A Play of Shadow (62 page)

Faces were important. She’d a face—most of the time. Though Jenn doubted the blank ovals were meant to represent turn-born, she couldn’t look directly at any of them, not even the one with the armful of small dogs.

Perhaps cards supposed to tell a person’s future had to be blank, otherwise how could you use the same cards for someone else? Though why the figures had to move was beyond her.

Thomm waved them to sit, there being three chairs at the table. Bannan shook his head, so Jenn stayed on her feet. He’d gone quiet since the token dealer, with something in his face that made passersby move out of his way. Now?

Whatever he was now, wasn’t a farmer.

Thomm wasted no time. “I apologize, Keepers. One of us noticed you were being watched. An attempt was made to detain this person. He eluded capture, but we have this.”

He put a knife, half of its blade black with dried blood, on the cloth.

Jenn covered her mouth to keep in a gasp.

Bannan picked up the dreadful weapon by its ornate hilt, a humorless smile playing over his lips. “I hope no one died.”

“Death in the service of the Keepers of the Source is our hope,” Thomm said rather stuffily.

So someone had, Jenn thought.

Then Bannan did the strangest thing. He twisted the ball at the top of the hilt, then flipped it up with his thumb.

Revealing an empty space within.

“You know the owner,” Thomm commented.

“I know the knife,” the truthseer corrected. “May I keep this?”

The sect member touched fingers to shoulder. “As you wish, Keeper.”

When the artisan went to obtain a cloth in which to wrap the blade, Bannan leaned his head close to hers, his whisper warm on her ear.

“It’s Emon’s.”

Tir Half-face had listened, his face like stone. Having listened, he’d proceeded to swear imaginatively and well, until the boys’ eyes were round as saucers and Scourge gave an admiring snort.

When he’d run out of breath, it being improbable he’d run out of curses or the passion provoking them, Tir had donned coat and boots because, as he put it, someone in the bloody village had better know more than dragons and toads about this Crumlin.

And would dragon and toad mind the lads?

As for Scourge? The mighty kruar had agreed to carry the man over the snow. It was that, Tir made clear, or he’d see to it the villagers no longer provided treats.

The old fool was nothing more than a stomach on legs. Useful legs, granted.

Once the door closed, restoring some semblance of peace, Wisp curled on his cushion by the cookstove, leaving the boys to mind themselves.

If he’d thought to sleep, that hope was quickly dashed. Bannan’s house toad, having been assigned a task, attempted to complete it with pathetic eagerness.

To fail. Wisp could have told it boys weren’t something to be herded; nor, having lived with the toad, could they be intimidated by a dignified puffball. He could have, but didn’t waste the effort.

Besides, the result was entertaining.

Semyn and Werfol took eluding the toad to be the best of games, not that the poor thing could protest, only to discover the joy of pursuing it with a pot.

The dragon was certain they planned to catch it, not cook it. He doubted the toad shared his confidence. Cushions flew and a stool toppled. The pot slammed down on wood, then carpet, once on hearthstone, and came close to his tail.

Eased aside, just in time.

SLAM!

Finally, silence, if he ignored the boys’ gleeful giggles.

~Elder brother?~

Wisp yawned.

~ELDERBROTHER!~

~My thanks, esteemed little cousin,~ the dragon said with the utmost sincerity and no little amusement. ~The boys should fall asleep with no trouble at all now.~

A considering pause. Then, ~Must I remain in the pot, elder brother?~

Tempting, but the little cousin couldn’t very well stand guard unless freed. Still. ~If you escape too soon,~ cautioned the dragon slyly, ~they may want to do it again.~

A longer, almost anguished pause. ~How soon is too soon, elder brother?~

Wisp heard Werfol yawn, but then came the WHOMPF! of a cushion accurately thrown.

~I’d wait a while longer.~

It wasn’t much longer. A nose was bumped, to teary fanfare, followed by an angry push and a scraped elbow—and more sniffling. The dragon roused, sending breezes to right the toppled and tidy the messes. The boys, entranced by furniture picking itself up, forgot their tears and began to applaud.

Wisp left them the pot, showing himself beside it to be sure they understood.

It took them both to lift it, with care, off the house toad, leading the dragon to wonder how they’d manage to use the pot as a trap in the first place. “What do you have to say?” Wisp sent, adding a tiny sting to the breeze.

Werfol crouched, knees by his ears. “Thank you for playing with us.”

Semyn, being wiser as well as older, bowed graciously. “Thank you, esteemed guardian, for letting us catch you.”

And didn’t the little cousin puff proudly at that?

“To bed now,” the dragon commanded, sending a breeze to lift the boys into the air and up to the loft to forestall any argument. That it was a warm breeze and tender was no business but his own.

He followed, their bed being the most comfortable, and made himself at home at the end of it as they changed into their nightgowns.

Werfol slipped under the covers first. “Semyn,” he whispered, as if a dragon couldn’t hear, “let me listen.”

“No, Weed.” The elder brother climbed into bed. “Go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep if I don’t listen.” The bed bounced annoyingly as Werfol flung himself from side to side. “Please, Semyn. Momma sent it for us to share.”

Wisp held back a snarl. He suffered for the girl, that’s what he did, being bounced when he could be undisturbed.

“You know what Uncle Bannan said.”

Another bounce. “Uncle didn’t say I couldn’t listen. He just said not to fall asleep with it.” Bounce. BOUNCE. As if the child would prove how not-sleepy he was. “Please, Semyn!”

SNARL.

A hushed silence. No one moved.

Satisfied, the dragon curled his tail over his snout and prepared to sleep at last.

“Wisp, tell Semyn to let me listen.” Werfol wiggled from under the blankets to sit staring down. “Please? Please?” He tried a new tactic. “It’s—it’s important. I know it is. I should listen. Tonight.”

Annoyance became wary curiosity. This was no simple child, bent on his own way. Or not just that child. This was a truthseer. A truedreamer. “Why tonight?”

Semyn sat up. “Weed, stop.”

“I don’t know why,” a sudden fearful whisper. “I just know I should.”

Wisp lifted his head, now thoroughly unsettled. “You would dream of your mother.”

“He mustn’t!” Semyn grabbed Werfol, wrapping his arms around the smaller boy despite his squirming. “Weed, Uncle Bannan—”

“Left you in the warrior’s care, who left you—” the dragon pronounced smoothly “—in mine. Trust I know more of magic.” And was far less squeamish when it came to offspring.

Not that he’d eat these two. They’d found their way into his heart.

Werfol had stopped struggling, holding onto Semyn as though to solid ground. “I’m afraid.”

“Well then.” Wisp tucked his snout back under his tail. He didn’t bother listening to their whispered consultation.

He waited, as sure of them as he was of the girl.

The bed creaked. “Will you stay, Wisp? Awake? Will you stay awake if I do this?”

“Weed—” Semyn sighed. “We both will. Come here. Let me tuck you in again.” A moment of restrained bouncing, then, “Put it around your neck. I’ll help.”

The boys huddled under the covers, twitching until they’d warmed, settling slowly. The dragon kept his head up to watch, having that duty. Their heads were side by side. Round cheeks and long lashes. Curls and caps. The embodiment of peace.

Yet not. A gem glinted in the subdued lamplight, the endearment on the pillow near Werfol’s head, the chain around his neck gripped in chubby little fingers. His mother whispered to him in a voice no one else could hear.

Such strange magic. A dragon had no need of it. Would scorn it as weakness.

Other dragons were fools.

To have the girl’s voice with him—especially now, when the glow of her presence was so faint? A pain worse than knitting bone or flesh, that distance, but he endured it. For her.

Still . . . to hear her say his name?

Bah. He was sentimental. Children did that. Babies were worse, with their cooing. Give him dragonlings any day.

He licked the drool from his fangs.

After a while, the little cousin leapt soundlessly into the loft, patrol complete. It took its station at the opening.

When a moth fluttered up and through, the toad prepared to pounce. ~Do not,~ the dragon advised, having witnessed the results. The moth perched on a bedpost, cleaning its eyes with a slender limb.

Marrowdell gathered.

And Wisp grew uneasy, suspecting the sei of taking too personal an interest, though it was beyond him to banish it.

“Momma?”

Semyn opened his eyes, remaining still. Extending his neck, the dragon brought an eye to bear on the boy still fast asleep.

“Momma.” Werfol’s face worked, a small frown creasing his forehead as if he thought very hard, or was puzzled. “I don’t—”

“No!” He shot upright and awake so abruptly, Wisp barely moved in time.

“We’re here, Weed. It’s all right.” Semyn climbed from the bed to turn up the lamplight, then came to sit beside the dragon. “You dreamed. What did you see?”

Werfol panted as if he’d been running for his life. Sweat beaded his face and his eyes were molten gold. “Momma. I saw—I saw what she saw. Like the last time. Semyn, she’s still in that place!”

His brother laid a comforting hand on his leg. “Take your time, Weed. You said it was important to do this tonight. Why? Did you see anything else? Anything different?”

Impressed, Wisp left the questioning to the older boy, clearly accustomed to the vagaries of helping those with a gift.

Breathing steadier, Werfol met his brother’s gaze and nodded. “Scatterwit was there. On the windowsill.”

“Our father’s crow,” Semyn explained, never taking his eyes from Werfol. “Did you see Poppa? Was he there?”

“No.”

Oh, the world of woe in that. Tears spilled over Werfol’s cheeks and even a dragon could appreciate the depth of the child’s disappointment.

“Scatterwit was. That’s good, Weed. You know it is. She’s the smartest.”

A tiny nod. “And prettiest.”

Crow. They’d fly over Marrowdell at times, and the girl would remark on them, but crows—and their larger kin—avoided the valley, being too wily to land in fields protected by efflet or trees infested with nyphrit. Wisp shifted his weight, gaining the boys’ attention. “Does the crow matter?”

“Poppa’s taught them tricks. They’re very clever.” Semyn glanced at Wisp. “More than tricks.” Soberly. “Westietas’ crows are messengers. Spies. They can understand words and repeat them—”

“I remember!” Werfol sat straighter. “Momma was signing! In the dream, I watched her fingers move.” He sagged again. “Too fast for me.”

Semyn leaned forward. “You know that game, Weed,” he coaxed. “We play it all the time. Where Momma signs and we do our best. Try.”

“I can’t. They weren’t normal words.”

“Make the signs for me. Maybe I know them.”

Werfol frowned but brought his hands above the covers. Hesitantly, he moved his fingers.

“That’s ‘tomorrow.’ Good, Weed. Try another.”

Fingers wiggled and bent, with growing confidence. Semyn stared at his brother’s hands, his mouth working as if piecing together sounds.

Werfol stopped, clenching his hands together. “I did my best.”

“You did.” Semyn took a deep breath and let it out.

“Well?” the dragon prompted.

“Momma has to get out. Something bad is to happen or someone bad will arrive—I couldn’t tell which.” His face darkened. “Soon.”

“Here?” Werfol’s voice broke in the middle.

“No, not here, Weed. In Channen. Where Momma is. Where Uncle Bannan and Jenn plan to go.” Semyn looked to Wisp. “They’re in danger.”