A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Nothing happened. Jenn felt a smidge of disappointment, though what had she expected, trumpets? Of course she’d return from wherever she went. That didn’t take a wish.

  Pale lips smiled, as if Wen had heard. “Jenn Nalynn. Tonight you must seek what is lost. That is your gift, as it was Melusine’s.”

  To be honest, Jenn thought, it was her most useful magic, especially when it came to strayed piglets or eggs, and one the villagers had employed even before she’d been aware of it. To be lost in such a storm, be it cow or horse, or piglet, would be to die. “What’s lost?” she asked urgently, ready to help.

  A pair of dark, limpid eyes peered from Wen’s hair, claws gripping a shoulder. ~She mustn’t, elder sister,~ the house toad protested. ~Stay home. Stay safe!~

  ~Peace, little one. Our Jenn will do neither. She has a good heart.~

  What she wouldn’t do was disregard a toad’s advice. Was it anxious because of the storm or something else? “Where,” Jenn asked with sudden doubt, “am I to seek what’s lost?” If the Verge, on some business of toads, whatever it was would have to wait. A storm meant everyone would be needed, if only to clear snow from the road and paths.

  Could she? No more wishing, Jenn decided hastily, till she could be sure of the consequences.

  Wen’s arm lifted, her finger pointing. “Seek the lost, Jenn Nalynn.” The snow-laden wind obliged, dying down to reveal the road through Marrowdell, then the gate, then beyond. When she let her arm fall to her side, swirls of white again hid the village. “Before it’s too late.”

  “But—”

  Wen Treff and her toad vanished into the snow, leaving Jenn standing in the midst of what was, now, a storm.

  With, apparently, a mission. She blinked away the flakes once more smacking her in the face—Marrowdell being much less courteous to her than to Wen—and started walking through the growing drifts.

  She’d best stop for her winter shoes first, and a thicker scarf.

  As for what she was to seek?

  She supposed she’d know that once she found it. Or it found her.

  Snow.

  He didn’t waste breath snarling at the horrid stuff, breath that would enter him cold and steal his heat. Breath he’d need.

  ~‘A storm rides the road.’~

  A storm with snow. What other kind of storm could it be, here, at this dreadful time of year?

  At least the water of the river was rock hard, a phenomenon he might have enjoyed had the air above it been decently warm.

  Beyond a dragon to question how the sei knew the weather coming to Marrowdell, or on the road into it. Assuming weather was the storm. Sei, Wisp had learned, weren’t above metaphor.

  If it sent him, whatever the storm, it was something important to the girl.

  Efflet purred and whispered on every side, catching flakes in their claws, collecting the white stuff into drifts and shapes. Wisp passed a growing mound that looked suspiciously like his own head; another that might have been an ox. A dead one. Come winter, efflet tended to humor. Maybe they felt free of their duty.

  Duty was warmth. Duty was power. Without duty, the dragon knew, he’d be curled up at home.

  Instead of this. To the excitement of efflet, who tried to keep up, and the curiosity of ylings, who fluttered in their russet cloaks to treetops to watch, Wisp flew across fields, forest, and waterfall to where Marrowdell’s road bent out of the valley.

  With each beat, he did his utmost to ignore what had happened to the truthseer and his old enemy. A dragon, forget himself? He’d have roared a denial, challenged that fate, but it was too cold.

  And he was too old to trust the unknown.

  Finding the road, Wisp stayed low, angling to follow its twists and turns. The wind strengthened, howling between the crags like something alive and hungry. It drove the snow sideways, hammering rock and tree. An eagle couldn’t fly in this. A man would be blind.

  It was nothing to a dragon, born to own air.

  Cold was the enemy. It gnawed and bit, making itself a thorough nuisance. Frost grew from his beard. As if that weren’t insult enough, ice began to coat his scales, adding weight, changing his shape.

  Crazed sei. How far did he have to go? How would he know when he was there?

  A wall of stone!

  His icy body refused to turn and avoid the obstacle. Roaring his fury, Wisp flew straight, taking the earth way.

  Death was entirely possible. He hadn’t tried this since being broken.

  Ice shattered, left behind as, to his joy, his wings beat through rock as easily as air. Taking a breath, he inhaled the rich heady scent of the bones of the world.

  Better still, there was heat within the mountain, heat to thaw him.

  Not that he could linger. The road hadn’t ended; it had met the one the villagers called the Northward that led to their former homes.

  Turning, reluctantly, Wisp flew out and back into the storm.

  And the cold. Loathsome, but no longer lethal. He’d a way to warm himself and would, again. First, to be done with this command of the sei.

  The Northward Road had been built by pick and shovel, not magic, just as terst made their marks on the ground in his world. Like other dragons, Wisp had sneered at the toil of those who had to walk. After having to do the same, as a man, he highly approved of well-maintained paths.

  Stairs, he would never like.

  There!

  He dropped from the air to the road near several mounds of white, drawn not by the shapes, but by the enticing scent of blood. His tongue licked out, tasting the air.

  Horse.

  He crouched, head whipping around, wary of ambush. Not that anything in the girl’s world could challenge him—or see him, for that matter—but instinct wasn’t to be dismissed.

  And he hated surprises.

  Once satisfied, Wisp spread his wings and hopped from mound to mound. It was graceless, but efficient. He sent a breeze to clear the snow.

  Tried to send a breeze. What he managed sputtered mournfully, then died away. The wind wailed in triumph.

  Beyond the edge, then, magic was untrustworthy. So be it. Growling to himself, the dragon scratched at the mounds until he could see what lay beneath the snow.

  The first four were horses, their bodies cold and hard. One had been scavenged, but not the rest. Yet.

  Next, he found two men, apart from each other. Neither wore a coat nor had a weapon. Neither were familiar. There was another mound, the same size, under the trees. Wisp ignored it. He wasn’t here for the dead.

  The wagon, with doors and curtained windows like Aunt Sybb’s, lay overturned. Snow cupped it like hands.

  A sanctuary? Or a tomb.

  Wisp took hold of a window and ripped the side from the wagon, tossing it behind him.

  An ax spun through the air. He caught it in his jaws and tossed it aside too, delighted by its familiar taste. The warrior! Wisp sent a breeze to shape words, to command the other to come out.

  Nothing happened. Nor could he form any other speech. This—this must be what had happened to Scourge! They were silenced by this world. How was it possible?

  What worse was to come?

  Wings quivering, fighting the urge to lift into the air and flee, Wisp limped to the ruined wagon.

  Inside was the man he’d tasted, Tir Half-face, bundled in more than one coat, ice on his mask and short beard. The eyes above the mask were closed, as if he’d spent his final strength to throw the ax. A row of other weapons lay in reach. Wisp angled his head. Tir had lain like this across Horst’s threshold, on guard that first dreadful night when Wisp—Wyll, he’d been—couldn’t guard himself.

  What did Tir guard now?

  As if in answer, the coats moved!

  Wisp jumped back, then forward again, neck outstretched. He used a clawtip to pull aside the
topmost layers.

  Two boys huddled within, against the body of the warrior. One slept, or was unconscious.

  The other?

  That boy’s eyes were open. Eyes of amber, flecked with black, like molten gold starting to cool.

  Eyes at first puzzled, then round with wonder.

  Take his magic. Steal his voice. What did it matter? Wisp spread his wings and roared his defiance. This world would not rob him of what he was.

  For in those astonishing eyes, he saw a dragon.

  And knew what the sei had sent him to find.

  SIX

  THE EMMS HADN’T wanted her to leave. Standing in the warm kitchen, Jenn most certainly hadn’t wanted to go. But duty does, when duty must, as Aunt Sybb would say, or nothing would ever be accomplished.

  And she’d a lost something to find. So Jenn smiled brightly, saying if she wasn’t back soon, well, she’d have stayed for the night with Peggs or perhaps Hettie, and they mustn’t worry. After all, it was just a bit of snow.

  A bit of snow now up to mid-calf, with drifts sliding around every wall and tree and rising on the lee side of hedges. With a shrug, Jenn set off.

  It would have helped to know what was lost, but she knew where it must belong, in Marrowdell and out of the storm, which was the main thing. The wind was being helpful as well, having shifted so that she could see her next few steps, though now the snow flew sideways, making her feel slightly tipped.

  Unless that was being shaped as a turn-born, for she’d left her flesh and skin self as soon as she’d left the Emms, stripping off her mittens to reveal the light of her hands and wrists. The light was needful and no longer feeling the cold a wonder, though she was ever-so-careful to pay attention to breathing and walking, in case those slipped her mind.

  Though they hadn’t, not in the valley. Here she seemed herself, even when not quite, and hoped for the best.

  She stayed otherwise dressed, because one never knew when that might matter even on a night like this . . .

  Going where no one else should be.

  The village gate hung open. Livestock wasn’t loose to roam the village this time of year, nor was it sensible to leave the gate to freeze closed. It wasn’t much of a gate, truth be told, being more to mark the end of the village than serve as a barrier.

  Jenn trudged through the opening, refusing to take note of any more boundaries. Though there was another, ahead, she couldn’t ignore.

  Where the road left the valley lay the end of the edge and her existence.

  Then whatever was lost best be found before that, or she couldn’t help it, could she?

  She could shorten any path she knew, Marrowdell being ever helpful in that regard, but she’d risk missing what she was after. The entire business, Jenn decided, dodging a lump of snow that came free from a branch, was more mysterious than it ought to be. Wen could have simply told her what to find.

  Unless it was a house toad. They were pricklish about their dignity.

  Jenn shook her head. Toads stayed close to warmth in winter. One wouldn’t be out here. It wasn’t pleasant to think Wen might not know what she was to find.

  Leaves rustled to either side. Winter-brown leaves that somehow never fell from their trees. Ylings.

  She looked up. “Do you know what I’m to find?”

  Leaves tumbled and jumped and ran along branches, until most were on the side of their trees farthest from the village.

  If not an answer, then a guide of sorts. “Thank you!” Jenn called, giving the best curtsy she could manage, being so bundled. It was more a dip and bounce, but the leaves fluttered crisply as if pleased.

  Farther, then.

  Like a sheet tossed over a set table, snow disguised everything beneath. Jenn held out her hands, reasonably sure stepping where it was flat would keep her on the road.

  Though she seemed to have been walking longer than she should. Had she gone by the path to the trout pool, or not? She stopped to listen for the waterfall, but the wind laughed and gibbered too loudly to make out any other sound. It was most aggravating.

  Was there a way to tame a storm like this, without harm? Given this was only the first of winter, Jenn decided to add the question to her next list for Mistress Sand.

  Unsure where she was, she walked more and more slowly, until finally she stopped altogether. Snow pressed around her, sparkling in the glow she cast, until Jenn felt encased in diamonds. Which was very pretty, but how was she to help anything else, if she were lost too?

  “Why are you here?” a whisper beneath the wind, hot as the air was cold.

  Scourge! Jenn lifted her hands, straining to see through the snow. “I’m looking for the lost.”

  “Aren’t you?” Grim amusement. “Come.” A mass of snow-covered darkness loomed beside her, a hairy and most welcome mass.

  Jenn reached for him and the kruar shied away. Of course. She changed into flesh at once, only to be plunged into darkness.

  Oh, and didn’t the air bite then? She gasped and shivered, but this time, when she stretched out her hands, she touched warm hide. Moving her hands, she found he’d knelt for her to mount, which was unexpectedly kind. Taking hold, carefully, of his mane, she fumbled her way onto his back.

  With a powerful lurch, Scourge stood. “Will you continue the hunt?”

  “I must,” Jenn told him. “But only within Marrowdell. We mustn’t go beyond the edge.” A rumble she took for agreement, for he began to move.

  Relieved of the need to watch where she was going, and heated by the great body beneath hers, Jenn closed her eyes and relaxed. According to the others in the village, Melusine’s gift, and hers, was magic, but it wasn’t like a Rhothan wishing, involving tokens and words, nor at all like a turn-born’s. Perhaps she should talk to Covie, whose ability to comfort and heal might just be a little magical itself.

  Finding seemed more something she was, than did. If she set out to find something, it always found her first. Most often she knew what it was beforehand, as when she’d recovered her mother’s ring, but occasionally, as now, she didn’t. She’d been digging potatoes when her fingers found Gallie’s pen, lost since spring, and, though her skill finding piglets was unmatched, she did tend to carry apples in her pockets so they loved her.

  She’d helped the wounded sei find its way back from this world into the Verge, without apples or love involved.

  Pens, piglets, and immense magical beings. Each had their proper place and sometimes needed a little help to find it. She was, Jenn decided, like a signpost.

  Scourge came to a halt. Where he’d stopped was no different, as far as Jenn could tell, from where they’d been. No, that wasn’t true. The wind had shifted, coming now from her left.

  Where the road bent north, leaving Marrowdell.

  And wasn’t that a thought colder than the wind? To be within steps of where she wouldn’t be at all?

  Jenn gave Scourge a grateful pat. “I guess we’ll have to wait,” she told him, rather breathless.

  He shook his thick neck, dislodging snow from his mane. “For what?”

  “I—” About to say she didn’t know, Jenn hesitated. Wrong to wait, in such a storm. She knew it. She slid from the kruar’s back. “What’s looking for me, what we’ve come to find, I fear it can’t get here. Something’s stopped it. Would you go—”

  He was off before she could finish her plea, a triumphant neigh ringing off the looming cliff; she should have known a dangerous hunt was more to Scourge’s taste than plodding along the road.

  The air grew colder still, with night and being alone. When her teeth began to chatter, Jenn resumed her turn-born shape. By the light of her hands, she could tell the snow was easing, slightly. She found a place to sit and wait, hoping it wouldn’t be for long.

  It might have been moments, it could have been an hour, before she heard the crunch of hea
vy steps approaching. Jenn stood, peering anxiously into the darkness. Steps accompanied by a slithering sound, like the runners of a sled.

  A breeze, sharp and urgent. “Help him, turn-born! Quickly!” With the command, the kruar came into view.

  His neck was bent, head down and low. Because, Jenn saw in horror, his fangs were sunk into Wisp’s throat! By that hold, Scourge was pulling the dragon through the snow toward her. “Hurry,” the kruar urged. “He freezes!”

  She could see it for herself. Wisp was encased in ice, wings tight to his body and limbs as if he’d wrapped himself to keep warm.

  Warmth he would have, here and now! Jenn wished with all her might, and the snow melted from her feet outward. Tiny sprigs of green popped up, along with mushroom buttons and a row of little lily flowers. A mole startled from its hole and dove down again.

  The wave of untimely spring met Scourge’s hooves and he danced out of its way, disappearing into the dark with a snort.

  Spring found Wisp and the ice began to drip. Jenn pulled hunks free as it cracked and splintered along his scaled sides. He wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t he moving?

  A twitch! Breath steamed from his nostrils. Once, then again. “Oh, Wisp!” She ran her hands over his wings, using their light to search for any injury.

  “Dearest Heart.” Faint, that breeze, and colder than winter, but so very welcome. He shivered violently and his wings opened.

  Out tumbled three bodies, those of a man and two children. They were unconscious and cold to the touch but, to her joy, alive! “Brave Wisp. Wonderful Wisp.” Jenn tore off her cloak, wrapping the children as best she could, then changed into flesh to give them her own warmth. “Get Bannan,” she told Scourge. “Bring help!”

  Hooves beat into the distance. Spring faltered and faded around her, the storm taking hold again.

  Instead of fighting winter, Jenn wished the road to the village short and clear, and held on.

  Devins gathered clothes in his arms as he went through the main room. “I’m sorry about the kitchen, Bannan,” he apologized, not for the first time. “I’ll get to it right away.”