A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Those who knew about the Verge and Channen were left to worry. As Bannan, Jenn thought again, worried about her.

  Rustlerustle. “Hush, you.” She’d rewrapped the mirror, adding a leather strap. Before leaving to meet Bannan, she’d bury it in the snow behind the privy where it could “rustlerustle” to its heart’s content. She wouldn’t have Gallie or Zehr—or the baby—encountering great yellow eyes in their loft. Or let those eyes watch Marrowdell.

  Eyes she’d explain at her first opportunity. Thanks to Kydd, Bannan knew full well she’d left something unsaid. Matters had happened rather quickly, that was all. She’d tell him all about the sei and the toads and the efflet and the—

  Rustlerustle—Crack!

  Jenn froze, hands on her bag.

  GrrissshSnapcrackle.

  She didn’t need to turn to know what the sounds meant. The mirror—wrapped in canvas and rope and leather, leaning safely against the wall—had shattered.

  Was whatever owned the eyes about to escape?

  Taking a steadying breath, Jenn looked over her shoulder.

  The toad, having leapt away, crept forward.

  To her relief, the canvas around the mirror merely had a bulge at the bottom, where shattered bits of mirror would slide and gather. Nothing worse.

  Just as well, then. Or not. Glittering specks of glass littered the floor, having slipped through folds in the canvas. Sharp broken glass couldn’t be far behind.

  ~Be careful, elder sister.~

  “I will.” Once nothing else went snap or tinkle, she laid the mirror, in its wrap, flat on the floor. None of the glass must fall through a crack or get into the rug. Or anywhere else. Untying the ropes and strap, she eased open the canvas.

  The frame remained intact. Behind where the glass had been was a piece of wood, stained as if once wet. She spread the canvas flat.

  Glass piled at one end, all splinters and jagged shards like ice where it met stone, except ice wasn’t this stygian black.

  Eyes opened. Great yellow eyes. A pair in each and every piece, down to the tiniest speck.

  The house toad launched itself under her bed.

  To be honest Jenn found the regard of so many a little disturbing herself.

  Eyelids rose and fell. Dozens. No, hundreds. Though faint, the rustlerustle of so many was like wind through a grain field.

  Something white fluttered at the window, catching her attention. Not snow, but an unseasonable moth, trying to get in. The sei didn’t appear to notice or require conveniences such as opened panes or doors, so Jenn opened the window for the small thing, moths being of Marrowdell. “You are welcome here,” she told it, then turned to the glass. “You are not.”

  Every eye snapped closed, leaving black and featureless glass. The moth hovered at a cautious distance, pulling out a parchment upon which it inscribed a note with the tip of a leg. At some haste, Jenn thought. Then it rolled up the parchment, tucked it in the jeweled sachet moths carried, in Marrowdell, and flew back out the window as if she wasn’t even there.

  Well.

  The eyes opened. “You weren’t lost at all,” Jenn accused. “You’ve been hiding.”

  No blinks. So it lied too.

  She closed the window, pondering what to do. Gallie would be up to use her desk and where Gallie came, she’d bring the baby. Hopefully the eyes couldn’t move on their own. To be safe, she bent to look under the bed. “I’ll be right back,” Jenn told the toad. “Please keep watch.” It didn’t look happy, but eased out and sat, staring.

  And being stared at.

  The Emms, having said their good-byes, had gone to visit Tadd and Hettie. They’d done so to keep Loee out from underfoot while Jenn packed and to distract Hettie, unhappy not to have a typical Marrowdell gathering to fare well the travelers, fresh snow and mysterious circumstances notwithstanding.

  All for the best, as it turned out, Jenn relieved to avoid awkward questions. She took the largest stew pot from its shelf and hurried back upstairs armed with the pot, dustpan, and straw whisk.

  She stood in the middle of the room, brandishing the heavy pot. “Fair warning,” she told the pile of broken mirror. “Leave now, or suffer the same fate!”

  Melodramatic it might have been, but the threat—or pot—had the desired effect. The black winked away, leaving sparkling glass. Jenn examined each with care, her reflection sliced into dozens of Jenns and Jenn pieces, but whatever—whomever—had spied from the Verge was gone.

  Good. If eyes watched, she wasn’t sure she could do what must be done.

  Short work to sweep up the broken glass, dumping it by the dustpan load into the pot. Jenn used the whisk to knock free the few pieces still held by the frame, adding those to the rest, until all that remained were the specks that had escaped the canvas and frame. She mopped those with a rag dampened in her washbasin, putting the rag in the pot too.

  After some thought, she shoved the canvas and ropes well under her bed, beyond the reach of little fingers.

  Two trips down the ladder, one with the pot, the other with the frame. The pot, half full of glass, she set on the cookstove.

  The frame? A pity, Jenn thought, running her fingers over the tapestry. Even though worn to bare threads at the corners, with the rest in desperate need of a good cleaning, this represented days, perhaps weeks, of painstaking work. The pattern, what showed of it, was hardly magical. Leaves and buds. Small flowers, some with bees. Apples of various sizes. How could there be harm in it?

  She’d take no more chances. After knocking apart sides and back, watchful for more glass but finding none, Jenn used Zehr’s saw to cut the frame, tapestry and all, into pieces that would fit into the pot.

  Once every bit of the mirror was in the pot, Jenn used tongs to take a fat glowing coal from the cookstove, adding it on top.

  She’d vaguely wanted more light from a candle, and it had answered. This time, her wish was deliberate and sure. She fixed her gaze on the ember. Heat!

  In answer, its glow went from red-hot to white.

  More, she insisted. Hotter.

  Thread smoldered and fell apart. Wood snapped and caught fire, burning with the smell of apple.

  Hotter still, Jenn Nalynn wished, and the pot itself began to redden, while within, thread vanished and wood turned to ash that crumbled and drifted up and away.

  The pieces of mirror began to melt. They softened, flowing together until there were no pieces at all but a clear red puddle.

  Before anything else could melt, including the perfectly good pot and the top of the Emms’ ’stove—let alone the rest of the rather warm kitchen, Jenn changed her wish, or eased it, satisfied when the red of the puddle very slowly began to clear.

  Leaving the pot, and glass, to finish cooling under the watchful gaze of the house toad—though she trusted the creature wouldn’t get too close—Jenn went upstairs to finish her packing.

  Sack filled, ready to go, she took a last long look around the loft. Oh, and didn’t something catch her eye? “Ancestors Crazed and Confounding,” she muttered. There, in the shadows. A shard of mirror. “How did I miss you?”

  She nudged it free with a toe. To her dismay it was black.

  Two great yellow eyes opened. Blinked. Rustlerustle. Again.

  A plea perhaps, though a demand seemed more likely. With, she thought practically, no time left to deal with either. The shard being small enough to fit in an envelope, Jenn took the second last from her writing desk and tucked the glass inside, careful not to cut herself on an edge. She put the envelope, shard inside, into a sock from her bag. That sock she wrapped inside its mate, tying the top and stuffing the result to the bottom of her bag to be dealt with later.

  She’d take the shard to Bannan and Wisp, and seek their advice.

  Jenn paused at the top of the ladder. If she looked around again, it would make the moment
seem more than it was, so she climbed down as if it were a normal day, watching for the step where Zehr sometimes left his saw. The kitchen was tidy, dishes for four dried and put away. The table would be set for three tonight, unless the Emms stayed for supper with Hettie and Tadd.

  She wouldn’t wish. She’d made one with Wen, to come back, and that would have to do. Though as Jenn left the Emms’ house and her home, she wasn’t entirely sure that had been a wish with turn-born magic.

  Or simply one from her heart.

  The Emms’ house toad watched from its spot near the cookstove, offering no opinion as Jenn, using rags to protect her hands, carried the pot outside. She tipped it upside down behind the privy, pleased when the glass, now a clear lump with the faintest swirl of silver—more than silver, flickers of gold and hints of blue—at its heart, dropped free. The snow hissed to receive it, sending up steam; the glass crackled but didn’t shatter and Jenn was satisfied. No more a mirror.

  Though it would make an interesting find come spring.

  “Uncle. We could go with you.”

  “We’d be very good. Wouldn’t we, Tir?”

  Under the blandishment of two pairs of so-earnest eyes, the former guard turned red. “Don’t you look to me. We’ve duty here, and your lessons, and here’s where you’re to be when your uncle comes back.”

  “With Momma,” Werfol said firmly. “And Poppa!”

  Semyn nodded, trust shining in his face, and Bannan’s heart thudded in his chest. So much for all his careful explanations. Where was Wisp when he needed distraction?

  He put his pack on the floor. “Semyn. Werfol. Lads, I want you to listen to me.” They nodded. “Ancestors Witness, it’s not an easy road we’ll take. There’s no knowing what’s at the other end.” Another, slower nod. “Jenn and I—we’ll do our very best. I can’t—I won’t—promise anything more. Werfol, you know I speak the truth.”

  The little truthseer nodded a third time, his eyes gold. “Momma said you were a hero, Uncle. No one else was allowed to know and we weren’t to say, ever, but she told us. You’ll find her. You’ll bring them home.”

  And didn’t that strike him in the heart? Tir coughed and Bannan took the boys in his arms. He kissed their heads and, though he didn’t dare promise aloud, by every Ancestor he could claim, he vowed he wouldn’t face these children again without their parents.

  “Time to be off.”

  Bannan swallowed. Composing his face into a cheerful smile, he straightened and ruffled their hair as he always did. “Then I’m off. Mind yourselves and keep an eye on Tir for me.”

  “Couldn’t we come with you a short way?” Werfol pleaded. “I like to watch the turn, Uncle.”

  His brother ruffled his hair. “Tonight let’s watch from here, Weed.”

  They’d stick together. “Good,” Bannan told them. “Tir?”

  Tir snapped to attention. “Sir!”

  Heart’s Blood. Would the man never let it go? Bannan regarded his friend, then shook his head. “Still with that?”

  A grin showed at the side of the mask. “Always, sir.”

  They clasped hands, then shoulders. Tir gave him a hard slap on one after letting go. “Watch your back.”

  “That I can promise.” Bannan looked to the boys.

  Semyn wore Lila’s pendant. Werfol had found one of Bannan’s scarves and had wrapped it around his neck. Seeing his attention, the pair bowed in unison, fingertips sweeping the floor with impeccable grace. “Uncle.”

  He wanted to tell them what to do if he didn’t come back. To reassure Werfol his gift wouldn’t stay all-consuming and tell Semyn that he’d make a fine baron.

  Instead, he circled his fingers over his heart. “Hearts of our Ancestors, However far we are apart, Keep Us Close.”

  “‘Keep Us Close.’”

  With their high voices in his ears, and Tir’s low rumble, Bannan turned and left his house. He didn’t look around or back.

  He’d see it again when he brought Lila and Emon home.

  “You should keep your hair like that, Dear Heart.” Peggs tucked a stray lock back into Jenn’s complex braid, her fingers lingering. Before they’d left the village, she’d checked everything Jenn wore, then produced a sachet filled with petals from Melusine’s rose, the delicate bag newly sewn from a fine linen handkerchief embroidered with Jenn’s name and hers, insisting that be tucked deep into a pocket.

  She’d then made it clear there was no chance in either world of her family letting Jenn cross this time without them present. Kydd and Radd walked with them, and Peggs kept her arm linked with her sister’s as if afraid to let go.

  Truth be told, Jenn was glad of the arm and the company. The efflet had seen fit to clear the road. They’d not used the snow for more sculptures, either because they were satisfied or for some reason of their own. As for Wisp? She’d not heard or felt her dragon since he’d suggested she take Bannan into the Verge. Hopefully, that meant he’d be waiting for them at the crossing, smug they’d taken his advice and ready to be their guide.

  If not? The turn was coming and she carried eyes in her bag. He’d be there, Jenn told herself.

  “I’m sorry we weren’t more help,” Kydd said, not for the first time.

  Radd marched alongside. “You were more than I was.”

  Jenn put her free arm through her father’s and squeezed. “We’ll have help, Poppa. Don’t forget.” When he glanced at Scourge, who walked alongside, she shook her head. “He’s to stay with the boys.” This earned her the glint of a red eye, then the kruar snorted and plunged ahead, his flagged tail the last thing they saw as he rounded the bend. “It’s a sensitive topic,” she said apologetically.

  As they passed the path to the Spine, a figure stepped out to join them. “Wainn!” Kydd greeted, clapping his nephew on the shoulder. “Good of you to come.”

  Wainn smiled, but the look he gave Jenn was full of foreboding.

  She tightened her grip on her family and didn’t ask.

  Be it Wainn’s arrival or Scourge’s leave-taking, they walked in silence to the opening to Bannan’s farm. There, Jenn turned. “I know I said you could come all the way, but—”

  “But this is far enough.” Peggs smiled, though her eyes were suspiciously bright. “Go, Dearest Heart. We’ll visit with Tir and the boys.” She held up her basket. “I brought pie.”

  Then there were hugs and kisses and Jenn grew quite flustered and might have wept, but just in time Bannan appeared. There was nothing for it then but he be hugged and kissed and fussed over too.

  Until Wainn looked to the Bone Hills and said quietly, “The turn’s coming.”

  Jenn nodded. “However far—”

  “No need for all that,” Peggs stated in her do-not-argue-with-me voice. “You’ll be home in no time. Come along, everyone. The pie’s still hot.” And because it was Peggs, and Peggs had thought to bring pie, she swept her family with her to the waiting house.

  Not without casting a look back at Wainn, who hadn’t budged, that threatened to lift him by his bootlaces. “I’m coming,” he replied, then looked to Jenn. “Wen said to trust your heart.”

  Which didn’t sound at all unreasonable and she would, of course. Jenn took Bannan’s hand and smiled. “Thank—”

  Her smile vanished as she met Wainn’s eyes, for Marrowdell looked back. “He doesn’t belong here,” the words slow and heavy. “You mustn’t bring him back.”

  “‘Him?’ Emon?” Bannan asked sharply. “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s not Emon,” she replied. “Wainn—”

  But the moment passed and Wainn smiled, himself again and without care in the world. “Peggs brought pie!”

  “Jenn,” Bannan pressed. “Emon?”

  “Come,” she told him. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  What she could.

 
The turn was coming. They’d have been late, but the efflet had clawed a path through Night’s Edge and into the old trees beyond.

  The path he’d expected. Their slow pace along it was the surprise. After a moment, Bannan looked at Jenn. She gave him a determined little smile that didn’t fool him for an instant. So, when they came at last to the forest edge, he stooped to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” she asked, her smile eased into something more natural.

  “Everything. This.” He waved an arm vaguely. “It’s not snowing.”

  That won him a chuckle. “It doesn’t always snow, Bannan.”

  “You could have fooled me,” he assured her. He began walking backward, to watch her face as she followed. “We’ll be free of it soon. No snow in Channen.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Ever?”

  “Almost never.”

  The eyebrows drew together. “I’m not sure I believe you, Bannan Larmensu.”

  He clasped his hands over his heart. “You wound me, Jenn Nalynn.”

  “I—oh my!” She burst into laughter as he fell backward, landing on his rump in snow up to his elbows, which he hadn’t planned. Still, the laugh was honest and contagious. He chuckled too, until he discovered to his chagrin he was stuck.

  Smiling, Jenn offered her help. “Here. Wiggle yourself from the deepest part.” As she pulled him free, she joked, “For your sake, we’d best hope there’s no snow in Channen.”

  For both their sakes, he needed to know what troubled her. Bannan stopped her brushing him off. “This can wait, Dearest Heart. What is it? What did Wainn mean?”

  Jenn met his gaze, her lovely eyes open and honest—and more purple than blue. A reminder of the coming turn. And her magic. “I looked in the mirror. There was—there is—something that looks back from the Verge.”

  The eyes. “It saw you.”

  She nodded. Ancestors Anxious and Uncertain. Was that good news or dire? “Could you tell what it was?” he asked, though he didn’t know what to ask, was the truth. “What it—what it wants?”