“My thanks, but there’s water aplenty when it’s needed,” Radd stated. “The mill runs but once a year, to grind our harvest, and we’ve no need for more, or interest.”
Tir’s eyes glinted with interest of his own, but he bowed his head. “Fair enough.”
The rest of supper passed without incident. Their guest responded courteously to questions but offered nothing of his own. Aunt Sybb, as her habit, filled the silences with little stories of life in Avyo. Her stories tended to be instructive, particularly about the proper deportment of young ladies and the pitfalls of life alone for widowers who waited too long, but Jenn was delighted when tonight was something new. Their aunt regaled them with tales of the steamships that fought their way up the mighty Kotor River to Avyo, bringing cargoes across the Sweet Sea from Eldad, and the great barges, twenty or more linked together, that came down the Mila from the trade city of Essa bearing goods from mysterious Mellynne. In Avyo alone did cargoes from those domains mingle, for Eldad and Mellynne were separated not only by the southern mountain range, steep and impassable, but by their natures. Mellynne was the larger domain, content in its age and accomplishment; Eldad the upstart, pushing ever at boundaries. Only sailors and diplomats routinely traveled between.
Sailors who came through Avyo stayed at inns owned by the Mahavars, their captains entertained at the home of Hane Mahavar and his lady. Little wonder Aunt Sybb knew their stories so well.
Jenn was enchanted.
Pie came and went. Tea, then another round. Still they sat, round-eyed, listening to tales of piracy, adventure, and the unending, oft-amusing, contests between Avyo’s port authority and would-be smugglers.
“Parrots stuffed in a peg leg?” Radd protested with a laugh. “You can’t be serious, Sybbie.”
His sister’s eyes glowed. “Quite serious. The birds fared better than the smuggler. His empty leg was confiscated as evidence.”
Tir, who’d begun to slouch in his seat, straightened with a jerk to nod with sudden enthusiasm. “Smugglers always think they’ve found a foolproof trick,” he volunteered. “We’d come across them in the marches, pretending to be shepherds hunting lost sheep or ladies looking for a quick—”
Aunt Sybb raised a finger the slightest degree, halting Tir midsentence. “Brother,” she said equably, “I do believe the rain’s stopped. Might our guest join us for a convivial glass on the porch? I’d enjoy hearing your experiences,” she told Tir, a gently regal command. “Dearest Hearts,” this to Peggs and Jenn, “feel free to take your leave. Our thanks for a most satisfying repast.”
The sisters nodded at once, but Jenn glanced at Peggs, catching a flash of the same disappointment she felt.
Once their elders had left, they began to clear the table. As Peggs stacked cups on her tray, Jenn sighed. The sun was setting on another day; she felt her emptiness gnaw at her, though she’d had her share of supper and more tea than usual. Tir’s stories would be the most interesting ever heard in Marrowdell, she just knew it, and would take her mind off everything, including her middle.
“I don’t see why we can’t hear his stories,” she complained, but quietly. “They treat us like children and we’re not.”
Her sister pursed her lips then leaned close. “Silly goose. They didn’t go out for stories. You saw them. Tir’s beyond exhausted and so’s Aunt Sybb, despite her nap. They’re taking a quiet drink together, hoping to prevent the dreams.”
She was a child after all, concerned for herself instead of others. Jenn thought of her earlier wishful belief, that she could simply want the terrible dreams to stop, and flushed. “Is there nothing we can do?”
Peggs’ dark eyes were troubled. “Hope with them.”
Stone swept upward to either side, its pale surface smooth and featureless except where it rippled uneasily, glistening wet, within her shadow. Jenn reached out and something surged forward to snap at her fingers. With a cry, she staggered back.
She shouldn’t be here.
How could she be here?
The sun wasn’t shining, yet she could see. She could see, but by a light unfamiliar, that cast her shadow in rainbows and broke over the stone like a wave. Light she could almost taste.
But light wasn’t what she wanted.
A cramp flamed across her middle and she pressed her arms over the pain, empty of all but need.
She had to hurry. She had to hurry, or the pebble would be gone!
Which way? Jenn stumbled through bands of mauve shadow and green-gold light, gasping for breath, stumbling. She had to leave Marrowdell to be whole. She must leave.
She broke out into the meadow, which wasn’t a meadow and was. She’d gone the wrong way, yet the pebble was here, in Marrowdell. She could see it, white and glistening wet, round as a caught tear and impossible to resist.
As she reached, wind battered her, like giant wingbeats. Wind that drove her to her knees and shrieked in thin wild voices. “STOP!!” “GO BACK!!!” “THE TURN-BORN FORBID IT!!” Wind that shrieked and wailed, as if she frightened what flew beyond reason.
And how could that be, when she was the one who crouched and cried in terror? Whose clenched fist pushed into her middle against agony . . . whose other hand stretched trembling fingers to the pebble . . . the pebble already sinking out of sight because she wasn’t fast enough or strong enough or . . .
The ground shook as something pounded it! The wind faltered and fled, wingbeats rising and falling away, shrieks drowned beneath a ROAR!
Then silence.
The pebble sank from sight. Sobbing, Jenn scrambled forward on hands and knees. She plunged both hands into the ground, reaching with all her will and might until her fingertips touched the pebble and, with a sharp cry of triumph, she thought she had it. But it was too smooth and too small to grasp, and slipped from her fingers.
Without the pebble, she was empty. Jenn dropped her forehead to the ground and wept, arms locked in cold, unyielding stone.
“Go back, little one.” A new voice spoke, ancient, filled with a dreadful patience. “Cross at the Great Turn. Only then may you be filled.”
“I don’t understand—” she tried to say, lifting her head to find herself alone.
No, not alone. The Bone Hills were closer, as if they’d moved when she hadn’t been looking, their pale stone bulging and wet. They loomed over her and Jenn began to struggle. She had to pull her arms free before they moved again, before they crushed her, before . . .
Something warm and soft nudged her cheek. Breath, not the nicest-smelling but hot and wonderfully alive, stirred her hair. “I’m stuck!” she said desperately, as if it wasn’t completely obvious her arms were encased.
“Wake up,” the breeze ordered impatiently.
This was a dream?
The relief made her cry a little. Of course it was a dream.
And, in the way of dreams, once noticed, one woke.
Seeing where she was, Jenn screamed.
Bannan’s eyes shot open. The thunderclap had been close enough to rattle the pots and he sat up, heart pounding. Where had that come from? It had been a peaceful sort of rain, last night. A little melancholy, but with no anger to it. What was wrong?
As he waited, tense, for the next clap, he saw the house toad in the doorless front entrance. To his deeper sight, it had a disturbingly martial appearance, cloaked in chain mail and braced as if ready for battle. With what?
The truthseer rolled to his feet, biting his lip as his head protested the quick change in elevation. Without making a sound, he eased across the floor to wrap his hand around the broom handle. With an unknown foe, he preferred a weapon with reach.
The toad guarded the front door. Bannan took up his post at the back, staring out at the privy. Small things moved in the hedge beyond, rustling its branches. Moonlight lay at his feet, gilding leaves and stones.
The thunder hadn’t come from a storm, he realized with a chill.
It had been Jenn Nalynn.
The thunder was louder t
han her scream. Jenn cowered, shaking, but gradually regained her wits. She wasn’t hurt. She wasn’t on the Spine or surrounded by horrible stone.
Or in bed, where she should be.
She was in the carrots.
Buried to her elbows, which wasn’t easy to do without a shovel even in rain-softened soil, with carrots to either side. Their fragrant tops tickled her nose. A moth hovered nearby, then two. They seemed amazed by where she was.
Trying not to think of how she could be where she was, Jenn tugged, but her arms didn’t budge. She was stuck fast.
In carrots.
“You need a shovel,” the breeze in her ear announced unhelpfully.
She looked up to find a great dark shadow against the starred sky. Scourge. Moonlight pooled in two deep scars in the soil near her, scars the size of his front hooves, where he must have reared and pounded down with all his strength. “You chased them away,” Jenn said with wonder. “Like you calmed the river.” Had the waves been like the wind and driven by wings? “Dragons. They were dragons.” Not like Wisp. Dragons who could fly. “They’re real?!”
“So are you.” An amused snort. “You should be more careful in your sleep.”
How was she supposed to do that? And how was she supposed to get out of the carrots, without waking the Nalynn household? This wouldn’t be something she could explain to Aunt Sybb. Jenn managed to get first one, then the other knee between her arms, pleased not to rip her nightgown in the process, though it would be filthy. To no avail. No matter how hard she pushed and strained, her forearms stayed buried.
“Shovel.”
Jenn sagged. “Which means someone to use it,” she said miserably. Someone to witness the spectacle of her buried to her elbows, in the middle of the garden and night, not to mention in her nightgown.
Wainn would help, but he slept in the loft with Kydd. Uncle Horst would tell her father. Tir—he’d tell Bannan, she knew he would.
“Wyll,” she whispered with sudden hope. “Can you bring him? Or summon him?” He’d have her free and clean in a heartbeat.
The breeze in her ear turned cold. “Would you risk him for so little? Dragons still rage nearby.”
Moonlight bathed the Nalynn yard, finding nothing more exotic than the garden, privy, and hedge, but Jenn didn’t doubt him. Not Wyll, then.
A house toad hopped into a patch of moonlight, gave her a dismissive look, then tipped its body to gaze up at Scourge.
The beast shook his great head as if annoyed by flies. “This little cousin claims help is on the way. I suggest,” with dark humor, “you wait for it.”
“Don’t go—!”
But he was already trotting soundlessly away.
Jenn looked at the toad. “What sort of help?”
In answer, it sat and stared at her.
The vigil of man and toad continued, though only the latter knew what the vigil was for and the former had begun to stare longingly at the privy, standing in plain sight. Finally, Bannan couldn’t wait. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered.
The farmyard was empty of all but a few moths, none of which appeared to have satchels. Nonetheless, Bannan kept a wary eye around him. One step. Two.
A warning croak!
Without hesitation, he dove for the ground with the broom against his body, rolling over and over before coming up to one knee and raising his flimsy weapon in defense.
A gust of wind rocked him. Bannan shifted to face it, only to be buffeted from the opposite side. He crouched lower, offering a smaller target. Wyll’s tricks, but where was the dragon? The moonlight was generous and bright; he should be able to see him.
Another gust almost toppled him. The truthseer whirled around, broom swishing through empty air.
Desperate, he looked beyond the moonlight. There. And there. Glimpses, blurred at that, for what he strained to perceive was in constant motion. Man-sized, but not man-shaped. More than one, but he couldn’t tell if three or fifty flew about. For they flew.
Through more than air. He was knocked over as something more substantial than wind rose through the ground to bump him aside.
Dragons!
Bannan held the broom by one end and gauged his moment, then swung with all his strength. The broom struck and shattered!
The wind stopped.
The glimpses were gone.
The farmyard was empty again.
Shaken, the truthseer tossed aside the remnants of the broom, rubbing his palms to ease the impact’s sting. “Ancestors Daft and Idiotic.” Could he be more a fool? He should have pretended confusion. Better yet, he should have ignored the wind gusts, made his way to the privy, and shut the door. Now the dragons knew something about their new neighbor.
He could see them.
Come morning, Bannan resolved, he was going to have a long talk with the dragon he knew.
Moonlight silvered Wen’s wild hair and shone white over her nightdress. It missed her face, but glittered in the eyes of the house toads at her feet. Four of them. Under their stern regard, though she didn’t know why, Jenn felt such guilt her glad greeting choked in her throat.
Wen stepped past the toads and went on her knees between the rows of carrots and beans. Lit, her face showed only mild interest. “Are you held or holding?”
“I’m—just buried,” Jenn whispered. “Please help me. Did you bring a shovel?”
A small smile. “I brought better.” She rose and moved aside. “They may scratch,” she warned. “Hold very still.”
“‘Scratch?’” Before Jenn could protest—for what good it would do, since Scourge had deserted her and she couldn’t raise her voice without disturbing everyone—the house toads hopped beside her arms and started to dig.
Their clawed feet made quick work of the soil. Jenn closed her eyes and averted her face as best she could, trying not to flinch as yes, the occasional claw found her skin. But overall, they were careful and soon she was free.
Jenn sat back and wiped dirt from her fingers on her already filthy hem, eyeing the house toads. They squatted in front of her and eyed her back, their huge dark pupils giving them clear advantage. The largest had a familiar pattern of raised bosses and warts on its head, and she nodded a respectful greeting to the Nalynns’ particular guardian.
It blinked.
That Wen talked to toads no longer seemed an oddness. “Thank you,” Jenn said to the four, then looked up at the silent woman. “Do they understand what I say?”
“Of course. They also understand what happened and aren’t happy. They protect the village. You put it in danger.” Wen tilted her head as if listening. “There’s no crossing here. You tried to make one. You mustn’t do that again.”
“I—” It was Jenn’s turn to blink. The house toads didn’t. Two opened their immense mouths, baring needle teeth. “How? I had a dream—”
“Because you went where you shouldn’t.” Wen offered a hand to help Jenn to her feet. “There are always consequences, Jenn Nalynn.”
Her hand was cool and strong; Jenn didn’t let go. “Help me,” she pleaded, heart in her throat. She’d endangered Marrowdell. How could that be? She shivered; the night wasn’t warm after all. “I can’t hurt anyone. I don’t understand how I could, but I wouldn’t. I mustn’t! Please. What must I do?” Tears filled her eyes. “How can I stop a dream? If I can’t—if I’m dreaming like Aunt Sybb or Tir—I have to leave Marrowdell. But if I leave, they say I’ll die. I don’t—I don’t want to die.”
Something touched her. Jenn looked down to find the Nalynn house toad had placed its clawed foot over hers. The others gazed upward, their faces impossible to read.
“They say,” Wen told her gently, “you should hope. The Great Turn is coming.”
To hear the words from her dream made hairs rise along Jenn’s bare arms. “What is it?”
“When all appears as it truly is, and anything is possible.” Wen, who was taller, stooped to gaze into Jenn’s eyes. “You’ve such a good heart. Rest lightly, Jenn Nalynn
. Your dreams are your doing, not Marrowdell’s.” She bestowed a light kiss on Jenn’s forehead, then smiled. “Find something safer to wish for, little one, before you close your eyes. And hope. Your time is soon.”
Comforted, if no less bewildered, Jenn promised, “I will,” and found herself yawning.
Wen walked away without another word, moonlight flowing through her wild hair. The toads had left when she wasn’t looking, though an alarmed squeak from the hedge suggested they, too, had gone back to their nature.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Jenn whispered. But if toads could talk and a dream plant her with the carrots?
Anything must be possible.
Including, she yawned again, sleep. Before going in, Jenn cleaned the soil from her hands and arms as best she could without water, and brushed her sadly stained nightdress. On tiptoe, she snuck through the kitchen, avoiding the creaky plank, and climbed the ladder to the loft. Though so tired her bones hurt, an impulse stopped her partway up.
Moving as quietly as she could, though it was unlikely anyone would hear footsteps over their father and aunt’s dueling snores, Jenn climbed down. She took the pebble jar from beside the fireplace and tiptoed outside again.
As if she’d imagined it, as if a dream, all was normal. A lamp burned at the Emms; the baby still woke for a late feeding, and Gallie used the time to write. Moonlight and shadow sculpted nothing more alarming than the hedge, larder door, and privy. Small things rustled at a distance, doing whatever small things did by night.
Without a whisper of dragons.
Had she imagined it? With a thrill of hope, she looked toward the garden.
Carrots lay strewn across three rows, and dark soil scarred the ground. There were holes—
Jenn tore her eyes away. Her body wanted to tremble. Her hands did and she focused on her nails, which would need a thorough scrub in the morning, and her task. She tipped the jar’s contents onto the plank beside the wash tub and, by moonlight, sorted out the white ones, putting the rest back. She divided the result into four piles of three.
A Turn of Light Page 44
