A Play of Shadow: Night's Edge: Book Two, by Julie E. Czerneda

A Play of Shadow: Night's Edge: Book Two, by Julie E. Czerneda

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A Play of Shadow: Night's Edge: Book Two, by Julie E. Czerneda

Free Ebook PDF A Play of Shadow: Night's Edge: Book Two, by Julie E. Czerneda

In A Turn of Light, veteran science fiction writer Julie E. Czerneda’s first venture into fantasy, she introduced readers to Marrowdell, a pastoral valley that is home to a small pioneer settlement of refugees, lush fields of grain, enigmatic house toads—and Jenn Nalynn, the miller’s daughter. Jenn Nalynn—turn-born.Though Jenn has always dreamed of venturing beyond this sheltered valley when she came of age, she is soon faced with the grim reality that for her, setting foot beyond Marrowdell’s borders in the normal way is impossible.Then Bannan Larmensu—the truthseer who won Jenn’s heart—learns that his brother-in-law has disappeared in Channen, the capital of the mysterious domain of Mellynne. And when Bannan’s young nephews arrive in Marrowdell in the midst of a devastating storm, he fears that his sister has gone in search of her husband, leaving her sons in his care.The law forbids the exiled Bannan from leaving Marrowdell and traveling to Mellynne to help his sister. At least, in this world. But as a turn-born, Jenn has the power to cross into the magical realm of the Verge—and take Bannan with her. Once there, they could find a way into Mellynne, if they survive.The Verge is wild and deadly, alive with strange magic. Dragons roar and kruar wait in ambush, and not all the powerful turn-born who tend their world care for Jenn Nalynn. But Jenn is willing to try. Their friends Wisp and Scourge—and the house toads—offer their help.But what none of them know is that Channen is rife with magic that flows from the Verge itself. And not even a turn-born will be safe there.

A Play of Shadow: Night's Edge: Book Two, by Julie E. Czerneda

• Amazon Sales Rank: #289132 in Books
• Published on: 2015-11-03
• Released on: 2015-11-03
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.75" h x 1.50" w x 4.19" l, 1.00 pounds
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 592 pages

A Play of Shadow: Night's Edge: Book Two, by Julie E. Czerneda

Review “An enchanting and gentle fable, rich with detail and characters you will love.” — Charles de Lint"A warm and intricate fantasy opus with large themes woven into a charming story." — Charlaine Harris“Science fiction author Czerneda will charm fantasy readers with multidimensional characters, a vivid setting, and powerful themes of hope and renewal.” — Publishers Weekly"Known for her powerful and insightful sf novels, Czerneda brings the same exacting sensibility to her brilliant fantasy debut. Her characters are both charming and believable, and Jenn, her friend Wisp, and the soldier Bannan stand out as memorable and utterly real.... Fans of L.E. Modesitt Jr. and Charles de Lint will love this fantastic and magical fable." — Library Journal"I was captivated by Julie Czerneda's A Turn of Light. Yep, she used her writerly powers and sucked me right in. Many fantasy novels out there are about magic. Few, like Julie's, embody it." — Kristen Britain (for A Turn of Light)"Luminous and beguiling. With Marrowdell and its enchanting inhabitants, Julie Czerneda has conjured a world that readers can sink into and disappear. I lost myself to this tale that is, by turns, lovely, lyrical, and thrilling. This book is a feast for the mind and the heart." — Lesley Livingston“A Turn of Light is a gorgeous creation. Julie Czerneda's world and characters are richly layered and wonderful—full of mystery, hope and, most of all, heart. Come spend some time in Marrowdell. It's worth the journey. And be polite to the toads.” — Anne Bishop (for A Turn of Light)

About the Author Julie E. Czerneda is a biologist and writer whose science fiction has received international acclaim, awards, and best-selling status. She is the author of the popular "Species Imperative" trilogy, the "Web Shifters" series, the "Trade Pact Universe" trilogy and her new "Stratification" novels. She was a finalist for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. Her stand-alone novel, In the Company of Others, won Canada's Prix Aurora Award and was a finalist for the Philip K. Dick Award for Distinguished SF. Julie lives with her husband and two children in the lake country of central Ontario, under skies so clear they could take seeing the Milky Way for granted, but never do. You can find her at www.czerneda.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

by JULIE E. CZERNEDA:

NIGHT’S EDGE:

A TURN OF LIGHT (#1)

A PLAY OF SHADOW (#2)

THE CLAN CHRONICLES:

Stratification:

REAP THE WILD WIND (#1)

RIDERS OF THE STORM (#2)

RIFT IN THE SKY (#3)

The Trade Pact Universe:

A THOUSAND WORDS FOR STRANGER (#1)

TIES OF POWER (#2)

TO TRADE THE STARS (#3)

Reunification:

THIS GULF OF TIME AND STARS (#1)*

***

SPECIES IMPERATIVE:

SURVIVAL (#1)

MIGRATION (#2)

REGENERATION (#3)

Also available in a new trade paperback

omnibus edition

***

WEB SHIFTERS:

BEHOLDER’S EYE (#1)

CHANGING VISION (#2)

HIDDEN IN SIGHT (#3)

***

IN THE COMPANY OF OTHERS

*Coming soon from DAW Books

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES—MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.

Prologue

TWENTY-THREE YEARS AGO, Within the World of Roses and Rabbits . . .

Prince Ordo Arselical of Rhoth dipped his quill in the golden inkpot reserved for matters of state. Tapping off any excess ink, he pursed his plump lips in concentration and scrawled his name below the rest. His secretary dripped a precise glob of fragrant red wax and the prince pressed his ring to it with a grunt of satisfaction, affixing the royal seal.

There. It was done.

He leaned back, arms crossed over his ample belly. From their court portraits, his predecessors watched history being made. The fools. Ordo smiled triumphantly at his great-grandfather, who’d caved to Mellynne and given up so much of Avyo, the great capital of Rhoth, without a whimper. At his grandfather, who’d squandered more wealth building roads to places no one wanted to go. Last, but not least, at his own father, whose extra chins rested on stiff lace and who’d exacerbated matters with Ansnor until their domains had plunged into an undeclared, expensive war.

Fools, the lot.

Not he.

His secretary eased the next copy into place. The prince signed and sealed it, then waved off the man’s attempt to collect the document. He rested his extra chins on a beringed finger to admire his accomplishment.

Let Mellynne complain. He’d signed and sealed the document to scour that domain’s influence from Avyo’s heart. The prince chuckled. Found use for that blighted road north, hadn’t he?

Stiff with seals and fine print, approved by a thin majority of the House of Keys and a sufficiency of the House of Commons, today he, Prince Ordo Arselical of Rhoth, legally reclaimed wealth and property that should, after all, be in truly Rhothan hands. There might not be rejoicing in the streets, the populous at large more confounded than pleased, but behind closed doors?

Debt, that most useful of currencies.

Some repaid, so their owners believed, by yesterday’s vote, for he’d chosen those Rhothan hands with great care. Others to wait, their obligation settled in place like unseen chains. With this pen and document, he’d begun the elevation of those who would—who must—support his ultimate goal.

The conquest of Ansnor.

Years it would take, perhaps the rest of his life, but was he not patient? And such a grand game, this, one to savor.

Ordo touched the now-hard wax and smiled.

Rhoth’s future, and his legacy as its greatest prince, would be assured.

Time to commission his own portrait.

Four Hundred and Seventy Years Ago, Within the World of Toads and Dragons . . .

There was magic, enough. Beings who used it, or were it, or both. There was sky and earth and seasons, of a sort, though it didn’t snow. How could it? Water stayed where it was summoned, in fountains and wells, and what rained from sky to earth in its seasons was mimrol. Silver and warm, mimrol carved rivers and filled lakes, spreading magic as it flowed.

Dragons hunted the air, kruar the ground, and toads, though cousins, stayed out of sight. Terst farmed and built, bringing peace where it could flourish, and avoided dragons and kruar too. All had their place, whatever they thought of it, or if they even did.

But there were those, the sei, who thought a great deal. Sei pondered what was beyond the ken of others, being as curious as they were powerful, and one fateful day the sei wondered . . . was there more?

And one day wondered . . . could they touch it?

And all would have remained as it was, with magic enough and peace, but on a day when the light of an unseen sun dimmed, on a day when anything seemed possible, one sei reached from the world of dragons and toads, into that of roses and rabbits . . .

Tearing both worlds open.

Making both worlds bleed.

Spilling magic.

The sei mended that tear, as best it could. Used itself like thread. Held on, accepting that penance.

While dragons and toads, as well as kruar and terst, explored what the sei had wrought.

Today . . .

There’s a world of roses and rabbits.

There’s a world of dragons and toads.

Writhing through both is the edge where they meet, for the sei holds, still.

Magic, wild and potent, lives there.

And so does Jenn Nalynn.

ONE

WINTER STRETCHED ITS icy fingers across Marrowdell in the hours before dawn, crisping leaves and sealing the commons’ pond with a skin of ice. It breathed traces of snow over the crags and into crevices, snow that, like rain, avoided the Bone Hills altogether. It sighed at the rising sun and retreated, for now, leaving the air sparkling with frost.

Jenn Nalynn awoke to a rimed window and a nose much happier under the covers. Where it couldn’t stay, of course, because this was Gallie Emms’ writing room as much or more than her bedroom and lingering wouldn’t be right. But in the loft she’d shared with Peggs, surely it had never been this cold.

Maybe it wasn’t the Emms’ fine loft. Maybe it was waking alone. Something, Bannan Larmensu would gladly remind her, that was her choice, not his.

Warmed by new and entirely unhelpful thoughts, Jenn tossed aside the quilts and stood, her bare feet glad of the braided rug. She dressed with haste, throwing on her second-warmest shawl. Her cold nose was a warning. The morning trip to the privy, however necessary, would be a chilly one.

She could, with a thought, with a wish, hold winter back. Reclaim the lingering warmth of late fall. Perhaps wake an aster or two.

Where was the harm in that?

Jenn lifted hands no longer tanned and well-callused, but glass and tears of pearl, aglow with soft light, and knew full well where the harm would be. “Here, I will not be turn-born,” she whispered, willing herself flesh, willing herself back to what she was and intended to stay. Turn-born. A birthright both wondrous and terrible. If she were careless, Marrowdell would express her feelings as chill winds or warm, as storm or sunlight. If she were worse than careless and set her mind to a wishing, what other turn-born called an “expectation,” Marrowdell would try to make it real, no matter the cost.

She could shatter the world.

Better to mind the baby, Jenn told herself firmly. Work, not worry, leads to accomplishment, Aunt Sybb would insist. She smiled, almost hearing Aunt Sybb’s voice, then lost her smile, thinking of how long it would be until she could again. The ever-sensible Lady Mahavar spent the winter months in Avyo, where snow was a rare event and homes had indoor plumbing.

Hurrying winter simply to see their beloved aunt sooner was exactly the sort of thing she mustn’t do. It wasn’t fair to Uncle Hane, for one thing. For another—Jenn made her borrowed bed, nodding emphatically with each point—for another, life depended on reliable seasons, not those rushed by her whim.

Not that her whim would reach beyond Marrowdell. The valley sat where two worlds touched. Within that thin edge, Mistress Sand had warned her, was the limit of any turn-born’s power.

And existence.

Jenn hugged her pillow, breathing in the rich summer scent of rose. Peggs’ notion, to collect the fallen petals; Jenn’s, to ask their permission first. Melusine’s roses grew through the edge and were not to be trifled with, even by her daughters. They were partly of another world.

As was she.

Jenn closed her eyes. Beyond Marrowdell lay that world, the Verge, a place so utterly strange she hadn’t been able to see it at first. She’d needed Bannan’s true sight to reveal its sky full of dragons, not that she’d call something that wasn’t blue or always overhead where sky belonged, sky at all. Yes, there were rocks, but the shapes were wrong and they could as easily hang in the air where sky should be as stay underfoot. As for what passed for lakes and rivers?

Her breath caught as she remembered mimrol’s glistening silver.

Magic incarnate; that was the Verge. Its uncanny beauty ghosted her dreams when she wasn’t careful. A promise. More. An invitation. Should she dare step beyond Marrowdell . . .

Jenn opened her eyes again. To step beyond Marrowdell used to mean taking the Northward Road, once her fondest desire. Still, the map hanging from the wall at the foot of her bed showed so much more of this world, she never tired of studying it.

At the same time, its exquisite detail and brilliant color, incongruous against the rough logs, were troubling reminders of its origins. That the treasure came from Bannan warmed her heart, but that the Baroness Lila Larmensu Westietas herself, beyond all reason, had had such an extraordinary and costly gift made for a miller’s daughter? Worse, one with claim to her beloved brother’s affections?

With all his big heart, Bannan believed Lila would welcome her into their family, once they met.

Would she welcome a turn-born? Jenn shivered from more than the chill air. As well for her peace of mind that even a baroness had to wait on the weather. The earliest their meeting could take place would be spring. Maybe by then, she’d have learned to keep her magic safe and hidden.

Maybe by then, she’d have come to understand what she was.

Work, not worry, Jenn reminded herself.

She climbed down the ladder to the kitchen, of habit mindful where she stepped. Though the kindest of hosts, Zehr Emms was apt to forget her presence and hang his saw on the middle rung, where it was beyond his little daughter’s reaching fingers.

Warmer on the main floor, but only slightly. Jenn paused to stir the embers in the cookstove before adding a half-scoop of charcoal. She checked that the teakettle was full and set it to heat, then gave the porridge, left to cook overnight, a stir. Unlike the Nalynns’ kitchen, separated from the rest of the main floor by a simple curtain hooked to the side when Aunt Sybb wasn’t in residence, the Emms’ boasted a solid dividing wall and door. The wall itself was a marvel. Zehr, a former furniture maker, had used his talents and the wood of the family wagon to fashion built-in shelves and cupboards, complete with clever fastenings and hooks; all of which Jenn quite admired. However, the heatstove was on the other side of the wall and, in the interest of privacy and to keep little Loee, now able to crawl, where she belonged, the door between remained closed at night.

She wasn’t going to freeze, Jenn scolded herself. She scampered out the back door, running on her toes over the cold damp sod to the privy. Having taken care of the necessities, she went next to the larder, struggling a bit with the latch. What was the trick to it? There. Stepping down into the even colder room made her teeth chatter, so she worked quickly to load a basket with vegetables for tonight’s supper. Just enough. Though the harvest had been good, winter in the north was too long for carelessness, even now, with shelves overflowing.

Not that she thought about winter. Nipping back up the steps, Jenn tucked the basket under an arm and wrestled the doors back together. Closing the latch was the easy part. Done, she stopped and gazed out over the valley toward Night’s Edge, her meadow.

That by doing so she also looked toward Bannan Larmensu’s farm was, she told herself firmly, entirely reasonable.

And blushed.

Hopefully by coincidence, the rising sun suddenly painted the sky with rose hues and brought a hint of pink to the Bone Hills.

She let her eyes follow the Spine, with its smooth mounds and long sweep, to where the Fingers stretched into the valley and spread to split the river, leading a tranquil flow by the village and fields, sending wild cataracts to the north.

By no accident or act of nature.

For the Bone Hills were neither bone nor hills, but what showed in this world of a being from another. The cliffs that girded the valley were gouged and scarred by its once-maddened reach; their worlds remained joined because it wouldn’t—perhaps couldn’t—let go again.

While along that strange connection, that edge, magic happened. On both sides.

Jenn tilted her head. The poor sei, trapped or trapped itself, couldn’t leave Marrowdell. She could . . .

. . . just not, as she understood matters, as herself.

Still, wasn’t it wonderful to know she could go beyond Marrowdell at her whim? To explore the Verge. To cross into other domains, for wherever the edge existed, as she understood matters, a turn-born could too. The terst turn-born couldn’t deny her—she hoped they wouldn’t want to—oh, how her heart pounded! The Verge was so very close . . . why she’d only to smell her mother’s rose petals to feel herself almost there. Almost, but not quite.

Bannan thought of it too. He’d crossed with her, that once. Though he didn’t say so, Jenn knew he was eager to go again. The man had no fear—or sense, according to Wisp.

Much as she loved them both, much as they loved her, deep inside, Jenn knew when she did cross next, she would do so alone. To see if she could. To understand matters.

To be sure.

“Ancestors Adream and Dazzled,” she murmured. “As if I’ve time for traipsing about.” Besides, being with Bannan was an exploration of a different kind, a wonderful kind, and the days passed in a busy, happy blur.

And in each day, its turn, when the light of Marrowdell faded and that of the Verge found her heart. Soon, she thought, oddly content. She would feel when to leave one for the other. She would know.

Others would, this very day. In fact, it would be the largest leave-taking of Marrowdell’s short history. Hitherto only the smith, Davi Treff, and his family had journeyed to Endshere’s fair, it being his mother Lorra and her friend Frann Nall who made items to trade and who, truth be told, enjoyed bartering more than breathing. This year Gallie and Zehr would join them, with little Loee, to meet the family of their new daughter-by-marriage, Palma, and nothing would do but their son Tadd and his wife Hettie come for the same reason.

At the last moment, Devins Morrill had announced, his voice barely cracking, his intention to accompany them; as this was in response to Palma’s firm request that he meet her unwed cousins, his mother Covie had just as firmly insisted he wear his Midwinter Beholding coat, not the one for the barn.

Whatever coat, the weather would be chancy, Jenn fretted, not that she could change it for them. Worse, such a large group could draw the attention of bandits. Uncle Horst, sorely wounded this fall, might be back on his feet but was hardly fit to ride his horse, let alone lift a sword. People she cared about were going where she couldn’t care for them; that was the crux of it.

If she worried too much, an axle might break, or a horse go lame, or some worse calamity stop them before the gate. That was how a turn-born’s magic worked. This desire. That change.

And consequences. There were always those.

Jenn shook her head and pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she turned back to the Emms’ house. Time to set the table. A light already shone from the side window. Despite last night’s flurry of final preparations and excitement, including a predictably fussy Loee determined not to sleep and miss a thing, the family was awake. All through Marrowdell, tidy curls of smoke rose in the air as other cookstoves were roused to duty.

There. Lamplight in the Nalynns’ kitchen window. Her sister, Peggs, up and stirring. They’d sit to breakfast, Peggs and their father, Radd Nalynn, with Kydd, Peggs’ husband, taking the chair Jenn had sat in all her life.

Which was, she reminded herself happily, as it should be. She was welcome, always, at that table. At any table in Marrowdell.

Including the Emms’, which she should be setting with bowls.

Still, Jenn couldn’t resist one last look over her shoulder, toward her meadow. Toward Bannan’s farm.

A light there as well now, to gladden her heart.

Her lips curved in a soft smile. On such a crisp morning, Bannan would surely walk to the village for a hot cuppa and a loaf of fresh bread. If they happened to meet, which of course they would, nothing would be more natural than for her to walk him home, for wasn’t her meadow beside his farm?

And Wisp, Jenn thought happily. Her first, best friend, who always knew where she was and how, would be waiting.

Let the rest leave for Endshere. The Ancestors would watch over them and see them home again, while she enjoyed the company of those who stayed.

Nose and toes atingle from the frost, her heart brimming with warmth, Jenn Nalynn hurried indoors.

He was leaving.

Not for good or for long nor, for that matter, of his own volition, but Bannan Larmensu, once of Vorkoun and now of Marrowdell, greatly feared a certain lady wouldn’t care about the details, only the fact. And what perturbed that lady?

He eyed the frost on his windowpanes, well aware Jenn Nalynn could have put it there.

Not willingly. She was as brave and good as she was powerful, and did her utmost to keep her magic under control. Magic.

Turn-born.

A person, he reminded himself, the same as any. Bannan swung his feet to the floor, pulling the quilt around his shoulders. A woman grown, full of possibilities and dreams he’d very much like to share. Along with a bed that’d be far warmer this winter with her in it; distracting thought. Bannan shook his head. He didn’t doubt her love or his own. He couldn’t doubt her good heart or intentions.

Jenn Nalynn was the one who needed to be sure. Ancestors Witness, wasn’t her struggle to understand and accept herself the same one he’d fought, when he’d first learned he wasn’t like other children? When he’d first looked into another’s face and seen a lie? When he’d known he’d forever be different?

Truthseer.

Oh, how he’d hated that name, that gift, and the duty it had brought him, to be an interrogator for a heedless prince, to see nothing but darkness. It was only here, in Marrowdell, that he’d come to cherish his deeper sight. For here . . .

Getting up, Bannan tossed aside the quilt and dressed quickly. Here, he thought happily, were marvels, the greatest of all being Jenn Nalynn.

Surely she’d realize that for herself and soon. He glanced wistfully out the window toward the village. “I’d be Beholden if I didn’t have to wait too long,” he told his Ancestors, hopefully listening.

Not that he’d wait idle. There was work to do, he thought with still urgent joy. Work in his own home, by his own hands. The truthseer slid down the ladder to his kitchen, landing with a thump that stirred a grumpy blink from his house toad, warming itself by the stove.

“Fair morning,” he greeted. The worthy creature understood most, if not all, of what it heard and deserved courtesy. Explaining that to Lila, Bannan chuckled to himself, would be an interesting conversation indeed. He stirred the coals before lighting a lantern. “Any sign of our dragon?”

While the toad couldn’t speak so he could hear, it gave a huge and toothy yawn to reveal an eloquently empty mouth, then deliberately shifted closer to the warm metal.

The dragon, usually underfoot at mealtimes, had been scarce since the cooler weather. Were dragons like bears, to sleep the winter? The question, however intriguing, was unlikely to be answered before he had to leave.

Bannan opened the back door and leaned out, looking for his other frequent visitor. That he didn’t see Scourge meant nothing. The old kruar, who looked enough like an ugly horse to pass for one, could hide his vast bulk behind a twig if he chose. And often did, ambush being a game he relished a little too much for a certain man’s comfort.

To save time, and his toes, the truthseer stayed in the doorway and whispered, “Bacon. Baconbaconbacon.” Should bring the idiot beast at a gallop.

Nothing. Good. The kruar and dragon must be hunting, or whatever they did together. An improbable truce kept them from each other’s throats, as would otherwise be their nature and inclination. A shared past, common interests, and—to Bannan’s mind—a mutual disdain for the younger of their own kinds, had them seek each other’s company. Oh, and love of bickering. That too.

Under it all, the truth that neither belonged with their own kind, not anymore. They’d been forever changed: Wisp by his love for Jenn Nalynn, Scourge by his exile as a warhorse for generations of Larmensu riders.

Bannan had been the latest; he was determined to be the last. Beyond Marrowdell, the great beast had not only been mute; he’d forgotten who and what he was. Had he not found the Larmensus, with their ability to see the truth, Scourge would likely still be running loose, cheerfully hunting rabbits. Or men. The distinction seemed irrelevant when the blood lust was on him. The point being, the truthseer knew, that the kruar had come home, penance served and exile ended. And home was where he should stay.

Not that Scourge would agree. “Bacon,” Bannan called again, louder. “Bacon and CHEESE!”

He counted to ten, then grinned with relief and closed the door. “Maybe they won’t notice I’ve been gone.”

The toad gave him a doubtful look.

“I know what you’re thinking. If they do find out, the dragon will raid my larder—again. Which wouldn’t be your fault, in any sense,” he added hastily, house toads having a pricklish pride and, while peerless at keeping vermin out, having no such knack with dragons. Or at least Marrowdell’s.

Humming to himself, Bannan made a quick breakfast of the last of the porridge from the pot, impulsively adding water to soften the crusty bits, then a full measure of fresh flakes to cook in case the dragon did move in—he hated being a poor host. Gulping down cold tea, he packed what little he’d need for travel.

Bedroll. Shaving kit—being beardless had begun as a simple disguise and was now his preference. He picked up his soldier’s cup and folded the handle, tucking that into its usual spot in the saddlebag, then looked around for his sword and pistol.

Both of which he’d left behind in Vorkoun.

“Heart’s Blood,” Bannan swore, shaken. Were the old habits still so close? “I’m a farmer,” he declared, removing the offending metal cup and replacing it with the bulky, fragile, and far heavier one he’d used for his morning tea. Tir would mock him for it.

He didn’t care. However ridiculous, the gesture made him feel better.

Bannan dug into a trunk for his riding leathers; homespun didn’t cut the chill. Ready, he came back to the kitchen and found the toad waiting.

The earnest regard of its oversized eyes made Bannan sit on a stool and shake his head. “You’ll not leave me in peace till I admit it,” he grumbled, hardly fair to the toad. “Heart’s Blood. Here’s the truth, then. The food doesn’t matter. The dragon’s welcome. It’s Scourge I’m worried about. If he catches wind of this, the bloody beast will follow me. We both know it. And he mustn’t. This is where he belongs.”

Where those dreadful scars were the only thing left for Scourge to bear.

Closing its eyes, the house toad tucked its wide chin atop clawed feet, plainly considering the whole business beyond either of them.

The worst thing was, when it came to Scourge?

Bannan knew it was right.

For all their seeming silence, house toads had an abundance of opinion. Expressed, Jenn thought with some frustration, in the most awkward way possible. Like now.

“Will you please move?” she pleaded under her breath.

The Emms’ house toad paled slightly, but didn’t budge from the doorway, its huge eyes locked on hers with desperation in their limpid depths. ~You mustn’t try to leave, elder sister. You mustn’t intervene. Marrowdell relies upon you.~

Toads. “I know all that,” she assured it, gripping the scraps of her patience. “I’m not going to—”

“Your pardon, Jenn?” Gallie looked up from her packing, absently shifting little Loee to a more comfortable spot on her hip.

Wen Treff talked to toads. Jenn wasn’t ready to admit she did as well. “I’m not going—” she repeated quickly “—to have you wear yourself out before the trip begins. Please. Let me carry the rest to the wagon.”

The older woman smiled. “Thank you, Dear Heart. Ancestors Beset and Bewildered, whatever would I do without you?”

Manage in her usual capable fashion, Jenn was sure, smiling back. “Glad to help.” She lifted her armload and teased, “I take it there are no sausages in Endshere.”

Gallie glanced ruefully at the table, covered with more coils of sausages as well as well-filled sacks and baskets. “I’m spoiling them, I know, but I can’t visit Allin and Palma in their new home without Beholding gifts.” Her eyes sparkled. “Won’t they be surprised?”

Surprised would be an understatement, Jenn thought. Gallie and Zehr hadn’t left Marrowdell since arriving with the rest over twenty years ago. “They’ll be thrilled to see you,” she said honestly. “It’s a kind thing you’re doing.”

“It’s no kindness to the horses, Gallie Emms, having you overload the wagon!” Lorra Treff made her entrance from the other room, Frann Nall close behind. Both were dressed for travel in their best heavy cloaks, scarves, and hats. Though their cheeks were equally flushed and foreheads beaded with sweat, neither would be first to admit they’d been a smidge premature in their bundling. “Leave all that.”

“Now, Lorra,” Frann protested. “We don’t have as much ourselves this trip. You said it yourself.”

Gallie brightened. Lorra frowned. Jenn tried to slip out the door over the toad but didn’t make it in time. “We’ve enough. There’s simply no room on the cart for—” Lorra eyed her burden and her frown became a scowl. “—sausages?! Ancestors Misguided and Mad, Gallie Emms, would you have us starve? Let Endshere feed its own.”

At Gallie’s crestfallen look, Jenn curled her arms around her bundle. “They’ve not tasted any as good as these.”

Lorra drew herself up, the tallest feather on her hat collecting a cobweb from the rafter, to Loee’s great delight. “And how would you know, Jenn Nalynn?”

It was true. And cruel.

The air in the room chilled. Frann stopped fanning her face with a ’kerchief and Gallie shivered. Which wasn’t right and Jenn wished for warmth again too quickly, melting the butter in its flowered dish.

Loosening her scarf, Lorra dismissed the oddness with a brisk, “You should have my Davi look at your chimney, Gallie. Where was I?” To Frann.

“On your way to tell your son we’ll be ready,” Gallie informed her, with a frosty glint in her eye. “Not telling me how to pack for a visit with mine.”

The matriarch of the Treffs drew a breath, ready and willing to argue.

A cough distracted her. Frann waved her ’kerchief apologetically. “The damp.”

Jenn hid a smile. Though she’d not stayed abed a day anyone could recall, Frann had what Aunt Sybb called an expressive constitution, her nagging cough sure to arrive once confined indoors with Lorra for the winter.

“Lorra,” Frann continued, “we must keep the house warmer.”

“Psht. It’s so hot my clay’s drying.” Lorra peered at her friend. “Ancestors Foolish and Fraught, how many times must I tell you to sleep with a heated brick?”

“And burn my—?” a second, deeper cough. Above the ’kerchief, Frann’s brown eyes closed briefly, then opened with as determined a light as in either of the other women’s. “We were discussing sausages. As Marrowdell’s appointed trader,” she stated, tucking the ’kerchief away, “the final decision on what goes or returns from Endshere’s fair is mine to make. I see nothing wrong with providing samples,” this with a slow smile, “of wares sure to be in demand next year.”

“Samples?” Gallie echoed, eyes wide.

By her expression, Lorra might have bitten a sour berry, but she gave a reluctant nod. “Your sausages are the best I’ve tasted. Could be there’s a market to be had.”

“You’re most kind, Lorra. Frann. But, Ancestors Witness, I’m not sure I could ever—”

Before Gallie could complete her highly reasonable protest at making sausages for more than Marrowdell’s hungry and grateful population—not to forget one insistent and graceless kruar, who certainly wouldn’t share—Jenn swooped in to grab a second basket. “I’ll take those for you too.”

And rather than argue further with the house toad, Jenn stepped over him, careful of her awkward and tasty burden.

Despite dawn’s warning frost, the day was a splendid one for adventuring. Jenn quelled a touch of envy. As Aunt Sybb would say, to each the path before them and hers simply wasn’t to be the Northward Road.

She’d also say envy was cousin to jealousy, neither being welcome guests. A caution suited to any turn-born, Jenn thought, comforted.

Besides, the sun shone brightly, with nary a cloud in the sky, turning the lingering leaves of the old trees warm russet and giving sparkle to river and windowpane alike. The hedges surrounding the village were bare, but their branches and twigs were more like the sides of a well-woven basket than walls. She’d a fine home, family, and friends. Jenn nodded to Zehr Emms, hurrying up the path to gather his family, and knew herself fortunate.

There’d be treats as well as necessities making the return trip from Endshere, including word from the Lady Mahavar, who wouldn’t miss this final chance before the snows to send letters to her family. Everyone would be safely home again in a mere handful of days.

Meanwhile, for the first time in her life, she’d have an entire house to herself. Oh, and wasn’t that an interesting notion? Hospitality was a homeowner’s joyful duty, according to Aunt Sybb. Surely Bannan would accept an invitation for tea. She’d have to get one of Peggs’ pies . . .

If they bothered to eat at all.

Flushed by new and delightful possibilities, Jenn carried Gallie’s sausages to where Davi’s cart waited on the road. Battle and Brawl, yet to be hitched, stood dozing while Alyssa Ropp plaited their manes. The young girl stood tiptoe on a rickety stool, wobbling to keep her balance as she deftly worked ribbons into the stubby braids. “Fair morning!”

“Fair morning to you, Alyssa. Ancestors Sneaky and Sly,” Jenn added with a laugh. One of the two packhorses tied loosely to the big cart had slipped her head under the tarp at the back to rummage about. Before she found something to her liking or, worse, broke one of Lorra’s pots, Jenn put down the sausages and moved the horse out of mischief’s way, giving her a pat of consolation. “Seems everyone’s impatient.”

“I wish I could go,” Alyssa confessed. “Cheffy says Endshere’s buildings are taller than the mill. And painted pink!”

Her only slightly older brother having relied on descriptions from their grown stepbrothers, Devins and Roche Morrill—the latter once notoriously untruthful and only recently, Jenn remembered with a small twinge, made just as notoriously honest—she doubted the last detail, but smiled anyway. “Next year, perhaps. You know Hettie’s counting on you both to help in the dairy while she and Devins are away. I’m sure she’ll bring you something special.” Devins would be lucky to remember his own name, she thought, should some lass go so far as to smile at him, being painfully shy away from his beloved cows. Hettie would have to keep him from hiding in the stables.

“I’m sure Bannan will bring you something special, too,” the kind-hearted child offered. “Here he comes now. You can ask him.”

“But Bannan’s not—” Feeling as though she moved through syrup, Jenn turned to look around.

To see the truthseer, dressed for the road, leading Uncle Horst’s gelding from the commons.

It was all very reasonable. “Sennic asked me to go in his place,” Bannan explained as he saddled Perrkin. “And I’ve purchases to make for winter.”

“Endshere makes the best boots in the world,” Alyssa piped in over Brawl’s neck. “With bells and curled toes. Cheffy said so.”

“I’ll be sure to take a look,” he replied solemnly, though boots he owned, sturdy new ones, with furred tops for warmth. He’d shown her.

His dark hair, usually loose to his shoulders, was tied back. He’d shaved but not with the fragrant soap she liked. In riding leathers and a handsome brown coat of doubtless modern cut, he no longer looked the farmer at all. Or was it the set of his shoulders?

He was leaving Marrowdell, for only a short time, and she would not, must not, dared not, let herself feel anything but helpful. “Have Frann check any deal you’re offered,” Jenn cautioned stiffly. “They know better than to cheat her.” “They” being anyone not of Marrowdell, to hear Lorra tell it.

Bannan chuckled. “Wish I’d had her with me the first time.” He tested the girth, then gave the gelding a piece of carrot. “Ancestors Witness, Tir was less than no help at all.”

He was leaving Marrowdell and it was, Jenn told herself, reasonable and even right, for otherwise Uncle Horst would worry himself into trying to go with the others, none of them being soldiers. She mustn’t feel dismayed or disappointed or worried or anything but—for an instant, she paused, abruptly confused what she was supposed to feel, if not all that.

Helpful. She took hold of a tie string from Bannan’s pack and reached for the other.

Only to have him glance down at her with those too-perceptive eyes, a glow in their apple butter depths. His hand shifted to cover hers on the pack, warm and strong. “Thank you for understanding, Dearest Heart,” Bannan said, his voice quiet and soft. “Is there anything I could bring back for you?”

Jenn’s confusion faded. “Yourself,” she whispered, and smiled from deep within, loving the way his expressive face mirrored both joy and a rather delicious frustration. Louder, for Alyssa, “A bag of sour candies, if you please, for my father. Any flavor will do. He’s eaten all that Aunt Sybb brought, and they’re good for his throat.”

“Nothing more?”

“There’s no room for more,” she pointed out, turning practical. “You’ll have mail—” which was Uncle Horst’s job and meant something the truthseer should know and likely didn’t. Jenn checked to be sure Lorra Treff wasn’t in sight and Alyssa was safely behind Battle before whispering, “You mustn’t let anyone look in the mailbag once you have it. Davi’s burned Lorra’s letter to the prince, and she’d be most upset if she found out. Give the bag and Kydd’s honeypots to Cammi—” the postmistress, having a sweet tooth and kind heart, took the ’pots instead of a fee the villagers couldn’t afford, “—and she’ll give you any mail for us.”

Bannan chuckled. “A hazardous mission in truth, Dearest Heart, but one I’m willing to assume. Especially,” with a wink, “since I expect mail of my own.”

From his sister, he meant.

There could, Jenn swallowed, be one for her as well. She’d sent a letter to the Baroness Westietas with Aunt Sybb, a letter written in Jenn’s best hand—the fourteenth such, as she’d found herself muddled at every try—thanking her for the map. She’d added a line about the weather. Another about the bountiful harvest—mentioning food should reassure a distant sister—and a final line praising her brother’s courage. That had been the most difficult to compose. She mustn’t imply a worrisome need for bravery in Bannan’s new home, but Lila should know how much he was appreciated and valued.

She hadn’t found a way to say she would protect him, always.

And now he was leaving. “You will be careful,” Jenn told him, her voice thick. However capable he was, Bannan Larmensu was a man with a secret, a man who sought to leave behind his former self and occupation. Others would pay to find out, she was sure of it. “Promise me. There’ll be strangers. You’ll be staying—” with every intonation of ill repute and vile doings Aunt Sybb had ever managed to instill in a phrase, “—at the inn.”

Even if The Good Night’s Sleep was Palma’s and by all accounts a fine and proper place.

He kissed the tip of her nose, making her eyes cross. “I promise, Dearest Heart. It’s but a day’s journey on horseback. We’ll stay two nights at most, then be back. You’ll hardly—”

“Ancestors Blessed, we’ve caught you!” Uncle Horst came up the road toward them, a pair of packages under his left arm, makeshift crutch under the right. “Uncle Horst” he remained to her and to Peggs, but to the rest of the village he was now Sennic Nahamm, in honor of his wife’s Ancestors. He’d left his birth name behind long ago, and given his home to Hettie and Tadd, when he’d thought to leave Marrowdell.

Now he would stay, living with his wife, in her great-uncle’s home.

Riss Nahamm walked with him, fingertips on his wrist. Curls of red hair kissed her cheeks and brushed the collar of her coat. Both of them were smiling. As they should, Jenn thought a little fiercely. As they should.

For the gallant old soldier had believed himself unworthy of happiness since the day of Jenn’s birth, and Riss had loved him in secret all those long years. It had taken almost mortal wounds for him to accept her proposal.

And magic to save him, a turn-born’s magic.

The sun felt a little warmer at the memory. Which was, Jenn realized, a turn-born’s magic as well. She hurriedly thought about winter and snow and—oh, better still—washing day-old pots, that being a thought guaranteed to tame her impulses.

Bannan chuckled and nodded to the unharnessed team. “We’re hardly rushing off, my friend.”

“I’d prefer it if you did,” Uncle Horst replied, his keen eyes lifting to the crags to the west. “Ancestors Wary and Wise, the weather can change in an hour this late in the season. I trust you to advise Davi as—” he paused, “—adamantly as I would.”

Meaning that without firm support in any decision to leave early or turn back, the big smith would give in to his beloved mother’s urging and Lorra, despite living in the north this many years and ample evidence to the contrary, continued to believe storms would wait on her convenience.

A strong mind didn’t, Aunt Sybb would say, guarantee a wise one.

“Heart’s Blood. As I should,” gruffly. Uncle Horst put weight to his wounded leg. Riss bit her lower lip as the healed scars along his cheek and jaw whitened in pain.

“As I will,” countered Bannan. He made a circle with his hands over his heart. “Hearts of my Ancestors, I swear to bring them home safely.”

“Tadd knows what to watch for,” Jenn offered. He and his twin had spent the past few summers with the livestock in the surrounding hills. They’d quickly learned when to take cover.

“That he does, Dear Heart,” Uncle Horst conceded, then added with a nod. “As does our truthseer.”

He didn’t mean the weather.

“Then it’s settled, with our thanks, Bannan,” Riss said in her soft voice, her eyes suspiciously moist. “I’ve a favor to ask as well. My esteemed great-uncle would like this delivered to Palma. If you’ve room?” She took the first package from Uncle Horst and passed it to the truthseer. It was a leather portfolio, secured with thick drops of wax at every corner and loop. Old Jupp mustn’t trust anyone not to read what he’d sent.

Or he valued it, Jenn reminded herself. She’d come to respect Marrowdell’s eldest inhabitant; to like him, very much, truth be told, and to worry, a little. The former secretary of Avyo’s House of Keys had brought trunks filled with documents to his exile, many containing secrets the current prince would not want revealed. Over the years, Old Jupp had compiled the juiciest in memoirs he gleefully planned to have published after his death.

Jenn hoped Riss would delay that publication until the prince joined her uncle as one of the Blessed. Marrowdell might be several days’ travel from Avyo; it wasn’t beyond reach.

“My pleasure,” Bannan assured Riss. He tucked the portfolio deep inside a saddlebag, securing it before he came around to face Uncle Horst.

Who held out the second package. A slender one.

Something unhappy slid behind Bannan’s eyes and he gave a sharp shake of his head.

“Heart’s Blood! Don’t argue.” Leaning on his crutch, Uncle Horst used his free hand to strip the cloth wrap from what was, Jenn saw, his short straight sword. The one that had hung in its scabbard above the fireplace, by the bear claws, as long as she could remember.

The one for use on other men.

The gelding, Perrkin, lifted his graying muzzle and snorted with interest, being a soldier’s horse and aware.

“I’m not arguing,” Bannan said quietly. “I’m not taking it.”

“Where’s your warhorse? Without him, I don’t see you have a weapon.”

Scourge wasn’t going? Jenn nodded to herself. She shouldn’t be surprised. Beyond Marrowdell, outside the edge, the old kruar was voiceless and forgotten. He’d suffered that life till finding his way home. Why would he seek it again?

For love of this man, that was why, though the great creature would hotly deny any such attachment. Which meant . . . “You didn’t tell him, did you?” she said.

Bannan half shrugged. “Even had I’d wished to, he and your dragon are off gallivanting.” His way of saying they’d crossed into the Verge, which dragon and kruar could do at whim.

Well, that was inconvenient. Or convenient, Jenn thought with a little frown, unsure how she felt about the timing.

Uncle Horst had no such doubt. “Ancestors Unwary and Undone,” he said roughly, thrusting the sword hilt-first at the younger man. “Every bandit worth the name knows Marrowdell travels to the fair, with goods worth stealing either way. The only reason they’ve never attacked is because they know me as well.”

It wasn’t a boast. Radd Nalynn, who well knew the measure of his friend, would make jokes about the wisdom of bandits, and the Lady Mahavar had relied on Uncle Horst to see her safely to and fro, until Tir Half-face and his axes took her service and his place.

Bannan—he’d been a soldier, too, a border guard and captain of others, including Tir. A life he’d left behind; skills he likely couldn’t. Why shouldn’t he arm himself? Wouldn’t he be safer?

The truthseer’s eyes found hers, as if she’d spoken aloud. “Swords end arguments,” he said quietly. “I’ve never found them to win one.”

Uncle Horst lowered the blade. “Trust me, Bannan Larmensu. The rabble who hunt the road will steer wide and clear if they see this. Or leave it here,” he went on blandly. “If it turns out you were wrong, I’ll see how it fits between your ribs.”

The truth, if ever Bannan had seen it in a face. Silently, he held out his hand for the sword, belting the thing to hang at his hip. A soldier’s weapon, as if there was doubt, free of gilt or tassel. The weight of it, the potential, changed his stance and darkened his mood. “I’ll not draw it,” he said, wondering who he promised.

“Ancestors Witness, now you look the part, truthseer, I doubt there’ll be need. I’d not cross you.” Spoken lightly, but there was something in the old soldier’s eyes when Bannan met them that said otherwise.

This wasn’t the leave-taking he’d planned, if he’d planned anything beyond being grateful if Jenn Nalynn didn’t object to his leaving in the first place. He glanced her way. She’d lost her smile, but managed a resolute nod. “We’ll be fine,” she said, to his unasked question.

“Ready, Bannan?” Davi’s deep voice brought up his team’s heads, and Alyssa laughed as a ribbon pulled from her hand. He’d the reins of the other riding horses in one big hand. Marrowdell would be left with Wainn’s old pony and a pair of weanlings.

Before the treaty calmed the border with Ansnor, the horses alone would have been a prize worth the risk of a sword. In Vorkoun, anyway. Perhaps Weken. Endshere and settlements farther north seemed oblivious to both the war and its end. Bannan supposed that was the way of the world.

“Ready when you are. We should get moving,” he added without looking at Sennic.

Davi chuckled. “Mother’s been saying that since breakfast.” He handed the reins to Jenn and Alyssa. “We’ll be off soon. C’mon, lads.” This with a cluck of his tongue as he guided the big draft horses with a hand on each massive neck. “Mother’s waiting.”

Two pairs of ears flicked back, then the horses stepped promptly into their traces.

The Emms appeared, with Hettie and Tadd, and the area under the apple trees quickly became a bustle of activity as bundles and gear were sorted out. Bannan lost Jenn for a moment, then spotted her in earnest discussion with her sister and Hettie. Lorra and Frann arrived, faces flushed with obvious pleasure. More and more inhabitants of Marrowdell joined the fray, voices rising with excitement. The leave-taking was an event, after all.

A moth landed on his shoulder. Bannan squinted at it. “Are you coming?”

It waved an absent feathery plume, preoccupied with writing on its tiny curl of parchment. The moths were record keepers. News bringers, at times. And every so often, astonishingly—Bannan looked up at the sweeping pale stone of the Bone Hills—the moths were part of the immense being who held Marrowdell and the Verge together. Or spoke with its voice. A meaningless distinction, according to the dragon, who discouraged questions about the sei.

Or had no answers to give. Bannan grinned. “Keep track of things while I’m away,” he requested, quite sure the moth would do so anyway.

To his surprise, it tucked away its parchment, moths having wee satchels for that purpose, and tiptoed along his shoulder to his neck. He held very still, despite the tickle, but couldn’t help but start when it scratched busily on his skin. Done, it fluttered away, and he could have sworn it laughed.

“It wrote on you.” Wainn Uhthoff had a gift for being unnoticed until he chose to be. He peered with interest at the truthseer’s neck.

“What?” Bannan lifted his chin to make that inspection easier.

“I can’t read,” the youngest Uhthoff reminded him comfortably. “I remember the words.”

Of all the books in Marrowdell, Bannan knew, even the ones Wainn’s uncle, Kydd, had shredded into a lining for his beehives years ago. Books of magic, from Rhoth and beyond. “I should have shown you Talnern’s Last Quest,” he said ruefully, “before the dragon got his claws on it.” His favorite novel had been thoroughly shredded as well; though returned, somehow neatly sewn back into the shape of a book, the words inside remained a scrambled mess.

Admittedly an entertaining mess. Neither he nor Jenn could read more than a line aloud to one another before bursting into giggles.

Wainn hadn’t moved. “These words belong to Marrowdell.” An uncharacteristic frown creased his forehead. “Wen said, if you leave, you won’t.”

If there was anyone closer to the Verge and its wild magic than a turn-born, it was Wen Treff, who spoke to toads and heard the secrets within a heart. Bannan felt the weight of the sword again, but it wasn’t that. Marrowdell objected to his leaving. Or warned him against it.

Why? A chill ran down his spine. To counter it, he clapped Wainn heartily on the shoulder. “Then I’d best come back, hadn’t I?”

The younger man didn’t smile. “Yes.” He turned and left without another word.

“What was that about?” Jenn asked, giving Wainn’s back a surprised look as she stepped close.

Bannan wrapped his arm around her, holding her slender warmth to the side without the sword, and pressed his face into her hair. “Hearts of my Ancestors,” he prayed silently, then stopped, terrified to have come that close to doubt. “I belong here,” he said instead, aloud. “I belong here and with you, Dearest Heart.”

“You’re doing the right thing.” Her arms, strong and comforting, wrapped around his waist. “The others are glad you’ll be with them. As am I.” A squeeze, then she slipped away. “After all,” her smile found his heart, “I’ll be here to welcome you home.”

Home, Bannan thought, almost dizzy with relief. That was the truth. Marrowdell was his home now and, moths and warnings withstanding, nothing would change that.

He wouldn’t let it.

A sliver of paper, touched by ink and fingertip . . . a drop of sleep, under the tongue . . .

And the dream unfolds . . .

Mean, the room, full of dust and cobwebs, its walls of rough stone and wood black with rot. There’s a shuttered window, curtained by a cloak.

A pair of lamps light a table spread with documents. A hand shifts them about, points to one.

Dim figures gather around. Heads shake. A fist comes down. Disagreement.

A finger pushes the document forward. Insistence.

The dream falters . . . rebuilds . . .

It rains silver.

And eyes glimmer from the dark.

She’d let him leave. There’d been a heartbeat, an instant, when simply asking would have kept him here, with her. But duty must, when duty calls, as Aunt Sybb would say, and she’d known he should and must go.

That didn’t make it any easier.

So, having watched the precious caravan pass out of sight beyond the first bend of the road from Marrowdell, before the last echoes of hoofbeats and fare-thee-well’s faded from the crags, Jenn Nalynn fled before she could change her mind.

And stop them all.

She ran through the village and climbed the gate into the commons, past Wainn’s old pony, calling unhappily after his pasture mates, and the cows, half asleep as they chewed their cud in the sun. The far gate was open and the great sows, Satin and Filigree, didn’t look up as she passed, too busy rooting through litter for the last of the acorns. They were as good as a gate, being unwilling to share their treasure with anything else four-footed; their boar, Himself, being the exception, but he dozed in the Treffs’ warm barn with this year’s weanlings.

The riverside oak rattled its brown withered leaves as Jenn moved through its shade, being an opinionated tree. She didn’t pause. The water of the ford was shin-deep and bitterly cold, ice where it stilled among the brown reed stalks, but she didn’t gasp or slow. Nor was she at all surprised when the path to Bannan’s little farm came faster than it should, because Marrowdell knew where she wanted to be.

Night’s Edge.

And with whom.

In the air, he was death and danger and all things perilous. A dragon, once lord. Almost, not quite, lord again.

Silly younglings.

Wisp settled to ground, leaving such pretensions in the chill air. He’d survived his penance. He’d no interest in earning another. Let a new fool rouse dragonblood and stir the cliff holds to battle.

His jaws gaped in a mirthless grin. Best way to trim the fat.

The ground was still frozen. He’d picked a sun-touched spot in the meadow, hoping for warmth, but was too early or too late. Late, was his gloomy thought. Marrowdell’s sun waned already. There’d be snow soon. He shivered and snarled.

Warmth, sudden and welcome. Efflet, winged and clawed and foolishly fond of snow, had left their hedge to cuddle against his withered side. Lifting his head, Wisp hurriedly looked around for any sign of the old kruar. Finding none, he accepted the small beings’ gift with a grateful sigh. Not that they’d be enough to keep him warm in winter.

Be warm he must. In the cold, dragonblood would first slow, then freeze solid like the revolting water in the river. Presumably also to thaw in spring, dragons being hard to kill, but none alive could claim to know for certain and Wisp wasn’t about to take that chance.

Or leave the girl unprotected.

He’d find a way. Shelter he had, though of crystal and wood. Until now, he’d visited the girl but briefly in winter, crossing back to the Verge as soon as possible to bask in its heat.

No longer. A growl rumbled deep in his chest, disturbing the efflet. The outside world had found Marrowdell once. It could again. If he had to dig a hole under the truthseer’s kitchen to stay close, live as he had among the turn-born, he would.

A moth shaped like a snowflake drifted near his face. ~I have news, elder brother. News!~

Wisp snapped before remembering the tiny creature could be more than it seemed. ~What news?~ he grumbled, annoyed to be relieved he’d missed. The moths, when not possessed, were prone to think anything worth recording.

~They are leaving, elder brother. Today!~

The dragon settled himself, rather smug. ~This is not news to me.~ The fair at Endshere was the final exchange with the world beyond Marrowdell before winter. He would feel better once it was done, especially as the girl had reminded him there would be letters.

Wisp sincerely hoped none were for him.

The moth managed to look disappointed. ~My apologies, elder brother. I should have realized he wouldn’t leave without your permission.~

~Who?~

~But you already know—~

The dragon parted his jaws meaningfully. ~WHO?!~

The moth landed at a safe distance, fussing with its plumes. ~The smith and the potter and the weaver and the milkmaid and the miller’s apprentice and the woodworker and the writer and the tiny one and the truthseer.~

Bannan was leaving Marrowdell?

More importantly, his warm and food-filled home?

~Oh, that,~ Wisp replied airily. ~I knew that.~

Fine news, indeed.

Then, the best news of all. The moth startled up and away; the efflet deserted at the same time, leaving his side once more exposed to the cold. They sensed what he did and dared not stay.

A turn-born approached.

Not just any turn-born. Jenn Nalynn. Wisp sent a little breeze throughout the meadow to gather soft dry grasses, stealing some from the nest of a sleepy rabbit who thumped fearlessly at him, being one of hers.

As, he thought with undragonish pleasure, was he.

TWO

THE MEADOW KNOWN as Night’s Edge nestled between Bannan’s farm, two of the Bone Hills, and the Tinkers Road, isolated from all but a lovely view of Marrowdell by thick hedges and the old trees—who weren’t trees, Jenn reminded herself, but the roots of neyet growing through from the Verge. That the valley was filled with such mysterious beings was still a delight.

That her meadow remained home to her favorite, her best friend, was something more than that. Had Wisp returned to his old life, hers would have been the poorer.

Though he could still be the most annoying, difficult, and stubborn . . . “I just want to talk to her.”

A warm breeze tickled her ear. “Why?” It tossed her bangs. “You’re talking to me, Dearest Heart. Am I not enough? Why am I not enough?”

Was that a hint of worry? “Nothing’s wrong,” Jenn assured him, rubbing her forehead. “I’ve some questions for Mistress Sand, that’s all.”

“Questions you can’t ask me? You can ask me anything.”

Oh, definitely worry—and a smidge of pique. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her friend was jealous. “Fine. I’ll ask you.” He’d made her a seat of dry grass, which was considerate, though the clumps of fur meant he hadn’t been as thoughtful of the rabbit, but she was too restless to sit. “Mistress Sand said the Verge touches more than Marrowdell—” this being a marvelous revelation she and Bannan had discussed many times. “All I want to know is if it touches—well, if it goes to—”

“Endshere.” Silver glinted in the air before her, and she felt a draft most likely from a wing. Wisp showed himself no more than ever, but Jenn had seen him both as a man, which had been her doing, and as he truly was. Claws like ancient bone, longer than her fingers, curved and serrated. A wiry beard below a long jaw of deadly fangs. Breath like steam; skin like finely woven silver chain. Eyes of deep, dark violet. One side, crippled, the other whole, but both wings entire and strong, a gift she’d oh-so-gladly given. “It does not, Dearest Heart,” he informed her. “If it did, what would you do?”

She hadn’t thought that far, to be honest. Jenn plopped herself down on the grassy seat with a sigh. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Be sure they’re safe. Watch over them.”

“See the fair for yourself.”

“I—” Swallowing her protest, Jenn lowered her gaze to her hands and searched her own heart. Was she still so shallow? No. “I’m uneasy,” she said at last, sure of that much. “Whether it’s because I can’t help them, or because I shouldn’t even if I could. Being turn-born’s—” What was it? “—confusing,” she finished, sure of that, too. “Wisp, I don’t know my limits. I don’t know how to find them without doing something I shouldn’t.” Oh, there was an understatement. “I need Mistress Sand.” She patted the ground. “Here.”

“The terst turn-born will not cross until Marrowdell warms again. Being sensible.” Followed by a snapsnapsnap that sounded like chattering teeth.

House toads felt the cold. They moved indoors, taking up residence under heatstoves and in front of fireplaces.

Her poor dragon. Despite today’s sunshine, the air had a nip to it that would soon be a freezing bite. Which she mustn’t alter, Jenn reminded herself sternly. Instead, she undid her heavy cloak—the lined one being saved for real winter—and held it out awkwardly. “If you’re cold—” she began, then shook her head and put the cloak aside. “Wisp. Come close. I’m warm enough for the two of us.”

Grass bent and crackled. She let him decide if and how, reminded of how it was easier to catch a wayward piglet if one sat quietly and let it come. With a piece of apple, piglets not being foolish, but warmth was something she most certainly could see wanting just as much.

Something pressed against her arm, then around her back, cool and hard as stone. More laid along her thigh, then a long something that wasn’t heavy but had odd sharp bits landed on her lap. Encased in dragon, Jenn spread her cloak over them both as best she could. “There. Isn’t that better?” Though it was; she could feel for herself. What had been cool and hard warmed more quickly than stone could, and she would, in fact, shortly be too warm for the cloak herself and possibly break into a sweat.

Which was fine. After all these years, she finally knew who and what her little breeze was. He could be harmed—hadn’t she done it? He could be lost—oh, how she’d feared it. Through it all, Wisp remained the bravest, truest friend there could be.

And deserved every kindness she could manage.

When the breeze found her ear again, it was decidedly formal, as if the dragon was slightly embarrassed to be, as Peggs would put it, snuggling. “If you truly wish to speak with the turn-born, Dearest Heart, I could convey your invitation. By word, not letter.”

Wisp, as Wyll, had learned all about invitations. As for the letter? “I understand,” Jenn said. Only turn-born could cross between worlds with more than themselves. What Wisp proposed was a meeting, but . . . “You said Mistress Sand wouldn’t cross into—oh.”

“The Verge is always warm,” the breeze informed her, implying something wrong with a world unable to make the same claim. “It would be a show of strength to demand to meet at your crossing.”

“My crossing?” Jenn echoed faintly. Did he mean the entrance to the Verge at the top of the Spine, where she’d crossed before? Where she’d faced—no, she thought firmly. He couldn’t mean that. It was much too close to the mad sei for even her comfort.

Not to mention some unfortunate rabbits.

The breeze found her other ear. “The terst turn-born would refuse, of course. They are not so brave as you, Dearest Heart.”

She felt anything but brave.

The dragon might have been talking to himself. “A meeting at their crossing would put you too close to their home. No, it should be on neutral ground. Where I cross. That will do. You don’t mind heights, do you?”

Worry about heights, when they were talking about crossing from one world to the next, where she would be away from all that kept her Jenn Nalynn and flesh?

Her heart filled with longing to do just that. And wasn’t now, with Bannan away, the perfect time to try?

Which now wasn’t. “Ancestors Forgetful and Foolish. Wisp, it’s laundry day. I promised Peggs.” A struggle once the air was so cold, and not something to avoid simply to go adventuring. “I can’t abandon her.” Not twice in a row.

What she’d unconsciously leaned against pulled away. As she caught her balance, the breeze chuckled in her ear. “Dearest Heart, do your duty while I do mine. There’s no knowing when I’ll find the turn-born to give your invitation. This day. The next. They travel the Verge, though never as quickly as I. I’ll bring word.”

Just like that, she was alone in the meadow. A disgruntled rabbit began stuffing grass in its mouth, the dried ends wagging up and down until it seemed to have grown a very odd and very large mustache. Jenn moved out of its way. “I’ve done it now,” she told it, relieved, if she were honest. The die was cast. She was committed to crossing into the Verge, to meet with its powerful turn-born.

Where the warmth of her reception could depend on a dragon’s manners. Or lack.

“Oh, dear.”

The steady beat of unshod hooves on packed earth was their drum, the creak of leather and occasional snort their sole heralds. Bannan was reassured by the care taken by the villagers beyond Marrowdell’s walls. They might have been ghosts moving down the mist-skirted Northward Road. Deer barely looked up as they passed; a young fox startled when they came around a bend.

Davi rode Battle, the extra burden nothing to the massive horse. His mother and Frann sat atop the cart load, a cozy nest having been made for them among the bundles and sacks; by midmorning, both were sound asleep.

Hettie and Tadd rode behind the wagon, holding hands when they thought no one was looking. They’d argued before setting out, she being large with child and he, to Bannan’s mind, understandably anxious. But the women hadn’t worried, most particularly her mother, who was the village healer, so how could the men?

Zehr walked more than he rode, admitting he hadn’t spent much time ahorse the last few years, but cheerful despite his sore backside. He held the reins of his wife’s mount as well, Gallie busy taking notes on the surrounding plant life, though it looked like all the rest to Bannan’s eyes. Tiny Loee, preoccupied with her thumb, dozed in a sling at her mother’s breast.

As for Bannan? After Scourge, Perrkin was a revelation: an honest, easy-paced horse who not only knew where they were going but wished nothing more than to please his rider along the way. He could get used to this, the truthseer decided, patting the aged gelding’s sturdy neck.

Though truth was, after they stopped for lunch, he was in some danger of joining Frann, Lorra, and the baby, nodding off, then waking with a guilty start. Scourge wouldn’t have put up with it, being expert at a jolting step or two if Bannan dared relax. Teeth through one’s tongue was an unpleasant and highly effective alarm on patrol.

Which he was, so the truthseer fought his grogginess. Going ahead a bend or two and riding back helped, but it wasn’t fair to Perrkin to ask him to travel the road more than the others. Instead, Bannan followed Zehr’s example and dismounted to walk every so often, the challenge of keeping up with the team’s long strides enough to keep his eyes open.

Not that eyes seemed much use. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on Scourge’s senses. Once the morning mist burned away, the sun dazzled. Now, afternoon’s first shadows stretched like fingers from under the pines, clawing at the road’s edge and hiding what they chose. His eyes played tricks, he thought, squinting.

Had he seen something?

Another fox, more likely than not.

The entire north, as much of it as he’d seen, consisted of steep-walled crags split at random by narrow, winding gorges. The road, like the tumbling water that sprang from cracks and seams, took the easiest path, winding anywhere the land could support it, ever-so-grudgingly sloping down to Lower Rhoth and civilization.

Toward Lila and home. He couldn’t wait.

Bannan frowned.

The Westietas estate had never been home; he’d left the Larmensu holding a boy barely grown. Home lay behind him, in a land of—of—roses and sunsets that were—what were they?—where moths who took notes—which, his frown deepened, moths couldn’t do.

Yes, he’d a farm of his own and soon, hopefully, piglets, but winter, he feared, would be long and lonely. If only he’d found someone in Marrowdell, as Lila had hoped.

Suddenly, his neck burned—or did it itch?

Bannan lifted his fingers to the spot and felt raised letters, hot as fire. As shockingly, at the touch, his memory cleared. “Jenn!” he cried, aloud and urgently, feeling the truth of it—of her—snap back into place.

He trembled, unable to credit he’d forgotten her, however briefly.

“‘Jenn?’” Davi glanced down at him, bushy eyebrows raised. “Who’s that?”

He meant it. The truth in the other man’s face was like a knife in Bannan’s heart. “Someone dear to me,” he managed. Someone dear to all of them, before they’d left Marrowdell.

What was happening?

“Maybe you’ll have a letter waiting,” the villager said comfortingly.

“I hope so.” The truthseer forced a smile, a smile he lost as he mounted Perrkin and sent him trotting ahead of their little group.

Ordinary sunlight crisscrossed the road, fallen leaves crunched rather than giggled, and what was wrong with him, that he’d any trouble at all remembering the love of his life? She’d kissed him this very morning. Held him tight then sent him on his way with one of her wondrous smiles.

He’d forgotten Marrowdell as well, at least everything strange and remarkable about the place.

Heart’s Blood. Bannan swallowed. One and the same, weren’t they, for wasn’t Jenn Nalynn now turn-born and magic?

Wen had warned him. Leave and no longer belong.

Ancestors Dreadful and Dire, he hadn’t thought it the truth.

Bannan twisted in the saddle. The others seemed unchanged and unworried. Because they couldn’t see the Marrowdell he did? Or was it because they’d lived there most of their lives, taking so much for granted they didn’t notice its absence?

Such questions died on his lips, unspoken, and he knew himself a coward, afraid to see the terrible truth in every face. That once beyond Marrowdell, even they forgot her magic.

He would not. Dared not. Ylings. They lived in the old trees—the neyet. The ylings had been left in the valley; the neyet grew through from the Verge for their own reasons and, once, had sacrificed themselves so the turn-born could build a village. A village to attract people, ordinary people, to harvest the kaliia, the grain that also grew from the Verge and was tended by the deadly efflet.

Jenn Nalynn had hair of gold.

The kaliia was the reason for the mill, too, for the turn-born—however dangerous and powerful—happened to like the beer they could make from that grain.

He did too, come to think of it. Tasty stuff. To turn-born it was more, Jenn had told him, the brew being their way of bringing some of this world with them into the Verge, for they wouldn’t cross in winter.

Willingly would he drown in her eyes, their deep blue purpled by magic. Her smile took hold of his heart and made it sing. When she laughed, the world brimmed with hope and anything was possible.

The road, the crisp air, even the patient horse beneath him faded as Bannan thought of Jenn Nalynn; he started when Tadd Emms rode up beside him and said his name.

“Is something wrong?” As if everything wasn’t, the truthseer told himself grimly. Give him bandits. Anything but this betrayal.

“That’s what I came to see.” Though both twins showed their Naalish ancestry in a stocky build and tight black curls, with a sallowness to their skin despite its weathering, only Tadd had their mother’s dimples. They weren’t in evidence now, his features serious. “Hettie said you shouted a name she didn’t know.” After a quick, searching look at Bannan’s face, he smiled broadly and leaned back in the saddle. “Jenn’s. Jenn Nalynn. You remember.”

“How—?” How didn’t matter. Bannan’s relief was akin to pain. “I do. Now. But Tadd, I—I forgot her.” Said aloud, it sounded worse than impossible.

Tadd merely nodded, as if unsurprised. “What matters is you remember,” with certainty. “We’d bet, Allin and me. If you would or not. I told him a truthseer might.” His head tilted, like a curious bird’s. “You have, haven’t you? Remembered Marrowdell the way we do. Not only Jenn. All of it. The magic.”

“Yes.” With help. Bannan decided not to mention the moth. Though unoffended to be the subject of a wager—it was hardly the first time—he found himself abruptly indignant. “Why didn’t anyone—” Ah, but he’d been warned, hadn’t he? He took a steadying breath. “How is it you remember?”

Tadd found the ends of his reins of surpassing interest. Their horses, long-time companions, matched stride for stride in an easy walk. After a moment, he answered quietly, “We’re different, Allin and me. We’ve known since we first left the valley.”

Something they’d done each summer since being old enough to ride. Tadd’s becoming the miller’s apprentice and his twin living in Endshere, the question of who would graze the livestock beyond the valley next year remained to be settled. From what he was hearing, with what he’d felt himself, Bannan wasn’t sure who else could. “Davi didn’t remember Jenn.”

“Not anymore.” Tadd shrugged. “He used to, but she’s changed, hasn’t she? More—more Marrowdell than anyone else. That’s what they can’t remember, Bannan.”

Jenn had told him turn-born couldn’t live outside the edge. She’d done her best to accept that terrible truth. Now this? That outside, her very existence was forgotten? He’d have to tell her.

He couldn’t imagine how.

“Does anyone else remember?” Bannan asked, dropping his voice below the clop of hooves on the road. “Sennic—Horst?” Surely the old soldier.

“He taught us to keep what makes Marrowdell special secret.” A dimple showed. “’Course, once in a while we slip. I got in a fight at the inn last year, bragging about our grain, and Allin—well, fortunately no one believed him about the dancers in the trees. But Horst?” He shook his head and Bannan’s heart fell. “Our first trip outside, we didn’t know any better. Horst wouldn’t talk about Marrowdell, so we didn’t. Then Allin saw.” Lower. “I did, too.”

“Saw what?”

Tadd looked askance at him, then brought his horse closer. “You see when someone speaks the truth.” He waited for Bannan to nod. “We see something—Allin calls it ‘Marrowdell’s light’—in a person’s eyes. I can see it in yours.

“When we don’t, when it’s gone, the person has lost Marrowdell. We saw it leave Horst. Oh, he knew about home. About us. But when we talked about what makes Marrowdell special—what he’d warned us to keep secret before we left? He warned us not to make up wild stories. Said they’d attract attention. They weren’t stories, Bannan.” A resigned shrug. “Horst simply couldn’t believe them, away from Marrowdell. He’d forgotten.”

If not for the moth, Bannan thought desperately, he’d have done the same. “The others?”

“Hettie’s lost it,” with regret. “My parents. Loee hasn’t, but she’s a baby. The Treffs and Frann have. Devins. Naught’s wrong with any of them.” This was said hastily, as if worried what Bannan might think. “The light comes back, once they pass between the crags. Once home.” His fingers circled his heart. “Ancestors Blessed and Bountiful. It’s just—they won’t remember having forgotten.” He added, almost too quietly to hear, “Or believe us, if we tell them. Here or there.”

“Tell me the Lady Mahavar remembers,” Bannan pleaded. If Aunt Sybb forgot her youngest niece, if her letters from this time forward came without mention, Jenn Nalynn would be heartbroken. “She must.”

“Aie. Her light’s there, bright as yours.” Tadd carefully examined his reins again. “Allin and I, we keep hoping to talk to her, when our paths cross each spring and summer, but every time there’s no way to—the lady’s not someone we—she’s—” He looked up helplessly. “She doesn’t care for magic.”

For this was magic, no mistake.

Bannan reached out and gripped the villager’s shoulder. “Hard enough to bear such a gift when you can’t tell those you love. Harder still when you can see them change as you have. You’ve done well, Tadd. Both of you. Very well.”

The other’s eyes shone. “Allin said you’d understand if anyone could. We just had to wait until—”

“You saw,” Bannan finished for him.

“Yes.” Tadd beamed. “Which means I win for once!”

Their bet. He laughed. “Glad to be of service.”

“We must talk again. With Allin.” Tadd glanced over his shoulder and waved. “I’d best get back to Hettie.”

“Thank you.” And when they spoke, Bannan resolved to ask Allin about the Dema and the Eld, and their servants. Roche too. Much as he’d come to respect Qimirpik, it might be as well if Marrowdell kept its deeper secrets.

From Tir as well?

Ancestors Witness. Doubtless his friend would sleep better at night if he forgot Marrowdell’s eccentricities. Why did it feel like betrayal? Because that’s how Tir would consider it. He’d demand a way to remember.

Which there was. The moth.

As Tadd reined back to rejoin his family, who’d forgotten magic, Bannan found himself reconsidering it. Was this forgetting deliberate, with a cause and purpose? Or, like the dreams within the valley, simply a consequence of moving between a place saturated with magic and one—almost—without.

No wonder Scourge had wandered, lost.

Heart’s Blood. He should turn around, now, before he was.

Should, but wouldn’t. Dropping the reins, Bannan’s fingers found that now-cool spot on his neck. The moth—be it the sei or Marrowdell itself—had marked him for a reason. Had saved him, that was the truth, and he was beyond grateful. He’d fulfill his duty, though the next few days would be an eternity.

It was then Bannan realized he’d let himself become dangerously distracted.

They weren’t alone on the road.

“I’m pleased you’re going at last, Dearest Heart.” Peggs Nalynn Uhthoff brushed a lock of black hair from her brow, leaving a whimsy of soap bubbles above a shapely eyebrow. “Just tell me before you do.”

“So you can worry?” Beckoning her sister close, Jenn moistened the corner of her apron and wiped the bubbles from otherwise flawless skin, then stood back and admired. Happiness sparkled in Peggs’ eyes these days and, though always graceful, wasn’t she now the most beautiful woman in Marrowdell, perhaps even in all of Rhoth? Now she moved as if hearing music. “Kydd agrees with you,” Jenn declared with satisfaction.

Roses bloomed along those high cheekbones, but Peggs merely shook her head. “And you’re changing the subject.”

The subject being Jenn taking that first step beyond Marrowdell, though the process wasn’t so much a step as a desire and intention to be somewhere and someone entirely not here and her?

Changing it was exactly what she wanted to do. “I’ll hang these.” Jenn grabbed an armload of steaming shirts and headed for the door. She paused to look over her shoulder. “I promise to tell you.”

That won her the smile she’d hoped. “I suppose I should be grateful you’ve decided to talk about this at all. If not with me, then with—” Peggs waved the big paddle, shedding bubbles “—someone.”

By which she meant “someone” who knew everything. Oh, each and every resident of Marrowdell had their version of what had happened at the fall equinox, when the eclipse had passed over the valley on the Ancestors’ Golden Day. Most believed Uncle Horst had succumbed to old guilt and tried to leave the valley, only to be mauled by a bear. How fortunate the tinkers had still been in the valley to help heal his wounds.

Most believed the mysterious and magical Wyll, once Jenn Nalynn’s promised husband, had spurned her and also left, for good. Both events, it was tacitly agreed, had been for the best, Horst now happily married to Riss Nahamm and Wyll, never easy company, surely better off elsewhere.

Few knew the whole truth. Wainn and Wen, of course, who likely knew more. Bannan. Peggs and Kydd. Radd Nalynn, because his daughters had blurted it all out over supper and who, to his credit, had merely nodded and gone a bit pale. Aunt Sybb? It was difficult to say if the Lady Mahavar would bother with the truth, being unsettled by magic and toads at the best of times, and they’d promised their father not to disagree with their aunt’s view of things, whatever that became.

Of the rest, Jenn suspected nothing in Marrowdell slipped the notice of Master Dusom, Kydd’s elder brother, or Old Jupp, but none of them spoke of it. She hoped Uncle Horst had told Riss, which was their business and not hers, but surely Riss deserved to know he’d almost died defending Jenn Nalynn so she could reach the Verge to save the sei—and, not incidentally, Marrowdell itself—and that Wyll hadn’t left at all, but had been returned to his true self.

A dragon named Wisp.

Jenn slipped through the doorway, her breath joining the steam from the damp clothing. It wasn’t quite winter, but her fingers numbed as she hastily pegged shirts, shirtwaist, and—oh, yes—a pair of men’s full undergarments that did not belong to their father. She managed not to drop them or blush.

Back inside, Jenn ducked under the line of clothing hung across the kitchen and planted herself on the second last rung of the ladder that, before the equinox and weddings and all else, had led to her bedroom as well as Peggs’. “Nice underwear your husband has,” she commented, reaching chilled hands toward the cookstove with its bubbling pot of laundry. Every window stood open despite the cold outside; it was that, or have the entire house smell of wet cloth and soap.

“I’m sure Bannan’s are more modern,” her sister retorted.

“Peggs!”

“When he wears any.” With a wink.

Jenn launched a soggy sock. Laughing, Peggs caught it in midair and sent it flying back, but not before Jenn found another, then another. When they finally ran out of socks, the pair settled side-by-side on the stair, laughter subsiding. “Were you tempted?” Peggs asked quietly.

Jenn leaned into her sister’s shoulder. “To stop him? For a moment. But the others need him. After all. There could be bandits.”

“More likely a baby.” Both chuckled then shook their heads. There’d been no arguing with Hettie, who’d pronounced, firmly, that babies were like calves and would be born whenever and wherever they chose. “It’s because Bannan’s away you’re going now, Dearest Heart, isn’t it?”

Was there anything Peggs missed? “I need to cross alone. I must.”

She felt her sister tense, then relax. “Ancestors Witness. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Not in the least. That’s why, you see.”

Peggs fell silent. Jenn waited; her sister preferred to chew on a thought, especially when it involved change. Finally, “I’ve no idea what that world—the Verge—is like. How can I give you advice? Or help?” Her arm came around Jenn and hugged, hard. “Just know you’ll be doing dishes the entire winter for two households if you aren’t careful. Including the pots!”

Though the consequences of her not being careful in the Verge would be far worse, Jenn pretended to shudder. “Anything but pots. I promise, Peggs. I’ll visit Mistress Sand and come straight back.”

Perhaps having learned enough, she added wistfully and to herself, to welcome Bannan’s interesting laundry into a pot with her own.

There. A glimpse of brown. Or was it black? Had he imagined it? No. Bannan trusted the wary flick of Perrkin’s ear over his eyes. Something paced them through the shadowed woods.

If it was Scourge, the great beast had graciously allowed both man and gelding that fleeting look.

If something else . . . ?

Bannan spread the fingers of his left hand where it rested on his thigh before remembering there was no Tir Half-face to catch that guard’s signal for caution. Then again, were they not a caravan of simple villagers? He turned easily in the saddle, hooking one leg over Perrkin’s neck. The seemingly careless position would allow him to swiftly dismount with the horse between him and any attacker, a horse who might not have fangs, but who’d been trained to use hooves and teeth. “Ancestors Famished and Faint, Davi,” he called to the smith. “When do we stop for lunch?” A meal they’d eaten already, at the same spot he’d camped with Tir on the journey north, giving the horses a breather and watering, and there was no plan to pause again.

The big man had been half asleep himself. To his credit, he understood at once, coming awake with a stretch and an outwardly cheerful, “Not long now. Past yon bend. There’s a stream, as I recall.” His own hand, twice the breadth of Bannan’s and callused rock-hard by years working metal, wrapped around the hammer tied to Brawl’s harness. He didn’t pull it free. Not yet.

Tadd, riding by the cart, frowned. “Lunch? But—”

“Ooooh,” Hettie groaned fervently, a hand on the swelling at her waist. “Oooh!”

Her husband looked horrified. Bannan, seeing the lie in her face, winked to acknowledge her quick wit. Though pale, she winked back.

The playacting roused Lorra, who fussily straightened her hat as she peered around. Frann, meanwhile, remained sound asleep. Devins, on the opposite side of the cart, glanced at his stepsister, made a face as if to declare his intention to stay out of any baby business, then pulled his hat down over his brows to doze again.

But didn’t. Bannan saw the young man’s hands gather the reins, ready to send his mount wherever necessary.

Lorra began to scowl. “What’s the matter?” she snapped.

“A kick surprised me, Great Aunt, that’s all.” Hettie smiled, the little gap between her teeth giving her a mischievous look that was, Bannan knew, wholly appropriate. “She’s a strong one.”

“He,” Lorra corrected—not for the first time. “Covie’s guessing. And don’t call me that. I’m not a hundred years old.”

“My mother, Lorra Treff, doesn’t guess.” With a decided snap. Tadd, anxious now for a new reason, looked over at Devins; that worthy’s shoulders were shaking suspiciously. “My mother’s the best healer in Marrowdell!”

“Which doesn’t say much, does it? I say it’s a boy.”

Bannan wondered if he should hope the bickering would distract any bandits.

Then Davi let go of his hammer to join the fray. “Now, Mother—a wee girl would be wonderful.”

“Another girl, and we’ll have to order in husbands by the handful!”

Frann woke up, blinked, and said happily, “You’ve had the baby?”

“You haven’t, have you?” Tadd demanded. “I mean, you can’t, like that. Can you?”

Devins leaned back and roared with laughter. Hettie’s face turned pink.

Perrkin’s ears went flat.

In one fluid motion, Bannan threw himself around in the saddle and dug in his heels to drive the willing horse toward the wall of trees. He put his hand to the hilt of his sword, but didn’t draw it as they charged, hearing but ignoring the shouts from behind.

Almost in the shadows, he leaned back sharply in the saddle. The gelding almost sat in its urgency to obey, then half reared as now Bannan did pull free the blade. “Hold!” he shouted, thrusting the gleaming thing high as his blood pounded in his ears and all his better sense told him he was an idiot.

The martial display wouldn’t impress Scourge in the least. Hopefully, it might deter a few faint-hearted bandits.

Unfortunately, it did nothing to slow the onrush of the huge and shaggy bear, mouth agape in a roar!

Perrkin, wiser than his rider, whirled and bolted.

While Lorra, never one to miss the essential point, shouted, “Save us! It’s after the sausage!”

Later, Bannan couldn’t be sure exactly what had happened, and was glad of it. He remembered turning the gelding back toward the caravan. The shouts and commotion as horses rightly contested being asked to stay anywhere close to the bear. The roars and snarls of what wasn’t a huge bear after all, but a miserable and maddened creature, late to its den, bent on attacking anything edible.

Then the smack! as Scourge hit it from the side at full charge, likely breaking its back, but that hadn’t been enough for the old kruar who’d . . .

The truthseer swallowed. According to Devins, who’d promptly lost his lunch at the side of the road, Scourge had ripped out the bear’s entrails and tossed them high in the air.

Before diving back in to pluck out and eat its heart. While purring.

Drama done, the little caravan resumed its journey. The horses were understandably unhappy, an opinion they expressed by breaking into a jog toward Endshere and its stable as often as allowed. The villagers, who thankfully remembered Scourge as his warhorse, if nothing more, accepted with good humor that the beast had followed the caravan and heroically saved its master.

From what they emphasized had been a very small bear.

Bannan was almost offended, for Scourge’s sake, if not his own; surely the beast had been large enough to bring down a horse or man, and enraged at that. Seeing the truth in their faces, he kept his peace. Perhaps the north harbored a different sort of bear.

As for the giant mass of flesh stalking alongside poor Perrkin? Bannan shook his head. “You could go home,” he suggested quietly, again.

A roll of a still-red eye.

“Do you—can you remember? Home? What you are?”

Scourge might be unable to speak beyond the edge, but that curled lip eloquently dismissed any of his, Bannan’s, concerns as trivial.

Fair enough. Scourge had brought him to Marrowdell in the first place. They’d make do. “Idiot beast.” Bannan reached over to slap the dusty hide, avoiding a glob of bear blood. His voice thickened. “Hearts of my Ancestors, I swear I’ll get you home again.”

A shudder worked under the skin, whether at his touch or the alternative.

Well enough. They were safer for the kruar’s company.

If not any mice in Endshere’s stable.

The turn came, sliding night’s deeper blue over the Bone Hills, leading shadows down the Tinkers Road to the village, spreading wide across the fallow fields. It roused efflet to whisper in their hedges, their eyes cold and pale as they watched for unwary nyphrit. They remembered, did efflet, how very many of them had died on the Spine, and took an accounting whenever they could.

Ylings, who’d also fought and died, danced and sang, catching the light of the turn in their hair, their number so great that the old trees, the neyet and their homes, seemed leafed in tiny stars. The turn passed and they hid again.

Giggling. Ylings preferred life to vengeance.

The turn reached the village and house toads tucked themselves under bed frames or stoves or burrowed beneath cushions, as house toads were wont to do, being loath to expose their true nature.

While Jenn Nalynn stood in the space between kitchen and main room, arms wide and head back, drinking in light.

She could be anywhere, and the turn would find her. Change her. Reveal her as she was. Earlier now, as winter approached. Unmistakable, always.

Jenn opened and closed her hands, marveling how they could feel the same, yet look so different. Fingers of glass, filled with opalescence. If she lifted them to her face, the glow made her squint. Which must be a memory of squinting, or its habit, since she had no eyes nor other features as turn-born. Another question for Mistress Sand, who hadn’t said anything about the mask she and other turn-born wore in place of a face. A mask, moreover, that became a face, once the turn passed.

It was all quite remarkable. What mattered, Jenn supposed, was that she could see regardless. She smiled, just to feel her lips pulling and the crinkle of both cheeks.

Her smile grew wistful as glass became skin once more and her hands, merely hands. Like the toads, she avoided being seen during the turn; a task more easily accomplished now that the sun set before supper instead of during it when she should be helping. It was more than keeping her nature secret from those who didn’t know—that some didn’t being a feat to amaze in Marrowdell—it was that the change felt intensely private.

Although Bannan’s magic let him see her as turn-born simply, as he put it, by looking deeper, he loved to watch her during the turn. She could watch herself in his eyes, see their astonished joy, hear the catch of his breath.

Her cheeks warmed. Two days. Three at most. According to Aunt Sybb, absence made a heart either fonder or forgetful. Bannan couldn’t possibly forget her, though Jenn, now dancing around the empty room, couldn’t imagine how it was possible to become more fond.

Should she, her heart, she assured that organ, pressing her hands to it, would no longer fit inside her chest.

A rumble from lower down reminded her it was, in fact, time to satisfy another hunger altogether.

The main room of the Nalynn home had changed since Jenn last lived in it. Some was the accommodation of an artist in the family, Kydd’s clever slanted desk being under a front window and his latest watercolors pinned to the walls. The paintings were of Marrowdell’s mill, with the colors of fall behind, though three were studies of Peggs’ profile as he took full advantage of living with his favorite subject. Radd’s bed remained where it had always been, with his favorite barrel chair brought in for the winter, but over the bed, where it would catch the morning’s sunlight or evening’s candleglow, he’d hung the sigil carved with his wife’s name. Peggs had told Jenn he sometimes spoke to it, and admitted she did the same.

Radd smiled at his gathered family, resting his fond gaze on his youngest daughter. “Please say the Beholding for us, Dear Heart.”

The eldest said the Beholding which, for much of the year, the best part, was Aunt Sybb. She’d never done it. Jenn glanced at Peggs, who merely smiled, then at Kydd, whose smile, if anything, was wider. It was a conspiracy, clearly. “I’d be honored, Poppa,” she gave in, taking the guest’s seat at the Nalynn table. She formed the circle over her heart with her forefingers and thumbs, silently hoping they were clean, and composed herself.

“Hearts of our Ancestors,” Jenn began. “We are Beholden for the food on this table, for Peggs is the best cook in the world—” and blushing madly, though she shouldn’t, considering the wonderful feast spread over the table, but Jenn had blushed herself at many a Beholding and considered this only fair. She continued, “It will give us the strength to improve ourselves in your eyes. We are Beholden for the opportunity to share this meal, for though we are two families now—” for some reason her voice stuck in her throat and Jenn coughed to free it “—we will always be one in your eyes and our hearts—”

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?

THREE

MARROWDELL 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.

Where to Download A Play of Shadow: Night's Edge: Book Two, by Julie E. Czerneda

Most helpful customer reviews

3 of 3 people found the following review helpful. World-building continues to shine in sequel to A Turn of Light By K. Bennett This is a longer novel, but when I got to 75% on my Kindle, I just had to stay up until 2AM finishing it. This sequel is every bit as compelling as the first book. Indeed, I'm now rereading the first one because I wasn't ready to leave the world of Marrowdell, yet. It's a slow build to the main "mission," but the characters and setting are so charming, the pacing never feels off. I've added many others of Ms. Czerneda's SF books to my "to-read" pile, now that I've enjoyed these two fantasies so much. (In my Kindle edition, there were a couple of proofreading errors/typos, but not enough to pull me out of the story.) The Turn books are keepers for me, and I look forward to re-entering this magical world over the years. I do highly recommend reading 'A Turn of Light' first, however, as you'll be that much more invested in the characters with their personal histories clear to you. When you read a novel, and wished you knew and were friends with the people therein, you know you've read a work of true mastery of word-smithing.

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. Immersed in a wonderful world By LBS I enjoyed the first novel enough to preorder the sequel as soon as I saw it listed. The first book is a much harder read because of the huge amount of description going on. It seemed excessive to me at first, but gradually I fell in love with Marrowdell and its denizens. So, I reread it when A Play of Shadow showed up on my kindle last week and savored every word. Then, I read A Play of Shadow immediately after finishing and all of that atmosphere built up in the first book carried me right through the second, which is just as heartwarming with a lot more adventure going on. This book is a very good continuation of the first and all indications point to at least a third book which I look forward to buying as soon as I see it as well. I was so engrossed in this world that I feel a little lost now that it is over for the moment. Those are the best books, right?

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. Emagination Stretching By Night Owl Reviews 5 Stars / Top PickThe fun thing about reading fantasy is having one's imagination stretched, as one amazing event forms the framework for another, but it is essential for a vivid universe to be established in order for everything else to make sense, especially when one revisits after an absence. This series combines vivid world-building, memorable characters, and intensely emotional encounters that are fascinating in that none of them involve a 'normal' run-of-the-mill human. From the mercurial Wisp, whose protective dragonish qualities are contrasted with his whimsical dexterity as a breeze, the intimidating and carnivorous kruar Scourge, with his somewhat skewed method of interaction, to the remarkable house toad who manages to produce just what is needed at a crucial juncture...the myriad of creatures add a wonderful texture to a story that combines magic, adventure and romance in a winning combination. I confess to a tendency to take a closer look at the moths around me, in hopes that one will be writing on a very tiny scroll and I look forward to many more adventures featuring the fascinating Turn-born Jenn as she continues to explore her capabilities, ably supported by the very intriguing Bannan."A Play of Shadow: Mellynne" by Julie Czerneda is the second story in the mesmerizing 'Night's Edge' series, and continues the story of Jenn Nalynn and her adventures with the other inhabitants of Marrowdell. Her ties to Truthseer Bannan Larmensu prompt her to risk the unpredictable dangers of the Verge in order to help search for his missing relatives. The amazing revelations about his family and the continuing maturation of Jenn's abilities elicit unexpected situations but the evil that seeks to destroy everything being built makes it essential for allies both large and small to take a stand, as the very fabric of Marrowdell becomes endangered.Disclosure: Free review copy from the publisher/author for an honest review.Review by: ELF

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A Play of Shadow: Night's Edge: Book Two, by Julie E. Czerneda

A Play of Shadow: Night's Edge: Book Two, by Julie E. Czerneda