Take her pebble? A chill wind shifted the curtain and rattled the pots behind her. Jenn bit her lower lip, fighting her outrage. The air warmed and she briefly closed her eyes in relief.
“Thank you, Dear Heart. Good sirs, two biscuits surely. Some of the fruit. I insist. A most beneficial start to the day.” Then, as Peggs came back around the curtain, “So I take it what you would do here has not been approved by either of your peoples. Why,” Aunt Sybb asked with deceptive ease, “should we?”
“We mean no harm—” the dema began.
“I’m no fool,” her tone sharpened. “I fear you may well be. If this magic of yours works, what’s to say it won’t bring a second catastrophe to Marrowdell?”
“If you believe—and we do not—” Qimirpik emphasized, “—that the rite cast by the demas of the Refuge was in any way responsible, be reassured, Lady Mahavar, please. That they made such an attempt is anathema to all Ansnans.” He blew out a quick hard breath. “Never, never, would we do so. May the Celestials witness and judge. All I seek is the Tear and, in all honesty, I seek it to satisfy my own curiosity concerning its nature.”
“While I share no gods with my esteemed colleague,” Urcet added smoothly, “the rite we wish to perform is a simple finding spell, attuned to what we’ve learned of the Tear. Cast at the eclipse, far from the village, and at the highest point we can reach. It will be utterly harmless.”
If they believed any magic harmless, it proved how little they knew. If hers could so easily get out of control, their rite could as well. Jenn doubted either of them had any idea what their magic would do, only that they hoped it would do something.
Worse, she suspected what Urcet wanted wasn’t the same as the dema. Qimirpik, other than being a foreign person of different beliefs and a little bewildering at times, she judged overall a pleasant and decent sort. The Eld? Urcet, she feared, was after an accomplishment to impress his domain. For that, he wouldn’t settle for a stone. He’d want whatever power could tear down the Refuge and fill people with magic.
The pebble was hers. It wasn’t selfish, but true.
Her eyes met Peggs. They nodded as one.
The dema and Urcet mustn’t do any magic in Marrowdell.
The only magic, Jenn resolved, would be hers.
Before dawn, the commons filled with the bustle of those making ready to harvest the first of the two fields on the far side of river. Wyll being still buried in blankets and the tinkers not in sight, Bannan and Tir took advantage of a communal porridge pot left on the table by the gate, helping themselves as well to tea and honey. They took this welcome bounty to a bench from last night.
When done, Tir gave a satisfied grunt. “Ancestors Kind and Generous, they feed us well, sir. I made sure to tell your sister. Speaking of sisters . . .” He produced a rumpled envelope. “Care to read what yours said to me?”
Bannan regarded his friend over the rim of his cup. “Not particularly.”
“I can read it to you.”
“Don’t bother.”
Replacing his mask only emphasized the mischief dancing in Tir’s eyes. “But there’s an entire page on your taste in women. Sir. And in such language!”
“Heart’s Blood!” The truthseer half rose to his feet, then sat back down and made himself go on more calmly. “I’m in no mood for commentary. Hers or yours.” He rubbed the back of his head and managed a rueful smile. “At least Lila didn’t order you to drag me back.” Though he wouldn’t have been surprised.
The mischief became something darker. “I wish she had.”
“Too late.” Bannan put a hand on Tir’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re with me, old friend.”
Blue eyes narrowed. “Someone’s to make sure you don’t go doing anything stupid. Sir.” Then gleamed. “Not on your own.”
“I appreciate that.”
The former guard stood. “I’m for the mill.”
Bannan nodded. “Keep watch.”
“Oh, I always do, sir.” Tir gave a grim laugh. “Tho’ here, I’m never sure what for, one day to the next.”
“Trust the toads.”
Tir stared at him, then left, muttering under his breath about proper watchdogs and what was wrong with cats?
Bannan pulled out his own envelope. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he held the precious thing in his hands as he gazed across the river. Dawn’s blush had reached the mounds of the Spine, painting one side a pretty pink, leaving the other drenched in black. “Ah, Lila,” he whispered. “I wish you were here, too.”
He’d read her letter by the light of a turn-born’s lamp, before falling asleep beside a dragon.
He pulled it out, and read it again.
From Baroness Westietas, Lila Marerrym Larmensu, of Vorkoun
To Bannan Marerrym Larmensu, of Marrowdell
Little Brother, if this reaches you unsealed, by all means cut something important from the person who gave it to you or I will. With a dull knife.
Salutations
So now you’re a farmer.
You never did grasp the difference between a weed and a flower. Or a sword and scythe. Be careful with the tools. The north’s no place to chop off a foot.
Can’t say I saw that coming, you settling on the land. Thought you’d wind up a magistrate or librarian. The family could use a librarian. Suppose there’s time for that yet. I’ll send the books you’ve requested but one. Hard as it is to believe, there’s not another copy of Talnern’s Last Quest in all of Rhoth. You have appalling taste, little Brother.
But the best of companions. Don’t tell Tir I said so. His letter? Ancestors Treacherous and True, it was a masterpiece of guile and blunt speech.Be careful of that man. I was almost afraid to respond lest he think I was proposing.
Dragons, is it?
Bannan snorted and shook his head.
It’ll interest you then they’ve been in my dreams of late. Impolite creatures. Flying through walls. Coming up through carpets. Speaking—shouting—not that I understand, but I know somehow they speak. Deadly things. Beautiful. Wild. I’d be smitten if they didn’t look liable to eat the boys.
Gifts of yours, little Brother? I’d be glad to know they’re real. This world could use dragons.
As for this Jenn Nalynn. Don’t try to fool me. We’re both very good at protecting what matters most to us. I read your truly incredible descriptions of this woman. Heart’s Blood. Did you think I wouldn’t see the shape of what’s missing? She’s not safe to love. Not a rival. Something about her.
Tell me, little Brother. If I see her in a dream, will I be afraid or glad?
Do you even know?
There was more. About the family, about Vorkoun. A new invention of Emon’s. She’d ended with “Give Scourge something bloody for me.”
“Do I know?” Bannan asked himself, then gave a sure nod, putting away the letter and getting to his feet. Jenn Nalynn would never be something his sister should fear.
He put his dishes with Tir’s in the bucket of soapy water by the table, bowed once in the direction of the Nalynn home, then went to the commons.
The tinkers were hard at work already; five tinkers, not seven. Bannan guessed Flint and Chalk had crossed the ford while they’d been at breakfast and looked for them down the road, but they were already out of sight. They searched for Jenn Nalynn’s pebble where he couldn’t. If they succeeded, she’d become one of them in truth.
Ancestors Witness, she couldn’t know what that meant; none of them could. She’d lost hope, that was all. He’d hope for her.
And more. Bannan walked briskly up the small slope to the caravan. The curtains were open, the three odemini staring out. Ignoring the dolls, he went around to the back of the largest wagon. “Fair morning,” he called, rapping on the door.
The only response was a choked sort of snore from underneath. The truthseer bent down to find the source. Panilaq lay on a heap of blankets, her mouth agape, with Kanajuq sprawled over her legs. The pair appeared more unconscious than aslee
p. “Sweet dreams,” Bannan told them as he stood.
He lifted the brass door latch, toyed with it a moment, then let it fall. No use rifling through their things until he knew what he sought. That meant a conversation. Unfortunately, the harvest would keep him busy—and across the river—for the day. He’d have to wait for the evening meal, an awkward time to try and get the dema to himself, but it might be his last chance. If Horst was right about Marrowdell and the nightmares, the newcomers could be forced to leave.
If Scourge was right about the Wound and what fed . . .
Hope, he reminded himself.
The truthseer returned to those gathering, drawn to join Dusom and Davi by the smith’s wave. “I’ve no one to spare for the mill,” the latter was saying, busy with a buckle on Brawl’s harness. “Horst’s gone. Flint and Chalk haven’t shown for work.” He straightened. “Bannan here’s to drive Flint’s wagon—”
This was news. “I am?”
“So I’m told.” Davi grinned. “Riverstone’s taking the other,” he continued. “Cynd’s to fork grain. Your friends will have to wait or go on their own.”
“They can wait.” The elder Uhthoff looked more relieved than concerned. “The Spine’s not somewhere I’d send them alone.”
It was somewhere he’d tried to go, armed with fury, a stolen ax, and no good sense. Bannan winced. What had he been thinking? He owed Jenn better, not to mention Roche’s poor horse.
As for the kruar. Truth on the surface, but Davi wasn’t beyond a joke. “I’m to drive the tinker’s wagon?”
“Riverstone told me you could handle them.”
Dusom gave the kruar a doubtful look. They stood peacefully enough, one pretending to chew grass.
More likely a bone. Scourge had a disconcerting habit of tucking one of those deep in his jaw for later.
A breeze slid along his neck and found his ear. “They’ve promised to be horses for you.” An afterthought. “They won’t talk. Not to prey.”
“Charming,” Bannan muttered under his breath. Louder, to Davi. “Oh, we’ve an understanding.” Horses, were they? He walked to the nearside kruar and gave it—her—a friendly pat on her darkly dappled rump. An ear twisted back, a lip curled over a fang, but she tolerated him.
“A braver man than I,” Dusom commented. “I’ll tell Qimirpik, then get to the mill. Radd’s not doing well today.”
Bannan nodded in sympathy. Horst’s leaving and his reason hung like a pall over the otherwise lovely morning. The men readying the wagons were subdued and unsmiling. The tinkers were no happier. They didn’t like being apart, whether from distrust or honest concern.
He’d lain awake most of the night, remembering the soft feel of her skin, the passionate throb of her heart against his, the full, rich taste of her lips. Remembering that Jenn loved him. Trusted him. That they were going to fight for her life together.
And, if they won, that might be the end.
He’d heard that terrible truth in Jenn Nalynn’s voice, carried it like a weight now. If they succeeded, she’d change from flesh and blood to—to whatever a turn-born was, inside.
Skin of glass, heart of stone, lips of light.
Would she still love him? Could she?
Hope, he told himself.
“Bannan?”
“Sorry,” he said numbly, then rubbed his head. “Wasn’t the best night.”
Dusom’s face darkened. “No.” He cheered with a determined effort. “Ancestors Witness, there’s no cloud without sun behind it. We’re Beholden you’re here, Bannan, you and Tir.” His gaze rested on his brother and son, standing with Anten. “And look to happier days ahead.”
As he turned to leave, Bannan reached out to stop him. “Dusom,” he said quietly. “Have a care with your guests.”
The elder Uhthoff gave him a keen look. “Because they seek to do magic that might tear Marrowdell apart again?”
The truthseer let his hand drop. “Kydd.”
“My wise brother.” Dusom grimaced. “Once more, I hope he forgives my doubt. No, this warning came today, from his soon-to-be aunt by marriage.”
“The Lady Mahavar?” The truth it was. Bannan raised a brow. “I thought she didn’t believe in magic.”
Dusom chuckled. “To live in Marrowdell is to believe.” Bannan glimpsed a bit of Wainn’s joy in his father’s eyes. “Our Sybbie finds magic somewhat like her youngest niece. Perplexing, unpredictable, and impossible to keep in shoes. She prefers, shall we say, not to encourage it.” His gaze narrowed. “Which in no way makes her foolish. That lady’s courage is greater than any of ours, as is her wit. Don’t underestimate her.”
“Never. I’ve a formidable sister,” Bannan admitted, “and I’m sure even Lila would defer to Lady Mahavar.”
“Good. Keep count of your fingers—” with a nod to the placid-seeming kruar, “—while I keep my eye on certain foolish men.”
Bannan bowed to the man who’d raised Wainn and taught Jenn, brushing his fingertips over the cool tips of grass. He began to see how Marrowdell had weathered so much, so well over the years.
“Please. Where is he?”
Unblinking, the house toad regarded her and said not a word.
Not that it spoke, but Jenn knew she would hear it if it had something to say. She sat beside it on the rim of the village fountain and regarded it back. The toad gradually paled to match the stone, save for its dark limpid eyes.
A bee droned by. Birds sang. The sun warmed her toes. Despite everything, or because the turn-born intended it, Marrowdell was its normal self.
And hid her dragon. She’d looked for him in the commons, but found only Satin among the trees. He wasn’t in anyone’s kitchen or the orchard. There’d been no time to look elsewhere, between making lunch and filling the cistern—which had made her cry, a little—and she’d so hoped when she’d found the toad.
The unhelpful toad. “I must talk to Wyll.” Any more of this and she’d be tempted to push it in the water.
“He’s busy.” Wainn sat down on the other side of the toad, which closed its eyes in bliss and leaned against his leg. “How are you this day, Jenn Nalynn?”
Was Wyll busy or the toad? Guessing the former, Jenn sighed to herself. As for how she was? “More knowledgeable,” she offered wryly. “Aren’t you driving Davi’s team?”
“Roche and Devins are unloading my wagon at the Treffs’.” Wainn gave her a sidelong look. “Wen sent me. She said you’ve lost hope.”
Jenn pressed the heels of her hands against her eyelids. “She’s right,” she admitted. She let her hands fall to her lap and opened her eyes. “I’m not giving up. I won’t. I’ll do what I must. It’s just—after . . . I—I don’t see any future. I can’t.”
“How can you?” His forehead wrinkled beneath his hat. “It hasn’t happened yet. While you wait for it, Wen says to do happy things, like Kydd. Get ready for your birthday. Dance.”
All summer, she’d waited to be nineteen, to be adult at last and free. Now? She’d stay eighteen forever if she could. About to say as much, Jenn hesitated. Wainn hadn’t mentioned her wedding, yet she’d told only Peggs and Bannan.
The toad. She winced inwardly. “You know I’m not getting married with the rest.”
“I do. Wen does.” Wainn’s frown deepened. “Does Wyll?”
“Not yet.” Jenn tapped the house toad lightly between its closed eyes. “That’s why I’m trying to find him.”
Wainn’s face cleared. “Wyll’s busy.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “So I hear.”
“You should ask,” he told her, serious again. “Before you change his future. Ask him.”
Advice he’d given before; advice she should have followed. Jenn shook her head. “This is different, Wainn. I’m giving Wyll his freedom.”
Someone shouted and he leapt to his feet. “The team’s ready,” he said with an eager grin.
Then Wainn Uhthoff gazed down at her, something ancient and stern in his eyes. “Ask him if freed
om’s what he wants.”
She’d have asked Wyll but, either by accident or some dragonish design, Jenn hadn’t found him by the time she was needed to set out the evening meal. Tonight would be peaceful, with no formal Beholding or dance. Master Riverstone would play his pipes and there’d be quiet conversation and perhaps the odd game, but most would seek an early bed.
The meal was the main event. Savory steam rose through slits in the great meat pies, the practical destiny of leftover ox. The Treffs had made their squash soup, swirled with cream and spice. The Ropps put out platters of cheese and baked apple. There were roasted vegetables and thick slices of bread.
Jenn couldn’t eat. She’d let the others take lunch to the field, though it meant missing the chance to see Bannan. She’d cleaned house and helped Aunt Sybb pack, trying not to grow melancholy. The day had sped by, as if sunset pulled the world toward it.
She could feel it.
“What’s that about?” Hettie whispered, pointing with her chin as the two put out plates.
Jenn looked down the trestle table to where Riss and Lorra stood arguing in front of the soup. Suddenly, Riss threw the ladle on the ground and walked away.
“Who knows?” she replied, though she could guess. The soup was—had been Uncle Horst’s favorite.
An unexpected tap turned them both the other way. Old Jupp tapped the table leg with his cane a second time, to be sure of their attention. His wisps of white hair stood on end, though he was impeccably dressed, and he waved his ear trumpet impatiently. “Well? Where is he?”
Exchanging a worried look with Hettie, Jenn asked, “Is there anything we can do for you, Master Jupp?”
At the first word, he’d lifted the trumpet and aimed it at her. When she finished, he scowled thunderously. “You can answer my question. Where is he? Where’s Horst? The harvest’s no time for him to be off on one of his fool trips.”
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