A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “I’m under attack?” He looked ready to grab his axes.

  As well defend against winter as Marrowdell. “No,” Jenn assured him. “There—it’s just—not everyone fits. Not for long. Especially,” as she thought about Roche, “here.” She patted the wooden floor. “This is too close to the Bone Hills. That’s why the farm was deserted. They say the dreams are worse here.” They being her father and Master Dusom, talking late one night. Jenn didn’t add how glad she’d been, then, to be sure Night’s Edge would stay her and Wisp’s private place. She’d been a child, then, with a child’s selfish view of the world.

  “They say that, do they?” After a wary look out the windows and doors, Tir crouched in front of her, balanced lightly on his toes. Twin furrows creased his scarred forehead. “Well, I don’t plan on leaving, Jenn Nalynn. So where do they say they’re easiest?” he demanded, low-voiced. He gave her a searching look and a muscle clenched beneath his beard. “I’ve my share of nightmares; what soldier doesn’t? These dreams—I tell you the truth, girl. I dare not close my eyes. Me. And I’m no coward.”

  Neither was Aunt Sybb.

  “The dreams are easier away from the Bone Hills. But—” he had to know, “—Aunt Sybb dreams, too.” Regret thickened her voice and Jenn felt something stir inside, something determined. Dreams should be about good things. “She tries to stay, for us, but once they—once she can’t sleep anymore, Poppa worries she’ll make herself weak. I know she’ll be back next spring, but—”

  “So it’s not always—”

  To see such a man shudder sent a chill down Jenn’s spine. “No,” she assured him quickly. “Spring and summer, Aunt Sybb sleeps well—right through to fall, until this year.” It wasn’t right. Aunt Sybb should sleep like little Loee; better, since the baby still roused in the night.

  For a heartbeat, she let herself believe it could happen, that Tir and Aunt Sybb could stay as long as they wanted and be well and have only good dreams.

  If only belief was enough.

  “I’ll ask Poppa.” With a sigh, Jenn offered the little she could. “There’s room in the mill. You could sleep there.”

  Tir’s eyes flashed. “Who’s to look after him?” with a meaningful jerk of his thumb, as if the truthseer was a child.

  “It’s not as if you’d be leaving the valley,” she said sensibly. “The mill’s not far. You could be here every day. Besides, he has Scourge.”

  He looked outraged. “The bloody beast!”

  “He’s not a beast.” She wasn’t sure what he was, exactly, but Scourge wasn’t someone to be mocked.

  “Don’t tell me you hear him, too?” Tir shook his head in wonder. “Sir said the beast could talk to him, but I hardly believed it.”

  “It’s true.”

  He growled something she couldn’t make out. “I suppose you see what he sees too.”

  “No.” Jenn shook her head. “Bannan has a gift.”

  “A curse of his own’s more like.” At her questioning look, Tir hesitated, then said soberly, “‘It dims the brightest spirit, to stare into the dark.’” He touched fingers to heart in salute. “His sister said that once. Stuck with me.”

  The sister Bannan had left behind. She’d understood the price Bannan had paid, to keep Vorkoun safe; seen the look etched into his face. He should have stayed with Lila, Jenn decided. Sisters were important. Family was important. “What’s she like?” she asked wistfully, imagining a gracious lady, like Aunt Sybb, but younger and more interesting. Not that Aunt Sybb wasn’t interesting but . . .

  “The bar—?” He glanced at her and changed what he was about to say. “Older by naught but a year, but you wouldn’t know it. Lila’s the wise one. More’n me or him, that’s for sure.” This last thoughtfully.

  “Is she—” Jenn stopped, faced with his upraised, callused, and not very clean palm. She watched, fascinated, as Tir rose to stalk noiselessly around the pile of unpacked boxes and bags. What he suspected she couldn’t guess.

  He pounced.

  When he stood, a too-familiar sack hung from his hand. A sack whose contents began to squirm, emitting angry little squeaks and growls.

  She knew that sound. Jenn winced.

  “Who,” Tir said grimly, giving the sack a furious shake, “gave us vermin?”

  She’d last seen it full of charcoal. No, Roche had said it was charcoal; she hadn’t looked and, knowing his spiteful temper, she should have. “They didn’t get out,” she said weakly. The only things in Marrowdell that flustered Aunt Sybb more than toads were its mice, not that any toad would let a mouse indoors but that wasn’t, Jenn had discovered, a comfort. According to Aunt Sybb and storybooks, mice should be tiny, furred, and have cute noses, not be the size of big Davi’s palm, dark gray and bald, with wide, well-toothed jaws and no nose to speak of. Then there were their long, hook-clawed fingers and red eyes.

  As Master Dusom explained it, Marrowdell’s were simply a robust northern variety. That hadn’t helped Aunt Sybb either. Though it was rare to see a mouse in daylight, or more than one. Roche, she thought with reluctant admiration, must have set a goodly number of traps.

  “You know—Heart’s Blood!” Tir dropped the sack, bright blood dripping from his hand. Before he could reach for it again, the house toad leapt from wherever it had been hiding to grasp a corner of the sack in its lipless mouth. Eyes half-closed in rapture, it dragged the sack, and protesting mice, out the door, grunting with effort.

  Tir sucked pensively on his wounded finger, then shook his head. “So they have a use,” he said wryly.

  “House toads? Oh, yes.” Jenn smiled with relief. “They never let mice indoors. And then there’s eggs,” she confided.

  He frowned. “Eggs come from hens, girl.”

  “Have you seen any here?” Which was altogether pert, but he shouldn’t sound like he knew everything. “Our eggs come from toads.”

  “From—” The former guard looked about to retch—which, to be honest, would likely be Aunt Sybb’s reaction were she to ever know about toads and eggs, not that she’d be so crude—then steadied himself. “Ancestors Mad and Lost, what’s next in this place?” He took a deep breath. “How does—where—?”

  “You’ll find eggs in its burrow. But you need these.” Jenn reached in her pocket and pulled out the handful of pebbles she’d grabbed from the Nalynn jar. She couldn’t help but give them a wary look, but they behaved as pebbles should and weren’t the slightest bit appetizing. Tir took them with an appalled expression. “Give him a few to start, to show your good intentions. Whenever you want an egg, put a pebble in the toad’s burrow the night before. After you collect the egg,” she added, “it’s best to replace it with a pebble right away. One for one at least. Extra, if you can. They like—white ones best.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed her instant’s hesitation.

  The pebble on the Spine had been white. Which, Jenn told herself firmly, had nothing to do with anything. One of Peggs’ expressions.

  To Tir’s credit, though he gritted his teeth, he closed his fingers over the pebbles and gave a resigned shrug. “Where’s the burrow?”

  “It won’t be far from the house. Look near the hedge. Once you find it, just reach in and feel around.”

  “Ancestors Blessed,” he muttered distractedly. He put the pebbles on the stove, moving one with the tip of a finger. “So. Who gave us the vermin?”

  Too much to hope he’d forgotten, and too much to hope he’d forgive, either. Roche hadn’t appreciated the sort of trouble he’d stir, playing his spiteful games on such men. “I can’t tell you,” Jenn admitted. “You’d scare him to death.”

  “Would I, now.” The former guard actually chuckled. “I see. Well, if there’s no more nonsense . . .” he let his voice trail away.

  She sighed with relief. “Thank you. You’re most kind.”

  “Me?” For some reason, this gave Tir pause. He regarded her with his light blue eyes and she was surprised to see a hint of red appear on his scarred cheeks. “If
I were,” he said rather gruffly, “I’d tell you what your father should. About Bannan.”

  She swallowed. “And what would that be?”

  “Not to go playing girlish games with his sort, Jenn Nalynn.”

  Jenn felt her cheeks warm. “I don’t know what you mean.” Though she did.

  Tir’s eyes bored into hers. “He won’t fool with a lass like the boys in yon village. Many’s the time I’ve wished he would, but he falls hard or not at all. Now he’s half a mind to challenge your Wyll. You give him cause to hope and there’ll be trouble.” She made to speak, but he wasn’t done. “Is that fair?”

  “Wyll wouldn’t hurt—”

  “Is that fair?” Tir was relentless. “Wyll has your promise. Heart’s Blood, you made him a man to wed him, didn’t you?”

  She stared at the floor. “Yes.” After a moment, a tear landed near her toes.

  “Ancestors Dead and Diced, girl.” His rough voice softened to a gentle rasp. “Don’t you go crying. I want the truth, now. Which of them is it? Who’s got your heart?”

  Jenn raised her head. His face was blurred, and she blinked to clear her eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “Well.” He coughed. “Well, then. Hmm.” A long pause. “There’s only one thing for it,” he said finally. “You leave them be, both of them, hear me? Neither’s had time to find their feet in this Marrowdell of yours, let alone their own minds. While they do—while Wyll builds his house and I teach sir his farming—you search your heart. What’s meant to be, will.”

  It was something Aunt Sybb would say. It was sensible and right and her spirit soared with relief. She’d go home and stay there.

  “Thank you,” Jenn said, and smiled from her heart.

  Tir Half-face started, blushed, then bowed.

  She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She hadn’t known she would.

  Scant comfort, perhaps, but it took away that powerful, unfamiliar pain. Jenn hadn’t betrayed their friendship.

  Loath to step in Night’s Edge, Wyll lurched along the Tinkers Road to pass it by, glad to be alone. That was the worst of life as a man, being surrounded by them and their things. They had no sense of respectful distance. His kind—

  His kind. What was that, anymore?

  The road turned to squeeze through the Bone Hills, flanked by solid lines of neyet. They grew thickest against the trapped ones, where none other would dare, for reasons no one knew. The neyet held the edge, or were stuck in it. They were brave and selfless, or ignorant. Which was which, Wyll supposed, hardly mattered. By holding the Verge and Marrowdell together, they’d be first to die if both again tore apart.

  But not the last.

  Dark thoughts. Darker, since allowing himself to be distracted. The novelty of cart and farm, of rafters and tea, of conversation and games. So much confounded him. The girl’s grace among her kind. How her eyes took the sun and gave back sky.

  How his heart had shattered when she’d entered the Wound and he’d thought her lost.

  Snarling, Wyll found an opening between two neyet and lurched through, gripping the nearest trunk as he heaved his bad leg over its roots. Bark cracked under his fingers. At once, ylings dropped to flutter around him and sing in protest, being unable to speak like the little cousins.

  To avoid a branch falling on his fragile head, Wyll pushed into the open as quickly as he could.

  The girl didn’t know of this place, nestled close to theirs. She thought the forest solid to the hill, but it wasn’t.

  The neyet and their long shadows girdled a second meadow, smaller than Night’s Edge, remarkable only for a patch of kaliia at its center too small to bother harvesting. An unimportant place. As Wisp, he’d passed through it every day and night of the girl’s life without an instant’s pause, for this was the way home.

  Respecting the kaliia and its guardians, he made his way around, though it was harder going through the thick and untrampled wildflowers. He reached where the neyet played their little trick, the arm of their forest folding to almost, but not, touch their line along the road. Thus they hid this place from the rest of Marrowdell and gave him a path from Night’s Edge safe from curious eyes.

  If he took that path, he’d see the devastation of their meadow.

  He chose the other way.

  His feet crushed grass and scarred the moist soil. In his world, by now he’d be descending the steep winding path to his sanctuary, surrounded by clean, windswept rock. Unlike the little ones, like the kruar, as dragon he could cross at whim. The temptation to leave Marrowdell for the Verge choked him, but he would not.

  Perhaps could not, as man.

  The sei had left him the small magics, their potency now stripped by the girl’s expectation. He’d no wish to learn what else he’d lost, and more sense than to challenge those who’d sent him here. If he could cross, his kind would be delighted to drop him in the foul river again, or worse.

  So, in the girl’s world, Wyll lurched through purple asters and golden grass, startled a rabbit and found bees. He lurched until something told him, here, and bade him stop.

  Birds regarded him silently, then ignored him to be about their business.

  The sun warmed his coated shoulders and stretched his shadow along the ground.

  Yes. Chancy, trying to find a place here, that was there, but he knew where he was—or would be.

  Safe inside the blue shimmering walls.

  Home.

  How pathetic he’d become, to have the sei’s unpleasant hovel mean that to him.

  He wasn’t home, but this place was more his than any other in Marrowdell. Wyll took off his borrowed clothes and left them in a heap, as he’d left the villagers’ unwanted gifts at the farm.

  For a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to feel the air and sun the way they should feel, smell the meadow’s scents as they should smell, but it was hopeless. He wasn’t what he should be.

  Still, it was pleasant, being here. Better than the dark. Peaceful. Warm. He settled himself on his clothes, having no desire to be damp, and set about his daily tasks as if this were a normal morning, and he, his normal self.

  As if he waited for Jenn Nalynn in their meadow.

  Lying back, good arm behind his head, Wyll sent tendrils of air seeking and gathering. The ylings were foolishly fond of flower petals to sew into their cloaks, and would risk themselves coming down to collect them. He plucked a few petals here, a few there, until the air sparkled with tiny specks of gold and purple and white, then lifted them above a neyet and let go.

  Leaves rustled. He heard giggles and the scramble of small toes over bark.

  Not a single petal made it to the ground.

  Efflet, for their part, would shred any flowers that dared sprout within their fields and had no vanity, beyond a sensible fastidiousness about their claws. Serious, dedicated folk.

  Wyll sent a breeze racing through the kaliia, tossing it this way and that. Almost at once, several stalks began to sway with more than their own weight as efflet, unseen in this light, clung to their tips and rode the waves. They didn’t giggle, as ylings, but whispered their glee among themselves, ever so quietly.

  Doubtless nyphrit lurked in shadows, anxious for darkness, ever hungry. They weren’t his concern, being cheerless and grim and grateful only for his inattention.

  For himself, Wyll idly gathered ripe seeds, those with fluffy white tufts or crisp parchment wings, and made them spiral into the sky until he couldn’t see them with these eyes and higher still, so the wind of this world would find them and take them—anywhere. He did it for the girl, who mustn’t and couldn’t leave, and for himself, who wouldn’t.

  And because it was fun. His lips curved in the hint of a smile.

  A smile that froze.

  She was near. Coming to Night’s Edge!

  She mustn’t, not alone. She mustn’t see the ruin and think it her fault.

  Even if it was.

  Wyll struggled to his feet, remembered to reach for his clothes. Before h
e could dress, her anger lashed over him, a sharp, cold wind that stank of rot. Her angry shout struck like a blow. “You’re not my father—or my aunt!”

  Good. Blame him. There was nothing she could do to him he didn’t deserve, but Marrowdell mustn’t be ravaged. Her guilt then he couldn’t bear to imagine. Wyll hunched against the bitter cold and waited for worse.

  But the echoes of her fury tangled in the neyet and faded. He felt the sun’s warmth again and took a careful breath.

  Such a good heart, she had.

  Such a fragile protection.

  She mustn’t learn how dangerous she was.

  Wainn, who knew him, knew her as well. Unlike the truthseer, who understood discretion, he’d come perilously close to telling her too much truth. Wyll snarled to himself. Had he been able, he’d have ripped out Wainn’s throat in that instant; what was one life against the safety of all?

  How could he, regardless? Their lives—her life—depended on the girl’s innocence. Her heart was so honest and full. How could she be happy here if she learned Marrowdell expressed her turn-born passions and expectations, if she knew how easily her moods could destroy those she loved?

  And if she tried to leave . . .

  She must be happy. And stay.

  A bee circled Wyll’s head. Ordinarily they knew better, since he was prone to spin their chubby bodies. Not to their harm; the girl liked honey and flowers. They’d buzz with such extravagant frustration until set free. Ordinarily he couldn’t resist.

  He felt the girl leave Night’s Edge. Where would she go? The kruar played a docile steed to steal her attention; the truthseer, a storybook prince to win her heart. Being neither, all he could do for her was act.

  She’d asked him to build a house in Night’s Edge.

  He’d try here.

  But how?

  Wyll sank back on his clothes. Listless breezes combed the meadow and brought dried grass to pile around him. A nest like a bird’s wouldn’t serve Jenn Nalynn. Frustrated, he shoved it aside and his hand slipped on something cool. Something that cracked.