A Turn of Light (51 page)

Jenn blinked. “Now?”

Tir shot her an enigmatic look. “A tipple before bed,” he said grudgingly. “Or however many it takes,” a grimmer afterthought. He slipped the bottle into his bedroll, then went back to the stove.

Jenn gazed after him as she picked the sock from the floor and folded it. Tir Half-face and Aunt Sybb couldn’t be more different, but something about him, his tired face, even the bottle, brought her aunt to mind. “You think the wine will help you sleep,” she surmised, unhappy.

His back was to her, but she saw him tense.

“You hope it will stop the dreams.”

He turned with a sharp arrested movement that made her flinch, his eyes like ice. “How could you— What do you know of my dreams?”

She’d been right. She hadn’t wanted to be. “It’s what Marrowdell does,” Jenn told him. “To some people.” The best people. People who wanted to stay, and should, but couldn’t, making everyone else sad.

“What do you mean, ‘some people?’”

“Most—we don’t dream, not like you do. People who dream—they have to leave,” she said, knowing he wanted the truth and not a kindly meant lie. Tir was Bannan’s, the way Aunt Sybb was hers and Peggs’ and Poppa’s. It wasn’t fair, that he dreamed too. It wasn’t fair at all.

“I’m under attack?” He looked ready to grab his axes.

As well defend against winter as Marrowdell. “No,” Jenn assured him. “There—it’s just—not everyone fits. Not for long. Especially,” as she thought about Roche, “here.” She patted the wooden floor. “This is too close to the Bone Hills. That’s why the farm was deserted. They say the dreams are worse here.” They being her father and Master Dusom, talking late one night. Jenn didn’t add how glad she’d been, then, to be sure Night’s Edge would stay her and Wisp’s private place. She’d been a child, then, with a child’s selfish view of the world.

“They say that, do they?” After a wary look out the windows and doors, Tir crouched in front of her, balanced lightly on his toes. Twin furrows creased his scarred forehead. “Well, I don’t plan on leaving, Jenn Nalynn. So where do they say they’re easiest?” he demanded, low-voiced. He gave her a searching look and a muscle clenched beneath his beard. “I’ve my share of nightmares; what soldier doesn’t? These dreams—I tell you the truth, girl. I dare not close my eyes. Me. And I’m no coward.”

Neither was Aunt Sybb.

“The dreams are easier away from the Bone Hills. But—” he had to know, “—Aunt Sybb dreams, too.” Regret thickened her voice and Jenn felt something stir inside, something determined. Dreams should be about good things. “She tries to stay, for us, but once they—once she can’t sleep anymore, Poppa worries she’ll make herself weak. I know she’ll be back next spring, but—”

“So it’s not always—”

To see such a man shudder sent a chill down Jenn’s spine. “No,” she assured him quickly. “Spring and summer, Aunt Sybb sleeps well—right through to fall, until this year.” It wasn’t right. Aunt Sybb should sleep like little Loee; better, since the baby still roused in the night.

For a heartbeat, she let herself believe it could happen, that Tir and Aunt Sybb could stay as long as they wanted and be well and have only good dreams.

If only belief was enough.

“I’ll ask Poppa.” With a sigh, Jenn offered the little she could. “There’s room in the mill. You could sleep there.”

Tir’s eyes flashed. “Who’s to look after him?” with a meaningful jerk of his thumb, as if the truthseer was a child.

“It’s not as if you’d be leaving the valley,” she said sensibly. “The mill’s not far. You could be here every day. Besides, he has Scourge.”

He looked outraged. “The bloody beast!”

“He’s not a beast.” She wasn’t sure what he was, exactly, but Scourge wasn’t someone to be mocked.

“Don’t tell me you hear him, too?” Tir shook his head in wonder. “Sir said the beast could talk to him, but I hardly believed it.”

“It’s true.”

He growled something she couldn’t make out. “I suppose you see what he sees too.”

“No.” Jenn shook her head. “Bannan has a gift.”

“A curse of his own’s more like.” At her questioning look, Tir hesitated, then said soberly, “‘It dims the brightest spirit, to stare into the dark.’” He touched fingers to heart in salute. “His sister said that once. Stuck with me.”

The sister Bannan had left behind. She’d understood the price Bannan had paid, to keep Vorkoun safe; seen the look etched into his face. He should have stayed with Lila, Jenn decided. Sisters were important. Family was important. “What’s she like?” she asked wistfully, imagining a gracious lady, like Aunt Sybb, but younger and more interesting. Not that Aunt Sybb wasn’t interesting but . . .

“The bar—?” He glanced at her and changed what he was about to say. “Older by naught but a year, but you wouldn’t know it. Lila’s the wise one. More’n me or him, that’s for sure.” This last thoughtfully.

“Is she—” Jenn stopped, faced with his upraised, callused, and not very clean palm. She watched, fascinated, as Tir rose to stalk noiselessly around the pile of unpacked boxes and bags. What he suspected she couldn’t guess.

He pounced.

When he stood, a too-familiar sack hung from his hand. A sack whose contents began to squirm, emitting angry little squeaks and growls.

She knew that sound. Jenn winced.

“Who,” Tir said grimly, giving the sack a furious shake, “gave us vermin?”

She’d last seen it full of charcoal. No, Roche had said it was charcoal; she hadn’t looked and, knowing his spiteful temper, she should have. “They didn’t get out,” she said weakly. The only things in Marrowdell that flustered Aunt Sybb more than toads were its mice, not that any toad would let a mouse indoors but that wasn’t, Jenn had discovered, a comfort. According to Aunt Sybb and storybooks, mice should be tiny, furred, and have cute noses, not be the size of big Davi’s palm, dark gray and bald, with wide, well-toothed jaws and no nose to speak of. Then there were their long, hook-clawed fingers and red eyes.

As Master Dusom explained it, Marrowdell’s were simply a robust northern variety. That hadn’t helped Aunt Sybb either. Though it was rare to see a mouse in daylight, or more than one. Roche, she thought with reluctant admiration, must have set a goodly number of traps.

“You know—Heart’s Blood!” Tir dropped the sack, bright blood dripping from his hand. Before he could reach for it again, the house toad leapt from wherever it had been hiding to grasp a corner of the sack in its lipless mouth. Eyes half-closed in rapture, it dragged the sack, and protesting mice, out the door, grunting with effort.

Tir sucked pensively on his wounded finger, then shook his head. “So they have a use,” he said wryly.

“House toads? Oh, yes.” Jenn smiled with relief. “They never let mice indoors. And then there’s eggs,” she confided.

He frowned. “Eggs come from hens, girl.”

“Have you seen any here?” Which was altogether pert, but he shouldn’t sound like he knew everything. “Our eggs come from toads.”

“From—” The former guard looked about to retch—which, to be honest, would likely be Aunt Sybb’s reaction were she to ever know about toads and eggs, not that she’d be so crude—then steadied himself. “Ancestors Mad and Lost, what’s next in this place?” He took a deep breath. “How does—where—?”

“You’ll find eggs in its burrow. But you need these.” Jenn reached in her pocket and pulled out the handful of pebbles she’d grabbed from the Nalynn jar. She couldn’t help but give them a wary look, but they behaved as pebbles should and weren’t the slightest bit appetizing. Tir took them with an appalled expression. “Give him a few to start, to show your good intentions. Whenever you want an egg, put a pebble in the toad’s burrow the night before. After you collect the egg,” she added, “it’s best to replace it with a pebble right away. One for one at least. Extra, if you can. They like—white ones best.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed her instant’s hesitation.

The pebble on the Spine had been white. Which, Jenn told herself firmly, had nothing to do with anything. One of Peggs’ expressions.

To Tir’s credit, though he gritted his teeth, he closed his fingers over the pebbles and gave a resigned shrug. “Where’s the burrow?”

“It won’t be far from the house. Look near the hedge. Once you find it, just reach in and feel around.”

“Ancestors Blessed,” he muttered distractedly. He put the pebbles on the stove, moving one with the tip of a finger. “So. Who gave us the vermin?”

Too much to hope he’d forgotten, and too much to hope he’d forgive, either. Roche hadn’t appreciated the sort of trouble he’d stir, playing his spiteful games on such men. “I can’t tell you,” Jenn admitted. “You’d scare him to death.”

“Would I, now.” The former guard actually chuckled. “I see. Well, if there’s no more nonsense . . .” he let his voice trail away.

She sighed with relief. “Thank you. You’re most kind.”

“Me?” For some reason, this gave Tir pause. He regarded her with his light blue eyes and she was surprised to see a hint of red appear on his scarred cheeks. “If I were,” he said rather gruffly, “I’d tell you what your father should. About Bannan.”

She swallowed. “And what would that be?”

“Not to go playing girlish games with his sort, Jenn Nalynn.”

Jenn felt her cheeks warm. “I don’t know what you mean.” Though she did.

Tir’s eyes bored into hers. “He won’t fool with a lass like the boys in yon village. Many’s the time I’ve wished he would, but he falls hard or not at all. Now he’s half a mind to challenge your Wyll. You give him cause to hope and there’ll be trouble.” She made to speak, but he wasn’t done. “Is that fair?”

“Wyll wouldn’t hurt—”

“Is that fair?” Tir was relentless. “Wyll has your promise. Heart’s Blood, you made him a man to wed him, didn’t you?”

She stared at the floor. “Yes.” After a moment, a tear landed near her toes.

“Ancestors Dead and Diced, girl.” His rough voice softened to a gentle rasp. “Don’t you go crying. I want the truth, now. Which of them is it? Who’s got your heart?”

Jenn raised her head. His face was blurred, and she blinked to clear her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Well.” He coughed. “Well, then. Hmm.” A long pause. “There’s only one thing for it,” he said finally. “You leave them be, both of them, hear me? Neither’s had time to find their feet in this Marrowdell of yours, let alone their own minds. While they do—while Wyll builds his house and I teach sir his farming—you search your heart. What’s meant to be, will.”

It was something Aunt Sybb would say. It was sensible and right and her spirit soared with relief. She’d go home and stay there.

“Thank you,” Jenn said, and smiled from her heart.

Tir Half-face started, blushed, then bowed.

She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She hadn’t known she would.

Scant comfort, perhaps, but it took away that powerful, unfamiliar pain. Jenn hadn’t betrayed their friendship.

Loath to step in Night’s Edge, Wyll lurched along the Tinkers Road to pass it by, glad to be alone. That was the worst of life as a man, being surrounded by them and their things. They had no sense of respectful distance. His kind—

His kind. What was that, anymore?

The road turned to squeeze through the Bone Hills, flanked by solid lines of neyet. They grew thickest against the trapped ones, where none other would dare, for reasons no one knew. The neyet held the edge, or were stuck in it. They were brave and selfless, or ignorant. Which was which, Wyll supposed, hardly mattered. By holding the Verge and Marrowdell together, they’d be first to die if both again tore apart.

But not the last.

Dark thoughts. Darker, since allowing himself to be distracted. The novelty of cart and farm, of rafters and tea, of conversation and games. So much confounded him. The girl’s grace among her kind. How her eyes took the sun and gave back sky.

How his heart had shattered when she’d entered the Wound and he’d thought her lost.

Snarling, Wyll found an opening between two neyet and lurched through, gripping the nearest trunk as he heaved his bad leg over its roots. Bark cracked under his fingers. At once, ylings dropped to flutter around him and sing in protest, being unable to speak like the little cousins.

To avoid a branch falling on his fragile head, Wyll pushed into the open as quickly as he could.

The girl didn’t know of this place, nestled close to theirs. She thought the forest solid to the hill, but it wasn’t.

The neyet and their long shadows girdled a second meadow, smaller than Night’s Edge, remarkable only for a patch of kaliia at its center too small to bother harvesting. An unimportant place. As Wisp, he’d passed through it every day and night of the girl’s life without an instant’s pause, for this was the way home.

Respecting the kaliia and its guardians, he made his way around, though it was harder going through the thick and untrampled wildflowers. He reached where the neyet played their little trick, the arm of their forest folding to almost, but not, touch their line along the road. Thus they hid this place from the rest of Marrowdell and gave him a path from Night’s Edge safe from curious eyes.

If he took that path, he’d see the devastation of their meadow.

He chose the other way.