A Turn of Light (27 page)

“I’ll help—” Naturally, Kydd turned to look at the mess as he spoke.

Wyll looked at her.

His eyes gleamed silver.

And things began to move.

“Heart’s Blood!” Kydd stared, his mouth partly open, as breezes tossed the blankets back on the pallet and nudged them flat, rolled the chamber pot noisily to the bedside and upright, picked up the chair and set it in place, then, after hesitating over the smelly trail, whirled around the room to collect damp dust to cover the stain.

As a finale, rose petals flung themselves through the open window to land neatly atop the dust. Presumably to improve the odor.

Jenn shook her head in disbelief. What was Wyll thinking? This wasn’t the meadow. “You can’t do that here,” she complained.

His eyes became brown and ordinary. “I helped.”

“Don’t help,” she snapped.

Ordinary except for a wicked twinkle. “Shall I put everything back, Dearest Heart?”

Kydd’s face worked, as if holding back a sneeze. He made a faint strangled noise, then broke out laughing.

“Don’t,” Jenn warned Wyll. “Don’t do anything.”

He stood statue still. Except for—Jenn did her utmost not to look there. Kydd, though shirtless, was decently clad; Wyll most definitely was not. Worse, she knew—she just knew—he was enjoying himself thoroughly at her expense. Like the Emms twins, who—until their mother caught them at it—would drop their pants, put their hands behind their heads, and wiggle their hardly impressive manhood at the Nalynn sisters while they hung the week’s laundry. The number of times she and Peggs had resorted to throwing clots of mud? The result, she had to admit, had been pretty funny. Running with their pants around their knees was challenge enough, but Tadd had an absolute gift for choosing a direction that would collide with his twin.

“Only you, Jenn, could find such a friend,” the beekeeper said, smiling. He retrieved his shirt from the floor and offered it to Wyll, who, having had his fun, held it modestly at his waist. “Marrowdell,” Kydd concluded, with no doubt at all.

“A mere visitor till now,” Wyll smiled. “Jenn wished me to stay, so I will.”

Jenn winced. If he answered the truth to any question, what chance did she have of keeping anything private, let alone anything embarrassing?

On the bright side, Kydd wasn’t alarmed by Wyll’s little tricks. That boded well. Very well indeed. The others looked up to the Uhthoffs; they’d listen to Kydd’s opinion about their new fellow. If only Wyll refrained from another display.

Which she couldn’t expect. They were friends. She’d never controlled him. She wouldn’t know how. Had never wanted to.

She’d wished him into this shape.

Jenn felt the weight of her soaked clothing, the chill damp against her legs, and shivered.

Wyll lost his smile. “Go home, Dearest Heart, and care for yourself,” he said gently. “This man will see to my needs.”

The beekeeper nodded. “It’d be an honor.” From the glint in his eye, Kydd wanted nothing more than time alone with her Marrowdell friend.

She shouldn’t worry, Jenn reasoned. If Kydd married Peggs, he’d be family and would have to keep secrets. Wouldn’t he?

A warm breeze found her ear and whispered, “Go.”

She nodded, her arms tight around herself, and left the two of them.

But it wasn’t until Jenn stepped outside into bright sunshine that she remembered. What Kydd had interrupted.

Wyll’s finger on her mouth.

Her heart pounded like a drum in her chest. She touched the tip of her tongue to her lip.

And tasted ash.

Bannan didn’t have to be told stay back. With Horst about to bare past sins, the last thing welcomed by the villagers would be a stranger in attendance. So he let Jenn and the others continue on their way and followed Tir to the wagon. After changing into the last of his clean clothes—the boots would have to dry on his feet—he hung his wet things over a wheel.

Feet apart, hands behind his back, face composed, Tir waited.

He had a way, Bannan thought with mild annoyance, of waiting very properly, with the sort of attentive patience that made the person being waited for come to worry about something on his face or see flaws in whatever he’d done in his life. It was impossible to ignore a waiting Tir, though Bannan had tried in the past. The man was like an unscratchable itch.

Bannan crossed his arms and gave in. “What?”

“Sir?”

“Is this about my leaving the village without you, the ‘whisperers,’ or the farm?” That should cover the possibilities.

Tir surprised him. “It’s about them, sir. Them and their plans for you.” He pulled off his mask; the ruin of nose and chin added force to the accusation. “That nonsense about the field?” He spat. “The villagers killed the ox, plain and simple.” A flash of puzzlement. “Or not simple. I won’t say I figured how. But if you ask me, they did it to keep you here.”

Bannan swallowed his instant objection. Tir couldn’t see the silvered road. He wasn’t distracted by it, either. How many times had his suspicions saved both their lives? “Putting aside for the moment I’d know if any of them lied to me, why bother?” He spread his hands to encompass the valley. “I told them I plan to stay. You were there.”

“Not being a truthseer,” Tir countered bluntly, “I didn’t think you were serious. Maybe they didn’t either.” With exasperation. “Kill the ox and you don’t have much choice, do you?”

Bannan half smiled. “What makes you think I want a choice?”

“Heart’s Blood. You only met her this morning. Sir.”

Bannan flushed. It was Jenn Nalynn. He couldn’t deny it. But . . . “It’s more than her. It’s this place. I see—I can’t tell you how—” He hesitated, then said helplessly, “Can’t you feel the peace here? How special it is?”

Scourge, who’d been pretending to mouth flowers, found something that crunched.

Tir replaced his mask, taking longer than usual to settle it in place. When he finally spoke, his tone was quiet and thoughtful. “Maybe it says something, that you came to the guard too young. What were you—fifteen?”

“Fourteen. I lied.” There’d always been a Larmensu in a Vorkoun uniform; he’d imagined or wanted no other life. Until now, Bannan thought. Until now. “Why?”

“Fourteen. Ten years in the marches.” Tir gazed at the village, then gave him a somber look. “You don’t know what peace is. Trust me on this, sir, this place—whatever you see here—it’s not peace. Leave the wagon. We can walk out of here. Put a pack on the bloody beast if we—” Scourge shied sideways with a disgusted snort. “—take what we can carry,” Tir amended. “I’m just say’n, sir. There are other places. Safer places. Ones without mysterious ox-killing whispers.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Bannan said lightly, though it was all true and he knew himself perilously close to the kind of heart-driven foolishness that had, on several occasions in his youth, resulted in sister or friends or both hauling him back to reality by an ear, if necessary. “Besides. The food’s good.”

Tir heaved a great sigh. “The food’s grand,” he conceded, with all the enthusiasm he’d give a midnight watch in cold rain. “So we’re staying, then.”

“We?” A swell of gladness filled Bannan’s throat. He hadn’t asked Tir to take the road with him; he wouldn’t have asked him to stay. He hadn’t hoped. “You’re sure?”

“With all this peace?” A sturdy finger poked him in the chest, hard. “Someone has to watch your back. Sir.”

The girl left and Wyll no longer bothered to be social. He lurched his slow way to the window. He would see her from there, he thought, as she went home.

“Is there anything else you need, besides clothing?”

Surely not one of the questions burning in a beekeeper who hid books of what passed for knowledge in his hives. “What else should I need?” Wyll asked as he reached the window and braced himself.

As he’d expected, it was a trial to view Marrowdell through a man’s eyes. Everything too close. Too low. The hills were askew and the colors? Gorge rose in his throat but he forced himself to look, to adapt.

He’d dealt with worse.

Kydd came to the window, glanced at what was doubtless comforting and familiar. “A place to stay. You’d be most welcome in our home.”

This, he hadn’t expected. Wyll looked away from the window. The man’s demeanor was respectful, but unafraid. Was he foolish? “I will stay,” he stated, “with Jenn Nalynn.”

“You can’t.”

More foolish than was reasonable. How far would he go? “Why?”

“Because . . .” Kydd’s cheeks took on a dusky hue. “Because Jenn lives with her family,” with renewed confidence, “and they don’t have room. Her aunt from Avyo is visiting.”

“Aunt Sybb.” The woman Jenn regarded so highly, the one whose opinion mattered to her most. A potent ally, should he need one. A formidable opponent, should he offend her. “I need shoes,” Wyll declared, abruptly worried on that score.

“Shoes.”

“I mustn’t offend Aunt Sybb.”

For some reason, this put Kydd back at ease. “Nor must I,” he said with feeling. “A gracious lady. Very protective of her nieces.” As if things had been settled in some way, he bowed. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can, Wyll of Marrowdell. With clothes and footwear.”

Wyll returned to gazing out the window, uncaring that the man waited for a response, oblivious to his eventual departure.

While distracted by Kydd’s questions, he’d missed seeing Jenn leave the building. She was home now. Seeking the comfort of her aunt and sister. For she’d left in pain.

He should be glad. Pain taught lessons and the wishing was something she mustn’t repeat. He should rejoice that her eyes had filled with tears, that she’d gazed at him with heartfelt misery, that her lip had quivered just so.

He’d touched the lip, curious. Been startled as the blue of her eyes deepened to rich purple. Twilight’s color. The boundary of night’s edge. Remarkable. Terrifying. As if a turn could catch breath and live.

He was, he assured himself, glad. If she believed his twisted body was her doing, it was a belief he’d let her keep. A constant reminder of guilt to prevent another, worse mistake.

Ask the sei.

Ask his kind.

Ask why he lived, still.

TEN

T
HE LATE SUMMER
storm put an end to lunch and had sent the livestock scampering for shelter. While it lasted, it made a river of the road and a lake of the pond. There was no saving the last of the berries, but the melons, Cynd later averred, had appreciated a good drink. Between the glass that would need replacing, new panes having to come all the way from Weken; the missing shingles on Old Jupp’s roof, which meant he’d have to stay with his niece Covie if he couldn’t abide the hammering, though those children were hardly quieter; and the Emms’ clean laundry, presently draped on the oak tree, the villagers cheerily agreed it could have been worse.

Bannan’s ox was the only casualty, his regrettable passing an opportunity not to be missed, it being some time since the last outdoor roast and no new slaughter planned till early this winter. Davi proposed a new pit be dug once the puddles drained away.

Puddles were everywhere, glistening in the afternoon sun. The air was scrubbed to a sparkle and, though leaves littered the ground, those left on the trees shone as though polished. Rain-soaked clothes flapped in the remnant wind, no few being second-best dresses. Two black hats sat on the Treff porch, their sodden feathers leaning together.

The puddle in front of the Nalynn porch reflected the sky. Chin in both hands, elbows on her knees, Jenn sat on the step and watched the towering white clouds decay.

Peggs sat beside her. She watched the puddle-sized sky too.

Small, restless snores came from the parlor where, instead of packing, their exhausted aunt reluctantly took a much-needed nap. The dishes, deserted, sat in cooling suds. Peggs had taken one look at Jenn and made tea while her sister changed into dry clothes.

Their empty mugs beside them, the pair sat side by side to consider the day’s events.

“I can’t believe Poppa never told us,” Peggs said, not for the first time. She lowered her voice. “How could he not tell his own sister?”

Both shook their heads at that.

“I’d tell you,” Jenn promised.

“And I, you. We won’t keep any secrets.” Peggs paused. “Not ones that matter,” she qualified. She tipped her head to the house. “Should we tell her now?”

“That would betray a confidence,” Jenn pointed out. “Aunt Sybb wouldn’t approve.”

“She won’t approve of any of it.”

Both sighed.

Jenn drew a circle in the moist earth with her toe. “If we did tell her, she wouldn’t need to worry about Mother’s family anymore.”

Instead of agreeing, Peggs sat up straight. “What if the Semanaryas send someone else? They still could.” She gasped. “Jenn, what if they’d stolen you from your bed when you were little and dragged you from Marrowdell?”

“Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Jenn said sensibly. “You’ve been reading too much. They don’t know I exist. Besides, Wisp knew about the curse too. He told me to stay home. Remember the roses on the table?”

“Roses wouldn’t have stopped you today.”

Jenn knew how close it had been; her sister’s dread wasn’t helping. “Would you please stop worrying?” From here, she could see Night’s Edge. The crags and river. The village and fields. The Bone Hills and forests. The span of her world.

Marrowdell.

And nothing more.

Kydd Uhthoff came in sight, walking toward the mill. He wore a fresh shirt and carried a thick bundle. A pair of boots hung from their laces over his shoulder. Things—as in Wyll—must have gone reasonably well after she’d left.

Spotting them on the porch, Kydd lifted his free hand in a friendly wave but didn’t pause.

“Thank you!” Jenn called, waving back.

Peggs, who’d waved too, gave her a questioning look. “For what?”

“Clothes for Wyll. He’s the same size as—”

“Wyll. Ancestors Foolish and Forgetful.” Peggs caught her hands and turned Jenn to face her. “Dear Heart, there’s something I must tell you. I’m glad Wyll’s better, but before—before you visit him, there’s something you should know,” ever-so-gently, as if she were fragile. “I’ve heard he’s—he’s not quite right. Covie told Cynd at lunch, you see, and she told Lorra and Frann. Well, it didn’t take long to reach the kitchen.”

“It’s all right. I know.” She’d told Peggs about Roche and how she’d tricked him. About how stalwart Kydd had been in her defense. About their mother, Horst, and the curse.

Just, Jenn thought uncomfortably, not about Bannan.

Or Kydd and Wyll.

Or . . . Wyll.

Which was more than reasonable, since she could hardly bear to think about Wyll, let alone talk about him.

“You know?”

“Kydd and I stopped at the mill on the way home,” Jenn admitted. Her lower lip began to tremble and Peggs’ face swam as her eyes filled. “I’ve seen him.”

“Oh.” Her sister drew her close, a hand stroking Jenn’s hair. Her apron smelled of cinnamon and apples. That was all it took.

“It’s my fault!” Jenn wailed and burst into racking sobs.

Peggs waited patiently, hugging her until sobs became hiccups and Jenn sniffed noisily. At this, her sister eased her away gently and offered a linen handkerchief. Jenn took it dubiously; she hated using the fancy cloth, but their aunt insisted. “Better?”

She blew her nose. “A bit.”

Peggs’ dark expressive eyes held a wealth of compassion. “How bad—” she hesitated delicately.

Jenn sniffled. “The wishing went wrong. He’s—broken.” Wen’s word. “His left side is crippled. There’s a terrible scar,” she traced it over her own body. “He can stand. Walk, in a fashion. But he’s b—broken.”

Peggs opened her mouth only to close it, a touch of color on her cheeks.

Jenn mumbled into the handkerchief. “Not there.”

“He showed you?” Her sister digested that. “Well. Good,” this firmly. “You wouldn’t want—that—broken. Trust me.”

“Peggs!” Jenn blurted, then giggled, surprising herself.

Her sister’s lips twitched. “Shh,” she cautioned, tipping her head at the open door. “Don’t disturb our poor aunt.” She turned serious. “Is Wyll angry with you? You meant no harm. I hope he understands.”

“That’s the only good part,” Jenn sighed. “I won’t say he forgives me, but he was more upset that I’d gone down the road. He’d thought I was leaving.”

“Because he knows about the curse.” Peggs looped a silky strand of black hair around her forefinger and held it across her closed lips, her habit when thinking. When younger and thinking very hard, the strand would end up in her mouth to be chewed thoughtfully; Aunt Sybb had worked diligently each summer to cure what she called a proclivity better suited to a cow than a young lady.

Jenn waited patiently.

The hair went free. “I wonder how much he knows.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe Wyll knows how to make you not cursed. Is that how it’s said, do you think?” Peggs’ brows creased in deliberation. “Uncursed. Curseless?” A smile broke across her face and lit her eyes. “Oh, Jenn! What if he’s been waiting to remove this curse since you were born, but couldn’t until—until—” That part failed her.

“Until I wished him into the shape of a man,” Jenn pressed her hands to her bosom, “we fell madly in love,” she pretended to swoon, “and were married before the sun could set on my birthday.”

Peggs laughed. “Didn’t we read that story?”

“Or one like it.” Though in all such stories Jenn could recall, vile forces fought against the handsome protector and fair maid, leaving their future in doubt till the last page. She’d clutch a pillow while Peggs read the passages filled with danger and strife. If she’d had her way, it would be straight to the happy ending. With pie. “This isn’t a story, Peggs.”

Her sister gave her a quick hug. “Have a heart. Being romantic doesn’t make it wrong.”

“Or right. You,” Jenn arched her eyebrows, “are under the influence.”

“I shouldn’t tease, little sister, if I were you.” Peggs contentedly twirled another dark lock. “Your turn at love will come.”

“If Wyll could uncurse me,” Jenn reasoned, changing the topic, “he’d have said so. All he said was ‘don’t you dare leave.’”

Peggs looked deflated. “That’s not promising. What else did he say?”

“It wasn’t so much what he said . . .” Jenn ran her tongue along her lower lip. At the moment, it tasted of tea. “Peggs. Does it mean anything, feeling—odd—when a man touches you?”

“‘Touches you?’” Peggs’ eyes widened. “Where? What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Jenn hurried to say. “Nothing wrong. Wyll—” Where would sound safe? “Wyll put his hand on my cheek, when I was upset. I felt odd. Tingly.”

Her sister ducked her head, a dimple showing past the curtain of hair. “Tingly’s good.”

“Peggs!”

“Not that Kydd—that we’ve—” Her surprising sister hesitated, then said, “He came to the kitchen with eggs and our fingers touched—on the basket.” The basket’s involvement making it clear the contact of fingers had been above reproach.

Jenn could picture the moment. She smiled. “Tingly.”

“Wonderfully so,” Peggs sighed with bliss. Then chuckled. “Of course, after that he hovered and was in the way and I knew I’d burn something if he kept watching me, so I had to shoo him out.”

Poor Kydd. Jenn wiggled her toes thoughtfully.

“Why do I think there’s more to this than a touch on the cheek?”

Because there was. Before she lost her courage, Jenn said the rest. “On the road. Bannan picked me up and held me in his arms—not that he had to, but he was worried about the curse and . . .”

“And you felt tingly with him too,” Peggs finished with great satisfaction.

Jenn nodded.

The sisters silently pondered the significance of tingling as they watched Riss, across the road, hang damp rugs with little Alyssa’s help. Once the two reentered Old Jupp’s house, Peggs coughed. “Go on.”

“What?”

“You know what. Was Bannan more tingly or less?”

“What kind of question is that?” Jenn rolled her eyes. “Tingly is . . . tingly.”

Peggs chuckled. “I can’t believe last night we worried you had no suitors. Today you’ve two. Three, if you count Roche.”

“I don’t count him,” Jenn objected. “And I don’t have suitors.” Aunt Sybb’s word. It went with courting, and invitations, and parties. With life in a great city like Avyo.

With freedom.

“Call them what you will.” Her sister held out her right hand, palm up. “A dear and magical friend.” Her left. “A handsome stranger who saves your life.” She pretended to compare weights, as if choosing a turnip. “Who shall it be?”

Jenn stared into the puddle sky. The right number of clouds remained for a glorious sunset, a welcome for those new to Marrowdell.

“I shouldn’t joke.” Peggs lowered her hands. “Sorry.”

“I made Wyll what he is.”

“I know.”

The sisters leaned shoulder to shoulder and watched the puddle shrink.

There was no need to say the rest.

There really wasn’t. They both knew she would marry Wyll and care for him and they’d live in Marrowdell for the rest of their lives. She’d learn to be content. She could. She owed him that and more.

Jenn chewed her lower lip.

Except . . . there was that small detail she’d left out. It shouldn’t make any difference. Still, for honesty’s sake. Hadn’t they pledged to keep no secrets from one another? Not any that mattered, and she was uncomfortably sure this one might, depending on how Wyll behaved in future. Something she couldn’t guarantee, could she?

Peggs shook her head and half smiled. “Tell me the rest of it.”

“The rest?” Jenn echoed faintly.

“I know that look. You might as well spill whatever it is.” Her smile widened. “Wyll or Bannan?”

“Wyll,” Jenn confessed. She folded her hands, which wanted to fidget, neatly on her lap. “Remember what Wen told me? How the shape of something might change but not the nature? She was right.”

Peggs wrinkled her nose. “What do you mean?”

“Wyll—he can do Wisp’s little tricks. Like the roses.”

“What?!” Her sister launched to her feet. “He still has powers? He’s—he’s magic?”

“Yes, but—” Jenn began, neck twisting as she stared up in surprise.

“And Kydd’s gone to him?! Alone??”

“Don’t worry. He knows—”

“Jenn Nalynn! I—” The shout sputtered into incoherence. In frustration, Peggs waved her arms over her head and stomped her feet. “I—! You—! How could—!”

Awed, Jenn dared not utter another word.

“What’s wrong?” Their aunt called from the window, barely awake and concerned. “Is someone hurt?”

“There’d best not be,” warned Peggs, finding her voice. “You,” she told Jenn, grabbing her wrist to pull her to her feet, “are coming with me.”

“There’s the boys’ room, above the kitchen. Gallie wished me to tell you she’s aired the beds.” Zehr passed a rag over his sweat-damp face and considered the sky, burdened with the last of the storm clouds. “Late in the season for it, but it’ll be a sticky night,” he observed, then winked. “If I were you, I’d take hammocks on the porch.”

“Our thanks to you both,” Bannan said, remembering to use the villagers’ short, old-fashioned bow. He couldn’t help but admire how they’d kept the courtesies and speech of their former lives. Endshere’s population shared the thick accent Tir still produced on occasion, a curdling of vowels that grew more pronounced the farther into Upper Rhoth one ventured, and no one else along the Northward Road bowed, being, as Tir called them, hill folk born and bred.