didn’t fog the glass. Another crisp night.
The corner of the Emms’ barn. Their slumbering garden. Beyond the hedge, the river and fallow fields. Beyond those, the forest and crags and the gleaming ivory of the Spine.
She didn’t feel so alone, looking out like this. As if Marrowdell itself was company. Jenn touched the glass over the Spine with a finger, exhaled to leave a circle of breath. The sei had filled her with its tears. In this, she was something other than turn-born. But what?
A question not for her list, for Mistress Sand would not speak of the sei. Like the toads, such questions distressed her.
The moon, being high above, was likely as far beyond the reach of turn-born as it was of toad or woman. From so high, Jenn thought, surely it must shine down on Endshere as well.
Taking her finger away, she pressed her lips within the circle of breath, leaving a kiss.
Bannan feared no question or truth. When he came home, she would tell him everything she learned from Mistress Sand and they would puzzle at the rest together.
Smiling, Jenn climbed back into bed, careful of the toad, and fell fast asleep.
Bannan lay on the straw mattress he shared with Devins and Davi, staring at a ceiling he couldn’t see.
No letter.
He’d emptied the mailbag and turned it inside out to be sure. Watched in silence as Davi took his turn going through the mass of letters, the smith pulling out three to fold and shove deep into a pocket, all with a fearsome scowl. Whomever kept attempting to write to Lorra Treff had a sure enemy in her son. A story lay there, understood the truthseer; not one about to be shared.
But nothing from Lila, not for him, or for Jenn.
Nor one from Tir, which he’d also expected.
There had been a beribboned package of letters from the Lady Mahavar, coated in formidable wax seals. Correspondence for Gallie and some for Frann. Lorra too, so Davi was selective. Master Dusom had the most waiting for him, being engaged in dialogues with fellow scholars, but there was a small elongated box wrapped in dark waxed paper and string for Master Jupp and an uncommon rolled parchment for Covie Ropp that might, Bannan hoped, be from her son, Roche.
There could be news of the situation in Channen in any or all of those. Or none, since why would such troubles matter to anyone in remote and magical Marrowdell?
Lila could take care of herself and the boys. She would take over Emon’s political duties in capable fashion and run the estate, truth be told, with more attention, for Emon had little love for administration, preferring to closet himself with his sons to test some mechanism or other.
Which made sense and was reasonable except for one thing.
The lack of letters.
Bannan pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, then made himself relax. A long day was behind him, a busy one tomorrow, and if he had to question everyone in Endshere about these rumors, so be it.
A soldier’s skill, to sleep on the eve of battle.
As he lay, listening to the deep peaceful breathing of the other men, he knew it was a skill he’d lost.
A snip of thread, touched by skin and warmth . . . a drop of sleep, under the tongue . . .
And the dream unfolds . . .
Stone rushes by, then stops, too close. A figure runs past, sword gleaming. Then another. A third.
Silence. Darkness.
Dread.
Light. A hand beckons.
Trust.
All the while something rustles above. Something hunts below.
And everywhere is shadow.
A moth had brought Wisp’s summons. If, Jenn thought with a touch of doubt, the white pebble in her hand was from her dragon and not some confusion by toads. She sat at the kitchen table to finish her tea and ponder the question.
Though they were generous creatures, she’d never seen nor heard of a toad relinquishing one of their precious stones. And wasn’t giving her a white pebble exactly the sort of cleverness certain to amuse Wisp? Satisfied, she closed her fingers over the little thing. Today it was,
The corner of the Emms’ barn. Their slumbering garden. Beyond the hedge, the river and fallow fields. Beyond those, the forest and crags and the gleaming ivory of the Spine.
She didn’t feel so alone, looking out like this. As if Marrowdell itself was company. Jenn touched the glass over the Spine with a finger, exhaled to leave a circle of breath. The sei had filled her with its tears. In this, she was something other than turn-born. But what?
A question not for her list, for Mistress Sand would not speak of the sei. Like the toads, such questions distressed her.
The moon, being high above, was likely as far beyond the reach of turn-born as it was of toad or woman. From so high, Jenn thought, surely it must shine down on Endshere as well.
Taking her finger away, she pressed her lips within the circle of breath, leaving a kiss.
Bannan feared no question or truth. When he came home, she would tell him everything she learned from Mistress Sand and they would puzzle at the rest together.
Smiling, Jenn climbed back into bed, careful of the toad, and fell fast asleep.
Bannan lay on the straw mattress he shared with Devins and Davi, staring at a ceiling he couldn’t see.
No letter.
He’d emptied the mailbag and turned it inside out to be sure. Watched in silence as Davi took his turn going through the mass of letters, the smith pulling out three to fold and shove deep into a pocket, all with a fearsome scowl. Whomever kept attempting to write to Lorra Treff had a sure enemy in her son. A story lay there, understood the truthseer; not one about to be shared.
But nothing from Lila, not for him, or for Jenn.
Nor one from Tir, which he’d also expected.
There had been a beribboned package of letters from the Lady Mahavar, coated in formidable wax seals. Correspondence for Gallie and some for Frann. Lorra too, so Davi was selective. Master Dusom had the most waiting for him, being engaged in dialogues with fellow scholars, but there was a small elongated box wrapped in dark waxed paper and string for Master Jupp and an uncommon rolled parchment for Covie Ropp that might, Bannan hoped, be from her son, Roche.
There could be news of the situation in Channen in any or all of those. Or none, since why would such troubles matter to anyone in remote and magical Marrowdell?
Lila could take care of herself and the boys. She would take over Emon’s political duties in capable fashion and run the estate, truth be told, with more attention, for Emon had little love for administration, preferring to closet himself with his sons to test some mechanism or other.
Which made sense and was reasonable except for one thing.
The lack of letters.
Bannan pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, then made himself relax. A long day was behind him, a busy one tomorrow, and if he had to question everyone in Endshere about these rumors, so be it.
A soldier’s skill, to sleep on the eve of battle.
As he lay, listening to the deep peaceful breathing of the other men, he knew it was a skill he’d lost.
A snip of thread, touched by skin and warmth . . . a drop of sleep, under the tongue . . .
And the dream unfolds . . .
Stone rushes by, then stops, too close. A figure runs past, sword gleaming. Then another. A third.
Silence. Darkness.
Dread.
Light. A hand beckons.
Trust.
All the while something rustles above. Something hunts below.
And everywhere is shadow.
A moth had brought Wisp’s summons. If, Jenn thought with a touch of doubt, the white pebble in her hand was from her dragon and not some confusion by toads. She sat at the kitchen table to finish her tea and ponder the question.
Though they were generous creatures, she’d never seen nor heard of a toad relinquishing one of their precious stones. And wasn’t giving her a white pebble exactly the sort of cleverness certain to amuse Wisp? Satisfied, she closed her fingers over the little thing. Today it was,
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