A Play of Shadow (8 page)

Her father wiped his eyes and nodded vigorously.

“—and,” she added, to be honest, “I’m nervous using Gallie’s plates without her home.” Those plates being family heirlooms and how they’d survived the twins no one knew.

Though, oddly, the plates presently on the table weren’t the ones Peggs usually set, but white and porcelain with fine silver edges. A gift from Master Dusom. Jenn eyed them worriedly. She’d help with the dishes, of course, as would Kydd, but these?

First to finish before the food waiting for the lovely plates cooled. “Hearts of our Ancestors—” she said firmly, only to be stopped as Peggs raised one hand, smiling very strangely.

A hand that reached for hers, the other taking Kydd’s, who reached over to grasp Radd Nalynn’s. From her father’s face, he was as surprised as she.

Until Peggs said, very gently, “Hearts of our Ancestors, above all we are Beholden for the new life about to join ours. However far we are apart, Keep Us Close.”

“‘Keep Us Close,’” Jenn echoed numbly with the rest, then blurted, “You mean a baby?”

“We mean a baby,” Kydd affirmed, smiling from ear-to-ear.

Oh, the ensuing excitement, because nothing would do but glasses be filled with summerberry wine, and once they’d had a sip their father couldn’t stop laughing as he took them one at a time in his arms, Kydd as well and Peggs last of all, to whirl around the room, risking shins and toes and elbows, but no one was hurt because joy didn’t hurt.

And Jenn caught herself with her heart in her throat about to wish it never would and stopped just in time.

Because babies weren’t to be trifled with, nor was life.

Her big sister, bright-eyed and wise, pressed a basket of steaming bread into her hands and a kiss on her forehead. “Time to eat that supper you praised so highly, Dearest Heart.”

When they sat, through no wish but happiness, the scent of roses filled the room and candleglow wrote “Melusine” on the wall.

Thanks to the girl, Wisp no longer limped down the path to his sanctuary, crystal cracking underfoot. Nonetheless, he chose that route, flying low along it, because crystal chose to die to warn him of intruders; a sacrifice he honored if didn’t understand.

Dragonkind surely thought him mad.

Maybe he was. Wisp banked and twisted, both wingtips brushing stone. His current mission had nothing safe or sane in it. Find the terst turn-born. No, find the one terst turn-born of all their kind who cared for the girl. Surely her kind thought Sand mad as well.

His jaw sank in a humorless grin.

Add the old fool to the list of those bereft of better sense. According to the little cousins, Scourge had followed his truthseer beyond the edge, returning of his own free will to the land where he’d served his penance.

When he came back—if he came back—his kind would doubtless laud him as a hero yet again. There’d be more mating nonsense. Kruar couldn’t help themselves.

Narrow heads, the dragon decided.

About now, they’d be setting their ambushes, while dragonkind grew wary or took to cliff dens. The Verge didn’t have night as the girl’s world experienced it, with its darkness and damp. Instead, here was the dimming, when the quality of light went from gloriously fierce, dragon scale taking fire and rock faces bleached to bone, to soft and subtle and sly. The silver mimrol of river and lake reflected skies of ever-changing color and hue. Throughout the dimming, landscape became a play of shadow.

And hunters ruled.

During his penance, flightless and alone, as the light faded Wisp had sought the shelter provided him by the sei. Finished and freed, he’d thought himself well rid of it.

A curious visit another time—just to see if the sei had removed the blue oval door in the rock—had discovered it still there. A cautious poke of a snout through that door, just to see if the sanctuary behind it remained, had led to a step, then why not enter?

He’d turned and bolted out again. To be sure he could. Before, the sei had locked him in during each dimming. For his safety, or to keep him where they wished. He’d not known why, nor cared.

The door proved to be his. Others assailed it, once in a while, breaking claws and teeth in vain efforts to reach him. He’d listen and yawn, then settle back to sleep. The incomprehensible sei, being mighty and negligent, might remove his sanctuary without warning, or immure him in stone.

Or not. Pointless for a dragon to worry about such things.

Home again, Wisp yawned and curled tail over snout. The blue walls having politely waited for him to still, closed in to almost, but not quite, touch. They’d become mannerly without the sei, or used to him.

Turn-born slept also, and Jenn Nalynn’s quest wasn’t so urgent that he need risk waking them.

As he dozed, Wisp snarled to himself.

When had he become mannerly too?

M
ARROWDELL SLEPT. PERHAPS
the Verge did as well. More to learn, Jenn decided, her rag-enclosed hand closing the heatstove door. She resumed her spot on the floor in front of it, well-wrapped in quilts and seated on a cushion. Each quilt was a history, if you looked closely, both in the scraps used—having come from everyone in the valley—and the final pattern. None of it was random, Jenn knew. Frann meticulously pieced this bit with that, laid those in a spiral or inset block, her plan sure from the start even if no one else could see it till the end, for she valued records of every sort.

Jenn ran her fingers over the one on her lap. It was hers and had been since she was born. As she’d grown, so had the quilt, Frann adding scraps from clothing worn too long to pass along. The fabrics were reminders and memories. And warm, she thought, snuggling into it. The other quilts belonged to the Emms, and Gallie had been most definite that she should use them, too, along with anything else she wished.

Which didn’t mean being wasteful. A half-scoop of charcoal in the heatstove would do for the night, and she’d lit only one candle. Aiming its mirror so the light fell over her lap made it look as though she sat in a tiny room of her own. Jenn arranged her desk atop the quilt. It was a short plank, well-sanded, with a hole carved into the upper right corner sized for an inkpot and a series of smaller ones for quills. Zehr had made it, having noticed their guest wrote letters whilst sprawled on the floor. Wouldn’t do, he’d told her with a twinkle in his eye. Not in a writer’s house.

She’d been inspired herself, by that writer. Oh, not to write books—she’d far rather read them—but to write lists. Aunt Sybb, Jenn thought with a smile, would approve. Or would, once over her astonishment her youngest niece considered organization of any value at all.

Organizing her thoughts, that was Jenn’s goal tonight. Free of distraction and duty, tonight was the perfect opportunity to put in words the most pressing of her questions for Mistress Sand. Questions she was almost sure to forget or be afraid to ask, once distracted by the Verge itself. It seemed momentous to take a piece of the luxuriously smooth paper Bannan had given her and put it on the desk. She dipped her quill into the ’pot Gallie had left for her use, strained to see in the dim light, and wrote:

Can turn-born have babies?

Jenn stopped, aghast. She hadn’t meant to—well, clearly she had, or the words wouldn’t be staring back at her, the last one a little wobbly—but still, she’d been thinking about travel and masks and magic. She chewed her bottom lip. This was Peggs’ doing. Between the news and the celebrating—not to mention Kydd’s face and their father’s—fine, and her own joy at becoming an aunt, which was suddenly a new distraction, because if she was an aunt, she’d need to be wise and wasn’t.

Not yet.

“The baby’s not even born,” she told the Emms’ house toad, who’d shifted closer and closer to the little stove as the coals took. “There’s growing up, you know. By the time she’s my age and ready to listen, I’ll be—” Ancestors Ancient and Aged, she’d be old!

Inspiring another question, Mistress Sand having been a child once, according to Wisp, and now seeming as mature as Riss.

Do turn-born grow old? Do they sicken and die?

Darker, deeper questions than she’d originally thought. Her chin firmed. Good questions and important.

~Elder sister. The candle?~

A most excellent one, putting out more light than she’d expected, really. Puzzled by the toad’s anxious tone, Jenn glanced at the candle, then winced.

The flame sat on the wick like a glowing balloon, wider and taller than any candle flame should or could, gleaming in the mirror like a little sun. The wax below wasn’t so much melting as bubbling, and there were runnels pouring over the books she’d stacked to raise the candle exactly where it needed to be to light her desk.

Light presently filling the main room of the Emms’ log home from rafter to toy-filled corners.

She’d made a wish.

Hurriedly, Jenn blew out the candle and found herself sitting in the dark with the toad, her important questions on her lap, and an open inkpot. “Oh, dear.”

~You saved the home from burning, elder sister,~ the toad said, ever stout in its generosity.

Given this was her first night in charge, Jenn didn’t find that a comfort. Not to mention the books, but the wax would come free of the covers; having read late more nights than naught, she’d plenty of practice at that. But saving the Emms’ home? “You did, and thank you.” Wishing not to wish didn’t work at all; she’d tried. If the faint glow from the embers had been sufficient to put quill to paper in a legible manner, she’d have written another question.

How can I not be a danger to those I love?

A small foot found her ankle, a foot tipped with sharp little claws. ~We matter to Marrowdell.~ As if it had heard and dismissed her concern.

A cold foot. “We could not manage without you,” Jenn said truthfully. She put the desk on the floor, careful of the inkpot. Aware of the great dignity of house toads, who weren’t dragons but deserved every bit as much from her, she chose her next words with care. “Little cousin, I would find it a comfort if you sat with me a while. I mean no—” disrespect, she’d intended to add, but given the lapful of soft, heavy toad immediately making itself at home, she just smiled.

Marrowdell, every part and being, mattered to her.

Redolent of hay, horse, and warm mash, the inn’s stable might have been any such near Vorkoun. Bannan held the lantern at eye level as he walked the well-worn floor between the long row of stalls, its light surrounding him. Battle and Brawl were outside, in the paddock shelter, the ceiling being too low for their heads, but the other Marrowdell horses were here, slack-hipped and already half-asleep. All had been groomed and pampered and now had a rest in store. There were more horses, for the fair drew from far and wide. Bannan took a good look at each. Most were the sturdy sort of use on a farm, thickset and hairy. Three nondescript bays caught his eye, stabled side-by-side. Good legs, wide chests, and recently shod. Fast, he judged. Their tack hung nearby, any metal darkened. By age or intent? He’d know more once he’d met their riders.

Eyes reflected cold disks in the light. Not a house toad, not here. The light found calico fur and a long tail. The barn cat, lying along a rafter, stared down as he past beneath.

Other than horses and cat—and any mice it may have missed—he was alone. The hayloft would be packed with sleeping guests later, but not this early, and he’d seen the stablehands at work repairing the far paddock fence. Such things happened, when strange horses were mixed together, though he’d have thought the plentiful feed would have kept them out of trouble.

Blowing out the lantern, the truthseer hung it on a hook and stepped into the second last stall, an arm over Perrkin’s dappled shoulders. The aged gelding sighed and gave a little shake to rouse himself, a soldier’s horse accustomed to the unfairness of life. “Not tonight, old friend,” Bannan said gently, holding out the apple he’d brought from the kitchen. Bristled lips worked soft over his fingertips, then collected the offering with a contented rumble. Scourge would have nipped the fingers, usually without drawing blood, but that depended on the treat. A mouse, preferably alive. He was out hunting his own treats at the moment, that being best for all concerned. Bannan gave Perrkin a final pat.

“—told you. Marrowdell’s here.”

About to call a polite greeting and reveal himself, Bannan checked the impulse. There was an odd smugness to the stranger’s voice. Instead, the truthseer moved into the shadows near Perrkin’s head.

“So you did.” The second voice was deeper. Older. Light dipped and bobbed along the walls and ceiling as the pair went down the aisle, pausing as lanterns were raised at various stalls. “Ancestors Bountiful and Blessed. Well-loved, these beasts, and well-tended. They’ll do nicely.”

Heart’s Blood. The damaged fence, taking the ’hands from the stable? Tir, ever-suspicious, would have spotted the ploy in a heartbeat. Bannan silently promised his friend to be less gullible in future. As for the sword he’d not wanted to bring and now would be most glad to have at hand? With his gear at the inn. Oh, he was every sort of fool this night.

He could die of it.

“Take them all, then?”

“That’d be greed to no point. There’s only the five that’ll fetch decent coin. We’ll scatter the rest, stop anyone following too quick.”

A bucket would have done. Something substantial he could send flying at a head. His hands searched, but Perrkin’s stall offered nothing he could move. If the lantern on its hook had been empty of oil? No. Better to lose the horses than risk a stable fire. For all their sakes, he hoped the thieves felt the same. Bannan shook his head and patted Perrkin, then smeared straw and manure onto his clothes. With a grimace, he put some in his hair as well.

Then stepped half out of the stall and blinked sleepily at the men standing in the aisle. “Ancestors Witness.” A feigned yawn. “When did it get dark? Have I missed supper?”

The two raised their lanterns. One was older and larger, white-haired and neatly dressed. The other was in rougher garb, pimple-faced and wide-eyed.

The third—because if he was alone there’d be a third, wouldn’t there?—just stood there, staring at Bannan through narrowed eyes. He had halters over both broad shoulders.

And a sword at one hip.

“Fair evening to you,” replied the older man civilly enough. He appeared unarmed; under that loose fitting coat he could have a brace of pistols as well as knives. Or axes.

He could, Bannan decided, use Tir about now. Or Scourge for that matter.

Even Pimple-face had a short knife.

They weren’t sure of him, yet, in the dim light. A caution about to end.

White-hair, the leader or buyer, smiled. “I’m sure supper’s still to be had, young man. Take my advice, you’ll wash before asking for it.”

His best abashed grin on his face, Bannan made a show of brushing the filth from his clothes as he calculated the odds. The stable had thick timbered walls, and they’d closed the door. No chance a shout would carry to the stablehands outside. As for his foes? Even if they were fools enough to believe he hadn’t heard them, the easiest way to be sure would be to let him by, then stab him in the back. Or knock him on the head, if they felt more kindly disposed.

The silent man, with the grim look? He’d prefer the stabbing.

Nothing to lose, then. “You fine gentlemen are making a mistake,” he said cheerfully. “Between the railroad and the truce, there’s no demand for horses. Sheep, now. They’re your best bet.”

Pimple-face laughed. “Haven’t heard about the war? Where’ve you been?”

War? It was the truth he saw, but how could it be? When he’d left—why he’d left!—the Prince’s truce had bound Rhoth and Eldad to Ansnor, the price of peace, ending generations of border raids and far worse, being access to mines and rail for the Eld’s trains.

The stable’s warmth, the light playing on their hard faces, the swish of a horse’s tail, the smells, everything around him snapped into sharp focus as Bannan’s heart began to pound with dread. By an effort he didn’t dare show, he kept his tone level. “We don’t get much news up north. Who broke the truce? Ansnor?” With what remained of Vorkoun—for the treaty returned the portion of the city south of the Lilem to Ansnor, stripping border patrols and garrisons from the rest—first in her path.

And Lila.

White-hair raised a brow. “The truce holds, stranger. It’s Lower Rhoth shouting for reinforcements, including mounts. Mounts we—” with a nod to his companions, “—intend to acquire.” Too casually, he hooked his lantern on the nearest post. “Get in our way and die.”

He’d die regardless, from the smirk on the silent man’s face. “Manners require I warn you very fine gentlemen that Horst himself chose me as his replacement.” White-hair shrugged. Pimple-face swallowed.

The hitherto silent man spat. “That’s what I say to the old fool.”

“I wouldn’t,” Bannan said and bowed, fingers to the stable floor. Straightening, he did two things at once.