A Play of Shadow (20 page)

The other shrugged. “Davi wants her in bed, with a warm brick for her feet. Covie too. But she won’t. She made him move her chair into Frann’s room and she sits there. Wen will stay with her. She says it’s the only way her mother can help her friend, but I don’t see how.” With honest puzzlement, “Could you rest if Lorra stared at you?”

“She’s keeping Frann company,” Bannan explained, though he suspected—had Lorra not been as exhausted as the rest—she’d have preferred to hover over Covie to argue about ingredients.

The breeze snapped, “I should be in there!”

Idiot beast. “Your pardon, Wainn,” Bannan said, more curtly than he’d intended, but he was, admittedly, looking forward to bed himself and this business with Scourge had worn thin back in Endshere. He should have guessed it would worsen once the beast could again speak. “I’ve things to settle before my own rest.”

“Rest well. It’s good you found your way back, Bannan,” Wainn said. “Very good. Wen feared you’d be lost.”

The truthseer paused. “Tell her I almost was. And that Marrowdell saved me.”

Why and how being the questions he couldn’t answer.

Home was past the Treffs’ barn, down the road through the commons and across the river, a journey now as safe as any to make at night. Bannan went the other way, around the house to the hedge that marked the river’s bank, and there he waited.

It wasn’t long before a patch of shadow shifted closer. “I should be in there.”

From imperious demand to what sounded more like desperation. “You wouldn’t fit through the doors,” Bannan said finally, attempting reason despite a growing belief this was something else entirely. “What is this about, Scourge? Why do you want to be with Frann?” To the best of his knowledge, the woman had ignored the kruar, being familiar with those unfriendly beasts the tinkers brought into Marrowdell.

A heavy breath left plumes in the chill night air and a hoof almost the width of Brawl’s, with a sharper edge, scored the frozen ground. “I stayed by my first truthseer. I took his final breath and carried it into battle. I killed and, as my enemy died, I gave that breath in my truthseer’s honor. This,” another line in the ground, “I would do for Frann, who has lived a brave life within the edge.”

“Your—you mean my father’s uncle. Kimm Larmensu.” Bannan stared into the dark, imagining more than seeing twin red glows. “He died of old age, peacefully in his bed.” After which the warhorse had refused all riders but the next Larmensu truthseer, Bannan’s father.

When a mudslide had roared down, engulfing not only trees and fields, but stone walls and slate roofs and lives, wiping the Marerrym estate, his mother’s legacy, from the earth? Thirty-one had been lost that day, including his mother and father, Ancestors Dear and Departed.

Scourge alone had survived. He’d made his own way home, cut and bruised and battered, to seek out his new rider, Bannan. To insist, truth be told, on that rider.

Ancestors Witness, he’d been so small. The struggle to ride the great beast had nigh killed him.

“Yes,” the breeze almost gentle. “My truthseer died away from battle and would have lost all honor. It was my honor—” this with immense pride, “—to save his.”

He’d never known Scourge to pause over those killed on patrols, other than to ensure what appeared dead, was. This? Kruar beliefs, Bannan supposed. Beliefs strong enough to continue to move the great beast beyond the edge. He dared asked what he hadn’t, yet. “What else could you remember, away from Marrowdell?”

An uneasy silence. Then, more breath than breeze, an admission. “You. To stay with you. No one else in that world sees me as I am. Away from that truth, I forget.”

Both of their futures had been saved by the moth. Bannan stepped close, lifting a hand to find that strong neck, and laid his forehead against Scourge’s wide cheek. “Hearts of our Ancestors,” he whispered, eyes shut and fervent. “We’re Beholden above all else to be here, where we belong. However far we are apart, Keep Us Close.”

Scourge bore the embrace for an unusually long moment, then sidled away. “We are here,” the breeze told Bannan, “and I am myself. Leave me to my duty.” The slightest of rumbles from that massive chest. “I will stay by Frann.”

“Outside.”

Loud, now the rumble, but Scourge didn’t argue.

Ancestors Frazzled and Fraught, he was tired. Cold. That too. Probably hungry, if he thought about it. Enough of this. “I think you’re wasting your time,” Bannan said as cheerfully as he could. “We made it back and Frann’s comfortable. Covie’s an excellent healer. I’ll bet she has Frann up and playing her new flute in no time.”

He waited for a reply.

And heard only the winter wind.

They’d explained, Gallie and Zehr, though Gallie had spoken most, Zehr having begun to nod before a second cuppa. The rush home had been because Frann had taken ill, or tripped on a rug, or eaten bad meat, though Gallie had quite liked the mutton at the inn and certainly no one truly blamed Palma’s cooking or kitchen. Except Lorra, but she did have a temper.

And was afraid for her friend. The same fear filled the eyes meeting Jenn’s, despite the effort Gallie made to be cheerful and mention, several times, how glad they were to be home where Covie could care for Frann and Frann could recover in the comfort of home.

So when Jenn saw them to bed soon after, closing the door between main room and kitchen, she stood there a moment and tried not to be afraid herself. Which wouldn’t help matters and could possibly—

“Dearest Heart—”

She moved, or he did, or the kitchen somehow shrunk to put them in each other’s arms before the word finished leaving her beloved’s lips, lips she found were chapped and cold and felt better than anything had ever felt against her own. And she would have been happy to stay in that kiss forever except that the kettle was hot and he shivered in her arms.

“Tea?” she asked brightly.

In answer, Bannan held tighter, burying his face in her neck. Jenn stayed where she was, though she was certain he’d feel better for a hot drink and doubtless a spot of supper, because something more was wrong.

And holding her helped.

It wasn’t magic, she thought, but was, all the same.

Finally, he pulled back enough to look at her. “Tea,” he agreed hoarsely.

For the second time, Jenn made tea and put the frying pan to work, but this time her every move was followed by loving eyes. Bannan’s regard became such a distraction she came close to burning both sausages and eggs, and stuck out her tongue to dissuade him, but he seemed incapable of looking elsewhere, as though afraid she’d disappear.

Which she had, hadn’t she? Jenn put the plate in front of him, planted a firm kiss on his lips, then sat on the other side of the table with her own mug. Unlike Gallie and Zehr, Bannan circled his fingers and said, “Hearts of our Ancestors, I am Beholden for this food for it was prepared with love—” There was, she saw with relief, a twinkle in his eye when he went on, “and the best I’ve ever eaten. I am Beholden to be home again. Above all, I am Beholden to be with my beloved Jenn. However far we are apart, Keep Us Close.”

“‘Keep Us Close,’” Jenn echoed gently. “Eat,” she ordered. “I know about poor Frann. You can tell me the rest afterward.”

That earned her a look, but Bannan was clearly too hungry to resist. She sat and watched him with unexpected pride. She’d cared for Loee, then Gallie and Zehr. Now, she cared for Bannan. There was something to this feeding of people. Maybe she could cook for Peggs one day.

Jenn grinned. Her sister sit back and let someone else use her kitchen?

Bannan raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I was thinking about Peggs.” Her grin widened. “Oh, I get to tell you the news! I’m to be an aunt. I’ll be asking for your advice, being an uncle already.”

“Congratulations.” He smiled and looked pleased, but wasn’t, she thought, not completely.

Which couldn’t be about Peggs and Kydd, for she knew Bannan was very fond of both, but had to be about being an uncle.

Meaning Lila. “You’ve had a letter,” she guessed. “Something’s wrong in Vorkoun.”

He put down his fork and sighed. “What’s wrong is that there was no letter from Vorkoun, Dearest Heart. No letter or news; just an abundance of rumor. That Emon’s missing in Channen. Detained by those who rule there, or come to foul play, or, Ancestors Lewd and Lost, maybe willingly, though I greatly doubt that. That there’s trouble brewing between Mellynne and Rhoth over our treaty with Ansnor and the Eld.” He laughed without humor. “To no surprise, the cost of the prince’s train grows.”

Places Jenn had once dreamed of seeing for herself, but as a child dreamed, she remembered with an inner twinge, glossy with adventure and wonders, heedless of different people or their needs. “Your sister must be worried. If you hadn’t signed the bind, you could go to her,” she said, wondering if he now had regrets.

“The bind?” A humorless smile. “A piece of paper older than you are. I don’t deny there’d be risk, but they’d have to catch me first.” The smile disappeared. “Trust I’ve the skills to reach Vorkoun undetected, Jenn, but to what end? There’s nothing I could do there Lila couldn’t do better—and she’d have my ears for taking the chance. No. I made my choice. This is where I belong.” He reached across the table to take her hand in his. “With you.”

Jenn lifted his hand to her lips, then let go. She searched his tired face, saw the worry drawn there, and realized what else troubled him. “What will your sister do?” she asked quietly.

“That depends on what’s happened to Emon,” Bannan Larmensu replied, the words slow and heavy. “Lila takes care of those she loves. She always has. Always will.”

Somehow, Jenn was sure he didn’t mean by making tea or feeding them.

Still, care was care and she found she approved, knowing this about Lila. “You’ll stay the night,” she told Bannan, who been through enough today without having to start a fire in a cold dark house and, most importantly, had come home, to her.

Bannan hadn’t expected to be comfortable, the bed being far too short for his length and meant for one, not two. Nor had he expected to sleep, his mind awhirl and fretful and inclined to the worst.

Which was fine, since he wanted neither comfort nor sleep, not with the woman he loved tucked against him so her heart and his beat as one.

But the beat of Jenn’s heart eased his from race to peace and, somewhere between desire’s kiss and tender’s touch, he fell fast asleep.

The cheery clatter of pots opened his eyes. Sunbeams trailed through the room, catching a corner of the map on the wall. Lila’s gift it was, as much as his, since she’d commissioned a splendid new one when he’d asked her for any map at all.

The corner touched by light held Mellynne, Rhoth’s neighbor to the west and south, and there it was—the strange weave of road, river, and canal that was Channen, the Naalish capital.

Lips, warm and soft, brushed his ear. “You’ve told me Emon’s been there before,” Jenn whispered, her arms going around him. “That he has friends. He’s come back.”

As he’d done. Filled with quiet joy, Bannan traced the line of her thigh where it crossed his. This wasn’t the moment for worry. “Dearest Heart—”

“‘Dearest Heart,’” she echoed, low and husky. “’Tis morning and we really—” a kiss at the edge of his jaw, “—must—” a nibble just under that sent a shiver down his spine and warmth rushing elsewhere, “—help Gallie.”

“Must,” Bannan agreed amicably, reaching a little farther. Jenn stifled her laugh against his neck and matters would have proceeded admirably . . .

Except that she sat straight up, staring at him, and the sunlight couldn’t match the glow from within her glass skin, nor the fire that replaced her eyes.

“What’s—” But he knew, didn’t he? Bannan sat up too, despite the gooseflesh pimpling his skin, and touched the mark on his neck. “A moth gave me this, before I left Marrowdell.”

“‘Keep Us Close.’”

She was upset, he understood that. “Always. Jenn—”

“That’s what it says.” With a shimmer, barely seen, she became flesh once more, her dear face troubled. “Why would a moth write that in your skin, Bannan?”

To save me—the words stopped in his throat, for he had no idea why the moth, or Marrowdell, had acted, and to believe it was kindness was to mistake what ruled here. “To step beyond Marrowdell,” he said instead, “—to go outside the edge—means to forget her magic. A few remember. Most do not. I wouldn’t have, without this.” He touched the mark again.