A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Marrowdell waited.

  “Jenn. Thank you for coming.” Cynd pushed back her bangs. “Here’s the broth. You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” Jenn smiled. “You’ve seen my stitches. Go. Riss is there.” “There” being the Nalynns’ main room, today set for quilting. It would be a party as much as work, with a supper to follow. Those who weren’t quilters but felt equally inspired to gather were already around the Ropps’ massive kitchen table, testing their skill at nillystones and other games. At some point, the groups would merge and there’d be music and a bottle or few, with the night ending whenever inclined.

  “We could take turns,” Davi’s wife offered as she began to put on her coat, then hesitated, one arm up a sleeve. “Maybe I should stay—”

  Jenn wrapped Cynd’s scarf around her neck. “I’ve books, and I’m sure you’ve left me some mending—?” A nod. “Then go. Enjoy yourself.” She didn’t make it a wish, but the other woman’s eyes lightened.

  “Fetch me if you need me.”

  “I promise.” Having seen Cynd out the door, Jenn poured herself tea, then went to Frann’s room.

  Lorra sat in the big chair at the head of the bed, her eyes closed. Jenn quietly settled herself on the other side, there being a kitchen chair under the window, and rested her eyes on Frann.

  She’d been frail. At some uncaught moment, she’d become paper and air, her skin prone to flutter, her only movement, breath.

  Yet a spark gleamed in the eyes that met Jenn’s and humor crooked pale lips. Frann glanced toward Lorra, then back, closing her own eyes, then opening them, and Jenn had to smile.

  “Making fun of me again, is she?” Lorra grumbled, not opening her eyes.

  “I believe so,” Jenn replied, rewarded by the tiniest of smiles.

  Lorra pulled up her blanket. “Good.”

  There being a still-steaming cup on the table beside the Treff matriarch, Jenn sipped from her own without guilt. She set it down and pulled out her book, finding the spot where she’d stopped last time. Before she could start to read aloud, Frann made a faint “shhh” sound, and glanced at Lorra again.

  Who looked after whom?

  Jenn nodded and sat back, flipping pages to where she herself had been. Frann smiled again, then closed her eyes.

  The book was a new one, and entertaining. Jenn chuckled out loud, then looked up worriedly. She’d needn’t have worried. Both women were sound asleep. Lorra snored and Frann . . .

  Did Frann . . . ?

  Frann took a deep breath and another. She’d been mistaken. Reassured, Jenn put the ribbon between the pages and put down her book. Mending would be quieter, so she went to the other room to fetch the basket Covie had left for her.

  The afternoon passed. Jenn put buttons on a shirt and fixed what must have been a very drafty hole in a pair of pants. She was midway through an elbow patch when something caught her attention.

  Ah. The turn. She’d planned for this—a trip to the privy would do nicely and, after so much tea, needful. Afterward, she’d heat some broth and see if Lorra would eat too.

  Though Jenn rose to her feet as quietly as possible, Frann held out her hand.

  She took it in hers. “Is there something you . . . ?” No need to finish the question, Frann wasn’t awake. The hand went limp and she gently put it down.

  Lorra startled and sat. “What?”

  Frann’s other hand drifted toward her. Lorra stared at it before she edged closer and took it in her own. “You’re not allowed,” she said, so softly Jenn could hardly hear the words. “You’re not. Not now.”

  But it was, Jenn realized, as Frann’s breaths came slower . . .

  And sometimes didn’t . . .

  Then did again.

  Lorra looked up with such appalling grief in her eyes, Jenn could hardly bear it. “She asked to see the dancers again, the ones in the trees. I told her to wait for winter to pass. I promised, if she’d wait—” Her fists clenched over her mouth.

  She’d no power to give breath or strength. She couldn’t add so much as a minute to a life. She’d thought herself helpless.

  But this, Jenn thought fiercely, she could do.

  Even as the turn came and turned her to glass, she threw open the window and made her wish.

  Marrowdell answered.

  Instead of winter, spring burst through the opening, the air warm and rich with the scent of soil and growing things. Even as Lorra gasped, there came the sound of wings, then what seemed summer leaves and tiny stars filled the air above the bed, as if they’d but waited for the invitation—

  And the ylings danced, their hands together, singing and laughing, dodging cobwebs and dust. Cloaks of aster petals and verdant green cedar swirled around them—

  And a smile curved Frann’s lips.

  As one, the ylings dipped in salute, rose almost to the rafters, then vanished—

  As Frann Nall let out a long, slow breath.

  Through the window, then, came the kruar’s mighty head as if summoned too. After a hum deep enough to rattle the windowpanes, Scourge opened his mouth and inhaled, giving Jenn a baleful look out of one red eye, then pulled back. She could hear him galloping away.

  All at once, she could hear her own heart beat, for the turn had passed and she was no longer glass. She could hear Lorra’s breaths, her sigh.

  And nothing more.

  “Well.” Lorra put Frann’s hand down on the bed and smoothed the hair lying over the pillow. “As always, you had to do things your way.” She bent to kiss her friend’s forehead. “And were brilliant.”

  She nodded at Jenn, then walked from the room, her head high.

  Jenn closed the window, before winter, being back in its rightful place, could enter. When she was done, she turned to find the bed, and Frann, covered in rose petals.

  Only then did she cry.

  The wait was over.

  And Marrowdell remained. A better end than might have been; having survived, the dragon sincerely hoped there’d be no more tests of the girl’s self-control. The little cousins had fretted themselves into hiccups and, till she’d sent him away, even he’d found it impossible not to keep asking how she was and would she be destroying the world anytime soon?

  What would happen next? The villagers managed a feast for all other occasions. Surely this would warrant one as well. The larders held new and interesting food to try, food which, though tempted, he’d not steal.

  There being biscuits, well-buttered biscuits, daily at the truthseer’s.

  Her grief would pass. Jenn Nalynn would come again to Night’s Edge, though to be honest Wisp preferred winter at the truthseer’s. He’d curl up on the bed with the children, once Bannan had said his good nights, and they’d whisper little stories to him as she had, when she’d been this small and not turn-born or grown.

  Not, he thought with a quiet snarl, that she didn’t still need him.

  Not that there weren’t still fools.

  ~What is the meaning of this?~

  Efflet whispered and fluttered, but none dared approach.

  The dragon stalked around the unfamiliar shape in the snow: the girl’s “hunter of efflet.” Not of Marrowdell, this grim creature, nor could he recall such within the Verge. The efflet could be fanciful, but their creations were most often real. Was this?

  If so, he blamed the little cousins. Unlike the efflet and ylings, with their generations born here and died, the little cousins of Marrowdell had come from the Verge and remembered it all too well. They told stories of that place to the others, the dragon knew. Hadn’t he seen the toads’ lost queen rise in snow every winter, glorious and regal and wise?

  Foolish little cousins. They remembered with their hearts. Their queen sat her throne in the Verge, oblivious to her exiled subjects in Marrowdell, seething in her hatred of anythin
g more powerful. No house toad, she. Nothing so amiable or small or trustworthy.

  Dragons avoided her.

  But this? This curious hunter of efflet. From whence had it come?

  Wisp reached the other side and froze. A net hung by straps from the creature’s shoulder. A net containing— ~NO!~ he roared, sending breezes to rip apart the offending snow, then drove himself through it, sending snowy arms and eyes and chains flying apart.

  Satisfied, he turned around.

  To see another sculpture of snow rise, another Jenn Nalynn shown trapped.

  Wisp roared again. ~STOP!~ He sent wind, not breezes, to flatten everything in its path until the efflets’ field became a featureless plain, white and even.

  Snow flicked here and there, as if the efflet twitched nervously.

  They should.

  For an instant. Suddenly, everywhere, sculptures erupted. All the same. One pushed him aside.

  How DARE they!

  ~What’s this?~ from below.

  ~Why that?~ from above.

  Dragons circled and dragons gossiped, curious and careless. They were drawn to his tempers, for what challenged a dragon lord was either entertainment or opportunity, and did some among them grow inclined to the latter, thinking him old?

  Thinking him done?

  Wisp launched himself upward, the beat of his wings driving a storm, the roar of his breath thunder! ~BEGONE!~

  Dragons fled and efflet cowered.

  The intimation of something hunting Jenn Nalynn, that something would dare? Eat its heart? He’d rend flesh from its bones while it lived!

  The old kruar snorted, neck arched as he stepped through the snow. ~Are you finished?~

  Hovering above, for a vastly pleasant instant Wisp imagined plunging down, claws ready to slice to bone, jaws open to snap that neck.

  Those had been the days.

  Scourge stamped, the sound echoing through both worlds. ~I must have an enemy to conquer! You’re in the mood. Come. Blood and triumph for Frann!~

  There was something to be said for these days. ~A bear prowls above the village,~ the dragon observed. ~Perhaps two!~

  A place to begin his search for the efflets’ so-foolish hunter.

  NINE

  THE BODY OF Frann Nall was interred with those who had joined the Blessed Ancestors before her, in Marrowdell’s ossuary, on a morning without cloud or wind, in a section of ground as soft and warm as midsummer.

  For Jenn Nalynn had wished it so.

  Lorra Treff had demanded that Frann be laid deeper than usual, to leave room for her bones and those of every other Treff, it being the Rhothan custom that, where possible, the bones of those close in life should mingle afterward.

  Davi had done his best. They’d had to lower Frann on a quilt, rather than carry her down, the hole being so deep, which might have seemed a waste and indulgence, but Jenn overheard Tadd telling Hettie there was a winter bear nearby and the deeper the hole the better.

  Lorra stood among her family, Davi and Cynd to her right, Wen to her left, with the rest of Marrowdell around. When the time came to fill the hole, Jenn reached for her handful of still-warm soil and found herself facing Cynd. The other woman stared at her in the oddest way, as if angry, which couldn’t be right, then stepped well back to let Jenn go first.

  Not courtesy. Aversion.

  Riss caught Jenn’s eye, then gave a tiny shrug. She’d added anger at Melusine’s death to that from her exile; she’d left both behind, long ago. Radd Nalynn, having seen, leaned close to his daughter. “Pay no attention, Dear Heart. Each grief takes its own shape.”

  Jenn nodded. Didn’t hers feel hollow, as if she’d lost part of her heart?

  Everyone helped fill the hole in the ground: Davi, Devins, and Anten with shovels, the rest by hand. Even little Loee was given a handful of soil to toss and was very quiet and solemn. Marrowdell stood together as Master Jupp led the Beholding. Winter slipped back before he finished, reddening cheeks and turning the ground as hard as rock.

  Surely, Jenn hoped, a bear couldn’t get through that.

  Next, Lorra would lead the way back to her house, with all the village to follow. All the village waited, patient despite the growing nip in the wind. This first step away was the Far Step. To take it meant accepting Frann as a Blessed Ancestor, forever apart.

  The feather atop Lorra’s hat dipped once, then rose. She took the step, determined and alone, and Marrowdell followed behind, each within their own thoughts and sorrow. They filed along the path between hedges to the road.

  When her turn came, Jenn felt a hand take hers and looked down to find Werfol, his face pale. Bannan stood with Semyn, Tir nearby, ready to follow them. She nodded at the child and they took their step together.

  Hard, the Far Step, and momentous.

  The next came easier.

  And the next.

  By the open road, voices were raised in conversation that grew louder and even happy. Now came the time for sharing of stories about the departed, the more the better, and there was no one here Frann hadn’t touched.

  With Werfol still holding her hand, quiet as could be, Jenn wasn’t quite sure what to say or do. Was he upset or merely subdued?

  Someone laughed, and he flinched.

  Upset.

  What would distract him? “I learned to dance to Frann’s flute, Ancestors—Ancestors Dear and Departed.” She’d not expected the exhortation, proper for the dead, to stick in her throat. “Frann was a wonderful musician. What would you say about her?”

  Jenn waited a moment, but the boy was silent.

  “What’s wrong, Werfol?” she said quietly. “Frann did us both a great kindness, telling you about me. Surely you’ve something you want remembered.”

  “Frann didn’t lie.” An accusation.

  Jenn looked around at the villagers, now moving briskly toward the Treffs’ where food and drink and music waited. Everywhere was grief at Frann’s loss. Everywhere, joy for her life. Those conflicting feelings washed through her too, coming in powerful waves, sometimes one, often both. Ancestors Troubled and Torn, how would this seem to a truthseer—especially one so young? “Werfol—”

  He jerked his hand free. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to be here.”

  The other three joined them. “I’ll take the lad home, sir,” Tir offered at once. “I hardly knew the lady.”

  “We’ll both go.” Bannan swept Werfol up in his arms and the child buried his face in his uncle’s neck. The truthseer’s jaw muscles worked, his eyes full of sympathy. “Home it is, Dear Heart.”

  “Tir too.” Muffled but determined.

  “Aie,” agreed the former guard. “Semyn?”

  The older boy shook his head. “With your consent, Uncle, I would represent the family.”

  Bannan bowed his head gravely. “You have it with my thanks.” He looked to her. “Jenn?” An apology.

  Without need. “Go. I’ll see Semyn home, afterward.” She could see strain on his dear face, more than would be explained by worry over his smallest nephew. Was it Bannan’s own gift or did he remember another moment like this? Jenn kissed him on the cheek. “There’s no telling how long we’ll be,” she cautioned, Lorra as stubborn as she was exhausted.

  “However long you need,” Bannan said. “Frann welcomed me to Marrowdell, Ancestors Dear and Departed, and I’ll always remember that.” He hugged Werfol and added in a lighter tone. “Tir. I believe Weed’s Special Eggs might be in order.”

  As they left, Semyn offered her his arm, his face solemn. Remembering how Aunt Sybb would accept the courtesy from their father, Jenn laid her gloved hand on the boy’s arm and let him lead her to the others.

  Most had gone by as they’d delayed for Werfol, but Hettie and Tadd waited for them, with Cheffy. Another child might have left her for his playmate;
Semyn nodded a stiff greeting and stayed at her side.

  Hettie’s smile was tremulous. “I was telling Tadd how Frann helped us, after Mother drowned. Ancestors Dear and Departed. You were smaller than Werfol,” to Cheffy.

  “I almost drowned too,” that worthy informed Semyn, who looked properly impressed. “Poppa says I swallowed most of the river!”

  “Children,” Hettie mouthed.

  “And maybe a fish.”

  Jenn felt herself smile.

  Tadd put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I’ll not forget the time Frann caught Allin and me nipping some clay from Lorra’s pottery wheel. Roche told us it would make the best shot for our slings.”

  Roche having got the twins into trouble on many occasions, Jenn wasn’t surprised. “What did Lorra say?”

  “She never knew. Frann laughed and gave us each a bagful.” His mouth drooped at the corners. “Ancestors Dear and Departed.”

  Despite the cold, the Treffs’ door stood open in welcome, with one of Frann’s bright weavings caught across the top. With so many warm bodies present, and all those wearing their best winter coats, there was no need for the cookstove which had been removed, presumably to the kitchen. When Jenn followed Semyn inside, the first thing she noticed through the crowd was that platters of food covered the table instead of mending.

  The second thing were the threads. Bright yellow and blue, some white and others red, they’d been run from rafter to rafter until the ceiling might have been a loom itself. Where they couldn’t stay, Jenn thought pragmatically, the threads being too useful. Someone would have to rewind each on its spool, a tedious task. She’d best volunteer to help, or it’d be Cynd for sure.

  Until then, though, the effect was lovely, as if they all stood within Frann’s weaving. In a sense they did, that loom having made much of the clothing worn by those present. Jenn could see the moment the realization struck as this person fingered a sleeve, or that person admired a shawl.

  As for Lorra Treff? Her large and heavy chair filled the doorway to the bedroom that had been Frann’s and there she sat, hat and all, Frann’s brooch pinned to her chest. A statement’s power, Aunt Sybb said, had nothing to do with its volume. She’d meant lowering one’s voice indoors, no matter how exciting the news, but Jenn had no doubt, without a word said, what Lorra wanted known.