“Surely, sir,” Tir pulled out a familiar envelope and waved it, “you’ll want this first?”
If it was what he hoped, of course he did, but he’d have no peace if he succumbed too easily. Bannan smiled. “What I want are doors that close. Letters can wait.”
Tir hadn’t come alone. Scourge stalked behind, his great head bobbing behind the shorter man’s. A breeze slid along the truthseer’s jaw to his ear. “Letters? I remember letters. Shall I tell the girl about all those to women in Vorkoun?”
Hardly fair. “Do you want to be groomed again in this lifetime?” the truthseer threatened.
“Not looking for your help there, sir.” With a chuckle, Tir ran his free hand over his bald pate as he slipped the plump saddlebags from his shoulder. “Though I’d take it kindly if you’d ask his bloody highness why I had to carry these, given he followed me the entire way.”
Scourge snorted. “You didn’t ask.”
Tir swatted violently at his ear, almost dislodging his mask, then his eyes went wide as saucers. “I heard that!”
“I’m glad,” the truthseer said dryly.
“No! You don’t understand.” His friend backed, arms out as if to protect himself, then turned wildly in a circle. “I heard a voice! A voice that wasn’t a—” he froze in place, staring at Scourge. A hand pointed, finger outstretched. “Yours!” he shouted.
“Such insight.” The kruar shook himself from nose to hindquarters.
“But—how?”
“Scourge?” Bannan couldn’t stop smiling.
“I can be heard by whomever I choose.” The breeze was amused too. “As for how? In Marrowdell, within the edge, I’m more of what I was.”
And revealed it. The truthseer’s mood darkened as he thought of what he’d seen, what he now could see anytime he looked deeper: the scars over Scourge’s body, scars concealed by this light as a gleaming hide of black hair and dark brown mane and tail. He wanted to ask; he knew better. Scourge would tell him what he chose, when he chose. If at all.
Bannan made himself cheerful again by thinking of a new letter from Jenn Nalynn. If she’d written to him, and not just to Wyll. Who might not have written at all, he brightened, in which case, any letter must be his.
Wyll stirred from the doorway, where he’d leaned to watch Bannan work. He’d been quiet during breakfast and unexpectedly helpful afterward, using his magic with air to lift the planks into place. The truthseer had accepted that help with the sinking feeling whatever Jenn had written yesterday had given the dragon new confidence and silently cursed whatever impulse made him toss Wyll’s discarded letter, unread, into the fire. Tir had been disappointed; he’d argued he wouldn’t want someone reading his mail. Now, he wished he’d been less the gallant and more the scoundrel.
“I,” the dragon said aloud, “am not restricted to whispers in ears.”
The breeze turned chill. “So you’re happy as a man?”
A flicker of silver. “Are you, as a horse?”
“Heart’s Blood. It’s like listening to an old couple bicker,” Tir muttered, picking up the bags.
Wyll and Scourge glared at him.
“Well, it is.” The former guard glared right back, undaunted. “What’s between you, anyway?”
The right question. Bannan almost held his breath as the dragon and kruar swiveled heads to glare at one another.
“We’re of the same world,” Wyll said.
The breeze was like a blast from a forge; the men winced together. “Say the same war, and be honest.”
“The same war.” The dragon smiled unpleasantly. “Not the same side.”
Tir grunted. “No surprise there.” He swung the bags back over his shoulder. “So long as it’s over.”
Scourge stamped a great hoof. Wyll’s eyes flashed silver.
Bannan and Tir exchanged wary looks. “Well?” demanded the truthseer. “Is it?”
“Yes. Over,” the dragon replied, lips twisted as if the words left a sour taste.
“Well? Who won? You can tell us,” Tir prodded, as if they discussed some disreputable but interesting wager.
Sometimes the man had no sense of caution whatsoever.
“No one,” the breeze snapped.
“The end wasn’t in doubt,” Wyll smiled unpleasantly. “Until a truce was imposed.”
Like Vorkoun, Bannan thought. Suddenly the sun didn’t feel as warm as it should. What could force creatures like these to stop fighting? “By whom?”
“Those who pitied the kruar,” the dragon answered, a wicked gleam in his eye.
With an enraged squeal, Scourge half reared and spun about, pitching forward in a flat run. He was out of the yard and pounding down the road to the village before anyone could do more than blink.
“Touchy,” Tir observed.
“He doesn’t care for the reminder.” Wyll rubbed his withered arm, as if it pained him. “Nor do I. We’ve no interest in your world or in battle, truthseer. We wish only to be done with our penance.”
“Yon bloody beast? What’s he done to be punished for, other than being ugly?”
“I led dragonkind.” Wyll looked almost amused. “Who do you think led the kruar?”
His former horse. Bannan shook his head. “Who ended your war and punished you?” he asked a second time. “Who could?”
“The sei.” Wyll’s eyes flashed silver, then faded. “Fear them not. Your world is of no consequence to them; theirs matters not to you. Between lies the Verge, where those worlds touch. Our home, once. Our battleground.”
The dragon leaned against the strong logs of the house, his flawless hand resting on the windowsill. “It began as most conflicts do. One prize, two takers, neither willing to share. The Verge—the Verge is perilous and raw, potent with power. Beautiful. Beautiful in all ways.” His voice was serene; wood cracked and splintered beneath his fingers.
“There was room for all, at first,” Wyll went on. “Both kruar and dragonkind could live in it. Naturally, both claimed it. We don’t,” this with a certain dark satisfaction, “live together. The point came when it must be one or the other. I—I chose it be us. Things were going well, for dragonkind at least, but—let’s say we’d picked a poor time to finish our dispute.” No satisfaction now. Wyll noticed the windowsill and pulled his fingers free, then brushed their undamaged tips across the holes he’d made. “Disturbing the sei is unwise. They ended our war. Sent us to our own for justice, as is their way, then gave what was left to the turn-born, to serve penance for our kinds.
“Our war’s long over, truthseer.” Wyll straightened from the wall and slapped his withered arm with his good hand. “This is victory.”
Once more, Bannan saw that ancient, terrible grief in the dragon’s eyes. He could hardly breathe. With an effort, he broke that contact and made himself see just the man. Above the trim red-brown beard, Wyll’s cheeks were pale as ash. Guilt and grief, Wainn had called him.
His body bore the lesser wounds.
“Heart’s Blood,” Tir swore. “These folk of yours. Sei. Turn-born. Sound like Avyo’s meddling prince and his mewling barons. Always think they know better than them’s what’s done their bloody work. Interfering where they weren’t asked and aren’t wanted.” His voice rose. “Who needs them, I say! You stick with us, Wyll. You stick close.”
The dragon appeared dumbfounded.
Bannan took pity. “Who’s for tea? There are fresh biscuits.”
His friend snorted, the fiery glint in his eyes fading. “Your biscuits, sir? I’ve a pie, fresh from Peggs’ oven, thank you, and letters for you both from the sister.”
Bannan smiled. “Come, Wyll.” He dared put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “We’d best get our share of that pie.”
Feeling the rock-hard tension of that shoulder, he thought he’d made a mistake, then the dragon relaxed. “I want my letter,” Wyll proclaimed. “And a very large share of pie.”
“Oh, would you, now?” Tir led the way, arguing as if they were any thre
e friends. “I did the carrying, I get the biggest piece.”
Bannan laughed. “We’ll toss ’stones.”
Later, Tir busy with the scythe on the overgrown farmyard, Wyll having gone home with his letter, Bannan sat on the porch and pulled out his. A butterfly perched on his shoulder, as if curious to read it too.
No too-short, too-formal note this, he realized at once. The page was covered with writing, without a curlicue in sight. He began to read, then had to stop.
She’d written to him from her bedroom.
His thoughts flew. Had moonlight touched her cheek or the warm glow of a candle? Had her hair been unbound?
He’d yet to see it tidy, let alone clean and loose. It would be beautiful, though. A river of silken gold.
Bannan waited for his blood to cool. Ancestors Blessed and Beloved, it was only a letter. He skimmed eagerly through the rest, surprised into a pleased laugh. So he’d failed to impress her with his cleanliness either. The life of a farmer, he was coming to realize.
A charming letter, lively with her voice and personality, warm and gracious. He reread how she’d thought him brave, and smiled.
She wanted more of what he saw. His smile faded and the butterfly flew up and away.
Not this time.
He owed her what he’d learned.
Bannan drew a heavy breath, then began to write.
Dear Jenn
Thank you for your kind letter.
I would appreciate some starter, especially if you would write instructions in its use. I’m reasonably adept at biscuits, but bread-making terrifies me. For your sake, I’m willing to try, but be prepared for abject failure and loaves like rock.
Tir is a scoundrel and outrageous flirt. Be wary of anything he says, especially if he’s in a fine mood. I suspect he’s made off with my comb and favorite book, just to watch me hunt for them.
My house isn’t falling down, you’ll be glad to know, and Wyll’s been helping me with repairs. He shares my table without complaint and enjoys my biscuits, to Tir’s disbelief. For myself, I’m convinced. You should see the number Wyll consumes at a sitting.
As for Wyll. He’s told me something of his past that’s helped me understand him, and that idiot Scourge. I feel I do both a service sharing it with you.
Dragon and kruar hold no love for one another, as we witnessed at their first encounter. I’ve learned since that Wyll and Scourge were warriors who once met in battle. That was long ago, and I believe they’ve each come to Marrowdell in search of peace, whether they realize it or not. I’ve known other old soldiers to do the same.
Being one myself, I assure you old habits—old hates—take time to fade. I find hope in how these two have made common purpose. Doubtless, they’ll growl and bicker for life, but if they can co-exist, surely the day will come when I no longer think of Ansnans and Vorkoun with such anger in my heart. When I find peace, too.
My apologies for sharing such grim thoughts with you, instead of marvels. I vow to do better in my next letter.
Thank you, Dear Heart, for listening to mine.
Bannan
Before he could change his mind, he tucked his letter into their shared envelope, sealing it with the press of a heated knife to her latest dot of wax. What he’d said was real and true.
What he’d said, he’d not told even Tir.
That, for all the letters to the fine ladies of Vorkoun, who’d read his shameless banter, and not heard him at all.
Summer tried to linger, in warm afternoons and nodding flowers, but days grew shorter and shadows lengthened. Birds gathered in number, no longer interested in nests or song, whirling in busy clouds above fields they dared not touch. Bees hurried to fill their hives as the great sows gorged on fallen acorns, Himself watching sorrowfully from behind the gate because he would roam and forget where he belonged. Alyssa and Cheffy, sympathetic, brought him baskets of acorns, but it wasn’t the same as freedom and the boar moped with immense drama while he ate. In the gardens, vines withered to bright yellow wreaths around ripe pumpkins and squash. On the crags, the first hints of red and gold appeared. Before long, too soon, the colors would spread like flame and summer be done.
Like the bees, the villagers used every moment of daylight to store what they could against the coming winter, tasks that meant not only comfort, but survival. Even the youngest felt the rising urgency and no longer grumbled as they threw themselves into their chores. In years past, Jenn recalled wistfully, she’d counted herself fortunate to slip away to her meadow and see Wisp once every few days.
This summer’s end was different.
For one thing, there were letters. Letters and letters and letters. Each evening, Tir would drop by on his way to the mill to give her Bannan’s latest, and Wyll’s would be waiting on the window seat or flutter in with a moth. Jenn grew anxious about leaving the window closed in case she missed one, though moths grew emboldened and Peggs worried about their clothes. Each morning, Tir would stop for breakfast and pick up her replies.
For another, this summer’s end held impending weddings, one her own. Weddings, Jenn soon learned, meant sewing every moment she wasn’t working in the garden or kitchen or helping Hettie make cheese or Gallie stuff sausage. Endless sewing. Not new clothes, or better-fitting old ones, which would have been fun, but household goods. Everyone with a length to spare brought it to the Nalynns. Jenn and Peggs hemmed sheets and cases, towels and curtains, and oh, the handkerchiefs . . .
Those would have been easier if she’d known what to embroider. Rhothan tradition, something Aunt Sybb inflicted with steely determination at every opportunity, held that good fortune could be sewn into a household. Her sister gladly stitched fantastical P’s and K’s on her work, twining the letters around one another until their father fondly observed both were nigh to illegible. Jenn settled for flowers and leaves.
She bit a thread and rolled the excess on a finger.
It wasn’t quite fair to say she hadn’t made up her mind whose initial belonged with hers.
It wasn’t quite fair, she thought, that she couldn’t.
The letters weren’t helping. If Peggs fell silent, as happened whenever she thought of Kydd, which she did more and more often, Jenn would find words swimming up in front of her stitching. Bannan wrote of his Marrowdell, as she’d asked, regaling her with marvels. Toads in chain mail and roads of silver. Dancers in the old trees; hunters in the grain. He’d drawn the ruins he could see from his window, which was very interesting; he’d put a small lover’s heart beside her name, which was unsettling and charming and altogether inappropriate. And the things he said?
She blushed and sewed faster. She could recite every word.
No cider for me. I keep your letters beneath my pillow. It’s no wonder I sleep so well . . .
I wake each morning to sunlight and bird song, and my first thought is of you . . .
Dance with me, at the harvest? My sister, who taught me my steps, would tell you I’m a decent partner, who keeps to the measure and doesn’t embarrass himself. Though if I had you in my arms, I fear I’d steal a kiss. Would you forgive me?
He was shameless.
And wonderful. For most of all, Bannan wrote of himself. Private, special things. The freckled girl in the bakery who’d won his five-year-old’s heart with her cookies. Being lost in the woods with his sister, after they’d pretended to be hunters riding after wild boar, and how Lila had kept him safe and warm in her arms till they were found the next morning. The terrifying discovery he could see the truth or its lack in someone’s face, and how his father had taught him the responsibility of a truthseer and its cost. Losing both parents. Gaining Scourge, who’d tossed him from the saddle twenty-three times before accepting him as rider.
Jenn could barely wait to read each new letter, an eagerness she managed to keep to herself only because she made herself read Wyll’s first.
you Are being good careful . . .
I continue to build our magnificent castle it Has no w
indows . . .
why do We need a kitchen we can eat with him . . .
I do not know How to thank the small ones
they perplex me . . .
the harvest will Be soon and we will be Together always
Wyll was Wisp and loved her. She loved him. But with each new letter, the more Jenn understood Wen Treff’s warning. A change in shape did not mean a change in nature. Wyll wasn’t a man, not inside.
But he was her dearest, oldest friend. She’d made him what he was and he needed her. Eight bright and sunny mornings in a row, Jenn Nalynn awoke knowing exactly what to do. She would marry Wyll. She wouldn’t write to Bannan again. She wouldn’t read his letters. It had to stop.
Eight evenings in a row, she’d grown empty save for doubt. How could she not read and reply, when Bannan wrote from his heart to hers, and hers so needed his?
A voice interrupted her thoughts. “I know that face,” Peggs said gently.
Jenn looked up from her stitching to where her sister sat beside her on the bench. Supper done, they’d sought the porch to take advantage of the last of the daylight. “This face?” She wrinkled her nose and squinted.
“No, Dear Heart. The one you get when you’re thinking about Bannan Larmensu.”
She had a face for that? Jenn felt warm. “I do not,” she objected. “And you’re wrong. I was thinking about—about how nice it will be to see Mistress Sand again.”
A Turn of Light Page 50
