A Turn of Light (77 page)

For himself? For Marrowdell?

Or for her?

She could ask, but that would be far too intimate a conversation to have with someone whose letters she’d burned this morning.

The truthseer wasn’t alone on guard. Uncle Horst stood on the outskirts of the crowd, watching. Horst’s oddness, they’d called it, to stay at the fringe of events. It wasn’t oddness, Jenn thought. He cared for them and deserved better than to live out his life with strangers. She’d talk him into staying tonight, at the feast. There were too few nights left. She daren’t wait; she wouldn’t.

Master Dusom lifted his arm to point to the Spine.

Jenn’s eyes widened. What was he saying?

“Jenn!” Allin came up to her, smiling widely, and there was no chance to find out. He’d matured over the summer, his sun-weathered face more like his father’s than she remembered. He had little Loee cradled in one strong arm, her fingers tight around his thumb, and his mother and Palma followed behind. “Jenn, I’d like you to meet Palma Anan, from Endshere. We’re wed.”

As Gallie Emms looked elated, if a touch windblown, Jenn smiled at once. “Congratulations. Welcome to Marrowdell, Palma.”

Up close, the young woman’s face was cheerful and open, her eyes sparkling with wit. “Thank you. It’s beautiful here. Allin didn’t exaggerate.” She waved an expressive hand. “And in time for your harvest. Put me to work. I’m no stranger to feeding a horde.” With a wink.

“I see Devins! You have to tell him about your cousins.” Allin grabbed Palma’s hand and dashed away, Loee giggling.

His mother didn’t go with them. “Ancestors Blessed and Bountiful, I’d have been happy to have our boys safely home,” she avowed in her soft voice. “Who’d have thought I’d gain two daughters the same day?” Jenn did her best to look puzzled. Gallie, who read her face as well as anyone, chuckled warmly. “I see you know about Hettie, too. Good Heart, Covie and I’ve waited years for our children to leave games behind and stand together. I suspect Hettie and Tadd surprised only themselves.” Her eyes twinkled. “Though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell them I said so.”

“I won’t,” Jenn promised, hoping their father hadn’t been part of such discussions.

“It’s all arranged. They’ll join you and Peggs, on the Golden Day.”

So soon? Jenn thought of Aunt Sybb’s lists and the endless hours of sewing. “We’ll share what we’ve done,” she offered. Good thing Peggs had done such unreadable “P’s” and “K’s;” they’d easily pass for “T’s” and “H’s” or any other letter. Her face fell. “I’m afraid all we have to spare are goods, not dresses.”

Gallie’s dimples deepened and she brushed gray-speckled curls from her damp forehead. “For the Ancestors’ Blessing, I’m sure they’d marry in flour sacks, but that won’t be necessary. I brought my dress from Avyo, why I don’t know having two boys at the time, but now I’m glad. Wen and Frann can alter it.” She gave a brisk nod. “Anything else must wait till after the harvest. Hettie and Tadd will live with us, of course.”

There was no “of course” about it. Spring through summer, while the twins were away, Gallie used the loft to write. She’d written all manner of helpful books, with illustrations and lists, concerning what settlers and farmers should know, things those arriving in Marrowdell had not. Before Loee’s arrival, she’d begun a new tome on the wildflowers of the north, with Peggs doing some of the many paintings she’d planned and the twins bringing pressed samples from their time in the neighboring hills. Gallie’s work, under the name “Elag M. Brock” was widely published in Lower Rhoth; Master Dusom had copies, signed “Gallie Emms,” on a special shelf.

All of which because the Emms’ loft, especially in summer when the light was best, was perfect for Gallie’s work, work important both to her and an untold number of readers.

“A busy morning,” Uncle Horst commented, joining them. Before following the parade to the commons, he’d stopped to change his riding leathers for homespun pants and shirt. Had he stopped for Riss? Jenn couldn’t tell. The other woman, face shadowed by a scarf, stood at a distance with her great-uncle, unobtrusively making sure he wasn’t trampled by a careless ox or excited child. Or attacked the dema.

“And for you,” Gallie replied. “Where did you meet our latest guests?”

His pale gaze flicked to the caravan then back. “Coming from Endshere. They’d stopped at the inn for a guide to Marrowdell, and happened on your son’s wedding.” He bowed, “Congratulations, Gallie. I know the Anans to be good, hardworking people. Palma’s as wise as she is kind. Sorry to see Allin go,” with a nod, “but he’ll fit well there.”

Allin wasn’t the worry. There were new lines etched on Uncle Horst’s face, faint and unhappy, and Jenn realized she couldn’t wait till the feast. “You fit here, Uncle,” she said. “Please don’t leave us.”

“Sennic?” Gallie asked sharply. “What’s all this?”

His eyes closed. “Dearest Heart—”

Just then Battle and Brawl approached, fresh and eager to work, necks curved with pride under braided manes, feathers flying around their hooves. The three moved apart to let the team pass. Wainn, riding on the driver’s box, lost his wide grin as he turned his head to look at her.

Once the cart rolled by, Jenn discovered Uncle Horst had led Gallie away, his head bent over hers as he spoke earnestly, a conversation she wasn’t to share.

All around her, all of a sudden, people were talking and shouting, moving here and there. Oxen bawled, horses whinnied, metal ’forks clattered into the backs of empty wagons.

While she was quiet and still.

Alone.

As though she wasn’t here at all.

The wrongness of it tightened her throat. This wasn’t how she was supposed to be. She was part of Marrowdell.

She needed Wyll. Where was Wyll? Jenn looked around frantically but couldn’t find him.

A butterfly came close, tempted by her nose, then left. Grateful to be noticed, Jenn let her eyes follow it through the bustle of the commons, a scrap of living color managing to miss or be missed by everything larger. It passed the caravan, then dipped where Bannan stood talking to those he’d called enemy.

He glanced at the butterfly, then looked at her as if he’d known she was there.

As if, by his looking, she was.

Her feet moved with her urgent heart.

“A hand with these, if you would, Jenn?” Frann dumped most of her stack of folded quilts into Jenn’s arms with a relieved sigh, keeping the rest. Sweat beaded her face and she was short of breath, if not words. “Set them inside Mistress Sand’s tent, now, that’s a good heart. Lorra’s had us running with her silly pots and now I’ll be last there and late. Ancestors Laggard and Slow, if we’ll ever be ready . . .” Muttering to herself, the older woman rushed away before Jenn could more than nod.

Saved by quilts. Jenn balanced the load, careful not to look where she mustn’t.

She’d take her burden to the tent, then find Wyll.

Ancestors Foiled and Frustrated. First, Jenn Nalynn became magic incarnate and avoided him; now she ran errands to do the same. Oh, Lila would laugh.

She wouldn’t laugh to see her brother play Captain Ash again, not that Bannan used the name. She’d understand how sickening it felt to slip back into that role, to lie as served his purpose, and to read their truth or its lack.

How his heart went dead as stone.

Thus far, what he’d heard had been the truth, but he’d yet to hear enough. A dema was the Ansnan equal of a Rhothan priest, and many, like Qimirpik, were scholars. A study of stars and sun was seemly worship; whatever this man sought in Marrowdell was not. Making Dema Qimirpik something other than the jolly fellow out for adventure he portrayed with such goodwill.

His companion? On the surface, the Eld was a dilettante, pursuing his curiosity in a land no other of his kind had seen. The source of funds, no doubt, since the wagons were Eld creations, with wheels that could be changed to roll along their metal tracks like an ox-drawn train. Cost of no concern, everything of the highest quality, down to the cursed dolls peering from the windows. Like the dema, Urcet was more than he seemed. There was passion in his eyes and gestures, an impatience that spoke of burning desire.

For what, being the question.

A question so far gently evaded. Bannan knew to be patient. If they came for Marrowdell’s magic, he’d find out before the eclipse. Captain Ash would.

The truthseer kept his expression pleasant. He’d missed something, taking his eyes away to dwell on Jenn Nalynn. “Pardon?”

“I asked your opinion of our truce,” the dema repeated.

“‘Freedom from conflict, however it happens, is the great step forward,’” Bannan said, shamelessly quoting the beekeeper. “I’m sure those in the marches were glad of peace.”

“The ‘marches?’ Oh, that local trouble,” Qimirpik blithely dismissed years of conflict and death. Ancestors save him from cloistered academics, Bannan thought, his smile freezing in place. “The area near Mondir’s been unsettled far too long,” the dema went on, this to the Eld.

The truthseer couldn’t stop his frown. “‘Mondir?’”

“Vorkoun, you Rhothans called it.” The dema wiggled his thick fingers. “Her proper name’s been restored.”

Dusom interrupted with something about locating the wagons.

They’d taken away his city’s name. His home’s. Somehow, more than the stink of Ansnan cattle, more than Qimirpik’s smug face, more than memory, that shook him to his core. Hearts of Every Ancestor, he was Beholden Tir wasn’t here, listening to this. He’d stayed back with Scourge to watch for any more surprises this day, reluctantly letting Bannan play scout.

“Now, dema. Vorkoun remains the name north of the Lilem,” Urcet corrected. “Mondir will refer to the portion on the river’s southerly bank, the part of the city built by Ansnans.”

The south had better plumbing, Bannan thought numbly. Everyone knew it. Better plumbing but crooked roads.

The north . . . the Larmensu estate, now Lila’s. The Westietas holdings. Vorkoun still.

Did the Ansnans expect him to be grateful?

“Are you coming?”

Heart’s Blood, he’d been careless again. “Ready if you are,” he said quickly. The wagons were about to head to the fields; a fair guess Dusom meant to join the others.

But the eldest Uhthoff had something else in mind. “Excellent. Urcet, Qimirpik, I’m sure the Spine will offer the best overall view of the valley.”

When Dusom had pointed out the treacherous hill earlier, the truthseer’d thought it was merely to name it. “You mean to go up there? Now?” He stared at Dusom in disbelief.

“We’ve time for a quick trip,” the villager argued, misunderstanding.

He couldn’t allow this, he wouldn’t, but how . . . “Surely you’d prefer to rest, good dema?” Bannan said. “The Northward’s a hard road.” He smiled his best smile. “It’s not as if the hill’s going anywhere.”

“Truly said,” Qimirpik agreed with a sigh. “I confess I’m exhausted, friend Dusom, and doubtless there’ll be some fuss or other setting up the wagons before any of us can rest.” He waggled his fingers at the servant who waited patiently by the oxen, bell tucked safely in his belt.

Had the man bravely smote a dragon in his master’s defense, or struck a helpless cripple? Both, Bannan thought, deciding to be wary of him. As for Wyll, well, the dragon neither wanted nor needed his pity.

Urcet, who’d raised his gold-lidded eyes eagerly to the Spine, hid any disappointment well. “Indeed, dema. I should check the instruments after the journey. Tomorrow will be soon enough, thank you.”

Too soon, in Bannan’s opinion, but he’d done his best for now.

Dusom bowed his head. “As you wish. I do insist, good Qimirpik, that you be rested before tonight’s feast. It should be splendid. Bannan here,” with a look that warned the truthseer the other hadn’t missed a thing and would have questions to ask in private, “provided the fine meat.”

As if he’d come all this way to feed Ansnans. Bannan gave one of the short village bows in acknowledgment. “Until the evening, then.”

“Until then.”

He pulled away, not sorry to see Dusom bound for the mill; much as he respected the Marrowdell scholar, he was in no mood to discuss the Spine. Not with another man.

It was a topic for a dragon.