A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

  A heavy breath left plumes in the chill night air and a hoof almost the width of Brawl’s, with a sharper edge, scored the frozen ground. “I stayed by my first truthseer. I took his final breath and carried it into battle. I killed and, as my enemy died, I gave that breath in my truthseer’s honor. This,” another line in the ground, “I would do for Frann, who has lived a brave life within the edge.”

  “Your—you mean my father’s uncle. Kimm Larmensu.” Bannan stared into the dark, imagining more than seeing twin red glows. “He died of old age, peacefully in his bed.” After which the warhorse had refused all riders but the next Larmensu truthseer, Bannan’s father.

  When a mudslide had roared down, engulfing not only trees and fields, but stone walls and slate roofs and lives, wiping the Marerrym estate, his mother’s legacy, from the earth? Thirty-one had been lost that day, including his mother and father, Ancestors Dear and Departed.

  Scourge alone had survived. He’d made his own way home, cut and bruised and battered, to seek out his new rider, Bannan. To insist, truth be told, on that rider.

  Ancestors Witness, he’d been so small. The struggle to ride the great beast had nigh killed him.

  “Yes,” the breeze almost gentle. “My truthseer died away from battle and would have lost all honor. It was my honor—” this with immense pride, “—to save his.”

  He’d never known Scourge to pause over those killed on patrols, other than to ensure what appeared dead, was. This? Kruar beliefs, Bannan supposed. Beliefs strong enough to continue to move the great beast beyond the edge. He dared asked what he hadn’t, yet. “What else could you remember, away from Marrowdell?”

  An uneasy silence. Then, more breath than breeze, an admission. “You. To stay with you. No one else in that world sees me as I am. Away from that truth, I forget.”

  Both of their futures had been saved by the moth. Bannan stepped close, lifting a hand to find that strong neck, and laid his forehead against Scourge’s wide cheek. “Hearts of our Ancestors,” he whispered, eyes shut and fervent. “We’re Beholden above all else to be here, where we belong. However far we are apart, Keep Us Close.”

  Scourge bore the embrace for an unusually long moment, then sidled away. “We are here,” the breeze told Bannan, “and I am myself. Leave me to my duty.” The slightest of rumbles from that massive chest. “I will stay by Frann.”

  “Outside.”

  Loud, now the rumble, but Scourge didn’t argue.

  Ancestors Frazzled and Fraught, he was tired. Cold. That too. Probably hungry, if he thought about it. Enough of this. “I think you’re wasting your time,” Bannan said as cheerfully as he could. “We made it back and Frann’s comfortable. Covie’s an excellent healer. I’ll bet she has Frann up and playing her new flute in no time.”

  He waited for a reply.

  And heard only the winter wind.

  They’d explained, Gallie and Zehr, though Gallie had spoken most, Zehr having begun to nod before a second cuppa. The rush home had been because Frann had taken ill, or tripped on a rug, or eaten bad meat, though Gallie had quite liked the mutton at the inn and certainly no one truly blamed Palma’s cooking or kitchen. Except Lorra, but she did have a temper.

  And was afraid for her friend. The same fear filled the eyes meeting Jenn’s, despite the effort Gallie made to be cheerful and mention, several times, how glad they were to be home where Covie could care for Frann and Frann could recover in the comfort of home.

  So when Jenn saw them to bed soon after, closing the door between main room and kitchen, she stood there a moment and tried not to be afraid herself. Which wouldn’t help matters and could possibly—

  “Dearest Heart—”

  She moved, or he did, or the kitchen somehow shrunk to put them in each other’s arms before the word finished leaving her beloved’s lips, lips she found were chapped and cold and felt better than anything had ever felt against her own. And she would have been happy to stay in that kiss forever except that the kettle was hot and he shivered in her arms.

  “Tea?” she asked brightly.

  In answer, Bannan held tighter, burying his face in her neck. Jenn stayed where she was, though she was certain he’d feel better for a hot drink and doubtless a spot of supper, because something more was wrong.

  And holding her helped.

  It wasn’t magic, she thought, but was, all the same.

  Finally, he pulled back enough to look at her. “Tea,” he agreed hoarsely.

  For the second time, Jenn made tea and put the frying pan to work, but this time her every move was followed by loving eyes. Bannan’s regard became such a distraction she came close to burning both sausages and eggs, and stuck out her tongue to dissuade him, but he seemed incapable of looking elsewhere, as though afraid she’d disappear.

  Which she had, hadn’t she? Jenn put the plate in front of him, planted a firm kiss on his lips, then sat on the other side of the table with her own mug. Unlike Gallie and Zehr, Bannan circled his fingers and said, “Hearts of our Ancestors, I am Beholden for this food for it was prepared with love—” There was, she saw with relief, a twinkle in his eye when he went on, “and the best I’ve ever eaten. I am Beholden to be home again. Above all, I am Beholden to be with my beloved Jenn. However far we are apart, Keep Us Close.”

  “‘Keep Us Close,’” Jenn echoed gently. “Eat,” she ordered. “I know about poor Frann. You can tell me the rest afterward.”

  That earned her a look, but Bannan was clearly too hungry to resist. She sat and watched him with unexpected pride. She’d cared for Loee, then Gallie and Zehr. Now, she cared for Bannan. There was something to this feeding of people. Maybe she could cook for Peggs one day.

  Jenn grinned. Her sister sit back and let someone else use her kitchen?

  Bannan raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “I was thinking about Peggs.” Her grin widened. “Oh, I get to tell you the news! I’m to be an aunt. I’ll be asking for your advice, being an uncle already.”

  “Congratulations.” He smiled and looked pleased, but wasn’t, she thought, not completely.

  Which couldn’t be about Peggs and Kydd, for she knew Bannan was very fond of both, but had to be about being an uncle.

  Meaning Lila. “You’ve had a letter,” she guessed. “Something’s wrong in Vorkoun.”

  He put down his fork and sighed. “What’s wrong is that there was no letter from Vorkoun, Dearest Heart. No letter or news; just an abundance of rumor. That Emon’s missing in Channen. Detained by those who rule there, or come to foul play, or, Ancestors Lewd and Lost, maybe willingly, though I greatly doubt that. That there’s trouble brewing between Mellynne and Rhoth over our treaty with Ansnor and the Eld.” He laughed without humor. “To no surprise, the cost of the prince’s train grows.”

  Places Jenn had once dreamed of seeing for herself, but as a child dreamed, she remembered with an inner twinge, glossy with adventure and wonders, heedless of different people or their needs. “Your sister must be worried. If you hadn’t signed the bind, you could go to her,” she said, wondering if he now had regrets.

  “The bind?” A humorless smile. “A piece of paper older than you are. I don’t deny there’d be risk, but they’d have to catch me first.” The smile disappeared. “Trust I’ve the skills to reach Vorkoun undetected, Jenn, but to what end? There’s nothing I could do there Lila couldn’t do better—and she’d have my ears for taking the chance. No. I made my choice. This is where I belong.” He reached across the table to take her hand in his. “With you.”

  Jenn lifted his hand to her lips, then let go. She searched his tired face, saw the worry drawn there, and realized what else troubled him. “What will your sister do?” she asked quietly.

  “That depends on what’s happened to Emon,” Bannan Larmensu replied, the words slow and heavy. “Lila takes care of those she loves. She always has. Always will.
”

  Somehow, Jenn was sure he didn’t mean by making tea or feeding them.

  Still, care was care and she found she approved, knowing this about Lila. “You’ll stay the night,” she told Bannan, who been through enough today without having to start a fire in a cold dark house and, most importantly, had come home, to her.

  Bannan hadn’t expected to be comfortable, the bed being far too short for his length and meant for one, not two. Nor had he expected to sleep, his mind awhirl and fretful and inclined to the worst.

  Which was fine, since he wanted neither comfort nor sleep, not with the woman he loved tucked against him so her heart and his beat as one.

  But the beat of Jenn’s heart eased his from race to peace and, somewhere between desire’s kiss and tender’s touch, he fell fast asleep.

  The cheery clatter of pots opened his eyes. Sunbeams trailed through the room, catching a corner of the map on the wall. Lila’s gift it was, as much as his, since she’d commissioned a splendid new one when he’d asked her for any map at all.

  The corner touched by light held Mellynne, Rhoth’s neighbor to the west and south, and there it was—the strange weave of road, river, and canal that was Channen, the Naalish capital.

  Lips, warm and soft, brushed his ear. “You’ve told me Emon’s been there before,” Jenn whispered, her arms going around him. “That he has friends. He’s come back.”

  As he’d done. Filled with quiet joy, Bannan traced the line of her thigh where it crossed his. This wasn’t the moment for worry. “Dearest Heart—”

  “‘Dearest Heart,’” she echoed, low and husky. “’Tis morning and we really—” a kiss at the edge of his jaw, “—must—” a nibble just under that sent a shiver down his spine and warmth rushing elsewhere, “—help Gallie.”

  “Must,” Bannan agreed amicably, reaching a little farther. Jenn stifled her laugh against his neck and matters would have proceeded admirably . . .

  Except that she sat straight up, staring at him, and the sunlight couldn’t match the glow from within her glass skin, nor the fire that replaced her eyes.

  “What’s—” But he knew, didn’t he? Bannan sat up too, despite the gooseflesh pimpling his skin, and touched the mark on his neck. “A moth gave me this, before I left Marrowdell.”

  “‘Keep Us Close.’”

  She was upset, he understood that. “Always. Jenn—”

  “That’s what it says.” With a shimmer, barely seen, she became flesh once more, her dear face troubled. “Why would a moth write that in your skin, Bannan?”

  To save me—the words stopped in his throat, for he had no idea why the moth, or Marrowdell, had acted, and to believe it was kindness was to mistake what ruled here. “To step beyond Marrowdell,” he said instead, “—to go outside the edge—means to forget her magic. A few remember. Most do not. I wouldn’t have, without this.” He touched the mark again.

  “‘Forget her magic.’” Jenn stood and began to dress, seeming oblivious to the chill in the room. She shot him an unreadable look over her shoulder, her eyes purpled. “Me.”

  He’d worried how to tell her. He should, Bannan thought ruefully, have remembered who she was and her astonishing courage. “Yes. They—I—forgot your very existence. Until I touched this,” again to the mark, “and then I remembered. Everything. It was the worst moment of my life,” he finished.

  He could see only the side of her face, but did a smile round her cheek? “I must thank the moth, then.”

  “How did you read what it wrote? I didn’t know you could.”

  Inside her shirtwaist, Jenn muttered, “I can’t. It’s not—” the words came clearer as her head came through, “—as if I can read what they write in their journals.” She paused, her eyes meeting his. “But what’s on your neck? That’s clear to me.”

  He’d freeze if he sat like this a moment longer. Bannan got up and pulled on his clothes, cold as they were. “You’ve another heritage, besides Rhothan and turn-born,” he suggested, shrugging on his shirt.

  Jenn looked out the window. “Sei.” Ice-cold, that word, and full of foreboding.

  Bannan went to her, wrapping his arms around her waist to draw her against him. “It’s not all you are.”

  “Is it not?” Jenn said, stiff in his embrace. “You were there. Is not sei what fills me now? Am I more than its tears?”

  He tightened his grip and pressed his face into her golden hair. “Ancestors Blessed. I wish just once you could see yourself as I see you, Jenn Nalynn. As all of us see you. You wouldn’t think such things.”

  She turned to face him. “What I think,” Jenn told him, “is that we’re late for—”

  His lips found hers.

  Late, they’d most certainly be.

  She’d been the one worried about being late, and they were, by the sounds from below. A coo and giggle from Loee. Zehr, walking in his boots. Gallie’s quiet question and his deeper answer.

  Breakfast well underway, in all likelihood finished and tidied, while they lay abed. Bannan had drifted back to sleep in her arms, his face peaceful, and Jenn wouldn’t move or disturb him.

  Selfish, that was, as much or more than kind.

  To feel his strong length against her, from toe to shoulder, was to find her toes and shoulder. The bristle of his regrowing beard, smooth one way, rough the other, discovered both fingertips and the soft inner surface of her wrist. The scent of him filled her nose and throat, giving her lungs, while his warmth drove the beats of her heart.

  The magic of the edge was stranger than she could have imagined. Beyond its reach, others forgot her.

  Within it, she could forget herself.

  It didn’t have to be so. The moth, or sei, had helped Bannan remember. Lying like this, with Bannan solid and real—yes, even his occasional snore and how her leg under his was numb and surely would be pins and needles soon— helped her be solid and real too.

  For how long?

  It didn’t matter.

  She’d asked Mistress Sand. “Do turn-born grow old?”

  “We weather,” that worthy had replied. “Like anything left outside for years. Slowly enough.”

  “How slowly?” she’d questioned, this being alarmingly vague. Jenn was aware there were sorts of wood that crumbled after a winter and others, for Zehr had taught her, that would stay unchanged for lifetimes after those who’d built with them were bones.

  But the turn-born wouldn’t say, or couldn’t. Jenn wasn’t terst, after all.

  “We do grow weary,” Mistress Sand had said next, to no question or perhaps all of them. “Weary of each other. Of the unending debates over this expectation or that or none. Weary of remembering what we were.” She’d laughed then, and claimed Jenn should have no such difficulty, living as she did with family and others who were as real as could be and would keep her whole too.

  Leading Jenn to wonder if this was why, more than Marrowdell’s mill or beer, the turn-born came every harvest: to be with people who remembered them, so they would not forget.

  Instead of that, which came needlessly near doubt of friendship and kindness, she’d asked, “Do turn-born die?”

  Jenn rested her cheek on Bannan’s chest, listening to the ceaseless thud-thump of his heart and steady sigh of his breath. She tried to make her breaths and her heartbeats match, but they didn’t, quite. She almost crossed her eyes watching how her breath moved like a playful breeze through the fine hairs near her nose and mouth, surely tickling.

  They were late, after all.

  There was a world with her, here in this small bed, a world as entrancing as any map could show or magic realm produce.

  Turn-born, Mistress Sand had told her, did not die as other beings. Oh, they could take injury, while flesh, as readily as before. Heal from such harm, over time, or stay turn-born to avoid it. Until memory failed.

  Die
?

  A turn-born was, she’d said bluntly, until a turn-born wasn’t. Their passing left no bones to bury, though that wasn’t terst custom, nor so much as a tidy pile of rock or sand or shattered glass to mark place and moment. Best, Mistress Sand had finished, to do as other turn-born and not dwell overmuch on the future.

  So one day, Jenn thought as she lay with Bannan, a day she couldn’t predict, she would be . . .

  . . . then not.

  What did matter was to prepare those who loved her for the eventuality, as best she could. Though she most certainly hoped it was an eventuality far removed from now . . .

  “We could wait for lunch,” Bannan murmured, eyes still closed, and rolled over to bring her close.

  . . . for she quite liked now.

  The breeze in Bannan’s ear nipped like frost. “Tell me again why I agreed to . . . this.”

  The truthseer hid a grin as he adjusted the ox yoke around Scourge’s neck. It hadn’t been easy, coaxing the kruar from his vigil by the Treffs’, but he’d a trick or two. “Cheese.”

  A red forked tongue slipped between lips that might have been those of a horse, but were not, collecting drool. The kruar hunted for himself; that didn’t mean he spurned the occasional tasty bribe. Though “this,” the man admitted, was pushing that limit.

  But he’d no other way to hoist the heavy crate into the loft, not without spoiling his surprise for Jenn Nalynn. Marrowdell’s inhabitants were as curious as they were helpful and nothing stayed secret.

  Though today was different. Davi hadn’t lingered after delivering Bannan’s belongings. The rest of the village, including Jenn, was busy with an inventory of supplies. Sennic and Riss would ensure all knew what must be rationed at once.

  And what they must do without, until the world thawed again.