A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Dusom nodded. “Past due. It’s good we’re here beforehand. By the signs, it’ll be a bad one.”

  Wainn, who kept his long, gray scarf wrapped around his neck, pushed past the others. “They worry it’s Jenn Nalynn’s,” he informed Bannan, “but it’s just a storm.”

  The elder Uhthoffs exchanged rueful looks. “Here we’d thought to ask you,” admitted Kydd. He ruffled his nephew’s hair. “Should have known.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  Bannan smiled as he hung cloaks on pegs, more content than he’d thought possible, considering he was about to lose both house and privacy for however long winter lasted in Marrowdell. Yesterday, with Jenn, had been more than a last gift of time together, more than lovemaking and laughter. She’d made it more, tidying cushions, running her fingers over mantel and windowsill, helping him decide what to take and what to leave. Like someone leaving a beloved home.

  A beginning, he believed with every fiber of his being, hardly able to sleep for hope. This spring. This spring and its first flower and he would ask her again. By spring, this spring, Jenn might find peace with herself and all that she was. Be willing, by spring, to make this home hers too.

  If not, well, he would wait, however long Jenn needed or wished.

  The truthseer turned back to his guests. “Thank you for coming.” He beckoned the three to seats by the fire. “Rest yourselves. I’ve mulled wine. And biscuits.” For a wonder, since the dragon tended to steal them.

  As for the dragon?

  Though Bannan couldn’t be sure, he’d his suspicions. His house toad, no longer willing to go into the loft despite the regrettable mirror being wrapped and hidden under the bed, had dragged a plump cushion close to the cookstove for its own bed.

  Now, though without toad, that cushion was pressed flat.

  A warm spot that would chill by nightfall, as these were the last biscuits from his new stove until spring. That said, Ancestors Needful and Necessary, Bannan had no doubt he’d keep baking since Devins wasn’t a cook, preferring to take his meals in other households. Biscuits now and then was the least Bannan could do in return for Roche’s old room.

  As for his? The place had solid shutters and working doors now. Maybe it would be a short winter. Maybe he could visit, as the snow permitted.

  Bannan had informed the dragon and his house toad. So far, neither had expressed an opinion, well enough, nor assured him they’d be fine, which was becoming a worry. Foolish of him, he supposed, both having survived winters long before he’d arrived, but he couldn’t help it.

  “You’re a grand host, my friend. Yes to both.” Dusom, the elder brother and Wainn’s father, took the seat nearest the small fire, holding out his hands gratefully. “Brrr. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “No one is,” his son said after a moment’s careful thought. He choose to sit cross-legged on the rug. The house toad, having noticed, slowly edged closer. When Bannan glanced at it, it stopped at once, sitting tall and proud as if watching for mice.

  He couldn’t take it with him. Devins’ house had a toad and there was only one per house or barn, not that anyone could say why. The dragon didn’t know and Scourge didn’t care.

  Bannan loaded his tray with filled mugs and a basket of warm buttered biscuits, one of which he casually dropped near the cushion. By the time he served the Uhthoffs, the toad, clearly unconcerned, was leaning, eyes closed in bliss, against Wainn’s leg.

  Perhaps that problem was already solved.

  “Welcome, all.” His share of the warm and fragrant wine in hand, Bannan sat to enjoy the moment. A snug home. Friends such as these. What matter winter’s first storm? Though he should, the truthseer reminded himself, seek advice from those familiar with such weather.

  “So, Bannan,” Kydd said, eyes alight with curiosity. “You’ve been mysterious since coming home. Something happened to you in Endshere, didn’t it?”

  A scholar, was Kydd, of magic as well as history. Dusom was an astronomer and teacher, a keen observer of what made Marrowdell special. As for Wainn?

  Wainn was part of that.

  “Wen worried Bannan wouldn’t come home,” that worthy offered through a mouth of biscuit. He licked a runnel of butter from his lips. “Marrowdell helped.”

  “Oh-ho!” Dusom settled back, mug in hand. “So there is a tale.”

  “More than that,” Bannan said, abruptly serious, for his invitation to sit had another side to it. Despite Tadd’s caution to the contrary, Jenn had agreed he should share the truth with these three. “Have any of you left the valley, since first arriving in Marrowdell?”

  Kydd and Dusom shook their heads. Wainn reached for another biscuit.

  He’d thought not. “Of those who have,” he informed them, “all but a few forget what makes this place different from any other. Its magic. Its connection to the Verge. Its other inhabitants.”

  The toad snuggled closer to Wainn, as if disturbed. As well it should, Bannan thought.

  “Heart’s Blood!” Kydd went pale.

  Dusom leaned forward again, his deceptively sleepy eyes alert. “‘All but a few,’ you say. Who is safe from this forgetting?”

  “Tadd and Allin. They remember—and more. Once outside Marrowdell, they can tell who else, by looking into their eyes. According to them—” Bannan counted on his fingers with each name, “Lady Mahavar. Dema Qimirpik. Roche Morrill.”

  When Tadd had revealed what he’d learned from his twin, Tir had been a sorrow, Qimirpik an unexpected joy, and Roche? Bannan hadn’t been surprised. Jenn Nalynn had wished Roche to speak only the truth; to himself, it appeared, as well. Though for all their sakes, he hoped the demas kept the self-centered Morrill close and content.

  Kydd rubbed his forehead. “Ancestors Bemused and Bewildered. Davi and Lorra. Frann, these many trips. Every one forgot?”

  “Sennic too.” When he’d returned Horst’s sword, difficult as it had been, Bannan had heeded Tadd’s warning not to question the man. He’d seen for himself how the others arrived back, slipping on Marrowdell’s magic like a pair of comfortable old slippers left by the fire. As for the former soldier’s sharp look, well, he’d had his encounter with the horse thieves to relate.

  To Perrkin’s glory, if not his own.

  “You failed to count yourself,” observed Dusom.

  “I remembered no more than the rest,” Bannan said, proud his voice was steady, “till this burned into my skin to remind me.” He pulled aside his collar.

  Dusom and Kydd stood to take a closer look, then sat back down. Both appeared shaken. “If these markings are words,” the latter said slowly, “it’s no language I’ve seen before.”

  Words Jenn Nalynn had read with ease; words part of every day’s Beholdings, said by any and every one in Rhoth. Words, she and Bannan had concluded, that must be the intention of the markings, not the means. “I believe it’s a wishing, of a kind,” he said, choosing his words with care. “It was written by a moth the morning we left.”

  “I saw. They’re Marrowdell words.” Wainn tilted his head. “I can write them for you, Uncle.”

  “Do not, please, for anyone,” his father commanded gently. “I doubt these are words any of us should write, until we understand their source.”

  If they ever did or could, Bannan thought, but he wasn’t the scholar. “You won’t be able to question the others about this, Dusom,” he cautioned. “They’ve no memory of having forgotten.”

  “Yet remember Endshere, do they not?” At Bannan’s nod, the older man half smiled with relief. “Good. So, strange as it is, this ‘forgetting’ only matters outside of Marrowdell.”

  Kydd helped himself to more wine, offering the pitcher to the others. “Aunt Sybb,” he said wonderingly. “Much about that dear lady becomes clear, especially her feelings about magic and our little friends here.” With a bow to the toad.

 
; Who yawned toothily.

  “However troubling to contemplate,” Dusom mused, “perhaps we should be grateful Marrowdell protects her magical secrets.”

  “All of them?” His brother gave Bannan a troubled look. “What of Jenn?”

  “To those who leave Marrowdell and forget,” the truthseer replied grimly, “Jenn Nalynn might never have been born.”

  Wainn’s eyes widened. The toad leapt away.

  Seemingly of its own volition, the cushion slid an arm’s length from where it had been, explaining the lack of biscuit on the floor.

  Here, then, and listening, was Wisp.

  Perhaps not the best outcome, to have the dragon learn all this from him, instead of Jenn, especially inside his fragile house. Ah, well. Bannan collected himself. He could hardly stop now. “There’s worse.” He touched his neck. “Without this, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Before its magic took effect, I—” Heart’s Blood, where was his voice? He coughed. Took a gulp of wine. “Ancestors Desperate and Despondent—I forgot her too. Our love—was gone. I was about to make my way back to Vorkoun, believing I’d found nothing in Marrowdell.” His free hand became a fist. “And I’d have lost everything.”

  Wordless cold nipped his ear. Rebuke. Fair, he supposed. No one had forced him to take the road.

  Other than duty and honor—and Sennic, who was both. All valued by the dragon. So maybe the nip had been something else.

  Fear.

  For him? Or of how Jenn might have reacted had he abandoned her? It could be both, Bannan conceded, and not wrong.

  Free of the opinions of dragons, Wainn’s forehead uncreased as he smiled, wide and happy. “Now you’re home.”

  As if the outside world, and what happened there, could be ignored.

  Kydd nodded, though the troubled look hadn’t left his eyes. “What of Scourge? Devins said he came with you—fought a bear.”

  “He did.” Bannan hesitated, then told the truth, “Like before, Scourge only knew himself through my gift. I fear—had we’d been separated, had I forgotten Marrowdell and left him behind—he’d have been lost.”

  A wicked hiss had the older Uhthoffs glancing around for a source, to settle, rather uncertainly, on the kettle. “Old fool,” the breeze snapped.

  “He was brave to follow me,” Bannan countered, “and saved us on the road.”

  Kydd had fallen silent, doubtless thinking it through. Sure enough, “Magic like Marrowdell’s has its place, then,” he declared abruptly, “despite what small amounts may slip into the wider world. I admit I’d hoped it was so, that there were limits. Imagine this—” an encompassing gesture, “—in Avyo?”

  “By reputable account, there’s magic in Channen,” Dusom reminded his brother. “If confined to a particular physical location, or remembered by few, it would explain why Mellynne itself does not rely upon it.”

  “Indeed!” Kydd’s lean frame quivered with excitement. “But what of her exports—works of art that defy explanation—”

  Bannan raised his hand to interrupt. “Your pardon, good friends.” He gained the brothers’ attention, Wainn being preoccupied wrapping his scarf around the toad. “There’s more you should know. I heard disturbing news in Endshere. News of trouble between Mellynne and Rhoth.”

  “With our prince, when isn’t there?”

  “Kydd.” Dusom frowned. “I’ve heard of a trade dispute. Do you have other news?”

  Bannan kept his report brief and to the point. By the end, the brothers looked as worried as he felt.

  “Envoys are inviolate,” Kydd protested. “Ancestors Witness. Are you sure?”

  “Rumor’s never trustworthy,” Bannan acknowledged. “But I had the same tale from a thief from Avyo as from locals at the inn—men who, moreover, gave me the envoy’s name. One I know well. Baron Emon Westietas. My sister’s husband.”

  “Ancestors Blighted and Beset.” Dusom, who rarely swore, shook his head.

  Kydd finished his wine in a quick gulp, setting down his mug. “You could tell they spoke the truth.”

  “As they knew it, yes.” The truthseer shrugged. “It’s not proof.”

  Dusom’s face clouded. “It explains what’s happened to a colleague of mine. Recall Jym’s latest letter, Kydd? Jym Garnden is an astronomer at Sersise,” he explained to Bannan. “As long as I’ve known him, he’s spent the winter in an observatory in mountains north of Channen. This year, his invitation was revoked.” Dusom sighed. “This trouble is unfortunate beyond words, my friend. We will ask the Ancestors Blessing at the Midwinter Beholding, and hope for better news in spring.”

  Because nothing moved north after the first snow.

  Bannan rose and went to the fireplace, squatting to use the poker on the remaining embers and stare into the final, crackling flames. Warmth on his face, none in his heart. “Lila could have sent word,” he said finally. “She knew the road would close. Why didn’t she?”

  “She thought to spare you the worry,” suggested Kydd.

  “Lila?” Bannan stood and turned, shaking his head. “Never.”

  “While the road’s clear, there’s always the chance of a messenger,” Dusom offered.

  His brother nodded. “That’s it. A messenger. Still time for that, Bannan.”

  Not, he guessed, that there’d ever been such a courier come to Marrowdell. They lied to comfort him; he let them. “Something to watch for, then. Now. What say we finish the last of the wine, my good friends, then be off? I’m packed and ready—”

  Wainn stood. “Too late.”

  “For what?” his father asked, raising an eyebrow.

  In answer, the youngest Uhthoff walked to the door and threw it open.

  Snow swirled in like a dancer, wrapping him in its arms. He turned with a laugh, drops winking on lashes and hair. Beyond Wainn, outside, the farmyard already wore a coat of white, what little could be seen of it through wind-driven flakes.

  “That’s it, then,” Bannan said, numbed by more than the cold wind. Ancestors Lost and Left.

  The road south was closed.

  It was too late.

  A fleck of paint, touched by a hand . . . a drop of sleep, under the tongue . . .

  And the dream unfolds . . .

  White. Everywhere white. Snow.

  It softens, smothers. Tricks.

  A face looms, strange and distorted. Terror.

  Red sprays, dotting the snow like rose petals. More—

  Russet fountains. Crimson waterfalls—

  The dream falters . . . rebuilds . . .

  White. Everywhere.

  White.

  Snow kissed her eyelids and patted her cheeks. Jenn stuck out her tongue to catch a flake, the first snow being the tastiest, only to have the wind snatch her breath and send icy fingers up her skirt. Which wasn’t polite or comfortable, so she pulled up her hood and headed for home.

  It wasn’t a blizzard, yet, but wasn’t weather to fool with, something she sincerely hoped Bannan understood. She’d told him how they’d tie ropes as guides to the barns, and how, if a rope snapped, it was better to sleep with the livestock than risk being lost. Not that he’d livestock yet, other than Scourge, but the warning was important. That no one in Marrowdell had strayed in a storm, to fall asleep forever, was due to such care.

  Ankle-deep the snow, and light. Other than the cold, it was like walking through thistle fluff, fluff that filled the air as well. The apple trees to her left were dark blurs and, without the light in the windows, she couldn’t have guessed which of the larger blurs ahead was the Emms’ barn, and which the house. Jenn glanced across the road to the closer welcome of the Morrill home. Bannan, this very afternoon, had settled in with Devins. She wasn’t entirely sorry. It was safer in the village.

  And he was near. She’d invite
him for supper tomorrow, if Gallie agreed. Or should such an invitation include Devins? Neglect half of a household, Aunt Sybb would say, and do harm to both. Not that Devins and Bannan were a married couple, and Devins usually took his meals with the Ropps, but his kindness at taking Bannan into his home should be rewarded.

  Her toes reminded her they were walking through snow and Jenn stretched her legs, just as eager to be indoors.

  Only to stop as a tall shape formed out of the blowing snow. “Greetings, Jenn Nalynn.”

  “Greetings, Wen.” Jenn blinked in surprise.

  Wen Treff wore no hood, likely because a toad usually rode her shoulder, safely tucked within her mass of wild hair, nor a cloak, which was more puzzling. Jenn blinked again and realized she’d been wrong.

  Wen’s cloak was the snow. It hung around her, now a sparkling cape, now scarves afloat, now a snug coat, or was it a cape again? Dizzy, Jenn focused on Wen’s calm face. “I was just—” she’d started to shout to be heard, then realized whatever tamed the storm around the other woman now encompassed her as well, and lowered her voice. “I was with Frann. She’s sleeping. So is your mother,” she added, for surely Wen worried about them both.

  Gray eyes regarded her. “Mother lies on her bed, lying to herself. She will not rest.”

  Jenn sighed and hugged herself. “I hope she doesn’t make herself ill.”

  “Mother is stronger than that.” Wen’s head tilted like a bird’s. “You were gone.”

  “I came back,” Jenn countered quickly.

  “This time.”

  What did that mean? She shivered and not from the cold. “This is my home,” she assured the uncanny woman. “I’ll always come back.”

  “Hearts would break, if you did not.”

  Had Wen been talking to Peggs? About to protest, Jenn subsided. It was nothing but the truth. “I will come back,” she said then, unafraid to put all her will into the promise. If she couldn’t bring herself home, what good was magic at all?