A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Ask the toads’ queen.

  ~Continue,~ Wisp ordered magnanimously.

  Reassured, the toad pulled up its leg and settled into a proper squat. ~I was first to see the evil of the Lost One and warn the others. I matter to Marrowdell. I have produced more eggs for my home this winter than any other. I have—~

  Wisp lifted his head, so; the toad, wisely, paused. ~What do you mean, ‘Lost One’?~

  ~He who was Crumlin. He wasn’t like the other villagers, elder brother. He knew of the Verge and wanted to go there. When the magic he brought didn’t work, he did wicked things.~ With dismay.

  ~He cut down neyet to reach ylings. He caught efflet in nets and nyphrit in traps. I would watch and warn as I could, elder brother, but my duty was to this house.~

  Not dismay. Remorse. There’d been no elder brother or sister to tell the poor little cousin otherwise. Had the turn-born known?

  They wouldn’t have cared. Not before the girl.

  ~That was your duty, honorable little cousin.~ The thrill of caution became a painful tension shivering along Wisp’s ruined limbs. ~What happened?~

  What he heard was horrifying. Crumlin had been like the Ansnans, attracted by the magic within the edge. The Ansnans had tried to force their way into the Verge, in the process destroying their temple and most of Marrowdell, as well as exiling the little cousins.

  From the toad’s account, Crumlin had succeeded where they’d failed. He’d performed his magic using what he’d ripped from the helpless of the Verge and opened a crossing. Ylings had watched him disappear and, from what the little cousin said, all thought Marrowdell safe again. All but the other villagers.

  They’d packed up and left, taking their belongings and the mirror.

  ~Why did you not tell me this before?~ Wisp demanded at the end. How could he not know? More than his pride was stung. This Crumlin was a potent threat.

  The house toad blinked. ~We thought him dead, elder brother, until I saw him in his mirror.~

  Dead he should have been. To survive, not minutes or days, but years in the Verge? Without, the dragon thought grimly, coming to the notice of those who properly lived there. How had this Lost One managed that?

  The figure shaped by the efflet looked nothing like a man. The eyes in the mirror—nothing like a man’s. But he didn’t doubt the toad.

  The possibilities were, to say the least, unsettling.

  Madness was likely.

  Magic?

  That he couldn’t doubt.

  ~Why does he look through the mirror? What does he want here?~

  Little cousins found questions about others alarming at best. This one shifted anxiously, as if about to jump, but made a gallant effort. ~It was his habit here, elder brother. He would stare at it while the others worked. They talked about him and were angry, but no one would interfere. What he wants now—~ It became a ball of distress.

  ~Excellent little cousin,~ the dragon praised, though he’d have preferred to snarl. ~Speak your thought.~

  ~The efflet, elder brother. They fear the Lost One wants to return to Marrowdell. That to cross again he needs more of what he took from them. That he would hunt—I dare not say more.~ The poor creature began to shake. ~You might eat me, elder brother.~

  A pointless worry, the dragon being no longer concerned with toads.

  Careful not to disturb the boys, Wisp launched himself up and away, moving through wood and snow as easily as he’d move through the earth. Free of the house, he wheeled in the air, heading for his crossing.

  He’d seen for himself what the efflet feared.

  Wisp tested the sharpness of a fang with his tongue. Jenn Nalynn, in a net?

  Never.

  TEN

  MARROWDELL, HAVING HELD its breath for Frann, let it out with an overnight storm. Snow, thick and quiet, filled in paths and laid a white blanket over the newest wound in the ossuary. There being no need to move around, and several more inclined to rest than usual—the gathering for Frann having dispensed with more than Davi’s hoarded port—it seemed the day would be a quiet one and uneventful.

  Appearances, Jenn thought wryly, were deceiving.

  Porcelain that had survived passage from Avyo in a wagon, and a subsequent generation of use, smashed into pieces on the floor. “You’re going where?”

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been clear, though in hindsight she should have eased into the bit about the Naalish capital, rather than blurting it first.

  “Peggs—” She bent to help tidy the mess.

  Her sister stepped in her way. “Oh, no. You listen to me, Jenn Nalynn. This isn’t a walk over for tea or whatever with a friend. This is—Ancestors Aghast and Agog!—you’re talking about a trip to another domain! Do you hear yourself?”

  Jenn looked to her father, who held up his hands. “I have to agree with your sister, Dear Heart. Such a journey would be dangerous.”

  “For anyone else,” Kydd piped up, ignoring his wife’s furious glare. “The Verge is Jenn’s other home.”

  “And Channen?” Peggs retorted. “What’s that? They don’t speak Rhothan. They don’t even eat ompah there! This is madness!”

  The Nalynns’ house toad yawned, showing rows of sharp little teeth. If an opinion, Jenn guessed it agreed with her sister, as did the Emms’, still guarding the mirror.

  Only one opinion mattered. “It’s up to Bannan.” There. She’d said it.

  The crackle of flames in the ’stove, the sweep of a broom moving bits of a priceless dish; if the hush grew any deeper, Jenn thought with some frustration, they’d be deafened by their own hearts. “He’s reason to go,” she said quietly, but firmly. “A very good reason. Werfol and Semyn’s parents are in Channen. Something happened, yesterday, to give us an idea where. Bannan hasn’t asked me to take him,” lest they jump to that conclusion and blame him. “I came to tell you I plan to make that offer.” She met their troubled eyes, one after the other. “And to ask for your help. For everyone’s.”

  “I see.” Her father blew out his cheeks, his wont having made a decision. “I’ll talk to Sennic,” he offered, easing her heart. “Some things he’s said—he’s been to Mellynne, if not the capital.”

  “My brother,” Kydd suggested. “He’s corresponded with the Naalish for years. I’ll see if Wainn can find me any text references to Channen.”

  “The Shadow District,” Jenn specified.

  His eyes gleamed with interest. “Indeed.”

  Peggs was still on the floor, sweeping pieces of plate. She glanced up, bright red on her cheeks. “You’ll go and leave us with nothing. Ancestors Dear and Departed. At least we’ve Frann’s bones!”

  “Peggs!” “Dearest Heart!”

  “Peggs’ right,” Jenn said quickly, stilling their objections. “There’s risk.” Well beyond that posed by an unfamiliar wilderness, she could forget herself. Then there was Bannan.

  She understood. Losing Frann made it harder, even for her, to imagine losing anyone else. Jenn drew her sister to her feet. “It’s a risk worth taking, to save Semyn and Werfol’s parents.”

  “There must be another way. Ask Mistress Sand! What of your dragon? Scourge? Why must it be you?”

  “Peggs. Need you ask?” Jenn put as much confidence into her voice as she could. “I’ve our mother’s gift. If they’re lost, I can find them. Didn’t I find the boys?”

  Some of the anger left her sister’s face. “What of Channen?”

  “Its Shadow District is within the edge, like Marrowdell. A place where magic happens. A place where I—” Jenn let her other self show, “—happen. Who else should go, dear sister, but me?”

  Peggs pulled her into her arms. “Ancestors Blessed,” she prayed after a moment. “You’ll need clothes. They don’t wear what we do. That’ll be for sure.” She pushed Jenn back, keeping hold of her shoulders. “Not to mention
your hair.” Her eyes narrowed in thought, Peggs at her very best when planning. A nod. “Lorra might know.”

  “Before we do anything drastic,” Jenn replied, “let me make sure this is what Bannan wants.”

  Though of that, she’d no doubt at all.

  As snow clearers, efflet were, to be kind, unreliable. A ride on something strong, with long legs, would have done nicely, but Scourge, it appeared, would have no rider, if not Werfol.

  “Idiot Beast!” Bannan pushed through thigh-deep snow, sweat stinging his eyes despite the cold. “You could—” he panted, “—make a path at least.” A perfect use for the snowshoes Davi had promised to make for them, not that he’d remind the man during his grieving.

  “Why?” Scourge walked alongside through the otherwise unbroken white coating the road ahead. Strolled, was more like it, flaunting his ease of travel, his hooves dancing over the snow. “She’s coming.”

  No need to ask; there was only one “she” to kruar or dragon. The truthseer gratefully stopped, doubled over to catch his breath. “Where?” He’d made it as far as the path to the top of the Spine. It looked almost passable, if you didn’t take note how the snow had drifted head high.

  “Here,” announced the breeze.

  “Bannan!” Jenn trudged through the snow toward him, her cheeks flushed with effort. That her every step moved her twice the distance of his was simply part of what made her marvelous.

  Her warm and slightly salty kiss another. They held each other for a moment, almost falling into the snow—

  Which would have been fine with Bannan, but he’d been coming to see her for a reason—

  They pulled apart, speaking at once so their words tangled together. “I’ll take to you to Lila,” Jenn said as he said, “Would you take me—”

  So of course they kissed again, toppling into the snow.

  Not long afterward, though a sweet and warm while it was, Bannan found himself sitting at the Uhthoffs’ long table with Jenn, surrounded by walls filled with books from floor to ceiling, to hear what Master Dusom and Kydd had to say about Channen’s Shadow District.

  It was, unsurprisingly, very little. “The Naalish don’t speak about their magic.” Master Dusom poured them cups of hot bitter cocoa, a package having been in his mail from Endshere, offering honey crisps at the side. A tall man and distinguished, with but a touch of gray in the thick black hair characteristic of the family, his hooded eyelids made him appear inattentive. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Marrowdell’s teacher was renowned for his fierce intellect within and beyond the valley.

  “I’ve an old friend who worked the barges one season. He said a strange thing.” Dusom took his seat. “The greater canals that take shipping across Mellynne to the Mila River cup Channen like a mother’s arms, but the lesser, within the city’s heart? Those, he swore by his Ancestors, have neither source nor outlet, nor is any vessel permitted on their waters.”

  Kydd nodded eagerly. “Waters purported by some to be the source of Naalish magic, by others to be necessary for its use. Bannan, have you heard of ‘Silver Tears’ being sold in Vorkoun’s market?”

  The truthseer nodded. “For a pretty price.” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought it a better swindle than most, for what seems ordinary water.”

  “Most likely,” agreed the beekeeper, “given the real liquid is rumored to be among the most potent of tokens for a wishing.” He slammed his hand down on the table. “Ancestors Dull and Dense! The vial!”

  “The token Bannan found.” By Jenn’s unhappy tone, she thought of where. “You think it contains these ‘tears?’”

  Kydd’s enthusiasm deflated. “Or goat’s blood. I didn’t dare open it, not in Marrowdell.”

  Bannan spared a moment to wish he’d been equally prudent with the crate.

  “Still, if these tokens came from Channen,” Dusom mused, “perhaps you could discover who made and sold them. From there, find who sent those men to pursue your nephews.”

  Locate one token dealer in an unknown city rife with magic? He supposed astronomers had a different sense of scale, being busy counting stars. Besides, Bannan told himself, he’d talked all this through with Tir, last night. The coins would be of more use, and far less risk, should they be searched.

  Still, Dusom’s idea had some merit. “We’re looking for Lila, not Emon’s enemies,” Bannan reminded them, then gave a grudging nod. “But you’ve made a good point. We’ll take the tokens. The hunt you suggest—she’s the one to do it.” He took Jenn’s hand, knowing there was a limit to what he’d risk, even for his sister.

  Her fingers squeezed his, then let go. “What can you tell us about the people, Master Dusom?” Jenn asked, tactfully changing the subject. “Peggs worries they’ll be very different.”

  Did Jenn? Marrowdell and its village was the largest community she’d ever experienced. Forget dragons, the truthseer thought. A boisterous city crowd might be the greater worry.

  Dusom chuckled, smiling at her. “People are people, Dear Heart. For all its seeming mystery, Channen’s a trade city, with many tongues in use, and even more customs. You’ll be fine.”

  “I speak Naalish,” Bannan mentioned, in case she’d wondered. “Well enough.”

  Jenn, who by her magic could understand any language, even toad, smiled at that.

  “And you may have local help.” Dusom brought a small folded paper from a pocket, opening it and pressing it flat. From another, he produced a familiar brooch, laying that on top. “Lorra had a name for you. She’s no idea if the man still lives, but if you can find him or his family, she was adamant showing this brooch will gain you aid without question.” He shook his head. “I hesitate to guess what other debts that woman could call in, if she chose. Take it,” he urged, sliding both toward Bannan.

  The truthseer lifted his hands from the table. “Do you know what that is?”

  The Uhthoffs exchanged frowns. “A piece of jewelry,” Dusom replied. “Frann, Ancestors Dear and Departed, was never without it.”

  Kydd’s frown deepened. “I take it you know more.”

  “This,” Bannan pointed, “is Naalish magic. An endearment, bespelled with a message from a loved one. Semyn and Werfol recognized it and told me. They’ve one from their mother, hung as a pendant. They witnessed Frann listening to its voice.”

  Ever curious, the beekeeper picked up the brooch and held it to his ear. Disappointment crossed his face as he put it down. “Nothing.”

  “It would speak only to Frann, but the magic?” Bannan shook his head. “That’s still within. I’m not sure we dare take such a thing into Channen.”

  “Dare we not?” Jenn replied. “We’ve asked our friends for help,” she continued softly. “We should respect what they’ve offered. Lorra wouldn’t part with this easily.” She reached across the table to pick up the worrisome object, leaving him the paper.

  He’d trust her instincts. Committing the name to memory, the truthseer passed the folded paper back to Dusom. “Please give Lorra our thanks.”

  “Something else was left for you.” Kydd rose and went to the pegs by the door. From under a coat, he brought something all too familiar. Horst’s sword, with its sheath and belt. “Oddly enough, Sennic advised you not to take it.”

  “The dragons would laugh,” Bannan agreed, then grew serious. “Sennic’s right. I know enough of Channen to be sure a blade would be of more trouble than worth. Only city constables go armed.” He grinned. “And those they do their best to catch.”

  “‘Constables,’” Jenn echoed, as if tasting the word. “Canals. A city under clouds.”

  “‘Dragons.’” Kydd came back to the table and sat, steepling his long, artist fingers. Over them, his face grew troubled. “Dragons and who knows what else. Don’t mistake me, Jenn. I told Peggs the Verge is your other home, because that’s the truth. You’re part of it. But what of
Bannan?”

  She gave her brother-by-marriage such a surprised look Bannan almost laughed. “He’ll be with me.”

  “And you won’t leave him? Not even if you’re tempted?”

  Her surprise became something else. “What are you saying?”

  “Kydd,” Dusom said.

  A caution and timely, the truthseer thought, seeing his breath cloud in the room’s sudden chill.

  His younger brother shook his head, either at the warning or Jenn’s reaction. “The Verge is a magical realm. The real danger might not be the obvious. You can’t know what might call to your turn-born self. What might try to lure or distract you, to leave Bannan unprotected. No insult intended,” to the truthseer.

  Who spread his arms. “None possible.” He bowed his head to Jenn. “I put my life into your hands, Dearest Heart, without question or fear.”

  The air warmed again, but she didn’t smile, as Bannan had hoped. Instead, she frowned and made to speak, then changed her mind, closing her lips.

  Heart’s Blood. It wasn’t a lie.

  But it wasn’t the truth.

  What hadn’t she told him?

  They would cross into the Verge at the turn, today, there being no need to wait and every reason to hurry. Bannan worried about Werfol as much or more than his sister, who they now knew languished in a cell.

  About her too.

  Rustlerustle.

  Jenn ignored the eyes, still scratching at the mirror. Her bag, stuffed with simples and hair ties and her second-best dress, waited on her bed. The Emms’ house toad squatted sentry on the floor.

  They’d told the other villagers the truth, or most of it, so Werfol wouldn’t be upset by what any villager said to him and, as importantly, so those they left behind would know where they’d gone and why. If not how. No other villager took the Tinkers Road to its end. All of them were comfortably convinced it led to where the tinkers lived, some place distant and foreign. Saying they were off to see Mistress Sand, to ask the tinkers about Lila, left most of Marrowdell content.