A Turn of Light (49 page)

He could drown in the endless purple of her eyes, drown and be glad beyond any dream.

The breeze found his ear. “Fool,” it warned, this time with pity.

“What dragon?” Jenn asked unsteadily. Her face was pale, though spots of rose red graced the high bones of each cheek and her lips—

Bannan refused to look at her lips. Bad enough his hands were loath to leave her. His fingers tingled still from the silk of her hair and, oh, how his body burned. Heart’s Blood, when had such a simple touch affected him so? Never, was the truth.

Never again, it might be, too. He collected himself by turning away from her, gathering up the scraper and glove, taking another, slower breath.

There’d been such terrible longing in her face.

Just not for him.

“Your dragon,” he told her as he turned back, schooling his tone to a cool and courteous interest—the discipline of the marches, that was, where revealing weakness gave weapon to the enemy. Tir would be impressed. “Wyll.”

“Wyll’s not—” Jenn’s eyes widened. “Wisp?” Her surprise was genuine. “Why would you think that?”

“You do know what a dragon is.”

“I know they aren’t real,” she said dismissively. “They’re in stories.”

“Like wishings?” She flinched and he wanted the words unsaid, but it was too late.

“He’s not a dragon now.” She held out her hand for the scraper and resumed grooming Scourge’s shoulder, leaving Bannan no choice but to don the prickly rope glove and join her. As hair flew, he stole sidelong looks, seeing nothing more informative than the curve of a cheek whose softness he remembered all too well.

How was it fair, losing her to a creature of magic?

When Jenn Nalynn spoke again, her voice was thoughtful and low. “Wisp is what I called him, before. He didn’t want to be seen. He wouldn’t show himself, though sometimes I’d catch a glimpse in a shadow.” She hesitated. “I think that’s why he wouldn’t let me stay till sunset.”

“When he couldn’t hide.” At her questioning glance, Bannan admitted, “I know, Jenn. About Marrowdell and sunset.”

Her nose wrinkled. “What about them?”

Her puzzlement was real; what did it mean? “I saw for myself, the night I came to the farm. I saw a different Marrowdell.” Last night, he’d planned to show Tir, to see if sunset made a difference to his perceptions; being busy with lamps and unloading the wagon, they’d missed the fleeting moment.

Her small bare foot stamped the earth. “There’s only this.”

His heart sank. “To my eyes there’s more,” Bannan insisted. Was it only to his? “Come,” he urged, suddenly desperate. “I’ll show you.”

She followed him willingly enough to the row of trunks against the barn wall. “What do you see?” he said, laying a hand on one.

Jenn gazed at it, then glanced at him. “A trunk. Yours?”

“No. I mean, what’s it made of? Maybe if you look from here.” He took her elbow and pulled her to the side where shadows dappled the wood. “Here. See? Like your glimpses of Wisp.”

“I see it’s made of wood.” A tiny crease formed between her brows. “Isn’t it?”

What were the rules here, that made dragons different from trunks? “It’s stone,” Bannan heard himself say, too eagerly. “Finely polished. Perfectly fitted.” Ancestors Witness, he was making things worse. How could she believe him, against the evidence of her own eyes?

Jenn squeezed her eyelids tightly closed, her face scrunched with effort, then opened them again with a flash of intense blue. “Still wood.” She sighed. “I wish I could see what you do, Bannan. It must be wonderful.”

The truth. He found himself speechless.

As she regarded him, a dimple appeared, but all she said was, “Who would own a stone trunk?”

Jenn’s belief rushed to his head like wine; he wanted to shout and grab her in his arms. Instead, he told her, “These were in the storeroom. There are tracks, from wagons, on the floor. Almost a year old.”

“Mistress Sand,” she replied promptly. “Master Riverstone.”

Bannan blinked. “Who are—”

“Itchy!” The impatient breeze found his other ear. “ITCHY!”

“We’re coming,” Jenn promised, shaking her head. “Was he this demanding before he could talk?”

“Always,” Bannan said with feeling.

“Always,” the breeze echoed.

There was nothing to do but go back to grooming the not-horse, who settled under their ministrations with a smug flick of his tail.

The truthseer was glad of the respite. Sand and Riverstone? What sort of names were those? Made up ones, like Captain Ash, was his guess. Names used by people unwilling to reveal their own. He applied the glove to Scourge’s hind leg with care—the mane wasn’t the only touchy spot—and reminded himself this was Marrowdell, not the marches, and quaint local names shouldn’t come as a surprise. Besides, she was Wyll’s to protect, not his.

So now he lied to himself?

“The people you mentioned,” Bannan ventured, keeping his tone easy. “Who are they?”

“Tinkers.” The word sounded happy; these must be friends and he, wrong. “If the trunks are theirs, I don’t understand why they’d leave them here. We’ve room in the mill; they know we’d be glad to help.” Her tiny frown returned.

“I’ll put them back in the storeroom,” he said quickly.

Jenn gave him another sidelong look, this with a small smile. “I shouldn’t bother. It’s your barn. And they’ll be here soon, anyway. For the harvest,” she explained, then nodded. “I’ll ask Mistress Sand about the trunks and why they look like wood, except to you.”

Scourge turned his head to stare.

If he’d needed proof of her sheltered life . . . “Please don’t.” For a wonder, he sounded calm.

“Why?”

Bannan leaned a shoulder against Scourge, a creature doubtless aware of secrets and their cost, and said dryly, “My dear lady, not everyone believes what I say I see.”

“You’re a truthseer.”

“Not everyone believes in the truth either.” He was sorry to upset her, but he’d be sorrier still if Jenn’s tinker friends were the type to fear those of uncanny ability, a lesson he’d learned long before becoming “Captain Ash.”“Please let me judge for myself whom to tell, or not. Trust I’ve some experience in the matter.”

Jenn shook her head, but not, he was relieved, in denial. “Once you’ve met Mistress Sand, you’ll change your mind. She’s a friend. And very wise. You’ll like her.”

Unshakable as Tir’s, her loyalty. Was it another of her potent feelings? Bannan retreated behind courtesy. “I look forward to making her acquaintance,” he said stiffly. Was he like Wyll, unable to say no to anything Jenn Nalynn wanted of him? Did she have that power? “I reserve the right to keep what I see to myself.”

“Of course. That’s your decision,” she assured him, then gave him a shy look. “Though I’d be glad—very glad and grateful—if you’d tell me more of what you see that I can’t.”

His defenses crumbled. What should he say? What could he? “I see the dragon Wyll once was, and the silver of the road. I see—” you, Bannan thought, and stopped before revealing how she looked to his deeper sight, how radiance filled her slender form as though she were light itself beneath her skin. “Yesterday, as the sun’s last rays passed over the valley,” he said instead, “I saw the land itself as something new, something strange and beautiful at the same time. The light turned into—colors—I’ve no names for the colors,” he admitted with frustrated joy.

“I wish I had your eyes.” Jenn closed hers and leaned her forehead against Scourge. “This Marrowdell is all I have,” she said with wrenching hopelessness. “All I’ll ever have. I know what’s here and it’s—it’s not what I need.”

Wyll being here, Bannan told himself, heart thudding in his chest, Wyll being here. The dragon wasn’t who or what Jenn Nalynn wanted either.

Her hand moved fitfully over brown hide. Scourge laid back an ear, but didn’t object. “I was going to see the world, Bannan Larmensu of Vorkoun.” She turned her face to watch her finger as she drew a shape in the hair with its tip. “I had a map. Of Essa and Thornloe. Of the Sweet Sea and Eldad.” She reached further and drew more. “Mellynne.”

No farm maid, Jenn Nalynn, content with her life. For the first time he realized the cruelty of her curse. He must be patient to win such a troubled heart, that Bannan saw clearly, and regretted his earlier impulse. Patient and understanding. Perhaps something more. “Lila’s husband went to Mellynne, once,” he offered. “All the way to Channen.”

“The capital?” Jenn looked up, interest gleaming in her eyes. “What was it like?”

“He—” didn’t say, wasn’t the truth. The truth was, Bannan hadn’t asked. They’d had little in common, other than Lila’s fierce love. He’d been a soldier; Emon Westietas heir to a barony and destined, upon his father’s upcoming retirement, to represent Vorkoun in Avyo’s House of Keys. While Bannan patrolled the marches, Westietas had studied, appeared at public functions by the baron’s side, and taught his pet crows clever tricks. He’d ridden not horses, but three-wheeled mechanicals; the rage among the idle rich and the bane of sheep on quiet country lanes. To hear Lila tell it, she’d been impressed by Emon’s addled attempt to set a speed record by coasting down a local mountain, though he’d broken an arm and leg.

Bannan knew better. She’d found love and peace with the otherwise dreadfully earnest Westietas, who adored her and their sons, Semyn and Werfol, and spent what time his duties in the House left him at home. He was ashamed, now, to remember on his leaves doing his utmost to entice his sister away, rather than share her with his nephews or brother-in-law.

“Channen?” Jenn prodded.

“Yes.” He thought quickly of the Westietas’ home. “Channen nourishes the greatest artisans of Mellynne. Emon brought back astonishing works. A fountain of flame.” The favorite of his nephews. “A painting that sings like a bird if you whistle at it.” Lila’d moved that into a rarely used room. Bannan smiled to himself.

What else? Though she endured jewelry only when necessary, his sister was never without the Mellynne necklace Emon had given her. She’d bring the unusual pendant to her ear when she thought no one watched and smile at what it whispered.

That wouldn’t impress Jenn Nalynn.

But he guessed what might. “Best of all,” Bannan concluded, “a globe—a map—made from semiprecious stones collected from each domain.” He watched her closely. “You can touch the world.”

Her lips formed a perfect “O” of delight.

Bannan, torn between kissing those lips and Ancestors take the consequences, or riding to Vorkoun to fetch the globe even if he had to bribe guards, sneak through the gardens, and steal it—however likely that was to find him jailed or worse—grinned like a fool. Wait. He could send Tir to do it. Better still, he’d write Lila and beg for the globe, or one like it. He’d send the letter with Horst, when he left with the Lady Mahavar—

Jenn’s mouth snapped shut and her eyes clouded. “I should go.” She made another futile attempt to brush hair from her shirtwaist then gave up. “I’ll leave you to finish.”

“‘Finish?’”

“Itchy,” the breeze hinted.

“Of course.” Bannan sketched a little bow and added with no shame at all, “I’m sure Tir’s desperate for your help by now—to unpack the kitchen.”

“Oh.” She’d thought to go home, he could tell. Being good-hearted, now she wouldn’t.

Good-hearted, but not so unaware as he’d hoped. Jenn raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have Wyll clean my clothes, then.”

He refused to be jealous. “If he can,” Bannan challenged cheerfully, “I’ll ask him the same favor.”

A dimple, surely that was a dimple.

Then she was gone.

Scourge snorted.

Bannan listened to her quick little footsteps as she left the barn, then shook his head as he applied the scraper to Scourge’s hide. “You don’t have to say it.”

“Then I won’t.” The breeze was sly. “A little higher. Back a bit. Not there. There!”

He pretended offense. “However did I manage all these years without your advice?”

“Barely. Now you’ll do better.”

Better he did, enough that Scourge soon fell silent, other than his deep burbling purr. His ears slowly drooped and his lower lips swung loose, until he looked more like a horse—a very content one—than usual. Bannan took his time with the scraper and glove, cooling his own blood in the pleasant monotony of grooming. A while since he’d done a thorough job, he thought with some guilt.

He took the finishing brush and swept it over Scourge with long, firm strokes, bringing up a shine. Then, because it had been a while, he exchanged the large brush for the silly little one at the bottom of his kit. It had been Lila’s favorite as a child, festooned with white daisies. He’d borrowed it to use on Scourge. She’d let him keep it, after a brief but memorable skirmish that covered them both in mud—she’d won—and saw them stand at dripping attention in the kitchen to await parental justice—though she’d coaxed Cook into giving them fresh tarts while they waited, so it had been, overall, a most worthwhile afternoon.

Ancestors Witness, he missed her.

Bannan went to Scourge’s head and held the soft little brush near one nostril until it twitched with interest. He smiled and began to gently brush the long muzzle. The flat cheeks were next, then the velvet around the half-closed eyes, Scourge cooperatively lowering his head. The finale, the spot sure to send the not-horse into a stupor, was underneath, between the cheeks. He reached.