She was not wasting a candle because of shadows. Use only what you must, Aunt Sybb had told her, and not a bit more. She’d meant her fine stationery, which had come in quite handy this past summer and been completely used up by the end, but it applied to candles and their improper use, Jenn was sure.
She could wish the moon a little brighter.
Not that she would. Jenn hugged the pillow tighter, suddenly curious. Could she? Was the moon part of Marrowdell and the edge, or part of the wider world beyond? She wanted to know so much she almost asked the toad.
But didn’t. Such questions distressed them, whether they knew the answer or not.
Instead of wishing at the moon, Jenn carefully climbed out of bed, claiming one of the quilts for a wrap, then went to the window and drew aside the curtains. So invited, moonlight streamed inside. She looked out, holding her breath so she didn’t fog the glass. Another crisp night.
The corner of the Emms’ barn. Their slumbering garden. Beyond the hedge, the river and fallow fields. Beyond those, the forest and crags and the gleaming ivory of the Spine.
She didn’t feel so alone, looking out like this. As if Marrowdell itself was company. Jenn touched the glass over the Spine with a finger, exhaled to leave a circle of breath. The sei had filled her with its tears. In this, she was something other than turn-born. But what?
A question not for her list, for Mistress Sand would not speak of the sei. Like the toads, such questions distressed her.
The moon, being high above, was likely as far beyond the reach of turn-born as it was of toad or woman. From so high, Jenn thought, surely it must shine down on Endshere as well.
Taking her finger away, she pressed her lips within the circle of breath, leaving a kiss.
Bannan feared no question or truth. When he came home, she would tell him everything she learned from Mistress Sand and they would puzzle at the rest together.
Smiling, Jenn climbed back into bed, careful of the toad, and fell fast asleep.
Bannan lay on the straw mattress he shared with Devins and Davi, staring at a ceiling he couldn’t see.
No letter.
He’d emptied the mailbag and turned it inside out to be sure. Watched in silence as Davi took his turn going through the mass of letters, the smith pulling out three to fold and shove deep into a pocket, all with a fearsome scowl. Whomever kept attempting to write to Lorra Treff had a sure enemy in her son. A story lay there, understood the truthseer; not one about to be shared.
But nothing from Lila, not for him, or for Jenn.
Nor one from Tir, which he’d also expected.
There had been a beribboned package of letters from the Lady Mahavar, coated in formidable wax seals. Correspondence for Gallie and some for Frann. Lorra too, so Davi was selective. Master Dusom had the most waiting for him, being engaged in dialogues with fellow scholars, but there was a small elongated box wrapped in dark waxed paper and string for Master Jupp and an uncommon rolled parchment for Covie Ropp that might, Bannan hoped, be from her son, Roche.
There could be news of the situation in Channen in any or all of those. Or none, since why would such troubles matter to anyone in remote and magical Marrowdell?
Lila could take care of herself and the boys. She would take over Emon’s political duties in capable fashion and run the estate, truth be told, with more attention, for Emon had little love for administration, preferring to closet himself with his sons to test some mechanism or other.
Which made sense and was reasonable except for one thing.
The lack of letters.
Bannan pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, then made himself relax. A long day was behind him, a busy one tomorrow, and if he had to question everyone in Endshere about these rumors, so be it.
A soldier’s skill, to sleep on the eve of battle.
As he lay, listening to the deep peaceful breathing of the other men, he knew it was a skill he’d lost.
A snip of thread, touched by skin and warmth . . . a drop of sleep, under the tongue . . .
And the dream unfolds . . .
Stone rushes by, then stops, too close. A figure runs past, sword gleaming. Then another. A third.
Silence. Darkness. Dread.
Light. A hand beckons. Trust.
All the while something rustles above. Something hunts below.
And everywhere is shadow.
A moth had brought Wisp’s summons. If, Jenn thought with a touch of doubt, the white pebble in her hand was from her dragon and not some confusion by toads. She sat at the kitchen table to finish her tea and ponder the question.
Though they were generous creatures, she’d never seen nor heard of a toad relinquishing one of their precious stones. And wasn’t giving her a white pebble exactly the sort of cleverness certain to amuse Wisp? Satisfied, she closed her fingers over the little thing. Today it was, then.
Last night, she’d found herself discomfited to be in an empty house; today, she relished it. Breakfast was a hunk of cheese and a loaf’s end, washed down with hot sweet tea. Having dressed first thing in hopes of this journey, her list of questions and a token for Mistress Sand in her pocket, she’d only to decide on footwear.
Radd Nalynn, each winter, sewed his daughters new winter shoes. The waxed thread and well-oiled leather made them close to weatherproof, though the bottoms wore out, especially Jenn’s. It wasn’t as if she could help it, since it was take either the road or go over frozen fields on her way to Night’s Edge and, yes, she usually ran, being in a hurry, which led, admittedly, to holes. But they could be stuffed with straw and Radd did his best.
She supposed, having stopped growing, that boots with thick soles might be in her future. Doubtless they’d be as awkward as the proper shoes Aunt Sybb insisted she and Peggs don at suppertime or when wearing their best or second-best dresses, and not let her feel the ground at all.
Barefoot would do.
Then there was the whole issue of the Verge, a place purportedly free of winter and cold. After some discussion on the matter with Peggs, Jenn planned to do as the turn-born did when crossing into Marrowdell as tinkers, namely leave the clothes she needed here on this side of the edge, at Bannan’s farm. The turn-born used his barn and left trunks of crystal and stone for that purpose. Bannan surely wouldn’t mind if she left her things in his house.
Where she could check to see what Wisp might have done.
Having banked the fire in the heatstove, because she couldn’t know how long she’d be and the Emms’ house toad would appreciate some warmth, Jenn left the white pebble where the little cousin would find it, then went out the kitchen door, closing it behind her. She tied a white dish towel around the handle, this being the signal she’d arranged with her sister.
Her fingers lingered on the loose knot. The Verge. Was she ready? Jenn firmed her chin and turned away from the house. If she wasn’t now, she never would be.
Banners snapped in the crisp morning breeze as a band played and children ran laughing between the bright tents in Endshere’s commons. Prized stock stood in rows, ribbons in tails, hooves agleam with lacquer, waiting the scrutiny of knowing eyes. Tables groaned beneath the industry of the local inhabitants, from foodstuffs to, as Alyssa had predicted, fine boots, while narrower trestles were arranged in a circle to offer baked goods and beverages to those wandering the fair.
A fair as proud as any Bannan had experienced, if the smallest. Much of what would change hands sat in barns delegated as warehouses: grain and other produce from those farms within a day’s travel—any farther, he’d been assured, as well go to the larger village of Weken and get a better price—along with lumber, firewood, ash, and lime. Tools and ploughshares hung beside harness and saddlery, and sacks of feed lay atop barrels of flour and other staples. Everything would change hands, over the coming days, to ensure all would be ready for winter.
> Ears attuned to any conversation not about Koevoet’s well-hung bull or Moniq’s exceptional pastry, Bannan took his time roaming the tents. He admired and praised, newly educated in the difficulty of making what he’d taken for granted, and left pleased smiles along with coin at several booths. Among his first purchases were the requested hard candy for Radd’s throat, in every flavor, as well as large bags of a reddish sweet preferred by children, the truthseer having witnessed Larah Anan’s wide-eyed longing, for Cheffy and Alyssa.
With one for Larah as well.
After that, well, how could he resist a soft little hat for Loee, with ears like a rabbit, and booties for Hettie’s babe-to-come? Hatpins for the senior ladies of Marrowdell, each with tiny feathers at their tip, came next. Heavy mitts for Anten and Devins. Blue ribbons for Davi’s draught horses. His coin went farther than he’d expected, buying tea and little woven bags of spices he’d have thought ordinary in Vorkoun and knew were prized here. Candles and oil. Quills and paper. Thread.
He spent far too long and too much at a table of books. None were new; all were precious. A dogged set regarding the essentials of farm life by Elag M. Brock made him smile, that being Gallie’s pen name, but he left it on the table for someone else. After all, he could ask the dear lady’s advice in person, over tea, any time at all.
Within an hour, Bannan was down to his last few coins. The saddlebags over his shoulder were filled to bulging, and he’d a selection of books tied together with a strap. Despite a notion of what he wanted for Jenn, and some quiet questions, he’d not found it. Nor had he heard more news about Channen.
The truthseer purchased a pumpkin tart crusted with roasted seeds and took it to an empty bench. The news could wait, he decided. Hadn’t it already? Allin and Palma should be his best sources regardless, innkeepers having an ear for travelers. They were with their families, sharing a celebratory breakfast before the busyness to come later in the day and night. He’d take Palma the package from Master Jupp and find a moment to ask his questions. Which left—he went to lick his fingers—the question of the gift for his beloved.
His hand paused in midair. Before his eyes, a procession approached, others clearing the way with smiles and no few comments. Heads high, the twelve women walked up to the refreshments, Devins firmly in their midst.
By the light of day, Palma’s cousins were similar only in that none were older than Hettie. Half had the dark curls of the Anans, but the others ranged from fair to fox-red, with one possessing remarkable freckles.
Riding garb, suited for livestock handling, was worn by four of the women; three wore pretty hats and had ruffled dresses showing beneath fair-day cloaks; a pair had the leather aprons of carpenters while another pair those of fine white cloth; and the last, the one of freckles, had a hunting bow over her shoulder.
The twelve formed a half circle in front of the baking table, and waited, eyes on Devins.
The hapless young man, his face crimson at being the center of attention, stepped forward to stand in mute agony before the amused baker. Presumably, he was there to buy a treat for himself and one of the twelve. But which one?
Chuckling, the truthseer finished licking his fingers and went to the rescue.
The river flowed through the valley, foreign geese and ducks bobbing along in its midst. They took their rest before flying south to where it wouldn’t be winter, Master Dusom had taught, an incredible thought to a younger Jenn. Now she felt an unexpected kinship, being about to make a similar journey, and waved at a small group of ducks as they floated past. They seemed to be enjoying the ride, though she hoped they’d take off before the river plunged from Marrowdell beyond the mill.
The Verge being full of its own hazards, Jenn planned to be more cautious than the ducks, who paddled in soon-to-freeze water and chanced waterfalls.
Holding her skirt above the water, she waded across the ford with extra care. The cold numbed her feet but better numb than a slip and full dunking. Once the river froze, she could cross anywhere.
Behind her the village was awake and busy. Cows lowed, impatient to be milked. She’d offered to help Covie and Anten, but they were content to have Cheffy take a greater responsibility. He was growing up, Jenn thought, remembering a sweet chubby baby fond of her hair.
She’d have Peggs’ to hold come summer, and Hettie’s sooner still. The cycle of life, Aunt Sybb called it, how new people to love arrived as others became Blessed Ancestors to watch over them. New people and love were, in Jenn’s opinion, very good things. The rest, she chose not to think about.
She stamped warmth back into her feet and legs as she started up the road. The old trees–the neyet–no longer leaned attentively when she passed beneath. They slept through winter, even in the Verge, according to Wisp who would know. Yling, who lived within their trunks, did not. Though Jenn watched, none showed themselves.
Perhaps, like the toads, they didn’t approve.
Jenn would be more than happy to know why, but the house toads merely seemed anxious about any change and she’d yet to understand a yling. Wisp couldn’t either, but she’d been surprised and a little chagrined to fail, having made a wish to understand and be understood that had worked for more than just Eldani and Ansnan. Wisp had laughed at her and oh, the joy of it, that he still would.
Where the Tinkers Road bent sharply to the right, she stopped at the opening to the path that climbed, switching back and forth, to the Spine. Bannan had remarked that it looked like any other path in any other woods, now, but it wasn’t, being the way to what Wisp had called “her crossing” which was her personal door into the Verge. To anyone else, the top was a meadow, not as nice as Night’s Edge, broken by upthrusts of ivory that seemed stone to anyone else but were really bits of the sei holding onto this world.
A pair of wicked red eyes glared down at her from the shadow where branch met trunk. Jenn met the glare and raised an eyebrow. With a frantic scrabble of claws, the eyes—and their owner—disappeared. She wasn’t at all sorry that nyphrit ran from her now. They were cruel and spiteful, even if small, and dangerous in number. Hadn’t they almost killed Uncle Horst, surely the greatest fighter in the world?
Nyphrit did have one use. House toads ate them, with great pleasure.
The path and her crossing could wait. Jenn turned away, walking more briskly now that her feet were warm. She left the road at the entrance to Bannan’s farm, passing between the old trees into sunshine.
Hard to imagine the little house, now tidy and well-loved, had sat empty and abandoned since before she’d been born. Fresh cedar shingles lay warm and golden over the roof, windowpanes glistened, and the door hung from sturdy new hinges. A bench waited on the porch and, most importantly, a small well sat before the house, water brimming in its stone heart. Water that, like the fountain at the heart of the village, was Marrowdell’s bounty and would not freeze this winter.
Jenn admired the garden with its neatly trimmed summerberry stalks and tilled soil, ready to plant in spring. If Bannan had needed to do anything more to cement his kinship with those in the valley, which he hadn’t, of course, it would have been the eagerness with which he’d sought advice and applied it. His larder, the door locked against ordinary intruders but likely not proof against a peckish dragon, was as full as any in Marrowdell. When he returned from Endshere, his barn would become home to two piglets, earned by his help mucking out stalls for Anten.
She stepped up on the porch. The door stood open the right amount for a toad to come and go—a very large toad—and there, sure enough, was Bannan’s, regarding her soberly.
Which toads couldn’t help but do, having such huge and melancholy eyes.
“Fair morning,” Jenn greeted it patiently. This close to Night’s Edge, Wisp, and the Verge, she didn’t feel particularly patient, but you couldn’t hurry a toad. “May I come in?”
~Elder sister,~ it replied, ever-so-earnest. ~In thi
s moon cycle, I made twenty-one eggs. I caught three squirrels and one cricket. No foul nyphrit lived to enter my family’s home. I matter to Marrowdell.~
“You do indeed,” Jenn agreed heartily, casting a longing look beyond the toad into Bannan’s neat house. “May I come in?”
~You may not.~
She blinked. “Pardon?”
It sank into itself, clearly distressed, but didn’t budge. ~You may not.~
“But—I mean no harm. I just want to leave some clothes here and—” she almost said “check on the dragon” but stopped before making matters worse “—and return for them,” she finished lamely.
~If I may, elder sister, would it not be more convenient for you to leave your clothes in the house of our elder brother?~
“Well, yes, I suppose it would be as convenient, but—” Jenn craned her neck, trying to see if anything might be amiss inside that the house toad, for whatever reason, mightn’t want her to see, then looked down at the creature. “Why can’t I come in?”
~The truthseer is not here.~
About to argue she knew full well where Bannan wasn’t, she hesitated. Either his house toad took its duties more seriously than those in the village, who simply stayed out from underfoot regardless of who came or went, or Bannan had left instructions she should respect. “Then I’ll wait until he is,” she said, having no wish to challenge the proud creature, then she smiled and added, with a small curtsy, “You’re a most excellent guardian.”
The house toad puffed into a smug ball, rocking on its wide stomach. ~I will watch and hope for your return, elder sister.~
An odd thing for it to say, Jenn thought as she walked between the silent barn and slumbering summerberries. Almost troubling. She went through the gap in the hedge around the farm to the path her feet had made over the years alongside the field, now fallow. Why would the toad need to hope? She was turn-born and could cross from one world to the next at her pleasure, and had, moreover, no intention of being late for supper here, Peggs having invited her.
A Play of Shadow Page 9
