’t gone, she told herself, relief flooding through her as it had when she’d first held him in the river. He was alive and part of her life now. The wishing had worked after all. How could she be angry? She smiled and felt warm again.

  Now, to find Wyll.

  A bee droned by. Jenn looked up in hope, but it passed without pause, intent on the forest beyond. The forest hadn’t been touched by whatever had ruined Night’s Edge. The forest—i
t was from the forest Wisp had come, that final morning. Maybe every morning. Was he there now? She took a step toward it, then stopped.

  The forest spread along the base of the Bone Hills, connecting one to the other, broken only by the cataracts and here, where the Tinkers Road entered Marrowdell. It flooded through the narrow pass between the downward plunge of the Spine and the rise of the first of the Five Fingers. After what she’d glimpsed on the Spine, she didn’t want to go closer. She couldn’t.

  What if she saw—

  Jenn found herself taking a step back, then another. Each step hurt her sore heel; each stirred new rot from the anguished ground. She kept her eyes on the nearest Bone Hill, wary—she wasn’t sure of what.

  Bannan shouldn’t go there either, not with his ability to see the unseen. What was beneath the ivory stone shouldn’t be seen at all, by anyone.

  Her heel touched something neither soft nor rot.

  “BruuUP!”

  Jenn jumped. “Oh. It’s you,” she said with relief. “Sorry.” She bent to gather up the offended toad, holding it gently under its thick arms. Its cool and heavy body hung loose, toes dangling to her knees, but it made no further protest. “What are you doing here?” she asked, not that she expected an answer.

  Still, it had followed her.

  She raised the toad until they were nose to nostril. It smelled a little of rot; so did she. Mostly, it smelled of sun-warmed grass, the way Night’s Edge should smell in the warmth of the sun, and Jenn sniffled. “You’re looking for Wyll too, aren’t you? I don’t think he can fix this,” she said sorrowfully, more to her reflections in those limpid brown eyes than the toad, but it was company and listened. “He loved our meadow. He must be very unhappy.”

  A wise blink.

  “Well, then.” Jenn regarded the toad and thought. The toad regarded her; if it thought too, she couldn’t tell.

  If Wyll couldn’t fix the meadow, she would. Plants grew where you put them, didn’t they? It would take time.

  She wasn’t, Jenn reminded herself ruefully, going anywhere.

  She gave a decisive nod. “I’ll do it,” she informed the toad. “By the river are wildflowers. And grasses. I’ll collect seeds and replant the meadow. I want you,” she added, happy to have a plan, “to find Wyll. Please tell him I’m very sorry and not upset with him at all.” He hadn’t deserved her temper or what she’d done; Wainn had been right about that. “I’ll make it up to him.” She squinted at the toad. She wasn’t Wen, or sure if a toad could take a message, but if Wyll had been a dragon, surely anything might be possible. She’d believe it, that was all. “Can you remember? It’s very important to me.”

  In answer, the toad gradually bent one knee then spread its long toes in midair, as if ready to move.

  Jenn planted an impulsive kiss on its warty snout and set it on the ground. “Thank you.”

  The toad, after a meticulous settling of all its limbs, hopped slowly toward the forest. Where, to be honest, it had likely been heading before she’d almost stepped on it.

  If she watched, she’d doubt, which wouldn’t help matters or how she felt.

  With a sigh, Jenn turned and walked back to the farm, following her little path between the whispering grain and the tall dark trees. Not that it was hers now, though with Night’s Edge in such a state, Bannan surely wouldn’t visit it.

  She slipped through the gap in the hedge. The sky was blue, flowers nodded, and the farmhouse sat in the midst, loved instead of abandoned. Bannan’s doing. Her heart, being willful and uncooperative, pounded in her chest.

  “What do I do?” Jenn muttered under her breath. “Kiss a toad.” A bee regarded her from an aster, but expressed no opinion.

  The barn windows opened on this, the south and sunny side. When she’d left, she’d glanced back and been relieved to see Bannan busy grooming Scourge, as if nothing had happened.

  Because nothing had.

  She should have kissed him. He had a much nicer mouth—and teeth—than Roche, who she wouldn’t kiss, thank you. Ever. Come to think of it, Bannan’s mouth was nicer than anyone’s she knew. And what was a kiss anyway? People kissed all the time.

  If she’d kissed Bannan, she’d be done wondering how it would feel. Which would be good and settle her heart.

  Unless his kiss felt like the kisses she’d only dreamed about, the ones in storybooks . . .

  The ones that changed everything.

  “Better the toad,” she told the bee, who, upon sober consideration, turned its chubby body and dove into the flower.

  The bee was right. There was work to be done. She’d help Tir unpack, then head to the river and begin collecting seeds for Night’s Edge.

  But as Jenn walked toward the farmhouse, a blue and yellow butterfly landed on a flower near her toes. She stepped to the side, only to find another in her path. By the time Jenn Nalynn walked around all the butterflies seemingly determined to get in her way, she found herself at the stable window.

  Uncle Horst always said the easiest squirrel to catch was a curious one.

  Still, being here, she couldn’t not look, could she?

  Staying cautiously to one side, at first all Jenn could see was the white rim of Scourge’s eye as the ever-alert beast acknowledged her presence. She heard the expert swish of currycomb and brush; little wonder Scourge’s deep purr rumbled through her bones and he paid no further attention to her. Hair sparkled in the sun and she held her breath lest she sneeze.

  For Bannan hadn’t noticed her.

  His own hair had escaped from behind an ear to shadow his jaw. With a small toss of his head, he sent it back over his shoulder, then shifted to reach higher. Sunlight found his face.

  It wasn’t the face she knew. Unguarded, no longer attentive or charming or filled with emotion, somber lines settled around his mouth, making it almost grim. Bones were nearer the surface and his cheeks were hollowed with care.

  The face beneath the beard, she realized abruptly. The face Bannan had worn through his years on the border, the one he feared to have recognized.

  The one he hadn’t yet left behind.

  Uncle Horst showed a face like that, some winter nights by the fire. Radd would notice and signal his daughters to put aside the evening tea. He’d bring out a bottle and the two men would sit together, wordless and thought-filled. On those nights, she and Peggs would quietly take a candle and their books to the loft.

  Bannan wasn’t to look like that, Jenn decided, fierce and protective. It wasn’t right that he should, being so young and full of life. And magical, in how he saw the world and shared it with her.

  Just then, as though he’d heard her, Bannan put aside comb and brush to run a satisfied hand over the glossy hide in front of him. A fond smile pushed aside lines and hollows, restoring the face she knew.

  Knew and hadn’t kissed.

  Jenn ducked below the window’s sill and, finding no more butterflies in her way, hurried to the farmhouse.

  Breakfast had improved Tir Half-face’s disposition. Unfortunately, as far as Jenn was concerned, it improved it too much. Unmasked, his grin did little more than lift the bearded remnant of his chin and sink his cheeks, but there was no mistaking the gleam in his blue eyes. “Left Sir to finish on his ownsome, I take it. Guess he wasn’t sweet enough for you.”

  Jenn closed her open mouth, unable to summon the sort of quick scathing retort she’d give Roche or the twins when teased. “I’ve chores at home,” she said stiffly. “Do you want help or not?”

  With a chuckle, Tir waved to the stack of boxes and bags against the wall. “Please.”

  If anything could take her mind off—off everything, Jenn decided, it was the intriguing contents of those boxes and bags. Aunt Sybb’s wagon arrived well stocked with pleasant surprises each year, but this was different. What might Bannan have brought?

  Pleasantly curious, she picked the nearest bag and sat on the floor to untie its top. The sturdy bag itself had value here, as did the bit of rope. Inside th
e bag, she found socks. Or rather, bottles stuffed into socks, she presumed to protect them during travel. Lamp or cooking oils? Jenn chose one and pried open the mouth of the sock to peer at its contents.

  The label was plain, and disappointing. “It’s just wine.” If all the bottles were the same, Bannan had added bulk and weight to his wagon for no worthwhile purpose. Master Dusom and Zehr made wine each summerberry harvest, there’d soon be cider pressed, and, with the harvest, the tinkers’ beer. Though once emptied, Bannan’s bottles would be of use, she supposed.

  “‘Wine?’” Tir stopped unwrapping the parts of the new stove. “Ancestors Blessed and Bountiful!” He snatched the bottle from her unresisting grip and, stripping off its sock, hugged it to his chest. “Here’s what I need.”

  Jenn blinked. “Now?”

  Tir shot her an enigmatic look. “A tipple before bed,” he said grudgingly. “Or however many it takes,” a grimmer afterthought. He slipped the bottle into his bedroll, then went back to the stove.

  Jenn gazed after him as she picked the sock from the floor and folded it. Tir Half-face and Aunt Sybb couldn’t be more different, but something about him, his tired face, even the bottle, brought her aunt to mind. “You think the wine will help you sleep,” she surmised, unhappy.

  His back was to her, but she saw him tense.

  “You hope it will stop the dreams.”

  He turned with a sharp arrested movement that made her flinch, his eyes like ice. “How could you— What do you know of my dreams?”

  She’d been right. She hadn’t wanted to be. “It’s what Marrowdell does,” Jenn told him. “To some people.” The best people. People who wanted to stay, and should, but couldn’t, making everyone else sad.

  “What do you mean, ‘some people?’”

  “Most—we don’t dream, not like you do. People who dream—they have to leave,” she said, knowing he wanted the truth and not a kindly meant lie. Tir was Bannan’s, the way Aunt Sybb was hers and Peggs’ and Poppa’s. It wasn’t fair, that he dreamed too. It wasn’t fair at all.