A Play of Shadow (35 page)

She began walking back to the mill. “When I was with them, they built a sculpture, in the snow, of their kind caught in nets, being—being killed, by something with a hidden face.”

“In winter, efflet have nothing better to do than spy on others and play in the snow.” Still amused, her dragon. “Doubtless they heard how the boys confused you with the Bone Stealer and invented one for your approval.”

It was possible, even probable, and Wisp knew the efflet far better than she, but somehow Jenn couldn’t believe the creatures had been trying to entertain her. Should she tell him they’d shown her being caught?

“If they’ve troubled you, I can bite off a few toes,” offered with the hint of a cheerful growl.

Maybe not. “Please don’t. I’m sure they meant no harm,” she said truthfully. “I was startled.”

A petal-soft caress on her cheek. “Good Heart. And worried, were you not? Even over such deadly things as efflet. Be assured they are safe and we are.” A whoosh of wind; perhaps a wingbeat? “Am I not here?”

Proud dragon. Rightly so, Jenn knew, but she felt less sure, now, that she shouldn’t tell him about the depiction of her in the net. “If something were to hunt me?” she asked, almost lightly.

His answer, when it came, was in his other voice, deep and hot with rage. ~I would eat its heart!~

She could almost feel sorry for what might try.

Almost.

The sword hung with its partner on the wall, a string of what Bannan now realized were unusually large bear teeth looped over the hilt. A bow and quiver stood below, by a basket of fletching supplies, and an extra chair sat before the larger window, the sum of the soldier’s material wealth brought into his wife’s home. And her great-uncle’s.

Master Wagler Jupp had been a person of great importance in Rhoth’s capital city; he remained imposing within this small log cabin, seated at his wide and paper-strewn desk, surrounded by chests and tapestries. Moreover, he was a person of great age as well as accomplishment, with a scowl wrinkled into his face and a silver trumpet thrust into his ear, aimed at whomever he chose to hear.

He might, Bannan thought with an inner smile, have met his match.

Werfol and Semyn, well used to important, imposing—and, often as not, cranky—barons and their ilk, had, upon being presented, bowed and introduced themselves with such impeccable courtesy that Old Jupp had blinked once, then invited them for tea, pushing aside his still-wrapped package from Endshere’s post.

By the second cup, he was listening with rapt attention to their stories of Vorkoun’s court, interrupting only to ask probing questions Semyn would either politely deflect or answer in adult detail. Every so often, the old man would burst into a wheezing laugh that gave Werfol the giggles.

While Bannan and Tir sat by the window with the soldier, with what had been hidden in the wagon between them on a small trunk.

Sennic rested a blunt fingertip on the metal box. “Underneath. Clever.”

He’d other words for it, the truthseer thought grimly. Sitting in the frozen wagon, out of sight, they’d opened both finds, he and the boys. What they’d found? He’d alerted Tir with a look, collected Sennic with a word, and they’d come straight here.

Because at last he knew what Lila intended.

“Ancestors Chancy and Lost,” Tir scowled. “More’n once I thought to leave that bloody slow wagon, sir, and take the horses. Far from me to criticize the baroness, but—” He shook his head, plainly wanting to do just that.

Sennic’s half smile had no warmth to it. “What you didn’t know, you couldn’t tell.”

“I’d not—!”

Bannan lifted a hand, waiting till Tir subsided. “Lila wanted you to care for her sons, not this.” He picked up the leather pouch Semyn had found, undid its tie, then eased the contents onto the trunk, beside the box.

A lump of fine wax, dyed purple, and a simple metal seal, with a stout wooden handle; a golden ring, sized for a man’s thumb; and last, wrapped in black velvet that Bannan eased open, a key.

Everything Baron Emon Westietas of Vorkoun would require to establish his credentials and perform his official duties in Avyo’s House of Keys.

Or anywhere else in Rhoth, for that matter.

Tir sat back with a hiss, his eyes wide, while Sennic’s face lost any expression. “These should not be here,” he said starkly.

The sounds of the little tea party ceased.

Bannan met the old soldier’s ice-cold gaze. “It’s a little late for that.”

“What is it?” Semyn handed Master Jupp his cane when that worthy held out his hand and the boys came with him to stand before the trunk. “Ancestors Blessed. I’d not thought to see such again,” the old man said finally, eyes fixed on the key. “May I?”

“Semyn?”

The boy drew a breath, then took up the key in both hands. It was large yet finely made, its darkened silver shaped into teeth that were numbers, for this opened no lock, and a grip with fish swimming a waterfall ever striving for the star at its top. The numbers were Vorkoun’s seat in the noble House, the fish and star a symbol predating Rhothan rule but kept.

When Semyn’s hands stopped trembling, he brought the key over his heart, his lips moving in silent prayer. Had he been the baron, and not the heir, he would have spoken aloud, proclaiming his right.

Had Semyn been the baron, and not a young child in hiding, Bannan wouldn’t be as silently cursing his sister. Again. By sending these objects to Marrowdell, Lila strengthened Semyn’s claim as heir should the worst happen, even as she prevented anyone else from assuming Emon’s authority.

Including the Baroness Westietas. She’d cut herself loose, that’s what she’d done.

There’d be no taking the boys home.

Invocation complete, Semyn offered the key to Master Jupp, who passed his cane to Werfol and tucked his trumpet under an arm in order to receive it in both hands. He pressed it to his heart for a moment before bringing it before his eyes to study. “Vorkoun,” he confirmed, then handed the key back to Semyn with a graceful bow of his own, putting his trumpet in an ear to aim at the boy. “Is your father dead?”

“No, Master Jupp.” Semyn wrapped the key and placed it with the other trappings of office. “Our mother protects his name.”

Oh, and wasn’t that wording precise?

Master Jupp smiled, exposing gaps in his teeth. “Just so.”

“My dear sister’s taken other measures.” Bannan released the latches on the metal box and threw back its lid.

Inside were tightly folded documents, tied with black leather cords crusted with seals. There were two sets on each, one of green wax and another of brown, and the intricate crests pressed deep into the wax matched neither the Westietas’ seal laying nearby nor the Larmensu crest.

The green seals were broken.

“Read and kept safe, till now,” Sennic observed, giving his uncle-by-marriage a keen look. “Do you know the seals?”

Master Jupp had lost his smile. “Bring them to my desk.”

Bannan brought the box and they gathered around the former secretary of the House of Keys as he brought a lens to bear. “Under the light,” he ordered gruffly, and the truthseer obliged, moving the open box nearer to the large glass oil lamp that was the master’s pride and joy.

“The green is Ordo’s personal seal.” Master Jupp straightened with a wheeze. “The brown . . . Essa’s baron, I’m certain.” He used his trumpet to point, as if loath to touch the documents. “These were sealed long ago. See the cords? The fashion changed to silk ribbon while I was—before I left Avyo.” His voice fell to an anxious mutter. “Ancestors Besotted and Betrayed . . . is it possible? Was he such a fool?”

Then, so sudden and sharp Werfol jumped, “Close it! Close it now!”

As if what lay inside threatened them all.

Bannan closed the box and latched it. Face set, Sennic leaned on the desk to look Master Jupp in the eye. “What’s this about?”

Semyn and Werfol stood nearby, their faces pale. The truthseer touched Sennic’s shoulder, waiting until the other man looked at him, until he straightened and frowned with comprehension. “You know.”

“I’m afraid so,” Bannan admitted. He glanced at Tir, who gave a short, grim nod. The truthseer handed it to Werfol, meeting those golden, seeing
eyes. “Whatever’s in here, it’s to be your mother’s revenge should anything happen to your father.”

Being Lila’s son, Werfol hugged the box, a fierce look on his face.

Master Jupp said sharply, “What’s in there could mean the end of Rhoth! Would the woman start a war?”

“For family?” Bannan tousled Werfol’s hair. When Semyn came close, he pulled both to him and didn’t bother to answer.

There was no need.

Wreathed in gold-brushed clouds, the sun rested just above the Bone Hills. As if she needed the reminder. The day’s turn was coming, a turn Jenn had offered to spend with Bannan and his nephews, to introduce Werfol to Marrowdell and let Semyn see what he could. Including her.

A grand idea, back in the village. Now? If she wasn’t carrying everyone’s supper, she’d head for home at a run.

As if sensing her doubts, or having his own, Bannan gave her a smile of encouragement. He carried his belongings on his back. Semyn and Werfol had stuffed what they needed this first night into flour sacks. They’d argued how best to hoist them over a shoulder, pretending to be sailors, then swung their sacks at one another all the way through the commons, laughing even when they missed and fell into the snow.

The pair had settled by the ford.

The once-untrustworthy ice was now firm and easily crossed, but yesterday’s storm had filled the Tinkers Road with deep snow, save for the track broken by Kydd’s and Wainn’s horses. Bannan went first, to further pack the snow for the boys, but that track suddenly widened and cleared, snow flying upward and away.

Until there was room to walk side-by-side. Bannan laughed and bowed. “My thanks!”

Semyn froze in place. “W-what did that?”

“I saw little wings,” his brother answered before Jenn could. “They moved too fast.” With immense disappointment. “I couldn’t really see them.”

“They are called efflet,” Jenn told him. “And maybe you will.”

Bannan, delighted by Marrowdell’s welcome, waved them onward with a sweep of his arm. “Home first.”

Semyn and Werfol exchanged resigned looks before they followed their uncle, bracing themselves for the worst. Jenn hid a smile.

Sunlight glinted and glistened, warmer-toned as it sank to the horizon. The old trees overhung the road, snow along every branch, every so often dropping a soft clump.

Or something dropped it. Regardless, none landed on their heads.

“We’re here,” Bannan announced proudly and stopped at the opening to his farm to give the boys a good look.

Jenn was pleased to see the efflet had been at work here as well, enlarging paths begun by Kydd and Wainn. The fountain stood free on all sides, its sweet water unfrozen, that being one of Marrowdell’s gifts. Snow remained on the roof of barn and house and filled the surrounding hedge, but the porch was swept clear and there was a path to the privy and larder.

A welcoming light shone in one window; a lazy curl of smoke from the chimney promised warmth.

“What do you think?” Bannan asked.

“It’s very nice, Uncle,” Semyn said, a little too politely.

Werfol nudged his brother. “It’s very small, you mean. Smaller than our tack room at home. But nicer,” he added quickly.

Bannan laughed. “It’s big enough, I promise. Come.” He led the way and the boys followed.

Jenn hesitated. From here, she could see the opening in the hedge that led to Night’s Edge. As if noticing her attention, a little breeze flipped her bangs.

Wisp, reminding her what she could feel for herself.

The turn had begun.

Another flip. “I know,” she mouthed.

Summoning her courage, she put down the basket and called out, “Wait.” The three stopped and faced her. Jenn looked a question at Bannan.

In answer, he crouched between the boys, arms around their shoulders. “Semyn, Weed. Marrowdell’s a special place. If you’re quiet and patient, those who live here will show themselves as the sun sets.”

“I’ve seen things already, Uncle.”