A Play of Shadow (22 page)

“Stupid dragon.” Scourge, now in better spirits, half-reared. “It’s what’s in the box.”

“In the box? What’s in the box!?”

Heart’s Blood! Bannan stared helplessly as the crate split apart at every seam, wood splintering and flying in all directions, followed by clouds of sawdust and bits of string and ripped paper.

He covered his face with his hands and shook his head.

“What is it?”

Bannan peered between his fingers, then let his hands drop. “You didn’t break it!”

“Of course I didn’t,” the breeze said testily. “What is it?”

Suspended in midair, the wide tapestried frame looked shabby and worn, its once-bright threads stained by damp. “Just needs cleaning—” the truthseer began, fighting disappointment. What had he expected from an attic in Endshere?

Then the precious silvered glass within the frame caught the rising sun and took fire. With a startled cry, Wisp almost dropped it.

But didn’t.

Bannan realized he’d stopped breathing and gasped with relief.

“Old fool. It’s naught but a mirror,” Scourge announced, clearly bored. “Haven’t you seen one?”

“I didn’t live as a horse,” Wisp countered, but the kruar was already trotting toward the village. Without his cheese.

Bannan stood aside as the mirror floated through the open window and came to rest against a wall.

Noting the house toad’s attention fixed, still, on the window, the truthseer turned to face it. If he looked deeper, with greater care, something filled that opening. Something with claws that dented the wooden sill and eyes of wild purple. “Thank you,” he said, bowing to the dragon.

“What is this, truthseer?” Wisp demanded.

The creature loved her too. “It’s hope,” Bannan answered honestly. “Just . . . hope.” Hope that if Jenn Nalynn could see her glorious self with her own eyes, see herself as turn-born as well as woman, even as sei, she might be more content with all she was. “She hasn’t seen what we see, Wisp. Now, she can.” He glanced at the shabby thing and amended, “After I give it some care.”

A considering pause. Then a breeze, heavy and unseasonably warm, found his ear. “A mirror, in Marrowdell. Hope may not be what you find in it, truthseer.” A whisper, fading. “Fool.”

Marrowdell. Where light came from more than one world. Ancestors Dim and Dull-witted, what had he been thinking? Heart sinking, the truthseer forced a lopsided grin. “I’m in love with a turn-born and talk to an invisible dragon. What else could I be?”

Silence answered. The dragon had left.

The house toad leapt from the bed to squat on the floor in front of the mirror. Its great brown eyes blinked slowly; so did its reflection’s. “Ancestors Blessed and Bountiful,” Bannan said with relief. It was just a mirror.

The toad went closer.

Wisp enjoyed teasing him; it wouldn’t be the first dire pronouncement he’d made simply to be a nuisance. There’d been that time—

Suddenly, the mirror became black and within that darkness, eyes blinked again, deep within the glass. Great yellow eyes, without source in this world.

Rustlerustle.

The toad leapt to the opening in the floor and dropped through to the kitchen, rattling pots with its landing.

The truthseer grabbed a quilt and flung it over the mirror. He staggered back until his legs hit the edge of his bed, then sat with an annoyed grunt.

Was this what had driven poor Crumlin to flee the valley ahead of the rest?

“Not just a mirror,” Bannan said with disgust.

A breeze found his ear and whispered, again, “Fool.”

Covie Morrill had been a baroness in Avyo, wealthy enough to have had servants at her beck and call. A baroness who, before being exiled, wouldn’t have washed her own face, let alone a chamberpot.

Jenn couldn’t imagine it. The Covie she knew was as deft caring for the sick as she was helping in the dairy, a person so strong and kind and capable, you felt better the moment she took her first look at you. She’d not failed to cure anyone—villager or livestock or fallen bird—though it had been a near thing with one of the calves a couple of years ago, the silly beast having wedged itself between gate and barn wall only to panic, breaking its own leg.

Hadn’t Covie helped Uncle Horst, after the worst of his injuries were healed by terst magic?

Surely, Jenn thought, she could help Frann, who’d returned from Endshere a shadow of herself.

“There.” Covie passed Jenn the basin of warm water and now-damp towels, before easing Frann back against what had to be every pillow the Treffs owned. She put her ear to Frann’s chest, then rose, nodding to herself, and pulled up the blankets. “Much better. Rest, now.”

“I should be up,” Frann protested feebly. “We’re to leave for the fair.” She put a hand to her head, as if feeling for a hat. “I need to dress.”

“Later,” Covie assured her. She took the strayed hand and tucked it back under the covers. “First, a short nap. Lorra’s doing the same.” She stroked the woman’s brow, then ran a finger slowly down her nose, between her eyes. “Aren’t you tired, Dear Heart?”

Frann blinked once, then again, more slowly. “I suppose I am, a little. Be sure to wake us both, soon. We mustn’t be late.” Her eyelids fluttered then closed.

Feeling oddly drowsy herself, Jenn followed Covie out of the bedroom.

Davi and Zehr had been hard at work, the past two days, rearranging the Treff household to accommodate illness. Frann was now in Lorra’s bedroom, not that she seemed aware of the change. Lorra had insisted, her room being larger, brighter, and freer of draughts, according to her, and her bed superior in every way.

Jenn hadn’t noticed any difference, in the rooms or their furnishings, so she thought Peggs must be right, that doing anything was better than feeling helpless, especially for someone like Lorra Treff.

Who’d done more than switch bedrooms. The fireplace in the main room proving insufficient to keep Frann comfortable in bed, Lorra sent Davi to bring in the stone that heated his forge. When that proved impossible—just as well, Radd had said to his daughters—she’d had her son wrestle the big cookstove from the kitchen at the back of the house, into the main room, rigging a clever arrangement of pipe to carry the smoke to the chimney. She’d banished her pottery wheel to the barn, to make room for table and chairs near that heat, but left Frann’s loom and supplies where they were, ready and waiting.

As were Frann’s flutes, the old and the new.

Covie led the way into the kitchen, where Cynd, Davi’s wife, was at work. The bake oven warmed the room, melting the night’s frost from the windows. Jenn put the washbasin on the counter and hung the towels to dry over the oven. “I’ve brought a book for Frann,” she said, pulling it from a pocket. “It’s new, from Bannan. I could read it to her, if you think she’d like that.”

“Good Heart. She would, I’m sure.” Jenn saw Cynd’s hands clench on her apron as she turned to Covie, her sister-by-marriage. The two had grown close after Covie’s husband died; closer still when Anten, Cynd’s brother, had lost his first wife and later—gladly—accepted Covie’s proposal. “Lorra said Frann would be joining us at the table for supper. I’ve made her favorite custard.”

“That should help her appetite,” the healer said approvingly, though Jenn noticed she avoided the matter of Frann rising from bed. “Though please keep making that broth I showed you. She should have as much as she can manage.”

“I will. I have.” Cynd’s face paled beneath its freckles. “Covie—it’s been two days. Shouldn’t Frann be better by now?”

About to go back to the bedroom, Jenn paused to hear the answer. To her surprise, Covie hesitated.

“Frann will get better, won’t she?” Jenn asked, very quietly.

“The broth,” the healer said at last, which wasn’t an answer. “And rest. Time will tell.”

A sunny bright day, though the air had a bite to redden cheeks and nose; she wore her second heaviest shawl just in case. The few wizened leaves left on the oak swayed and spun. They’d stick till spring, the tree refusing to give in to winter.

Which was silly, Jenn thought, since everything must, yet brave of the tree, to cling staunchly to the memory of summer. She appreciated that effort, newly aware of its importance.

However certain, when it came to seasons, to fail. Winter wouldn’t be denied, by oak or villager, being relentless and certain. The ice along the riverbanks still melted where the sun found it, but the water was gaspingly cold. Crossing the ford as quickly as she could, Jenn paused to dry her legs and feet. To do so, she set down her basket and sat on the rock everyone used for the same purpose; everyone who didn’t have waterproof boots, that is. She should have put a request for such boots in her letter to Aunt Sybb, but who thought of wading in icewater at summer’s sweet end?

Next year she would, Jenn nodded to herself, rubbing her toes back to life with the end of her shawl. This was Bannan’s first winter in the north and they’d all promised to help him. She’d help him best by providing a good example.

A warmer bed for them both being out of the question, this winter.

“Ancestors Blessed.” Her cheeks flared with warmth of their own and Jenn snatched up her basket before hurrying along the Tinkers Road, determined to think no more about that.

So of course she could think of nothing else when she stepped into Bannan’s farmyard, and slowed her steps to regain her composure. This entire business of beds and warmth was getting out of hand. Yes, they’d shared hers, but they’d not shared his—

Yet.

They had, she recalled fondly, shared the rug before the fireplace, and each of the chairs. The table. Not to mention the loft of the barn and, when the sun shone, the soft dry grass behind his house, and the—

“Not helping,” Jenn muttered under her breath. She came to a flustered stop, staring up at the loft window, and gripped the handle of the basket until the wicker creaked a protest, lunch being the reason she was here.

Wasn’t it?

Oh, and then didn’t her breath catch and her heart pound? For she remembered, well and truly, having breath and blood, as well as desire and hope. The matter of Bannan’s doubtless fine bed was what Aunt Sybb would call delicate, meaning neither of them spoke of it, as if there was no fine bed upstairs, while both of them thought of it, because there most certainly was.

Oh dear.

Yes, a bed was furniture and anyone could have one. But this bed was in this house, his house, with him in it. If their places were reversed, she’d be in it and this would be her house. So, if both of them were in it?

This would be their home.

She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure. Wasn’t—

—a woman.

Still, Jenn thought, she knew more of and about herself now, thanks to Mistress Sand. Soon, she might come to know enough to seize the chance, being ever-so-in-love, and Bannan willing, which she was certain he was. A home together might have happened after all.

Except it was too late.

Winter was coming to the valley, with its long dark nights; Uncle Horst and Riss had finished their urgent inventory of Marrowdell’s supplies. The village could make do, to everyone’s relief, but only if everyone shared what they had. It meant fewer lamps to burn oil and fewer rooms lit by candle.

In other words, one less house being a home.

Tomorrow Bannan would seal his against the weather and move into Devins’, an arrangement appreciated by all despite, Jenn gave a resigned sigh, what might have been.

She hefted her basket and began to smile.

It wasn’t tomorrow yet.