A Turn of Light (39 page)

That and more. Bannan looked around the now clean, empty room, struck for the first time by the significance of what he’d packed. The wagon’s contents would help him survive. They’d make this a home. Of course, there’d be things he’d missed; such could be purchased or borrowed, he was sure. He chuckled. Doubtless he’d packed what he wouldn’t need or want. The trader had shaken his head more than once. No matter. He had the necessities, coming up the road with his truest friend.

Bannan washed his face and neck, feeling stubble. No time to shave, though already it was a habit. He ran wet fingers through his hair instead, pulled on a shirt, and headed out the door.

Small blue birds chased crimson butterflies above the grass. The leaves on the trees fluttered silver and green. White flowers with golden hearts turned their faces to the sun. What a welcome! Bannan took a long deep breath and tried to settle his nerves, but joy welled up in him until he felt himself grinning like a fool. Tir would tease him, no doubt of that. A farm was work and nothing but, he’d grumble. All the while, understanding . . .

A breeze found his ear. “Beware.”

Scourge. Grin fading, Bannan looked for the not-horse and spotted a shadow beneath the trees, darker than the rest. His heart began to pound. “Why? Who comes?”

“The dragon.”

It should have been an occasion. That it wasn’t, that they left the village in silence, with anyone who might have watched and waved seemingly busy with other concerns . . . Jenn hoped desperately that didn’t make it a mistake.

Wyll was behaving, as Tir called it. Though a glint of feral silver had shone in his eyes when Radd bluntly told him he must ride in the cart, he’d let Davi lift him and found a way to sit, his crippled side supported on the Ropps’ low table, braced with his good leg and arm between cheese and buckets. He faced forward, as if as eager to be done with the village as the village to be done with him.

Jenn sat with the toad, facing back. Tir was wrong. The villagers needed time to get to know Wyll, that was all. If Bannan hadn’t gone off in such a hurry, this would be an occasion and Peggs wouldn’t be miserable. The cart jolted across the ford and she stretched to dip her toes in the water. The gentle current swept clear the silt kicked up by Battle and Brawl and kissed her feet.

What else did the river touch, after escaping Marrowdell? The map had showed it winding south, between hills. Endshere and Weken. People and boots. Horse lips. Bridges. Boat bottoms. Fish nets and laundry.

Someone else’s toes. Maybe someone nice or fun or full of stories. Someone different.

Someone she’d never meet.

The team stepped on shore; the cart tipped then leveled.

“So many thoughts,” a tickle against her ear. “Are any of our meadow, Dearest Heart?”

Davi and Tir walked up front with the horses, her father with them. Jenn didn’t turn to look at Wyll. “Night’s Edge isn’t the same,” she said quietly. “It changed with you.”

A damselfly pursued them, then darted back to the river and reeds.

The breeze toyed with her hair. “Did it? How did it? Did it really?” As if she played a game. “Are there more thistles?”

Wyll shouldn’t be so glib, she thought, heartsick to remember the dead flowers and ash. “It died,” she told him.

The breeze softened to a touch on her cheek. “Surely not, Dearest Heart.”

“You’ll see,” she said, and refused to say more.

The big cart wheels shortened the road to a series of jolts and bumps. Before Jenn was ready, they were in the shade of the old trees. The villagers stayed out of their forest; there was no reason to enter. Nothing worth hunting lived there. Nothing grew beneath but clusters of red and yellow mushrooms, glossy and poisonous. The air itself was thin and reluctant to share. Having her meadow and Wisp, Jenn had spared the forest no attention at all.

Riding backward on the cart made the familiar . . . different. The old trees were graceful and tall, bowed at their tips as if too close to the sky or curious what went on below. And there . . .

The Tinkers Road bent to avoid the rise of the Spine, the cart followed, and Jenn found herself staring into the narrow, shadowed path that led up and away from the valley.

She’d always walked or run past it, to Night’s Edge or going home. No one she knew had taken it, since it led deep into the old forest. Oh, Roche boasted he’d explored to the top, but with nothing to hunt, she doubted he’d gone past the first switch.

Jenn’s eyes traced its winding course upward to where the forest smothered most of the creamy white of the Spine, but not all. The three tallest mounds were exposed to their base, surrounded by nothing taller than meadow. Meadow that flowed between and beyond Marrowdell.

Meadow every bit as lovely as Night’s Edge. Lovelier. The longer she looked, the more flowers she saw, their colors richer and deeper as if better loved by the sun.

What else would she see, if she stood there? Was the Spine higher than the hills beyond?

Could she see to Endshere?

Farther?

Jenn leaned forward on her palms, swaying with the cart’s movement. The narrow path, shadowed and dim, held such potent promise her breath caught in her throat and it was all she could do not to jump down and answer. Her father would surely call her back. She had adult responsibilities.

But, oh, how she longed to go.

“No. No. No!!!” The breeze tossed dust in her way, tossed leaves and petals, tossed grit and small stones until a whirlwind followed the cart and swept into her face.

She cried out, shielding her eyes.

“Don’t look there! Don’t notice! You must not!”

The cart lurched to a rocking halt. The whirlwind ended. Jenn dropped her arm and spat dirt from her mouth as she twisted to glare at Wyll. Her “Why?” died in her throat as she met eyes of molten silver.

“Speak no more of it.”

There was an “or else.” Jenn felt it, believed it. A shiver traced a path down her arms, trembling her fingertips. He’d never used such a tone with her before. She stared at this shape that was her oldest, dearest friend, who would be her husband, and refused to be afraid. “Yes, we will,” she said firmly. “I want to—”

“Jenn!” Her father hurried around the back of the cart, Tir close behind, “What happened?”

Bedraggled hair hung over her shoulders, full of shredded leaves. She wiped grit from her face and shook off her skirt. “Bit of dust.”

Both men looked at Wyll, who gazed back with eyes of innocent brown.

“I’ll walk from here,” Jenn added, hopping down.

It felt a momentous thing, to turn her back on the path. She could still see it, if she closed her eyes, climbing the steep slope, twisting up and up to the meadow above.

A contrite little breeze tried to pluck leaves from her hair. In no forgiving mood, Jenn slapped it away and went with her father and Tir, to walk the rest of the way beside the horses.

A dragon. No, Bannan corrected himself, the dragon. The word conjured memories of children’s stories and naughty limericks. Dragons were ancient. Dragons were deadly. Above all, dragons were myth.

Weren’t they?

In Marrowdell, he thought wryly, perhaps not.

In Marrowdell, perhaps they appeared as crippled men and traveled in wagons.

The slow, steady clop of hooves, the jingle of harness rings, said the wagon was close. Bannan sat on his slanted porch and rested his chin in his hands, eyes on the gap in the trees, to wait.

Depictions of dragons scarcely agreed. Immense or small? Scaled or feathered? Did they fly or crawl? Four fingers or five or none? The Dragon’s Nose Pub in Vorkoun boasted a carved snout protruding above the door, complete with horns, wattle, and a snaggle-toothed grin.

The glimpses he’d had of Wyll were nothing so sure. Ancient, in some way. He nodded to himself. Deadly. Without doubt. He supposed the rest didn’t matter, now that the dragon wore a man’s shape.

Would he stay in it?

There was a question worth asking.

Big Davi appeared in the gap and waved a greeting. Radd and Tir were with him. Bannan stood eagerly as the big draft horses followed, heads bobbing in unison, tawny manes catching the sun.

But instead of his wagon, they pulled a simple cart, loaded with a few baskets and Wyll.

Because his wagon was designed for an ox, Bannan assured himself. Because they’d brought only what he needed first. Because . . .

What he feared wouldn’t be true. Not till he heard it.

Swallowing what was too bitter for disappointment, Bannan went to greet them.

“Fair morning—” he stopped, startled when Jenn peeked at him from behind her father, eyes haunted in a filthy face. She looked as though she’d fallen from the cart and been dragged through shrubs. “If you wish to freshen up,” he went on, trying not to stare, “there’s hot water and soap inside.”

The faintest shake of her head. Her eyes were more than haunted. They were purple with regret and he sank into their depths, losing all sense of what he’d asked.

“You’ve water?” Radd asked, sharp enough to shake him free.

Proudly, Bannan stepped to one side and held an open hand toward his well, full to the brim and surrounded by clean stone. There was no missing it, especially since he’d trampled the grass on this side.

Radd and Davi exchanged unhappy looks. They’d hoped he’d failed on his own, Bannan realized, heart sinking further. He glanced at Tir, who returned a resigned shrug and stuck his thumbs through his belt.

The signal for “battle ready.”

If only battle could win this day.

The cart shook as Wyll rolled off, contorting his body into a stand with a pained grunt. He made his way, each lurch-step across the thick grass and uneven ground almost, but never quite, a disaster, until he reached Bannan. “Greetings, truthseer.”

The villagers looked as miserable as he felt. “Tell me,” Bannan said roughly. “Why have you come?”

The dragon smiled.

“To evict you. And exile me.”

The homely washline upset Jenn most. She tried not to look at it. Less than a day, and Bannan had settled tighter than a broody toad in a burrow. It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that Wyll smiled, either. She’d have to speak to him about hurt feelings.

Bannan, today dressed like any villager in homespun pants and shirt, the unlaced throat showing skin still damp from washing and sleeves rolled up, wore what Aunt Sybb would call a “proper face.” Nothing showed but calm, polite interest, as if they discussed nothing more dreadful than the care of hooves or how best to cool bread.

But this was dreadful, and not fair, and she—she wasn’t going to stand here and let all their futures grow from such a poisoned start. “What Wyll means,” Jenn stated in her best no-nonsense voice, “is that he hopes you have room for him. Here.”

“‘Room?’” Bannan echoed, his proper face cracked by astonishment. “With me?”

Everyone looked astonished. An aster near her feet spun on its stem until its head popped off; she ignored it. She was right. This was better. “Yes. Until—” Jenn thought furiously, aware the others were staring at her as if she’d turned purple, “—until he builds a new home. Our home,” she finished in triumph. “There.” She pointed past the overgrown garden, over the hedge and grain, to Night’s Edge.