A Turn of Light (82 page)

A trickle, like a finger, found the raceway first. More followed as the opened gate beckoned, darkening the stones, pushing leaves aside. Damselflies clung to waving reeds, then leapt into the air as the now-impatient water flattened all in its path.

While in the mill, the stones waited.

Water lipped the great wheel, slipping beneath and past and out. It kept coming, rose higher, and began to press. Inexorably, steadily, the wheel answered.

It turned full circle for the first time in a year and kept turning.

In the mill, gears passed the motion with a brisk clap of wood to wood. It became a dance as the runner stone began to spin above its partner, grain joining in at the behest of the tapping shoe.

Something banged in unwanted rhythm and Jenn’s father gave the opposite side of the wooden case a sharp two-footed kick to settle it. Peace restored, he went back to working the stick and shoe that controlled the flow of grain from the hopper. His eyes were almost closed. Eyes mattered less, he’d say, than ears and nose and touch. After a few minutes, he was satisfied with the flow and left it to run. He crouched to open the little door on the side of the case, catching warm flour in his palm. Jenn watched as first he closed his fist, then opened his hand flat and sniffed. Not done, he rubbed the flour with a finger, then moved a pinch consideringly between thumb and finger, all while every part of the mill shuddered like something alive.

He held out his hand. Taking the flour, Jenn dutifully repeated his actions. The flour was silky smooth. She sniffed. No hint of scorched grain. “Perfect,” she decided.

Radd grinned. “A fine start. Tadd?”

The twin stood over the opening to the basement, where the leather strap drew its waiting hooks up and past. “All’s moving well, Master Radd.”

“Then I’d best go,” Jenn said, kissing her father on his already floured cheek.

She ran down the stairs. Tir nodded a greeting, his attention on the gears and wheel. She’d heard his surprised “Whoop!” when the water first arrived in the dry raceway, but didn’t think it polite to remind him of his earlier disbelief. Some things in Marrowdell had to be seen.

She’d expected Tir. She stopped in her tracks, disturbed to find a turn-born standing by the flour chute. Chalk smiled, but didn’t try to speak. It was noisy down here, between the slap of the wheel, the clapping gears, and the stones’ rumble overhead.

A hand fell on her shoulder. Jenn started and turned, to find herself staring up at Master Riverstone. His blue eyes glittered.

Or did they glow?

Somehow, she made herself see the familiar friendly face of the tinker. She forced herself to return his smile, then pointed to the bag filling at the end of the flour chute as she ducked neatly from under his hand. Her task was to attach the next empty one and reopen the chute; Chalk’s to remove the filled bag, tie its top, then hook it for transport upstairs.

But Master Riverstone got there first, gesturing he’d take her place. He half-shouted, “Sand wants to see you, Sweetling.”

What could she do but get out of the tinker’s way and nod? She wasn’t afraid, Jenn Nalynn thought desperately. She loved Mistress Sand. She wasn’t . . .

She was . . .

A chill wind whistled through gaps in the mill wall, startling Tir. It died as, together, the turn-born looked at her and shook their heads.

Jenn fled up the stairs.

Something was happening to Jenn at sunset, Peggs had told him. Something he must see for himself.

Did he dare?

The turn, Wyll called sunset, when light from the Verge slipped past that of this world, exposing what couldn’t hide. Bannan had seen for himself, been charmed by Marrowdell’s fierce toads and little wonders and flowing silver road.

He’d seen Scourge, as familiar as home and family, become something strange and old and distant. He’d watched tinkers become turn-born and seen the grief in a dragon’s eyes.

What would he see tonight, if he dared look at Jenn Nalynn?

Nothing to alter his heart, the truthseer vowed to himself, digging his fork in the waiting grain. He’d glimpsed how light could fill her slender form, how her eyes shimmered with magic. As for her smile . . . oh, he’d witnessed its joy, if not yet earned his own. By any light, this world’s or another’s, how could she be anything but glorious?

Bedazzled he might be; for all their sakes, he mustn’t be blind. If Peggs worried, she had reason. If Wainn believed no one could help Jenn Nalynn, that reason was dire.

Tonight, at sunset, he’d see for himself.

The sun being high overhead, all Bannan could do for now was to stop worrying and pitch. He’d liked to have worked close to Wainn or Kydd, either of whom knew more than he of magic and Marrowdell, but any chance of that would have to wait. The younger Uhthoff continued as the driver of Davi’s horses, and his uncle stayed on the wagon.

The harvest progressed swiftly. Just as well. This closest field to the village was also Marrowdell’s largest. Its southern edge followed the river, bending toward his farm; to the north and west its border was marked by a narrow forest of the old trees. Behind those rose the long, low sweep of the Fingers. The closer they worked, the louder the muted roar of the mighty cataracts beyond those Bone Hills. The sun made rainbows above where the crags split to let the water leave the valley.

Between those ruined towers. Ansnan towers, Bannan reminded himself grimly.

Allin and Devins arrived on an emptied wagon, gleefully ordering their brothers back to take a turn spreading stalks in the lofts. Kydd, Zehr, and Anten hopped down to pitch grain, Kydd offering his place to Bannan with a grin. The truthseer, shortly doing his utmost simply to avoid being buried in stalks, willingly traded back.

Which was how, by late afternoon, Bannan found himself paired with Horst. Having prided himself on keeping up with Tadd and Roche, he found himself speedily outmatched by a man twice his age. Horst dug in his ’fork as grimly as if he plunged it in an enemy’s beating heart and whipped stalks through the air with a vengeance.

A man running from a secret. Wiping his brow, Bannan considered what else Horst was. An outsider, here. A man of war. They had that in common and more.

When Horst paused at last, forced to wait for the next wagon, Bannan approached. He received a curt nod.

It wasn’t a welcome. Given Horst’s mood, the truthseer hadn’t expected one. “How soon are you leaving?” he asked bluntly.

Horst’s head jerked around. “I don’t recall my business being any of yours.”

“It’s not,” Bannan agreed. “But we share an interest in Jenn’s safety.”

That grim pale stare locked on him. “What’s this about?”

Making sure no tinker was close by, Bannan leaned on his pitchfork and lowered his voice. “There’s something you need to know . . .”

The inside of Mistress Sand’s tent smelled of sun-hot canvas and beer. Jenn let the door flap drop behind her. It had been down when she’d arrived, with Mistress Sand’s white dog sitting guard outside with no friendly look, but she’d heard her name called and couldn’t very well stand outside after that, not without showing as an indecisive shadow on the wall.

The inside of the tent was stiflingly hot, which it shouldn’t be. There was a clever vent at the peak to let out heat and window flaps tied open on all sides. Jenn froze on the entry carpet, abruptly convinced what she felt was temper.

“Sweetling.” The turn-born didn’t rise from her seat. A chest had been set as a table in front of her, laid with a black-and-white-checked cloth. On it were two of Lorra’s new cups and a round tray bearing seven small wooden boxes, each carved with a different letter. “Sit.”

Another of the tinkers’ folding chairs had been set across the table from Sand. Jenn unlocked her knees and made her way to it. She put her knees and feet together and sat very straight, her hands folded on her lap.

They were alone.

“I know,” Jenn said quietly. “About you.”

“Very little,” Sand snapped, “if it comes from that dragon.”

“Enough,” she dared say back.

“Ah.” The turn-born leaned forward to take the nearer cup, nodding at the other. “Drink with me, Jenn Nalynn. Tell me this ‘enough’ you know.” Sunlight, filtering through the tent walls, was no match for the hot glow that replaced her eyes and mouth.

Jenn took her cup in both hands, taking a swallow of what was, as the smell promised, the tinkers’ fine beer. But instead of being cool and refreshing, it coursed down her throat like fire. She sputtered and coughed.

“Tastes different now na?” Sand finished her mouthful with a smack of her lips, her face returned to normal. “My poor Sweetling.”

And suddenly the air in the tent wasn’t hot, but pleasant. Jenn caught her breath, eyes watering. “Why?”

“Again.”

Rather than argue, she reluctantly raised the cup and took the smallest possible amount on her tongue, then swallowed.

It burned as before, but, now that she was ready for it, the sensation was strangely pleasing. Jenn took a braver mouthful and felt the fire all the way to her stomach. There it settled, a warm glow; a comfort, where she’d been so empty. “What is this?” she demanded, staring into her cup.

“The same we brew each year.” Sand put hers on the table. “It’s you who’ve changed, Jenn. Riverstone thought this would be your time. I disagreed; you’re so young.” She gestured at the boxes. “Still, we prepared. Now, Sweetling. Tell me what you think you know.”

Jenn licked her lips. “You and Master Riverstone, all of you. You’re not tinkers. You’re turn-born.”

Sand’s answering chuckle was as rich as ever. “Silly dragon. We’re turn-born and tinkers. Do you not have your trades na? Go on. Tell me the rest of his nonsense.”

Wyll wasn’t silly or nonsensical. “He told me you lie,” Jenn countered.

“To protect ourselves, yes, we do.” The turn-born seemed unperturbed. “To dragons and their like, if it amuses. Often does.” She rubbed a thumb across thinned lips, her habit when considering a doubtful trade, then added, “Not to our own.”

“Then you won’t lie to me,” Jenn declared. From wherever this courage sprang, she’d use it while it lasted. “I’m like you, Mistress Sand. Because of when I was born. Because of how—” At this, her voice failed.

“When and how were accidents,” Sand dismissed. “They happen, despite all care to avoid them, and have consequences.”

“‘Consequences?’” Jenn found herself on her feet. Wind swirled through the tent, tossing over stacks of blankets, smacking aside the door flap. “My mother died!”

Sand gave a single shake of her head; the wind fell away and everything settled back in place. “Very little,” she repeated. “What more should you know na? Had Melusine come to us, we’d have kept her safe. Instead, she hid in our wagon. Unaware, we went where she couldn’t bear to be. We brought her back, but it was too late.”

They’d tried to save her mother. Save her from . . . Jenn sank back down. “You crossed,” she almost whispered. “You took her with you to the Verge.”

Dark brows hovered over glowing pits; she could hardly bear to meet that gaze. She dared not look away. “Perilous words,” the turn-born said coldly. “Foolish dragon, to give them to you. He should know better.”

It felt like a threat; it could be. Jenn stiffened. “I won’t let you harm Wyll. Don’t you dare try!”

Sand laughed. “Do worse than you na? I think not.”

She flinched. “I meant—” But what could she say?

“You stole his shape, Sweetling, then pulled his teeth.” The turn-born held out her hand, tipping her palm. “Poor dragon. You’ve left him nothing and useless. Up to us na? We’d end his misery.” Eyes again blue, mouth again red, Sand reached for her beer as casually as if they discussed the fate of piglets. “What matters na? You. Your future. Forget those words, Jenn Nalynn. The Verge is not for you. You cannot cross.”

But she must . . .

Somehow Jenn held in that desperate protest, covering the moment by taking another fiery swallow of her own. “Am I so different?” she ventured, careful to sound merely curious.

“The Verge is.” Sand leaned forward, gloved elbows on her knees. “Sweetling, yes, you’re turn-born. Melusine gave birth during our crossing; you drew your first breath in our wagon. But if we hadn’t brought you back across, you’d have died. You don’t belong there. None of your kind do. Trust me.”