A rumor started, no one later could say how, of a valley to the north already cleared and planted, with empty homes and a mill waiting. Surely a fantasy, the sort dreamed by those weary of ax and chain, of fire and stump. No one was willing to pack up and move deeper into the wilderness without proof.
Then, one day, a man arrived. He came in a wagon, but was no settler, being past his prime in years and frail. Tralee was his name, Crumlin Tralee, and he stood on a barrel in Endshere’s poor excuse for a commons to speak at length and with passion. He’d come, Crumlin told them all, to gather families for a new settlement, one where the hardest work was already done.
Clods of mud and worse were thrown his way, for those who believed in Endshere could ill afford to lose a single strong back. But there were those who listened, for Crumlin was an educated man and well-spoken and convincing.
Not that any guessed what else he was.
So when Crumlin and his wagon of belongings left Endshere for the promised northern settlement, others went with him.
He hadn’t lied. Marrowdell was as welcoming and fertile as any could hope, and the families settled in, filled with joy and expectation. Crumlin himself took the house farthest from the rest, being, as it turned out, solitary and unhelpful and concerned with his own affairs.
No matter. They had the valley and new homes. All began as well as anything could.
Until the dreams.
Few at first, and dismissed. More, as time passed, and worse. The valley, it seemed, didn’t care for them. Barely tolerated them.
Actively hated them.
What started as quiet concern became urgent flight. Though Crumlin argued against it, calling them cowards and nearsighted and fools, the would-be villagers began to pack everything of value and wouldn’t listen.
Despite having no love for Crumlin, once wagons were loaded and ready to depart, the good people went to fetch him, unwilling to abandon anyone to the valley.
But he was gone.
Food had rotted on his table, meaning he’d left days before and in stealth, abandoning them. Outraged, the villagers scavenged his house, viewing it only just to take Crumlin’s expensive things; he having led them to such a dreadful place and them returning to Endshere the poorer and in some disgrace.
Had the frightened folk needed aught else to push them on their way, it was the ominous build of clouds to the north, and the growing chill to the air.
“Bones and wagons lay on the road, left till spring,” Great Gran finished.
“With you the only survivor.” Bannan shook his head.
“Was I?” Her head tilted. “Only the bears know. The people of Endshere gleaned what they could; a debt fairly paid, to my mind. As for this?” another kick at the crate. “If it returns to Marrowdell, brings a smile, it’ll pay for its keep in my attic these many years. It is—” with triumph “—what you asked for in the market.”
Why wasn’t he surprised? “Ancestors Blessed. I should have come first to you, dear lady,” he conceded graciously.
Wrinkles creased with, he thought, satisfaction. “Now you know better.”
Bannan smiled and reached for his purse. “What do I owe you?” Tir would protest, but he’d not haggle a price, not with this lady.
“Keep your coin.” She shifted within her wool wraps like a bird settling into a nest. “I would have a story of Marrowdell, tonight by the fire.”
It was more than the truth. Did he not feel the wistfulness of that, the aching need, as if it were his own? Speechless, the truthseer nodded.
Her finger crooked toward the stairs.
Dismissed, Bannan stood and bowed, then bent to retrieve the crate. Careful of Great Gran’s booted toes, he managed not to grunt in surprise at the weight, sparing himself another laugh at his expense. The saddlebags and books would have to wait on the bar.
Anticipation, sweet and proud, made him grin as he carried his gift away.
Jenn would never expect this.
Whatever she’d expected in the Verge, it hadn’t been the most comfortable chair imaginable.
Made of rock.
Which it wasn’t. She needed more words, Jenn thought, stroking the silky blue whatever-it-was with delight. She’d stepped through the flower-petal door into a small, but pleasing space, bright—though there were no lights or windows and the door had closed—and warm. Being dressed for summer, the warmth was something she appreciated; her cloak, scarf, and heavy tunic had remained behind, in Wisp’s house.
Though wasn’t here more his home than the clever little dome of crystal and wood he’d built in Marrowdell? “I hadn’t thought dragons lived like this,” she said aloud.
Wisp snorted. He’d stayed as she’d found him, curled into a ball, his bearded snout resting atop his good hip, tail covering his clawed feet. The twin puffs of steam rose to the ceiling then vanished. ~I live like this,~ he corrected. He lifted his long head to gaze around, staring longest at the now-folded petals of the door. ~You’ve changed it.~
She had? “How? What’s different?”
~It’s better,~ Wisp assured her, which, though uninformative, was certainly reassuring. Jenn settled back into the softness of her own seat, a seat that had formed itself from one wall and fit her to perfection. The dragon’s jaw dropped open in one of his smiles. ~As for how, Dearest Heart? Only you could know. This was built by the sei. Only sei can change it.~
Not reassuring at all. Jenn jumped to her feet and started to pace, only to find the wall moving away from her so she could, presumably, pace forever in the same direction which wasn’t pacing at all, but walking through a mountain. She stopped. So did the wall. “Oh dear.” How very odd.
~Sand is outside.~ Wisp’s eyes half-closed.
“Ancestors Blessed.” At first relieved, Jenn began to frown uneasily. “Why doesn’t she come in?”
~Thanks to you, she cannot.~
Rather than say “oh dear” again, Jenn stared commandingly at the petal door. When nothing happened, she ordered, “Open!”
It refused.
Well, this was a bother. She went to the door and touched it gingerly; her finger sank in and came out again, as if nothing was there, but something was. She could lean on it.
Though she’d matured beyond stamping her foot in frustration, to her aunt’s relief, the temptation to do just that made her twitch. “What should I do, Wisp?”
His eyes were fully closed, his head back on his hip and not a care in the Verge, her dragon. If she believed the pose, which she didn’t. “Wisp. Please,” Jenn urged. “We’re trapped in here!”
~We are not,~ he disagreed serenely. ~This is a sanctuary. It grants protection from the dangers outside. Beyond counting they are, in the Verge, and most quite deadly, but none dare challenge you, Dearest Heart.~
Oh, her dragon was enjoying himself. Enjoying her newly powerful self, was the truth of it, and as much as Jenn appreciated his extraordinary confidence, having none of her own, she didn’t think it wise of Wisp to make assumptions. “Mistress Sand is outside,” she pointed out.
~As a danger should be.~ A thoughtful pause. ~She grows annoyed. Turn-born, until now, have intruded here at their whim. I like this much better.~
“She’s not a danger, she’s our guest.” As well as someone Jenn preferred not to annoy in any sense. “Could you talk to her through the door? Ask her to—” wait a moment, while they prepared tea? The humor of it struck her and she laughed.
The petals unfolded, letting in a blast of heat that dissipated almost at once.
Mistress Sand stood in the opening. About to rush forward happily with her arms open, as she’d always done, Jenn froze in place. This wasn’t the Sand she knew.
This was a vessel of glass and light, shaped as a stocky woman. Instead of a face, she wore the mask of one. Wood it might have been, or weathered shell, but its features were
fixed into a stern, almost judgmental expression. An incongruous shock of thick white hair topped her head and where eyes and mouth should open, light spilled forth, light of every color Jenn knew.
And some she couldn’t name at all.
She looked down at herself, startled to find herself of ordinary flesh clothed in her very ordinary third best dress, with bare and—wasn’t it typical?—blue-stained feet. Not the blue, which came from the broken crystal and made her stomach roil, but the stains. She couldn’t seem to go anywhere without stains.
~Sweetling.~ Like Wisp’s voice, not the one she’d come to know, but something new, but the word and intonation were familiar. Jenn looked up again, light fractured to rainbows by the tears in her eyes. ~May I enter?~ Mistress Sand asked.
No endearing “-na?” at the end of the question, but there wouldn’t be, in the Verge, where turn-born spoke to one another in their own tongue.
Which didn’t need a tongue at all.
Overcome, Jenn sat on the floor to catch her—was she breathing? Ancestors Bewildered and Beset, she couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. What did? Manners. The world would be a better place for everyone, Aunt Sybb often said, if everyone had better manners. Clinging to that, she managed to say, “Please come in, Mistress.”
The creature of glass stepped through. Her mask faced the dragon’s raised head, then dipped in a brief nod that seemed polite. Wisp, to her astonishment, did the same. Manners, Jenn thought, growing steadier. Who’d have thought?
She really should stand up.
Before she could, the floor lifted her, forming into a different comfortable chair. Another formed a short distance away and the turn-born sat in it as if well-used to such magical happenings. As of course she was.
Sitting up, face to semblance-of-face, Jenn felt much more herself. “Thank you for coming.”
~Your dragon made it sound urgent. Is something wrong, Sweetling?~
Wisp curled a scaled lip.
“Not wrong, but—” She was doing everything backward. Jenn retrieved the homely little pot from her deepest pocket and held it out. “Peggs and I thought you’d enjoy some honey.”
~Honey. ~ Sand took the pot. Not having pockets, or discernible clothing for that matter, she set it on a small shelf the wall provided at her gesture. ~While I welcome a taste of Marrowdell, and thank you and your sister, this can’t be why you’re here.~
“No. It’s—I’ve questions.” Jenn reached into another pocket to pull out her list, unfolding the paper. It couldn’t have looked more out of place; she had the distinct feeling, despite the mask, Sand was amused. “There are rather a few,” Jenn added, turning the paper over and back again.
~And neatly written.~ Definitely amused. ~Ask away.~ Sand sat back, glass fingers resting on her thighs. Her feet, Jenn couldn’t help but notice, bore no stains at all, though she must have come this way.
“You were here first, waiting for us,” she blurted, remembering the paired footprints. “But where? I didn’t see you.”
~She was in here. You shoved her out.~ Wisp amused at Sand’s expense didn’t feel like a good idea. Jenn shot him a warning look he completely ignored.
But the turn-born laughed, or rather Jenn felt her laugh. It was an itchy sort of feeling, but somehow still contagious. ~Dragons enjoy displays of power. The more meaningless and dramatic the better.~ The mask tilted. ~As you entered, the sanctuary sent me outside to wait. You, being sei, controlled it without need for my assent. It is a marvel.~ With admiration.
Eating apples hadn’t made her into a tree. Swallowing tears didn’t make her a—whatever a sei truly was, Jenn decided, intending to be firm on that point. What she truly was, well, that puzzled even her dragon.
As for her being “a marvel,” well, that simply meant dragons weren’t the only ones in the Verge to enjoy displays of power, a thought Jenn kept to herself as she consulted her list. She didn’t have all day, being expected for supper, nor, she supposed, did Mistress Sand, though asking when turn-born ate in the Verge was right there on the back of the page, between could she visit and did they marry? She turned the paper over quickly. “I should start with the most important—”
Before she could choose, Mistress Sand asked, ~Why do you wear this seeming?~
Jenn studied her own hand. “I don’t know.” Nor could she remember changing from glass to flesh, for she’d walked down Wisp’s path as a turn-born. “Shouldn’t I?” Not on her list, but important to find out, she thought suddenly.
~It’s a risk. Flesh can be harmed. Cut. Drowned. Eaten, not so likely, but you look a tasty morsel to those of the Verge who cannot sense you as—~ Did she imagine hesitation? ~—turn-born.~
~And sei,~ Wisp added promptly.
A glass hand turned over, conceding the point.
“If you prefer, I’ll be like you,” Jenn offered and, with a shiver and wish, became glass and pearl. She felt no different, though tapping her fingers on her knee made a sound like tiny bells and if she cupped her hands palm to palm, she could pool their inner light into a glow bright enough to read in bed without a candle. Though turning pages was awkward.
Wisp snorted.
Mistress Sand laughed again. ~Best stay as you were, Sweetling.~ She’d shaded her eyes, or where eyes would be. ~Without a mask, you’ve no face I care to see.~
“No—” Jenn hurriedly reached to where her face should be, relieved to feel one, albeit one of glass. She frowned—or thought she did—at the turn-born. “I don’t understand.”
Mistress Sand’s mask aimed at Wisp, then back to Jenn in question.
It hadn’t occurred to her to exclude him from this conversation. She shouldn’t and wouldn’t, Jenn decided, no matter if the terst turn-born wanted it otherwise. “I’ll only tell him anyway,” she admitted, being honest.
Wisp, being prudent, offered no opinion. There was, however, a distinctly predatory gleam in his large, wild eyes she was sure meant they’d have to talk later.
~Very well, Sweetling. The light within us—~ Mistress Sand touched fingertip to breast ~—comes from both worlds. Our masks hold back one, so others may see us by the other.~ Raising her hands to the mask, she warned, ~Be ready.~
Jenn nodded, though how she could be ready for what she didn’t—
Sand removed her mask.
A fine way to work up an appetite, Bannan decided, all this running about with packages and bags. Admittedly, his growing appetite likely had as much to do with the aromas wafting through the inn as Palma and her family worked their own magic in the kitchen. But he’d done his share of stair climbing, he had.
There’d been the run up to his shared room with Great Gran’s interesting and heavy crate. With no time to investigate the contents, Bannan had covered it with his bedroll before running back down to retrieve his purchases from the bar.
Though he wouldn’t have guessed her able to move so quickly, there was no sign of the elderly woman.
Up the stairs he’d gone again, with his saddlebags and books, putting those beside the covered box, then grabbed the outbound mailbags.
Those Bannan had run down the stairs and outside to where Devins waited in the queue. Not alone. Four of the cousins were keeping him company, a much less intimidating number, and by now they’d moved close to the front of the line.
Where Bannan might have stayed, but for forgetting the honey pots for Cammi in his room. Up and down once more. The inn started to fill with hungry customers.
Ancestors Famished and Faint, was that cabbage soup? He loved cabbage soup.
His return with the honey came just as Devins was trying to convince the dubious postmistress to take Marrowdell’s mail. Swooping into his place, Bannan bowed politely—if breathlessly—at Cammi, offering the honey.
Oh, the smiles then.
The two, and larger, bags destined for Marrowdell safely in his keeping, Devi
ns and entourage thanked profusely—and promised lunch—well, then it was up the stairs one final time to exchange those bags for Master Jupp’s package and he’d be done.
Bannan put the mail with the rest, pushing the wide straw mattress aside to make room. They’d be cramped for space, but there was no question of loading the cart yet. Endshere swarmed with strangers; after his misadventure in the stable, he wasn’t about to trust any of them. As warning, he placed Horst’s sword on top.
The truthseer eyed his pile with pride, then had a twinge of conscience. Substantial, it was, and Perrkin shouldn’t have to carry heavy saddlebags in addition to a man’s weight. He’d walk most of the way, Bannan decided, cheering up.
Master Jupp’s well-sealed leather packet under one arm, he ran quick fingers through his hair to tame it, and went out of the door, more than ready for his meal.
“Wait . . .”
“Who’s there?” Bannan called, his tone friendly even as he put his back to a wall. He glanced this way and that. The hall and stairwell were empty. The hoarse whisper must have come from one of the three other rooms, but those doors, like his, were shut.
“Help me . . .” Faint. Pained. And from the door he faced. Frann and Lorra’s room!
One stride took him across the hall. He threw open the door.
Sunlight streamed through lace curtains into the inn’s finest room, crossing the rumpled sheets of the canopied bed to pool welcomingly in chairs arranged by the small fireplace. The room was chill, the fire gone cold, and Frann lay sprawled on the floor in her nightdress.
She raised her head slightly as he went to his knees beside her, her eyes dull and unfocused. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently, searching for injury, seeing nothing obvious.
“Don’t tell—don’t tell Lorra.” Whispered with effort. “I—I fell. An—cestors Stupid and—I fell.”
“It’s all right.” Heart’s Blood. From the rawness in her voice, she must have called for help every time he’d so cheerfully clomped up and down the stairs. Pushing aside that guilt, he laid the back of his hand along her cheek to find it icy cold. “Let’s get you back to bed.” Carefully, an arm under her shoulders, the other supporting her legs, Bannan stood. One of her hands fluttered, in protest or trying to help. “It’s all right,” he soothed again. “You’re light as a feather.”
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