A Turn of Light (83 page)

“Wyll doesn’t.”

“Dragons don’t.” The turn-born chuckled. “We’re your friends, Jenn Nalynn, and always have been. Look.” Sand spread the fingers of both hands over the small boxes between them on the table. “This is why I asked you here, as soon as we could be alone. You hunger. At each turn, it grows worse. Am I right na?”

“Yes.” Tears filled Jenn’s eyes, spilling cold down her cheeks. “Yes!” Relief made her tremble. Unable to say another word, she reached out.

Sand took her hands in a reassuringly tight grip, then let go. “Worse indeed,” she said gruffly. “Poor Sweetling. We’ll end that.” A finger tapped each box in turn. “Take these with you, somewhere safe and quiet. Open them all and look inside—but don’t touch. Not until you’re sure which is right for you. Touch with bare skin, then taste.”

Jenn’s eyes had followed the tapping finger. At the word “taste,” she stared up at Sand. She’d so wanted to taste the white pebble from the Spine, from her dreams. Was it here? Could it be? Hunger for it made her dizzy.

Horror at that hunger made her shake. “Why do I feel like this?”

“We all do, when our time comes.” The turn-born reached to her shoulder and rolled the soft material of her long glove down to her elbow. The exposed skin was creamy white, the strong arm—

The strong arm—Jenn gasped—suddenly, the skin was glass and the arm of sand. Gorge came up her throat until her mouth filled with bile and beer.

And yet . . .

. . . wasn’t it beautiful?

She swallowed hard; made herself look instead of run. To see that the clear skin held not only sand but light; the two blended, aglitter like a beach in sunshine.

Mistress Sand, the name now fraught with meaning, rolled up her glove. “The sand is of your world,” she explained. “Born by two worlds’ light, we must contain both. As a turn-born comes into power, the body empties to make room. Do you understand na? We, of the Verge, filled ourselves from your world. You must fill yourself from ours, Jenn Nalynn.”

Another gesture, this time proud, over the boxes. “Since you cannot cross, each of us brought you something of the Verge. The first you touch to your skin shall be what completes you. You need do this but once, Sweetling. Now, tell us what you’ve chosen. We’ll bring all you need.”

“‘Completes’—” She choked on, “—me.” Having magic hadn’t changed her from Jenn Nalynn. This? “If I refuse?” she heard herself ask, but Ancestors Doomed and Despairing, didn’t she already know? Soon the turn would come when she’d vanish entirely, like the setting sun. Unlike the sun, she wouldn’t come back. A single tear trickled down her cheek and the air in the tent grew chill and damp.

Sand frowned and the air warmed to summer again. She found a brown sack and began tucking the boxes neatly inside. “I see you need time to think, Sweetling. Our young grow up knowing and ready, but we could never agree when to tell you. Some doubted. Others hoped.” An impatient “tsk” with her tongue. “What matters the past na? We agree now.” She thrust the filled sack at Jenn. “Help yourself.”

The same command, as if Marrowdell’s mysterious voice was here, in the tent. “Thank you.” Though loath to touch the thing, Jenn accepted the sack. “Isn’t this about the past, Mistress? The promise?”

For the first time, the tinker looked surprised. “What promise na?”

“Melusine’s.” Jenn gripped the sack. “Uncle Horst told me. Before she died, Mother said she’d been promised. ‘My daughter will live, but only here. If she steps beyond the scarred hills, she will die.’ Those were the words,” she insisted when Sand shook her head. “Why Uncle and Poppa and Wisp wouldn’t let me leave Marrowdell. I’m turn-born and cursed. You promised my mother you’d help me. And you have.” She lifted the sack.

The tinker’s expression mirrored Aunt Sybb’s whenever a young Jenn had tried to argue the benefits of going barefoot. “Sweetling, your mother was giving birth and dying. She didn’t speak to us. We said nothing to her. But that’s good advice, however you came by it. Turn-born are part of the edge. We can’t exist beyond it. Take a step too far na? My. My. My. Fray apart. Split and be emptied.” She broke out in her deep laugh. “What does it matter na? If you could leave, why na? There’s nothing outside we need.”

Outside was a world, a wonderful one, Jenn wanted to argue, loudly. A world with domains and cities and oceans, populated with people who didn’t have to swallow dirt to be whole and whose bad feelings couldn’t hurt anyone but themselves.

A world she couldn’t have.

“Be content here, Sweetling,” Sand continued. “Marrowdell’s no bad place.” She pursed her vivid red lips, then nodded to herself. “Now, as for this farmer—”

Jenn stiffened.

“—this seer of truth. If you’re careful, your friends and family won’t ever know, but he’ll see what you are. We would agree to be rid of him—”

“No!” Outrage made her voice harsh and strange. “Leave Bannan alone!”

Lightning flickered and died. Thunder sputtered.

Sand lowered her finger. “Such inconvenient passion, Sweetling.”

“Please. You mustn’t harm anyone,” Jenn pleaded, doing her utmost not to be furious or afraid. “What Bannan thinks of me—what anyone thinks—it doesn’t matter. It won’t. I’m marrying Wyll and he knows exactly what I am.” Hadn’t he urged her to be happy so many times this summer? Hadn’t Wen?

Not for her peace of mind. To protect Marrowdell. She saw that now. Along with something else. Something important. Jenn narrowed her eyes. “You can’t hurt anyone. You can’t do any magic if I disagree at its start.”

“Bold Sweetling.” Sand’s laugh chilled her blood. “And how would you know na? Should we ask before we act na? Turn-born you are, but not one of us.”

Jenn thought of the grain. Of the caravan and her dream. Her chin lifted. “I’ll know,” she said, certain. “Marrowdell is my home, not yours.”

“My. My. My.” A slow smile. A slower nod. “That it is,” Sand acknowledged at last, then raised a brow. “And goes both ways. While we are here, you can do only what we allow. What of Marrowdell when we leave na? Flint and Chalk say you’ll destroy what we’ve built here.” She held up her hands, bending a finger of her right hand with each name. “Tooth worries.” Another right. “Fieldstone doubts.” Another on the right, the fingers of her left remaining open. Slowly, Sand folded in her right thumb, making a fist. “Clay fears.”

They debated her fate, that’s what Sand meant, and the numbers weren’t in her favor. Jenn’s eyes stung. The tinkers had been nothing but kind to her, all her life.

Until she had magic. This wasn’t betrayal, however much it felt that way. The turn-born knew what she could do; they had every right to fear it. Didn’t Wyll?

Didn’t she?

“Mistress, may I ask what you and Master Riverstone think?” she asked, fearing the answer.

“The truth na?” Sand challenged, raising her fist beside her still-open hand.

The little boxes, sharp-cornered and hard beneath Jenn’s fingers. Weren’t they the truth too? Despite their concern, the turn-born understood her as no one else could.

Sitting still, she nodded. “The truth.”

“Brave Sweetling.” Sand lowered her hands. “The truth it is. Always, I’ve told the others you weren’t like us. That you’d be different. Harmless as a rose, I said, and Riverstone agreed. Then we crossed and la. There was your mark, plain as plain.”

“My—Wyll?”

“That? No.” The tinker leaned forward. “Ashes and death. You know what I mean na?”

Night’s Edge. Jenn gave a stricken nod.

“No different, then. Far from harmless. Riverstone had to ask it.” Her eyes and mouth became blazing pits. “No matter our affection, dare we leave you alive na?”

For an instant, it was as if she’d fallen through ice, unable to comprehend, unable to scream once she did. As quickly, everything snapped back in place and Jenn drew a determined breath. “I know what happened. I won’t do it again,” she promised. They wouldn’t need magic to be rid of her; they were seven to her one, each of them older and stronger. Or was it something simpler? The wonderful beer—she stared at her cup. Had she been poisoned? “I’ll learn—”

A click of Sand’s tongue. Did she have a tongue inside that hole of light? Would she, once “complete”? “Sweetling, we spend a lifetime learning and still must hold one another in check. Who have you na? And don’t say that dragon.” Her face resumed its disguise and she pretended to spit. “Couldn’t save himself, could he na?”

This wasn’t about Wyll; this was about her, her life. Jenn clutched the sack. “You brought these,” she insisted, a chill wind whipping through the tent. “Why would you do that, if you mean to—if you plan to—” she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Peace, child.” Frowning, Sand offered Jenn her cup. “Drink. Go on. It’ll do you good.”

Having no choice, Jenn took a swallow. Poison or not, the liquid soothed as much as it burned. The wind died away as she found within herself a peculiar calm. “Mistress, will you kill me?”

“Much better,” Sand nodded approvingly. “The question’s been raised. You wanted the truth and that’s what it is. Now I’ve told the others, every one, that I’ll wait for the Balance, until your birthday, before I give my answer.” Then, of all things, she winked.

Jenn’s heart soared. “You don’t agree!”

“How could I na?” Sand winked again. “They don’t know you as I do. You’re not one of us, Sweetling. You’ve been raised by your family, loving and loved. That smile of yours—it can’t come from a heart like ours.” Her own was almost wistful, then she scowled fiercely, “I’ve said you’d be different. I’ll not be proved wrong, Jenn Nalynn.”

“You won’t be, Mistress. I promise.”

“Good. Now, go and quickly,” the turn-born ordered. “Decide what you need and show any of us the box so we can get more. The sooner you’re complete, the steadier you’ll be.”

The boxes. How had she’d forgotten? Because she wanted nothing to do with them or that future. Jenn made herself keep hold of the sack. “Thank you, Mistress,” she said numbly, bowing her head. “For the truth and for your belief in me.” She gave the almost-full cup a regretful look. “And the beer.”

“Take it with you,” Sand suggested. “The taste you like na?” Her eyes and mouth glowed for a heartbeat. “That’s from the Verge.”

There was a way around the village without being noticed, if you were nimble and didn’t mind a wet foot or hem. Once through the commons gate, Jenn curtsied to the oak. “May I pass?” With a slow creak of aged wood, its lowermost branch tipped, then pulled away from the hedge leaving a small, shadowed gap. “My thanks,” she made sure to say as she passed through. The great tree could be grumpier than Old Jupp.

Jenn slid down the steep riverbank beyond, cup in one hand, sack in the other, digging in her heels to stop well short of the reeds. Bound for the mill, the river was full and frisky and not to be easily waded. She went along the bank, her feet squishing through warm soft mud, until she found a private, dry, and sunny spot. There she made a seat in the grass, putting the sack to one side.

She brought up her knees and balanced the cup on top in both hands, staring out, seeing nothing.

Turn-born. When Wyll had told her, it had—well, it had been an answer and she’d needed any and all. But the reality of it? Heart’s Blood. Jenn sighed, aching inside from more than emptiness. Most of her kind, if she could call them that, thought her such a danger to Marrowdell, to all those she loved, that they were willing to kill her.

Mistress Sand believed she wasn’t, which was a very thin thread to rely upon, now that she thought about it. Wouldn’t Sand come to agree with the others, if there was another Night’s Edge?

Wouldn’t they be right?

Peggs always said she could find the good in anything. Where was it in this? Matters had been bad enough when she’d thought her curse was to be stuck in Marrowdell. Worse to be magic and hear voices and want pebbles.

Having everyone afraid of her? Her heart felt broken.

Now, the final insult. She couldn’t stay herself. She had to become . . . what? A living jar of dirt. It couldn’t be pickles or cookie crumbs or buttons of sentimental value . . .

She could let herself die.

After all, even with Mistress Sand’s protection, even if she could control her magic and everyone stayed safe, what sort of life would she have? We’re flesh, not stone, Covie had told Hettie. But she’d be stone and not flesh. Would she still like pie?

Would she still feel a kiss?

Or want one?

Jenn choked back a bitter sob. So much for Melusine’s promise. She must have known about the turn-born and her daughter’s fate; made up her “promise” to be sure Horst would stay and care for her. “Stay and live like this.” What mother could want that? “Step beyond the scarred hills and die.”

Unless Melusine hadn’t known and meant the Verge itself, not the road from Marrowdell. Had she been so shaken by her glimpse of that other world she’d have said anything to keep her daughter from it?

Jenn shrugged morosely. What did it matter? She wasn’t a girl or a woman anymore. She was turn-born and cursed. The outside world wouldn’t want her anyway. Who would?

A preoccupied bee droned by. Ants discovered her toes. A butterfly landed on the rim of her cup and she blew it away.