Wyll shrugged his good shoulder. “Any harm they intend waits for the Great Turn.”
“The eclipse.” The man nodded. “What happens then?”
“Light from the Verge spills into Marrowdell. To avoid being seen, the small ones will conceal themselves, as they do at a turn.” If they could, Wyll thought restlessly. What rightly belonged in the Verge had its way of hiding from all but its light. The little cousins, like kruar, could seem less or other than they were; ylings sewed such magic into their cloaks. Nyphrit? The wicked things lurked in shadows by preference.
Like efflet, dragons wrapped themselves in the light of this world to vanish. When he’d wanted to amuse or distract the girl, he’d permitted her glimpses of his real self. A self now gone. “They should be safe,” he finished.
“You aren’t sure,” the truthseer guessed.
“After the last Great Turn,” Wyll said slowly, “the small ones were abandoned here. I don’t know if any now live who remember. I don’t know how much they understand if so.” He must speak to the little cousins. Warn them to hide.
Above all, warn them to stay as far as they could from any trapped ones. Should the worst happen, some might survive.
What was he thinking? Wyll snarled to himself. He couldn’t save them. He couldn’t save anyone.
“And you?”
He didn’t matter. “I’m a man, fool.”
Bannan turned his head, staring with unwelcome intensity.
“A man,” Wyll insisted, snarling aloud when the other half-smiled.
Whatever he saw or imagined, the truthseer wisely left well enough alone. “The dema and Urcet plan to view the eclipse from there.” He pointed toward his farm and the Spine looming beyond, his face now grim. “What would they gain? It’s not safe, that path,” he continued. “I’ve seen it. Felt it. What’s there, Wyll, worth the risk?”
The dragon showed his teeth. “The Wound. A trap for turn-born.” He considered the man, then said the rest. “A crossing, for those able.”
“Into the Verge.” Bannan shook his head with wonder. “Ancestors Witness, these men have no magic. I swear to you.”
“They have knowledge and belief.” Wyll shifted, uncomfortable with the thought, never comfortable in this skin. Or in his own, truth be it. “Magic can be found here. Jenn Nalynn mustn’t,” with fierce emphasis, “be allowed near them. Or the Spine. Especially during the Great Turn.”
“Heart’s Blood.” Though pale, Bannan gave a resolute nod. “Agreed. You’ll have to tell her why, Wyll. The truth; all of it. About herself, about this place. It should come from you.”
“I am closest to her heart,” the dragon agreed, smug. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, truthseer. Not that you were ever my rival.” It was important the man know his place.
The man chuckled, which was disconcerting. “We can discuss that another time, my friend. What matters is Jenn stays safe.”
“It won’t be easy,” Wyll admitted reluctantly. “She doesn’t care to be told what to do. In that, Jenn Nalynn is very much a turn-born.”
The truthseer’s lips quirked. “You could try explaining yourself.”
Better still, he could lock Jenn Nalynn in the truthseer’s new larder and leave her there until the Great Turn was done for this lifetime.
“She has to know,” Bannan insisted. “All of it.”
Wyll growled.
“Good,” as if he’d agreed. “I’ll leave it to you.”
Man and dragon stopped to watch the commotion as the well-bred Ansnan oxen, realizing they were about to be pastured near the tinkers’ horses, bellowed in protest. As they did their powerful utmost to turn and leave, the kruar, harnessed to now-empty wagons, snarled and stamped their opinion. Villagers and tinkers scrambled out of the way. Finally, discretion won and the oxen were unhitched and led, in haste, from the commons.
Bannan shook his head. “Heart’s Blood, what is it about kruar and cattle?”
For all Wyll knew or cared, kruar mares threatened to turn their foals into the mindless things if they didn’t behave. “There are none in our world.”
“Your world. The Verge.” The truthseer seemed to taste the words. “I’d like to see it.”
Curious to a fault. “A pointless desire,” Wyll said, amused despite himself. “The Verge isn’t soft and peaceful like Marrowdell. You’d be killed and eaten. Or eaten alive. Though most likely you’d go mad. Then,” he finished kindly, “be eaten.”
“Is that so?” Bannan grinned, but didn’t seem to expect an answer. He straightened. “Time to go. While I’m in the fields, Tir and Scourge will watch the village. I assume you’ll stay and wait for Jenn?” A humorless smile. “While watching our new friends.”
“I will.” He would watch and wait, though while all others had been distracted by the cattle, the girl had slipped from the commons and gone home. She would be back. She always came back.
Wyll foresaw a problem. “The villagers may try to send me away again.” Anger rumbled in his chest. “This time, I won’t allow it.”
“Oh, all’s forgiven,” Bannan assured him. “Horst and Radd let it be known you were protecting the village from strangers.”
Wyll was nonplussed. “Why would they do that?”
“Because they love Jenn Nalynn.” The bewildering man took a step away, then turned abruptly. A stride brought him back, to stand too close.
Worse, Bannan Larmensu placed his highly unwelcome hand on Wyll’s good shoulder and bent to put their eyes on a level.
“And because I love her, dragon, I’ll tell you something about hearts. Stop your worrying. I don’t want your place in hers. I couldn’t take it if I did. All I want, more than life, is my own.” Fingers pressed and let go before he could snarl and break free. “There. I’ve said it.”
Only then did Bannan walk away to join the others of his kind, as if satisfied he’d made perfect sense.
Wyll gave a violent shrug; only the girl’s touch would he tolerate.
Only she had the right.
He settled back against the post, eyes half closed, to worry all he pleased.
TWENTY-ONE
SHE’D WANTED TO see what Bannan saw, the wonders Marrowdell hid from ordinary folk.
What a fool she’d been. Now Marrowdell changed before her eyes and nothing could be trusted, not even old friends. She was afraid to look anywhere, at anyone.
Jenn reached blindly for the kettlepot, only to have Peggs shout, “Stop!” and push aside her hand before it touched the hot metal lid. “Here.” Her sister gave her a rag and sharp look. “What happened with Mistress Sand?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”
She whispered because they weren’t alone. At the counter, Palma deftly filled cloth-lined buckets with bread bowls, hollowed from loaves and still warm. Riss, who no longer seemed angry but whose slaughtered hair drew worried second looks from everyone, added spoons, gathered from every household, to baskets of apples and sweet rolls. There’d be tea, hot and dark, for those who wanted it, but no honey or cream. Lunch in the field would be practical fare, quick to eat and hearty, and everyone helped.
Including Old Jupp, enlisted to sit in the Nalynn parlor with little Loee on his lap. Having relinquished his ear trumpet for a toy, he couldn’t hear a word they said.
The rest could. “Nothing,” Jenn whispered back. “I’m fine.” She wasn’t, not at all, but what could even the best sister in the world do when the world itself refused to stay safe? Louder, “The smell alone will bring them running.”
A thick stew bubbled in the massive kettlepot. Jenn gave it a final stir, then replaced the lid and ran a stave through each of the thick handles. She took hold of her ends and gave a nod.
Peggs took hold of the others. “Coming through,” she called, and everyone moved out of their way as the sisters lifted the heavy pot and carried it out the kitchen door.
The barrow waited outside, its open middle sized for the kettlepot. Zehr had made two of the labor-saving d
evices, one for the Nalynns and one for the Ropps. Hettie and Covie would be loading theirs too. The Treffs were busy with tonight’s preparations.
Jenn wondered distractedly if poor Lorra had regained her voice, or if Wen had once more abandoned hers. She supposed she could ask a house toad, but she’d not seen one since the newcomers entered the village.
Though they would be scarce with the harvest, wise to avoid being underfoot when so many feet were in motion. Even Aunt Sybb who, well-rested for the first harvest anyone could recall, had stirred to pack lunches for those at the mill, causing a minor commotion when she’d insisted she could deliver the heavy pails herself. Tir, sufficiently scandalized to have the Lady Mahavar make his meal, had taken the pails from her, brooking no argument. Tooth and Dusom would bring their lunch with them, the grain wagon being expected shortly.
And shortly, those in the field would have theirs.
Jenn and Peggs pushed their barrow, with Palma and Riss close behind, down to the road and along it. A stalks wagon stood outside the Emms’ barn, a rakeful on its way up, Cynd leading Aunt Sybb’s bays, Gallie pulling the rope to steer the load. Allin leaned out of the loft door to guide it through, bared to the waist and already drenched with sweat.
“So you can work hard!” Palma shouted with a laugh. He waved, smiling broadly.
Jenn smiled too, happy for them. She’d miss Allin; they all would. The couple vowed to visit as often as the inn and weather permitted.
Just as well, she thought, smile faltering. Endshere could be the moon, for all the hope she’d go there.
Dema Qimirpik and Urcet claimed themselves most content to stay out of the way and rest from their journey, though as Jenn helped push the barrow through the commons gate, it looked as though their rest had consisted thus far of separating their wagons, hanging striped awnings over the windows of the larger two, and removing the arched roof from the smallest. A brass telescope now sat exposed and sparkling on a broad geared base, with other apparatus taking up most of what she’d wrongly assumed was the servants’ living quarters.
And the person she wrongly assumed to be one of those servants still at work proved to be Wyll, busy poking his fingers into what clearly was instrumentation of the latest design. Instrumentation that would be costly, easily damaged, and not, Jenn thought in panic, for a dragon to poke.
“Go,” Peggs suggested, taking the other handle.
Riss came to help, shifting her basket to a hip. “We’ll manage.”
“What’s wrong?” Palma asked.
As Jenn hurried to save the telescope, she heard her sister explaining to Allin’s new bride how Wyll was special.
Oh, there was no doubt of that.
The sun shone, the sky was an impossible blue, and Marrowdell’s red-gold fields stretched out, ready to harvest.
As planned.
Bannan Larmensu paused to wipe sweat from his forehead and lean on his pitchfork, admiring the work of the turn-born.
Four wagons and teams, a driver and arranger in each. Five men in the rows, pitching. They worked the field nearest the village first, so the livestock could be let out of the orchard as soon as possible. No one had hesitated to set foot between the tall stalks, meaning the grains’ lethal guardians had either fled or agreed to permit such trespass; Bannan had followed, doing his best to look nonchalant.
Three wagons for the stalks: Wainn drove Davi’s team, grinning through the dust that masked all their faces in short order, with Kydd in the back arranging the dried stalks with his ’fork; the tinkers, Fieldstone and Clay drove their wagons, with Zehr and Anten in back. Davi had explained to Bannan, as he was new to their life, that despite a resemblance to straw, these stalks were nutritious and palatable. Yet another gift from Marrowdell.
The fourth wagon was for grain, being lined with canvas. Flint drove its team, Chalk in back to rake the grain level as it fell.
Harvest in Marrowdell. Ordinary stuff, Bannan thought, until you were part of it. Oh, then the strangeness showed. He lifted his next forkful of grain-heavy stalks and, as he’d been shown, tossed it in the air above the grain wagon.
The hard seeds rained onto the canvas, any chaff lifting away in a breeze. The same unfailing and courteous wind tumbled the now-barren stalks over the wagon to fall in a row; sweet and dry, and as ready to store as the grain was ready to mill. On the far side, big Davi and Horst pitched the fallen stalks from the ground into the waiting wagon.
The most remarkable part, Bannan decided, was that the harvest needed them at all.
The stalk wagons filled quickest, so as the first left, the third rolled behind the second, ready to take its place. In the village, the stalks, Marrowdell’s “hay,” would be raised into lofts.
There’d be no stopping until just before sunset. The tinkers, according to Kydd, spent that time secluded in their tents, for what they called their “Observance.” The kruar, no doubt, would find their own way to be out of sight during the turn. Clever.
“Water?”
Taking the filled dipper, Bannan smiled gratefully at Alyssa. “My thanks.” The girl and her brother ran water to the men and teams, a trip that would lengthen as they worked farther from the river and closer to the forest at the base of the Fingers, the aptly named Bone Hills to the north.
Across the valley from the Spine.
From here, it looked harmless, beautiful, in fact. The massive lumps of ivory stone gave it greater height than the other hills; the surrounding expanse of open meadow lent an almost majestic glow. He could trace the path up by gaps in the trees, see how it rose, folding on itself once, twice, thrice, nowhere too steep to climb.
Nowhere safe. Bannan frowned, thinking of the foul miasma staining the road that night, the pull of it once he’d paid attention. Jenn Nalynn had climbed to the top and returned. Had she been protected by innocence? By magic? Or was it simply that even malice slept, and luck was sometimes luck?
Whatever it had been, he couldn’t believe she’d be safe a second time. As for the Ansnans—
“Ancestors Pricked and Poked.” Roche tossed his forkful over the wagon with a grunt. “Must have been a good lay, to put you ahead of your brother.”
Tadd Emms, to Bannan’s right, turned crimson. “Heart’s Blood, Roche—”
True to form, Roche had wasted no time spreading the news among the men that not only was Hettie with child, but she’d asked Tadd to wed her and be its father. Bannan put muscle into his next toss, trying to ignore the pair . . .
“And a baby on the way. Not mine. I’d have obliged, but she’d have none of me,” Roche sneered. “Can’t be sure whose it is, can you?”
The truthseer intercepted Tadd’s furious charge with a hand to the younger man’s chest, then looked over his shoulder at Roche. “It won’t be pleasant, working with a gag in your mouth,” he warned. “Control your gift, or that’s what you’ll have.”
“‘Gift?’” Roche spat. “What are you, old man? This is no gift.”
Feeling Tadd ease back, Bannan nodded to the wagon and the not-so-patient Chalk. “Keep working.”
Roche tossed his forkful with such fury that half landed on the tinkers’ team, earning him a baleful look from the kruar. Tadd shook his head, but the truthseer, out of patience, stepped close. “Shut up and listen,” he ordered in a low voice. Though sullen-faced, Roche obeyed. “You’ve been given a chance to change for the better. To become a man whose word’s trusted, who can’t be influenced to lie by others. Can you grasp what I’m telling you?” Bannan let his exasperation show. “Ancestors Witness, are you worth the trouble?”
The younger man kept his mouth closed with an effort that made his entire body shake and managed a single pleading nod.
The power of Jenn Nalynn, to wish this on him; Bannan almost shuddered. “It won’t be easy,” he said in a gentler tone, knowing better than make promises where magic was concerned. “I know you, Roche, better than you think. You’ve lied your whole life, to yourself as much as anyone else. Now
you’re choking on truths that want to spew forth like bile.”
Something began to shine in Roche’s eyes.
“Learn to govern your tongue. If you can’t, start a new life where you know no one’s secret and no one knows you. Live well, and the truth will become your strength, not your weakness.”
Tadd had moved up to them. He’d listened and now regarded Roche grimly. “If he can’t stay here, Bannan, he’s nowhere to go. Endshere. Weken. Everyone knows Roche.” He shook his head. “You idiot.”
They should listen to Jenn Nalynn, who knew the world was a wider place, but Bannan held his peace. Roche shrugged, then gave a determined nod. He’d try, that said.
Meanwhile, there was a field to harvest, and none of them free till it was done.
The truthseer glanced over his shoulder. The village was out of sight behind the tall hedge. Above, the sky was cloudless, the air like a warm caress on the skin.
He’d done what he thought best, for Jenn Nalynn.
Now, it was up to the dragon.
The telescope was not only a marvel, it proved beyond doubt what Master Dusom had said, that Qimirpik and Urcet were astronomers. They’d introduced themselves to the tinkers as such, going on to include the two demini, the servants, who turned out to be the dema’s students as well. Jenn wasn’t sure what the distinction might be, since Kanajuq and Panilaq were surely too old to still be at their studies. Or to be servants, for that matter, though the silent pair went quickly about their tasks.
The dema had introduced the odemini next, these being, as far as Jenn could tell without actually touching one, dolls the size of Cheffy. With the curtains open, they stared from the largest wagon; it felt like staring though their faces were hidden by pleated veils. They wore robes like the dema’s and weren’t toys, since the dema named them as solemnly as he’d named the servants. Seven, Six, and Five.
Mistress Sand had laughed behind her hand.
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