A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “As you wish.” Peggs came with her to the kitchen door, passing her item after item of winter wear. “Though you should be here, to see their faces.”

  Jenn wrapped her scarf around head and neck. “I’ve all winter to do that.”

  “Oh really?” Her sister dangled a mitten out of reach. “So this has nothing to do with being afraid to meet Bannan’s family on your own?” Something she saw in Jenn’s face made her lower both arm and voice. “Dearest Heart,” she whispered, suddenly serious. “I was only teasing. Semyn and Werfol are children who’ll need all our love and care. It’s not like—” Peggs stopped.

  Jenn gave a rueful grin. “Not like meeting the terrifying Baroness Lila Larmensu Westietas?” She recovered her mitten. “You’re right, as you always are, dear sister. I’ll come back as soon as I’m finished my chores.”

  “Promise?”

  She claimed her other mitten. “I do. Now go. Talk babies with Hettie.”

  Peggs blushed, as she’d hoped, and gave her a quick hug.

  “Just wait till it’s your turn, Jenn,” Hettie called cheerfully.

  Jenn met her sister’s eyes, comforted by the understanding she found there. “Two of us is more than enough,” Peggs replied archly, then gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “The boys will love your gift,” she added. “And you. Go help Gallie.”

  Outside, Jenn paused to take a deep cold breath. When she exhaled, a plume much like a dragon’s hung for an instant in the air. In every way, she felt and seemed and was an ordinary woman, even to herself. Time would tell otherwise, she supposed.

  Putting aside such thoughts, she started her morning’s errands for Gallie. First to the Ropps for more cheese, Loee’s newest teeth making such foods a matter of some urgency. On her way, Jenn waved a greeting to Master Jupp. He wore his tall hat and dark winter cloak, with a colorful scarf wrapped several times around his neck, its tasseled ends down to his knees. The scarf had come from Avyo with him and only Riss knew how many times it had been mended, but its reappearance marked winter had arrived as surely as the first storm.

  For his constitution, Master Jupp walked to the village fountain and back, once a day, rain or shine. In snow, he used his second cane as well, though his path was cleared before those leading to the barns. Kindness, Jenn thought with some pride, abounded in Marrowdell.

  And took different forms. In dangerous weather, when no one, especially the elderly, should be out of doors, the entire village could hear Master Jupp shouting for his canes. Riss, having tucked both in the loft, would ignore her great-uncle’s outrage and put on tea.

  Though Jenn was ever-so-curious as to how Uncle Horst was fitting into the Jupp household, she hadn’t found a way to ask. He seemed—

  A breeze flicked the ends of her scarf, then pushed from behind. A breeze, Jenn noticed, that didn’t touch Old Jupp’s scarf at all. Someone wanted to play. Again. “Wisp. I’ve no time to—”

  “Come quick! Come now!” Urgent and harsh and not playful at all.

  She turned to look east, her thoughts immediately with Bannan and the others. “What’s wrong?”

  The breeze, rather rudely, pushed her around again. “The barn. Hurry!”

  The Ropps’?

  Oh dear! Hurry she did, newly worried. Cheffy and Alyssa were doing more adult chores—especially today, with Anten off and Covie preoccupied with her patients—and while gentle, the dairy cows were substantial beasts. Accidents could happen and how kind, Jenn thought as she ran through the snow, of Wisp to watch over the entire village.

  When she reached the side door, the breeze having insisted on it, it slid open to let her through, then closed behind her.

  Going from sun and snow to the relative gloom inside the barn, Jenn stopped, wary of taking a step before she could see. “Cheffy?”

  “Fair morning.”

  Not Cheffy or Alyssa. The greeting came from lower down than she was used to, in a shaky, fearful voice.

  “Fair morning,” she replied out of habit, then blinked, her eyes adjusting.

  There, in the middle of the aisle between the stalls, was a house toad puffed in full fury. Beyond the toad, for some reason the subject of its ire, were the children she’d last seen asleep in bed.

  ~Elder sister! I have defended my home from thieves. They came to steal the pony, but I did not permit it!~

  Thieves? Little boys, and unhappy ones at that, who stood shoulder to shoulder as if awaiting punishment. One slightly taller, Semyn, with reddish brown curls peeking from his hood, freckles on a snub nose, and eyes that odd shade between blue and green. Werfol would be the other, with the same delicate build. His eyes were downcast, but tears streaked both faces.

  Jenn glanced at Wainn’s old pony, asleep under, yes, that was Devins’ saddle.

  First things first. “Well done,” she told the toad, then looked to the elder boy. “You owe this fine toad an apology.”

  Though confusion flickered across his face, Semyn obediently bent to meet the toad’s glare. “We shouldn’t have tried to—to take what wasn’t ours and we’re sorry.”

  ~I accept.~ The toad blinked its great eyes, then let out an opinionated huff to return to normal size. ~Do not trust these newcomer children, elder sister. We will be watching them.~ Grimly.

  “It accepts,” Jenn told the boys, leaving out the rest. It could be the toad’s prickly sense of honor, but watching the two seemed prudent in any case, given they’d chosen mischief for their first outing. She waited for Wisp to vouchsafe his opinion, certain he hadn’t rushed her here to appease a house toad, but no breeze tickled her ear and she’d not ask. The boys had heard her talk to a toad. An unseen dragon?

  That could wait.

  As the toad hopped away to resume its usual post, she found herself at a loss. This wasn’t at all how she’d imagined meeting Bannan’s nephews.

  Done now. She’d mend what she could. “My name is Jenn Nalynn. You’ve met my sister, Peggs, and my father.”

  “Lady Nalynn.” The elder boy gave a deep, graceful, and achingly familiar bow, sweeping the barn floor with the tip of one mittened hand. Vorkoun manners. Bannan’s. “My name is Semyn Westietas,” he confirmed in what Aunt Sybb would call a too-proper voice. “This is my brother, Werfol. We meant no harm.”

  Perhaps not, though Wainn’s old pony doubtless held a different opinion, but there was, Jenn decided uneasily, something seriously amiss. Werfol didn’t bow. He’d yet to speak or even look at her, come to that, his eyes glued to the toes of his boots.

  “Call me Jenn.” She squatted to bring herself to their level and Werfol hunched, as if expecting a blow. Worse and worse. Jenn reached out her hand, as she might to soothe a nervous rabbit. “Is something wrong?” she asked softly.

  Eyes shot up to hers, golden eyes flecked with black, eyes that widened in shock.

  Eyes that saw her.

  For a terrible instant, neither of them moved. Jenn couldn’t breathe. Heart’s Blood, why hadn’t Bannan told her—

  Werfol screamed!

  Semyn grabbed his brother, freeing her from those eyes. The boys ran past her. Jenn heard the barn door open. Knew they were gone.

  Didn’t move.

  Couldn’t.

  Why should she?

  Winter’s frozen air slid along the floor and around her.

  It was nothing to the chill in her heart.

  Had Bannan not experienced yesterday’s storm, he would, he decided, believe winter the most beautiful time of year. The trees wore elegant lace over their dark green robes and every stick, shrub, and fencepost was topped with a jaunty cap. Even the crags towering over the valley were bedecked in puffs and swirls, like some confection ready for a feast.

  The road was a blanket of snow, but the path beaten the night before—by horse, then kruar and dragon—made an easy passage. Without the wind, the air was
crisp rather than bone-numbing and Bannan took an appreciative sniff, smiling at the tang of woodsmoke. A magnificent day for the boys to explore their new surroundings and make friends. To start forgetting.

  Which reminded him of a promise. Bannan brought Perrkin beside Tadd’s mount. The miller’s apprentice shook his head. “It’s too soon,” he said without prompting. “We’re still in Marrowdell.”

  Bannan lowered his voice. “Kydd’s growing anxious.” More than anxious, truth be told. The beekeeper had begun to lag, looking over his shoulder as if memorizing what they left behind, or now loath to leave it.

  “You shouldn’t have told him.” A shrug. “Ancestors Witness, Bannan. It’s not as if there’s something to be done about it. Either Kydd will remember, or Marrowdell’s magic will slip in and out of mind without him knowing the difference.”

  What would happen to him? Bannan wanted to touch the marks on his neck; he kept his hands quiet and on Perrkin’s neck instead, refusing to doubt. Either the moth’s protection would last or, as Tadd so bluntly put it, he’d never know.

  Nodding, he eased his weight back in the saddle. Perrkin flicked a curious ear, but slowed his pace. Kydd noticed and closed the gap. His lean, handsome face was beaded with sweat despite the chill. “Ancestors Beset and Besieged,” he muttered once they were riding beside each other. “Part of me wants to turn back, Bannan. I’ll not deny it.”

  “And not know?”

  The beekeeper grimaced. “Being the point.” He shook himself, patting his horse, and fixed his gaze ahead. “You’re right, of course. I must, even if the result be my own ignorance.” He laughed, albeit grimly. “Ah, Marrowdell. You continue to test me.”

  There was much to admire about this man. Bannan’s lips quirked. “Can we be sure Marrowdell isn’t playing games?”

  “Test or game. Either one can be lost.” Kydd urged his horse to longer strides. “Let’s find out.”

  They fell silent as Davi’s team turned with the road. The winter muted the waterfall as well, though Radd had assured Bannan that those rapids, as well as the northern cataracts, wouldn’t freeze. Horses stepped, leaving craters in the snow, blowing clouds into the air. Leather and wood made their creaks and complaints, while bells rang with each bob of the team’s great heads.

  First Davi and Anten, then Tadd left Marrowdell. Kydd followed.

  As Perrkin stepped off the edge and into the outside world, a thought came to Bannan. This was a crossing, like those into the Verge.

  A crossing anyone could take except . . .

  “Jenn Nalynn,” he whispered, over and over, simply for the joy of her dear name in his mouth. “I remember you.” Each time, he felt that reassuring warmth on his neck. “Jenn Nalynn.”

  Kydd turned in his saddle, lifting a brow. “And who might that be?”

  For a sickening heartbeat, Bannan believed him, then looked closer. “Liar,” he accused happily. “That wasn’t funny.”

  Tadd stopped his horse to let them join him. He gave the beekeeper a quick searching look, then nodded, his relief plain to see. “Marrowdell eyes,” he proclaimed quietly. “We’d hoped, Allin and me. I’m glad.”

  “Ancestors Blessed.” Bannan clapped Kydd on his shoulder. “We’ll celebrate tonight, I promise.”

  They started moving again. When the beekeeper began to stare at Davi and Anten, Bannan had no trouble guessing what tempted him. “I wouldn’t.”

  Kydd looked sheepish. “Was I that obvious? But it’s fascinating—now that I’m not terrified—” he qualified. “To think these men, friends I’ve known most of my life, suddenly possess different memories . . .”

  Bannan didn’t smile. “What’s not terrifying about that?”

  Kydd’s mouth opened then closed. He gave a suddenly grim nod.

  Moments later, Davi raised his hand, then pointed right. They’d reached the turn onto the Northward Road.

  Bannan freed Sennic’s sword from his coat, borrowed again that morning, and sent Perrkin to the fore. The others gave him sober looks. “Be wary, my friends,” he told them. “Tir might not have accounted for all on his trail.”

  If not, well enough.

  Captain Ash would have some questions.

  Children didn’t always tell the truth. Children could be cruel and thoughtless and, as everyone knew who wasn’t a child, children didn’t understand all that adults understood.

  None of it mattered. Jenn shed her clothes as she ran, for they hadn’t hidden what she was. She didn’t need them. They were a lie she wore, a pretense.

  Children pretended.

  She wasn’t a child. Or a woman.

  As turn-born, she crossed the river, heedless of ice or slush, and ran until she could no longer be seen from the village. Until she could no longer be seen by a child.

  But it didn’t help. Werfol’s scream rang through her, in her. How? She didn’t have ears or eyes, she had holes full of light, so maybe it rang in her heart, but she had none, not really, but oh— Ancestors Scattered and Stone, she felt it, she truly did, with all that she was.

  She stopped, forced to her knees by its weight.

  A breeze found her. “What’s this?” Dismay. Fear. The breeze whirled, picking up snow as if it were flower petals. “Dearest Heart. What’s wrong?”

  With an effort, Jenn lifted her head. “I’ve seen myself,” she told her dragon, the words like splinters. “At last, I have. Don’t worry,” for he did, she knew, and for very good reason, but for once Marrowdell ignored her.

  For which she should have been glad and quite possibly curious. Jenn found herself too full of pain to care.

  Wisp let his shape find the light and settled into the snow before her, tail curled in a question. Laying his head at her feet, he gazed up with eyes both purple and wild.

  Waiting.

  Something stirred inside her. Thought, slow and sluggish. Dragons didn’t care for the cold. He’d almost frozen, to save—

  She shuddered.

  Those poor boys. What they’d been through, she couldn’t imagine.

  “Dearest Heart?”

  Jenn looked down.

  The dragon rolled his head until only one eye showed and gaped his slender, deadly jaws no more than the width of her hand. Fangs like shards of bone glinted with fresh moisture. “If it would please you,” a coy whisper, “I could eat the youngest.”

  “WISP!” She pulled her feet from under his head, which rose on that long neck to meet her gaze as she stood. “You mustn’t! You can’t! Don’t even—”

  Jaws snapped with satisfaction. He had her.

  Oh, her wise and wicked dragon. Jenn touched the tip of his scaled snout. “You wouldn’t,” she said, relieved beyond measure.

  “Not today,” Wisp replied archly, as if to remind her what he was. “Probably not at all. You know what he is.”

  “A truthseer.” Jenn sighed. “I wish Bannan had warned me.”

  Her dragon rose on his two whole legs, using the opposing wing for support. “What does it matter, Dearest Heart? The child saw you for all that you are.” With a hint of pride. “It is why the sei sent me to find him.” Both wings spread wide as he slowly reared in place, every muscle taut, magnificent and sure, then winked out of sight.

  But wasn’t gone. She heard—felt—his other, soundless voice. ~Like you, I found myself in his eyes.~

  “He wasn’t afraid of you.” Afraid of her, yes. Terrified out of his wits was more like it. Jenn shook her head. “It couldn’t have been worse, Wisp. I can’t go back.”

  A breeze, teasing and soft. “Because a child saw the truth and couldn’t understand it. What would your lady aunt say, Dearest Heart?”

  Which was unfair and . . . when had Wisp learned to invoke Aunt Sybb? She supposed it had to happen eventually, the dragon spending more time in the village.

  So long as he
didn’t start writing to her aunt. Jenn couldn’t imagine what the Lady Mahavar would think of such correspondence. Most likely it would restore her suspicion regarding toads.

  What would she say? Oh, Jenn knew. Hadn’t she heard it recited every time her younger self asked “why” once too often for her father’s patience, or Peggs’ or Gallie’s, or anyone’s. Aunt Sybb had said a child grows by questions. Fail to answer just one, and stunt that growth.

  Believing that, Aunt Sybb was the only adult who’d never failed to listen and answer. She’d admit—readily—what she didn’t know, oh but that wouldn’t be the end of it. Regardless of time of day or weather, she’d hustle them over to Master Dusom to consult that worthy. If he failed, well, there were his books.

  On occasion those books failed too. Aunt Sybb would make a note, then appear to forget, but her winter letter would contain a separate page just for Jenn, her question at the top, and the answer, found from someone in Avyo, beautifully written below.

  Though she’d needed Master Dusom’s help to understand the answer, as often as not; Aunt Sybb considered exotic new vocabulary to be a bonus.

  Sparkles midair distracted her; tiny diamonds sewn on a bodice of sky blue.

  Snow, disturbed from the branches of the old trees—by yling or squirrel or wind—that took its time landing.

  Or something—someone—played with sunbeams, simply for beauty’s sake.

  In Marrowdell, any or all could be true.

  Wise Wisp.

  “Aunt Sybb would say,” Jenn answered at last, “that Werfol’s asked a question, and deserves an answer.” She nodded to herself. “I must explain to him how he can see a normal woman, with this,” a tap on glass, “beneath. I cannot fail.” Being turn-born had its drawbacks; had she a face at the moment, she would have scrunched it to demonstrate the seriousness of the problem.

  “He’s going to scream again. I just know it. Wisp, I could use some advice.”