A Turn of Light (61 page)

~ We failed! ~ from the other. ~ Why didn’t you help? ~ from below.

As if he could do what they could not.

Last night, the girl had twisted the edge itself, yet remained innocent of her power.

Not so his peers. Having tasted that terror, now they sought his council. Swift to condemn him, smug at his penance. How quickly need renewed respect.

Fools.

Struck by a broomstick. Had he claws, he’d score their hides for that carelessness. Ignoring them, Wyll kept on his way. They crowded close, heedless and desperate, wingbeats raising choking clouds of dead meadow as they wailed like those already lost. ~ What can we DO?! ~

~ Can you write a letter? ~ he asked. Their confused silence amused him, but only for a moment. ~ THEN YOU’RE OF NO USE! ~

Ash darkened the sky as they scattered, to fall like gray snow.

Peace at last.

But no solution. Wyll snarled. To keep Jenn Nalynn safe and prevent disaster, he needed to be a man, not a dragon, and write a letter.

How?

He worried at the question within the shade of the neyet and as he made his slow way home through the hidden meadow. He pondered as flowers and grasses wiped ash from his shoes and pant cuffs, breezes doing the rest, but nothing came to mind.

Once home, removing the comb from his pocket, Wyll let a breeze tidy and fold his clothes. The comb he’d taken; let Bannan find another. The regard for hair and clothing he’d discovered, having observed Bannan with his own.

He’d taken something else, too.

A book.

Bannan kept the volume by his mattress; they’d been watching him leave, not what followed out a window.

The books Jenn Nalynn brought to their meadow were nicer and better treated than this old and tattered thing, but it was paper and held words.

Words were a start.

He sat within his home, this sun’s final light breaking through crystal and the remains of neyet, and used teeth and his good hand to rip the book apart, pages scattering on the moss like moth wings.

That was satisfying.

With more care, he let breezes shred each page until words and phrases drifted around him, tipped this way and that like flower petals. “Ands” and “thes.” “Hes” and “shes.” “Swords” and “heroes.” “Forevers” and “never agains.”

A few escaped through the open doorway.

With rare patience, Wyll picked through the words, arranging those he wanted, just so, on a bare piece of crystal.

Now what?

~ Attend me, little cousin, ~ the dragon demanded, well aware the creature crouched nearby. When the house toad appeared in his doorway, “fair” and “adamant” stuck on its warts, he pointed to what he’d made. ~ I’ve need of your tongue. ~

~ Elder brother? ~ It clamped its lipless mouth shut.

~ I will send these words, in this order, to Jenn Nalynn. Open your mouth and let me stick them to your tongue. You will then go to the village and show her. ~

The little cousins could change their appearance to better match their surroundings. This one went a sickly yellow and stood out. ~ I will do whatever you ask, elder brother, but are you sure about this? ~

~ Did you not boast she kissed you? ~

~ I may be wrong, elder brother, but I presumed that was more impulse than attraction. ~ It paused then said delicately, ~ There is also the girl’s lady aunt to consider. She makes a most unpleasant sound if she encounters us in the house. ~

Wyll shuddered. Offend Aunt Sybb?

As if sensing he wavered, the little cousin concluded briskly, ~ Might I suggest another means of sending these words? One more pleasing? ~ It stopped and blinked at him, an immovable lump of virtuous opinion, waiting to be asked.

There was a lower level to stoop than sei and fate had hitherto shown him.

The dragon spared a moment to be grateful his kind had left, and the old kruar remained in the village.

Ask indeed.

~ What . . . ~ he made himself say it ~ . . . other means, esteemed little cousin? ~

~ Wait here, elder brother! ~ With that joyous cry, the toad hopped from sight, “adamant” and “fair” flying free to lodge in a crack.

Helpless to do otherwise, Wyll bided his time letting breezes collect the unused words from the moss; the stories the girl enjoyed implied this exchange of letters was only the first, so he should be prepared. The resultant pile was larger than the book had been; perhaps the words, having escaped, relished their freedom from one another. He could understand that.

~ Elder brother. ~

The dragon sighed, very quietly, and turned.

The toad was not alone.

Two ylings hovered above it, slender limbs dangling. Outside the turn, their shapes flickered and fooled; sometimes leaf and sometimes other. These took pity on his man’s poorer sight, and gave him their true selves: creatures of delicate beauty, with bright curious eyes and tufted ears. Their fine hair gathered and splintered sunlight, so sparks of red and yellow and green danced around them, and they wore short tunics the color of sun-touched bark. Their wings were gossamer and they had four arms and two legs, with strong little hands at the end of each. One yling bore a quiver filled with fearsome spears, each the length of a man’s finger; their barbed points poison-dipped. The other held a rolled bundle and a tiny basket.

Their cloaks, which took the seeming of leaves most of the time, were cunningly sewn of flower petals, spider silk, and seed fluff. The warrior’s was mostly brown and yellow, to blend with shadow and light. With a trill to his companion, he took hold of the top of Wyll’s doorway with one foot-hand and faced outward, spears at the ready.

In the Verge, ylings lived in cities suspended over calm lakes of mimrol, their snug buildings hung from threads that stretched from bank to bank, threads cleverly embedded with poisonous thorns to daunt even a careless dragon. At the turn, ylings would take flight to dance, dipping their thumbs in the silver liquid to weave ripples and rings. They were as lighthearted as their songs and feared no one.

Marrowdell’s ylings had learned distrust and terror. Trapped in a strange land, they’d survived by hiding within neyet, posting guards against what would climb and attack. Worse, they were again betrayed. When the turn-born expected certain neyet to sacrifice themselves as wood for a village, the ylings in their branches had been forced to flee, only to face hordes of waiting nyphrit.

Warriors like this had cast themselves into those hungry jaws, so the rest could escape.

Bravery had no one size or shape. Nor, Wyll thought with the old pain, had worth.

The warrior’s companion, cloaked in purple aster petals, floated downward to hover beside his rows of words. Her head tipped to one side, then the other as she examined them. All the while, her tall ears flicked nervously, as though she listened to something he couldn’t hear or was unsettled this close to a dragon.

With a care that punished his twisted body, Wyll eased back. Ylings were quick to startle; he’d not thought to see any so far from their fellows or the safety of their neyet. Though he burned to ask how the little cousin convinced these two to approach him, he would not.

The yling unrolled her bundle on the crystal, revealing another cloak. Unlike that draped softly around her slim form, this was stiff and almost plain, save for a pleasing pattern of overlapped green. Cedar spice filled the air as she flattened the material with crisp pats of her little hands. Satisfied, she opened her case and took out a pair of needles that twinkled in the sunlight, as well as a spool of spider silk.

Then looked up at him and waited.

Did he imagine a smile?

Wyll let a breeze lift the first word of his letter to Jenn Nalynn and carry it to the cloak, setting it in position.

The yling pounced, her needles and thread moving too quickly to see, then moved aside, one hand beckoning with professional pride.

He leaned closer. Tiny paired stitches knit the ragged scrap of paper to the leaves below. Before his eyes, the stitches blurred away, the scrap’s edges smoothed, and the paper with its word became part of the cloak. Yling magic. He moved his lips to read soundlessly, “Greetings!”

He would have a letter for Jenn Nalynn.

Wyll stared at the yling, confounded. ~ Why? ~

She startled up and away; the warrior sang anxiously as she settled back down.

~ You know what I am. ~ He had to understand. ~ You know what I’ve done. ~

Her ears twitched, but she didn’t fly this time. With a flick of her hand, the tiny seamstress indicated the rest of the words.

~ Why do you help me? ~

Could that be another smile? He wasn’t sure. She trilled and gestured again. I haven’t time for fools, that said.

Feeling lightheaded, Wyll let the rest of the words float from crystal to cloak, the yling stitching each in turn, as if he were one of their own and deserving.

When finished, she awaited his inspection. Upon his nod, she rolled the cloak that was now his letter into a bundle and lifted with it into the air. The warrior dropped free to join her.

~ Wait. How are you— ~

More leaves than ylings, they giggled and were gone.

The house toad tried to sneak out the door with them. Wyll sent a breeze to scoop it up and hold it, legs dangling, in midair.

~ WHY? ~ he snarled.

Its immense eyes bulged larger, if that were possible. ~ ‘Why?’ elder brother? ~ with unconvincing innocence. ~ Why, what? ~

Why did crystals cross to shelter him? Why did neyet sacrifice their limbs? The efflet bring moss? And now . . . the ylings?

Did the small ones pity him?

Did they dare?

Enraged, the dragon snatched the toad from the air, its throat in his good hand. ~ How dare you forget?! You know this is my penance. All this is my fault! ~ He tightened his fingers and shook it. ~ You’re trapped because of me! ~

~ Did you tear open the edge? ~ the toad argued placidly, legs swinging. ~ Did you abandon us and steal our queen? Did you go to war alone? ~

Flabbergasted by its impudence, Wyll let go.

The toad dropped to the floor, cracking crystal. Tears welled and the little cousin methodically stepped from the puddle before squatting to stare up at him. ~ You’re no turn-born or sei, elder brother, you’re dragon, flesh and bone. You’re one of us, not them, and trapped too. ~

~ I RULED! ~ Wyll roared.

The toad squeezed its eyes shut while the angry echoes died away, then opened them again to stare in meaningful silence.

Insufferable creature.

Growling, he finally looked away. The little cousin was right. He ruled nothing, was nothing more than what cowered here, within the charity of the small ones. Why they cared for him, he couldn’t understand, but that they did was dangerous folly. The girl lived far from the closest neyet. The river needed to be crossed. How would the ylings manage, without undo risk?

~ I am, ~ he conceded at last, ~ grateful. ~

No answer.

He turned his head the slightest bit. The last light of this sun filled his doorway, finding crystal tears, but no impudent, imprudent toad.

Say rather, honest, brave little cousin.

He hadn’t looked for wisdom, in so small a size. Another lesson, late-learned.

But he was at fault, even if he hadn’t been alone in it. At the last Great Turn, when meddlers here disturbed what they mustn’t and weakened the edge, the mighty of the Verge had rushed to repair that breach. They’d been so wonderfully preoccupied, he’d known his moment had come. Not once had he hesitated to start his war. Not once had he paused to consider his responsibility to the very existence of the Verge.

Just as turn-born and sei hadn’t considered the sacrifice of the small ones when they’d sealed the edge and saved the day, before expressing their displeasure with dragon and kruar.

Now, within his life, another Great Turn.

Let there be no fools this time.

Weary, yet for some reason at peace, Wyll stretched out on the moss to watch the turn through his door.

Night’s edge swept down the flanks of the trapped and efflet emerged from their field to sit before him in their rows, claws knuckled at their breasts.

Company, all these years.

~ Greetings, ~ Wyll said to them, and nodded.

They looked at one another, then at him. As one, they gravely nodded in return.

With the passing of the turn, the efflet were gone. He heard their whispers amid the grain-heavy stalks. Not long now, the whispers seemed to say. Not long at all. They’d flee the harvest, taking refuge in the hedges around the fields, and woe betide any nyphrit who’d dared make nests in those branches over summer. The efflet would await winter’s end, sculpting snow and ice into fantastical shapes that only efflet understood. Once those melted and the soil became soft again, they’d work their small magic and summon their beloved kaliia from the Verge, to sprout and grow here as well.

To the villagers’ benefit, though Wyll doubted efflet saw it that way.

The efflet settled for the night as he did, peaceful still. They’d grow restless, as the harvest approached, and provide warning. There was time, yet. Time he would use. He would write letters to Jenn Nalynn. He would learn about being a man from the truthseer, surely a fair trade. Had he not warned the man to conceal his sight? In truth, more to avoid unpleasantness near his new home than because he cared how foolish or not the man might be, but Jenn Nalynn would care.

A certainty that didn’t sit well in his empty stomach.

Hunger wasn’t new nor worry.

Resting his head on the moss, Wyll closed his eyes and almost smiled.

A dragon writing a letter?

That was.

SEVENTEEN

To Jenn Nalynn, Salutations.

Thank you for your kind letter.

Ancestors Witness, you have been of inestimable help already, and I’ve Tir to assist me, so I urge you not to regret having to turn your attention to such important and pressing matters as preparations for the harvest.

I must tell you a remarkable thing. Large white moths enter my home by night. I sent an order for new windowpanes with your esteemed uncle. I shall leave an opening, however, for these moths are extraordinary creatures and I wish their continued visits. Each wears small boots, I swear by my Ancestors, and carries a tiny satchel locked with a jewel. I plan to watch for them again tonight, and hope to learn what’s so important to a moth. You can be sure I will write and share with you what I discover.

May the Ancestors Keep You Happy and Well

Bannan L.

There was more on the back.

The stove lived up to its appearance. I look forward to the day when I may prove it to you.

The toad who lives with me has been well supplied with pebbles, and I look forward to eggs in the morning. Though Tir insists I collect them and not discuss their source, I consider myself privileged to have such a guest.

I claim no false honors. Wyll sent Scourge to the village, having knowledge of such dangers, and I am grateful beyond words that he helped you. My experience thus far with dragons involved a flailing broomstick and little result. Our dragon was amused.

I smile, sweet Jenn, to think of your hand in mine.

At this last, Jenn Nalynn felt altogether warm and she hurriedly put down the fine sheet of paper, glancing at her sleeping sister as if the act of reading such a line might somehow awaken her. It had not. Still, clearly this wasn’t a letter to share.

In fact, she oughtn’t keep it.

Though it was her very first letter. She picked it up again, with care, to look more closely at the writing. His writing.

Which involved his hand. The hand that remembered hers.

She put the letter down again.

Goodness, this business of letters was far more stimulating than she’d anticipated. She’d read it only once more, to be sure she had all the details, then put it somewhere out of sight.

Somewhere turned out to be inside a mitten, tucked to the back corner of her drawer. Though it was peculiar how often her eyes were drawn back to the chest.

The letter had been a distraction ever since Tir Half-face delivered it, folded inside a familiar envelope. He’d ducked his head to her in a manner Aunt Sybb would call decidedly cheeky and she’d done her utmost not to appear concerned when he’d told her Wyll hadn’t sent a reply, because that would only encourage the man. To make matters worse, Tir had then, so casually, mentioned picking up her reply to Bannan’s letter when he came to the Nalynns’ for breakfast tomorrow, which left her no way at all to avoid such a reply.

Bringing the candle closer, Jenn picked up her quill and began to write.

To Bannan Larmensu, Greetings.

Thanks to your letter, I’m taking a greater interest in moths. They like Mother’s roses and come to our window each night in summer. I’ve seen neither boots nor satchels, but have something remarkable of my own to report. This very night, one brought me Wyll’s letter clutched in its legs!

As for our correspondence, Tir has been kind to carry it and I’ve told him so, but please tell me if this envelope does not arrive in good condition. He hints at a fondness for chewing paper and I fear for the corners, though he also claims your house is falling apart, which I do not believe at all. Peggs says he teases me, but I can’t always tell. His mask gives him a most unfair advantage. Teasing or not, I’m glad he’s been able to sleep, as has Aunt Sybb. They vow to take a cup of cider before bed every night.

Cynd told Peggs that Davi’s finished your new hinges. You should have them tomorrow, with this letter.

Please feel no obligation to reply. Though I’d like to hear more about your Marrowdell. Mine is much of a sameness.

She’d filled the page already? But she had more to say and answer. She must write smaller, which Aunt Sybb wouldn’t like. A person’s script was evidence of their quality, she’d say. Bannan’s would please her. His letters were crisp and sure, with extra ink on the down strokes and a nice flourish, though lacking in curlicues. Having believed curlicues assured a reader of one’s adult and dignified and respectable nature, Jenn had strewn as many as possible through her first letter to Bannan.

A relief to stop.

An additional sheet or two would serve nicely, but the supply was limited, the more so since their aunt reserved most for wedding invitations.

As if everyone didn’t already know and plan to come and wonder at her choice of a dragon turned man.

With a little sigh, Jenn turned her single page over to write.

Have you tried baking yet? We’ve starter for bread, if you need it.

Tir should respect your house toad. They are wise and clever. Ours helped me the other night, when I had some difficulty in the carrots.

You met dragons? What did they look like? Did they look like Wisp or different? Were they all the same? Wyll shouldn’t make fun. I think you were very brave to flail at them.

As I recall, Bannan Larmensu, your hand in mine was either wet, muddy, or covered in Scourge’s hair.

Jenn

That should put him in his place. Before her courage failed, Jenn put the letter in the envelope, tipped her candle to seal the flap with a fresh drop of wax, and put her reply aside to give to Tir.

Wyll’s letter had no envelope, or paper for that matter, instead being a still-green leaf. She couldn’t tell what kind, and it had the oddest texture, soft as cloth, but what was important were the words stuck to it.

Greetings!

I didn’t send The beauteous flower

do not try.” To cross again I warn of direst peril! danger foreboding Bad

I cannot undo The meadow

undying gratitude be yours for Your words

Our domicile remains dry Now

You can dwell herein

As letters went, Wyll’s first was, perhaps not surprisingly, brief and blunt. She chewed her lip. She should have known he’d be aware of what had happened. Had the house toad delivered her apology? She reread his letter, and couldn’t be sure.

As for the words themselves? They’d been taken from a book, not written, which truly was clever of Wyll since she couldn’t recall ever showing him how to write or print, just reading itself. She tried to pry “Greetings!” loose with a fingernail, but like the rest, it was fastened tight.

To obtain those words, however, Wyll must have destroyed a book, and the books closest to him weren’t his to destroy.

They belonged to Bannan.

Whatever book it had been, she’d have to replace it. If Master Dusom didn’t have a copy he was willing to part with, she’d have to ask him to place an order by post.

Ancestors Baffled and Beloved.

The last time anyone from Marrowdell ordered a book, it had taken two years to arrive, and no one would admit to wanting it in the first place. The book itself went to good use, each villager taking it in turn to read. Something entertaining and fantastical, as Jenn recalled, about a winged pottery horse, a bitter old lady who gets her comeuppance, and a candy house. She and Peggs had decided Frann must have ordered it for Lorra during one of their battles, then thought better of it.

Replacing Bannan’s book would be, Jenn was sure, a difficulty.

As for Wyll . . .

Dearest Wyll

How clever of you to make me such a letter and have a moth deliver it. I’m afraid I must rely on plain paper and quill, with Tir to deliver the result. He’s happy to do so and I’ve thanked him. How do I thank the moth?

I’m glad the roof doesn’t leak. That’s very important in a house. Measure the windows for me, please, so I can make curtains.

I take your caution to heart, and promise to be more careful. Wen’s told me to wish for what I should, not what I shouldn’t, which I take as excellent advice. I’ll do my best.

Aunt Sybb and Tir have slept without dreams. Isn’t that a marvel?

Jenn

Jenn stopped, unsure what else to say. In Night’s Edge, she’d talk to Wisp by the hour, and often be late home as a result; those conversations, as she thought of them now, had been thoroughly one-sided, filled with childish babble about this person or that, or daydreams about . . . what couldn’t be.

Wyll, being visible and a man and sometimes grim and ofttimes sad, wasn’t someone she could babble to any longer. A beloved friend, yes and always, but more like Uncle Horst than Peggs. She just knew he’d want to hear her sound adult and practical.

She sighed.

Peggs rolled over with a mutter.

As for the book? Jenn gave a decisive little nod. Dragon or no dragon, he mustn’t destroy any more books. She turned the page and hesitated. How to broach the subject, without making things worse?

Mightn’t Bannan have given Wyll a book he no longer wanted, to use for this purpose? Jenn shook her head. No, if he’d brought it with him into exile, the book was a favorite. Had been.

Ancestors Dire and Confounding.

She mustn’t accuse Wyll of stealing the book, though she thought it entirely likely and wouldn’t blame him. She’d discover the title for herself. Choosing her words with care, she added,

If you will need more words than you have at hand, please let me know. There is a book of rhymes I’m sure no one will miss with a splendidly broad vocabulary.

A book she’d have to borrow from Master Dusom’s library and hope he wouldn’t miss. His students wouldn’t. The rhymes were older than Wagler Jupp and dreadfully dull, prized by the teacher solely for their excessive alliteration. She supposed she could ask him for it, but asking Master Dusom for a book led inevitably to him asking how she’d enjoyed it, and would she like another? He’d shelves of poetry; the whole business might never end.

Jenn put her reply for Wyll with the one for Bannan.

Wyll’s clever leaf letter she left on top of the chest, to show Peggs in the morning.

Blowing out her candle, she sat a moment, gazing into the night.

Today’s emptiness had been worse, as the sun set, than yesterday’s. She’d need to wish even harder for a lovely morning, to keep her mind from . . . where it mustn’t go.

But for all her good intentions, when Jenn closed her eyes, she thought of how nice Bannan’s hand had felt in hers, despite mud or water or hair, and she smiled into her pillow.

“Mail’s here!” Tir Half-face announced cheerily as he strode up to the porch. “And hinges.”

With a nonchalant nod, Bannan finished pounding the next plank into place. He’d decided to use the well-seasoned lumber of his wagon to repair the loft floor, with any extra to be furniture, so he was piecing the porch back together from its original wood. “A pot of that foul brew of yours is on the stove,” he said as he stood, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. Another lovely morning, if unseasonably warm. With such cooperation, he’d have his house winter-ready well before snow. “We can get to the doors after that.”

“Surely, sir,” Tir pulled out a familiar envelope and waved it, “you’ll want this first?”

If it was what he hoped, of course he did, but he’d have no peace if he succumbed too easily. Bannan smiled. “What I want are doors that close. Letters can wait.”

Tir hadn’t come alone. Scourge stalked behind, his great head bobbing behind the shorter man’s. A breeze slid along the truthseer’s jaw to his ear. “Letters? I remember letters. Shall I tell the girl about all those to women in Vorkoun?”

Hardly fair. “Do you want to be groomed again in this lifetime?” the truthseer threatened.

“Not looking for your help there, sir.” With a chuckle, Tir ran his free hand over his bald pate as he slipped the plump saddlebags from his shoulder. “Though I’d take it kindly if you’d ask his bloody highness why I had to carry these, given he followed me the entire way.”

Scourge snorted. “You didn’t ask.”

Tir swatted violently at his ear, almost dislodging his mask, then his eyes went wide as saucers. “I heard that!”

“I’m glad,” the truthseer said dryly.

“No! You don’t understand.” His friend backed, arms out as if to protect himself, then turned wildly in a circle. “I heard a voice! A voice that wasn’t a—” he froze in place, staring at Scourge. A hand pointed, finger outstretched. “Yours!” he shouted.

“Such insight.” The kruar shook himself from nose to hindquarters.

“But—how?”

“Scourge?” Bannan couldn’t stop smiling.

“I can be heard by whomever I choose.” The breeze was amused too. “As for how? In Marrowdell, within the edge, I’m more of what I was.”

And revealed it. The truthseer’s mood darkened as he thought of what he’d seen, what he now could see anytime he looked deeper: the scars over Scourge’s body, scars concealed by this light as a gleaming hide of black hair and dark brown mane and tail. He wanted to ask; he knew better. Scourge would tell him what he chose, when he chose. If at all.

Bannan made himself cheerful again by thinking of a new letter from Jenn Nalynn. If she’d written to him, and not just to Wyll. Who might not have written at all, he brightened, in which case, any letter must be his.