A Play of Shadow (31 page)

“Ancestors Willful and Witless!” Covie, who rarely lost her temper, was furious. She paced from one end of the kitchen table to the other, eyes locked on the woman sitting across from her. “I never took you for a fool.”

Lorra glared back. “I took you for an excellent healer. That was my mistake! Stick to your cows, Covie Ropps.”

“Would you care for a cuppa, Jenn?” Cynd asked politely, taking her basket.

She’d prefer a discreet and rapid exit, but having stepped into the Treffs’ kitchen mid-argument, Jenn knew she was stuck in it now. “Yes, please.”

Covie having fallen silent, Lorra turned her glower on the new arrival. “There’s no need for tea, Cynd. Jenn’s come for the boys.”

So they were still here.

Putting aside, for the moment, the mysterious requests of toad and efflet, Jenn had followed Peggs’ seemingly excellent advice on how to approach Werfol and Semyn to the letter. She’d changed into better clothes and left most of her hair loose down her back, though the difference attire made to children was, in her opinion, debatable. There was no doubting the value of cookies and sweets, and she’d added her little book to the basket.

She’d not been sure about the jar of pickles, but her sister had assured her with all seriousness that there was no telling what the Treffs had in their glass jars and Jenn should have some way to explain herself at hand.

As a jar of pickles?

They’d both smiled at that, which was Peggs’ point.

She’d taken the last part of her sister’s advice too. Don’t wait for Bannan, Peggs had urged. Act now, so when he’s home again all is well.

Which it wasn’t, not at all. “If they’ve been a bother,” Jenn began, prepared to apologize.

Cynd’s “Of course not—” was drowned by Lorra’s “Yes!” But Covie’s blunt, “They’re staying,” seemed to end the matter.

Lorra huffed. “They are a nuisance and intrusion and unwelcome. I want them out of this house!”

They were children who’d sought shelter. Jenn bristled.

Covie flattened her hands on the table and leaned into Lorra’s face. “Frann’s smiling. Telling them stories. Ancestors Blessed—she’s some appetite at last! Taken broth and tea—hasn’t she, Cynd?”

“And a buttered biscuit.” Cynd carefully avoided the glare from her mother-by-marriage as she set a cup of tea before an empty chair and beckoned Jenn to sit. “Frann’s enjoying the company.”

“Uninvited company. Intruders!”

Covie leaned closer. Lorra tried to look away, but the healer wouldn’t allow it. “Listen to me, Lorra,” softer but no less firm. “You must let them stay. They’ve done more good for her than any of us—”

“Frann needs her rest.”

“The boys napped with her this morning,” Cynd observed, her attention all for the plate of fresh biscuits she put before Jenn, who began to see how this particular family worked out its many disagreements. “They were exhausted.”

“She’s doing them good too, then. Well, Lorra?”

“Cows,” the Treff matriarch muttered rudely, then waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. I’ve no rights in my own house. Let the impertinent strangers stay.” She rose to her feet, Covie straightening out of her way. Lorra turned to frown at Jenn. “Be sure to take them with you when you leave.”

The odds being excellent Bannan’s nephews would run screaming at the sight of her, again, she shouldn’t promise anything of the sort. Catching Covie’s eye, Jenn swallowed her doubt. “I will.”

Once Lorra was gone, the healer dropped into a seat at the table, accepting a cup. Her face settled into weary lines. “I don’t suppose there’s brandy.”

Cynd joined them. “It’s in Lorra’s room.”

“Ah, well, she needs it more.” Covie pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes closing for an instant. “Ancestors Difficult and Dense. For once in that woman’s life, I wish she’d listen.”

Cynd stared into her own cup. “I don’t think she can. Not to this.”

Covie nodded and both fell silent, busy with their own thoughts. Jenn sipped her tea and tried to be inconspicuous, but Cynd looked up with a small smile. “We’ve heard about Peggs. Congratulations.”

The healer smiled too. “Ancestors Bountiful and Blessed. There’ll be children everywhere, come summer.”

Jenn didn’t answer. Couldn’t, was the truth, not right away. They changed the subject to let her remain ignorant of what troubled this house—whether out of kindness, or because she was younger, or for whatever reason. She gathered her courage. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Approval shone in Covie’s eyes. Approval followed by such sorrow Jenn braced herself.

“Frann is dying.”

She went numb, as if her blood had stopped flowing in her veins. Not that she had blood, but the feeling remained. Words roared through her. Words dreadful in their certainty.

. . . What’s to be born, will be. What’s about to die, will . . .

Ancestors Desperate and Despairing. In her worst nightmares, she hadn’t dreamed to face either choice.

. . . Turn-born can’t oppose nature . . .

What if Mistress Sand had lied? Been wrong?

What if she could—

Stay numb, Jenn told herself and tried her best, more afraid of her turn-born self in that instant than she’d ever been. Marrowdell mustn’t express her feelings—any of them. Nor could she imagine anything safe to wish, not about Frann or anyone else. But how could she not?

Her heart began to race.

Suddenly, for no reason, she thought of blue.

Not the blue of eyes or summerberries, but the otherworldly blue of her dragon’s door. As if the mere thought was a key or her touch, she felt herself inside that sanctuary, sitting on the stone that fit her better than any chair.

Safer than she’d ever been, and calm.

And as if being calm let her hear another, better voice, Jenn remembered once more Aunt Sybb speaking of the cycle of life, of babies born and those become Blessed, and she understood, at last. It didn’t matter what she could or couldn’t do.

What mattered was Frann.

With a blink, she was back in the kitchen, Covie and Cynd waiting patiently. “What can we do?” she asked, glad being numb made her sound even and adult and possibly sensible.

“Let her do what makes her happy. Keep her comfortable.” Covie sighed. “Ancestors Witness, I deserve what Lorra thinks of me. I knew Frann wasn’t strong—that she struggled last winter. I should have stopped her going to the fair . . .”

“How?” Cynd touched the healer’s hand. “We all tried, even Lorra. Frann insisted. She felt well.”

And hadn’t been.

Jenn had to ask, though she knew the answer could take away the numbness and make everything sharp and real again. “How long?”

A look came over Covie then, as if she listened to what no one else could, then her eyes rested on her tea. “Soon, Dear Heart. That’s what Lorra can’t bear to hear. Very soon.” The healer straightened and circled her fingers over her heart. “Hearts of our Ancestors,” she prayed, “the time Frann has left is your Blessing, and we are Beholden to share it. However far we are apart, Keep Us Close.”

Cynd put down her cup, bent her head, and started to cry, great racking sobs that made not a sound.

Tears prickled Jenn’s eyes, but she took a deep breath instead. “‘Keep Us Close.’”

Why this, of all the buildings in Marrowdell? There wasn’t pie.

Or peace. The old kruar prowled outside, grim as death and as conversational.

And hadn’t coming here upset Jenn Nalynn even more than when she’d fled the village?

Yet the valley hadn’t torn itself apart or whipped up a new storm. While he’d like to believe it was the girl’s growing self-control, Wisp felt uneasy. This seemed more a sei’s control than turn-born’s.

Upset by the thought, he paced around the room. Doors on either wall stood ajar, their openings filled by curtains that stopped three-quarters to the floor leaving a gap convenient for a dragon, or boy.

At least the warmth was soothing. The Treffs’ was the warmest place Wisp had been, this side of the Verge, other than the forge. He’d gone into the smith’s stronghold once, out of curiosity, then fled. The stone at its core was hot enough to soften even his scales.

Turn-born meddling.

This warmth was welcome. The wheel was gone, the loom empty and against a wall. The only movement was the flutter along the curtains with each pulse of heat from the cookstove. Like breathing.

But not.

The house toad hopped from its hiding place. ~Elder brother, I did as you requested and allowed them to enter.~ It puffed indignantly. ~Was that wise?~

Daring little cousin, to challenge a dragon. Perhaps it was life with the Treffs. Wisp ignored the offense. ~We shall see. Where are they?~

~In the room that belongs to Mistress Lorra but is now home to Mistress Frann though the furniture is Mistress Lorra’s and . . . ~ The toad, perhaps asking itself about wisdom, stopped.

Wisp waited.

The toad took a step, aiming its snout at the door beside the painting. ~There, elder brother.~

He’d overheard the conversation in the kitchen. ~The boys stay until our turn-born chooses to leave.~ Wisp informed it. ~They will be welcome to return anytime. If you think it wise . . . ~

The toad paled and shrank. ~Of course, elder brother.~

Satisfied, the dragon went to the curtain and slipped his head beneath.

Inside the room, sunlight played over a bed larger than Radd Nalynn’s, covered in such a wealth of blankets, pillows, and furs Wisp had to restrain the urge to test their softness for himself.

The bed being occupied.

He stepped beside it, nostrils atwitch. Death filled the air, imminent and potent. A scent sure to gain attention, carrion being the easiest catch of all. One had only to wait.

This death’s scent was distasteful, as would be that of a dying dragon. Wisp sneezed.

“Something’s here, Semyn.” The bed shook violently, then a head crowned with dark curly hair appeared hanging over the side. Eyes of black-flecked gold stared down. For a moment neither Wisp nor Werfol moved. Then, “It’s the dragon.”

Another shaking of the bed. “Let me see!” A second head, this crowned in reddish brown hair, appeared. Blue-green eyes peered this way and that. “Where?”

Werfol pointed, his finger almost at Wisp’s snout. “There! Right there!”

Semyn squinted. “I wish I could see it.”

“You have to—” The younger boy gave Wisp a beseeching look, his lower lip trembling. “Why can’t Semyn see you?”

He was growing soft, that was the truth of it. Snarling to himself, Wisp caught a bit of sunlight, enough to glint on a scale or two, and reveal his eyes.

Semyn’s widened until they looked about to pop from his head and Werfol smiled fiercely. “I told you!”

Wisp hid himself again.

“What is it, lads?” more whisper than voice.

Werfol sat up. “There’s a dragon by your bed, Lady Frann. Semyn saw it too.”

“I did!” said his brother.

“Might—I?”

Both boys threw themselves over the side of the bed again. “Please, dragon?” Semyn whispered.

“Please?” Werfol looked directly at Wisp.

Dangerous beings, children, the dragon grumbled to himself, wondering how he’d forgotten. Not seeing a way out that would please anyone but himself—and the Treffs’ sure-to-be scandalized house toad—Wisp lifted his head above the bed.

Frann Nall lay nestled amid pillows like a bird in a nest. Around that nest were scattered trays, each cluttered with empty plates and cups. The remaining pillows, along with rolled blankets, had been piled into a formidable barrier at the end of the bed, presumably to defend against invading tray bearers.

“He’s looking right at you, Lady Frann!” Werfol exclaimed. “Can you see him?”

What the dragon saw was weakness denied by pride. Her dark gray hair had been swept into a neat braid over one shoulder. A green scarf covered her neck, soft and glittering. Gemstones twinkled on her fingers and bone-thin wrists, with more crusted around a disk of red metal pinned to the dark jacket Frann wore over her nightdress.

Strokes of red marked sunken cheeks and skin already pale bore signs of powder, but her eyes were alight with curiosity. “Patience, Werfol. Marrowdell is shy,” she told the children, in a voice more breath than sound. “Of all the times I played my flute under the old trees, only once did I glimpse its dancers.”

That any ylings revealed themselves was a marvel.

Werfol looked pleadingly at Wisp. Semyn copied his brother.

He was going to regret this.

The dragon went to the foot of the bed, the only part of the room wide enough for his wings to open, and gave a single powerful beat to lift himself to a perch on the wall of pillows.

A few toppled. The rest were distractingly comfortable.

Hoping the little cousin was occupied elsewhere, Wisp wrapped himself in light.

“I told you,” Werfol whispered.

With a gasp, Semyn took hold of his brother and tried to pull him back, clearly overwhelmed by an entire dragon. The younger boy shrugged free, insisting, “It’s safe.”

“It” certainly was not, Wisp thought, offended.

“Ancestors Grand and Glorious.” Frann’s eyes shone. “Look at you. Just look.” Her fingers fumbled at her brooch. “See that, Baldrinn?”