Busy killing kruar, such weighty matters had been far from his mind.
Except the sei were . . . bothered.
Having paid attention, they swiftly settled matters to their liking. To restore what was, the sei somehow sent the trapped ones back to sleep, sealing the halves of the edge so tightly this time that the only crossings left were where the barrier remained stretched between those now-still arms. The sei dealt with dragon and kruar next, then, having seemingly lost interest, though regrettably not in his penance, resumed their interrupted musings.
Leaving Marrowdell forever changed.
Stung by the sei’s displeasure, dragon and kruar avoided their former playground. The turn-born, for whatever reason, could not. What had they thought when they’d first crossed into that new Marrowdell? One of scarred cliffs and crushed towers, with its river now split around smooth white hills that weren’t hills at all, but the trapped ones left exposed. One now inhabited by neyet and ylings, by nyphrit and little cousins. Where efflet, confused but determined, called forth their precious kaliia to grow under a new sun.
That first crossing, they could have brought the small ones home, Wyll knew, feeling cold inside. Turn-born could cross with more than themselves. Instead, they’d found the new Marrowdell even more to their liking. They sacrificed neyet to make the village and the mill then, as if forgetful of what men had done once, waited for settlers to find them and stay. Once the valley again heard the voices of men, women, and children, the turn-born crossed before the day of Balance, pretending to be tinkers and friends. All, apparently, to harvest the kaliia of this world, instead of their own.
Why was beyond a dragon’s imagining. He could ask them, Wyll thought. Did he dare?
No. The turn-born were unapproachable at best and this year’s day of Balance held peril. They could be exposed, like any small one, by the coming Great Turn. They could be caught by an unraveling edge, should those come again with that dire knowledge and intent. Aware of such risks, the turn-born wouldn’t be happy; did the air already have a storm’s weight to it?
Hoofbeats sounded, deep and heavy, accompanied by the creaking protest of wooden wheels left idle for a year. Wyll braced himself and straightened.
A veritable cloud of ylings flung themselves in front of him, facing the road, each armed with tiny spears. Aghast, Wyll sent a breeze to tumble the little warriors up and out of sight. A little cousin, squat and sturdy, took position at his feet. He nudged it to safety beneath a thick root.
While Bannan ran home to make supper.
They were all mad.
Safety lay in avoiding undue attention. He’d calculated to a nicety how long it would take the truthseer to run to the opening off the road, to run inside his home, and, most of all, to calm himself and settle, so it would appear he hadn’t run at all.
The kruar and their wagons, and the turn-born, came into view sooner than was safe.
Without hesitation, Wyll lifted his good arm in greeting, as he’d seen men do, and hailed them in his man’s voice. “Welcome to Marrowdell.”
Then let a breeze sweep road dust in their faces.
The kruar, being young and easily dismayed, plunged to a snorting stop. Unable to free themselves from the wagons or teammates, they shivered the blades along their necks in impotent threat, lips pulling back from their fangs. ~ What are you?! ~ they howled. ~ Who is this?! ~ ~ Death to it!!? ~
The dust dropped to the road. ~ Peace, little ones. ~
Wyll smiled, enjoying how a man’s lips and teeth could express such complete disdain. Think what he might of Scourge, his old enemy would die before accepting “little one” from a turn-born.
One stepped from the rest, not so much closer, but to indicate she would be the one to converse. Sand-filled limbs, a mask formed into nothing so personal as interest. If appearance could be trusted, this was the turn-born who’d sent him to Marrowdell in the clutches of dragons. ~ Here, not there. Unclothed and alone. The villagers rejected you. ~
“I’m here to greet you,” he replied aloud, inclined to daring. He might be safe; Bannan wasn’t, not yet. Thanks to the girl, he spoke as well as anyone in Marrowdell. Could the turn-born do the same? “Like you, I save my clothes for them. As for alone?” He gave a modest bow. “Far from it. I’m to marry Jenn Nalynn at the end of the harvest. A shame you can’t stay to watch.”
The kruar stamped, shaking the edge. They’d like his dragon’s flesh and bone beneath their hooves; having sworn their service to the turn-born for the harvest, they were bound to better behavior. A single tremor answered, deeper; Scourge, responding to challenge from his kind. The kruar rolled their eyes and grew very still indeed.
Wind howled through the tops of the neyet; turn-born temper, unimpressed, unrelenting.
Almost at once, the gale sputtered into a soft whisper, fragrant with the smell of warm leaves and late summer.
“She’s come into her own,” Wyll announced, as if they couldn’t feel it for themselves. Jenn Nalynn’s innocent and well-settled wish for fair weather held their spite in check. For now. Their number didn’t matter. What did, as Wyll understood it, was clarity of intention. These turn-born knew what they wanted and how to accomplish it.
In that sense Marrowdell was safer with more of their kind than less, much as he disliked the thought.
~ And you, lord of dragons? ~ The turn-born took another step distant from the rest. Disagreement, perhaps. Or emphasis. ~ How goes your life as a man? ~
She mocked him, of course, as they all did and should. He was powerless, old, and broken.
But not futile.
Hadn’t he saved the foolish truthseer, who should soon be within his walls and baking biscuits? Hadn’t he had a letter from Jenn Nalynn, inviting him back to the village as soon as the harvest started? The little cousins called him one of their own.
He had, if not a home, then a purpose here. He mattered to Marrowdell.
The turn-born did not.
Knowing he shouldn’t, knowing he mustn’t, Wyll bowed once more, with what grace his twisted body gave him, and said with satisfaction. “I find it promising.”
Cold burned his naked skin. He shivered so violently he lost balance and fell among the hard roots of the neyet. His eyelashes froze together and his lips cracked.
~ There is no promise for you here. ~ Words like ice. ~ There is duty and we will, most certainly, expect you to do yours. ~
His teeth clacked together, meeting in his tongue. Blood filled his mouth, choking his man’s voice. ~ I know my duty! ~ he raged. ~ Do yours. Teach her! Make her one of you. ~
Astonishment.
He prepared to die for it.
Instead, a question. ~ Then leave her here, alone? Unchecked? ~
As turn-born must never be. Half-frozen, Wyll refused to falter. ~ She has a good heart. You could trust her. ~
~ Can we still trust you? ~
~ I KNOW MY DUTY! ~ he raged.
Silence. The kruar rolled their eyes.
~ Excuse our doubt. ~ The courtesy had an edge. ~ You have kept her happy, for the most part. The crop has grown well. ~ Warmth returned, a life-giving torment through arms and legs. He managed not to scream. ~ What heritage Jenn Nalynn may possess is the fault and curse of her world, not ours. We have forbidden her to cross to the Verge. Should she try again, we trust you know what to do. ~
They didn’t wait for an answer. Kruar stepped forward; the wagons followed, no burden to their strength. The turn-born walked on Marrowdell’s road, beginning their magic. The villagers thought the harvest began tomorrow. In truth, it began now, with the building of the turn-borns’ expectation.
The valley would bend to it.
Wyll pushed himself to a knee. Gripped bark to pull himself upright. Frost had burned his skin and found his heart.
His duty. Keep the girl on this side of the edge. Never let her cross, for her expectations would interfere with the turn-borns’ and bring chaos to the Verge. Kill her, if that’s what it took.
While the sei, who cared nothing for the worries of the turn-born or those who dwelt in the Verge, laid their own demand on him. Never let her leave Marrowdell, for if she stepped beyond, the edge would unravel along with her.
Kill her, if that’s what it took.
The sei and turn-born agreed in one respect. Jenn Nalynn must stay where she was.
Or die.
Wyll spat blood and bared his teeth. His duty was to protect the edge, both the Verge and Marrowdell. He would decide how. Who knew better?
He’d do what Jenn Nalynn wanted. They would marry and live in his house and, as he had done in Nights’ Edge all these years, he would make her laugh and be happy, keeping Marrowdell safe, keeping the Verge whole.
And she would live.
The coming night chilled flesh still covered in goose bumps. It was time to go home, to curl in moss, and rest.
Wyll lurched through the meadow, going around the kaliia. The path he’d trampled through looked like a wound. Dew stuck to his legs, clammy and wet. He couldn’t stop shivering.
He couldn’t help doubt.
He would do what Jenn Nalynn wanted.
But did she know what that was?
NINETEEN
MIST SWIRLED AROUND her feet, coiling up her body like warm silk. She tried to touch it, but the pale stuff slipped between her curious fingers; tried to taste it, but it hovered beyond reach of her tongue.
No matter. She danced, this way, that way, the mist her willing partner. Dancing was ever so much easier than untangling the bright threads of would she, should she, and why couldn’t she? that filled her heart. She lifted her knee and twirled, the mist sliding by without a sound, and could have danced forever.
If dancing could be enough.
She stopped, the mist dancing alone until it missed her and settled, soft on her skin, like a question.
What more did she want?
She wasn’t to, mustn’t, and wouldn’t. The bright threads turned blood-red and thick, the beat of her heart a struggle. There’d been a promise. Had she promised? But who? And why?
And for how long?
What she wanted was so small. It would be by her feet. It was there, right now, beneath the mist. Of that she had no doubt.
She’d only to stoop and . . .
Bands of mist tightened, holding her in place, refusing her. She cried out in silence. Fought, without moving. Did what she could, against mist and a promise.
Surrendered, heart empty.
Others stood before her, behind her, cradled in mist and faceless. They disagreed, that was all, and all there was.
All there could be . . .
Hot tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. They dribbled over her nose to join forces, then slid down her cheek to soak her pillow. If she moved, they’d only make a damp spot somewhere else and she’d wake Peggs, who’d worry.
As would sobs, so she wasn’t, Jenn Nalynn told herself, to sob or sigh or do anything but lie here and leak. Something better would happen eventually. She’d run out of tears or fall back to sleep or it’d be morning.
She hadn’t left their bed this time, or didn’t remember coming back to bed. She supposed the bottoms of her feet could tell her, but looking at her feet would mean moving and a candle. By then, she might as well wake Peggs up to help.
At any rate, she’d rather not know.
Before bed, she’d done her best not to dream. Reread letters, thought of lovely mornings and butterflies and maybe pancakes with honey, which she did sincerely want, and avoided so much as an instant’s thought of pebbles and being so empty she wasn’t there at all.
She’d tried, but it had been so hard. Tomorrow, today now, everyone would be together again. How could she not think of that?
Another tear trickled across her nose. It left an itch.
Last night, most of all, she’d tried not to imagine how it would feel, to look into his eyes, his words in her heart, then have to turn away.
Jenn lay still, to wait for morning, and tried to imagine she could.
Bannan paused by the well to gaze at the sky. The Mistress winked at him, bright and familiar. The lovely Rose sat lower, above the village and Jenn Nalynn. Tomorrow, he promised himself. He’d see her tomorrow.
If he survived supper.
“Do you study the stars na?”
He hadn’t heard the tinker approach. Had it come after him? Schooling his face, Bannan looked around. “Pardon?”
“Dusom studies them. Do you na?”
Their voices were soft and a little breathless, their questions marked by an unfamiliar sound as well as a rise. If he’d heard such in Vorkoun, he’d have assumed Rhothan was a language new to them or rarely practiced, though travelers from distant domains were uncommon so far inland.
Knowing he spoke to no man, the odd intonation made little hairs rise on the back of his neck. “No. I was admiring them. It’s a lovely clear night.”
“There will be clear skies for the harvest.”
More than truth. Certainty. Dread settled in his stomach. Jenn Nalynn’s effect on Marrowdell was unintentional. Were the turn-born from Wyll’s world so sure in their power and knowledge they could make the weather they chose? What else could they do?
He’d rather not find out.
So far, other than their speech, the tinkers had proved unremarkable. A pair, looking like ordinary men, had come to his door to ask permission to spend the night in his barn. It had been their custom, they’d explained, but that was when the farm had been empty and they’d no wish to intrude.
Having made it home ahead of them by a dragon’s grace, having listened as hoofbeats and the creak of wagons invaded his farmyard, having forced himself to put on extra biscuits and cut more potatoes into his stewpot without taking a look outside, because what was outside shouldn’t be seen?
Ancestors Blessed and Beloved, Bannan thought he’d done marvelously to stand at the door, smile, and make them welcome to the barn, of course, and would they share his supper when they were ready?
Where was that fine courage now? In the dark by the well, for what light spilled from the house and porch hardly reached this far, Bannan couldn’t have moved if he tried. His breath caught and his hands clenched, white-knuckled, on the handles of his buckets.
The tinker reached for one. “May I help na?”
It—he’d come to help. Of course he had. Heart’s Blood, he had to stop suspecting everything they did, or he’d never last the night. With an effort he fervently hoped went unnoticed, the truthseer relinquished the bucket. “Thank you.” They walked to the house together, Bannan matching his stride to the tinker’s slower one lest the other fall behind and he’d have those eyes on his back.
The house was bright inside and should be; he’d lit every lamp, for courage and to make his home welcoming. The aroma of stew and fresh-baked biscuits filled the room as he entered, a room already full of strangers. There were seven tinkers altogether, plus a small white dog. The dog curled in front of his fireplace, chin on its rump. It looked like a hunter, with large pointed ears and a wiry coat, and kept its dark brown eyes on him as he piled steaming biscuits in a bowl and lifted the lid from the stewpot. Bannan had no trouble avoiding a too-close look at the tinkers, knowing what he’d see. He was sorely tempted to stare back at the dog, but knew better.
He tossed the ’stones in a high stakes game—did he not?—playing host to such guests. A strange euphoria roared through his blood, pushing aside fear if not caution. “You’ve picked the right day to try my cooking,” he announced, with the bravado he reserved for those times the odds were stacked higher than a house against him. Tir would recognize it; for some reason, his typical response was to spy out the nearest exit. “Yesterday’s tasted like soap, but I’ve high hopes for this stew.” Bannan raised his spoon. “Come. Let me serve you.”
“Our thanks.” The woman called Sand stepped forward. He ladled a generous portion of stew into her trencher, for they’d brought their
own, along with mugs and spoons, and added a biscuit. They’d carried the benches in from the porch so there’d be places for all, though he’d held his breath till sure none had noticed his foolish carving on the underside of one. As Sand took a seat, the rest came for their share, expressing gratitude in soft voices. They sat to eat without a Beholding.
Different ways. Bannan, who had no appetite, leaned over his bowl and prayed to himself, Hearts of our Ancestors, I’d be Beholden to see tomorrow.
They ate in silence, the tinkers as intent on their food as any weary travelers at journey’s end. He studied them surreptitiously. The other six were men, or seemed so. Beardless, with straight black hair to their shoulders, he could see why Horst had thought him their kind at first, though the tinkers’ eyes were the deep blue of a winter sky and his brown. Their faces were weathered, with ruddy cheeks and noses, and bright red lips. They were sturdily built, shorter by half a head than he, but he was tall for a Lower Rhothan. They’d given him names to use he didn’t for an instant believe. Sand. Clay. Riverstone. Fieldstone. Chalk. Flint. Tooth.
Though the mere thought made his skin crawl, little wonder Jenn claimed “Mistress Sand” as friend and ally. Had Bannan met the tinker under any other circumstance, he’d have judged her someone’s kindly mother, perhaps a shopkeeper; a strong and capable woman who put others at ease. She wore a sleeveless high-collared dress that fell to her ankles, the skirt narrower than those in the village, split at the sides to allow movement. The dress was dark brown and unpatterned, of a fabric he couldn’t place. The men wore loose pants and jerkins of the same, unfamiliar in their cut, but comfortable-looking.
Like the men, Sand wore tall laced boots that might have been leather, and gloves without fingertips covered her arms from palm to shoulder. Over her dress was belted a loosely woven garment, like a shawl with wide sleeves to the elbow, gold in color and as finely made as any such work he’d seen in Vorkoun.
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