House toads fussed, that was the truth of it, being responsible sorts and prone to think the worst. They couldn’t cross on their own, having been stranded here by mistake long ago, and probably, she nodded to herself, feeling better by the moment, found the entire notion of crossing a worry no matter who did it. She would visit Bannan’s toad on her way home to reassure it.
Comforted by obligation, Jenn Nalynn entered Night’s Edge.
~She’s HERE!~ a wail from the sky.
~She’s COME!~ a cry swooping up through the ground. Dragons fussed and complained throughout the meadow, not that they let themselves been seen.
Worse than little cousins, they were. ~SILENCE!~ Wisp roared, claws scoring the soil. He would much rather have scored a side or three, but they knew better than come so close.
Complain to him and fuss, oh, that they dared. Useless younglings.
He sniffed the air, felt for their presence.
Alone again. A welcome touch of wisdom, though he’d no doubt their fascination with Marrowdell’s turn-born would lure them back once she was in the Verge.
A fascination mixed with dread. His jaw gaped with amusement. Wisdom indeed.
“Wisp?”
She was nervous and couldn’t, even if she tried, hide it from him. They’d been connected this way since the sei appointed him her guardian. The sei, oblivious to what mattered to lesser beings, hadn’t bothered to sever the bond once the girl became turn-born and powerful and beyond the care of a mere dragon.
A dragon more than content to have her stay near his heart.
“Here!” he sang to Jenn Nalynn, sending a breeze to tickle the bangs from her forehead and another to hasten her steps.
“This way.”
FOUR
TO CROSS BETWEEN worlds sounded an immense and weighty undertaking, a task for scholars and those trained in magical arts.
Jenn stumbled and caught herself with a quick grab of Wisp’s tail, having stepped from dried flowers and grass onto plates of crystal that cracked and sobbed blue tears. She tried to avoid cracking any more, but the things were everywhere.
As was sky, oddly beneath her feet as well as ground, a sky shot through with colors that tasted of carrots and spice as she breathed them in and felt the rush of wings and goodness, she was going to be sick . . .
Guessing what ailed her senses, Jenn let herself be no longer flesh, but turn-born and glass, calming her thoughts to wait, not want.
The Verge quieted around her, resolving into a down-sloped path, cobbled in weeping crystal, between spires of—rock, she decided to call it, though what kind of rock shimmered she surely didn’t know.
The last time, she’d been on a mountain, or close to one, with a vista spreading in all directions. Granted, it had been a confusing vista, but most impressive. This? This, she began to frown, was sneaking down a cramped hallway of rock, with only glimpses of something other. To keep her from seeing more—or to keep more from seeing her?
~This way.~ Words she felt, rather than heard, Wisp say again. No longer a breeze in her ears, though she knew he could speak that way here, but a voice inside of her, deep and grim.
A dragonish voice. From— She spun around to find Wisp waiting. He stood on two good legs and two withered, using his spiked tail to prop himself straight. Silver scales caught the light and splintered it, while his glorious wings hung open, trembling at their tips as if eager for flight. His face was long and disturbingly well-fanged, with that wiry beard hanging from his chin. Idle steam curled up from paired nostrils. During her scrutiny, amethyst eyes gleamed with—yes, that was amusement.
And pride. That too.
All at once, his head flipped to one side with a SNAP! of those jaws. Something squeaked and died with a gush of cinnamon. Wisp tossed it aside, giving Jenn no more than a glimpse of spines and a long body.
~My apologies, turn-born,~ the dragon said, wiping his fangs along a scaled leg with toad-like satisfaction. ~I should have let you handle it.~
“No need,” Jenn replied faintly, quite sure she didn’t want to handle anything of the sort.
Wisp turned with sinuous grace and limped down the path. His clawed feet tore open crystal but weren’t, Jenn noticed as she followed, the first to do so. Paired stains preceded the dragon, stains he assiduously avoided.
So she did the same, trickier after his feet left their share, but once broken, whatever the crystal leaked was slippery and she’d no intention of falling.
Then did, right on her rump.
Jenn took a breath, or hoped she did, for her body didn’t feel as it should or did, and didn’t breathing seem more like eating? Thinking about it, she felt she’d had her fill and could stop any time, but that made less sense than most of the Verge and she wouldn’t start her time here by doing other than she would at home.
Which probably wasn’t sensible either. She got to her feet, Wisp well ahead by now, and resumed walking. Ancestors Witness, she most certainly hoped Mistress Sand would help her understand all of this.
Disagreement.
Jenn stopped again. She knew that feeling, too well. Turn-born must agree, or their expectations, their wishes, would fail. One or more of them had just disagreed with hers.
But she hadn’t made one . . . had she?
It seemed she must have. No hoping, then, even to herself. Anticipation was probably wrong too, though so would be doubt. Jenn brightened. With turn-born here and paying attention, at least she couldn’t make more rabbits, that being her other thoughtless wish in the Verge.
Asking Mistress Sand’s opinion of those rabbits was also on her list, if she got that far. It was, come to think of it, a very long list for a short visit.
~Here.~
Ancestors Dizzy and Distracted. She’d stopped to argue with herself and now Wisp was a flick of a tail going around a corner.
Jenn hurried forward, keeping a worried eye out for spiked things as well as puddles. This was her dragon’s true home and she did her best to think kindly of it, but it wasn’t making a very good impression.
She followed around the corner only to find herself alone at the end of the rock crevice, faced with a blue oval admittedly door-sized, but lacking handle or hinge.
~Step through.~
Into rock?
A shadow slipped over her, cold and ominous. Jenn looked up too late to see what cast it. Whatever it had been, she should take shelter, “Could a turn-born be eaten?” being near the top of her list.
Shelter where? Her eyes came back to the blue, which wasn’t like the dark tears of crystal but rather the loveliest such color she could remember. Richer than a spring sky, this blue, and smelled of pie. Her color, something reminded her, though why that should be, Jenn couldn’t imagine.
She reached out and touched it.
The blue oval split from its center outward along five seams, opening like a flower touched by the sun.
Shelter and a welcome. Jenn stepped inside without further hesitation.
“Ancestors Beset and Besieged.” Bannan held up his hands in mock defense. “You looked in need of help.”
Devins glared. “I was doing well enough till you interrupted!”
Not the truth, but the words rang with abused pride. In hindsight, he should have left well enough alone, and the younger man to his fate. The twelve cousins stood nearby, their heads bowed in murmured consultation.
No doubt about the young man he’d thought to rescue from their clutches. Seeing the stubbornness in his face, Bannan switched tactics. He took hold of a shoulder and pushed Devins ahead, gently but firmly. “Help me with the mail and you’re free to go back to them. If that’s what you want.”
This time, the blush confined itself to a reddening along Devins’ cheekbones. “How am I supposed to know?” he muttered, giving in to walk with the truthseer. “They’re amazing women,�
� this with emphasis. “Accomplished. Sure of themselves. A man would be lucky to spend his life with any of them. Ancestors Witness. I don’t know what they see in me, Bannan. Roche was always the one girls wanted.”
Bannan smiled to himself. That the gangling young man beside him, yet to gain his full growth, lacked the restless ambition of his brother and father? All to his good. Devins was free of bitterness and, like his mother, Covie, a healer in his own right, sure and gentle with the dairy herd he loved.
And something more.
When Devins forgot himself, and truly was himself, an air of peace and content surrounded him as soothing as a warm fire on a chill night. If Devins Morrell grew into the man he promised to be, he’d become the heart of Marrowdell.
The man he was now continued miserably, “They really should be after you anyway. You’re unattached and not that old.”
Bannan wasn’t sure whether to laugh or grieve at the reminder of how Jenn was forgotten. He settled for a rueful shrug. “Maybe they’ve heard about my cooking.”
Though it was, in fact, an interesting question. As Lila put it, he made a decent impression at court. Hadn’t he—and Tir—fended off their share of propositions on the way north, albeit not from these women? Why not now?
Be grateful, he told himself.
The two left the fair, dodging wagons, horses, and chickens on the dusty road. The famed Northward was here tamed to a short main street bordered by buildings, except for the commons where the fair was being held. South of Endshere, the road passed through tidy farm fields; north, beyond the bridge they now crossed, it met the mill road. The inn sat at that junction, its stable the last building before the Northward shook itself free of civilization for good.
The mail wasn’t the least of his duties and Bannan would be glad to have it done. Cammi’d let it be known she’d be at the storeroom to receive and dispense mail from midmorning till midafternoon; no sooner and, at the risk of unclaimed mail being offered to the highest bidder the next day, no later. Apparently this was no idle threat. It had become a tradition of the fair for young men and women to abandon small packages for the auction, the oft-desperate eagerness of the person bidding for those being a favorite entertainment for everyone else.
The highest bidder for truly unclaimed mail would be the local magistrate, this being Endshere’s way of paying their postmistress a bonus for her year of service, with such mail simply moved to his loft until spring.
Hettie and Tadd, faces wreathed in smiles, waved at them on their way to the fair. Devins’ eyes followed them wistfully.
Bannan didn’t let him slow. A queue had formed in wait, snaking around to the front of the inn, and he’d yet to retrieve Marrowdell’s sack from his room. “Hold a place,” he ordered briskly. “I’ll get our mail.”
As if back on patrol and in charge.
Which he wasn’t, nor wanted to be. The truthseer stopped, facing Devins, and prepared to apologize, but the other looked more puzzled than offended. “I thought you were carrying it.”
The bulging shoulder bags. Bannan hefted the string with the books. “I did some—” shopping implied coin, which those in Marrowdell rarely saw or could spare. Where were his manners? “I did some trading of my own. Gifts for those at home.” He tilted his head at the inn. “If you’d be so kind, Devins, as I meant to say, would you hold my place in line while I drop these in my room and get the mail? There’s lunch in it for you.”
That earned him a broad smile. “Done!”
Bannan leapt the steps to the inn and hurried through the doors, almost colliding with big Davi Treff. The smith had his arms full of well-wrapped bundles—Lorra’s pottery samples—and, sure enough, his mother stood behind him, eyes narrowed against the burst of sunlight. “Fair morning!” the truthseer greeted them both.
Or was it? Davi’s nod was gloom itself while Lorra’s face bore no expression at all. “Fair morning,” she said. “Your pardon, Bannan, but we’ve no time to waste.” With a nod to her son.
The truthseer held the door for them. Either Lorra’s aggravation with Frann’s impulsive trade still rankled, or something else hadn’t gone well. Hopefully their day would improve. Marrowdell counted on this fair to garner vital supplies. He let the door close, shutting out the sun, and felt the weight of the bags on his shoulder as an accusation. Ancestors Reckless and Rash. Had he misspent his coin? While his purchases seemed good ones, the money could have gone into the village pot to everyone’s benefit—
“Fair morning, Bannan!” Allin finished tying on his apron and waved. “We’ll be out in a moment. I’m helping Palma start up.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
Palma. Her package. Another gift, most eagerly anticipated. He’d not second-guess his purchases, Bannan decided, happy again.
A familiar figure sat hunched on a stool at the bar, wrapped in layers of dark wool. As the truthseer walked past, he looked into the mirror and found his gaze caught by a pair of pale eyes, rimmed in white, set in a face so wrinkled he couldn’t tell if the ancient smiled or frowned. He gave one of the villagers’ short bows in polite acknowledgment. “Fair morning, Mistress Anan. My name is—”
“Bannan Larmensu.” Soft, her voice, but with a crisp edge to it. A wizened finger crooked, indicating the stool by her side. “Call me Great Gran. Everyone does. Sit, boy!” when he didn’t obey at once.
He’d owe Devins supper as well, the truthseer thought, but set his purchases down on the bar and took the stool. “I’m honored—”
“You’re busy and I’m a daft old woman, but we’ve business, we two.”
Ah, the unwed cousins. Bannan smiled and shook his head. “I’m not—” But the wizened finger tapped the bar top and he closed his mouth.
“Better.” Another tap. “I’ve what you’ve been hunting.”
“I don’t seek a wife,” he blurted.
“That’s what I told my granddaughters.” Her tiny booted feet were well off the floor. One swung forward to kick a crate he hadn’t noticed till now, being in the shadows under the bar. “You seek a gift—the right gift—for your dearest love.”
He stared at her, dumbfounded.
Great Gran’s chin curled toward her nose as her whole body shook. Laughing, he realized belatedly, and at him, without doubt. After a moment, she stopped and dipped her head, peering up at him. “I see what binds a heart, Bannan Larmensu, as you see the truth. Your love is in Marrowdell. A daughter of Melusine’s.” Sharply, “Hush! I’m neither your enemy nor a fool.”
For he’d started—how could he not?—about to protest she mustn’t speak that name, no matter they were alone for the moment. Taking a breath, he asked, with care, for she was no one he’d dare offend, “May I ask, then, who you are to me?”
Her finger traced a line within the grain of the bar top’s gleaming wood, then stopped. “One who has lived in Marrowdell—and witnessed its magic.”
“But—”
“Surely they told you. Of the first to settle Marrowdell?”
They had, but the first to live in the homes built by the turn-born hadn’t stayed long. “What made you leave?” he asked quietly, but he could guess. “The dreams?” For in Marrowdell, the Verge crept too close to sleeping minds, strange and, to most, disturbing.
Within her wool, she shivered and nodded. “We loved the valley. Named it. Tried to make it home. Oh, I was fine. Better than fine.” A pause. “Things changed. My family and the others fled. They died,” as calmly as if relating a history of strangers. “A storm caught us on the road, without shelter. I survived.”
Bannan laid his hand near hers, palm up. A finger, cool and dry, touched it then curled away.
“Don’t pity me, boy,” she snapped, but kindly. “Ancestors Witness, I’ve had a good life here. Outlasted three husbands, I have, and raised fine children. Tho’ for too many years, I thought I must have dreamed it all, for no one her
e believed me. The great toads. The magical light. Dancers in the trees. Then people moved into Marrowdell again, people like Melusine, who could thrive there, and I knew it was all real.”
People who’d stopped here on their journey. Oh, and thinking that, wasn’t something else more than likely? “Lady Mahavar.”
“Sybbie?” Another laugh. “We’re good friends. How else would I know you, Bannan Larmensu, once of Vorkoun? Sybbie and I share news over a bottle of Marrowdell’s wonderful water every fall. Have done for years.”
The Northward Road, Bannan realized to his chagrin, had its sentries after all, albeit older and better bundled than he’d expected. “Great Gran,” he said with a little bow, “you must have thought me a rare fool when I came through before.”
“Oh, and you’re not one now?” But a tiny eye winked. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, boy. I saw some potential. For Marrowdell, if not here.”
Like Aunt Sybb and Mistress Sand, this woman would be his enemy if he threatened those she loved. Like them, she’d be a priceless ally if he held her trust. Bannan bowed deeper in acknowledgment, then looked up with his heart in his eyes. “I have seen Marrowdell’s marvels,” he confessed. “Among them is Jenn Nalynn, the love of my life.”
“Sybbie’s youngest niece. Ah.” He began to sweat during the weighty pause that followed. Abruptly, Great Gran spoke again. “Here’s a curious thing. Those who forget Marrowdell’s magic have forgotten her too. I would ask you why . . .”
The truthseer pressed his lips together.
Another silent laugh. “Well enough. Listen, then, while I tell you of this—” a second light kick at the mysterious crate.
When Great Gran was a young woman, Endshere had been little more than a scrape alongside the Northward Road. Toil and time it took, in great measure, to wrest farmland from the grip of trees older than Rhoth itself. There were those who endured, understanding they built for the future, not themselves.
And those who fled the overwhelming forest, seeking easier work in Weken or the cities of Lower Rhoth.
A Play of Shadow Page 10
