A Turn of Light (16 page)

And now looked as it did at snowmelt, full and snarling at its banks.

The ford was gone.

“Poppa!” Peggs gasped. “The millstones!” Once the stones were set and the loft full of grain, all their father need do was throw open the floodgate and the water would rise in answer.

“It can’t be,” Jenn protested. The stones were outside their case, the race closed and dry. Just as well. In this fearsome state, the river would tear the wheel from the mill.

How didn’t matter. Not far past the mill, the river plunged from the valley through a narrow rock cut. No one could survive that drop. She tugged at Peggs’ arm. “We have to get to the falls!”

The sisters ran together. As they took the path by the mill, Peggs veered away, shouting, “Go! You can find him. I’ll bring Poppa. And rope!”

Jenn nodded. She tore past Horst’s home, barely flinching, then through the open gate in the hedgerow. Leaving the village behind, she pumped her arms and drove her legs faster. The road followed the river but water flowed with dreadful speed. Her only chance—Wisp’s only chance—was to reach the flat rocks above the waterfall first.

And do what then?

She concentrated on running.

The man on the gray-muzzled gelding had seen his share of days. That didn’t, Bannan thought ruefully, empty hands away from his sides, make him less a threat. In fact, everything about the man who’d managed to ride up behind him proclaimed he was, from his sharp gaze to the well-kept weapons hanging from back and saddle. Callused fingertips kept tension on the bowstring, the notched and wicked arrow aimed uncomfortably low. This one knew how to incapacitate a foe while leaving him able to talk. Or scream.

“You look like a bandit to me,” the man said evenly. “Where’s your horse? Your wagon?”

“I rode ahead of the wagon. As I said, my horse threw me and ran this way.”

“I’ve seen no horse.”

Of course he hadn’t. Bannan intended to have a word with Scourge. A very stern word. If he got the chance. “I mean no harm. Just let me go back to the Northward and I’ll wait for my companion there.”

“‘Companion.’” An eyebrow lifted on the lean, patrician face, the kind of face he’d expect to find protecting a baronial household in Vorkoun or Avyo, not the crossing of nothing and nowhere. “You admit you’re a scout.” The bowstring pulled back.

“I admit I’m an idiot. I told you. I’m a settler.” Without proof, he wouldn’t believe the claim either. “My name’s Bannan. If you’d come with me to the main road—”

“You are an idiot if you think I’ll follow you into an ambush.”

The truth. Bannan grinned. “What do you suggest?”

The taut string eased ever so slightly. “I suggest—easy!” This as the gelding widened its nostrils in alarm and shifted its weight.

Bannan didn’t bother looking around. “Lower your bow,” he advised. “Quickly.” Scourge taking up the hunt was nothing to trifle with; this man and his horse wouldn’t stand a chance.

The man giving him an incredulous look. “Why should I?”

“On my honor, I mean you no harm, sir. I can’t speak for my hidden—” horse? “—companion. You’re in danger. Believe it.”

Something flickered across those intent eyes. The bow lowered, string loosening. The man let the arrow tumble to the ground, then held his hands away from his body.

A shadow between two pines elongated into a leg, then a head carried low, like a snake ready to strike. A long body followed. Hooves met the road with no sound at all. Lips pulled from teeth that belonged to no horse.

Scourge growled.

The gelding rolled his eyes and trembled, but didn’t break. More proof, if Bannan needed it, that this was no ordinary settler. This man had trained in an elite soldiery.

“Looks like we found my horse,” Bannan commented. He didn’t dare move; by his wide-eyed stare, the former soldier didn’t either. Scourge wove closer. “You wouldn’t happen to know any border guard passwords, would you?” the truthseer continued with deliberate calm. “Doesn’t matter how old.”

The man didn’t hesitate. “Ordo’s Precious Arse.”

Bannan chuckled. That would do.

With a disappointed huff, Scourge became a big ugly horse again. He made a show of lipping a leaf from the dirt. The poor gelding wasn’t convinced. His rider patted his neck, then nodded at Scourge. “I didn’t know you folk used the Northward. You should have said you were a tinker.”

Something about Scourge was familiar to this man? “I’m not,” Bannan said easily, his mind racing. “Just looking to farm. My horse was a runaway; wound up on the family pasture. Ugly as he was, no one else wanted him.” A rude snort from the animal thus disparaged. “I’ve an ox too,” he added. “The best in Endshere, according to the trader.”

“Lanky fellow, one eye?” At Bannan’s nod, the man unstrung his bow and almost smiled. “You’re lucky to have made it this far. The name’s Horst. Excuse the welcome. Bandits occasionally try the road to Marrowdell.”

“We were warned in Endshere.” Scourge arched his neck; Bannan ignored him. “‘Marrowdell.’ A village?”

Horst tilted his head down the road. “Valley and village both.”

Bannan waited politely for him to extol his home’s virtues. New settlers must be rare; he and Tir had been enticed with all manner of unlikely claims between Weken and Endshere. Water like wine. Turnips the size of melons. Beds filled with eiderdown. And daughters. To hear some of the threadbare farmers brag in their cups, simply following them home would guarantee a life of bliss. They lied, possibly to themselves as well. Most likely, the guarantee was life as a laborer for someone else. He’d keep going till he found a place where he could farm for himself, thank you.

Marrowdell. Now he remembered the name. Tir had heard it in the Endshere tavern. Something about people who kept to themselves and had little to do with the outside world.

Both suited him.

Horst, however, didn’t say another word. Instead, he sat his horse, patently waiting to watch Bannan leave.

Curious.

“Is there an inn—” Bannan stopped as Scourge lifted his head and stared toward the valley, ears pricked. The gelding followed suit.

An instant later, he heard the drum of hooves. A high-pitched hoarse shout followed. “Man—man in the river!”

“Heart’s Blood,” Horst cursed, wheeling his horse around and digging in his heels. The gelding burst into action, doubtless happy to be leaving Scourge.

Scourge, as always, had his own notions. He walked to Bannan and stood waiting. After a moment, his head bent around as if to ask what was taking his rider so long.

“We are not following them,” Bannan said firmly as he stepped into the stirrup and swung his leg over. “Tir’s waiting.” The Northward was straight ahead. He dug in his heels.

With an amused rumble, Scourge wheeled to pursue the gelding.

“Idiot beast!”

Jenn took the footpath from the road as quickly as she dared, hands up to keep branches from whipping her face, trying not to slip on the mossy rocks. It wasn’t used this time of year, fishing being best in spring. The waterfall thundered in her ears, vibrated through her feet.

She burst into the open and grabbed a sapling to stop herself from falling forward. Directly below was the trout pool, relatively calm and shallow. Massive flat rocks lay beneath its surface, fitted like a giant’s puzzle. On the opposite side, fierce rapids slammed against jagged stone, eating away the wall. Roots hung exposed, bleached and dead. Trees clung to the upper edge; most leaned inward, doomed.

The plume of the falls filled the air to Jenn’s left. She needed no reminder how close the deadly drop was.

Where was Wisp?

The safest way to the river was simply to sit on the moss and slide. Despite her hurry, Jenn used whatever she could reach with her hands to slow her descent.

At the bottom, thorn bushes and round slime-coated stones became the challenge. Cloth and skin caught and tore. She teetered her way through the shallows until she felt flat rock underfoot.

The current tugged at the bottom of her skirt. Quickly, Jenn tucked it up, securing the ends through the waist. She eased forward, step by careful step. The water should have been warm. It was numbingly cold and reeked of wet ash.

A massive log that should have floated to an easy stop against the riverbank behind the Treffs, heralded by ducks, careened through the rapids and splintered as it flipped end over end.

Barely midcalf and Jenn could feel the power of the unseasonable current, trying to knock her down and wash her over the falls with the log. She stopped, afraid to go deeper.

Where was Wisp?

She searched the tumble of water coming toward her. Half the river was in deep shadow; the rest glared with sunlight. Her foot slipped and she caught herself in time, heart pounding in her throat. Where was Wisp? Others asked her to find things all the time. Well, now she had to find him. She would!

A confusion of branches spun from the shadows against the opposite bank, caught by an eddy. There! A pale arm showed, then disappeared. Showed again, found a hold. A head. A bare back. The mass tipped with every movement, tipped and shed parts. Instead of lodging, it slipped inexorably closer to the rapids with each slow turn.

“Wisp!!!” She was on the wrong side. She couldn’t reach him. A rope. Where was her father? Anyone?

“Help!!!” Jenn shouted. “Someone! Help!”

It was no use. The river drowned her voice, kept her powerless.

“Wisp!”

“Who’s in the river, Cheffy?” Horst demanded, leaning from his saddle to grasp the pony’s halter and pull him to a stop.

The pony looked grateful, Bannan thought, amused.

The freckle-faced boy on its back gasped for breath. “A . . . man. With . . . no clothes!” This with relish. He noticed Bannan and his eyes went wide. “Who . . . are you?”

An excited child. A naked swimmer.

Doubtless some prank or drunken escapade. Having committed sufficient of both, Bannan was disappointed. This road had pulled him, had promised something new.

A lie. This Marrowdell was no different.

“Someone who’ll leave you to your business,” he told the boy. They’d try another road, farther north. Another place.

Horst gave him a curt nod of dismissal, his attention on the boy. “Where did you see this man?”

Bannan kneed Scourge to turn him back to the Northward Road.

Scourge didn’t budge.

“Not again,” he said under his breath. He started to dismount, intending to use the rein as a halter, and almost landed on the road again as Scourge chose that moment to leap forward.

The gelding and pony shied out of the way. Bannan grabbed a fistful of mane and hauled himself upright in the saddle, waving mute apology.

The horse, meanwhile, galloped toward Marrowdell as if determined to prove his rider had no control whatsoever.

Which was, at that moment, true.

“Idiot beast!” he shouted. Scourge didn’t slow his headlong rush. “Ancestors Mad and Besotted, I should have left you in Vorkoun’s stables!” Which would have been a thorough disaster once Scourge ran out of mice, but the notion did entertain.

A sudden shift in balance. Warned, Bannan flattened himself over the horse’s neck as Scourge plunged into the thick forest beside the road. As he clung with all his strength, somehow the mighty body beneath him found gaps between tree trunks. Whatever Scourge sought, he wasted no effort on stealth. His breath came in loud urgent bursts, like one of the cursed engines of the Eldad climbing a hill.