A Turn of Light (17 page)

While they ran down one. Bannan had ridden treacherous terrain, but this? The slope was too steep even for Scourge, who began to bound from side to side like some fool oversized goat, finding footholds in midair, as far as Bannan could tell.

Worse, the air filled with a roar that could be only one thing. A waterfall. A big one. Right below where his insane horse was more falling than running.

If he’d been on any other mount, he’d have thrown himself clear and counted himself lucky not to break both legs.

On Scourge? “This the best you can do?!” he shouted, all at once as mad as the beast. “Go!”

An ear flicked back. Approval.

More leaps, a twist that came close to throwing him, then they were in the river, Scourge splashing his way toward a figure in its midst.

Not naked. Nor a man.

The woman shouted, but he couldn’t hear over the waterfall. She realized at once and pointed desperately.

He rose in the saddle to look. Yes. There. A man clung to a mass of flotsam against the other bank. Unconscious? No, he moved.

Which meant a chance.

The woman was in no safe place either. Bannan kicked free a stirrup and extended his hand. She took it in one of hers, pulling herself up and astride with reassuring strength. Farm maid, despite hair pinned like a grandmother’s. She settled behind him, arms around his waist.

This time when he squeezed his legs, Scourge stepped forward with a will. The riverbed here was as level as city pavement, the powerful current like silk. The rapids ahead? Those were deadly. Narrow, though. If they could get close . . .

Suddenly what had been silk rose and battered against them as the river tried to spit them out. Water covered Bannan’s boots and boiled against Scourge’s flanks, yet a short distance away the pool remained smooth and unruffled. The woman tightened her grip. Grimly, he urged the horse on, trusting Scourge to keep his feet. If he didn’t, well, the poor fellow would have company over the falls.

Bannan felt the rumble through his hands and legs as Scourge growled. Guessing what was to come, if not why, he pressed his arm over the woman’s and gripped the saddle with his free hand.

The horse reared on his hind legs, hung in midair an impossible moment, then pounded his front hooves down on the water in fury.

Instead of a splash, the water flowed aside, meekly returning to its smooth self.

“Take that!” Not that he had the least idea what had just happened. Regardless, Bannan grinned and slapped Scourge’s still-curved neck.

They continued forward as far as they dared, Scourge stopping on his own at the limit of flat rock.

Bannan shook his boots free of the stirrups. Understanding, the woman let go of his waist. If he looked straight down he’d see nothing but untrustworthy water, so he didn’t. He worked his way forward over the saddle. All he had was the rein, a woefully short ten feet, and the strength of his hands and arms.

Scourge swung his head around, jaws agape.

Once those jaws took hold of something, nothing could pry it loose. Usually, this involved a bloody trophy Bannan preferred his mount not brandish in front of his men, Scourge’s true nature being difficult to explain at the best of times.

Now, he gladly offered one end of the rein, relieved when Scourge snapped his teeth over it.

Still hopeless, he warned himself. The rein wouldn’t reach. The man wouldn’t be able to grab it. The thin strap would slip through wet hands. The current would tear him away.

Arms tightened around his waist as he sat back. She wasn’t giving up.

Nor would he.

It wasn’t long before the clump of branches and man turned lazily into the rapids. Caught instantly by the fast current, the clump bounced and snapped. The entire mass broke apart!

Somehow, battered by water and stone, the man clung to a piece that stayed above water. The river pushed him away and Bannan tensed. The girl cried out, her hand outstretched. He couldn’t make out the words but, as if the man in the river could, he began to kick and struggle toward them.

Closer . . . closer.

Now or not at all!

Bannan lunged forward, throwing his end of the rein as far as he could. Scourge stretched his neck and head, holding the other. The pitiful length of leather snapped out.

And a hand snatched it from the air.

Having sacrificed his grip on the branch, the man immediately sank beneath the river.

But the rein stayed taut.

Bannan leaned deep in the saddle; in answer, Scourge began to back away, step by step.

Somehow, the rein stayed taut.

What gave this man the strength to hang on? Fear could do that, Bannan told himself. Turn fingers to iron.

Or was it exceptional will?

The head came up, gasped for air. The current rolled him under again.

The instant the man reached the safety of the shallows, Bannan felt the woman drop from behind him. Scourge stopped. She steadied herself against his shoulder and neck as she splashed forward, following the rein to its end. Once there, she pulled the man’s head and shoulders out of the water. When he sputtered and coughed, the woman looked up at Bannan and smiled.

As Bannan looked down, he saw two truths.

Her smile was the most joyful thing he’d ever seen.

And the man in her arms?

Was no more a man, than Scourge was a horse.

They’d used him as a plaything, flexed their might on the river’s foul water, lingered in the girl’s world for no higher purpose than amusement.

How they loathed him, his kind. Wisp shivered in the girl’s arms, barely conscious. He’d earned their spite. This penance of the sei settled nothing, accomplished nothing. It left him alive to remind the rest. This is what defeat looks like. This is failure’s cost.

See what happens.

They hadn’t meant to kill him; they hadn’t cared how fragile his body’d become. He’d have welcomed death, if it meant peace.

How weary he was of it all.

The girl’s arms tightened around him, her body the only warmth he could feel.

Duty had kept his head above water. Duty had reached for the strap. Had held on.

Wisp opened his fingers and let the leather float away.

Everything went dark.

SEVEN

U
NDER OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES,
the dramatic appearance of a stranger, especially astride a huge horse ugly enough to pull a tinker’s wagon, would have claimed all Jenn’s attention. Now? She vaguely knew he’d dismounted to stand by her in the trout pool, that he wanted something, but she had to hold Wisp. He’d be swept away otherwise.

The stranger pointed to shore.

Of course. Jenn nodded and tried to move, but Wisp, though not much bigger, was limp and far too heavy. Thankfully, the stranger saw her difficulty. He lifted Wisp from her and heaved him over one shoulder. Jenn struggled to her feet, her clothes sodden with water, and tried to help. Instead, she slipped and would have fallen, but the stranger had her arm. He waited, supporting them both, until she was steady again.

Meanwhile the horse splashed close and stood with unusual patience. Jenn leaned on his flank; the best she could do was keep out of the way. The stranger eased Wisp up and over his horse’s neck, then stepped into the stirrup and mounted behind. He reached for her.

She shook her head. The waterfall roared like a cheated bear; the river could come alive again and attack. Three would be too many, even for such a big, well-muscled animal. Instead, she grabbed the stirrup leather and held on, smiling reassurance at the stranger. The shore was in reach. After all this, they couldn’t fail. Wisp would be safe.

He had to be.

The stranger frowned, but didn’t delay to argue.

They were no longer alone; others waited on shore. The horse arched its neck, as if intending to protest their presence, but the stranger soothed the animal, kept him moving forward at a pace Jenn could match.

Life could be measured in such steps, counted by effort, summed by will. She didn’t know why walking out of the river was so much harder, but Jenn didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

When her father rushed to her, when Peggs was there and more, when faces she knew and loved surrounded her and the stranger and his ugly horse . . .

. . . only then did she dare believe Wisp would be safe.

Bannan Larmensu, man of no home, would enter the village of Marrowdell a hero. Explaining this to Tir would take some doing, and doubtless involve an incredulous stare or two, but for the moment, he rode the happiness of the villagers. For the woman, it appeared, was a favorite.

The man lying limp over Scourge’s withers, something the horse acknowledged with an unsettled twitch every so often? He was something else again.

They’d thrown a blanket over his naked, shivering flesh, but the villagers didn’t know him. That was plain.

The woman did.

But did she know what he was? There was the rub. His family’s talent, to see the truth of a thing, had never put him in this position before. To know a liar, yes. To know Scourge was special, of course. But now, when Bannan looked at the man lying limp in front of him, he saw beneath the blanket, the chilled skin, the gooseflesh. He saw . . .

What?

Shadows. Blurred images. Nothing stayed sharp, nothing stayed until he could understand it. But there was another shape beneath the man. A shape more real than the seeming under his hands. That, he knew beyond doubt.

As he knew he’d stay here, in Marrowdell, until he understood.

Going up the path to the road proved easier than the plunge down. Now that they weren’t about to fall forward to their deaths, Scourge placed each hoof with such ponderous care it was a wonder the villagers behind them had patience to wait.

The man was limp. Unconscious, he believed. There were fresh wounds on the body: deep cuts and abrasions leaked blood, and bruises bloomed beneath the skin. The river journey hadn’t been kind. Despite Scourge’s care and Bannan’s hold, there’d be more bruises from this rescue, but there was no gentler way to get him to safety.

Not that this man was used to gentle, Bannan thought grimly. The river damage was nothing, compared to the rest. The body in front of him had war carved in it.

Another mystery added to the shape. How had he survived such injuries? No healer of Rhoth or Ansnor could have put a body this broken back together.

Scourge gave the final heave up to the road, stepping into sunlight. As if he’d never thrown his rider, run off, or disobeyed, he moved forward a few smooth steps then came to a careful halt at Bannan’s command. He was relieved, though in truth it wasn’t the first time the war mount had carried wounded from battle. The fat pony and gelding, reins in the hands of the boy, lifted their heads but didn’t try to bolt.

Bannan waited for the villagers to climb the path. First came a tall, dark-haired woman, followed by a man with his arm around the shoulders of the woman from the river. Concern and a shared shape to the mouth and eyes of all three said family. A sister, likely the father. Horst was on their heels, followed by a giant in a smith’s apron.

Horst wasted no time. “Is he dead?”

“No!” The woman from the river pulled free.

“Your swimmer will be fine,” Bannan assured her. “Unconscious. His wounds need tending.”

“We’ll take him to the mill,” the father ordered. “Davi, your cart?”

The smith shrugged. “It’d take too long. You—” a nod at Bannan, “—can get him there before I could catch up my team.”

Horst pressed his lips together. Bannan didn’t need to be told his opinion. He wasn’t welcome in Marrowdell and neither was his burden.

“Would you? Please?” The woman laid her hand on Scourge’s neck, a familiarity the normally testy creature accepted without a flinch. Blood stained her blouse and skirt, none of it hers despite the torn sleeves and scratches on her arms. Her eyes were the rare blue that darkened with emotion; as she gazed up at him, their color was almost purple. Younger than he’d thought by her pinned hair and mature demeanor, with round, pretty cheeks and a strong but delicate chin.

Younger and with a mouth he wished would smile for him.

“A pleasure.” For a wonder, his voice sounded normal. “Where’s the mill?”

The question appeared to startle her. Had she never been asked directions before? “That’s the way to the village,” she told him, pointing down the road. “You’ll see the mill.” Her hand left Scourge’s neck to hover over the motionless form of the man. As if she longed to touch him, but dared not.

“I’d better go,” Bannan said. She nodded and backed away.

The rein had tumbled over the waterfall. No matter. Scourge was well used to answering to legs and weight. When, Bannan reminded himself, he felt like it. At the moment he did, moving ahead when asked, stepping with fluid grace along the dirt road.

Trees lined it. Larger than he’d expect this near a settlement, where wood would be in demand. Old. Now that he had time to pay attention, he frowned and craned his head, staring as they passed. Old and . . . odd.

The cliffs towering to either side of the narrow gap weren’t quite right either. Unlike those he’d passed on the Northward Road, these were riven by deep fissures from top to base, all running east to west. Again, odd. If he didn’t know better, Bannan thought uneasily, he’d swear the stone had been raked by giant claws.

Scourge walked on, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Until they passed beyond the trees, and the great steed snorted and stopped, tossing his head as if startled.

Bannan gently urged him forward, startled himself.

The valley spread before him, a feast for the eyes. Closest, a trim little village, its gardens and orchards fenced by tall hedges, its buildings surrounded by flowers the like of which he hadn’t seen since Vorkoun. The river, here tame and lovely, ran alongside a tall mill. It meandered from the west, drawing a serpentine line through wide fields of lush, waving gold. To either side, the torn cliffs, like scarred arms defending a treasure.

“Marrowdell,” he whispered. The ordinary, made extraordinary.

The road forded the river, then ran through magnificent hills of smooth ivory stone, forested at their base. More of the trees that weren’t quite right. Not only that . . .

. . . for an instant, the landscape took on a different shape, the sky another, nameless hue. The road became silver and liquid and took him by the heart. He had to race along it, meet what lay in the distance . . .

“Come no closer!”

Bannan blinked, finding himself on the russet road again. He brought his gaze back to the village and the people gathered before its open gate. People who weren’t smiling.

Ah, yes. They were hardly a sight to engender confidence. Blood from the injured man—who likely appeared a corpse—ran down Scourge and soaked his own shirt. He lifted empty hands for the second time this day. “We need a healer.” Scourge, seeing his way blocked, began to rumble in threat. Idiot beast. Bannan dug a toe into his hide, then gave those waiting his best smile. “Horst sent us.”

At the name, the small crowd parted at once and everyone urged him through, hands gesturing. He kept smiling and hoped they’d keep their distance from Scourge’s hooves.

And let him travel their silver road sooner than later.

The stranger’s horse took such giant strides Jenn fell behind at once, too worn to run alongside. She eyed the pony wistfully as it passed, but Cheffy was too excited to notice. He drummed his heels constantly, which didn’t affect the pony’s plodding pace one bit. He’d had his adventure and wanted his pasture.

Without the old pony and Cheffy’s warning, Wisp would have died. It didn’t bear thinking about. Apples and pie, Jenn vowed. As soon as she could.

Her father and sister caught up to her, along with big Davi Treff. “You’re sure you aren’t hurt?” The kindly smith looked ready to sweep her up in his big arms and carry her home.

“I’m sure. The blood—it’s not mine.” The stains on her clothes were from Wisp. She’d never seen anyone hurt like that; the worst had been when Tadd Emms had cracked his head on ice and he’d spent two days in bed nursing a lump like an egg. She wasn’t hurt, but she wasn’t right. Jenn stumbled and Peggs put an arm around her shoulders.

“Horst!” Radd called before she could protest. “A ride for Jenn, if you please.”

At the summons, Horst swung his gelding around and came back to offer his hand. “Jenn?” Like Davi, he looked concerned. Concerned and kind and familiar.

Were those feelings real? Was he?

Horst wasn’t the family friend she’d known all her life; he couldn’t be, not until she’d heard the story of her mother’s death from his lips, not until she understood him. Jenn threw a desperate glance at Peggs, who, though doubtless having the same thoughts, could only shrug.

“Thank you.” She accepted Horst’s hand and stirrup, but avoided a direct look into his face. Once she was settled, Horst urged the gelding to catch up to the stranger—something the horse protested with pinned back ears and a jolting trot. At least it wasn’t far to the village.

The village with Wisp in it.

Wisp who was—for the first time, the reality of it sank home—who was now a man.

The stranger’s horse stood outside the mill, given respectful distance by the others. Jenn rushed through the big open doors and took the stairs to the loft, Horst behind her. Her father kept a pallet bed in one corner, to use during the long nights of milling. Surely they’d take Wisp there.