A Turn of Light (19 page)

Vouched for by Jenn’s father or not, they’d yet to be trusted. Their wagon was tucked against Horst’s homestead and their ox blissfully led to pasture at the farthest end of the village. All in good time, Bannan thought contentedly, and availed himself of soap and a bucket of cold water before changing into cleaner clothes. Done, he dropped his blood-soaked shirt into the suds to be scrubbed later and ran fingers through his still-damp hair. His cheeks felt rough and his boots needed more than a brush on the grass, but he was as impatient as any in Marrowdell to get answers. Besides, he smiled to himself. The Nalynns’ formidable lady expected them at her table. Best be prompt.

He laid his hand on the side of the wagon. The sum of his possessions was inside, tightly wrapped and secured, a gamble on the future wider and higher than he’d ever made on the next turn of a nillystone. A future here? He studied his surroundings with heightened interest.

Horst’s home was crudely built, of whole logs the size of which he hadn’t seen in years. Despite being shaped by simple ax, the resulting walls were strong and snug, their cracks well caulked. The broad, deep-set windows had glass panes, small but of good quality. No curtains—someone like Horst would want to see out at all times. Doubtless he watched now.

Bannan resisted the impulse to salute.

The village gates were of split cedar, the fencing of tall sturdy hedge. Not a defensive barrier, but adequate to keep wandering livestock from the orchard and vegetables. By all accounts, apples didn’t thrive this far north, but the grove to his right, nestled under the riven cliff, boasted fruit-laden trees every bit as healthy and lush as his cousin’s in Vorkoun.

Like the apples, the gardens weren’t what he expected here. Plots occupied most open space between the buildings, themselves filled with neat rows of exuberant plants. Perhaps the towering crags held warmth. Perhaps someone here was an exceptional gardener.

Perhaps the ground—like the road, the river, and the man—wasn’t what it seemed. His pulse quickened at the prospect of so many puzzles.

Scourge, also not what he seemed, lurked somewhere beyond the gate; an old and familiar puzzle, suddenly reshaped. Why had he wanted to come here?

Unlike those in Weken or Endshere, Marrowdell’s villagers hadn’t offered stable or pasture. How did they know of Scourge? Could—unsettling thought—there be others of his kind here? If so, why had Scourge seemed startled by the village, as if expecting something else?

Yes, he was going to enjoy this place.

Tir was waiting when Bannan came around the wagon, his forehead creased in a fierce scowl. He moved in the way, stepped close. “Not so fast. Sir.”

“Not hungry?” Bannan inquired mildly.

“Ancestors Provoked and Tormented. Bandits with pitchforks.” Tir poked Bannan’s chest with a blunt forefinger. “Blood on your saddle.” Poke. “A farm village. Where there would be pitchforks,” the finger for this wagged emphatically, then poked. “Not a soul in sight. Why, sir? Because everyone’s in the mill. The mill outside which yon beast is pacing, still saddled. The saddle with blood on it.”

Laughing, Bannan deflected the next poke and rubbed the now-sore spot on his chest. “Granted. You had every reason to storm the defenseless mill. Now stop fretting,” he grinned. “You didn’t scare anyone.” Though he’d add the unusual composure of the villagers to his burgeoning list of questions. “Be glad you arrived in time for lunch.” No need to ask how Tir had known to take the road to Marrowdell. To a tracker of his skill, the only surprise was that he hadn’t commented on Bannan’s tumble.

“And how did you fall off, sir?”

So much for that mercy. “Scourge spooked. Don’t ask me why.”

“To rid himself of a fool,” Tir retorted, not ready to budge. The scowl above the mask was real. He’d been truly worried.

Bannan clapped the other’s leather-clad shoulder. “No luck yet.” Or all the luck in the world, he added to himself. If he’d been an instant later, the not-man in the river would surely have drowned. Scourge had known, somehow. Had known and cared, which was more peculiar. “Now. Lunch?”

His point made, Tir relaxed and a twinkle appeared in his eye. “What’s the hurry: lunch or lady?” he inquired as they began walking.

Bannan nodded a greeting to the young men by the mill door. The taller nodded back; the other glowered. Fair enough. “You appeared quite taken by one.”

“Taken and caught aren’t the same. Sir.”

A cautionary “Sir.”

Her hand had filled his like a tiny bird, full of life, with utter trust. Bannan cleared his throat. “A fair place, this Marrowdell.”

“Seen worse.” Between the mask and the shade cast by his farmer hat, it was impossible to read Tir’s expression, but Bannan heard a smile in his voice.

They continued in silence, boots making little sound on the packed earth of the path. The village road could easily take a large wagon; it sent a short curved spur to the mill, then split around what looked to be a fountain at the village heart before continuing through the common pasture. The road wove past a total of eight homes, all like Horst’s in shape and size, themselves joined by narrower footpaths separated by gardens or, in some cases, waist-high hedges. Three barns, of good size. The Nalynns lived next to the mill, up a small rise to the left, overlooking the river.

Where they lived . . . Bannan stopped in his tracks and clapped Tir on the shoulder again. “Fair? Tell me you’ve seen better.”

The cheerful little house boasted a wide friendly porch, filled with seats and cushions, surrounded by tidy flowerbeds. A stack of elegant though well-used luggage stood waiting at one end, likely that of the lady from Avyo. Windows gleamed between carved shutters, framed by lacy white curtains. The door stood open, inviting visitors as well as sunlight. A colorful rug beckoned.

Above all, the roses. Huge red blooms, with a blush of orange at petal tip, leaves dark green and glossy, framed the house and nodded over the chimney.

Suddenly every bloom turned to stare back. As if measuring him, as if they protected some treasure. “Tir—” Bannan began uneasily.

A breeze passed and the roses nodded mindlessly in every direction, flowers again.

He closed his mouth.

“Haven’t smelled better, that’s for sure.” Tir closed his eyes in bliss. “Told you. It’s all about the cooking.”

No, Bannan thought to himself. It was, for whatever reason, all about Jenn Nalynn.

Peggs was in her glory. The larder door had been unlocked and thrown open; she kept Jenn and Hettie, extra hands and feet, on the run for ingredients. Every pot, pan, and bowl in the Nalynn kitchen was in use. More arrived through the kitchen door, filled with offerings from curious neighbors who, duty done, lingered almost out of the way and almost out of earshot.

Aunt Sybb may have envisioned a cozy midday meal for the new arrivals, something gracious and peaceful, but Marrowdell had other ideas. Jenn had been in the loft, hastily scrubbed, barely dry, and fumbling with the ribbons of her second-best dress when the excited murmur of voices had drawn her to the window to see the first trestle table being set up behind the Nalynn house. With more being carried up the path.

Peggs brandished a large spoon. “Eggs!”

“I’ll go.” Jenn poked a tendril of damp hair back into the ornate braid; there’d been no time to redo it. She’d thrown an old apron over her dress and put away her shoes. With this many to deal with, what did it matter what she wore? She grabbed the empty basket, then knelt to collect a handful of pebbles from their jar.

Hettie squeezed by with a tray of cups, continuing her conversation without pause. “—only saying they make our own lads seem a bit, well, uninteresting.”

“Novelty doesn’t last,” Peggs proclaimed, sounding as stuffy as Aunt Sybb. Which would have worked better if she hadn’t been craning her neck at every chance to see if Kydd had arrived.

Her friend chuckled. “I’d gladly give it a whirl. That warrior, Tir? I’m sure he knows a few pleasuring tricks worth learning.”

“‘Tir?’” Jenn echoed in disbelief.

“What? You’d warm to the other one?” Hettie’s sunny face clouded. “Not me. Oh, he’s prettier, I’ll warrant, but that Bannan’s eyes go right through a body, Jenn Nalynn. You’d best hope they find no secrets.”

“We’ve fine men in Marrowdell,” Peggs asserted, a little too forcefully.

Hettie put down her tray, her smile returning. “And which one’s put that gleam in your eye? Come now, I’ll have the truth—”

“I’ll get the eggs,” Jenn said hastily and ducked out the door, avoiding her sister’s pleading look. High time Peggs admitted her affection for the beekeeper. Hettie was right in one thing.

Secrets, she thought grimly, weren’t good things to own.

Squinting in the bright sunshine, Jenn wove her way through the maze of people, tables, and blankets. The tables were thick slabs of rough wood supported by barrels at each end; the blankets were spread on the ground between for seating. Two chairs had pride of place at the end of one table. These were occupied by Frann Nall and Lorra Treff, their hats giving them a regal air despite the pink of their cheeks. Jenn had made sure Aunt Sybb’s chair was waiting at the head of the other table, placed where the sun wouldn’t shine in her eyes.

The tapping of last year’s remaining cider casks encouraged a distinct party atmosphere in advance of the main guests. Cheffy, no worse for his adventure, chased his little sister through the forest of legs. Tiny Loee chortled and bounced in place, her chubby hands locked on a table edge. Beneath the same table, the house toad waited for something to drop, never averse to a treat.

It was going to be, Jenn decided, a very long afternoon.

Bannan Larmensu and Tir—the newness of the names made her tingle—were in the parlor, sharing what peace remained with Aunt Sybb, their father, Horst, and Dusom. Peace and the contents of a dusty bottle Old Jupp had brought with him when he’d wheezed through the door. Whatever it was, it had created quite a stir.

Wisp lay, injured and unconscious, in the mill. Oh, in no danger. Battered and bruised, was the sum of it. Peggs said Covie had grown strangely evasive after that. As if there was something else, something she wouldn’t say.

While she hunted eggs.

If Jenn’s greetings to her curious, cheerful neighbors were a little terse, she felt she should be forgiven. The most exciting day of her life would doubtless contain more cooking, followed by endless hours of dish washing. At least she’d been able to nibble when Peggs wasn’t looking and, given the excitement, Aunt Sybb had postponed her departure by a day. Perhaps two.

Given the cause of the excitement, Horst had pronounced himself satisfied to remain in the village as long as she required, where he could keep an eye on the strangers.

“Jenn.” Roche Morrill peeled out of his conversation with Davi and fell in step with her. “We need to talk.”

No, they didn’t. Convincing him being impossible, Jenn sighed to herself. “What about?” At the hedge, she squatted awkwardly to protect her dress, and reached, finding the burrow at her first try. Aunt Sybb loved a hard-boiled egg with her tea and professed Marrowdell’s better than any in Avyo. Just as well, Jenn reminded herself, she hadn’t noticed the lack of chickens.

Roche crouched beside her, annoyingly near, green eyes aglitter. Recently, he’d taken to wearing his hunter clothes all the time, the dark leather vest with its pockets and stains, dark leather pants. Knee-high boots, rubbed black with grease for waterproofing. She supposed he’d start carrying his bow next, for all that it was old and twice-repaired. Anything to be different. Anything to be difficult.

As now. “You know what,” he said in an annoyingly reasonable tone. “That stranger.”

“Which one?” Ah. Her fingers touched something smooth and warm. “There are three.” She pulled out a brown egg.

“The one with the ugly mount. The one who grabbed your hand.”

“Scourge isn’t ugly.” Jenn retrieved another egg and put it in her basket. She kept her voice down, trying to contain her temper. “And I grabbed his, not that it’s any of your business, Roche Morrill.”

“You should be more careful,” Roche said, cold and quiet, stark amid the laughter and excitement around them. “It doesn’t look right, you and a stranger. People are talking.”

When she’d been a child and Roche picked a fight, something he’d always done despite being eleven years older, she’d push him into the nearest puddle or snowbank, hardly something Aunt Sybb would approve of now.

Being adult had such disadvantages.

“People always talk,” Jenn told him with as much dignity as possible. She put her back to him and went after more eggs. She found four, which emptied the nest, and carefully replaced each with a pebble, adding one of the rare white ones for good measure. Something in the civil exchange kept the toads laying, which was certainly good for the villagers.

Roche hadn’t left. She could feel his eyes on her.

As she started to rise to her feet, he clamped his hand around her wrist and pulled, almost making her drop the basket. “Listen—”

“No.” Jenn tugged free and glared back. “You’ve nothing to say to me.”