A Turn of Light (34 page)

“I could always talk,” Scourge said testily. “Just not so you could hear me.”

“Now you can.” They might be standing in the dark beside some dreadful unseen blight, but Bannan couldn’t help grinning. “Ancestors Blessed. This is a marvel!”

“This is Marrowdell. The edge between worlds.” Said with the finality of sufficient explanation. “Take hold and walk with me. Unless,” a surprisingly familiar dark humor, “you prefer to wait and see what might rise.”

“No, thank you.” Bannan ran his hand up to Scourge’s back, then forward till his fingers tangled in that familiar coarse mane. He closed his eyes in utter trust.

Until the great animal turned and began to head in the wrong direction. Bannan’s eyes shot open. “The farm’s the other way,” he protested.

“Who’s the idiot beast?”

Rather than argue and lose, Bannan quieted and walked where Scourge led, unable to stop smiling. This would solve the old mysteries, he realized eagerly. What kind of creature was the not-horse? Why had he come to live with the Larmensu? Why allow himself to be ridden by men?

The unsettling question of why Scourge showed such relish for blood he might leave for daylight.

Before having a voice, Scourge had expressed an abundance of opinion. He’d believed the not-horse had his own particular wisdom, though there was one who might have a problem with a Scourge who literally spoke his mind. Bannan chuckled. “I can’t wait to see Tir’s face.”

“You should have seen yours.” The breeze in his ear conveyed great satisfaction.

Reassuring, that Scourge could somehow see in the strange darkness. Bannan readied another question, only to be told, “We’re about to pass the opening. Not a sound.”

The opening to what? If to the source of the stain affecting the road, Bannan was all too glad to be as inconspicuous as possible. He tightened his grip on Scourge’s mane and stared ahead, hoping for moonlight, finding only the smothering dark. He listened to his own footsteps, heard the hammer of his heart in his chest, wished them both silent.

Scourge made no sound at all. If not for the fistful of coarse hair in his hand, the heat and living smell of the large body beside him, he’d have thought himself totally alone.

Something else tried for his attention. Bannan’s head turned.

Turned, and couldn’t turn away. Worse, now the something pulled at him! Bannan stumbled and caught himself against Scourge’s side.

“Stay with me, truthseer,” a faint breath warned. “Don’t be drawn.”

Good advice, he was sure. Advice he’d take to heart. What was this place? As Scourge led him, step by step, Bannan planned what he’d say to the kind villagers of Marrowdell about their road and their farm. If he lived the night.

Another step.

One more, and moonlight flooded the road.

Bannan gasped. He couldn’t help looking over his shoulder.

Instead of the terrible darkness, the road stretched behind, brushed with soft light and tree shadow. It didn’t simply bend, as he’d thought, but rather sent a fork steeply up the tree-cloaked hill. Another road, one unseen from the village.

One they hadn’t mentioned. That had been the source.

Bannan didn’t dare look deeper. Not so close, not at night. “What,” he asked unsteadily, “was that?”

Scourge snorted and took a quick sidestep to pull free of his unresisting hand.

So now he played horse?

Accepting, for the moment, Bannan followed, lured by the swath of brighter light through a break in the trees ahead. It had to be the farm. His farm. His steps quickened as Scourge trotted ahead, tail flagged.

A lane welcomed him into as neat a yard as he’d ever seen. By moonlight, the buildings looked almost new. A generous barn with a loft. A trim little house with a porch. Over there, what might be a garden. A tree. Two more. By their shape, those could be apple, he thought. He hoped. Another tree, much taller, that should shade the home from summer’s heat. If it was a tree. He’d respect it, and have the shade.

Bannan took it all in, breathing as hard as if he’d been running. A shoulder-high hedge ringed the yard, separating it from the grain fields. Common fields, he’d been told; he’d have a share if he worked the harvest. Surely, the fields would be safe then.

Inside the yard, grass had grown hip-high and thick. It would have to be cut, or grazed. Both, if he could trade for a cow.

From this vantage, he saw the farm lay nestled between two of the long hills. The Bone Hills. A poor name for such lovely landmarks. Whatever the stone, the hills gleamed smooth and blue under the moon’s touch, like the nameless peaks in Ansnor that stayed snow-capped year long. They could be seen from Vorkoun. He remembered how much he’d longed to climb one as a boy, to touch the snow and ice for himself, to see the world from such a height.

He supposed a Rhothan might make that climb, one day. Unless the railroad proved too thin a glue for peace.

Didn’t matter here. Didn’t matter to him. Bannan shook off the past as he headed for the house. Spotting Scourge by the hedge, head high and staring west, he changed direction.

The bright moonlight lost the battle to pull more than shape from the not-horse. His eyes reflected cold white disks when he dipped his head to acknowledge Bannan’s presence, like the toads’.

Not a comparison Scourge would appreciate.

The creature wasn’t staring over the hedge, he stared through a gateless gap in its growth. Bannan peered past him. A narrow, well-used path ran alongside the tall grain, disappearing in the shadows. “Where does it go?”

“To Night’s Edge.”

A name, he thought, delighted. And a curious one. “What’s that?”

For a long moment, he didn’t think Scourge would answer. Then, distant and faint, “The way home.” With that, the not-horse turned away, his head low. “You should introduce yourself.” Having thus startled Bannan, who could see no one else, Scourge ambled like a tired old workhorse toward the barn.

Bannan glanced back at the path. “So it was truly good-bye, my friend, when you left me on the Northward Road.” If he hadn’t followed? The truthseer shrugged. What was done was well done, as far as he was concerned. They were together, still. As for explanations, he knew better than to press Scourge now.

Besides, there was the matter of an introduction.

Going to the center of the empty farmyard, he gave a short self-conscious bow. “My name is Bannan Larmensu. I hope to live here.”

No answer. Of course there was no answer. He was alone. Scourge had distracted him from further prying, that was all.

Meaning he’d lied.

Or had he?

Bannan found himself unsure of the truth for the first time in his life. It must, he decided, be how Scourge “talked,” using the air itself. A fine state of affairs.

The answer not appearing before him, which would have been convenient, Bannan went to the little house, guessing that would be as good a start as any.

And there he met, if not someone, then something.

Squatting on the porch, blocking the door, was the largest toad he’d seen yet. And the fattest. Its pale belly expanded pillow-like beyond its legs, until he wondered if it truly sat or somehow balanced on a very full stomach.

To open the door, he’d have to move the toad. Bannan put down his pack, then bowed with all the grace he possessed, brushing fingertips across dew-damp ground. As he rose, he lifted his hands and circled his heart. “My name is Bannan Marerrym Larmensu, late of Vorkoun.”

The toad’s eyes sank into its head then popped out again, but it didn’t budge.

“I’ve come with the consent of the villagers of Marrowdell. Like them, I have taken the settler’s bind and wish to make my home here.” He infused the words with all the formal pomposity he could. “I ask your permission to enter.”

Moonlight glittered on an astonishing array of needle-like teeth as the toad yawned.

What else could it want to know? Bannan smiled to himself. “Wen sent me,” he assured it, straight-faced.

With a satisfied grunt, the toad hopped to one side.

“My thanks, sentinel,” the truthseer said sincerely. And to Wen, he thought.

Taking a candle from his pack, he lit it from his striker, then put his hand to the door latch. Though tempted to pause, he lifted it and pulled the door wide.

Tried to pull it wide. The door moved about a third of the way on creaking hinges then stuck fast. Bannan lifted the candle and slipped through the opening, mindful of his feet.

“Well, well.” After all the strange, terrifying, and wondrous things he’d encountered today, nothing could have put him more at ease than the normal chaos of a long-abandoned cabin. He brushed a shelf clear for the candle, then took stock.

The place must have been den and playground for several generations of wildlife—including, from claw marks on one wall, at least one bear. Nothing scurried from his feet or light. Courtesy of friend toad, Bannan guessed.

And, somehow, Wen Treff.

He found a peg for his pack, took off his shirt, and set to work. Nothing fancy, this first night. He’d be satisfied with space for his bedroll. Bannan tied some straw from what remained of the bed to a poker for a makeshift broom, only to put that aside after his first sweep raised a choking cloud of dust. Instead, he used his boots to nudge debris out of the way until he’d cleared a small swathe in the middle of the room.

In the process, he discovered a stovepipe and stone hearth, but no stove. The left-hand wall boasted a fireplace with a stone bread oven to the side, but when he tried to look up the chimney, he found it blocked.

Too hot for a fire anyway.

He used his shoulder to force the rear door open as far as it would go, about a handsbreadth. A small breeze ventured in, cooling the sweat from his skin. There were windows. The two at the front of the house were shuttered fast. The one at the back looked to be the main thoroughfare for whatever had lived here, and would, he thought cheerfully, need a new frame. And glass panes. He should be able to order those.

The neglected room called to him like no place ever had. Reckless and driven, Bannan lit the rest of his candles. There was a table, missing a leg. He moved it to the fireplace and propped it against the bread oven to use for sorting. Not all was ruined. He uncovered treasures. Three forks. A rusty pot. A bucket with no handle.

Which led him to think about water and the well. “Daylight,” he promised, carefully emptying an old nest from the bucket before setting it by his new pot.

The ladder to the loft was missing most of its rungs. He jumped and caught hold of the opening, then pulled himself up and through, hanging by his elbows.

A fine bedroom, Bannan thought with glee. He could stand easily under the peak. Windows at both ends let in moonlight and air. They’d been letting in birds as well, judging from the nests, and he hoped the toad had been thorough with the mice. Stars showed through gaps in the roof. A few shingles. Tir could help with that. Testing the floor boards he’d leave till morning.

At the thought of morning, Bannan yawned so fiercely his jaw cracked. He let himself drop back down. Tomorrow, he’d clean the place till it shone. Turn the damaged bed frame to kindling. Clear the chimney. Those first. He had tomorrow.

He had the rest of his life.

He pulled out his bedroll and laid it on the cleared portion of floor, then blew out the candles. Removing boots and belt, he lay down, folding his arms across his chest.

Moonlight slipped through the open doors. Softer now and lower. Peaceful, with its job done. A pale moth, large as his hand, followed a moonbeam through the ruined window to flutter here and there near the ceiling, before coming to hover close to his face. Moth? Each wingbeat sent a faint aroma of spice. Each leg bore a golden boot, and a tiny satchel locked with a jewel hung from its body. It flew off again, out the window, on whatever tasks a moth undertook here.

Here, Bannan thought. Marrowdell.

He smiled as he closed his eyes.

Home.

After opening the window, Jenn eased back into bed; Peggs rolled over but didn’t wake.

Why hadn’t she waited?

She pressed her warm cheek against the pillow, wide awake though so tired her bones hurt. The evening should be cool, not midsummer hot; what little air slipped through the window hardly helped.

Her churning thoughts didn’t, either. This was all her fault. Wyll’s poor body. The arguing among the villagers. Their father’s worry. Peggs’ fright. The rush to be married. If only she’d waited a day to do the wishing . . .

If only she’d met Bannan first . . .

Would she have wished at all?

A treacherous, unworthy warmth filled her. But wasn’t Bannan noble? And brave. Strong. Handsome, too, no denying it. Those gorgeous eyes, with their apple butter glow, could melt a heart at ten paces. He smiled well and often, and laughed. She quite liked his laugh and the way he spoke. She quite liked everything about him, including how he made her feel.

If she’d waited . . . it wouldn’t have changed a thing, Jenn told herself, and tried to believe it. Bannan might never have come to Marrowdell, had he not rushed to Wyll’s rescue, and Wyll wouldn’t have needed rescue—would he?—had she waited.