A Play of Shadow (45 page)

“‘Constables,’” Jenn echoed, as if tasting the word. “Canals. A city under clouds.”

“‘Dragons.’” Kydd came back to the table and sat, steepling his long, artist fingers. Over them, his face grew troubled. “Dragons and who knows what else. Don’t mistake me, Jenn. I told Peggs the Verge is your other home, because that’s the truth. You’re part of it. But what of Bannan?”

She gave her brother-by-marriage such a surprised look Bannan almost laughed. “He’ll be with me.”

“And you won’t leave him? Not even if you’re tempted?”

Her surprise became something else. “What are you saying?”

“Kydd,” Dusom said.

A caution and timely, the truthseer thought, seeing his breath cloud in the room’s sudden chill.

His younger brother shook his head, either at the warning or Jenn’s reaction. “The Verge is a magical realm. The real danger might not be the obvious. You can’t know what might call to your turn-born self. What might try to lure or distract you, to leave Bannan unprotected. No insult intended,” to the truthseer.

Who spread his arms. “None possible.” He bowed his head to Jenn. “I put my life into your hands, Dearest Heart, without question or fear.”

The air warmed again, but she didn’t smile, as Bannan had hoped. Instead, she frowned and made to speak, then changed her mind, closing her lips.

Heart’s Blood. It wasn’t a lie.

But it wasn’t the truth.

What hadn’t she told him?

They would cross into the Verge at the turn, today, there being no need to wait and every reason to hurry. Bannan worried about Werfol as much or more than his sister, who they now knew languished in a cell.

About her too.

Rustlerustle.

Jenn ignored the eyes, still scratching at the mirror. Her bag, stuffed with simples and hair ties and her second-best dress, waited on her bed. The Emms’ house toad squatted sentry on the floor.

They’d told the other villagers the truth, or most of it, so Werfol wouldn’t be upset by what any villager said to him and, as importantly, so those they left behind would know where they’d gone and why. If not how. No other villager took the Tinkers Road to its end. All of them were comfortably convinced it led to where the tinkers lived, some place distant and foreign. Saying they were off to see Mistress Sand, to ask the tinkers about Lila, left most of Marrowdell content.

Those who knew about the Verge and Channen were left to worry. As Bannan, Jenn thought again, worried about her.

Rustlerustle.
“Hush, you.” She’d rewrapped the mirror, adding a leather strap. Before leaving to meet Bannan, she’d bury it in the snow behind the privy where it could “rustlerustle” to its heart’s content. She wouldn’t have Gallie or Zehr—or the baby—encountering great yellow eyes in their loft. Or let those eyes watch Marrowdell.

Eyes she’d explain at her first opportunity. Thanks to Kydd, Bannan knew full well she’d left something unsaid. Matters had happened rather quickly, that was all. She’d tell him all about the sei and the toads and the efflet and the—

Rustlerustle—Crack!

Jenn froze, hands on her bag.

GrrissshSnapcrackle.

She didn’t need to turn to know what the sounds meant. The mirror—wrapped in canvas and rope and leather, leaning safely against the wall—had shattered.

Was whatever owned the eyes about to escape?

Taking a steadying breath, Jenn looked over her shoulder.

The toad, having leapt away, crept forward.

To her relief, the canvas around the mirror merely had a bulge at the bottom, where shattered bits of mirror would slide and gather. Nothing worse.

Just as well, then. Or not. Glittering specks of glass littered the floor, having slipped through folds in the canvas. Sharp broken glass couldn’t be far behind.

~Be careful, elder sister.~

“I will.” Once nothing else went
snap
or
tinkle
, she laid the mirror, in its wrap, flat on the floor. None of the glass must fall through a crack or get into the rug. Or anywhere else. Untying the ropes and strap, she eased open the canvas.

The frame remained intact. Behind where the glass had been was a piece of wood, stained as if once wet. She spread the canvas flat.

Glass piled at one end, all splinters and jagged shards like ice where it met stone, except ice wasn’t this stygian black.

Eyes opened. Great yellow eyes. A pair in each and every piece, down to the tiniest speck.

The house toad launched itself under her bed.

To be honest Jenn found the regard of so many a little disturbing herself.

Eyelids rose and fell. Dozens. No, hundreds. Though faint, the
rustlerustle
of so many was like wind through a grain field.

Something white fluttered at the window, catching her attention. Not snow, but an unseasonable moth, trying to get in. The sei didn’t appear to notice or require conveniences such as opened panes or doors, so Jenn opened the window for the small thing, moths being of Marrowdell. “You are welcome here,” she told it, then turned to the glass. “You are not.”

Every eye snapped closed, leaving black and featureless glass. The moth hovered at a cautious distance, pulling out a parchment upon which it inscribed a note with the tip of a leg. At some haste, Jenn thought. Then it rolled up the parchment, tucked it in the jeweled sachet moths carried, in Marrowdell, and flew back out the window as if she wasn’t even there.

Well.

The eyes opened. “You weren’t lost at all,” Jenn accused. “You’ve been hiding.”

No blinks. So it lied too.

She closed the window, pondering what to do. Gallie would be up to use her desk and where Gallie came, she’d bring the baby. Hopefully the eyes couldn’t move on their own. To be safe, she bent to look under the bed. “I’ll be right back,” Jenn told the toad. “Please keep watch.” It didn’t look happy, but eased out and sat, staring.

And being stared at.

The Emms, having said their good-byes, had gone to visit Tadd and Hettie. They’d done so to keep Loee out from underfoot while Jenn packed and to distract Hettie, unhappy not to have a typical Marrowdell gathering to fare well the travelers, fresh snow and mysterious circumstances notwithstanding.

All for the best, as it turned out, Jenn relieved to avoid awkward questions. She took the largest stew pot from its shelf and hurried back upstairs armed with the pot, dustpan, and straw whisk.

She stood in the middle of the room, brandishing the heavy pot. “Fair warning,” she told the pile of broken mirror. “Leave now, or suffer the same fate!”

Melodramatic it might have been, but the threat—or pot—had the desired effect. The black winked away, leaving sparkling glass. Jenn examined each with care, her reflection sliced into dozens of Jenns and Jenn pieces, but whatever—whomever—had spied from the Verge was gone.

Good. If eyes watched, she wasn’t sure she could do what must be done.

Short work to sweep up the broken glass, dumping it by the dustpan load into the pot. Jenn used the whisk to knock free the few pieces still held by the frame, adding those to the rest, until all that remained were the specks that had escaped the canvas and frame. She mopped those with a rag dampened in her washbasin, putting the rag in the pot too.

After some thought, she shoved the canvas and ropes well under her bed, beyond the reach of little fingers.

Two trips down the ladder, one with the pot, the other with the frame. The pot, half full of glass, she set on the cookstove.

The frame? A pity, Jenn thought, running her fingers over the tapestry. Even though worn to bare threads at the corners, with the rest in desperate need of a good cleaning, this represented days, perhaps weeks, of painstaking work. The pattern, what showed of it, was hardly magical. Leaves and buds. Small flowers, some with bees. Apples of various sizes. How could there be harm in it?

She’d take no more chances. After knocking apart sides and back, watchful for more glass but finding none, Jenn used Zehr’s saw to cut the frame, tapestry and all, into pieces that would fit into the pot.

Once every bit of the mirror was in the pot, Jenn used tongs to take a fat glowing coal from the cookstove, adding it on top.

She’d vaguely wanted more light from a candle, and it had answered. This time, her wish was deliberate and sure. She fixed her gaze on the ember. Heat!

In answer, its glow went from red-hot to white.

More, she insisted. Hotter.

Thread smoldered and fell apart. Wood snapped and caught fire, burning with the smell of apple.

Hotter still, Jenn Nalynn wished, and the pot itself began to redden, while within, thread vanished and wood turned to ash that crumbled and drifted up and away.

The pieces of mirror began to melt. They softened, flowing together until there were no pieces at all but a clear red puddle.

Before anything else could melt, including the perfectly good pot and the top of the Emms’ ’stove—let alone the rest of the rather warm kitchen, Jenn changed her wish, or eased it, satisfied when the red of the puddle very slowly began to clear.

Leaving the pot, and glass, to finish cooling under the watchful gaze of the house toad—though she trusted the creature wouldn’t get too close—Jenn went upstairs to finish her packing.

Sack filled, ready to go, she took a last long look around the loft. Oh, and didn’t something catch her eye? “Ancestors Crazed and Confounding,” she muttered. There, in the shadows. A shard of mirror. “How did I miss you?”

She nudged it free with a toe. To her dismay it was black.

Two great yellow eyes opened. Blinked.
Rustlerustle.
Again.

A plea perhaps, though a demand seemed more likely. With, she thought practically, no time left to deal with either. The shard being small enough to fit in an envelope, Jenn took the second last from her writing desk and tucked the glass inside, careful not to cut herself on an edge. She put the envelope, shard inside, into a sock from her bag. That sock she wrapped inside its mate, tying the top and stuffing the result to the bottom of her bag to be dealt with later.

She’d take the shard to Bannan and Wisp, and seek their advice.

Jenn paused at the top of the ladder. If she looked around again, it would make the moment seem more than it was, so she climbed down as if it were a normal day, watching for the step where Zehr sometimes left his saw. The kitchen was tidy, dishes for four dried and put away. The table would be set for three tonight, unless the Emms stayed for supper with Hettie and Tadd.

She wouldn’t wish. She’d made one with Wen, to come back, and that would have to do. Though as Jenn left the Emms’ house and her home, she wasn’t entirely sure that had been a wish with turn-born magic.

Or simply one from her heart.

The Emms’ house toad watched from its spot near the cookstove, offering no opinion as Jenn, using rags to protect her hands, carried the pot outside. She tipped it upside down behind the privy, pleased when the glass, now a clear lump with the faintest swirl of silver—more than silver, flickers of gold and hints of blue—at its heart, dropped free. The snow hissed to receive it, sending up steam; the glass crackled but didn’t shatter and Jenn was satisfied. No more a mirror.

Though it would make an interesting find come spring.

“Uncle. We could go with you.”

“We’d be very good. Wouldn’t we, Tir?”

Under the blandishment of two pairs of so-earnest eyes, the former guard turned red. “Don’t you look to me. We’ve duty here, and your lessons, and here’s where you’re to be when your uncle comes back.”

“With Momma,” Werfol said firmly. “And Poppa!”

Semyn nodded, trust shining in his face, and Bannan’s heart thudded in his chest. So much for all his careful explanations. Where was Wisp when he needed distraction?

He put his pack on the floor. “Semyn. Werfol. Lads, I want you to listen to me.” They nodded. “Ancestors Witness, it’s not an easy road we’ll take. There’s no knowing what’s at the other end.” Another, slower nod. “Jenn and I—we’ll do our very best. I can’t—I won’t—promise anything more. Werfol, you know I speak the truth.”

The little truthseer nodded a third time, his eyes gold. “Momma said you were a hero, Uncle. No one else was allowed to know and we weren’t to say, ever, but she told us. You’ll find her. You’ll bring them home.”