A Play of Shadow (14 page)

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

Great Gran’s chin curled toward her nose as her whole body shook. Laughing, he realized belatedly, and at him, without doubt. After a moment, she stopped and dipped her head, peering up at him. “I see what binds a heart, Bannan Larmensu, as you see the truth. Your love is in Marrowdell. A daughter of Melusine’s.” Sharply, “Hush! I’m neither your enemy nor a fool.”

For he’d started—how could he not?—about to protest she mustn’t speak that name, no matter they were alone for the moment. Taking a breath, he asked, with care, for she was no one he’d dare offend, “May I ask, then, who you are to me?”

Her finger traced a line within the grain of the bar top’s gleaming wood, then stopped. “One who has lived in Marrowdell—and witnessed its magic.”

“But—”

“Surely they told you. Of the first to settle Marrowdell?”

They had, but the first to live in the homes built by the turn-born hadn’t stayed long. “What made you leave?” he asked quietly, but he could guess. “The dreams?” For in Marrowdell, the Verge crept too close to sleeping minds, strange and, to most, disturbing.

Within her wool, she shivered and nodded. “We loved the valley. Named it. Tried to make it home. Oh, I was fine. Better than fine.” A pause. “Things changed. My family and the others fled. They died,” as calmly as if relating a history of strangers. “A storm caught us on the road, without shelter. I survived.”

Bannan laid his hand near hers, palm up. A finger, cool and dry, touched it then curled away.

“Don’t pity me, boy,” she snapped, but kindly. “Ancestors Witness, I’ve had a good life here. Outlasted three husbands, I have, and raised fine children. Tho’ for too many years, I thought I must have dreamed it all, for no one here believed me. The great toads. The magical light. Dancers in the trees. Then people moved into Marrowdell again, people like Melusine, who could thrive there, and I knew it was all real.”

People who’d stopped here on their journey. Oh, and thinking that, wasn’t something else more than likely? “Lady Mahavar.”

“Sybbie?” Another laugh. “We’re good friends. How else would I know you, Bannan Larmensu, once of Vorkoun? Sybbie and I share news over a bottle of Marrowdell’s wonderful water every fall. Have done for years.”

The Northward Road, Bannan realized to his chagrin, had its sentries after all, albeit older and better bundled than he’d expected. “Great Gran,” he said with a little bow, “you must have thought me a rare fool when I came through before.”

“Oh, and you’re not one now?” But a tiny eye winked. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, boy. I saw some potential. For Marrowdell, if not here.”

Like Aunt Sybb and Mistress Sand, this woman would be his enemy if he threatened those she loved. Like them, she’d be a priceless ally if he held her trust. Bannan bowed deeper in acknowledgment, then looked up with his heart in his eyes. “I have seen Marrowdell’s marvels,” he confessed. “Among them is Jenn Nalynn, the love of my life.”

“Sybbie’s youngest niece. Ah.” He began to sweat during the weighty pause that followed. Abruptly, Great Gran spoke again. “Here’s a curious thing. Those who forget Marrowdell’s magic have forgotten her too. I would ask you why . . .”

The truthseer pressed his lips together.

Another silent laugh. “Well enough. Listen, then, while I tell you of this—” a second light kick at the mysterious crate.

When Great Gran was a young woman, Endshere had been little more than a scrape alongside the Northward Road. Toil and time it took, in great measure, to wrest farmland from the grip of trees older than Rhoth itself. There were those who endured, understanding they built for the future, not themselves.

And those who fled the overwhelming forest, seeking easier work in Weken or the cities of Lower Rhoth.

A rumor started, no one later could say how, of a valley to the north already cleared and planted, with empty homes and a mill waiting. Surely a fantasy, the sort dreamed by those weary of ax and chain, of fire and stump. No one was willing to pack up and move deeper into the wilderness without proof.

Then, one day, a man arrived. He came in a wagon, but was no settler, being past his prime in years and frail. Tralee was his name, Crumlin Tralee, and he stood on a barrel in Endshere’s poor excuse for a commons to speak at length and with passion. He’d come, Crumlin told them all, to gather families for a new settlement, one where the hardest work was already done.

Clods of mud and worse were thrown his way, for those who believed in Endshere could ill afford to lose a single strong back. But there were those who listened, for Crumlin was an educated man and well-spoken and convincing.

Not that any guessed what else he was.

So when Crumlin and his wagon of belongings left Endshere for the promised northern settlement, others went with him.

He hadn’t lied. Marrowdell was as welcoming and fertile as any could hope, and the families settled in, filled with joy and expectation. Crumlin himself took the house farthest from the rest, being, as it turned out, solitary and unhelpful and concerned with his own affairs.

No matter. They had the valley and new homes. All began as well as anything could.

Until the dreams.

Few at first, and dismissed. More, as time passed, and worse. The valley, it seemed, didn’t care for them. Barely tolerated them.

Actively hated them.

What started as quiet concern became urgent flight. Though Crumlin argued against it, calling them cowards and nearsighted and fools, the would-be villagers began to pack everything of value and wouldn’t listen.

Despite having no love for Crumlin, once wagons were loaded and ready to depart, the good people went to fetch him, unwilling to abandon anyone to the valley.

But he was gone.

Food had rotted on his table, meaning he’d left days before and in stealth, abandoning them. Outraged, the villagers scavenged his house, viewing it only just to take Crumlin’s expensive things; he having led them to such a dreadful place and them returning to Endshere the poorer and in some disgrace.

Had the frightened folk needed aught else to push them on their way, it was the ominous build of clouds to the north, and the growing chill to the air.

“Bones and wagons lay on the road, left till spring,” Great Gran finished.

“With you the only survivor.” Bannan shook his head.

“Was I?” Her head tilted. “Only the bears know. The people of Endshere gleaned what they could; a debt fairly paid, to my mind. As for this?” another kick at the crate. “If it returns to Marrowdell, brings a smile, it’ll pay for its keep in my attic these many years. It is—” with triumph “—what you asked for in the market.”

Why wasn’t he surprised? “Ancestors Blessed. I should have come first to you, dear lady,” he conceded graciously.

Wrinkles creased with, he thought, satisfaction. “Now you know better.”

Bannan smiled and reached for his purse. “What do I owe you?” Tir would protest, but he’d not haggle a price, not with this lady.

“Keep your coin.” She shifted within her wool wraps like a bird settling into a nest. “I would have a story of Marrowdell, tonight by the fire.”

It was more than the truth. Did he not feel the wistfulness of that, the aching need, as if it were his own? Speechless, the truthseer nodded.

Her finger crooked toward the stairs.

Dismissed, Bannan stood and bowed, then bent to retrieve the crate. Careful of Great Gran’s booted toes, he managed not to grunt in surprise at the weight, sparing himself another laugh at his expense. The saddlebags and books would have to wait on the bar.

Anticipation, sweet and proud, made him grin as he carried his gift away.

Jenn would never expect this.

Whatever she’d expected in the Verge, it hadn’t been the most comfortable chair imaginable.

Made of rock.

Which it wasn’t. She needed more words, Jenn thought, stroking the silky blue whatever-it-was with delight. She’d stepped through the flower-petal door into a small, but pleasing space, bright—though there were no lights or windows and the door had closed—and warm. Being dressed for summer, the warmth was something she appreciated; her cloak, scarf, and heavy tunic had remained behind, in Wisp’s house.

Though wasn’t here more his home than the clever little dome of crystal and wood he’d built in Marrowdell? “I hadn’t thought dragons lived like this,” she said aloud.

Wisp snorted. He’d stayed as she’d found him, curled into a ball, his bearded snout resting atop his good hip, tail covering his clawed feet. The twin puffs of steam rose to the ceiling then vanished. ~I live like this,~ he corrected. He lifted his long head to gaze around, staring longest at the now-folded petals of the door. ~You’ve changed it.~

She had? “How? What’s different?”

~It’s better,~ Wisp assured her, which, though uninformative, was certainly reassuring. Jenn settled back into the softness of her own seat, a seat that had formed itself from one wall and fit her to perfection. The dragon’s jaw dropped open in one of his smiles. ~As for how, Dearest Heart? Only you could know. This was built by the sei. Only sei can change it.~

Not reassuring at all. Jenn jumped to her feet and started to pace, only to find the wall moving away from her so she could, presumably, pace forever in the same direction which wasn’t pacing at all, but walking through a mountain. She stopped. So did the wall. “Oh dear.” How very odd.

~Sand is outside.~ Wisp’s eyes half-closed.

“Ancestors Blessed.” At first relieved, Jenn began to frown uneasily. “Why doesn’t she come in?”

~Thanks to you, she cannot.~

Rather than say “oh dear” again, Jenn stared commandingly at the petal door. When nothing happened, she ordered, “Open!”

It refused.

Well, this was a bother. She went to the door and touched it gingerly; her finger sank in and came out again, as if nothing was there, but something was. She could lean on it.

Though she’d matured beyond stamping her foot in frustration, to her aunt’s relief, the temptation to do just that made her twitch. “What should I do, Wisp?”

His eyes were fully closed, his head back on his hip and not a care in the Verge, her dragon. If she believed the pose, which she didn’t. “Wisp. Please,” Jenn urged. “We’re trapped in here!”

~We are not,~ he disagreed serenely. ~This is a sanctuary. It grants protection from the dangers outside. Beyond counting they are, in the Verge, and most quite deadly, but none dare challenge you, Dearest Heart.~

Oh, her dragon was enjoying himself. Enjoying her newly powerful self, was the truth of it, and as much as Jenn appreciated his extraordinary confidence, having none of her own, she didn’t think it wise of Wisp to make assumptions. “Mistress Sand is outside,” she pointed out.

~As a danger should be.~ A thoughtful pause. ~She grows annoyed. Turn-born, until now, have intruded here at their whim. I like this much better.~

“She’s not a danger, she’s our guest.” As well as someone Jenn preferred not to annoy in any sense. “Could you talk to her through the door? Ask her to—” wait a moment, while they prepared tea? The humor of it struck her and she laughed.

The petals unfolded, letting in a blast of heat that dissipated almost at once.