A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  For what, being the question.

  A question so far gently evaded. Bannan knew to be patient. If they came for Marrowdell’s magic, he’d find out before the eclipse. Captain Ash would.

  The truthseer kept his expression pleasant. He’d missed something, taking his eyes away to dwell on Jenn Nalynn. “Pardon?”

  “I asked your opinion of our truce,” the dema repeated.

  “‘Freedom from conflict, however it happens, is the great step forward,’” Bannan said, shamelessly quoting the beekeeper. “I’m sure those in the marches were glad of peace.”

  “The ‘marches?’ Oh, that local trouble,” Qimirpik blithely dismissed years of conflict and death. Ancestors save him from cloistered academics, Bannan thought, his smile freezing in place. “The area near Mondir’s been unsettled far too long,” the dema went on, this to the Eld.

  The truthseer couldn’t stop his frown. “‘Mondir?’”

  “Vorkoun, you Rhothans called it.” The dema wiggled his thick fingers. “Her proper name’s been restored.”

  Dusom interrupted with something about locating the wagons.

  They’d taken away his city’s name. His home’s. Somehow, more than the stink of Ansnan cattle, more than Qimirpik’s smug face, more than memory, that shook him to his core. Hearts of Every Ancestor, he was Beholden Tir wasn’t here, listening to this. He’d stayed back with Scourge to watch for any more surprises this day, reluctantly letting Bannan play scout.

  “Now, dema. Vorkoun remains the name north of the Lilem,” Urcet corrected. “Mondir will refer to the portion on the river’s southerly bank, the part of the city built by Ansnans.”

  The south had better plumbing, Bannan thought numbly. Everyone knew it. Better plumbing but crooked roads.

  The north . . . the Larmensu estate, now Lila’s. The Westietas holdings. Vorkoun still.

  Did the Ansnans expect him to be grateful?

  “Are you coming?”

  Heart’s Blood, he’d been careless again. “Ready if you are,” he said quickly. The wagons were about to head to the fields; a fair guess Dusom meant to join the others.

  But the eldest Uhthoff had something else in mind. “Excellent. Urcet, Qimirpik, I’m sure the Spine will offer the best overall view of the valley.”

  When Dusom had pointed out the treacherous hill earlier, the truthseer’d thought it was merely to name it. “You mean to go up there? Now?” He stared at Dusom in disbelief.

  “We’ve time for a quick trip,” the villager argued, misunderstanding.

  He couldn’t allow this, he wouldn’t, but how . . . “Surely you’d prefer to rest, good dema?” Bannan said. “The Northward’s a hard road.” He smiled his best smile. “It’s not as if the hill’s going anywhere.”

  “Truly said,” Qimirpik agreed with a sigh. “I confess I’m exhausted, friend Dusom, and doubtless there’ll be some fuss or other setting up the wagons before any of us can rest.” He waggled his fingers at the servant who waited patiently by the oxen, bell tucked safely in his belt.

  Had the man bravely smote a dragon in his master’s defense, or struck a helpless cripple? Both, Bannan thought, deciding to be wary of him. As for Wyll, well, the dragon neither wanted nor needed his pity.

  Urcet, who’d raised his gold-lidded eyes eagerly to the Spine, hid any disappointment well. “Indeed, dema. I should check the instruments after the journey. Tomorrow will be soon enough, thank you.”

  Too soon, in Bannan’s opinion, but he’d done his best for now.

  Dusom bowed his head. “As you wish. I do insist, good Qimirpik, that you be rested before tonight’s feast. It should be splendid. Bannan here,” with a look that warned the truthseer the other hadn’t missed a thing and would have questions to ask in private, “provided the fine meat.”

  As if he’d come all this way to feed Ansnans. Bannan gave one of the short village bows in acknowledgment. “Until the evening, then.”

  “Until then.”

  He pulled away, not sorry to see Dusom bound for the mill; much as he respected the Marrowdell scholar, he was in no mood to discuss the Spine. Not with another man.

  It was a topic for a dragon.

  The first thing Jenn noticed, upon entering the tinker’s tent and putting down the quilts, was that Riss Nahamm had cut her lovely hair.

  Riss knelt on the red trading mat between Frann and Lorra, facing Mistress Sand. Samples and fabrics lay in colorful heaps, with more bursting from open sacks along the walls of the tent, and the three older women pored over their choices. They’d brought their own creations to trade, left by the open flap that was the tent door. Later, in another tent, Clay and Tooth would spread their tools, the former sharpening blades and mending pots, the latter working leather.

  Jenn used to wonder what it’d be like to sleep in a room whose walls and ceiling billowed with every breeze, that spread light as evenly as snow. She and Peggs had done their best once with sheets; Aunt Sybb had caught them and made them do laundry a day early.

  She didn’t wonder why Riss had cut her hair.

  The shorn ends protruded beneath the scarf she’d put over her head and tied beneath her chin. They curled and twisted, as though they’d fought the shears. Riss had worn her lovely hair like a cloak for him; whether Uncle Horst had told her he was leaving or Marrowdell spilled another secret, it was clear she’d do so no longer.

  Numbly, Jenn exchanged nods with Wen and Cynd, who were setting out pottery for the tinkers’ consideration; Riss’ needlework lay as if dropped.

  “Sweetling. I wondered when you’d have time for me. Here,” Mistress Sand patted the mat to her left, Kaj having curled in a disinterested lump to her right. “Save me from these wicked women. They’ll take all I have and leave me poor.”

  Frann laughed. “You’ll do the same to us, Sand.” She’d come in behind Jenn and sat at once, her flute by her side, as if the evening’s music couldn’t come soon enough, though the men were to leave for the fields and wouldn’t be back till—

  Sunset. Jenn dropped down beside the tinker, her mouth suddenly dry.

  “Now, what did I put aside for my Sweetling . . .” Mistress Sand tossed tea cozies and brilliant shawls and lengths of lace up in the air as she searched, the woven gloves covering her own arms and hands catching Jenn’s attention.

  If she wore such protection, would her fingers stay with her during sunset?

  “Do you have any gloves?” she asked, then blushed. “I don’t mean to be rude—”

  The tinker looked curious, not offended, and rocked back on her heels, arms folded across her chest. “Last I looked, young Jenn, it was summer. But,” with her bold laugh, “never too early, is it na? Once I’m done with these fine ladies, I’ll see what I have.”

  Lorra and Frann chuckled, their faces glowing. One love they shared was trade and, though hardly young anymore, gladly climbed aboard Davi’s cart each fall to attend what they called Endshere’s quaint little fair.

  Which must be bigger than Marrowdell’s, since this tent and mat was its sum.

  Jenn realized she was still cross, and did her best not to be, but she needed to find Wyll, not be here. Being here alone would have been fine, but not with the others from the village, all keenly interested in gossip. Wen wasn’t, but Wen was like the tent. Here and interesting in her own way, but apart.

  Although being here, even with the others, was the perfect way to avoid Bannan Larmensu, who’d be leaving with the rest for the fields and safely gone for the day. Of course, for all she knew, he was avoiding her too. Why not?

  He’d seen what she’d become.

  She wasted time, being here, and there was little left before she’d be needed to take lunch to the fields, then help in the mill, and by then it’d be the feast when everyone would gather in a great noisy mass.

  And now Riss had cut her hair. She sat still and too quiet, her eyes downcast. She looked so alone, Jenn ached for her.

  “Sweetling na? I asked what news.”
>
  Pinned by the tinker’s bright gaze, Jenn froze. “‘News?’” she echoed faintly.

  Sand laughed. “How quiet na? When I’ve heard such already! My my my.” Each “my” was punctuated by the click of tongue to teeth. “I was surprised to meet the handsome new farmer.” Her wink made Jenn blush. “I come here, and, la!, there are travelers from such amazing places. Then these fine ladies tell me of not one, but—how many weddings na?”

  “Four,” Lorra proclaimed, giving her silent, unwed daughter an exasperated look.

  Three, Jenn knew about. “‘Four?’” She glanced uncertainly at Riss, who sat still and staring down at the fabrics.

  “Yours and Peggs’,” Frann said cheerfully.

  Which was two.

  “The Ancestors smile on a Golden Day wedding.” The words had trouble passing Lorra’s gritted teeth. Wen smiled vaguely at her mother, then went back to arranging cups in a neat row. Cynd carefully didn’t turn, but Jenn could see her dimpled cheek.

  “Tsk, Lorra Treff. You make it sound ominous.” Frann chuckled. “Jenn, the twins are marrying too. Gallie’s convinced Palma to marry her Allin again and—” she paused for effect.

  Lorra leapt in. “Our Hettie’s settled on Tadd Emms,” this with decided satisfaction. “There’s naught but the Morrill boys left.”

  Wen’s gray eyes touched hers with an unspoken message, so Jenn didn’t mention Wainn Uhthoff, though it wasn’t kind of Lorra to omit him. Mistress Sand hadn’t mentioned Wyll, but that was just as well. He’d warned her she wouldn’t like what she heard. Jenn smoothed her skirt and voice. “Four weddings. How marvelous!” she said, and meant it. “Aunt Sybb says the more weddings share the dance, the better the dancing.”

  Riss thrust herself to her feet. “Take what you want of what I brought, Sand. I’ve no love of it.” As she turned to leave, Jenn was stunned by the look on her face. She’d expected sadness, not fury.

  “Tell me about your wedding dress, Sweetling,” Mistress Sand said, ever able to move past an awkward moment. “I’m sure I’ve something to go with it.”

  “Frann knows best,” Jenn suggested, and that lady, who’d taken apart three dresses to make Jenn’s and Peggs’, needed no more encouragement to launch happily into a detailed description of flounces and darts.

  Jenn herself only half-listened, her thoughts still on those who weren’t happy at all, which was a mistake. A hearty laugh warned her the topic was no longer dresses, but what was under them. And worse. She snapped to attention as Mistress Sand said, “You’ve the truth of it, Lorra. Anyone can dance at a wedding. It’s what comes after that makes it worthwhile.”

  All three were looking at her, not lace, Lorra and Frann nodding solemnly. Heat roared into Jenn’s cheeks and she hastily got to her feet. “Couldn’t agree more. Your pardon, Mistress Sand. I should help Peggs with lunch.”

  “Don’t bond for life till you’re sure of the plumbing,” Frann pronounced. “That’s what I say.” The others nodded again.

  She meant Wyll. She meant Wyll, who was as good and whole a person as anyone could be who’d started as a dragon and a broken one at that. He’d shown her his body, hadn’t he, scars and healthy manhood both, which wasn’t, Jenn thought, now thoroughly flustered, what she wanted to think about Wyll right now, in front of this too-interested audience. He was her friend. He loved her.

  The rest blurred into some unimaginable future, beyond the Great Turn and Golden Day and her birthday. They’d deal with it, she told herself. “I’m marrying Wyll,” Jenn declared. “I love him.”

  “That one na? You’d have to care for him all your life,” Mistress Sand said, her face abruptly stern. “Pity’s no reason to marry.”

  “I don’t pity Wyll!”

  More nods and shared looks. “She has far better prospects,” Lorra stated, as if Jenn wasn’t there listening. “This Bannan, for one. He’s shown interest, Mistress Sand, and I’d say it’s mutual. There have,” in tone suggestive of more, “been letters.”

  “‘Letters,’” Frann echoed, wagging her eyebrows.

  Was nothing private in Marrowdell? “I wrote Wyll,” Jenn said defensively. “He lives with Bannan, who’s also new to Marrowdell, so it was only polite to write him too.”

  “A fine thing, the manners you’ve learned from your lady aunt,” Mistress Sand soothed, then she chuckled. “But you underestimate yourself, Sweetling. I’ve heard from this Bannan’s own charming mouth of his love in the village, a love he hasn’t seen for days. Who else but you na? Tell us. It’s not only his mouth that’s charming, is it na?”

  A mouth she’d almost kissed. Jenn shook her head desperately, hoping to rattle sense into it. “I hadn’t noticed,” she retorted. Though he’d smelled wonderful and . . . “I really must go.”

  “Ancestors Delicious and Delightful, that’s a man well put together,” Lorra praised. “Almost as fine as my Davi.”

  “And a truthseer,” Frann added with unfortunate enthusiasm.

  Silence filled the tent.

  There it was. Bannan had wanted to judge for himself if the tinkers should know; she should have warned him nothing stayed secret in Marrowdell. Filled with misgiving, Jenn looked at Mistress Sand.

  Who, for a heartbeat, seemed someone else altogether. Someone cold and strange and angry. Jenn held her breath, hoping not to be seen.

  Herself again, Mistress Sand smiled and tilted her head like a curious bird. “And what truths does Bannan Larmensu see na?”

  She had to protect him. She didn’t know how, or why she believed it, but Jenn knew Bannan had been right to fear discovery. The tinkers were her friends and Marrowdell’s; they weren’t Wyll’s. And not Bannan’s.

  But before she could think of what to say, Wen came to stand behind her mother, her hair wild, her face tranquil, and spoke. “He sees me.”

  Jenn blinked; Frann gasped. Lorra Treff twisted on the mat to stare at Wen, soundlessly mouthing her daughter’s name as if she was now speechless, and Cynd dropped a blue-glazed cup that bounced on the mat floor of the tent.

  Mistress Sand pursed her red lips, the hint of a frown wrinkling her forehead. “Does he na?”

  “Wainn likes Bannan,” Wen continued in her dreamy voice. “As do I.” Her light gaze fell on Jenn. “As do you.”

  She couldn’t deny it if she’d wanted to, not once Wen Treff set them between the truthseer and harm. “Bannan’s a good person and kind,” Jenn said carefully. “Marrowdell’s better for having him in it. And his friend Tir,” she added, for no reason but to have everything and everyone in the open.

  “Well.” Mistress Sand slapped her thighs and laughed. “With all this liking and new faces, tonight’s feast will be interesting indeed.”

  Just as Jenn began to relax, the tinker’s eyes met hers and they weren’t eyes, but glowing pits, like her mouth, lit from within . . .

  Which wasn’t right. Mistress Sand was her friend, her dear friend. Jenn stared back, determined to see the red lips and sparkling blue eyes she remembered, insisting . . .

  And did. Sparkling blue, thoroughly cold. “My, my my,” Mistress Sand said, clicking her tongue. “Interesting indeed.”

  While in the background, Lorra stood before her daughter, arms outstretched, and tried to say her name.

  The blow had cracked something in the shoulder, that pain nothing to the hurt of the girl’s radiant smile, aimed at the turn-born in their disguise.

  Avoided by the others, equally glad to avoid them, Wyll found quiet and shade to one side of the gate, where a hitching post offered support. He leaned there and made himself watch, absently healing the bone. He endured as Jenn Nalynn ran into the open arms of first Sand, then Riverstone, while all around villagers poured past the caravan to clasp hands and pat shoulders. Even Roche seemed at ease with the tinkers and pressed forward, though he didn’t speak.

  The turn-born dared touch her, fondle her hair, claim her as friend, and all the while wish her dead.

  Not all, of course, or no
t all at the same time, since Jenn Nalynn lived. True to their nature, the turn-born bickered and interfered with one another’s expectations.

  The dragon stirred at a thought. If not all . . .

  Then who? Who among these turn-born favored her continued existence? Was there one among them who might prove an ally?

  A desperate thought, but was he not desperate? The visitors the turn-born had warned against, his duty to keep out, stood in the midst of Marrowdell as welcomed guests. Like wind over a wing, they’d slipped his guard.

  What guard? the dragon raged to himself. He’d let himself be distracted by home-making and letters. Appeased the villagers by abandoning his post, passed his duty to his old enemy. He should have known the kruar would fail too.

  At the last possible moment, yes, he’d done what little he could. Sent dust up their noses.

  Pathetic.

  Leaving the turn-born to take matters into their own hands. Life had hung on a silk in that moment, twisting this way, then back. The villagers hadn’t felt it start; the old kruar, who had some sense, had wrinkled his muzzle and given the sky a worried look as the air grew rank with menace.

  No knowing what the turn-born willed, only that it was against those who’d breached Marrowdell’s gate. Then, like a candle flame touched by breath, the threat had sputtered and was gone. Thwarted by Jenn Nalynn.

  Proof she’d changed. Her expectations were no longer unaware longings. She’d learned of herself while he wrote letters from a ruined book and collected seeds that became ash. She’d come into power on her own.

  He shouldn’t be proud of her. The turn-born could well come to agreement now, to end her life. They might not be wrong.

  Nonetheless, the dragon smiled.

  “There you are.” Having no respect for space, Bannan leaned against the same post. “I doubt anything will happen before tonight.” He nodded toward the crowd in the commons. “It’ll take time to sort that out, then we’re off to the fields.”