A Turn of Light (33 page)

Her moonlit smile, his sure arm about her waist, transformed them from magic and youth into something no less wonderful. Bannan grinned. “Please don’t let me interrupt,” he said with another, deeper bow.

And a twinge of envy.

“You want to see your home,” Wainn nodded toward the distant trees. “It waits for you.”

Bannan settled the pack on his shoulder. “Full of mice, no doubt,” he said cheerfully.

“The mice are gone,” Wen stated. “The truth remains.”

He gave her a searching look. She gazed back, calm and silent; a pair of toad eyes appeared in her hair, doing the same.

Wainn chuckled. “You see.”

“No mice,” Bannan agreed, shaking his head in awe. He took off his boots and secured them to his back. “I hope you’ll visit.”

Wen answered, “I will not,” and walked into the darkness.

Dismayed, he stared after her. Had he been too casual and given offense? These two had taken a journey toward that other place, the one he saw beneath this one, and would never be ordinary again. They were royalty, here. “I meant no disrespect,” Bannan told Wainn.

“Wen would like to visit,” Wainn explained cheerfully, “but before she stopped talking, she made promises to keep her mother happy. Her mother was afraid she’d forget the way home, so Wen promised to stay on this side of the river.” He added, with charming honesty, “Her mother worried about men too, so Wen promised not to receive visitors alone. That’s why we swim where there’s fish. Wen keeps her word.”

To the letter, if not the intent. Somehow Bannan kept a straight face. “Admirable.”

“I can visit you,” Wainn assured him. “I’ll ask Peggs for a pie. She makes the very best. May I come tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Bannan put his hand on Wainn’s bare shoulder and grinned. “Yes. Any time,” he said and meant it.

Satisfied, Wainn hurried after Wen, leading to an eruption of giggles from the dark, paired splashes, and more laughter. Promises kept. Bannan chuckled and stepped into the river himself.

Unlike the fountain, or this morning, this water was summer-warm, silk against his skin. The footing was secure, mostly firm sand with a few flat stones. He wouldn’t have minded a quick dip, if it came to that, but the shallow ford was well maintained and even, and the river behaved as a river should. Within too few steps, he’d climbed out the other side.

His eyes found the village as he sat to dry his feet and put on his boots. The meeting must have ended; lights were being lit throughout Marrowdell, warm yellow beacons to welcome families home and keep them in comfort.

He rose and put the river behind him, facing the moonlit road.

“Jenn.” The soft call came with a light rap of knuckle to wood.

Her father. The meeting must be over.

Careful not to disturb the motionless lump of her sister, Jenn slipped out of bed. She snatched a shawl and hurried down the ladder, trying not to jump to any conclusions.

Which was easier before she saw Radd’s too-carefully composed face. “Oh, no,” she gasped. “What did they decide? Must he leave?”

He put a finger to his lips. “Don’t wake your—”

“I’m not asleep.” The night curtain between kitchen and parlor drew aside. Aunt Sybb stood there, her hair tidy in its cap and the rest of her wreathed in ivory lace to her chin. She held a candlestick in her hand and its flickering light caught the worry in her tired eyes. “Come. Tell us both.”

In the parlor, as Radd lit the table lamp, Aunt Sybb climbed back in bed to sit as straight as if the down pillows were iron rods. She invited Jenn to join her with a pat on the covers, then looked to her brother, who pulled up one of the dining chairs and turned it to sit astride. “I take it they plan to banish Wyll.”

Jenn tensed.

“Not quite,” Radd answered, giving her the faintest of smiles. She relaxed, ever-so-slightly. “Valid concerns were raised, without doubt. They’ve seen how important he is to you, Dearest Heart, but no one believes we’re important to him.”

What could she say to that?

“I explained Wyll’s been a good but shy neighbor. That the two of you grew up together and you’d been meeting him at Night’s Edge all these years with my permission. Don’t worry,” at something in her face, “I didn’t tell them about the wishing. Ancestors Dire and Disgraced. Kydd’s books.” Her father shook his head grimly. “I should have known they wouldn’t stay gone and forgotten. Not in Marrowdell. It’d be best, Dearest Heart, if the others don’t think he’s involved.”

Another secret. “Why, Poppa?” Jenn asked for her sister’s sake; she could guess. The books had been hidden for a reason.

“Remember what I told you,” interposed Aunt Sybb. “In most of Rhoth, especially in Avyo, to profess belief in wishings and magic is unseemly. Such belief harks back to a time when people sought to take from the Blessed Ancestors, instead of giving them our Beholding. Kydd and Wainn are not at fault, and Marrowdell is assuredly a place of—” she pressed her lips together, then went on, “—of novelties. But there may be some who would be unsettled by such news.”

“It’s no time to bring up old trouble,” Radd confirmed, unexpectedly mysterious. “As for your Wyll, many find him uncanny and worry what he might do. I did,” sternly, before she voiced her protest, “promise you’d be responsible for him in future.”

At her vigorous nod, he looked relieved.

“The poor child. You couldn’t take longer to tell the tale, could you?” Aunt Sybb chided. “What was the decision?”

“Wyll’s to have the abandoned farm.”

Joy filled Jenn until she could hardly breathe. What could be better? The farm was as close to Night’s Edge as could be. It needed work, but . . . her father wasn’t smiling. “It’s perfect,” she sputtered, anxious and unsure why. “I mean, it’s full of mice and cobwebs, and the well’s dry, but I can help him set it to rights. Sew curtains. Fill the larder shelves.” Domesticity flooded her with possibilities she’d never considered before. Not seriously. To avoid them, she went back to what mattered most. “It’s right beside our meadow. It’s—”

“Bannan Larmensu’s,” Aunt Sybb finished when Jenn paused for breath.

“He was offered the place first,” Radd agreed heavily. “That was the sticking point for some, and I admit there were hard words said after the vote. To ask Bannan to give it up? You saw his face, Sybbie. I’m not looking forward to the task, let me tell you.”

“A shame. A man of fine character and upbringing, if I’m any judge.” The two paused and sighed together. Jenn looked from one to the other, wishing they’d stop agonizing and help her plan Wyll’s farm. “Thank the Ancestors,” Aunt Sybb said at last, “he hasn’t seen or set foot on the property yet. That should soften the blow, don’t you think?”

“Oh.”

It was their turn to look at her. Jenn swallowed.

“What is it?”

She’d seen Bannan take the road, thought with regret he was leaving the village, been sure he’d be gone in the morning.

Scatterwit, she chided herself. Distraction was no excuse.

Bannan Larmensu had left the village, yes, but not Marrowdell.

He’d been heading for the Tinkers Road. There could be only one reason. He’d gone to the farm he believed was his.

“What if he’s spent the night?” Jenn asked miserably.

She supposed it wasn’t at all fair to hope for mice.

An easy walk took him to the first trees, the trees themselves the leading edge of a wilder forest. Kydd’s caution about not felling such for wood tingled along Bannan’s nerves. He could see the truth of it by moonlight.

They weren’t trees. They were tall and tree-shaped and might pass by day, but not now, not when they awoke to whatever light played on them in the other world. They leaned toward him with interest, as if noticing his attention. Branches creaked, twigs snapped; echoes of other, unheard sounds. The occasional leaf startled him as it drifted by his face or brushed his body before rising again. Others—he could swear they moved along the branches.

Bannan stayed to the middle of the road and watched for roots. Not that he had any reason to think treading on a root would offend them, but he planned to be a very good neighbor. He’d take no chances.

No avoidable ones.

So when he reached the point in the road where trees to either side blocked out the moon, he deliberately slowed. The farm clearing should be to his right, past the first bend. By daylight, this was probably a delightful passage, shaded and level. Now, in the gloom, he wouldn’t trust what he couldn’t see.

Bannan tried looking beyond. The road had been silver and fluid earlier. To his relief, it retained a faint glow, sufficient to show the way. He walked a little faster.

The glow was stronger on the right, so he stayed to that side. No. Not stronger, he realized after a few steps. Some blight dulled it along the other side, something oozing from the wild forest.

More than once, following a skirmish, he’d seen where a blood-laden stream met another, how its darkness spread before being mercifully washed clear. This was the same. In that other Marrowdell, some darkness bled into the silver road.

Zehr Emms had been right. Thanks to the late-day storm, the night air was warm and sticky. Sweat soaked Bannan’s skin, yet a shiver worked icy fingers up his spine. A bit late to regret his impetuous rush to the farm, wasn’t it? He dared not stop here, but as he walked, his footsteps seemed to cover less distance. Or did the road grow longer?

Where, he thought ruefully, was Jenn Nalynn when he needed her?

Safely in Marrowdell, under a roof, within walls, surrounded by light and family. The life he would make, Bannan vowed, forcing his legs to move. He’d spent more nights on the ground than in his bed at the Larmensu estate, more years living among the guard, where luxury was a day’s ease without rain or an Ansnan patrol nearby, tossing ’stones and trading stories. He’d dreamed of simple comforts, not the estate. Longed for family, not a throng of servants or strangers. Why the Northward Road? Why the settler’s bind? He wanted a life of peace, where the work of his hands mattered to those he loved.

Would such lowly ambition dismay his loving sister? Who, though no stranger herself to rude camps or deadly campaigns, would live happily ever after in her baron’s town mansion, taking summers at the lodge in the hills?

No. Lila’d be glad for him, should he put down roots here and grow into a hairy old farmer surrounded by noisy brats. Given any encouragement, she’d visit like Jenn’s lady aunt from Avyo. Wouldn’t that cause a stir in Marrowdell, the arrival of a Vorkoun baroness and her entourage? Though doubtless Lila would prefer to dress rough and sneak horses from the stable, considering herself sufficient guard for her husband’s royal person and his sons.

A wonder Scourge hadn’t picked his fiery sister.

The formless dread grew worse. He must be nearing the source of the stain.

Bannan clung to thoughts of Lila, of bright days and hope, doing his utmost not to look left. Harder by the footstep to avert his gaze. Instinct and training screamed at him to watch for ambush, to hold a nonexistent weapon, to be ready to fight.

Not this. This wasn’t aware, not of him, not yet. To pay it attention, Bannan feared to his core, would draw what he couldn’t survive.

The glow disappeared.

He halted, afraid to take another step. He’d packed candles. Dare he light one? The night pressed against his face, tried to stifle his breath, muffled his hearing. “Been in worse spots,” he whispered, desperate for a voice.

A breeze chilled his ear. “I don’t think so.”

Bannan froze, sure the deep uncanny sound hadn’t come from a mouth.

The breeze lifted hairs across the back of his neck, then found his other ear. “Though there was the time you let the Ansnans pin us in that swamp. Between the leeches and the stench—”

It couldn’t be . . . “Scourge?”

A laugh in his ear.

Bannan stretched out his hand, sagging with relief when he touched hot, sweat-damp hide. He flattened his palm against it. “Keep Us Close,” he exclaimed, low and fervent. “Wonderful idiot beast,” with each word, he gave an affectionate slap. “Heart’s Blood, but I’m glad to see you.” Not that he could. See. But hear? “How can you talk?”