A Turn of Light (12 page)

A telltale glisten. Wisp stepped around it and found another the same size in his way. More ahead. Paired feet told him what the interloper was, a terst; daring to intrude here told him who. One of the turn-born.

The path went on and on, twisting as it descended. The air thickened and warmed, curling over his skin. Tempting, to let that soothing warmth relax his vigilance, but a mistake. A turn-born’s expectations made their mark on the Verge. Warmth, in this case, didn’t mean a wish that he, Wisp, be more comfortable.

It meant temper.

The path ended in a tall shimmer of opalescent blue, his “door.” It kept out his peers, his old friends, his former prey, the rain. It would open to a turn-born. Most things did. Wisp hunched what weren’t shoulders in the position of respect and walked through.

Inside, the blue shimmer became rounded walls, ceiling, and floor. They were aware of him. If he walked toward a wall, it would retreat a pace or two, then rebound in his face. When he lay down, the shimmer would close around him. On good nights, he thought of it as a comforting womb. On bad ones, he fought to breathe and not snarl.

Most nights were neither good nor bad and Wisp could ignore the nature of his home, be grateful for the protection it offered.

Protection those he served could remove in an instant.

The girl’s kind ruled themselves, a method suited to their straightforward, solitary world. From what he’d read, some did profess to serve ideals but, as they were quick to idealize each other, it amounted to the same thing. In his world, everything capable of obedience obeyed the sei, which was perfectly reasonable, since only the sei were capable of insisting on it.

Which they did rarely. Their interests spanned times and distances greater than anyone else bothered to imagine. For the most part, the inhabitants of the Verge did as their natures dictated. Those who wanted to hunt one another for food, did. Those who wanted to taunt, steal, or make the weaker their target, did. Those who allied with one another to mutual purpose, including to avoid being hunted or a target, did.

Those who took all this to the level of war risked disturbing the sei. Disturbed, the sei would restore peace however they saw fit, and enact due penance from both sides. Otherwise, they remained aloof and left the care of the Verge to the turn-born.

For the turn-born and the Verge were one.

To amuse himself, Wisp sometimes wondered what Jenn Nalynn would think of her counterparts, if she could see them as they appeared here. The turn-born possessed skin, but neither flesh nor bone beneath it. Instead, the body, neck, and head were filled with light, as if a sunbeam had been poured inside glass. Extremities—arms and hands, legs and feet—were filled with what bound them to the other world. Most chose earth, selecting the color that suited them. Wisp had met one whose limbs were filled with teeth. Other someones’ teeth. Presumably collected at some effort from the earth.

The turn-born who sat waiting for him—one wall of the shimmer having bent into a throne—had shards of black stone filling arms and legs. Like all terst, his head was crowned in thick white hair. With no face below the hair, turn-born wore masks when wandering, shaped in the semblance of man or woman, for terst were like the girl’s kind. This one’s mask had strong features, a hooked nose, and dark eyebrows. Real, save that here, light poured from the holes where eyes and mouth should be.

~ Did the cursed one tried to leave? ~ Turn-born went to the point the way fangs sought a throat.

There were no secrets. Wisp settled himself on the floor, too weary for ceremony. ~ She did not. ~

~ Then why enter her village? ~

~ I go where I choose. ~

The air grew chill. A warning. Scales clenched along his belly. ~ I went as a precaution. ~ Wisp admitted. ~ I removed an opportunity. She will not leave. ~

~ Her existence is an unacceptable risk. ~

Her existence was his life’s sole pleasure, but the turn-born wasn’t wrong. Wisp shrugged, felt a familiar pain. ~ Your doing, not mine. ~

The turn-born rose to his feet, the shimmer of ceiling rising to accommodate his looming height. ~ Fault belongs to the mother and her race! ~

He really was too tired for this. ~ Is there anything else? ~

~ Someone’s coming. ~

The turn-born meant to Marrowdell. As he’d feared. Too soon. Did they hope to entrench themselves in the valley ahead of the Great Turn? Not while he breathed . . . Wisp began the arduous process of standing again. ~ I’ll go. ~

~ Get your rest. It will not be until the kaliia’s sun is high. ~

Midday, then. The kaliia’s sun shone on more than the crop, Wisp thought to himself. It shone on Jenn Nalynn as well.

The turn-born walked out of the shimmer, which shrank, blue and glistening, until Wisp lay within its embrace. This night, he welcomed the protection, craved the peace; he had to regain his strength.

Tomorrow, it would begin.

FIVE

A
LATE NIGHT
TRIP
to the privy was hardly unusual. The sisters going together wasn’t either, since that way one could bring a lantern while the other carried whatever book they planned to share, especially when they were younger and the books were those their aunt might not have approved, and there were two “seats” anyway for private gossip. What was unusual was the two going past the privy and through the gap in the hedgerow to clamber down the riverbank.

Jenn eased the dew-damp branches back into place then joined Peggs, already arranging a handful of spills on the narrow strip of packed sand they’d chosen. The fire, if they kept it small and clean, shouldn’t be seen from any window. Not that there should be anyone else awake at this hour, except Gallie Emms and her baby, but they’d agreed the fewer who knew what they attempted, the better.

Peggs unwrapped the hot coal from the kitchen, and tipped it into the curled shavings. They lit with a cheerful crackle. She fed larger sticks, then announced all too soon, “There. Fire’s ready. Are you?”

Jenn set her bundle on the cool sand and carefully spread it open. The map. Hair trimmings. A lock was more poetic, and they’d discussed it in whispers, huddled in bed, but her ends had needed the scissors and she was, after all, only going to burn it. The bundle itself was silk, as the wishing required. One of the city undergarments Aunt Sybb had given them, finally of use.

They’d brought Jenn’s small painted letterbox. She and Peggs had agreed she couldn’t carry wishing ashes in her skirt pocket. She didn’t write letters anyway, not like her aunt. When she left Marrowdell, she would. Many letters. Letters home, naturally, but there’d be letters to new friends as well. Invitations. Responses. She’d need a new letterbox then. A large one. With her own paper and fancy pens.

First things first, as Aunt Sybb would say. “It won’t work, Peggs,” Jenn pointed out. “We don’t have the ‘something of love.’”

“Yes, we do.” Peggs, who’d smiled mysteriously whenever Jenn mentioned that part of the wishing, reached into her pocket and held out her hand. “This.”

A little block of wood rested on her palm. A child’s block. Jenn didn’t need to see the carvings on each side, their paint worn thin with play. A lady’s mirror. A mask. A mushroom. A mitten. A milk pail. Last and most important, the letter M.

M for Melusine.

Their mother’s. She’d brought the toy to Marrowdell, to be a link between her childhood and theirs.

“We’d put it under our pillows,” Peggs smiled. “Remember? You were sure it stopped bad dreams. Here.”

The fire snapped impatiently. Moonlight touched the river, smoothing its glide over rock, and etched silver into the crags above the far bank.

Jenn couldn’t touch it. The block on her sister’s outstretched hand was more than a toy. It was a talisman. They’d take turns, holding it. Peggs—sometimes, when she thought Jenn was asleep, would whisper to it. They had no portraits of their mother, other than the hints in their own flesh, no letters or writings. A few clothes, her roses, the home she’d made them, that was all.

And the little block.

“It’s too much,” she protested.

“Mother wouldn’t say that. Not if it brought you happiness. Take it.”

This wasn’t a game, Jenn thought, and shivered though the night air was summer warm. “What about your happiness?”

“After we do this for you.”

“Aunt Sybb said magic was nonsense. It won’t work,” she fretted,” and we’ll have burnt the block for nothing.” And her map, a not inconsiderable loss.

Peggs took her hand and pressed the block into it, folding her fingers tight. “If we don’t try,” she said wisely, “we’ll always wonder, won’t we? Come, Dear Heart. You’re sure you remember the words?”

“Yes.” Just as well, since their aunt had put the piece of paper and sketchpad on the small table by her bed. It was impossible, the sisters knew from experience, to walk on the parlor floor without a creak sure to wake their father out on the porch, let alone their aunt.

“I think you should say them as you put everything together,” Peggs decided. “Like you would a Beholding. Serious.”

Serious was how she felt. Serious and solemn.

And more than a little scared.

“Peggs. What if it works?”

Her sister prodded the fire. “Second thoughts?”

“Hundreds.” Jenn pulled her shawl close around her shoulders. “Wisp is my friend. My best friend.”

“If he doesn’t want to be part of this, he can say no.” Peggs chuckled. “Then we try a toad.” She lost her smile when she glanced at Jenn. “You’re worried he’ll say yes.”

“Of course I am. What if, when we’re both—” Jenn waved helplessly, “—people—what if we don’t like each other?”

“Maybe you’ll like each other a great deal more. Did you think of that?”

Wisp was sunshine and flowers. Mystery and mischief. Playmate and friend and protector. “I couldn’t like him more,” Jenn countered, sure of that, if nothing else.

“Like him in a different way. A nice way.” Did Peggs blush or was her skin reddened by the flames? “When it isn’t maddening,” she added under her breath. Louder. “The fire’s not going to last. Let’s finish this. You can decide the rest in the morning.”

Morning. When she’d have to sit across the table from their father and aunt, pretending she hadn’t heard. The words. The despair. The broken sobs.

She’d run to the meadow anyway. Wisp was her surest comfort.

“‘Something of me,’” Jenn said, giving in, and lifted the clump of hair in her fingers. She put it back on the piece of silk. They’d carefully saved the lace and satin ties from the undergarment, giggling at its impracticality in Marrowdell. Well, Jenn had giggled; Peggs had looked oddly thoughtful. “‘Something of love.’” The block joined the hair. “‘Something of dreams.’” Last, her treasured map.

Without letting herself hesitate, she tied the corners of the silk together. “‘In a silken glove.’”

They’d brought the heavy skillet. Peggs took hold of its long handle, her hands protected by a rag, and Jenn laid the bundle on the flat round of metal. The skillet should contain any ashes and keep them clean. The moon was almost full.

It would work. She just knew it would. It had to.

The night itself seemed to hold its breath.

Now, or not at all. “‘Turn into ash, By moonlight’s glow.’” Taking a long spill, Jenn put its tip in the fire, waited for the spiral shaving to catch, then touched its burning end to the bundle of silk. “How long do you—”

Whhoomphf! The bundle burst into yellow flame.

“—think it will take?” she finished numbly. The silk should have smoldered to start, the map inside being the better fuel. “I—”

The flame winked out, leaving a tidy cone of white ash on the skillet.

“I wonder what else was in that book,” Peggs said, her eyes wide.

Careful not to breathe and risk blowing the ashes away, Jenn used the lid to scrape them into her letterbox. They sparkled in the moonlight and flowed more like sand than ash, leaving not a trace on the skillet. She put on the lid, made sure it was tight, then slipped the box into her deepest pocket.

“Put out the fire. We’d best get back and get some sleep.”

“Sleep?!” Peggs exclaimed in a shaken voice. She shook her head, braids sliding over her shoulders. “How can you think of sleep after this?”

“To bed, then. Or do you want Aunt Sybb to think we’ve been—” what had she called it? “—‘slipping out’ to see young men?”

“Jenn Nalynn.” Her sister couldn’t keep a straight face. “Fine. But we keep a candle burning. I’ve goose bumps. Don’t you?”

Jenn didn’t. She’d expected something remarkable to happen, and it had. The wishing wasn’t what would keep her awake tonight.

Imagining tomorrow would.

Bannan cracked an eyelid at the noisy rattle of pot and spoon. The sun had barely touched the tips of the highest trees; mist slid pale fingers under the branches around their camp. The road itself was flooded in shadow and unappealing.

He shut his eye.

Tir made more unnecessary racket. That, he could ignore.

The heavy lump abruptly landing on his chest was another matter. “Wh—at?” He sat upright, shoving away what proved to be a wool cloak.

Most of a cloak, filthy and damp.

Scourge gave a satisfied rumble and bobbed his great head.

“Could be worse, sir,” Tir commented. He’d left his mask off and a broad grin whitened the scar tissue ringing chin and nose. “There’s no hand attached this time.”

Bannan tossed off the blanket and found his boots. “Maybe they’ll leave the next wagon alone.” Standing, he found his way to the fire blocked by a mass of smug flesh. His fingers found the velvet under Scourge’s jaw and he smiled as the horse who’d terrorized would-be bandits half closed his eyes and rumbled with satisfaction.

“We could be sure, sir. Go back to Endshere and check who’s missing some clothing. And skin.”

Go back? Bannan ran his hand up the powerful sweep of Scourge’s neck, fingers digging into the shock of black mane. Tir was right. They’d never left a quarry unchased before. Never a battle unfought.

The horse brought his head around to rest his chin on Bannan’s shoulder. The man pressed his cheek against the soft warm muzzle and stared into a dark, noncommittal eye. “The road goes north,” he said at last. “So do we.”

Like any visitor on the road to Marrowdell, the rising sun found the village first. It set birds atwitter and burst through windows. The cows mooed at the dairy gate. Wainn Uhthoff’s old pony stood with them, slyly hoping to be let through into the orchard.

“You’ll get sick,” Jenn scolded as she passed. The pony whickered his disdain for consequence and leaned against the gate.

Consequence was something she couldn’t ignore.

She’d slept after all. Overwrought, huddled under their comforter, Peggs’ reticence on matters of the heart had abandoned her completely. She’d extolled the virtues of Kydd Uhthoff to her defenseless sister in a low, happy murmur that went on and on and on. He had, it seemed, a remarkable number—starting with the dimple in his chin. The litany had been better than a lullaby; Jenn didn’t remember much after Kydd’s singing voice.

At dawn’s first blush, she’d slipped from bed, leaving Peggs sound asleep, dressed quietly, then stole out the kitchen door. Not without a wistful look toward the cupboards, but leaving without being noticed was better than any breakfast.

Jenn stopped at the fountain to dip her finger, then took time for a drink. She stared at her reflection, dismayed by her appearance. Why hadn’t she brought a comb? She quickly undid her braid and ran damp fingers through her hair. About to braid it again, she hesitated.

She looked different with it loose. Older. The ripples of pale gold fell past her shoulders to her waist, gleaming in the sunlight. Her eyes looked bigger.

Sweeping back her hair, she braided it as tightly as she could, restoring the Jenn Wisp knew. She wasn’t about to show him another.

The village was astir as she climbed into the pasture and broke into a run. The bays snorted and tossed their heads. The calves thought this a splendid game and ran alongside, their sharp little toes flinging clots of dew-wet grass into the air. They protested when she climbed the gate and left them.

Tendrils of mist hung motionless over the fields and blanketed the river in white. As Jenn forded the river, the mist curled around her. She was careless of her skirt, so when she climbed out on the far side, the hem hung heavy around her ankles and dripped on her feet. She didn’t bother to wring it out. It would dry as she ran.

Not that she had to keep running. To leave the village, yes. To avoid her father and her aunt and anyone else, yes. But now?

The last thing she wanted to do, she discovered, heart pounding, was hurry.

Jenn slowed to a walk, the roadway cool underfoot. The morning birds were strangely quiet, the air so still she could hear Master Dusom’s bell summoning Cheffy and Alyssa to class. Those had been the days, when her worries consisted of geometry and Roche dipping her braid in ink.

When she reached the point where the Tinkers Road should bend to follow the Spine, the path to the upper meadow to her left, she found herself confronted by a wall of mist, thick and dark and silent.