A Turn of Light (81 page)

“I’ll make sure you have a bed,” she assured him. He deserved that and more. Her friend. Heart swelling with emotion, Jenn smiled. “Thank you, Wyll. For the truth.”

“I was wrong to wait.” His head lifted, eyes silver. A warm breeze whispered, “And wrong to fear. Marrowdell is in your hands now, Jenn Nalynn, as the Verge was once in mine. You will be wiser than I ever was.”

Aloud, “Go.” The dragon lurched over to lean on Satin, who didn’t appear to mind. “If you need me, I’ll be here.”

Jenn nodded and left.

Despite her claim to be needed, she walked slowly. From no answers to so many, her thoughts whirled and slipped between them like a leaf loosed from a tree. She was turn-born. It was a name, a thing one was or wasn’t by birth, with power that could be learned and controlled. That must be.

There were others like her and they weren’t strangers. The tinkers, part of Marrowdell for as long as she could remember, beloved friends and helpers, were turn-born as well. They might be different and surely were powerful, but she’d been in their arms today. She refused to believe the warmth of their embrace had been a lie.

They cared about her.

And, she tensed, knew what she was. They must, to have entered her dream. Ancestors Blessed. She’d countered their—what had Wyll called it?—their expectation.

Her chin firmed. Rightly so. Freezing people in the middle of summer might be fine and good in the Verge, but it wasn’t to be condoned in Marrowdell.

She had so many new questions. About Melusine’s promise. About controlling what she could do. About—

~ He watches you. ~

Startled, Jenn looked up to find herself beside the largest wagon of the caravan. A house toad squatted underneath it.

In the window, one of the three odemini was gone, replaced by another, darker face.

Urcet.

He might have smiled and waved. Instead, he ducked out of sight. Jenn looked over her shoulder to where she’d left Wyll. He was hidden behind the trees, so she must have been too, but neither had lowered their voices.

She gave the dolls a sober look. “Don’t go up the Spine, Urcet,” she told him, sure he listened. “What’s there is not for you.”

It was hers.

There was a bucket of river water and a ladle to sluice it over head and hands. No towels, but the cool water felt too good to dry off anyway. Bannan shook drops from his fingers as he joined the others lined up for lunch, and watched for Jenn Nalynn.

Davi’s draft horses stood resting in the shade by a hedge, bags of grain on their noses. He could hear their contented munching. The tinkers’ horses rested as well and pretended to mouth grass. Every so often one would snap peevishly at a butterfly.

A new letter sat folded in his pocket, waiting for privacy and peace. He touched it, now and then, and smiled.

Not from Jenn, but Lila. Horst had brought it from Endshere, along with mail for the others. Tir had scampered off with a letter of his own, doubtless hoping the baroness would agree with him. Bannan’s smile deepened as he stepped up to the makeshift kitchen. Lila had also sent a well-wrapped package, well in time for Jenn Nalynn’s birthday. He hadn’t opened it. That would be for her to do.

And if he imagined that glorious smile would follow? Well, he was a hopeful sort, wasn’t he?

“Fair morning, good sir.” The young bride from Endshere smiled back as she handed him a bowl of bread. They’d met before, in her family’s inn. Not her doing, or her family’s, that bandits had trailed them up the Northward; their good wishes had been truthful. No, his bet was on a shifty pair at a corner table, remembering their too interested eyes.

From the sparkle in hers, she remembered him well enough. “Thank you,” the truthseer said. “Palma, isn’t it? Bannan’s my name. Congratulations.” He gave a courtly little bow and she blushed. News of his settling in Marrowdell would return with her and her new husband, no doubt, to spread with every visitor to their inn. “I’ve a farm over the river now,” he continued blandly. “I’ll grow turnips. Turnips and beets. Ancestors Dutiful and Diligent, you can’t have too many turnips.” He circled his fingers piously over his heart. “Mainstay of life, turnips. Though beets have their place in the diet. Can’t do without—”

“So true,” Palma interrupted, her smile grown fixed. She hastily pressed a spoon in his hand, then waved him along as though shooing away a fly. “Stew’s in the pots.” Her attention turned hopefully to the next in line.

Hiding a grin, Bannan moved aside.

There were two barrows with stewpots, with tea and more food on the end of a wagon. Most of the village stood around in little groups, bread bowls in hand. On the way to fill his, the truthseer overheard Davi say to Clay they’d made good progress, despite the morning’s slow start, then Zehr explaining to Anten how he’d rather be here than home while Gallie coped with both sons getting wed on the same day.

Bannan knew himself in no hurry for that day to arrive, especially now, with, Ancestors Battered and Bent, Ansnans and an Eld in Marrowdell planning something that could scare a dragon. Tonight’s Beholding would express his sincere hope the Ancestors had no further surprises in store.

The quality of this meal would be no surprise, he was sure. “Fair morning, Peggs,” he greeted, eagerly holding out his bowl.

The elder of Radd’s daughters looked up with a pleased smile. “Bannan. How are you finding the harvest?”

“Ask me tomorrow,” he grimaced and put a hand to his back. “Here I thought farming was the easy life.”

Peggs laughed as she ladled stew into his bowl and handed it back. “You won’t be the only one sore,” she comforted. “Enjoy your lunch.” When he couldn’t help but look around, her smile faded. “Jenn’s with Wyll.”

“Then I’ll see her another time.” He’d no right to be disappointed, having pushed the dragon to talk to Jenn Nalynn. Bannan lifted his bowl appreciatively. “My thanks, Peggs.” He turned to go.

“Bannan, wait.” Peggs waved Riss to her, giving her the ladle. “I’ll be back,” she assured the other woman, then nodded for him to come with her, away from the rest.

Mere paces from the tall hedge, Peggs whirled and stopped him in his tracks, her eyes flashing. “Do you love my sister?”

As daunting as her lady aunt. Bannan didn’t blink. “With all my heart.”

“Hmm.” She studied his face as intently as if she were the truthseer, nodding as she came to some decision. “Bannan, Jenn’s in trouble. Wainn says no one can help her, but—” her lip trembled then firmed, “—but I refuse to believe that.” Said fiercely, for all she kept her voice low. “You must try. Please.”

He tensed. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s—no, best you see for yourself,” she told him. “Be with her at sunset. What’s happening—it happens then, and getting worse, I know it. Yesterday, Jenn hid from me. From everyone.” She reached out, an unconscious gesture, not quite touching his arm. “I haven’t gone to Wyll. He’s a bit—excitable—when it comes to Jenn, and I’m not sure he could help. Not this. I think—I hope you can, truthseer.”

“I’ll go at once,” Bannan declared hoarsely, ready to run to the village. “Where is she?”

“Wait.” Her fingertips, cool on his wrist, held him in place. “For sunset. When the light changes everything. Jenn’s told me you see it, Bannan. What the rest of us don’t. Another Marrowdell.”

“I do.”

Eyes dark with worry, Peggs said what sent a shiver down Bannan’s spine. “Hearts of our Ancestors. When you look at my sister then, I hope you’ll see her still.”

It wasn’t cowardly, Jenn Nalynn told herself, not to want to be seen at less than her best. Or shirking, since wasn’t the hardest part of taking lunch to the fields when the pots and baskets were full and heavy? Peggs and the others wouldn’t need her on the way home.

And their father did. He’d smiled with pleased surprise to have her back so soon and, being cheerfully oblivious to her second-best dress, straightaway sent her upstairs to help make ready.

Alone in the light-filled and airy attic, it didn’t matter if her cheeks were flushed or her feelings were a horrid jumble sure to show on her face. Nor would she encounter Bannan Larmensu.

Which she mustn’t, not yet. She wasn’t ready.

Hard enough being calm as it was.

In a short while, right here, the milling would commence. The pulley assembly would slide along the greased roof beam, ferrying grain to the bin. From the bin, like a golden waterfall, the grain would plummet through an opening in the attic floor into the hopper. From the hopper, carefully controlled by Radd Nalynn, it would splash down to the millstones and be ground into flour. The flour, in turn, would flow smoothly down the chute to the cool basement and be bagged.

Filled, the bags would be hooked to a moving strap to be pulled back up to the attic. So long as all ran smoothly, the process wouldn’t stop while there was light.

To make sure the pulley was ready, Jenn gave its ropes a little tug.

To make sure the weather didn’t change in some untoward fashion, she sat in the opening, looking out over the village, and tried, very hard, to be serene and at peace.

“Easier said than done,” she said morosely, letting her bare feet swing in air. As for her duty, to be happy?

She could be, and was, happy for those who were happy themselves. That wasn’t what Wyll meant, but she couldn’t decide to be happy herself. It didn’t work that way.

A moth walked around the beam to rest on the sill’s edge, keeping within her shadow. She offered it a finger; it shifted out of reach, but didn’t leave.

“It can’t be every feeling,” she assured the moth. If it was, there’d have been no end of thunder or unseasonable air or rain when there shouldn’t be. Ancestors Blessed, Aunt Sybb would have noticed by now.

Perhaps only unusual feelings could manifest. New or very strong ones. In her everyday life, other than frustration or being angry at Roche, she couldn’t remember ever having very strong feelings.

Until her grief in Night’s Edge.

Her despair on the road.

Such feelings were dangerous. Jenn shuddered. She might not be happy, but she wouldn’t, absolutely wouldn’t, be dangerous. She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, and did her best not to feel anything at all.

The moth took tiny careful steps across the wood, within her shadow, to climb a fold of her skirt. Once there, it stopped and fussily tidied its wings, its big dark eyes aimed outward as if she was nothing more than a safe and handy perch.

Oddly comforted, Jenn leaned her head against the beam and closed her eyes. She needed to control her magic, like the other turn-born. Wyll promised to teach her once they left. But he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know she couldn’t wait that long.

The river babbled close by and roared in the distance. Nearer, birds called one to another and people did too. Wainn’s old pony sent up a plaintive whinny every so often, missing Battle and Brawl despite an orchard crowded with new and old friends.

A heart wasn’t always sensible. Hers ached for what it couldn’t have, too.

“Jenn!” Radd’s voice rang up the stairwell. “Get ready! The grain’s here.”

Jenn sprang to her feet, hurrying to swing out the hoist, glad to leave thoughts of love and her perilous magic behind.

And let the mill’s begin.