A Play of Shadow Read online

  The Finest in DAW Science Fiction and Fantasy

  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

  Copyright © 2014 by Julie E. Czerneda.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Jacket art by Matt Stawicki.

  Jacket designed by G-Force Design.

  Maps drawn by Julie E. Czerneda.

  Photographs by Roger Czerneda.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1671.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA).

  Book designed by Jackson Typesetting Co.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61054-1

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

  Version_1

  Contents

  Also by Julie E. Czerneda

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Maps

  Prologue

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  Concerning the Denizens of Marrowdell

  Concerning the Denizens of Endshere

  Encountered in Channen

  The Making of the Shadow District

  Put Me in the Story!

  We’d like to Invite You . . .

  The More Usual Acknowledgments

  Hallo, Poppa.

  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
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  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 t
hey 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.