A Turn of Light (9 page)

“No.” Peggs put cookies on a plate, her fine fingers trembling. “Leave it be, Jenn. He doesn’t know I exist, other than as an art student, or Radd Nalynn’s eldest—the one who bakes.”

“You do make the best pies.” Which garnered the exasperated eye roll she’d hoped.

“Back to the parlor with you,” Peggs ordered affectionately. “Before Wainn comes after his cookies.”

The two carried their trays to the table. Aunt Sybb sat, rolling her pen between her palms so it clicked, just, against her rings. It was the sort of habit she thoroughly discouraged in her nieces. She looked up at Jenn with the oddest expression on her face, part wonder, part dread.

“You’ve finished.” Jenn sat, the tray in front of her, tea forgotten. “What did it say?”

“It rhymes.” Wainn was clearly pleased.

Peggs took charge of distributing the tea and cookies. “In Naalish, you mean.”

“In Rhothan.” Their aunt returned her pen to the case and closed the lid with a little pat. She lifted the piece of paper. “It rhymes because it was written in this language first. The book Kydd Uhthoff brought with him is of Rhothan wishings, most likely collected by one of the Mellynne scholars who settled in Avyo. What Wainn remembers is a translation; I simply put it back as it was.”

The sisters looked at one another; it was Jenn who asked. “What are ‘wishings’?”

“Ill-conceived pagan magic. I find it remarkably apt in this place.” Aunt Sybb tapped a finger on her teacup. “When Master Dusom omitted the entire matter from your lessons, I agreed under protest. I’ve never condoned keeping historical truths, however sordid, from the young. But he had his reasons.” By the fire in her eye, Jenn was surprised “his reasons” had been enough. “Now, however, it’s time you knew.”

“About magic?” Peggs sounded as Jenn felt, half excited, half appalled. Magic was in stories. Wasn’t it?

“About history,” their aunt corrected primly. “Rhoth and Mellynne have always shared a seemly and proper worship of our Ancestors, but before Mellynne exerted her civilizing influence, alas, many Rhothans held a belief they could entice a favor from the departed through the use of objects and the saying of special words.”

“Like the Beholding,” suggested Jenn.

“Not like that at all, child,” Aunt Sybb frowned. “Wishings were recipes, written as riddles. Anyone, the old Rhothans believed, could use them to obtain what they wanted. Back then, raids into Ansnor were as much to obtain rare ingredients as they were to steal livestock or metal. Which didn’t, let me tell you, endear the Rhothans to Ansnor’s people. Though to be fair, Ansnor raided Rhoth in turn. Still do, come to think of it. Avyo has progressed, but to the east, sad to say, the old ways linger. Vorkoun’s market is rumored to be rife with token merchants and those who claim to know their use.”

Aunt Sybb tended to ramble at dusk, which it was, Jenn realized, not needing to look out the window. Her emptiness eased once the sun sank fully behind the Bone Hills, past the time Wisp wouldn’t bear her near him.

So she wouldn’t see him.

That could change, she thought fiercely. That would change. She didn’t need to see whatever he was, not when she could wish him to be as she was. “What does this one say? This wishing. How is it done?”

“This wishing is a pretty bit of nonsense,” Aunt Sybb said firmly. “Don’t forget that, Jenn Nalynn.”

She nodded.

Their aunt gave her a doubtful look, but continued. “It is, as you wanted, a wishing to change an animal into a man. Not any man, however. A lover, to take to your heart. You’re far from the first young woman,” she said lightly, “unwilling to trust fate.” She didn’t glance at the paper as she recited:

“Something of you “Turn into ash

“Something of love “By moonlight’s glow.

“Something of dreams “Give to the chosen

“In a silken glove.” “Love’s shape he’ll show.”

“When you give him the ash,” Aunt Sybb told her rapt audience, “you would say:
‘Hearts of my Ancestors, grant my heart’s need.’
”

“I told you it rhymes,” Wainn said, shortbread paused before his mouth. “Except the last part.”

“Why don’t I send the rest of those home with you?” offered Peggs, drawing the youngest Uhthoff to his feet.

“To share with your brother.” Jenn winked and her sister blushed.

Wainn followed Peggs to the kitchen peacefully, only to turn in the doorway, his face troubled. “You should ask. Before you change his shape. Ask him.”

“Ask the toad?” Aunt Sybb smiled into her napkin.

Jenn didn’t smile. She stared at Wainn, who remembered books he couldn’t read and loved a woman who wouldn’t speak. He had his own wisdom, a Marrowdell wisdom. She suddenly felt of all the advice she’d ever been given, this was the most important.

“I’ll ask,” she told him. “I promise.”

Bannan crossed his arms behind his head and gazed at the ribbon of sky above. Blue still. A star showed. The Mistress, most likely. Her companion at this early hour, before moonrise, was the Rose, soft pink, low and toward the east. Too low to see from the narrow Northward Road, that snuck through crag and hill like a thief.

Night here, courtesy of the steep slopes to either side and their cloak of dark vegetation. He’d shared camp duties with Tir, along with an early supper. Once Scourge disappeared into the surrounding trees, the ox had lowered himself to the grass, contentedly chewing his cud. Tir had rolled himself in a blanket and now slept, a sure sign he planned to be awake later and on guard, no matter what Bannan said.

The small fire they’d made had shrunk to a few glowing embers. His bones ached from the wagon. Traveling this road was slow and monotonous. He supposed it taught patience. He felt in no hurry.

Or was he still numb?

The Ansnans worshiped the slow dance of the moon and drew faces from stars, faces they believed watched and remembered your deeds, good or ill. Based on that sum, judgment would be passed upon your death. You could try to cheat. Rhothans learned to expect the bloodiest raids on cloud-obscured nights. But from what Bannan knew of their religion, nothing went unnoticed.

The aloof star had witnessed all of his life, then. The privileged childhood, the closeness of family. The loss of parents eased by work, friends, his sister. Scourge. The training and lessons that let him pretend to be adult. The skill that let him lead others. Years on the restless border. Raids. Counter raids. Spies, betrayals, blood. How many times he’d lain in the dark like this, between wild trees and rock, listening beyond his own heartbeat for footsteps, sword to hand because a pistol flash would give him away . . .

Bannan deliberately rolled over and pulled his blanket up to his ear. He was a farmer now.

He’d claimed a settler’s portion from Vorkoun’s treasurer, a woman who knew him, his family. She’d been flustered but managed the right stamps and seals. The law was dusty, not changed: any citizen of Rhoth willing to move north for life, upon relinquishing his or her property to the crown, was entitled to supplies and land. In Weken, signed and witnessed by a rather surprised magistrate, the document had become binding. It also became the sleepy-eyed ox, a wagon, older than he but sound, and the wagon’s contents. Contents he hoped would prove worth their weight. It was one thing, Bannan reminded himself ruefully, to live off the land while scouting enemy terrain, quite another to prepare to live peacefully in one place forever. The trader had given several of his purchases, and himself, an amused look. Worrisome, that.

Tir, who knew all about farms and life on them, could have helped. Oh no. He’d disappeared into a tavern, since it was Bannan’s name on the document, Bannan who wanted to dig dirt for a living, and Bannan who had them heading away from civilized parts where they might have found work wearing fine for-show-only swords, with the worst hazards being parade duty and sore feet from standing outside the House of Keys through long debates, and had he mentioned the admiration of beautiful, civilized ladies for uniforms?

What, he’d asked, was wrong with that?

Everything, Bannan thought bitterly, shifting to avoid a root. Officers from the border guard were being scattered across Lower Rhoth, their companies disbanded, while the people of Vorkoun, people he’d protected most of his life, waited for their new overlords. Too many had histories better forgotten, for Vorkoun had been rife with smuggling and secrets. How else to survive, when your enemy was closer than any ally?

Now, they’d be at the mercy of Ansnor, who’d shown none before.

Yet his sister . . . all the family he had left . . . gladly remained in the thick of it. Lila’s letter hadn’t been about finding a wife. She’d written of what life could be without war. Of how Vorkoun—how all of Rhoth—could change. She planned for a future he couldn’t imagine and urged him to do the same. To look ahead, not back. And, because no one understood him as she did, to find his own peace. “Keep Us Close,” she’d finished, her handwriting sure and strong, as if will alone would be enough.

Ancestors Lost and Adrift, he missed her already.

Should have insisted on the brandy, Bannan decided wearily, opening his eyes to stare up at the sky. The star gazed back, indifferent.

“AIEE—argh!!!!!” The scream was accompanied by the SNAPCRASH of something large taking the shortest path regardless of the undergrowth. More screaming, at a distance.

An approving grumble from the dark. “Bloody beast.”

Some things hadn’t changed.

Bannan smiled as he closed his eyes.

Once Wainn left, the three women gathered around the table and regarded the paper with the “wishing.”

“Something of me,” Jenn said at last.

“That’s easy.” Peggs tugged her braid, then lowered her voice ominously. “Or . . . your blood.” She laughed. “Just nothing irreplaceable.”

“Something of love.” Aunt Sybb’s eyes sparkled. “I enjoy a riddle. Perhaps one of your mother’s roses?”

Jenn preferred not to think about the roses. “Dreams I can do. I’ll be right back.”

She went to the kitchen. The ladder to the loft pulled down easily and, as she climbed, there was sufficient light to make out the bed she and Peggs shared, the chests their father had built for their clothes, and the wonderful window seat. When they were young, they’d both been able to curl up and sleep on it. They still sat there and talked by moonlight.

The window seat was cushioned with a mattress. Mindful of the sloped ceiling, Jenn crouched and unbuttoned the end. She shoved her hand inside, eyes closed, and felt through the straw for . . . there. She pulled out the folded paper and hesitated.

Was she sure?

Jenn sat, the paper in her hand. It had been folded and unfolded until its creases were mostly gaps; handled until its outer surface was smooth and tanned, like leather. She opened it with care.

A map of the world. She’d found it years ago, between the pages of one of Master Uhthoff’s books. It hadn’t belonged there. It had belonged here, with her.

Jenn traced the Northward Road with a fingertip. So small. Insignificant. It crossed a gap in the paper, met Endshere, then Weken. It followed one river and met others, wider. Crossed a bridge and plunged into Lower Rhoth where it split, half reaching to Vorkoun to stop at Ansnor, which was silly. Surely Ansnor had roads too.

The other half, the exciting half, went to Avyo and burst in all directions. Roads and rivers took her finger to the famous trade cities of Essa, to the west, or Thornloe, to the south. From Essa, a great bridge arched into Mellynne, whose roads curved and flowed like writing. Thornloe, connected to Avyo by road and bridge and tunnel, was the sole Rhothan port, squeezed into the mouth of the canyon where the mighty Kotor River emptied into the vast freshwater lake Rhothans called the Sweet Sea and the Eldad called Syrpic Ans, the Mother’s Elbow. All the names were here. Eldad itself lay on the far side of the sea, beyond the southern mountains, its straight roads crossed at neat and tidy angles like well-sewn seams.

The map ended there, inviting her finger to draw more on her skirt. Mysterious places. Unknown domains. New sounds and shapes and . . .

Jenn folded the map and pressed it to her heart, the promise her emptiness could be filled. Would be.