A Play of Shadow (11 page)

“Ancestors Grateful and Glad, Bannan,” her son said with relief. “You’ve saved the day and I thank you.”

“We thank you too,” Hagar chimed in, raising his tankard for a toast. The others did the same.

“A flute?” Bannan mused, eyeing Davi.

The smith refused to take the bait. Instead, he yawned. “I’m off to check my lads before getting some rest myself.”

The truthseer held up one hand. “About the horses—” he began. As he recounted the attempted theft, the faces of all three men clouded with outraged anger, but the two from Endshere, he noticed, also showed guilt. “I left Scourge on watch,” he finished, knowing Davi would be satisfied by that, then turned to Harty. “You’ve had other thefts. Why didn’t you warn us?”

The smith hesitated.

“Yes,” his son answered. When his father gave him a quelling look, he shook his head. “They’ll hear the rumors soon enough, Da. We’re not to talk gloom and doom at the fair,” he continued. “It’s bad for trade.”

“So’s thievery,” Davi said grimly. “What rumors?”

Bannan lowered his voice. “Is Rhoth at war?”

Davi stared at him, shocked, but Harty spoke up. “Not so’s you’d notice.” He glanced over his shoulder, but no other patrons of the inn appeared interested. “Yammering t’now. Our arse o’a prince thought Mellynne wouldna notice his doin’s, y’see. Well, t’have.” With dour satisfaction.

Hagar leaned forward. “Mellynne demanded an envoy be sent to Channen to explain. Ordo had no choice but comply.”

The elder Comber put a hand flat on the table, scowling darkly. “Aie. And no one’s heard from t’envoy since, have they?”

“The border’s been closed—” his son countered.

“More like he’s dead,” with gusto. “Or inna cellar, fed to rats!”

An envoy?

Heart’s Blood.

“Who?” Bannan demanded, though he knew the answer, didn’t he? Who else had the credentials for such a mission, familiar with Channen as well as the truce? Who else would Ordo risk without hesitation?

Being young and new to court, without influence or ties.

“Do the rumors give a name?” he insisted.

Harty began to shake his head, but Hagar caught Bannan’s urgency and frowned in thought, then his face cleared. “A baron. It was a baron. West—something.”

“Westietas.” A flash of recognition in the other man’s eyes. Ancestors Dire and Disastrous.

Emon Westietas. Lila’s earnest, unsoldierly Emon.

“Tell me everything,” Bannan urged, abrupt and harsh. “Quickly!”

“You’ve ’eard it.” Harty stood, bumping the table so piles of dishware rattled and slid. “We want no trouble w’the prince,” he said gruffly. “Come, lad.”

“I’m sorry—” but they were gone. Bannan ran a hand through his hair. He’d startled them, scared them, to be truthful. Where were his skills as an interrogator? But this wasn’t any interrogation. This was about Lila—

“Bannan.” He looked up to meet Davi’s frown. “What is it?”

“I know this baron,” Bannan admitted. “He’s family.”

The big smith was a guileless man. Concern warred with confusion on his face. “If you’re noble, what are you doing in Marrowdell?”

“Trying to be a farmer.” Bannan’s lips twisted. “Westietas is my sister’s husband.” It didn’t bear imagining, what Lila might do. “If only I knew more.”

“There’s the mail,” Davi observed.

Of course! Lila would have written. He’d have news—Bannan half rose, then slumped back down. “I was told to pick up our bags in the morning.”

“Cammi keeps them in the inn’s storehouse. Here.” Fingers slipped into a vest pocket and returned with a large black key. The smith looked sheepish but determined. “She lets me check for anything that might upset Mother. Come,” the key went back into hiding with a little pat. “We’ll visit the horses together then see what’s in the mail. Help us both sleep better,” he added keenly.

Bannan nodded, unable to say a word.

Friends indeed.

Sleeping in a bed alone, in a room alone—and a bed and room not her own—had taken some getting used to, but Jenn Nalynn had done it.

Sleeping in a house alone?

She sat up, hugging her pillow. That was harder.

She missed the little sounds. She hadn’t realized how they’d filled the space around her heart. Zehr’s boots on the floor below, Loee’s cries for attention, Gallie’s quiet murmurs. Without them, the house felt empty.

Because it was, Jenn reminded herself. Or almost.

A lump shifted near her feet, the Emms’ house toad having taken her invitation to sit on her lap to being welcome on her bed and who knew where else? It was like sleeping with a cold rock, which would be fine in summer, but by then the toads were trying to cool themselves.

Moonlight shone through a gap in the curtains; the papers on the desk were pale and her color-filled map faded. Worst of all, the shadows stole any extra light and grew, if possible, darker.

She was not wasting a candle because of shadows. Use only what you must, Aunt Sybb had told her, and not a bit more. She’d meant her fine stationery, which had come in quite handy this past summer and been completely used up by the end, but it applied to candles and their improper use, Jenn was sure.

She could wish the moon a little brighter.

Not that she would. Jenn hugged the pillow tighter, suddenly curious. Could she? Was the moon part of Marrowdell and the edge, or part of the wider world beyond? She wanted to know so much she almost asked the toad.

But didn’t. Such questions distressed them, whether they knew the answer or not.

Instead of wishing at the moon, Jenn carefully climbed out of bed, claiming one of the quilts for a wrap, then went to the window and drew aside the curtains. So invited, moonlight streamed inside. She looked out, holding her breath so she didn’t fog the glass. Another crisp night.

The corner of the Emms’ barn. Their slumbering garden. Beyond the hedge, the river and fallow fields. Beyond those, the forest and crags and the gleaming ivory of the Spine.

She didn’t feel so alone, looking out like this. As if Marrowdell itself was company. Jenn touched the glass over the Spine with a finger, exhaled to leave a circle of breath. The sei had filled her with its tears. In this, she was something other than turn-born. But what?

A question not for her list, for Mistress Sand would not speak of the sei. Like the toads, such questions distressed her.

The moon, being high above, was likely as far beyond the reach of turn-born as it was of toad or woman. From so high, Jenn thought, surely it must shine down on Endshere as well.

Taking her finger away, she pressed her lips within the circle of breath, leaving a kiss.

Bannan feared no question or truth. When he came home, she would tell him everything she learned from Mistress Sand and they would puzzle at the rest together.

Smiling, Jenn climbed back into bed, careful of the toad, and fell fast asleep.

Bannan lay on the straw mattress he shared with Devins and Davi, staring at a ceiling he couldn’t see.

No letter.

He’d emptied the mailbag and turned it inside out to be sure. Watched in silence as Davi took his turn going through the mass of letters, the smith pulling out three to fold and shove deep into a pocket, all with a fearsome scowl. Whomever kept attempting to write to Lorra Treff had a sure enemy in her son. A story lay there, understood the truthseer; not one about to be shared.

But nothing from Lila, not for him, or for Jenn.

Nor one from Tir, which he’d also expected.

There had been a beribboned package of letters from the Lady Mahavar, coated in formidable wax seals. Correspondence for Gallie and some for Frann. Lorra too, so Davi was selective. Master Dusom had the most waiting for him, being engaged in dialogues with fellow scholars, but there was a small elongated box wrapped in dark waxed paper and string for Master Jupp and an uncommon rolled parchment for Covie Ropp that might, Bannan hoped, be from her son, Roche.

There could be news of the situation in Channen in any or all of those. Or none, since why would such troubles matter to anyone in remote and magical Marrowdell?

Lila could take care of herself and the boys. She would take over Emon’s political duties in capable fashion and run the estate, truth be told, with more attention, for Emon had little love for administration, preferring to closet himself with his sons to test some mechanism or other.

Which made sense and was reasonable except for one thing.

The lack of letters.

Bannan pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, then made himself relax. A long day was behind him, a busy one tomorrow, and if he had to question everyone in Endshere about these rumors, so be it.

A soldier’s skill, to sleep on the eve of battle.

As he lay, listening to the deep peaceful breathing of the other men, he knew it was a skill he’d lost.

A snip of thread, touched by skin and warmth . . . a drop of sleep, under the tongue . . .

And the dream unfolds . . .

Stone rushes by, then stops, too close. A figure runs past, sword gleaming. Then another. A third.

Silence. Darkness.
Dread.

Light. A hand beckons.
Trust.

All the while something rustles above. Something hunts below.

And everywhere is shadow.

A moth had brought Wisp’s summons. If, Jenn thought with a touch of doubt, the white pebble in her hand was from her dragon and not some confusion by toads. She sat at the kitchen table to finish her tea and ponder the question.

Though they were generous creatures, she’d never seen nor heard of a toad relinquishing one of their precious stones. And wasn’t giving her a white pebble exactly the sort of cleverness certain to amuse Wisp? Satisfied, she closed her fingers over the little thing. Today it was, then.

Last night, she’d found herself discomfited to be in an empty house; today, she relished it. Breakfast was a hunk of cheese and a loaf’s end, washed down with hot sweet tea. Having dressed first thing in hopes of this journey, her list of questions and a token for Mistress Sand in her pocket, she’d only to decide on footwear.

Radd Nalynn, each winter, sewed his daughters new winter shoes. The waxed thread and well-oiled leather made them close to weatherproof, though the bottoms wore out, especially Jenn’s. It wasn’t as if she could help it, since it was take either the road or go over frozen fields on her way to Night’s Edge and, yes, she usually ran, being in a hurry, which led, admittedly, to holes. But they could be stuffed with straw and Radd did his best.