Clothes stored in his barn, till now. They’d planned ahead. For what?
Tucking spoon into trencher, Sand lifted a handful of the shawl. “Like it na?”
Caught staring, Bannan could only nod. “I’ve a friend who’d love such,” he improvised.
Sand chuckled. “Made it myself and more to trade.” She waggled the end in her hand. “Do you want this one na? A gift for your friend. All the same to me.”
The truth, spoken like any tinker he’d met, stirred the tiniest doubt, for there was nothing here of the strange figures he’d seen on the road, nothing beyond the ordinary. He dared not look deeper and see, not when outnumbered and blocked from either door. Trust Wyll, he told himself. Trust the dragon.
Riverstone waved his empty spoon at Bannan’s walls. “The man’s setting up a home. He’s hardly in need of fripperies.”
“In Marrowdell, that means someone to set up a home for.” She leaned her head toward Bannan and winked. “You heard. He has a friend.”
Despite everything, he blushed. “There’s a young lady in the village,” Bannan confessed, finding it easy to sound the anxious lover. “I see her tomorrow for the first time in too long.”
“Then a gift you must have. I’ll pick the best from my stock in the morning.” She gave a satisfied nod. “We’ll settle the price later.”
So he’d bought a shawl. As for the price? Tir knew his weakness at haggling and usually stepped in. “My thanks,” Bannan said faintly, and hoped he could afford it.
“Ride with us to the village,” Riverstone offered. “Fair return for our supper.”
What mouthfuls Bannan had forced down his throat threatened to rise. He swallowed, hard, then bowed his head in thanks. Sit beside one of them, on a wagon drawn by kruar? That would be an entrance. “I trust you’ll join us for breakfast first?”
“‘Us’ na?” Sand repeated, her smile fading. The others stopped eating to stare at him; the little white dog lifted its head. “Do you not live alone na?”
Too late to regret the slip; no time to worry over consequence. “My neighbor Wyll comes by for breakfast. He helps around the farm.” Ancestors Brash and Bold, he was in for this much, why stop? “Could you take us both?” Bannan asked easily, while his heart hammered as it had when he’d urged Scourge down that impossible slope. “He’s off to the village tomorrow as well. For the harvest.”
The tinkers exchanged unreadable looks. The white dog’s nostrils worked at the air. “We’ll see in the morning.” Sand rose to her feet. The rest followed.
They were leaving.
And he hadn’t been turned to coal, or whatever they could do. Bannan schooled the relief from his face and stood as well. “Tomorrow, then.”
Tomorrow. The village.
Tir. Jenn Nalynn. Aunt Sybb and all the rest.
Heart’s Blood. He couldn’t leave it at this. All he knew was that the tinkers weren’t what they seemed. Should he risk the road by night, and their kruar, to raise the alarm? Or pretend to be blind and accept them as the others did? This was Marrowdell, after all, where toads wore chain mail and protected homes. Mistress Sand and the tinkers came to help with the harvest every year. They were spoken of as friends.
Did he not have his own secret?
It wasn’t the same. The villagers knew what he was. The turn-born lied. Why?
Marrowdell was his home. As much as Horst or Scourge or toad, he guarded this road. “It’s early,” Bannan protested, accepting that duty though his heart, being more sensible, thudded in his chest. “I’d be a poor host if I didn’t offer a sweet course.”
Sand shook her head. “We’ve had our fill.”
Out the door went Flint, then Chalk. Ancestors Awkward and Uncooperative. “I’ve wine,” he offered hurriedly. What tinker could resist an evening cup? He could use one himself, when it came to it. A big one.
“Time aplenty to celebrate once the harvest is underway. Tonight, we must rest.” Riverstone gave a small smile. “Our thanks for your hospitality, Bannan.”
They left, four of them carrying out his benches. Bannan hastened after, careful not to step on the little dog. It was a glorious night, crisp and clear. Warm light spilled from his door and windows. He took a deep breath. “Surely you could stay a while longer, dear guests,” he suggested, with all the charm he possessed. “I’ve lacked company.”
“Where’s the harm in a cup na?” Sand decided abruptly.
Their faces remained placid, but Bannan sensed the men weren’t happy. Still, they nodded graciously to him before heading to the barn. The barn full of kruar and empty wagons and opened chests. Chests of clothing and what else?
Why were they here? In his world. Hers. What could they want?
The dog lingered too, standing on the porch.
Be the host, he warned himself, turning to Sand with a smile. He’d interrogated worse, surely. “What may I serve you, good lady? Tea? Wine? I’ve a stronger brew, all the way from Essa, though I warn it’s an acquired taste.”
She held out her cup. “Marrowdell’s water, if you please. It’s been too long since I’ve tasted it.”
“Of course.” As Bannan went to his well, the tinker seated herself on a bench. She faded into the dark wall beside the window, the dog a blur of white at her feet. With every step, he felt her eyes on him. Like him, she was curious and inclined to indulge that curiosity.
Ancestors Tried and Tested. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake.
The well brimmed with stars. He dipped her cup, ripples disturbing the night sky, and lifted it, full. Something moved near his feet and he almost jumped before realizing it was the house toad, squeezed flat against the stone. Until that moment, he hadn’t noticed its absence, though it rarely left his home at night, not while he was awake.
Only a toad, but he felt better with it near.
Returning to the porch, Bannan bowed and gave the tinker her cup. Sand drank deeply as he made himself comfortable on the other bench, then sighed with content. “There’s nothing like the water here.” Before he could ask about water elsewhere, she continued, “Or the stars.”
In Vorkoun, lights and chimney smoke made appreciating the night sky a matter of finding a rooftop, ideally with a willing lady, but leave the city in any direction and stars were as easily seen as here. And the same. “Marrowdell is lovely,” Bannan agreed, skirting the perilous topic of a different sky and other stars. “I’m happy to have found my way here.”
“In time to see the moon pass before the sun. Did you find your way here for that, Bannan na?”
Why would he . . . he gathered his wits. “An eclipse? No.” Before he’d left Vorkoun, he’d heard some clamor about one, come to think of it, not that he’d paid attention. “I’m no student of the sky,” he said for the second time. Ansnans cared where stars sat and how brightly the moon shone; in the border guard, they’d kept track only to guess when their enemy might move. “I’ll look forward to it,” he added lightly.
Then froze.
At sunset, he could glimpse the other world and see Marrowdell’s secrets as they truly were. What might he see in an eclipse? What might anyone?
The turn-born, as they truly were?
Jenn Nalynn?
With great care, Bannan schooled his voice to polite interest, nothing more. “When will it take place?”
“The final day of harvest.” Then, sharp and harsh, “The people of Marrowdell are kind and trusting. I am not. If not for the eclipse, why have you come na? Why now na? You’d best not mean harm.”
The truth, if he’d ever heard it, and spoken like the person she appeared to be, rightly suspicious of a stranger and protective of those she knew. A person who cared. The little white dog growled and he knew he was in danger.
Bannan came close to sagging with relief.
If he was in danger, Marrowdell wasn’t, not from Sand. About to answer honestly, the truthseer hesitated, trying to make out her expression in the shadows.
All at once, he saw
too much.
A stern mask covered her face, or was her face. The thick hair above the mask was white, not black, and some nameless brilliance filled holes where eyes and mouth belonged. Where not gloved, a glimmer etched the shape of fingers and hands around her cup, and picked out grains of sand.
Hurriedly, Bannan looked away, where it was safe, to where lamplight streamed across the ground and small moths danced in its fringe. How to reassure this creature? “I swear by my Ancestors,” he said fervently, fingers curved over his heart, “that I came to Marrowdell to make a new and peaceful life. The people here are kind, as you say. They’ve made me welcome and given me this farm. I’d do nothing to harm them.” He looked up, making sure he saw only her shadowy form, and found himself saying as harshly as she’d spoken, “I’ll let nothing harm them.”
Silence stretched like a noose.
Just when Bannan was sure he’d made the mistake Wyll had feared, he heard, of all things, a warm throaty chuckle from the shadows.
Sand leaned forward to pat his knee with a hand that felt as real as his own mother’s. She chuckled again. “Spoken like a young man in love,” she said. “You should take her two shawls tomorrow.”
Whatever Sand was, she believed him. “I’d best wait to learn the price,” he returned, a little breathless. “I hope to buy a calf.”
“In love and wise with his coin too. Lucky girl.” He heard a swallow and a smack of lips, then the shadow that was Sand rose to her feet. “My thanks for the water. I’m glad we had this talk.”
“As am I,” the truthseer assured her, rising as well. He gave a short bow. “Until the morning, dear lady.”
“I’m no lady,” she said, a smile in her voice. “Rest well, Bannan.”
“And you.”
The little white dog strutted behind the tinker as she walked to the barn. Unable to resist, Bannan looked deeper, then chuckled to himself.
It was, of all things possible and improbable, a little white dog.
As if it had waited for the pair to leave, the house toad hopped to the porch, then through the open door.
Bannan wasn’t ready to follow it. Instead, he stepped out into the farmyard. The sliver of moon had risen, but his eyes found the Rose again. “Tomorrow,” he promised, his heart in his throat.
When he and Wyll, who was a dragon, would arrive in Marrowdell with the tinkers, who were turn-born.
Not to mention the kruar.
Doubtless the villagers would greet them as if nothing was strange.
Scourge, who was everything strange, had a knack for making himself scarce when a crowd appeared. Would he this time?
Tomorrow would bring what it would, Bannan told himself.
So long as it brought Jenn Nalynn.
Her skin crawled.
Her bones itched.
Something had to be done. And now. The feeling built and built, like a thunderstorm unable to burst, till Jenn could hardly lie still. If she knew what demanded doing, she’d do it, or stop it, if she knew how. Her thoughts scattered this way and that in exhausting fashion. If it kept up, she’d have to try Covie’s stomach remedy. Or cider.
She managed to roll over without waking Peggs and stared at the sky through their window. Stars, still, or were they dimming at last? She’d guess dawn wasn’t too far off, if there were birds singing, but what she heard was Peggs’ soft breathing, and the peaceful snores of their aunt and father. Dawn wasn’t, Jenn decided, close at all.
She wiggled her toes, one at a time, reassured to find them where they should be.
Right foot done. She started on the left. Little toe first.
All at once, there was a loud, steady rustle from outside, as though a strong gust swept through the fields, but no wind stirred the roses to either side of the window or cooled her face. At the same instant, the confused longings inside her faded away, so she might have fallen asleep then and there.
Instead, Jenn stared wide-eyed at the window, trembling so hard she couldn’t believe Peggs didn’t grumble or wake.
It hadn’t been the wind. She’d heard the grain falling on its own, row after row. It had fallen because it was supposed to . . . because it must . . . because . . . because . . .
She wouldn’t think it.
The harvest happened every year, dependable as the snow to follow. Marrowdell’s gift, they called it, like the water in the fountain and the river through the mill. Marrowdell’s magic, Kydd would say. In Aunt Sybb’s opinion, the grain was defective in some way, with stalks that snapped under the ripe weight. Old Jupp warned each Midwinter Beholding they’d best prepare for the year it didn’t. But it always did.
Always. Because . . .
Eyes shut tight, Jenn Nalynn clenched her fingers on the quilt. She wouldn’t think it. Wouldn’t.
But the thought found her, where she trembled, sliding cold and certain into place.
The harvest came, not because of Marrowdell, but because someone else wished it.
A wish she’d somehow felt.
Wainn’s old pony was first to hear the new arrivals. As he had every year, he pricked up his small gray ears and wispy tail, to trot about the orchard whinnying like a much younger steed, bullying the calves and timid Good’n’Nuf. He didn’t do it for long, and wheezed when he stopped, but the villagers knew what it meant and looked at one another with smiles.
Jenn heard the commotion from the loft and thrust her head out the window. The grain in the wide field across the river lay in neatly winnowed rows, as it should. She pursed her lips, then shook her head. Last night, she’d had the strangest thought about it, which only went to prove what Aunt Sybb said, an overtired mind played tricks best forgotten. Especially a mind full of notions of magic.
Impossible to forget what had happened yesterday. She lifted her hand into the sunlight and studied her fingers, newly grateful for each tiny crease of skin, thankful for the blunt sturdy nails at their tips. How she’d taken them for granted; how terrifying their loss, however temporary. The only good part of sunset, she shuddered, was that it passed quickly.
She had to hope tonight would be better.
After all, tonight, there’d be a Beholding feast to welcome the tinkers, sure to arrive today, and to give thanks for the harvest. Marrowdell’s good fortune wasn’t secret, though outsiders, unless they saw for themselves, felt they were being lied to, which didn’t go well if one argued. Hadn’t Tadd returned last fall with a black eye and loose teeth?
However it happened, and Jenn found it harder to believe harvests weren’t like this outside Marrowdell, the village was about to be transformed. She pulled back inside the window. With a yawn that turned into a sigh, she sat on the window seat, kicking her bare feet. Ordinarily, hearing Wainn’s old pony, she’d rush to the commons gate, to be first to greet Mistress Sand.
Nothing was ordinary now.
True, they’d all been up before dawn preparing, with every kitchen called into service. Bread stood cooling on windowsills, great pots bubbled with potatoes and turnips, and enough onions had been chopped to bring tears to everyone’s eyes. Jenn had washed pots and pans while Peggs went upstairs to change; now it was her turn to get ready.
Preparing the harvest feast was a familiar, welcome busyness. Preparing to welcome all of those who’d eat it?
A quandary.
She’d brushed her hair till it crackled and shone, then, reluctantly, left it loose over her shoulders as her sister had instructed, pulling the sides back from her face in a single knot to keep it tidy. Hair like that expected to be admired. It invited touch.
Jenn curled up her toes. Would he notice?
Which he being a question she refused to ask herself, let alone answer.
Then there was her beautiful dress, hanging from a peg, waiting to dance.
She pressed the back of her hand to one cheek to find it warm. Surely the kitchen’s heat, not, as Peggs claimed with a cheerful laugh, because she couldn’t wait to greet a certain someone—the name carefully and
significantly unspecified.
She wanted to be back in Night’s Edge. She’d dig her toes in the fragrant grass and confess all her worries and hopes. Wisp might tickle her neck with flower petals to make her laugh and play with her hair. But Wisp and the grass and flowers were gone.
And it hadn’t been play, when Bannan put his hands in her hair.
Her breath caught.
Wainn’s pony whinnied again, louder.
It was morning, not night.
Night was for scandalous letters and moon dreams. Morning, Jenn told herself, was for what was real. Real meant accepting responsibility, as Uncle Horst had said, not knowing how right he’d been, for herself, her actions, and their consequences. She must learn what to do at the Great Turn. She must—she would—endure three more sunsets, without putting anyone else at risk.
Most of all, Wyll. Her truest, first friend depended on her. She would not fail him again.
Jenn pulled out the bundle of letters from Bannan Larmensu, secured by a well-washed yellow ribbon. His latest was there; their shared envelope sat on top. She ran her fingertip over the dots of cool wax along its flap, counting, remembering. Ten dots. One for each day she’d written him and he’d written her.
Squaring her shoulders, she went down to the kitchen.
Her feet barely touched the second rung when Peggs said, in no happy tone, “Must you?”
As shameless as his letter-writing rider, Scourge stood with his big ugly head shoved through the Nalynn kitchen door, as he’d done every morning to nicker plaintively for a bit of toast or, better still, sausage. Having forbidden him rabbits, Jenn had been unable to refuse, though her sister and aunt pointed in mute accusation to drifts of brown hair on the floor.
Jenn felt guilty about those too, though it was Bannan’s job to groom the creature, not hers, and the once she’d done it . . .
She went briskly to the stove, opened the fire door, and tossed in her bundle, trying not to notice how quickly the yellow ribbon turned black, or how Peggs’ understanding eyes held regret too.
“Shouldn’t you be on the road, Scourge?” Jenn asked, forestalling any questions. She put hard-boiled eggs on a plate. “The tinkers are coming.”
A Turn of Light Page 57
