The Warded Man

CHAPTER 10 APPRENTICE 320 AR

“There’s our friend again,” said Gaims, gesturing into the darkness from their post on the wall.

“Right on time,” Woron agreed, coming up next to him. “What do you s’pose he wants?”

“Empty my pockets,” Gaims said, “you’ll find no answers.”

The two guards leaned against the warded rail of the watchtower and watched as the one-armed rock demon materialized before the gate. It was big, even to the eyes of Milnese guards, who saw more of rock demons than any other type.

While the other demons were still getting their bearings, the one-armed demon moved with purpose, snuffling about the gate, searching. Then it straightened and struck the gate, testing the wards. Magic flared and threw the demon back, but it was undeterred. Slowly, the demon moved along the wall, striking again and again, searching for a weakness until it was out of sight.

Hours later, a crackle of energy signaled the demon’s return from the opposite direction. The guards at other posts said that the demon circled the city each night, attacking every ward. When it reached the gate once more, it settled back on its haunches, staring patiently at the city.

Gaims and Woron were used to this scene, having witnessed it every night for the past year. They had even begun to look forward to it, passing the time on their watch by betting on how long one Arm took to circle the city, or whether he would head east or west to do so.

“I’m half tempted to let ’im in, just t’see what he’s after,” Woron mused.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Gaims warned. “If the watch commander hears talk like that, he’ll have both of us in irons, quarrying stone for the next year.”

His partner grunted. “Still,” he said, “you have to wonder …”

That first year in Miln, his twelfth, passed quickly for Arlen as he grew into his role as an apprentice Warder. Cob’s first task had been to teach him to read. Arlen knew wards never before seen in Miln, and Cob wanted them committed to paper as soon as possible.

Arlen took to reading voraciously, wondering how he had ever gotten along without it. He disappeared into books for hours at a time, his lips moving slightly at first, but soon he was turning pages rapidly, his eyes darting across the page.

Cob had no cause to complain; Arlen worked harder than any apprentice he had ever known, staying up late in the night etching wards. Cob would often go to his bed thinking of the full day’s work to come, only to find it completed when the sun’s first light flooded the shop.

After learning his letters, Arlen was put to work cataloguing his personal repertoire of wards, complete with descriptions, into a book the master purchased for him. Paper was expensive in the sparsely wooded lands of Miln, and a whole book was something few commoners ever saw, but Cob scoffed at the price.

“Even the worst grimoire’s worth a hundred times the paper it’s written on,” he said.

“Grimoire?” Arlen asked.

“A book of wards,” Cob said. “Every Warder has theirs, and they guard their secrets carefully.” Arlen treasured the valuable gift, filling its pages with a slow and steady hand.

When Arlen had finished plumbing his memory, Cob studied the book in shock. “Creator, boy, do you have any idea what this book is worth?” he demanded.

Arlen looked up from the ward he was chiseling into a stone post, and shrugged. “Any graybeard in Tibbet’s Brook could teach you those wards,” he said.

“That may be,” Cob replied, “but what’s common in Tibbet’s Brook is buried treasure in Miln. This ward here.” He pointed to a page. “Can it truly turn firespit into a cool breeze?”

Arlen laughed. “My mam used to love that one,” he said. “She wished the flame demons could come right up to the windows on hot summer nights to cool the house with their breath.”

“Amazing,” Cob said, shaking his head. “I want you to copy this a few more times, Arlen. It’s going to make you a very rich man.”

“How do you mean?” Arlen asked.

“People would pay a fortune for a copy of this,” Cob said. “Maybe we shouldn’t even sell at all. We could be the most sought-after Warders in the city if we kept them secret.”

Arlen frowned. “It’s not right to keep them secret,” he said. “My da always said wards are for everyone.”

“Every Warder has his secrets, Arlen,” Cob said. “This is how we make our living.”

“We make our living etching wardposts and painting door-jambs,” Arlen disagreed, “not hoarding secrets that can save lives. Should we deny succor to those too poor to pay?”

“Of course not,” Cob said, “but this is different.”

“How?” Arlen asked. “We didn’t have Warders in Tibbet’s Brook. We all warded our own homes, and those who were better at it helped those who were worse without asking anything in return. Why should we? It’s not us against each other, it’s us against the demons!”

“Fort Miln isn’t like Tibbet’s Brook, boy.” Cob scowled. “Here, things cost money. If you don’t have any money, you become a Beggar. I have a skill, like any baker or stonemason. Why shouldn’t I charge for it?”

Arlen sat quietly for a time. “Cob, why ent you rich?” he asked at last.

“What?”

“Like Ragen,” Arlen clarified. “You said you used to be a Messenger for the duke. Why don’t you live in a manse and have servants do everything for you? Why do you do this at all?”

Cob blew out a long breath. “Money is a fickle thing, Arlen,” he said. “One moment you can have more than you know what to do with, and the next … you can find yourself begging food on the street.”

Arlen thought of the beggars he saw on his first day in Miln. He had seen many more since, stealing dung to burn for warmth, sleeping in public warded shelters, begging for food.

“What happened to your money, Cob?” he asked.

“I met a man who said he could build a road,” Cob said. “A warded road, stretching from here to Angiers.” Arlen moved closer and sat on a stool, his attention rapt.

“They’ve tried to build roads before,” Cob went on, “to the Duke’s Mines in the mountains, or to Harden’s Grove to the south. Short distances, less than a full day, but enough to make a fortune for the builder. They always failed. If there’s a hole in a net, no matter how small, corelings will find it eventually. And once they’re in …” He shook his head. “I told the man this, but he was adamant. He had a plan. It would work. All he needed was money.”

Cob looked at Arlen. “Every city is short of something,” he said, “and has too much of something else. Miln has metal and stone, but no wood. Angiers, the reverse. Both are short of crops and livestock, while Rizon has more than they need, but no good lumber or metal for tools. Lakton has fish in abundance, but little else.

“I know you must think me a fool,” he said, shaking his head, “for considering something everyone from the duke on down had dismissed as impossible, but the idea stuck with me. I kept thinking, What if he could? Isn’t that worth any risk?”

“I don’t think you’re a fool,” Arlen said.

“Which is why I keep most of your pay in trust,” Cob chuckled. “You’d give it away, same as I did.”

“What happened to the road?” Arlen pressed.

“Corelings happened,” Cob said. “They slaughtered the man and all the workers I hired him, burned the wardposts and plans … they destroyed it all. I had invested everything in that road, Arlen. Even letting my servants go wasn’t enough to pay my debts. I made barely enough money selling my manse to clear a loan to buy this shop, and I’ve been here ever since.”

They sat for a time, both of them lost in images of what that night must have been like, both of them seeing in their mind’s eye the corelings dancing amid the flames and carnage.

“Do you still think the dream was worth the risk?” Arlen asked. “All the cities sharing?”

“To this day,” Cob replied. “Even when my back aches from carting wardposts and I can’t stand my own cooking.”

“This is no different,” Arlen said, tapping the book of wards. “If all the Warders shared what they knew, how much better for everyone? Isn’t a safer city worth losing a little profit?”

Cob stared at him a long time. Then he came over and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re right, Arlen. I’m sorry. We’ll copy the books and sell them to the other Warders.”

Arlen slowly began to smile.

“What?” Cob asked suspiciously.

“Why not trade our secrets for theirs?” Arlen asked.

The chimes rang, and Elissa entered the warding shop with a wide smile. She nodded to Cob as she carried a large basket to Arlen, kissing him on the cheek. Arlen grimaced in embarrassment and wiped his cheek, but she took no notice of it.

“I brought you boys some fruit, and fresh bread and cheese,” she said, removing the items from the basket. “I expect you’ve been eating no better than you were upon my last visit.”

“Dried meat and hard bread are a Messenger’s staples, my lady,” Cob said with a smile, not looking up from the keystone he was chiseling.

“Rubbish,” Elissa scolded. “You’re retired, Cob, and Arlen isn’t a Messenger yet. Don’t try to glorify your lazy refusal to go to the market. Arlen is a growing boy, and needs better fare.” She ruffled Arlen’s hair as she spoke, smiling even as he pulled away.

“Come to dinner tonight, Arlen,” Elissa said. “Ragen is away, and the manse is lonely without him. I’ll feed you something to put meat on your bones, and you can stay in your room.”

“I … don’t think I can,” Arlen said, avoiding her eyes. “Cob needs me to finish these wardposts for the Duke’s Gardens …”

“Nonsense,” Cob said, waving his hand. “The wardposts can wait, Arlen. They’re not due for another week.” He looked up at Lady Elissa with a grin, ignoring Arlen’s discomfort. “I’ll send him over at the Evening Bell, Lady.”

Elissa flashed him a smile. “It’s settled, then,” she said. “I’ll see you tonight, Arlen.” She kissed the boy and swept out of the shop.

Cob glanced at Arlen, who was frowning into his work. “I don’t see why you choose to spend your nights sleeping on a pallet in the back of the shop when you could have a warm featherbed and a woman like Elissa to dote on you,” he said, keeping his eyes on his own work.

“She acts like she’s my mam,” Arlen complained, “but she’s not.”

“That’s true, she’s not,” Cob agreed. “But it’s clear she wants the job. Would it be so bad to let her have it?”

Arlen said nothing, and Cob, seeing the sad look in the boy’s eyes, let the matter drop.

“You’re spending too much time inside with your nose buried in books,” Cob said, snatching away the volume Arlen was reading. “When was the last time you felt the sun on your skin?”

Arlen’s eyes widened. In Tibbet’s Brook, he had never spent a moment indoors when he had a choice, but after more than a year in Miln, he could hardly remember his last day outside.

“Go find some mischief!” Cob ordered. “Won’t kill you to make a friend your own age!”

Arlen walked out of the city for the first time in a year, and the sun comforted him like an old friend. Away from the dung carts, rotting garbage, and sweaty crowds, the air held a freshness he had forgotten. He found a hilltop overlooking a field filled with playing children and pulled a book from his bag, plopping down to read.

“Hey, bookmole!” someone called.

Arlen looked up to see a group of boys approaching, holding a ball. “C’mon!” one of them cried. “We need one more to make the sides even!”

“I don’t know the game,” Arlen said. Cob had all but ordered him to play with other boys, but he thought his book far more interesting.

“What’s to know?” another boy asked. “You help your side get the ball to the goal, and try to keep the other side from doing it.”

Arlen frowned. “All right,” he said, moving to join the boy who had spoken.

“I’m Jaik,” the boy said. He was slender, with tousled dark hair and a pinched nose. His clothes were patched and dirty. He looked thirteen, like Arlen. “What’s your name?”

“Arlen.”

“You work for Warder Cob, right?” Jaik asked. “The kid Messenger Ragen found on the road?” When Arlen nodded, Jaik’s eyes widened a bit, as if he hadn’t believed it. He led the way onto the field, and pointed out the white painted stones that marked the goals.

Arlen quickly caught on to the rules of the game. After a time, he forgot his book, focusing his attention on the opposing team. He imagined he was a Messenger and they were demons trying to keep him from his circle. Hours melted away, and before he knew it the Evening Bell rang. Everyone hurriedly gathered up their things, fearful of the darkening sky.

Arlen took his time fetching his book. Jaik ran up to him. “You’d better hurry,” he said.

Arlen shrugged. “We have plenty of time,” he replied.

Jaik looked at the darkening sky, and shuddered. “You play pretty good,” he said. “Come back tomorrow. We play ball most afternoons, and on Sixthday we go to the square to see the Jongleur.” Arlen nodded noncommittally, and Jaik smiled and sped off.

Arlen headed back through the gate, the now-familiar stink of the city enveloping him. He turned up the hill to Ragen’s manse. The Messenger was away again, this time to faraway Lakton, and Arlen was spending the month with Elissa. She would pester him with questions and fuss about his clothes, but he had promised Ragen to “keep her young lovers away.”

Margrit had assured Arlen that Elissa had no lovers. In fact, when Ragen was away, she drifted the halls of their manse like a ghost, or spent hours crying in her bedchamber.

But when Arlen was around, the servant said, she changed. More than once, Margrit had begged him to live at the manse full time. He refused, but, he admitted to himself if no one else, he was beginning to like Lady Elissa fussing over him.

“Here he comes,” Gaims said that night, watching the massive rock demon rise from the ground. Woron joined him, and they watched from the guard tower as the demon snuffled the ground by the gate. With a howl, it bounded away from the gate to a hilltop. A flame demon danced there, but the rock demon knocked it violently aside, bending low to the ground, seeking something.

“Old One Arm’s in a mood tonight,” Gaims said as the demon howled again and darted down the hill to a small field, scurrying back and forth, hunched over.

“What do you suppose has gotten into him?” Woron asked. His partner shrugged.

The demon left the field, bounding back up the hill. Its shrieks became almost pained, and when it returned to the gate, it struck at the wards madly, its talons sending showers of sparks as they were repelled by the potent magic.

“Don’t see that every night,” Woron commented. “Should we report it?”

“Why bother?” Gaims replied. “No one is going to care about the carryings-on of one crazy demon, and what could they do about it if they did?”

“Against that thing?” Woron asked. “Probably just soil themselves.”

Pushing away from the workbench, Arlen stretched and got to his feet. The sun was long set, and his stomach growled irritably, but the baker was paying double to have his wards repaired in one night, even though a demon hadn’t been spotted on the streets in Creator only knew how long. He hoped Cob had left something for him in the cookpot.

Arlen opened the shop’s back door and leaned out, still safely within the warded semicircle around the doorway. He looked both ways, and assured that all was clear, he stepped onto the path, careful not to cover the wards with his foot.

The path from the back of Cob’s shop to his small cottage was safer than most houses in Miln, a series of individually warded squares made of poured stone. The stone—crete, Cob called it—was a science left over from the old world, a wonder unheard of in Tibbet’s Brook but quite common in Miln. Mixing powdered silicate and lime with water and gravel formed a muddy substance that could be molded and hardened into any shape desired.

It was possible to pour crete, and, as it began to set, carefully scratch wards into its soft substance that hardened into near-permanent protections. Cob had done this, square by square, until a path ran from his home to his shop. Even if one square were somehow compromised, a walker could simply move to the one ahead or behind, and remain safe from corelings.

If we could make a road like this, Arlen thought, the world would be at our fingertips.

Inside the cottage, he found Cob hunched over his desk, poring over chalked slates.

“Pot’s warm,” the master grunted, not looking up. Arlen moved over to the fireplace in the cottage’s single room and filled a bowl with Cob’s thick stew.

“Creator, boy, you started a mess with this,” Cob growled, straightening and gesturing to the slates. “Half the Warders in Miln are content to keep their secrets, even at the loss of ours, and half of those left keep offering money instead, but the quarter that remain have flooded my desk with lists of wards they’re willing to barter. It will be weeks in the sorting!”

“Things will be better for it,” Arlen said, using a crust of hard bread as a spoon as he sat on the floor, eating hungrily. The corn and beans were still hard, and the potatoes mushy from overboiling, but he didn’t complain. He was accustomed to the tough, stunted vegetables of Miln by now, and Cob could never be bothered to boil them separately.

“I daresay you’re right,” Cob admitted, “but night! Who thought there were so many different wards right in our own city! Half I’ve never seen in my life, and I’ve scrutinized every wardpost and portal in Miln, I assure you!”

He held up a chalked slate. “This one is willing to trade wards that will make a demon turn around and forget what it was doing for your mother’s ward to make glass as hard as steel.” He shook his head. “And they all want the secrets of your forbidding wards, boy. They’re easier to draw without a straightstick and a semicircle.”

“Crutches for people who can’t draw a straight line.” Arlen smirked.

“Not everyone is as gifted as you,” Cob grunted.

“Gifted?” Arlen asked.

“Don’t let it go to your head, boy,” Cob said, “but I’ve never seen anyone pick up warding as quick as you. Eighteen months into your apprenticeship, and you ward like a five-year journeyman.”

“I’ve been thinking about our deal,” Arlen said.

Cob looked up at him curiously.

“You promised that if I worked hard,” Arlen said, “you’d teach me to survive the road.”

They stared at one another a long while. “I’ve kept my part,” Arlen reminded.

Cob blew out a sigh. “I suppose you have,” he said. “Have you been practicing your riding?” he asked.

Arlen nodded. “Ragen’s groom lets me help exercise the horses.”

“Double your efforts,” Cob said. “A Messenger’s horse is his life. Every night your steed saves you from spending outside is a night out of risk.” The old Warder got to his feet, opening a closet and pulling out a thick rolled cloth. “On Seventhdays, when we close the shop,” he said, “I’ll coach your riding, and I’ll teach you to use these.”

He laid the cloth on the floor and unrolled it, revealing a number of well-oiled spears. Arlen eyed them hungrily.

Cob looked up at the chimes as a young boy entered his shop. He was about thirteen, with tousled dark curls and a fuzz of mustache at his lip that looked more like dirt than hair.

“Jaik, isn’t it?” the Warder asked. “Your family works the mill down by the East Wall, don’t they? We quoted you once for new wards, but the miller went with someone else.”

“That’s right,” the boy said, nodding.

“What can I help you with?” Cob asked. “Would your master like another quote?”

Jaik shook his head. “I just came to see if Arlen wants to see the Jongleur today.”

Cob could hardly believe his ears. He had never seen Arlen speak to anyone his own age, preferring to spend his time working and reading, or pestering the Messengers and Warders who visited the shop with endless questions. This was a surprise, and one to be encouraged.

“Arlen!” he called.

Arlen came out of the shop’s back room, a book in his hand. He practically walked into Jaik before he noticed the boy and pulled up short.

“Jaik’s come to take you to see the Jongleur,” Cob advised.

“I’d like to go,” Arlen told Jaik apologetically, “but I still have to …”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Cob cut him off. “Go and have fun.” He tossed Arlen a small pouch of coins and pushed the two boys out the door.

Soon after, the boys were wandering through the crowded marketplace surrounding the main square of Miln. Arlen spent a silver star to buy meat pies from a vendor, and then, their faces coated with grease, he handed over a few copper lights for a pocketful of sweets from another.

“I’m going to be a Jongleur one day,” Jaik said, sucking on a sweet as they made their way to the place where the children gathered.

“Honest word?” Arlen asked.

Jaik nodded. “Watch this,” he said, pulling three small wooden balls from his pockets and putting them into the air. Arlen laughed a moment later, when one of the balls struck Jaik’s head and the others dropped to the ground in the confusion.

“Still got grease on my fingers,” Jaik said as they chased after the balls.

“I guess,” Arlen agreed. “I’m going to register at the Messengers’ Guild once my apprenticeship with Cob is over.”

“I could be your Jongleur!” Jaik shouted. “We could test for the road together!”

Arlen looked at him. “Have you ever even seen a demon?” he asked.

“What, you don’t think I have the stones for it?” Jaik asked, shoving him.

“Or the brains,” Arlen said, shoving back. A moment later, they were scuffling on the ground. Arlen was still small for his age, and Jaik soon pinned him.

“Fine, fine!” Arlen laughed. “I’ll let you be my Jongleur!”

“Your Jongleur?” Jaik asked, not releasing him. “More like you’ll be my Messenger!”

“Partners?” Arlen offered. Jaik smiled and offered Arlen a hand up. Soon after, they were sitting atop stone blocks in the town square, watching the apprentices of the Jongleurs’ Guild cartwheel and mum, building excitement for the morning’s lead performer.

Arlen’s jaw dropped when he saw Keerin enter the square. Tall and thin like a redheaded lamppost, the Jongleur was unmistakable. The crowd erupted into a roar.

“It’s Keerin!” Jaik said, shaking Arlen’s shoulder in excitement. “He’s my favorite!”

“Really?” Arlen asked, surprised.

“What, who do you like?” Jaik asked. “Marley? Koy? They’re not heroes like Keerin!”

“He didn’t seem very heroic when I met him,” Arlen said doubtfully.

“You met Keerin?” Jaik asked, his eyes widening.

“He came to Tibbet’s Brook once,” Arlen said. “He and Ragen found me on the road and brought me to Miln.”

“Keerin rescued you?”

“Ragen rescued me,” Arlen corrected. “Keerin jumped at every shadow.”

“The Core he did,” Jaik said. “Do you think he’ll remember you?” he asked. “Can you introduce me after the show?”

“Maybe.” Arlen shrugged.

Keerin’s performance started out much as it had in Tibbet’s Brook. He juggled and danced, warming the crowd before telling the tale of the Return to the children and punctuating it with mummery, backflips, and somersaults.

“Sing the song!” Jaik cried. Others in the crowd took up the cry, begging Keerin to sing. He seemed not to notice for a time, until the call was thunderous and punctuated by the pounding of feet. Finally, he laughed and bowed, fetching his lute as the crowd burst into applause.

He gestured, and Arlen saw the apprentices fetch hats and move into the crowd for donations. People gave generously, eager to hear Keerin sing. Finally, he began:

He ended with a flourish, and Arlen sat shocked as the audience burst into applause. Keerin took his bows, and the apprentices took in a flood of coin.

“Wasn’t that great?” Jaik asked.

“That’s not how it happened!” Arlen exclaimed.

“My da says the guards told him a one-armed rock demon attacks the wards every night,” Jaik said. “It’s looking for Keerin.”

“Keerin wasn’t even there!” Arlen cried. “I cut that demon’s arm off!”

Jaik snorted. “Night, Arlen! You can’t really expect anyone to believe that.”

Arlen scowled, standing up and calling, “Liar! Fraud!” Everyone turned to see the speaker, as Arlen leapt off his stone and strode toward Keerin. The Jongleur looked up, and his eyes widened in recognition. “Arlen?” he asked, his face suddenly pale.

Jaik, who’d been running after Arlen, pulled up short. “You do know him,” he whispered.

Keerin glanced at the crowd nervously. “Arlen, my boy,” he said, opening his arms, “come, let’s discuss this in private.”

Arlen ignored him. “You didn’t cut that demon’s arm off!” he screamed for all to hear. “You weren’t even there when it happened!”

There was an angry murmur from the crowd. Keerin looked around in fear until someone called “Get that boy out of the square!” and others cheered.

Keerin broke into a wide smile. “No one is going to believe you over me,” he sneered.

“I was there!” Arlen cried. “I’ve got the scars to prove it!” He reached to pull up his shirt, but Keerin snapped his fingers, and suddenly, Arlen and Jaik were surrounded by apprentices.

Trapped, they could do nothing as Keerin walked away, taking the crowd’s attention with him as he snatched his lute and quickly launched into another song.

“Why don’t you shut it, hey?” a burly apprentice growled. The boy was half again Arlen’s size, and all were older than he and Jaik.

“Keerin’s a liar,” Arlen said.

“A demon’s ass, too,” the apprentice agreed, holding up the hat of coins. “Think I care?”

Jaik interposed himself. “No need to get angry,” he said. “He didn’t mean anything …”

But before he finished, Arlen sprang forward, driving his fist into the bigger boy’s gut. As he crumpled, Arlen whirled to face the rest. He bloodied a nose or two, but he was soon pulled down and pummeled. Dimly, he was aware of Jaik sharing the beating beside him until two guards broke up the fight.

“You know,” Jaik said as they limped home, bloody and bruised, “for a bookmole, you’re not half bad in a fight. If only you’d pick your enemies better …”

“I have worse enemies,” Arlen said, thinking of the one-armed demon following him still.

“It wasn’t even a good song,” Arlen said. “How could he draw wards in the dark?”

“Good enough to get into a fight over,” Cob noted, daubing blood from Arlen’s face.

“He was lying,” Arlen replied, wincing at the sting.

Cob shrugged. “He was just doing what Jongleurs do, making up entertaining stories.”

“In Tibbet’s Brook, the whole town would come when the Jongleur came,” Arlen said. “Selia said they kept the stories of the old world, passing them down one generation to the next.”

“And so they do,” Cob said. “But even the best ones exaggerate, Arlen. Or did you really believe the first Deliverer killed a hundred rock demons in a single blow?”

“I used to,” Arlen said with a sigh. “Now I don’t know what to believe.”

“Welcome to adulthood,” Cob said. “Every child finds a day when they realize that adults can be weak and wrong just like anyone else. After that day, you’re an adult, like or not.”

“I never thought about it that way,” Arlen said, realizing his day had come long before. In his mind’s eye, he saw Jeph hiding behind the wards of their porch while his mother was cored.

“Was Keerin’s lie really such a bad thing?” Cob asked. “It made people happy. It gave them hope. Hope and happiness are in short supply these days, and much needed.”

“He could have done all that with honest word,” Arlen said. “But instead he took credit for my deeds just to make more coin.”

“Are you after truth, or credit?” Cob asked. “Should credit matter? Isn’t the message what’s important?”

“People need more than a song,” Arlen said. “They need proof that corelings can bleed.”

“You sound like a Krasian martyr,” Cob said, “ready to throw your life away seeking the Creator’s paradise in the next world.”

“I read their afterlife is filled with naked women and rivers of wine.” Arlen smirked.

“And all you need do to enter is take a demon with you before you’re cored,” Cob agreed. “But I’ll take my chances with this life all the same. The next one will find you no matter where you run. No sense chasing it.”

CHAPTER 11 BREACH 321 AR

“Three moons says he heads east,” Gaims said, jingling the silver coins as One Arm rose.

“Taken,” Woron said. “He’s gone east three nights running. He’s ready for a change.”

As always, the rock demon snuffled about before testing the wards at the gate. It moved methodically, never missing a spot. When the gate proved secure, the coreling moved to the east.

“Night,” Woron cursed. “I was sure this time he’d do something different.” He fished in his pocket for coins as the shrieks of the demon and the crackle of activated wards died out.

Both guardsmen looked over the rail, the bet forgotten, and saw One Arm staring at the wall curiously. Other corelings gathered around, but kept a respectful distance from the giant.

Suddenly, the demon lunged forward with just two talons extended. There was no flare from the wards, and the crack of stone came clearly to the guards’ ears. Their blood went cold.

With a roar of triumph, the rock demon struck again, this time with its whole hand. Even in starlight, the guards saw the chunk of stone that came away in its claws.

“The horn,” Gaims said, gripping the rail with shaking hands. His leg grew warm, and it took him a moment to realize he had wet himself. “Sound the horn.”

There was no movement next to him. He looked over at Woron, and saw his partner staring at the rock demon with his mouth open, a single tear running down the side of his face.

“Sound the ripping horn!” Gaims screamed, and Woron snapped out of his daze, running to the mounted horn. It took him several tries to sound a note. By then, One Arm was spinning and striking the wall with its spiked tail, tearing out more and more rock each time.

Cob shook Arlen awake.

“Who … wazzat?” Arlen asked, rubbing his eyes. “Is it morning already?”

“No,” Cob said. “The horns are sounding. There’s a breach.”

Arlen sat bolt upright, his face gone cold. “Breach? There are corelings in the city?”

“There are,” Cob agreed, “or soon will be. Up with you!”

The two scrambled to light lamps and gather their tools, pulling on thick cloaks and fingerless gloves to help stave off the cold without impeding their work.

The horns sounded again. “Two blasts,” Cob said, “one short, one long. The breach is between the first and second watchposts to the east of the main gate.”

A clatter of hooves sounded on the cobblestones outside, followed by a pounding on the door. They opened it to find Ragen in full armor, a long, thick spear in hand. His warded shield was slung on the saddle horn of a heavy destrier. Not a sleek and affectionate courser like Nighteye, this beast was broad and ill-tempered, a warhorse bred for times long gone.

“Elissa is beside herself,” the Messenger explained. “She sent me to keep you two alive.”

Arlen frowned, but a touch of the fear that gripped him on waking slipped away with Ragen’s arrival. They hitched their sturdy garron to the warding cart, and were off, following the shouts, crashes, and flashes of light toward the breach.

The streets were empty, doors and shutters locked tight, but Arlen could see cracks of light around them, and knew the people of Miln were awake, biting nails and praying their wards would hold. He heard weeping, and thought of how dependent the Milnese were upon their wall.

They arrived at a scene of utter chaos. Guardsmen and Warders lay dead and dying on the cobbled streets, spears broken and burning. Three bloodied men-at-arms wrestled with a wind demon, attempting to pin it long enough for a pair of Warder’s apprentices to trap it in a portable circle. Others ran to and fro with buckets of water, trying to smother the many small fires as flame demons scampered about in glee, setting alight everything in reach.

Arlen looked at the breach, amazed that a coreling could dig through twenty feet of solid rock. Demons jammed the hole, clawing at each other to be next to pass into the city.

A wind demon squeezed through, getting a running start as it spread its wings. A guard hurled his spear at it, but the missile fell short, and the demon flew into the city unchallenged. A moment later, a flame demon leapt upon the now-unarmed guard and tore his throat out.

“Quickly, boy!” Cob shouted. “The guards are buying us time, but they won’t last long against a breach this size. We need to seal it fast!” He sprang from the cart with surprising agility and snatched two portable circles from the back, handing one to Arlen.

With Ragen riding protectively beside them, they sprinted toward the keyward flag of the Warders’ Guild, marking the protective circle where the Warders had set up their base. Unarmed Herb Gatherers were tending rows of wounded there, fearlessly darting out of the circle to assist men stumbling toward the sanctuary. They were a scant few to tend so many.

Mother Jone, the duke’s advisor, and Master Vincin, the head of the Warders’ Guild, greeted them. “Master Cob, good to have you …” Jone began.

“Where are we needed?” Cob asked Vincin, ignoring Jone completely.

“The main breach,” Vincin said. “Take the posts for fifteen and thirty degrees,” he said, pointing toward a stack of ward-posts. “And by the Creator, be careful! There’s a devil of a rock demon there—the one that made the breach in the first place. They have it trapped from heading further into the city, but you’ll have to cross the wards to get into position. It’s killed three Warders already, and Creator only knows how many guards.”

Cob nodded, and he and Arlen headed over to the pile. “Who was on duty at dusk tonight?” he asked as they took their load.

“Warder Macks and his apprentices,” Jone replied. “The duke will hang them for this.”

“Then the duke is a fool,” Vincin said. “There’s no telling what happened out there, and Miln needs every Warder it has and more.” He blew out a long breath. “There will be few enough left after tonight, as is.”

“Set up your circle first,” Cob said for the third time. “When you’re safe within, set the post in its stand and wait for the magnesium. It’ll be bright as day, so shield your eyes until it comes. Then center yours to the dial on the main post. Don’t try to link with the other posts. Trust their Warders to get it right. When it’s done, drive stakes between the cobbles to hold it in place.”

“And then?” Arlen asked.

“Stay in the corespawned circle until you’re told to come out,” Cob barked, “no matter what you see, even if you’re in there all night! Is that clear?”

Arlen nodded.

“Good,” Cob said. He scanned the chaos, waiting, waiting, then shouted “Now!” and they were off, dodging around fires, bodies, and rubble, heading for their positions. In seconds, they cleared a row of buildings and saw the one-armed rock demon towering over a squad of guardsmen and a dozen corpses. Its talons and jaws glistened with blood in the lamplight.

Arlen’s blood went cold. He stopped short and looked to Ragen, and the Messenger met his eye for a moment. “Must be after Keerin,” Ragen said wryly.

Arlen opened his mouth, but before he could reply, Ragen screamed “Look out!” and swiped his spear Arlen’s way.

Arlen fell and dropped his post, banging his knee badly on the cobblestones. He heard the crack as the butt of Ragen’s spear took a diving wind demon in the face, and rolled over in time to see the coreling carom off the Messenger’s shield and crash to the ground.

Ragen trampled the creature with his warhorse as he kicked into a gallop, grabbing Arlen just as he picked up his post and half dragging, half carrying him over to his position. Cob had already set up his portable circle and was preparing the stand for his wardpost.

Arlen wasted no time setting up his own circle, but his eyes kept flicking back to One Arm. The demon was clawing at the hastily placed wards before it, trying to power through. Arlen could see weaknesses in the net each time it flared, and knew it would not hold forever.

The rock demon sniffed and looked up suddenly, meeting Arlen’s eyes, and the two matched wills for a moment, until it became too much to bear and Arlen dropped his gaze. One Arm shrieked and redoubled its efforts to break through the weakening wards.

“Arlen, stop staring and do your ripping job!” Cob screamed, snapping Arlen out of his daze. Trying his best to block out the shrieks of the coreling and the shouting of guardsmen, he set the collapsible iron stand and placed his wardpost within. He angled it as best he could in the dim flickering light, then placed a hand over his eyes to wait for the magnesium.

The flare went off a moment later, turning night into day. The Warders angled their posts quickly and staked them in place. They waved with white cloths to signal completion.

His work done, Arlen scanned the rest of the area. Several Warders and apprentices were still struggling to set their posts. One post was alight with demonfire. Corelings were screaming and recoiling from the magnesium, terrified that somehow the hated sun had come. Guardsmen surged forward with spears, attempting to drive them back past the wardposts before they activated. Ragen did the same, galloping about upon his destrier, his polished shield reflecting the light and sending corelings scrambling away in fear.

But the false light could not truly hurt the corelings. One Arm did not recoil as a squad of guardsmen, emboldened in the light, sent a row of spears its way. Many of the spear tips broke or skittered off the rock demon’s armor, and it grabbed at others, yanking hard and pulling the men past the wards as easily as a child might swing a doll.

Arlen watched the carnage in horror. The demon bit the head off one man and flung his body back into the others, knocking several from their feet. It squashed another man underfoot, and sent a third flying with a sweep of its spiked tail. He landed hard and did not rise.

The wards holding the demon back were buried beneath the bodies and blood, and One Arm bulled forward, killing at will. The guards fell back, some fleeing entirely, but as soon as they backed off, they were forgotten as the giant coreling charged Arlen’s portable circle.

“Arlen!” Ragen screamed, wheeling his destrier about. In his panic at the sight of the charging demon, the Messenger seemed to forget the portable circle in which the boy stood. He couched his spear and kicked the horse into a gallop, aiming at One Arm’s back.

The rock demon heard his approach and turned at the last moment, setting its feet and taking the spear full in the chest. The weapon splintered, and with a contemptuous swipe of its claws, the giant demon crushed the horse’s skull.

The destrier’s head twisted to the side and it backpedaled into Cob’s circle, knocking him into his wardpost and sending it askew. Ragen had no time to untangle himself, and the animal took him down with it, crushing his leg and pinning him. One Arm moved in for the kill.

Arlen screamed and looked for aid, but there was none to be found. Cob was clutching at his wardpost, trying to pull himself upright. All the other Warders around the breach were signaling. They had replaced the burning post, and only Cob’s remained out of place, but there was no one to aid him; the city guard had been decimated in One Arm’s last assault. Even if Cob quickly fixed his post, Arlen knew Ragen was doomed. One Arm was on the wrong side of the net.

“Hey!” he cried, stepping from his circle and waving his arms. “Hey, ugly!”

“Arlen, get back in your ripping circle!” Cob screamed, but it was too late. The rock demon’s head whipped around at the sound of Arlen’s voice.

“Oh yeah, you heard,” Arlen murmured, his face flushing hot and then immediately going cold. He glanced past the ward-posts. The corelings were growing bold as the magnesium began to die down. Stepping in there would be suicide.

But Arlen remembered his previous encounters with the rock demon, and how it jealously regarded him as its own. With that thought, he turned and ran past the wardposts, catching the attention of a hissing flame demon. The coreling pounced, eyes aflame, but so did One Arm, driving forward to smash the lesser demon.

Even as it whirled back to him, Arlen was diving back past the wardposts. One Arm struck hard at him, but light flared, and it was thwarted. Cob had restored his post, establishing the net. One Arm shrieked in rage, pounding at the barrier, but it was impenetrable.

He ran to Ragen’s side. Cob swept him into a hug, and then cuffed him on the ear. “You ever pull a stunt like that again,” the master warned, “and I’ll break your scrawny neck.”

“I was s’posed to protect you …” Ragen agreed weakly, his mouth twitching in a smile.

There were still corelings loose in the city when Vincin and Jone dismissed the Warders. The remaining guardsmen helped the Herb Gatherers transport the wounded to the city’s hospits.

“Shouldn’t someone hunt down the ones that got away?” Arlen asked as they eased Ragen into the back of their cart. His leg was splinted, and the Herb Gatherers had given him a tea to numb the pain, leaving him sleepy and distant.

“To what end?” Cob asked. “It would only get the hunters killed, and make no difference in the morning. Better to get inside. The sun will do for any corelings left in Miln.”

“The sun is still hours away,” Arlen protested as he climbed into the cart.

“What do you propose?” Cob asked, watching warily as they rode. “You saw the full force of the Duke’s Guard at work tonight, hundreds of men with spears and shields. Trained Warders, too. Did you see a single demon killed? Of course not. They are immortal.”

Arlen shook his head. “They kill each other. I’ve seen it.”

“They are magic, Arlen. They can do to one another what no mortal weapon can.”

“The sun kills them,” Arlen said.

“The sun is a power beyond you or me,” Cob said. “We are simply Warders.”

They turned a corner, and gasped. An eviscerated corpse was splayed in the street before them, its blood painting the cobbles red. Parts of it still smoldered; the acrid stench of burned flesh was thick in the air.

“Beggar,” Arlen said, noting the ragged clothes. “What was he doing out at night?”

“Two beggars,” Cob corrected, holding a cloth over his mouth and nose as he gestured at further carnage not far off. “They must have been turned out of the shelter.”

“They can do that?” Arlen asked. “I thought the public shelters had to take everyone.”

“Only until they fill up,” Cob said. “Those places are scant succor, anyhow. The men will beat each other over food and clothes once the guards lock them in, and they do worse to the women. Many prefer to risk the streets.”

“Why doesn’t someone do something about it?” Arlen asked.

“Everyone agrees it’s a problem,” Cob said. “But the citizens say it is the duke’s problem, and the duke feels little need to protect those who contribute nothing to his city.”

“So better to send the guard home for the night, and let the corelings take care of the problem,” Arlen growled. Cob had no reply save to crack the reins, eager to get off the streets.

Two days later, the entire city was summoned to the great square. A gibbet had been erected, and upon it stood Warder Macks, who had been on duty the night of the breach.

Euchor himself was not present, but Jone read his decree: “In the name of Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Lord of Miln, you are found guilty of failing in your duties and allowing a breach in the wardwall. Eight Warders, two Messengers, three Herb Gatherers, thirty-seven guardsmen, and eighteen citizens paid the price for your incompetence.”

“As if making it nine Warders will help,” Cob muttered. Boos and hisses came from the crowd, and bits of garbage were flung at the Warder, who stood with his head down.

“The sentence is death,” Jone said, and hooded men took Macks’ arms and led him to the rope, putting the noose around his neck.

A tall, broad-shouldered Tender with a bushy black beard and heavy robes went to him and drew a ward on his forehead. “May the Creator forgive your failing,” the Holy Man intoned, “and grant us all the purity of heart and deed to end His Plague and be Delivered.”

He backed away, and the trapdoor opened. The crowd cheered as the rope went taut.

“Fools,” Cob spat. “One less man to fight the next breach.”

“What did he mean?” Arlen asked. “About the Plague and being delivered?”

“Just nonsense to keep the crowd in line,” Cob said. “Best not to fill your head with it.”

CHAPTER 12 LIBRARY 321 AR

Arlen walked excitedly behind Cob as they approached the great stone building. It was Seventhday, and normally he would have been annoyed at skipping his spear practice and riding lessons, but today was a treat too fine to miss: his first trip to the Duke’s Library.

Ever since he and Cob had begun brokering wards, his master’s business had soared, filling a much-needed niche in the city. Their grimoire library had quickly become the largest in Miln, and perhaps the world. At the same time, word had gotten out about their involvement in sealing the breach, and never ones to miss a trend, the Royals had taken notice.

Royals were an irritation to work with, always making ridiculous demands and wanting wards put where they didn’t belong. Cob doubled, then tripled his prices, but it made no difference. Having one’s manse sealed by Cob the Wardmaster had become a status symbol.

But now, called upon to ward the most valuable building in the city, Arlen knew it had been worth every moment. Few citizens ever saw inside the library. Euchor guarded his collection jealously, granting access only to greater petitioners and their aides.

Built by the Tenders of the Creator before being absorbed by the throne, the library was always run by a Tender, usually one with no flock save the precious books. Indeed, the post carried more weight than presiding over any Holy House save for the Grand Holy House or the duke’s own shrine.

They were greeted by an acolyte, and ushered to the office of the head librarian, Tender Ronnell. Arlen’s eyes darted every where as they walked, taking in the musty shelves and silent scholars who roamed the stacks. Not including grimoires, Cob’s collection had contained over thirty books, and Arlen had thought that a treasure. The Duke’s Library contained thousands, more than he could read in a lifetime. He hated that the duke kept it all locked away.

Tender Ronnell was young for the coveted position of head librarian, still with more brown in his hair than gray. He greeted them warmly and sat them down, sending a servant to fetch some refreshment.

“Your reputation precedes you, Master Cob,” Ronnell said, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and cleaning them on his brown robe. “I hope you will accept this assignment.”

“All the wards I’ve seen so far are still sharp,” Cob noted.

Ronnell replaced his glasses and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “After the recent breach, the duke fears for his collection,” he said. “His Grace desires … special measures.”

“What kind of special measures?” Cob asked suspiciously. Ronnell squirmed, and Arlen could tell that he was as uncomfortable making the request as he expected them to be in filling it.

Finally, Ronnell sighed. “All the tables, benches, and shelves are to be warded against firespit,” he said flatly.

Cob’s eyes bulged. “That would take months!” he sputtered. “And to what end? Even if a flame demon made it so deep into the city, it could never get past the wards of this building, and if it did, you’d have greater worries than the bookshelves.”

Ronnell’s eyes hardened at that. “There is no greater worry, Master Cob,” he said. “In that, the duke and I agree. You cannot imagine what we lost when the corelings burned the libraries of old. We guard here the last shreds of knowledge that took millennia to accumulate.”

“I apologize,” Cob said. “I meant no disrespect.”

The librarian nodded. “I understand. And you are quite correct, the risk is minimal. Nevertheless, His Grace wants what he wants. I can pay a thousand gold suns.”

Arlen ticked the math off in his head. A thousand suns was a lot of money, more than they had ever gotten for a single job, but when accounting for the months of work the job would entail, and the loss of regular business …

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Cob said at last. “Too much time away from my business.”

“This would garner the duke’s favor,” Ronnell added.

Cob shrugged. “I messengered for his father. That brought me favor enough. I have little need for more. Try a younger Warder,” he suggested. “Someone with something to prove.”

“His Grace mentioned your name specifically,” Ronnell pressed.

Cob spread his hands helplessly.

“I’ll do it,” Arlen blurted. Both men turned to him, surprised that he had been so bold.

“I don’t think the duke will accept the services of an apprentice,” Ronnell said.

Arlen shrugged. “No need to tell him,” he said. “My master can plot the wards for the shelves and tables, leaving me to inscribe them.” He looked at Cob as he spoke. “If you had taken the job, I would have carved half the wards anyway, if not more.”

“An interesting compromise,” Ronnell said thoughtfully.

“What say you, Master Cob?”

Cob looked at Arlen suspiciously. “I say this is a tedious job of the sort you hate,” he said. “What’s in it for you, lad?” he asked.

Arlen smiled. “The duke gets to claim that Wardmaster Cob warded the library,” he began. “You get a thousand suns, and I”—he turned to Ronnell—“get to use the library whenever I wish.”

Ronnell laughed. “A boy after my own heart!” he said. “Have we a deal?” he asked Cob. Cob smiled, and the men shook hands.

Tender Ronnell led Cob and Arlen on an inspection of the library. As they went, Arlen began to realize what a colossal task he had just undertaken. Even if he skipped the math and plotted the wards by sight, he was looking at the better part of a year’s work.

Still, as he turned in place, taking in all the books, he knew it was worth it. Ronnell had promised him full access, day or night, for the rest of his life.

Noting the look of enthusiasm on the boy’s face, Ronnell smiled. He had a sudden thought, and took Cob aside while Arlen was too occupied with his own thoughts to notice.

“Is the boy an apprentice or a Servant?” he asked the Warder.

“He’s Merchant, if that’s what you’re asking,” Cob said.

Ronnell nodded. “Who are his parents?”

Cob shook his head. “Hasn’t any; at least not in Miln.”

“You speak for him, then?” Ronnell asked.

“I would say the boy speaks for himself,” Cob replied.

“Is he promised?” the Tender asked.

There it was. “You’re not the first to ask me that, since my business rose,” Cob said. “Even some of the Royals have sent their pretty daughters to sniff at him. But I don’t think the Creator has made the girl that can pull his nose out of a book long enough to notice her.”

“I know the feeling,” Ronnell said, gesturing to a young girl who was sitting at one of the many tables with half a dozen open books scattered before her.

“Mery, come here!” he called. The girl looked up, and then deftly marked her pages and stacked her books before coming over. She looked close to Arlen’s fourteen summers, with large brown eyes and long, rich brown hair. She had a soft, round face, and a bright smile. She wore a utilitarian frock, dusty from the library, and she gathered the skirts, dipping a quick curtsy.

“Wardmaster Cob, this is my daughter, Mery,” Ronnell said.

The girl looked up, suddenly very interested. “The Wardmaster Cob?” she asked.

“Ah, you know my work?” Cob asked.

“No”—Mery shook her head—“but I’ve heard your grimoire collection is second to none.”

Cob laughed. “We might have something here, Tender,” he said.

Tender Ronnell bent to his daughter and pointed to Arlen. “Young Arlen there is Master Cob’s apprentice. He’s going to ward the library for us. Why don’t you show him around?”

Mery watched Arlen as the boy gazed about, oblivious to her stare. His dirty blond hair was untrimmed and somewhat long, and his expensive clothes were rumpled and stained, but there was intelligence in his eyes. His features were smooth and symmetrical; not unpleasing. Cob heard Ronnell mutter a prayer as she smoothed her skirts and glided over to him.

Arlen didn’t seem to notice Mery as she came over. “Hello,” she said.

“Hullo,” Arlen replied, squinting to read the print on the spine of a high-shelved book.

Mery frowned. “My name’s Mery,” she said. “Tender Ronnell is my father.”

“Arlen,” Arlen said, pulling a book off the shelf and flipping through it slowly.

“My father asked me to show you around the library,” Mery said.

“Thanks,” Arlen said, putting the book back and walking down a row of shelves to a section of the library that was roped off from the rest. Mery was forced to follow, irritation flashing on her face.

“She’s used to ignoring, not being ignored,” Ronnell noted, amused.

“BR,” Arlen read on the archway over the roped section. “What’s BR?” he muttered.

“Before Return,” Mery said. “Those are original copies of the books of the old world.”

Arlen turned to her as if he had just noticed she existed. “Honest word?” he asked.

“It’s forbidden to go back there without the duke’s permission,” Mery said, watching Arlen’s face fall. “Of course,” she smiled, “I am allowed, on account of my father.”

“Your father?” Arlen asked.

“I’m Tender Ronnell’s daughter,” she reminded, scowling.

Arlen’s eyes widened, and he bowed awkwardly. “Arlen, of Tibbet’s Brook,” he said.

From across the room, Cob chuckled. “Boy never had a chance,” he said.

The months melted together for Arlen as he fell into a familiar routine. Ragen’s manse was closer to the library, so he slept there most nights. The Messenger’s leg had mended quickly, and he was soon on the road again. Elissa encouraged Arlen to treat the room as his own, and seemed to take a special pleasure at seeing it cluttered with his tools and books. The servants loved his presence as well, claiming Lady Elissa was less of a trial when he was about.

Arlen would rise an hour before the sun, and practice his spear forms by lamplight in the manse’s high-ceilinged foyer. When the sun broke the horizon, he slipped into the yard for an hour of target practice and riding. This was followed by a hurried breakfast with Elissa—and Ragen when he was about—before he was off to the library.

It was still early when he arrived, the library empty save for Ronnell’s acolytes, who slept in cells beneath the great building. These kept their distance, intimidated by Arlen, who thought nothing of walking up to their master and speaking without summons or permission.

There was a small, isolated room designated as his workshop. It was just big enough for a pair of bookcases, his workbench, and whatever piece of furniture he was working on. One of the cases was filled with paints, brushes, and etching tools. The other was filled with borrowed books. The floor was covered in curled wood shavings, blotched from spilled paint and lacquer.

Arlen took an hour each morning to read, then reluctantly put his book away and got to work. For weeks, he warded nothing but chairs. Then he moved on to benches. The job took even longer than expected, but Arlen didn’t mind.

Mery became a welcome sight over these months, sticking her head into his workshop frequently to share a smile or a bit of gossip before scurrying off to resume her duties. Arlen had thought the interruptions from his work and study would grow tiresome, but the opposite proved true. He looked forward to seeing her, even finding his attention wandering on days when she did not visit with her usual frequency. They shared lunches on the library’s broad roof, overlooking the city and the mountains beyond.

Mery was different from any girl Arlen had ever known. The daughter of the duke’s librarian and chief historian, she was possibly the most educated girl in the city, and Arlen found he could learn as much by talking to her as in the pages of any book. But her position was a lonely one. The acolytes were even more intimidated by her than they were by Arlen, and there was no one else her age in the library. Mery was perfectly comfortable arguing with gray-bearded scholars, but around Arlen she seemed shy and unsure of herself.

Much as he felt around her.

“Creator, Jaik, it’s as if you haven’t practiced at all,” Arlen said, covering his ears.

“Don’t be cruel, Arlen,” Mery scolded. “Your song was lovely, Jaik,” she said.

Jaik frowned. “Then why are you covering your ears, too?” he asked.

“Well,” she said, taking her hands away with a bright smile, “my father says music and dancing lead to sin, so I couldn’t listen, but I’m sure it was very beautiful.”

Arlen laughed, and Jaik frowned, putting his lute away.

“Try your juggling,” Mery suggested.

“Are you sure it’s not a sin to watch juggling?” Jaik asked.

“Only if it’s good,” Mery murmured, and Arlen laughed again.

Jaik’s lute was old and worn, never seeming to have all its strings at one time. He set it down and pulled colored wooden balls from the small sack he kept his Jongleur’s equipment in. The paint was chipped and there were cracks in the wood. He put one ball into the air, then another, and a third. He held that number for several seconds, and Mery clapped her hands.

“Much better!” she said.

Jaik smiled. “Watch this!” he said, reaching for a fourth.

Arlen and Mery both winced as the balls came clattering down to the cobblestones.

Jaik’s face colored. “Maybe I should practice more with three,” he said.

“You should practice more,” Arlen agreed.

“My da doesn’t like it,” Jaik said. “He says ‘if you’ve nothing to do but juggle, boy, I’ll find some chores for you!’”

“My father does that when he catches me dancing,” Mery said.

They looked at Arlen expectantly. “My da used to do that, too,” he said.

“But not Master Cob?” Jaik asked.

Arlen shook his head. “Why should he? I do all he asks.”

“Then when do you find time to practice messengering?” Jaik asked.

“I make time,” Arlen said.

“How?” Jaik asked.

Arlen shrugged. “Get up earlier. Stay up later. Sneak away after meals. Whatever you need to do. Or would you rather stay a miller your whole life?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a miller, Arlen,” Mery said.

Jaik shook his head. “No, he’s right,” he said. “If this is what I want, I have to work harder.” He looked at Arlen. “I’ll practice more,” he promised.

“Don’t worry,” Arlen said. “If you can’t entertain the villagers in the hamlets, you can earn your keep scaring off the demons on the road with your singing.”

Jaik’s eyes narrowed. Mery laughed as he began throwing his juggling balls at Arlen.

“A good Jongleur could hit me!” Arlen taunted, nimbly dodging each throw.

“You’re reaching too far,” Cob called. To illustrate his point, Ragen let go one hand from his shield and gripped Arlen’s spear, just below the tip, before he could retract it. He yanked, and the overbalanced boy went crashing into the snow.

“Ragen, be careful,” Elissa admonished, clutching her shawl tightly in the chill morning air. “You’ll hurt him.”

“He’s far gentler than a coreling would be, my lady,” Cob said, loud enough for Arlen to hear. “The purpose of the long spear is to hold the demons back at a distance while retreating. It’s a defensive weapon. Messengers who get too aggressive with them, like young Arlen here, end up dead. I’ve seen it happen. There was one time on the road to Lakton …”

Arlen scowled. Cob was a good teacher, but he tended to punctuate his lessons with grisly stories of the demise of other Messengers. His intent was to discourage, but his words had the opposite effect, only strengthening Arlen’s resolve to succeed where those before him failed. He picked himself up and set his feet more firmly this time, his weight on his heels.

“Enough with the long spears,” Cob said. “Let’s try the short ones.”

Elissa frowned as Arlen placed the eight-foot-long spear on a rack and he and Ragen selected shorter ones, barely three feet long, with points measuring a third of their length. These were designed for close-quarter fighting, stabbing instead of jabbing. He selected a shield as well, and the two of them once again faced off in the snow. Arlen was taller now, broader of the shoulder, fifteen years old with a lean, wiry strength. He was dressed in Ragen’s old leather armor. It was big on him, but he was fast growing into it.

“What is the point of this?” Elissa asked in exasperation. “It’s not like he’s ever going to get that close to a demon and live to tell about it.”

“I’ve seen it happen,” Cob disagreed, as he watched Arlen and Ragen spar. “But there are other things than demons out between the cities, my lady. Wild animals, and even bandits.”

“Who would attack a Messenger?” Elissa asked, shocked.

Ragen shot Cob an angry look, but Cob ignored him. “Messengers are wealthy men,” he said, “and they carry valuable goods and messages that can decide the fate of Merchants and Royals alike. Most people wouldn’t dare bring harm to one, but it can happen. And animals … with corelings culling the weak, only the strongest predators remain.

“Arlen!” the Warder called. “What do you do if you’re attacked by a bear?”

Without stopping or taking his eyes off Ragen, Arlen called back, “Long spear to the throat, retreat while it bleeds, then strike the vitals when it lowers its guard.”

“What else can you do?” Cob called.

“Lie still,” Arlen said distastefully. “Bears seldom attack the dead.”

“A lion?” Cob asked.

“Medium spear,” Arlen called, picking off a stab from Ragen with his shield and countering. “Stab to the shoulder joint and brace as the cat impales itself, then stab with a short spear to the chest or side, as available.”

“Wolf?”

“I can’t listen to any more of this,” Elissa said, storming off toward the manse.

Arlen ignored her. “A good whack to the snout with a medium spear will usually drive off a lone wolf,” he said. “Failing that, use the same tactics as for lions.”

“What if there’s a pack of them?” Cob asked.

“Wolves fear fire,” Arlen said.

“And if you encounter a boar?” Cob wanted to know.

Arlen laughed. “I should ‘run like all the Core is after me,’” he quoted his instructors.

Arlen awoke atop a pile of books. For a moment he wondered where he was, realizing finally that he had fallen asleep in the library again. He looked out the window, seeing that it was well past dark. He craned his head up, making out the ghostly shape of a wind demon as it passed far above. Elissa would be upset.

The histories he had been reading were ancient, dating back to the Age of Science. They told of the kingdoms of the old world, Albinon, Thesa, Great Linm, and Rusk, and spoke of seas, enormous lakes spanning impossible distances, with yet more kingdoms on the far side. It was staggering. If the books were to be believed, the world was bigger than he had ever imagined.

He paged through the open book he had collapsed upon, and was surprised to find a map. As his eyes scanned the place names, they widened. There, plain as could be, was the duchy of Miln. He looked closer, and saw the river that Fort Miln used for much of its fresh water, and the mountains that stood at its back. Right there was a small star, marking the capital.

He flipped a few pages, reading about ancient Miln. Then, as now, it was a mining and quarrying city, with vassalage spanning dozens of miles. Duke Miln’s territory included many towns and villages, ending at the Dividing River, the border of the lands held by Duke Angiers.

Arlen remembered his own journey, and traced back west to the ruins he had found, learning that they had belonged to the earl of Newkirk. Almost shaking with excitement, Arlen looked further, and found what he had been looking for, a small waterway opening into a wide pond. The barony of Tibbet.

Tibbet, Newkirk, and the others had paid tribute to Miln, who in turn with Duke Angiers owed fealty to the king of Thesa. “Thesans,” Arlen whispered, trying the word on for size.

“We’re all Thesans.”

He took out a pen and began to copy the map.

“That name is not to be spoken again by either of you,” Ronnell scolded Arlen and his daughter.

“But …” Arlen began.

“You think this wasn’t known?” the librarian cut him off. “His Grace has ordered anyone speaking the name of Thesa arrested. Do you want to spend years breaking rocks in his mines?”

“Why?” Arlen asked. “What harm could it bring?”

“Before the duke closed the library,” Ronnell said, “some people were obsessed with Thesa, and with soliciting monies to hire Messengers to contact lost dots on the maps.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Arlen asked.

“The king is three centuries dead, Arlen,” Ronnell said, “and the dukes will make war before they bend knee to anyone but themselves. Talk of reunification reminds people of things they ought not remember.”

“Better to pretend that the walls of Miln are the entire world?” Arlen asked.

“Until the Creator forgives us and sends his Deliverer to end the Plague,” Ronnell said.

“Forgives us for what?” Arlen asked. “What plague?”

Ronnell looked at Arlen, his eyes a mix of shock and indignation. For a moment, Arlen thought the Tender might strike him. He steeled himself for the blow.

Instead, Ronnell turned to his daughter. “Can he really not know?” he asked in disbelief.

Mery nodded. “The Tender in Tibbet’s Brook was … unconventional,” she said.

Ronnell nodded. “I remember,” he said. “He was an acolyte whose master was cored, and never completed his training. We always meant to send someone new …” He strode to his desk and began penning a letter. “This cannot stand,” he said. “What plague, indeed!”

He continued to grumble, and Arlen took it as a cue to edge for the door.

“Not so fast, you two,” Ronnell said. “I’m very disappointed in you both. I know Cob is not a religious man, Arlen, but this level of negligence is really quite unforgivable.” He looked to Mery. “And you, young lady!” he snapped. “You knew this, and did nothing?”

Mery looked at her feet. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said.

“And well you should be,” Ronnell said. He drew a thick volume from his desk and handed it to his daughter. “Teach him,” he commanded, handing her the Canon. “If Arlen doesn’t know the book back and forth in a month, I’ll take a strap to both of you!”

Mery took the book, and both of them scampered out as quickly as possible.

“We got off pretty easy,” Arlen said.

“Too easy,” Mery agreed. “Father was right. I should have said something sooner.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Arlen said. “It’s just a book. I’ll have it read by morning.”

“It’s not just a book!” Mery snapped. Arlen looked at her curiously.

“It’s the word of the Creator, as penned by the first Deliverer,” Mery said.

Arlen raised an eyebrow. “Honest word?” he asked.

Mery nodded. “It’s not enough to read it. You have to live it. Every day. It’s a guide to bring humanity from the sin that brought about the Plague.”

“What plague?” Arlen asked for what felt like the dozenth time.

“The demons, of course,” Mery said. “The corelings.”

Arlen sat on the library’s roof a few days later, his eyes closed as he recited:

“Very good!” Mery congratulated with a smile. Arlen frowned.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked.

“Of course,” Mery said.

“Do you really believe that?” he asked. “Tender Harral always said the Deliverer was just a man. A great general, but a mortal man. Cob and Ragen say so, too.”

Mery’s eyes widened. “You’d best not let my father hear you say that,” she warned.

“Do you believe the corelings are our own fault?” Arlen asked. “That we deserve them?”

“Of course I believe,” she said. “It is the word of the Creator.”

“No,” Arlen said. “It’s a book. Books are written by men. If the Creator wanted to tell us something, why would he use a book, and not write on the sky with fire?”

“It’s hard sometimes to believe there’s a Creator up there, watching,” Mery said, looking up at the sky, “but how could it be otherwise? The world didn’t create itself. What power would wards hold, without a will behind creation?”

“And the Plague?” Arlen asked.

Mery shrugged. “The histories tell of terrible wars,” she said. “Maybe we did deserve it.”

“Deserve it?” Arlen demanded. “My mam did not deserve to die because of some stupid war fought centuries ago!”

“Your mother was taken?” Mery asked, touching his arm. “Arlen, I had no idea …”

Arlen yanked his arm away. “It makes no difference,” he said, storming toward the door. “I have wards to carve, though I hardly see the point, if we all deserve demons in our beds.”

CHAPTER 13 THERE MUST BE MORE 326 AR

Leesha bent in the garden, selecting the day’s herbs. Some she pulled from the soil root and stalk. Others, she snapped off a few leaves, or used her thumbnail to pop a bud from its stem.

She was proud of the garden behind Bruna’s hut. The crone was too old for the work of maintaining the small plot, and Darsy had failed to make the hard dirt yield, but Leesha had the touch. Now many of the herbs that she and Bruna had once spent hours searching for in the wild grew just outside their door, safe within the wardposts.

“You’ve a sharp mind and a green thumb,” Bruna had said when the soil birthed its first sprouts. “You’ll be a better Gatherer than I before long.”

The pride those words gave Leesha was a new feeling. She might never match Bruna, but the old woman was not one for kind words or empty compliments. She saw something in Leesha that others hadn’t, and the girl did not want to disappoint.

Her basket filled, Leesha brushed off and rose to her feet, heading toward the hut—if it could even be called a hut anymore. Erny had refused to see his daughter live in squalor, sending carpenters and roofers to shore up the weak walls and replace the frayed thatch. Soon there was little left that was not new, and additions had more than doubled the structure’s size.

Bruna had grumbled about all the noise as the men worked, but her wheezing had eased now that the cold and wet were sealed outside. With Leesha caring for her, the old woman seemed to be getting stronger with the passing years, not weaker.

Leesha, too, was glad the work was completed. The men had begun looking at her differently, toward the end.

Time had given Leesha her mother’s lush figure. It was something she had always wanted, but it seemed less an advantage now. The men in town watched her hungrily, and the rumors of her dallying with Gared, though years gone, still sat in the back of many minds, making more than one man think she might be receptive to a lewd, whispered offer. Most of these were dissuaded with a frown, and a few with slaps. Evin had required a puff of pepper and stinkweed to remind him of his pregnant bride. A fistful of the blinding powder was now one of many things Leesha kept in the multitude of pockets in her apron and skirts.

Of course, even if she had been interested in any of the men in town, Gared made sure none could get close to her. Any man other than Erny caught talking to Leesha about more than Herb Gathering received a harsh reminder that in the burly woodcutter’s mind she was still promised. Even Child Jona broke out in a sweat whenever Leesha so much as greeted him.

Her apprenticeship would be over soon. Seven years and a day had seemed an eternity when Bruna had said it, but the years had flown, and the end was but days away. Already, Leesha went alone each day to call upon those in town who needed an Herb Gatherer’s service, asking Bruna’s advice only very rarely, when the need was dire. Bruna needed her rest.

“The duke judges an Herb Gatherer’s skill by whether more babies are delivered than people die each year,” Bruna had said that first day, “but focus on what’s in between, and a year from now the people of Cutter’s Hollow won’t know how they ever got along without you.” It had proven true enough. Bruna brought her everywhere from that moment on, ignoring the request of any for privacy. Her having cared for the unborn of most of the women in town, and brewed pomm tea for half the rest, had them soon paying Leesha every courtesy, and revealing all the failings of their bodies to her without a thought.

But for all that, she was still an outsider. The women talked as if she were invisible, blabbing every secret in the village as freely as if she were no more than a pillow in the night.

“And so you are,” Bruna said, when Leesha dared to complain. “It’s not for you to judge their lives, only their health. When you put on that pocketed apron, you swear to hold your peace no matter what you hear. An Herb Gatherer needs trust to do her work, and trust must be earned. No secret should ever pass your lips, unless keeping it prevents you healing another.”

So Leesha held her tongue, and the women had come to trust her. Once the women were hers, the men soon followed, often with their women prodding at their back. But the apron kept them away, all the same. Leesha knew what almost every man in the village looked like unclothed, but had never been intimate with one; and though the women might sing her praises and send her gifts, there was not a one she could tell her own secrets to.

Yet despite all, Leesha had been far happier in the last seven years than she had been in the thirteen before. Bruna’s world was much wider than the one she had been groomed for by her mother. There was grief, when she was forced to close someone’s eyes, but there was also the joy of pulling a child from its mother and sparking its first cries with a firm swat.

Soon, her apprenticeship would be over, and Bruna would retire for good. To hear her speak it, she would not live long after that. The thought terrified Leesha in more ways than one.

Bruna was her shield and her spear, her impenetrable ward against the town. What would she do without that ward? Leesha did not have it in her to dominate as Bruna had, barking orders and striking fools. And without Bruna, who would she have that spoke to her as a person and not an Herb Gatherer? Who would weather her tears and witness her doubt? For doubt was a breach of trust as well. People depended on confidence from their Herb Gatherer.

In her most private thoughts, there was even more. Cutter’s Hollow seemed small to her now. The doors unlocked by Bruna’s lessons were not easily closed—a constant reminder not of what she knew, but of how much she did not. Without Bruna, that journey would end.

She entered the house, seeing Bruna at the table. “Good morning,” she said. “I didn’t expect you up so early; I would have made tea before going into the garden.” She set her basket down and looked to the fire, seeing the steaming kettle near to boil.

“I’m old,” Bruna grumbled, “but not so blind and crippled I can’t make my own tea.”

“Of course not,” Leesha said, kissing the old woman’s cheek, “you’re fit enough to swing an axe alongside the cutters.” She laughed at Bruna’s grimace and fetched the meal for porridge.

The years together had not softened Bruna’s tone, but Leesha seldom noticed it now, hearing only the affection behind the old woman’s grumbling, and responding in kind.

“You were out gathering early today,” Bruna noted as they ate. “You can still smell the demon stink in the air.”

“Only you could be surrounded with fresh flowers and complain of the stink,” Leesha replied. Indeed, she kept blooms throughout the hut, filling the air with sweetness.

“Don’t change the subject,” Bruna said.

“A Messenger came last night,” Leesha said. “I heard the horn.”

“Not a moment before sundown, too,” Bruna grunted. “Reckless.” She spat on the floor.

“Bruna!” Leesha scolded. “What have I told you about spitting inside the house?”

The crone looked at her, rheumy eyes narrowing. “You told me this is my ripping home, and I can spit where I please,” she said.

Leesha frowned. “I was sure I said something else,” she mused.

“Not if you’re smarter than your bosom makes people think,” Bruna said, sipping her tea.

Leesha let her jaw drop in mock indignation, but she was used to far worse from the old woman. Bruna did and said as she pleased, and no one could tell her differently.

“So it’s the Messenger that has you up and about so early,” Bruna said. “Hoping it’s the handsome one? What’s his name? The one that makes puppy eyes at you?”

Leesha smiled wryly. “More like wolf eyes,” she said.

“That can be good too!” the old woman cackled, slapping Leesha’s knee. Leesha shook her head and rose to clear the table.

“What’s his name?” Bruna pressed. “It’s not like that,” Leesha said.

“I’m too old for this dance, girl,” Bruna said. “Name.”

“Marick,” Leesha said, rolling her eyes.

“Shall I brew a pot of pomm tea for young Marick’s visit?” Bruna asked.

“Is that all anyone thinks about?” Leesha asked. “I like talking to him. That’s all.”

“I’m not so blind I can’t see that boy has more on his mind than talk,” Bruna said.

“Oh?” Leesha asked, crossing her arms. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Bruna snorted. “Not a one,” she said, not even turning Leesha’s way. “I’ve been around long enough to know that trick,” she said, “just as I know Maverick the Messenger hasn’t made eye contact with you once in all your talks.”

“His name is Marick,” Leesha said again, “and he does, too.”

“Only if he doesn’t have a clear view of your neckline,” the crone said.

“You’re impossible,” Leesha huffed.

“No cause for shame,” Bruna said. “If I had paps like yours, I’d flaunt them too.”

“I do not flaunt!” Leesha shouted, but Bruna only cackled again.

A horn sounded, not far off.

“That will be young master Marick,” Bruna advised. “You’d best hurry and primp.”

“It’s not like that!” Leesha said again, but Bruna dismissed her with a wave.

“I’ll put that tea on, just in case,” she said. Leesha threw a rag at the old woman and stuck out her tongue, moving toward the door.

Outside on the porch, she smiled in spite of herself as she waited for the Messenger. Bruna pushed her to find a man nearly as much as her mother did, but the crone did it out of love. She wanted only for Leesha to be happy, and Leesha loved her dearly for it. But despite the old woman’s teasing, Leesha was more interested in the letters Marick carried than his wolf eyes.

Ever since she was young, she had loved Messenger days. Cutter’s Hollow was a little place, but it was on the road between three major cities and a dozen hamlets, and between the Hollow’s timber and Erny’s paper, it was a strong part of the region’s economy.

Messengers visited the Hollow at least twice a month, and while most mail was left with Smitt, they delivered to Erny and Bruna personally, frequently waiting for replies. Bruna corresponded with Gatherers in Forts Rizon and Angiers, Lakton, and several hamlets. As the crone’s eyesight failed, the task of reading the letters and penning Bruna’s replies fell to Leesha.

Even from afar, Bruna commanded respect. Indeed, most of the Herb Gatherers in the area had been students of hers at one time or another. Her advice was frequently sought to cure ailments beyond others’ experience, and offers to send her apprentices came with every Messenger. No one wished for her knowledge to pass from the world.

“I’m too old to break in another novice!” Bruna would grouse, waving her hand dismissively, and Leesha would pen a polite refusal, something she had gotten quite used to.

All this gave Leesha many opportunities to talk with Messengers. Most of them leered at her, it was true, or tried to impress her with tales of the Free Cities. Marick was one of those.

But the Messengers’ tales struck a chord with Leesha. Their intent might have been to charm their way into her skirts, but the pictures their words painted stayed with her in her dreams. She longed to walk the docks of Lakton, see the great warded fields of Fort Rizon, or catch a glimpse of Angiers, the forest fortress; to read their books and meet their Herb Gatherers. There were other guardians of knowledge of the old world, if she dared seek them out.

She smiled as Marick came into view. Even a ways off, she knew his gait, legs slightly bowed from a life spent on horseback. The Messenger was Angierian, barely as tall as Leesha at five foot seven, but there was a lean hardness about him, and Leesha hadn’t exaggerated about his wolf eyes. They roved with predatory calm, searching for threats … and prey.

“Ay, Leesha!” he called, lifting his spear toward her.

Leesha lifted her hand in greeting. “Do you really need to carry that thing in broad day?” she called, indicating the spear.

“What if there was a wolf?” Marick replied with a grin. “How would I defend you?”

“We don’t see a lot of wolves in Cutter’s Hollow,” Leesha said, as he drew close. He had longish brown hair and eyes the color of tree bark. She couldn’t deny that he was handsome.

“A bear, then,” Marick said as he reached the hut. “Or a lion. There are many kinds of predator in the world,” he said, eyeing her cleavage.

“Of that, I am well aware,” Leesha said, adjusting her shawl to cover the exposed flesh.

Marick laughed, easing his Messenger bag down onto the porch. “Shawls have gone out of style,” he advised. “None of the women in Angiers or Rizon wear them anymore.”

“Then I’ll wager their dresses have higher necks, or their men more subtlety,” Leesha replied.

“High necks,” Marick agreed with a laugh, bowing low. “I could bring you a high-necked Angierian dress,” he whispered, drawing close.

“When would I ever have cause to wear that?” Leesha asked, slipping away before the man could corner her.

“Come to Angiers,” the Messenger offered. “Wear it there.”

Leesha sighed. “I would like that,” she lamented.

“Perhaps you will get the chance,” the Messenger said slyly, bowing and sweeping his arm to indicate that Leesha should enter the hut before him. Leesha smiled and went in, but she felt his eyes on her backside as she did.

Bruna was back in her chair when they entered. Marick went to her and bowed low.

“Young master Marick!” Bruna said brightly. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“I bring you greetings from Mistress Jizell of Angiers,” Marick said. “She begs your aid in a troubling case.” He reached into his bag and produced a roll of paper, tied with stout string.

Bruna motioned for Leesha to take the letter, and sat back, closing her eyes as her apprentice began to read.

“Honored Bruna, Greetings from Fort Angiers in the year 326 AR,” Leesha began.

“Jizell yapped like a dog when she was my apprentice, and she writes the same way,” Bruna cut her off. “I won’t live forever. Skip to the case.”

Leesha scanned the page, flipping it over and looking over the back, as well. She was on to the second sheet before she found what she was looking for.

“A boy,” Leesha said, “ten years old. Brought into the hospit by his mother, complaining of nausea and weakness. No other symptoms or history of illness. Given grimroot, water, and bed rest. Symptoms increased over three days, with the addition of rash on arms, legs, and chest. Grimroot raised to three ounces over the course of several days.

“Symptoms worsened, adding fever and hard, white boils growing out of the rash. Salves had no effect. Vomiting followed. Given heartleaf and poppy for the pain, soft milk for the stomach. No appetite. Does not appear to be contagious.”

Bruna sat a long while, digesting the words. She looked at Marick. “Have you seen the boy?” she asked. The Messenger nodded. “Was he sweating?” Bruna asked.

“He was,” Marick confirmed, “but shivering, too, like he was both hot and cold.”

Bruna grunted. “What color were his fingernails?” she asked.

“Fingernail color,” Marick replied with a grin.

“Get smart with me and you’ll regret it,” Bruna warned.

Marick blanched and nodded. The old woman questioned him for a few minutes more, grunting occasionally at his responses. Messengers were known for their sharp memories and keen observation, and Bruna did not seem to doubt him. Finally, she waved him into silence.

“Anything else of note in the letter?” she asked.

“She wants to send you another apprentice,” Leesha said. Bruna scowled.

“I have an apprentice, Vika, who has almost completed her training,” Leesha read, “as, your letters tell, do you. If you are not willing to accept a novice, please consider an exchange of adepts.” Leesha gasped, and Marick broke into a knowing grin.

“I didn’t tell you to stop reading,” Bruna rasped.

Leesha cleared her throat. “Vika is most promising,” she read, “and well equipped to see to the needs of Cutter’s Hollow, as well as look after and learn from wise Bruna. Surely Leesha, too, could learn much ministering to the sick in my hospit. Please, I beg, let at least one more benefit from wise Bruna before she passes from this world.”

Bruna was quiet a long while. “I will think on this a while before I reply,” she said at last. “Go to your rounds in town, girl. We’ll speak on this when you return.” To Marick, she said, “You’ll have a response tomorrow. Leesha will see to your payment.”

The Messenger bowed and backed out of the house as Bruna sat back and closed her eyes. Leesha could feel her heart racing, but she knew better than to interrupt the crone as she sifted through the many decades of her memory for a way to treat the boy. She collected her basket, and left to make her rounds.

Marick was waiting for her when Leesha came outside.

“You knew what was in that letter all along,” Leesha accused.

“Of course,” Marick agreed. “I was there when she penned it.”

“But you said nothing,” Leesha said.

Marick grinned. “I offered you a high-necked dress,” he said, “and that offer still stands.”

“We’ll see.” Leesha smiled, holding out a pouch of coins. “Your payment,” she said.

“I’d rather you pay me with a kiss,” he said.

“You flatter me, to say my kisses are worth more than gold,” Leesha replied. “I fear to disappoint.”

Marick laughed. “My dear, if I braved the demons of the night all the way from Angiers and back and returned with but a kiss from you, I would be the envy of every Messenger ever to pass through Cutter’s Hollow.”

“Well, in that case,” Leesha said with a laugh, “I think I’ll keep my kisses a little longer, in hopes of a better price.”

“You cut me to the quick,” Marick said, clutching his heart. Leesha tossed him the pouch, and he caught it deftly.

“May I at least have the honor of escorting the Herb Gatherer into town?” he asked with a smile. He made a leg and held out his arm for her to take. Leesha smiled in spite of herself.

“We don’t do things so quickly in the Hollow,” she said, eyeing the arm, “but you may carry my basket.” She hooked it on his outstretched arm and headed toward town, leaving him staring after her.

Smitt’s market was bustling by the time they reached town. Leesha liked to select early, before the best produce was gone, and place her order with Dug the butcher before making her rounds.

“Good morn, Leesha,” said Yon Gray, the oldest man in Cutter’s Hollow. His gray beard, a point of pride, was longer than most women’s hair. Once a burly cutter, Yon had lost most of his bulk in his latter years, and now leaned heavily on his cane.

“Good morn, Yon,” she replied. “How are the joints?”

“Pain me still,” Yon replied. “’Specially the hands. Can barely hold my cane some days.”

“Yet you find it in you to pinch me whenever I turn ’round,” Leesha noted.

Yon cackled. “To an old man like me, girlie, that’s worth any pain.”

Leesha reached into her basket, pulling forth a small jar. “It’s well that I made you more sweetsalve, then,” she said. “You’ve saved me the need to bring it by.”

Yon grinned. “You’re always welcome to come by and help apply,” he said with a wink.

Leesha tried not to laugh, but it was a futile effort. Yon was a lecher, but she liked him well enough. Living with Bruna had taught her that the eccentricities of age were a small price to pay for having a lifetime of experience to draw upon.

“You’ll just have to manage yourself, I’m afraid,” she said.

“Bah!” Yon waved his cane in mock irritation. “Well, you think on it,” he said. He looked to Marick before taking his leave, giving a nod of respect. “Messenger.”

Marick nodded back, and the old man moved off.

Everyone at the market had a kind word of greeting for Leesha, and she stopped to ask after the health of each, always working, even while shopping.

Though she and Bruna had plenty of money from selling flamesticks and the like, no one would take so much as a klat in return for her selections. Bruna asked no money for healing, and no one asked money of her for anything else.

Marick stood protectively close as she squeezed fruit and vegetables with a practiced hand. He drew stares, but Leesha thought it was as much because he was with her than it was the presence of a stranger at market. Messengers were common enough in Cutter’s Hollow.

She caught the eye of Keet—Stefny’s son, if not Smitt’s. The boy was nearly eleven, and looked more and more like Tender Michel with each passing day. Stefny had kept her side of the bargain over the years, and not spoken ill of Leesha since she was apprenticed. Her secret was safe as far as Bruna was concerned, but for the life of her, Leesha could not see how Smitt failed to see the truth staring at him from the supper table each night.

She beckoned, and Keet came running. “Bring this bag to Bruna once your chores allow,” she said, handing him her selections. She smiled at him and secretly pressed a klat into his hand.

Keet grinned widely at the gift. Adults would never take money from an Herb Gatherer, but Leesha always slipped children something for extra service. The lacquered wooden coin from Angiers was the main currency in Cutter’s Hollow, and would buy Rizonan sweets for Keet and his siblings when the next Messenger came.

She was ready to leave when she saw Mairy, and moved to greet her. Her friend had been busy over the years; three children clung to her skirts now. A young glassblower named Benn had left Angiers to find his fortune in Lakton or Fort Rizon. He had stopped in the Hollow to ply his trade and raise a few more klats before the next leg of the journey, but then he met Mairy, and those plans dissolved like sugar in tea.

Now Benn plied his trade in Mairy’s father’s barn, and business was brisk. He bought bags of sand from Messengers out of Fort Krasia, and turned them into things of both function and beauty. The Hollow had never had a blower before, and everyone wanted glass of their own.

Leesha, too, was pleased by the development, and soon had Benn making the delicate components of distilleries shown in Bruna’s books, allowing her to leach the strength from herbs and brew cures far more powerful than the Hollow had ever seen.

Soon after, Benn and Mairy wed, and before long, Leesha was pulling their first child from between Mairy’s legs. Two more had followed in short order, and Leesha loved each as if it were her own. She had been honored to tears when they named their youngest after her.

“Good morning, rascals,” Leesha said, squatting down and letting Mairy’s children fall into her arms. She hugged them tightly and kissed them, slipping them pieces of candy wrapped in paper before rising. She made the candy herself, another thing she had learned from Bruna.

“Good morning, Leesha,” Mairy said, dipping a small curtsy. Leesha bit back a frown. She and Mairy had stayed close over the years, but Mairy looked at her differently now that she wore the pocketed apron, and nothing seemed able to change that. The curtsy seemed ingrained.

Still, Leesha treasured her friendship. Saira came secretly to Bruna’s hut, begging pomm tea, but their relationship ended there. To hear the women in town tell it, Saira kept well enough entertained. Half the men in the village supposedly knocked on her door at one time or another, and she always had more money than the sewing she and her mother took in could bring.

Brianne was even worse in some ways. She had not spoken to Leesha in the last seven years, but had a bad word to say about her to everyone else. She had taken to seeing Darsy for her cures, and her dalliances with Evin had quickly given her a round belly. When Tender Michel had challenged her, she had named Evin the father rather than face the town alone.

Evin had married Brianne with her father’s pitchfork at his back and her brothers to either side, and had committed himself to making her and their son Callen miserable ever since.

Brianne had proven a fit mother and wife, but she never lost the weight she had put on during her pregnancy, and Leesha knew personally how Evin’s eyes—and hands—wandered. Gossip had him knocking frequently on Saira’s door.

“Good morning, Mairy,” she said. “Have you met Messenger Marick?” Leesha turned to introduce the man, only to find he was no longer at her back.

“Oh, no,” she said, seeing him facing off with Gared across the market.

At fifteen, Gared had been bigger than any man in the village save his father. Now, at twenty-two, he was gigantic, close to seven feet of packed muscle, hardened by long days at the axe. It was said he must have Milnese blood, for no Angierian had ever been so large.

Word of his lie had spread throughout the village, and since then the girls had kept their distance, afraid to be alone with him. Perhaps that was why he still coveted Leesha; perhaps he would have done so regardless. But Gared had not learned the lessons of the past. His ego had grown with his muscles, and now he was the bully everyone had known he would be. The boys who used to tease him now jumped at his every word, and if he was cruel to them, he was a terror to any unwise enough to cast their eyes upon Leesha.

Gared waited for her still, acting as if Leesha were going to come to her senses one day and realize she belonged with him. Any attempts to convince him otherwise had been met with wood-headed stubbornness.

“You’re not local,” she heard Gared say, poking Marick hard in the shoulder, “so maybe ya haven’t heard that Leesha’s spoken for.” He loomed over the Messenger like a grown man over a young boy.

But Marick didn’t flinch, or move at Gared’s poke. He stood stark still, his wolf eyes never leaving Gared’s. Leesha prayed he had the sense not to engage.

“Not according to her,” Marick replied, and Leesha’s hopes fell. She started moving toward them, but already a crowd was forming around the men, denying her a clear path. She wished she had Bruna’s stick to help her clear the way.

“Did she say words of promise to you, Messenger?” Gared demanded. “She did to me.”

“So I’ve heard,” Marick replied. “I’ve also heard you’re the only fool in the Hollow who thinks those words mean a coreling’s piss after you betrayed her.”

Gared roared and grabbed at the Messenger, but Marick was quicker, stepping smoothly to the side and snapping up his spear, thrusting the butt right between the woodcutter’s eyes. He whipped the spear around in a smooth motion, striking behind Gared’s knees as he staggered backward, dropping him hard on his back.

Marick planted his spear back on the ground, standing over Gared, his wolf eyes coldly confident. “I could have used the point,” he advised. “You would do well to remember that. Leesha speaks for herself.”

Everyone in the crowd was gawking, but Leesha continued her desperate push forward, knowing Gared, and knowing that it was not over.

“Stop this idiocy!” she called. Marick glanced at her, and Gared used that moment to grab the end of his spear. The Messenger’s attention snapped back, and he gripped the shaft with both hands to pull the spear free.

It was the last thing he should have done. Gared had a wood demon’s strength, and even with him lying prone, none could match it. His corded arms flexed, and Marick found himself flying through the air.

Gared rose, and snapped the six-foot spear in half like a twig. “Let’s see how ya fight when yer not hiding behind a spear,” he said, dropping the pieces to the dirt.

“Gared, no!” Leesha screamed, pushing past the last of the onlookers and grabbing his arm. He shoved her aside, never taking his eyes off Marick. The simple move sent her reeling back into the crowd, where she crashed into Dug and Niklas, going down in a tangle of bodies.

“Stop!” she cried helplessly, struggling to find her feet.

“No other man will have you,” Gared said. “You’ll have me, or you’ll end up shriveled and alone like Bruna!” He stalked toward Marick, who was only just getting his legs under him.

Gared swung a meaty fist at the Messenger, but again, Marick was quicker. He ducked the blow smoothly, landing two quick punches to Gared’s body before retreating well ahead of Gared’s wild return swing.

But if Gared even felt the blows, he showed no sign. They repeated the exchange, this time with Marick punching Gared full in the nose. Blood spurted, and Gared laughed, spitting it from his mouth.

“That your best?” he asked.

Marick growled and shot forward, landing a flurry of punches. Gared could not keep up and hardly tried, gritting his teeth and weathering the barrage, his face red with rage.

After a few moments, Marick withdrew, standing in a catlike fighting stance, his fists up and ready. His knuckles were skinned, and he was breathing hard. Gared seemed little the worse for wear. For the first time, there was fear in Marick’s wolf eyes.

“That all ya have?” Gared asked, stalking forward again.

The Messenger came at him again, but this time, he was not so quick. He struck once, twice, and then Gared’s thick fingers found purchase on his shoulder, gripping hard. The Messenger tried to pull back out of reach, but he was held fast.

Gared drove his fist into the Messenger’s stomach, and the wind exploded out of him. He struck again, this time to the head, and Marick hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“Not so smug now, are ya!” Gared roared. Marick rose to his hands and knees, struggling to rise, but Gared kicked him hard in the stomach, flipping him over onto his back.

Leesha was darting forward by then, as Gared knelt atop Marick, landing heavy blows.

“Leesha is mine!” he roared. “And any what says otherwise will …!”

His words were cut short as Leesha threw a full fist of Bruna’s blinding powder in his face. His mouth was already open, and he inhaled reflexively, screaming as it burned into his eyes and throat, his sinuses seizing and his skin feeling as if burned with boiling water. He fell off Marick, rolling on the ground choking and clawing at his face.

Leesha knew she had used too much of the powder. A pinch would stop most men in their tracks, but a full fist could kill, causing people to choke on their own phlegm.

She scowled and shoved past the gawkers, snatching a bucket of water Stefny had been using to wash potatoes. She dumped it over Gared, and his convulsions eased. He would be blind for hours more, but she would not have his death on her hands.

“Our vows are broken,” she told him, “now and forever. I will never be your wife, even if it means dying shriveled and alone! I’d as soon marry a coreling!”

Gared groaned, showing no sign he had heard.

She moved over to Marick, kneeling and helping him to sit up. She took a clean cloth and daubed at the blood on his face. Already he was starting to swell and bruise.

“I guess we showed him, eh?” the Messenger asked, chuckling weakly and wincing at the pain it brought to his face.

Leesha poured some of the harsh alcohol Smitt brewed in his basement onto the cloth.

“Aahhh!” Marick gasped, as she touched him with it.

“Serves you right,” Leesha said. “You could have walked away from that fight, and you should have, whether you could have won or not. I didn’t need your protection, and I’m no more likely to give my affection to a man who thinks picking a fight is going to gain the favor of an Herb Gatherer than I am the town bully.”

“He was the one that started it!” Marick protested.

“I’m disappointed in you, Master Marick,” Leesha said. “I thought Messengers came smarter than that.” Marick dropped his eyes.

“Take him to his room at Smitt’s,” she said to some nearby men, and they moved quickly to obey. Most folk in Cutter’s Hollow did, these days.

“If you’re out of bed before tomorrow morning,” Leesha told the Messenger, “I’ll hear of it and be even more cross with you.”

Marick smiled weakly as the men helped him away.

“That was amazing!” Mairy gasped, when Leesha returned for her basket of herbs.

“It was nothing but stupidity that needed stopping,” Leesha snapped.

“Nothing?” Mairy asked. “Two men locked together like bulls, and all you had to do to stop them was throw a handful of herbs!”

“Hurting with herbs is easy,” Leesha said, surprised to find Bruna’s words on her lips, “it’s healing with them that’s hard.”

It was well past high sun by the time Leesha finished her rounds and made it back to Bruna’s hut.

“How are the children?” Bruna asked, as Leesha set her basket down. Leesha smiled. Everyone in Cutter’s Hollow was a child in Bruna’s eyes.

“Well enough,” she said, coming to sit on the low stool by Bruna’s chair so the ancient Herb Gatherer could see her clearly. “Yon Gray’s joints still ache, but his mind is as young as ever. I gave him fresh sweetsalve. Smitt remains abed, but his cough is lessening. I think the worst is past.” She went on, describing her rounds while the crone nodded silently. Bruna would stop her if she had comment; she seldom did anymore.

“Is that all?” Bruna asked. “What of the excitement young Keet tells me went on in the market this morning?”

“Idiocy is more like it,” Leesha said.

Bruna dismissed her with a wave. “Boys will be boys,” she said. “Even when they’re men. It sounds like you dealt with it well enough.”

“Bruna, they could have killed each other!” Leesha said.

“Oh, pfaw!” Bruna said. “You’re not the first pretty girl to have men fight over her. You may not believe it, but when I was your age, a few bones were broken on my account, as well.”

“You were never my age,” Leesha teased. “Yon Gray says they called you ‘hag’ when he was first learning to walk.”

Bruna cackled. “So they did, so they did,” she said. “But there was a time before then when my paps were as full and smooth as yours, and men fought like corelings to suckle them.”

Leesha looked hard at Bruna, trying to peel back the years and see the woman she had been, but it was a hopeless task. Even with all the exaggerations and tampweed tales taken into account, Bruna was a century old, at least. She would never say for sure, answering simply, “I quit counting at a hundred,” whenever pressed.

“In any event,” Leesha said, “Marick may be a bit swollen in the face, but he’ll have no reason not to be on the road tomorrow.”

“That’s well,” Bruna said.

“So you have a cure for Mistress Jizell’s young charge?” Leesha asked.

“What would you tell her to do with the boy?” Bruna replied.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Leesha said.

“Are you?” Bruna asked. “I’m not. Come now, what would you tell Jizell if you were me? Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it.”

Leesha took a deep breath. “The grimroot likely interacted poorly with the boy’s system,” she said. “He needs to be taken off it, and the boils will need to be lanced and drained. Of course, that still leaves his original illness. The fever and nausea could just be a chill, but the dilated eyes and vomit hint at more. I would try monkleaf with lady’s brooch and ground adderbark, titrated carefully over a week at least.”

Bruna looked at her a long time, then nodded.

“Pack your things and say your good-byes,” she said. “You’ll bring that advice to Jizell personally.”

CHAPTER 14 THE ROAD TO ANGIERS 326 AR

Every afternoon without fail, Erny came up the path to Bruna’s hut. The Hollow had six Warders, each with an apprentice, but Erny did not trust his daughter’s safety to anyone else. The little papermaker was the best Warder in Cutter’s Hollow, and everyone knew it.

Often, he brought gifts his Messengers had secured from far-off places: books and herbs and hand-sewn lace. But gifts were not why Leesha looked forward to his visits. She slept better behind her father’s strong wards, and seeing him happy these last seven years was greater than any gift. Elona still caused him grief, of course, but not on the scale she once had.

But today, as Leesha watched the sun cross the sky, she found herself dreading her father’s visit. This was going to hurt him deeply.

And her, as well. Erny was a well of support and love that she drew upon whenever things grew too hard for her. What would she do in Angiers without him? Without Bruna? Would any there see past her pocketed apron?

But whatever her fears about loneliness in Angiers, they paled against her greatest fear: that once she tasted the wider world, she would never want to return to Cutter’s Hollow.

It wasn’t until she saw her father coming up the path that Leesha realized she’d been crying. She dried her eyes and put on her best smile for him, smoothing her skirts nervously.

“Leesha!” her father called, holding out his arms. She fell into them gratefully, knowing that this might be the last time they played out this little ritual.

“Is everything all right?” Erny asked. “I heard there was some trouble at the market.”

There were few secrets in a place as small as Cutter’s Hollow. “It’s fine,” she said. “I took care of it.”

“You take care of everyone in Cutter’s Hollow, Leesha,” Erny said, squeezing her tightly. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Leesha began to weep. “Now, now, none of that,” Erny said, catching a tear off her cheek on his index finger and flicking it away. “Dry your eyes and head on inside. I’ll check the wards, and we can talk about what’s bothering you over a bowl of your delicious stew.”

Leesha smiled. “Mum still burning the food?” she asked.

“When it’s not still moving,” Erny agreed. Leesha laughed, letting her father check the wards while she laid the table.

“I’m going to Angiers,” Leesha said when the bowls were cleared, “to study under one of Bruna’s old apprentices.”

Erny was quiet a long time. “I see,” he said at last. “When?”

“As soon as Marick leaves,” Leesha said. “Tomorrow.”

Erny shook his head. “No daughter of mine is spending a week on the open road alone with a Messenger,” he said. “I’ll hire a caravan. It will be safer.”

“I’ll be careful of the demons, Da,” Leesha said.

“It’s not just corelings I’m worried about,” Erny said pointedly.

“I can handle Messenger Marick,” Leesha assured him.

“Keeping a man off you in the dark of night isn’t the same as stopping a brawl in the market,” Erny said. “You can’t leave a Messenger blind if you ever hope to make it off the road alive. Just a few weeks, I beg.”

Leesha shook her head. “There’s a child I’m needed to treat immediately.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” Erny said.

“You’ll do no such thing, Ernal,” Bruna cut in. “Leesha needs to do this on her own.”

Erny looked at the old woman, and they locked stares and wills. But there was no will in Cutter’s Hollow stronger than Bruna’s, and Erny soon looked away.

Leesha walked her father out soon after. He did not want to go, nor did she want him to leave, but the sky was filled with color, and already he would have to trot to make it home safely.

“How long will you be gone?” Erny asked, gripping the porch rail tightly and looking off in the direction of Angiers.

Leesha shrugged. “That will depend on how much Mistress Jizell has to teach, and how much the apprentice she’s sending here, Vika, has to learn. A couple of years, at least.”

“I suppose if Bruna can do without you that long, I can, too,” Erny said.

“Promise me you’ll check her wards while I’m gone,” Leesha said, touching his arm.

“Of course,” Erny said, turning to embrace her.

“I love you, Da,” she said.

“And I, you, poppet,” Erny said, crushing her in his arms. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he promised before heading down the darkening road.

“Your father makes a fair point,” Bruna said, when Leesha came back inside.

“Oh?” Leesha asked.

“Messengers are men like any other,” Bruna warned.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Leesha said, remembering the fight in the marketplace.

“Young master Marick may be all charm and smiles now,” Bruna said, “but once you’re on the road, he’ll have his way, no matter what your wishes, and when you reach the forest fortress, Herb Gatherer or no, few will take the word of a young girl over that of a Messenger.”

Leesha shook her head. “He’ll have what I give him,” she said, “and nothing more.”

Bruna’s eyes narrowed, but she grunted, satisfied that Leesha was wise to the danger.

There was a sharp rap at the door just after first light. Leesha answered, finding her mother standing there, though Elona had not come to the hut since being expelled at the end of Bruna’s broom. Her face was a thunderhead as she pushed right past Leesha.

On the sunny side of forty, Elona might still have been the most beautiful woman in the village if not for her daughter. But being autumn to Leesha’s summer had not humbled her. She might bow to Erny with gritted teeth, but she carried herself like a duchess to all others.

“Not enough you steal my daughter, you have to send her away?” she demanded.

“Good morn to you as well, Mother,” Leesha said, closing the door.

“You stay out of this!” Elona snapped. “The witch has twisted your mind!”

Bruna cackled into her porridge. Leesha interposed herself between the two, just as Bruna was pushing her half-finished bowl away and wiping her sleeve across her mouth to retort. “Finish your breakfast,” Leesha ordered, pushing the bowl back in front of her, and turning back to Elona. “I’m going because I want to, Mother. And when I return, I’ll bring healing the likes of which Cutter’s Hollow has not seen since Bruna was young.”

“And how long will it take this time?” Elona demanded. “You’ve already wasted your best breeding years with your nose buried in dusty old books.”

“My best …!” Leesha stuttered. “Mother, I’m barely twenty!”

“Exactly!” Elona shouted. “You should have three children by now, like your friend the scarecrow. Instead, I watch as you pull babes from every womb in the village but your own.”

“At least she was wise enough not to shrivel hers with pomm tea,” Bruna muttered.

Leesha whirled on her. “I told you to finish your porridge!” she said, and Bruna’s eyes widened. She looked ready to retort, then grunted and turned her attention back to her bowl.

“I’m not a brood mare, Mother,” Leesha said. “There’s more in life for me than that.”

“What more?” Elona pressed. “What could be more important?”

“I don’t know,” Leesha said honestly. “But I’ll know when I find it.”

“And in the meantime, you leave the care of Cutter’s Hollow to a girl you’ve never met and ham-hand Darsy, who nearly killed Ande, and half a dozen since.”

“It’s only for a few years,” Leesha said. “My whole life, you called me useless, but now I’m supposed to believe the Hollow can’t get on a few years without me?”

“What if something happens to you?” Elona demanded. “What if you’re cored on the road? What would I do?”

“What would you do?” Leesha asked. “For seven years, you’ve barely said a word to me, apart from pressing me to forgive Gared. You don’t know anything about me anymore, Mother. You haven’t bothered. So don’t pretend now that my death would be some great loss to you. If you want Gared’s child on your knee so badly, you’ll have to bear it yourself.”

Elona’s eyes widened, and as when Leesha was a willful child, her response was swift. “I forbid it!” she shouted, her open hand flying at Leesha’s face.

But Leesha was not a child anymore. She was of a size with her mother, faster and stronger. She caught Elona’s wrist and held it fast. “The days when your word carried weight with me are long past, Mother,” Leesha said.

Elona tried to pull away, but Leesha held on a bit, if only to show she could. When she was finally released, Elona rubbed her wrist and looked scornfully at her daughter. “You’ll be back one day, Leesha,” she swore. “Mark my words! And it will be much worse for you then!”

“I think it’s time you left, Mother,” Leesha said, opening the door just as Marick was raising his hand to knock. Elona snarled and pushed past him, stomping down the path.

“Apologies if I’m intruding,” Marick said. “I came for Mistress Bruna’s response. I’m bound for Angiers by midmorning.”

Leesha looked at Marick. His jaw was bruised, but his thick tan hid it well, and the herbs she had applied to his split lip and eye had kept the swelling down.

“You seem well recovered,” she said.

“Quick healers go far in my line of work,” Marick said.

“Well then fetch your horse,” Leesha said, “and return in an hour. I will deliver Bruna’s response personally.”

Marick smiled widely.

“It is good that you go,” Bruna said, when they were alone at last. “Cutter’s Hollow holds no more challenges for you, and you’re far too young to stagnate.”

“If you think that wasn’t a challenge,” Leesha said, “then you weren’t paying attention.”

“A challenge, perhaps,” Bruna said, “but the outcome was never in doubt. You’ve grown too strong for the likes of Elona.”

Strong, she thought. Is that what I’ve become? It didn’t feel that way most of the time, but it was true, none of the inhabitants of Cutter’s Hollow frightened her anymore.

Leesha gathered her bags, small and seemingly inadequate; a few dresses and books, some money, her herb pouch, a bedroll, and food. She left her pretties, the gifts her father had given her and other possessions near to her heart. Messengers traveled light, and Marick would not take well to having his horse overburdened. Bruna had said Jizell would provide for her during her training, but still, it seemed precious little to start a new life with.

A new life. For all the stress of the idea, it brought excitement, as well. Leesha had read every book in Bruna’s collection, but Jizell had a great many more, and the other Herb Gatherers in Angiers, if they could be persuaded to share, held more still.

But as the hour drew to a close, Leesha felt as if the breath were being squeezed from her. Where was her father? Would he not see her off?

“It’s nearly time,” Bruna said. Leesha looked up and realized her eyes were wet.

“We’d best say our good-byes,” Bruna said. “Odds are, we’ll never have another chance.”

“Bruna, what are you saying?” Leesha asked.

“Don’t play the fool with me, girl,” Bruna said. “You know what I mean. I’ve lived my share twice over, but I’m not going to last forever.”

“Bruna,” Leesha said, “I don’t have to go …”

“Pfagh!” Bruna said with a wave of her hand. “You’ve mastered all I can teach you, girl, so let these years be my last gift to you. Go,” she prodded, “see and learn as much as you can.”

She held out her arms, and Leesha fell into them. “Just promise me that you’ll look after my children when I’m gone. They can be stupid and willful, but there’s good in them, when the night is dark.”

“I will,” Leesha promised. “And I’ll make you proud.”

“You could never do otherwise,” the old woman said.

Leesha sobbed into Bruna’s rough shawl. “I’m scared, Bruna,” she said.

“You’d be a fool not to be,” Bruna said, “but I’ve seen a good piece of the world myself, and I’ve never seen a thing you couldn’t handle.”

Marick led his horse up the path not long after. The Messenger had a fresh spear in his hand, and his warded shield slung over the horn of his saddle. If the pummeling he had taken the day before pained him in any way, he gave no sign.

“Ay, Leesha!” he called when he saw her. “Ready to begin your adventure?”

Adventure. The word cut past sadness and fear, sending a thrill through her.

Marick took Leesha’s bags, slinging them atop his lean Angierian courser as Leesha turned to Bruna one last time. “I’m too old for good-byes that last half the day,” Bruna said. “Take care of yourself, girl.”

The old woman pressed a pouch into her hands, and Leesha heard the clink of Milnese coin, worth a fortune in Angiers. Bruna turned and went inside before Leesha could protest.

She pocketed the pouch quickly. The sight of metal coin this far from Miln could tempt any man, even a Messenger. They walked on opposite sides of the horse down the path to town, where the main road led on to Angiers. Leesha called to her father as they passed his house, but there was no reply. Elona saw them pass and went inside, slamming the door behind her.

Leesha hung her head. She had been counting on seeing her father one last time. She thought of all the villagers she saw every day, and how she hadn’t had time to part with them all properly. The letters she had left with Bruna seemed woefully inadequate.

As they reached the center of town, though, Leesha gasped. Her father was waiting there, and behind him, lining the road, was the entire town. They went to her one by one as she passed, some kissing her and others pressing gifts into her hands. “Remember us well and return,” Erny said, and Leesha hugged him tightly, squeezing her eyes shut to ward off tears.

“The Hollowers love you,” Marick remarked as they rode through the woods. Cutter’s Hollow was hours behind them, and the day’s shadows were growing long. Leesha sat before him on his courser’s wide saddle, and the beast seemed to bear it and their baggage well.

“There are times,” Leesha said, “when I even believe it myself.”

“Why shouldn’t you believe it?” Marick asked. “A beauty like the dawn who can cure all ills? I doubt any could help but love you.”

Leesha laughed. “A beauty like the dawn?” she asked. “Find the poor Jongleur you stole that line from and tell him never to use it again.”

Marick laughed, his arms tightening around her. “You know,” he said in her ear, “we never discussed my fee for escorting you.”

“I have money,” Leesha said, wondering how far her coin would go in Angiers.

“So do I,” Marick laughed. “I’m not interested in money.”

“Then what kind of price did you have in mind, Master Marick?” Leesha asked. “Is this another play for a kiss?”

Marick chuckled, his wolf eyes glinting. “A kiss was the price to bring you a letter. Bringing you safely to Angiers will be much more … expensive.” He shifted his hips behind her, and his meaning was clear.

“Always ahead of yourself,” Leesha said. “You’ll be lucky to get the kiss at this rate.”

“We’ll see,” Marick said.

They made camp soon after. Leesha prepared supper while Marick set the wards. When the stew was ready, she crumbled a few extra herbs into Marick’s bowl before handing it to him.

“Eat quick,” Marick said, taking the bowl and shoveling a large spoonful into his mouth. “You’ll want to get in the tent before the corelings rise. Seeing them up close can be scary.”

Leesha looked over at the tent Marick had pitched, barely big enough for one.

“It’s small,” he winked, “but we’ll be able to warm each other in the chill of night.”

“It’s summer,” she reminded him.

“Yet I still feel a cold breeze whenever you speak,” Marick chuckled. “Perhaps we can find a way to melt that. Besides”—he gestured past the circle, where misty forms of corelings had already begun to rise—“it’s not as if you can go far.”

He was stronger than her, and her struggles against him did as little good as her refusals. With the cries of corelings as their backdrop, she suffered his kisses and pawing at her, hands fumbling and rough. And when his manhood failed him, she comforted him with soothing words, offering remedies of herb and root that only worsened his condition.

Sometimes he grew angry, and she was afraid he might strike her. Other times he wept, for what kind of man could not spread his seed? Leesha weathered it all, for the trial was not too high a price for passage to Angiers.

I am saving him from himself, she thought each time she dosed his food, for what man wished to be a rapist? But the truth was, she felt little remorse. She took no pleasure in using her skills to break his weapon, but deep down, there was a cold satisfaction, as if all her female ancestors throughout the untold ages since the first man who forced a woman to the ground were nodding in grim approval that she had unmanned him before he could unmaiden her.

The days passed slowly, with Marick’s mood shifting from sour to spoiled as each night’s failure mounted upon him. The last night, he drank deep from his wineskin, and seemed ready to leap from the circle and let the demons have him. Leesha’s relief was palpable when she saw the forest fortress spread out before them in the wood. She gasped at the sight of the high walls, their lacquered wards hard and strong, large enough to encompass Cutter’s Hollow many times over.

The streets of Angiers were covered with wood to prevent demons from rising inside; the entire city was a boardwalk. Marick took her deep into the city, and set her down outside Jizell’s hospit. He gripped her arm as she turned to go, squeezing hard, hurting her.

“What happened out beyond the walls,” he said, “stays out there.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Leesha said.

“See that you don’t,” Marick said. “Because if you do, I’ll kill you.”

“I swear,” Leesha said. “Gatherer’s word.”

Marick grunted and released her, pulling hard on his courser’s bridle and cantering off.

A smile touched the corners of Leesha’s mouth as she gathered her things and headed toward the hospit.

CHAPTER 15 FIDDLE ME A FORTUNE 325 AR

There was smoke, and fire, and a woman screamed above the corelings’ shrieks.

I love you!

Rojer started awake, his heart racing. Dawn had broken over the high walls of Fort Angiers, soft light filtering in through the cracks in the shutters. He held his talisman tightly in his good hand as the light grew, waiting for his heart to still. The tiny doll, a child’s creation of wood and string topped with her lock of red hair, was all he had left of his mother.

He didn’t remember her face, lost in the smoke, or much else about that night, but he remembered her last words to him. He heard them over and over in his dreams.

I love you!

He rubbed the hair between the thumb and ring finger of his crippled hand. Only a jagged scar remained where his first two fingers had been, but because of her, he had lost nothing else.

I love you!

The talisman was Rojer’s secret ward, something he didn’t even share with Arrick, who had been like a father to him. It helped him through the long nights when darkness closed heavily around him and the coreling screams made him shake with fear.

But day had come, and the light made him feel safe again. He kissed the tiny doll and returned it to the secret pocket he had sewn into the waistband of his motley pants. Just knowing it was there made him feel brave. He was ten years old.

Rising from his straw mattress, Rojer stretched and stumbled out of the tiny room, yawning. His heart fell as he saw Arrick passed out at the table. His master was slumped over an empty bottle, his hand wrapped tightly around its neck as if to choke a few last drops from it.

They both had their talismans.

Rojer went over and pried the bottle from his master’s fingers.

“Who? Wazzat?” Arrick demanded, half lifting his head.

“You fell asleep at the table again,” Rojer said.

“Oh, ’s you, boy,” Arrick grunted. “Thought it ’uz tha’ ripping landlord again.”

“The rent’s past due,” Rojer said. “We’re set to play Small Square this morning.”

“The rent,” Arrick grumbled. “Always the rent.”

“If we don’t pay today,” Rojer reminded, “Master Keven promised he’d throw us out.”

“So we’ll perform,” Arrick said, rising. He lost his balance and attempted to catch himself on the chair, but he only served to bring it down on top of him as he hit the floor.

Rojer went to help him up, but Arrick pushed him away. “I’m fine!” he shouted, as if daring Rojer to differ as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “I could do a backflip!” he said, looking behind him to see if there was room. His eyes made it clear he was regretting the boast.

“We should save that for the performance,” Rojer said quickly.

Arrick looked back at him. “You’re probably right,” he agreed, both of them relieved.

“My throat’s dry,” Arrick said. “I’ll need a drink before I sing.”

Rojer nodded, running to fill a wooden cup from the pitcher of water.

“Not water,” Arrick said. “Bring me wine. I need a claw from the demon that cored me.”

“We’re out of wine,” Rojer said.

“Then run and get me some,” Arrick ordered. He stumbled to his purse, tripping as he did and just barely catching himself. Rojer ran over to support him.

Arrick fumbled with the strings a moment, then lifted the whole purse and slammed it back down on the wood. There was no retort as the cloth struck, and Arrick growled.

“Not a klat!” he shouted in frustration, throwing the purse. The act took his balance, and he turned a full circle trying to right himself before dropping to the floor with a thud.

He gained his hands and knees by the time Rojer got to him, but he retched, spilling wine and bile all over the floor. He made fists and convulsed, and Rojer thought he would retch again, but after a moment he realized his master was sobbing.

“It was never like this when I worked for the duke,” Arrick moaned. “Money was spilling from my pockets, then.”

Only because the duke paid for your wine, Rojer thought, but he was wise enough to keep it to himself. Telling Arrick he drank too much was the surest way to provoke him into a rage.

He cleaned his master up and supported the heavy man to his mattress. Once he was passed out on the straw, Rojer got a rag to clean the floor. There would be no performance today.

He wondered if Master Keven would really put them out, and where they would go if he did. The Angierian wardwall was strong, but there were holes in the net above, and wind demons were not unheard of. The thought of a night on the street terrified him.

He looked at their meager possessions, wondering if there was something he could sell. Arrick had sold Geral’s destrier and warded shield when times had turned sour, but the Messenger’s portable circle remained. It would fetch a fair price, but Rojer would not dare sell it. Arrick would drink and gamble with the money, and there would be nothing left to protect them when they were finally put out in the night for real.

Rojer, too, missed the days when Arrick worked for the duke. Arrick was loved by Rhinebeck’s whores, and they had treated Rojer like he was their own. Hugged against a dozen perfumed bosoms a day, he had been given sweets and taught to help them paint and preen. He hadn’t seen his master as much then; Arrick had often left him in the brothel when he journeyed to the hamlets, his sweet voice delivering ducal edicts far and wide.

But the duke hadn’t cared for finding a young boy curled in the bed when he stumbled into his favorite whore’s chambers one night, drunk and aroused. He wanted Rojer gone, and Arrick with him. Rojer knew it was his fault that they lived so poorly now. Arrick, like his parents, had sacrificed everything to care for him.

But unlike with his parents, Rojer could give something back to Arrick.

Rojer ran for all he was worth, hoping the crowd was still there. Even now, many would come to an advertised engagement of the Sweetsong, but they wouldn’t wait forever.

Over his shoulder he carried Arrick’s “bag of marvels.” Like their clothes, the bag was made from a Jongleur’s motley of colored patches, faded and threadbare. The bag was filled with the instruments of a Jongleur’s art. Rojer had mastered them all, save the colored juggling balls.

His bare, callused feet slapped the boardwalk. Rojer had boots and gloves to match his motley, but he left them behind. He preferred the firm grip of his toes to the worn soles of his bell-tipped, motley boots, and he hated the gloves.

Arrick had stuffed the fingers of the right glove with cotton to hide the ones Rojer was missing. Slender thread connected the false digits to the remaining ones, making them bend as one. It was a clever bit of trickery, but Rojer was ashamed each time he pulled the constrictive thing onto his crippled hand. Arrick insisted he wear them, but his master couldn’t hit him for something he didn’t know about.

A grumbling crowd milled about Small Square as Rojer arrived; perhaps a score of people, some of those children. Rojer could remember a time when word that Arrick Sweetsong might appear drew hundreds from all ends of the city and even the hamlets nearby. He would have been singing in the temple to the Creator then, or the duke’s amphitheater. Now Small Square was the best the guild would give him, and he couldn’t even fill that.

But any money was better than none. If even a dozen left Rojer a klat apiece, it might buy another night from Master Keven, so long as the Jongleurs’ Guild did not catch him performing without his master. If they did, overdue rent would be the least of their troubles.

With a “Whoot!” he danced through the crowd, throwing handfuls of dyed wingseeds from the bag. The seedpods spun and fluttered in his wake, leaving a trail of bright color.

“Arrick’s apprentice!” one crowd member called. “The Sweetsong will be here after all!”

There was applause, and Rojer felt his stomach lurch. He wanted to tell the truth, but Arrick’s first rule of jongling was never to say or do anything to break a crowd’s good mood.

The stage at Small Square had three tiers. The back was a wooden shell designed to amplify sound and keep inclement weather off the performers. There were wards inscribed into the wood, but they were faded and old. Rojer wondered if they would grant succor to him and his master, should they be put out tonight.

He raced up the steps, handspringing across the stage and throwing the collection hat just in front of the crowd with a precise snap of his wrist.

Rojer warmed every crowd for his master, and for a few minutes, he fell into that routine, cartwheeling about and telling jokes, performing magic tricks, and mumming the foibles of well-known authority figures. Laughter. Applause. Slowly, the crowd began to swell. Thirty. Fifty. But more and more began to murmur, impatient for the appearance of Arrick Sweetsong. Rojer’s stomach tightened, and he touched the talisman in its secret pocket for strength.

Staving off the inevitable as long as he could, he called the children forward to tell them the story of the Return. He mummed the parts well, and some nodded in approval, but there was disappointment on many faces. Didn’t Arrick usually sing the tale? Wasn’t that why they came?

“Where is the Sweetsong?” someone called from the back. He was shushed by his neighbors, but his words hung in the air. By the time Rojer had finished with the children, there were general grumbles of discontent.

“I came to hear a song!” the same man called, and this time others nodded in agreement.

Rojer knew better than to oblige. His voice had never been strong, and it cracked whenever he held a note for more than a few breaths. The crowd would turn ugly if he sang.

He turned to the bag of marvels for another option, passing over the juggling balls in shame. He could catch and throw well enough with his crippled right hand, but with no index finger to put the correct spin on the ball and only half a hand to catch with, the complex interplay between both hands when juggling was beyond him.

“What kind of Jongleur can’t sing and can’t juggle?” Arrick would shout sometimes. Not much of one, Rojer knew.

He was better with the knives in the bag, but calling audience members up to stand by the wall while he threw required a special license from the guild. Arrick always chose a buxom girl to assist, who more often than not ended up in his bed after the performance.

“I don’t think he’s coming,” he heard that same man say. Rojer cursed him silently.

Many of the other crowd members were slipping away, as well. A few tossed klats in the hat out of pity, but if Rojer didn’t do something soon, they would never have enough to satisfy Master Keven. His eyes settled on the fiddle case, and he snatched it quickly, seeing that only a few onlookers remained. He pulled out the bow, and as always, there was a rightness in the way it fit his crippled hand. His missing fingers weren’t needed here.

No sooner than he put bow to string, music filled the square. Some of those who were turning away stopped to listen, but Rojer paid them no mind.

Rojer didn’t remember much about his father, but he had a clear memory of Jessum clapping and laughing as Arrick fiddled. When he played, Rojer felt his father’s love, as he did his mother’s when he held his talisman. Safe in that love, he let fear fall away and he lost himself in the vibrating caress of the strings.

Usually he played only an accompaniment to Arrick’s singing, but this time Rojer reached beyond that, letting his music fill the space Sweetsong would have occupied. The fingers of his good left hand were a blur on the frets, and soon the crowd began clapping a tempo for him to weave the music around. He played faster and faster as the tempo grew louder, dancing around the stage in time to the music. When he put his foot on one of the steps on the stage and pushed off into a backflip without missing a note, the crowd roared.

The sound broke his trance, and he saw that the square was filled, with people even crowded outside to hear. It had been some time since even Arrick drew such a crowd! Rojer almost missed a stroke in his shock, and gritted his teeth to hold on to the music until it became his world again.

“That was a good performance,” a voice congratulated as Rojer counted the lacquered wooden coins in the hat. Nearly three hundred klats! Keven would not pester them for a month.

“Thank you …” Rojer began, but his voice caught in his throat as he looked up. Masters Jasin and Edum stood before him. Guildsmen.

“Where’s your master, Rojer?” Edum asked sternly. He was a master actor and mummer whose plays were said to draw audience members from as far as Fort Rizon.

Rojer swallowed hard, his face flushing hot. He looked down, hoping they would take his fear and guilt as shame. “I … I don’t know,” he said. “He was supposed to be here.”

“Drunk again, I’ll wager,” Jasin snorted. Also known as Goldentone, a name he was said to have given himself, he was a singer of some note, but more importantly, he was the nephew of Janson, Duke Rhinebeck’s first minister, and made sure the entire world knew it. “Old Sweetsong is pickled sour these days.”

“It’s a wonder he’s kept his license this long,” Edum said. “I heard he soiled himself in the middle of his act last month.”

“That’s not true!” Rojer said.

“I’d be more worried about myself, if I were you, boy,” Jasin said, pointing a long finger in Rojer’s face. “Do you know the penalty for collecting money for an unlicensed performance?”

Rojer paled. Arrick could lose his license over this. If the guild brought the matter to the magistrate as well, they could both find themselves chopping wood with chained ankles.

Edum laughed. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said. “So long as the guild has its cut”—he helped himself to a large portion of the wooden coins Rojer had collected—“I don’t think we need to make further note of this incident.”

Rojer knew better than to protest as the men divided and pocketed over half the take. Little, if any, would actually find its way to the coffers of the Jongleurs’ Guild.

“You’ve got talent, boy,” Jasin said as they turned to go. “You might want to consider a master with better prospects. Come see me if you tire of cleaning up after old Soursong.”

Rojer’s disappointment lasted only until he shook the collection hat. Even half was more than he had ever hoped to make. He hurried back to the inn, pausing only to make a single stop. He made his way to Master Keven, whose face was a thunder-head as the boy approached.

“You’d better not be here to beg for your master, boy,” he said.

Rojer shook his head, handing the man a purse. “My master says there’s enough there for a tenday,” he said.

Keven’s surprise was evident as he hefted the bag and heard the satisfying clack of wooden coins within. He hesitated a moment, then grunted and pocketed the purse with a shrug.

Arrick was still asleep when he returned. Rojer knew his master would never realize the innkeep had been paid. He would avoid the man assiduously, and congratulate himself on making it ten days without paying.

He left the few remaining coins in Arrick’s purse. He would tell his master he had found them loose in the bag of marvels. It was rare for that to happen since money became tight, but Arrick wouldn’t question his fortune once he saw what else Rojer had bought.

Rojer placed the wine bottle by Arrick’s side as he slept.

Arrick was up before Rojer the next morning, checking his makeup in a cracked hand mirror. He wasn’t a young man, but neither was he so old that the tools in a Jongleur’s paintbox couldn’t make him look so. His long, sun-bleached hair was still more gold than gray, and his brown beard, darkened with dye, concealed the growing wattle beneath his chin. The paint matched his tanned skin so closely that the wrinkles around his blue eyes were all but invisible.

“We got lucky last night, m’boy,” he said, contorting his face to see how the paint held, “but we can’t avoid Keven forever. That hairy badger will catch us sooner or later, and when he does, I’d like more than …” He reached into the purse, pulling out the coins and flicking the lot into the air. “… six klats to our name.” His hands moved too fast to follow, snatching the coins out of the air and putting them into a comfortable rhythm in the air above him.

“Have you been at your juggling, boy?” he asked.

Before Rojer could open his mouth to reply, Arrick flicked one of the klats his way. Rojer was wise to the ruse, but ready or not, he felt a stab of fear as he caught the coin in his left hand and tossed it up into the air. More coins followed in rapid succession, and he fought for control as he caught them with his crippled hand and tossed them to the other to be put into the air again.

By the time he had four coins going, he was terrified. When Arrick added a fifth, Rojer had to dance wildly to keep them all moving. Arrick thought better of tossing the sixth and waited patiently instead. Sure enough, Rojer fell to the floor in a clatter of coins a moment later.

Rojer cringed in anticipation of his master’s tirade, but Arrick only sighed deeply. “Put your gloves on,” he said. “We need to go out and fill our purse.”

The sigh cut even deeper than a shout and a cuff on the ear. Anger meant Arrick expected better. A sigh meant his master had given up.

“No,” he said. The word slipped out before he could stop it, but once it hung there in the air between them, Rojer felt the rightness of it, like the fit of the bow in his crippled hand.

Arrick blustered through his mustache, shocked at the boy’s audacity.

“The gloves, I mean,” Rojer clarified, and saw Arrick’s expression change from anger to curiosity. “I don’t want to wear them anymore. I hate them.”

Arrick sighed and uncorked his new bottle of wine, pouring a cup.

“Didn’t we agree,” he said, pointing at Rojer with the bottle, “that people would be less likely to hire you if they knew your infirmity?” he asked.

“We never agreed,” Rojer said. “You just told me to start wearing the gloves one day.”

Arrick chuckled. “Hate to disillusion you, boy, but that’s how it is between masters and apprentices. No one wants a crippled Jongleur.”

“So that’s all I am?” Rojer asked. “A cripple?”

“Of course not,” Arrick said. “I wouldn’t trade you for any apprentice in Angiers. But not everyone will look past your demon scars to see the man within. They will label you with some mocking name, and you’ll find them laughing at you and not with.”

“I don’t care,” Rojer said. “The gloves make me feel like a fraud, and my hand is bad enough without the fake fingers making it clumsier. What does it matter why they laugh, if they come and pay klats to do it?”

Arrick looked at him a long time, tapping his cup. “Let me see the gloves,” he said at last.

They were black, and reached halfway up his forearm. Bright-colored triangles of cloth were sewn to the ends, with bells attached. Rojer tossed them to his master with a frown.

Arrick caught the gloves, looked at them for half a moment, and then tossed them out the window, brushing his hands together as if touching the gloves had left them unclean.

“Grab your boots and let’s go,” he said, tossing back the remains of his cup.

“I don’t really like the boots either,” Rojer dared.

Arrick smiled at the boy. “Don’t push your luck,” he warned with a wink.

Guild law allowed licensed Jongleurs to perform on any street corner, so long as they did not block traffic or hinder commerce. Some vendors even hired them to attract attention to their booths, or the common rooms of taverns.

Arrick’s drinking had alienated most of the latter, so they performed in the street. Arrick was a late sleeper, and the best spots had long since been staked out by other Jongleurs. The space they found wasn’t ideal: a corner on a side street far from the main lanes of traffic.

“It’ll do,” Arrick grunted. “Drum up some business, boy, while I set up.”

Rojer nodded and ran off. Whenever he found a likely cluster of people, he cartwheeled by them, or walked by on his hands, the bells sewn into his motley ringing an invitation.

“Jongleur show!” he cried. “Come see Arrick Sweetsong perform!”

Between his acrobatics and the weight still carried by his master’s name, he drew a fair bit of attention. Some even followed him on his rounds, clapping and laughing at his antics.

One man elbowed his wife. “Look, it’s the crippled boy from Small Square!”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Just look at his hand!” the man said.

Rojer pretended not to hear, moving on in search of more customers. He soon brought his small following to his master, finding Arrick juggling a butcher knife, a meat cleaver, a hand axe, a small stool, and an arrow in easy rhythm, joking with a growing crowd of his own.

“And here comes my assistant,” Arrick called to the crowd, “Rojer Halfgrip!”

Rojer was already running forward when the name registered. What was Arrick doing?

It was too late to slow, though, so he put his arms out and flung himself forward, cartwheeling into a triple backflip to stand a few yards from his master. Arrick snatched the butcher knife from the deadly array in the air before him and flicked it Rojer’s way.

Fully expecting the move, Rojer went into a spin, catching the blunt and specially weighted knife easily in his good left hand. As he completed the circuit, he uncoiled and threw, sending the blade spinning right at Arrick’s head.

Arrick, too, went into a spin, and came out of the circuit with the blade held tightly in his teeth. The crowd cheered, and as the blade went back up into rhythm with the other implements, a wave of klats clicked into the hat.

“Rojer Halfgrip!” Arrick called. “With only ten years and eight fingers, he’s still deadlier with a knife than any grown man!”

The crowd applauded. Rojer held his crippled hand up for all to see, and the crowd ooohed and aahed over it. Already, Arrick’s suggestion had most of them believing he made that catch and throw with his crippled hand. They would tell others, and exaggerate in the telling. Rather than risk Rojer being labeled by the crowd, Arrick had labeled him first.

“Rojer Halfgrip,” he murmured, tasting the name on his tongue.

“Hup!” Arrick called, and Rojer turned as his master flung the arrow at him. He slapped his hands together, catching the missile just before it struck his face. He spun again, putting his back to the crowd. With his good hand, he threw the arrow between his legs back toward his master, but when he finished the move and faced the crowd, his crippled right hand was extended. “Hup!” he called back.

Arrick feigned fear, dropping the blades he was juggling, but the stool fell into his hands just in time for the arrow to stick in its center. Arrick studied it as if amazed at his own good fortune. He flicked his wrist as he pulled the arrow free, and it became a bouquet of flowers, which he bestowed on the prettiest woman in the crowd. More coins clattered into the hat.

Seeing his master moving on to magic, Rojer ran to the bag of marvels for the implements Arrick would need for his tricks. As he did, there came a cry from the crowd.

“Play your fiddle!” a man called. As he did, there was a general buzz of agreement. Rojer looked up to see the same man who had called so loudly for Sweetsong the day before.

“In the mood for music, are we?” Arrick asked the crowd, not missing a beat. He was answered with a cheer, so Arrick went to the bag and took the fiddle, tucking it under his chin and turning back to the audience. But before he could put bow to string, the man cried out.

“Not you, the boy!” he bellowed. “Let Halfgrip play!”

Arrick looked to Rojer, his face a mask of irritation as the crowd began chanting “Halfgrip! Halfgrip!” Finally he shrugged, handing his apprentice the instrument.

Rojer took the fiddle with shaking hands. “Never upstage your master” was a rule apprentices learned early. But the crowd was calling for him to play, and again the bow felt so right in his crippled hand, free of the cursed glove. He closed his eyes, feeling the stillness of the strings under his fingertips, and then brought them to a low hum. The crowd quieted as he played softly for a few moments, stroking the strings like the back of a cat, making it purr.

The fiddle came alive in his hands, then, and he led it out like a partner in a reel, sweeping it into a whirlwind of music. He forgot the crowd. He forgot Arrick. Alone with his music, he explored new harmonies even as he maintained a constant melody, improvising in time to the tempo of clapping that seemed a world removed.

He had no idea how long it went on. He could have stayed in that world forever, but there was a sharp twang, and something stung his hand. He shook his head to clear it and looked up at the wide-eyed and silent crowd.

“String broke,” he said sheepishly. He glanced at his master, who stood in the same shock as the other onlookers. Arrick raised his hands slowly and began to clap.

The crowd followed soon after, and it was thunderous.

“You’re going to make us rich with that fiddling, boy,” Arrick said, counting their take. “Rich!”

“Rich enough to pay the back dues you owe the guild?” a voice asked.

They turned to see Master Jasin leaning against the wall. His two apprentices, Sali and Abrum, stood close by. Sali sang soprano with a clear voice as beautiful as she was ugly. Arrick sometimes joked that if she wore a horned helmet, audiences would mistake her for a rock demon. Abrum sang bass, his voice a deep thrum that made the planked streets vibrate. He was tall and lean, with gigantic hands and feet. If Sali was a rock demon, he was surely a wood.

Like Arrick, Master Jasin was an alto, his voice rich and pure. He wore expensive clothes of fine blue wool and gold thread, spurning the motley that most of his profession wore. His long black hair and mustache were oiled and meticulously groomed.

Jasin was a man of average size, but that made him no less dangerous. He had once stabbed a Jongleur in the eye during an argument over a particular corner. The magistrate ruled it self-defense, but that wasn’t how the talk in the apprentice room of the guildhouse told it.

Jasin's uncle Janson was First Minister of Angiers. In the palace, his voice was second only to the duke's. On the streets, it was an open secret that a percentage of every thief and cutpurse's take made its way up to him.

“The payment of my guild dues is no concern of yours, Jasin,” Arrick said, quickly dumping the coins in the bag of marvels.

“Your apprentice may have talked your way out of missing that performance yesterday, Soursong, but his fiddle can’t succor you forever.” As he spoke, Abrum snatched Rojer’s fiddle from his hands and broke it over his knee. “Sooner or later, the guild will have your license.”

“The guild would never give up Arrick Sweetsong,” Arrick said, “but even if they did, Jasin would still be known as ‘Secondsong.’”

Jasin scowled, for many in the guild already used that name, and the master was known to fly into rages at its utterance. He and Sali advanced on Arrick, who held the bag protectively. Abrum backed Rojer against a wall, keeping him from going to his master’s aid.

But this wasn’t the first time they had needed to fight to defend their take. Rojer dropped straight down on his back, coiling like a spring and kicking straight up. Abrum screamed, his normally deep voice taking on a different pitch.

“I thought your apprentice was a bass, not a soprano,” Arrick said. When Jasin and Sali spared a glance to their companion, his quick hands darted into the bag of marvels, sending a fistful of wingseeds spinning in the air before them.

Jasin lunged through the cloud, but Arrick sidestepped and tripped him easily, bringing the bag around in a hard swing at Sali, hitting the bulky woman full in the chest. She might have kept her feet, but Rojer was in position, kneeling behind her. She fell hard, and before the three could recover, Arrick and Rojer ran off down the boardwalk.

CHAPTER 16 ATTACHMENTS 323-325 AR

The roof of the duke’s library in Miln was a magical place for Arlen. On a clear day, the world spread out below him, a world unrestrained by walls and wards, stretching on into infinity. It was also the place where Arlen first looked at Mery, and truly saw her.

His work in the library was nearly complete, and he would soon be returning to Cob’s shop. He watched the sun play over the snowcapped mountains and fall on the valley below, trying to memorize the sight forever, and when he turned to Mery, he wanted to do the same for her. She was fifteen, and more beautiful by far than mountains and snow.

Mery had been his closest friend for over a year, but Arlen had never thought more of her than that. Now, seeing her limned in sunlight, cold mountain wind blowing the long brown hair from her face as she hugged her arms against the swell of her bosom to ward off the chill, she was suddenly a young woman, and he a young man. His pulse quickened at the way her skirts flared in the breeze, edges of lace hinting of petticoats beneath.

He said nothing as he stepped forward, but she caught the look in his eyes, and smiled. “It’s about time,” she said.

He reached out, tentatively, and traced the back of his hand down her cheek. She leaned in to the touch, and he tasted her sweet breath, kissing her. It was soft at first, hesitant, but it deepened as she responded, becoming something with a life of its own, something hungry and passionate, something that had been building inside him for over a year without his knowing.

Some time later, their lips parted with a soft pop, and they smiled nervously. Arms around one another, they looked out over Miln, sharing in the glow of young love.

“You’re always staring out into the valley,” Mery said. She ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed his temple. “Tell me what you dream about, when your eyes have that faraway look.”

Arlen was quiet for some time. “I dream of freeing the world from the corelings,” he said.

Her thoughts having gone another way, Mery laughed at the unexpected response. She did not mean to be cruel, but the sound cut at him like a lash. “You think yourself the Deliverer, then?” she asked. “How will you do this?”

Arlen drew away from her a little, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ll start by messaging. I’ve already saved enough money for armor and a horse.”

Mery shook her head. “That will never do, if we’re to marry,” she said.

“We’re to marry?” Arlen asked in surprise, amazed at the tightness in his throat.

“What, am I not good enough?” Mery asked, pulling away and looking indignant.

“No! I never said …” Arlen stuttered.

“Well, then,” she said. “Messaging may bring money and honor, but it’s too dangerous, especially once we have children.”

“We’re having children now?” Arlen squeaked.

Mery looked at him as if he were an idiot. “No, it will never do,” she went on, ignoring him as she thought things through. “You’ll need to be a Warder, like Cob. You’ll still get to fight demons, but you’ll be safe with me instead of riding down some coreling-infested road.”

“I don’t want to be a Warder,” Arlen said. “It was never more than a means to an end.”

“What end?” Mery asked. “Lying dead on the road?”

“No,” Arlen said. “That won’t happen to me.”

“What will you gain as a Messenger that you can’t as a Warder?”

“Escape,” Arlen said without thinking.

Mery fell silent. She turned her head to avoid his eyes, and after a few moments, slipped her arm from his. She sat quietly, and Arlen found sadness only made her more beautiful still.

“Escape from what?” she asked at last. “From me?”

Arlen looked at her, drawn in ways he was only just beginning to understand, and his throat caught. Would it be so bad to stay? What were the chances of finding another like Mery?

But was that enough? He’d never wanted family. They were attachments he did not need. If he had wanted marriage and children, he might as well have stayed in Tibbet’s Brook with Renna. He’d thought Mery was different …

Arlen called to mind the image that had sustained him for the last three years, seeing himself riding down the road, free to roam. As always, the thought swelled him, until he turned to look again at Mery. The fantasy fled, and all he could think about was kissing her again.

“Not you,” he said, taking her hands. “Never you.” Their lips met again, and for a time, his thoughts touched on nothing else.

“I have an assignment to Harden’s Grove,” Ragen said, referring to a small farming hamlet a full day’s ride from Fort Miln. “Would you care to join me, Arlen?”

“Ragen, no!” Elissa cried.

Arlen glared, but Ragen grabbed his arm before he could speak. “Arlen, may I have a moment alone with my wife?” he asked gently. Arlen wiped his mouth and excused himself.

Ragen closed the door after him, but Arlen refused to let his fate be decided out of his hands, and circled around through the kitchen, listening at the servants’ entrance. The cook looked at him, but Arlen looked right back, and the man kept to his own business.

“He’s too young!” Elissa was saying.

“Lissa, he’ll always be too young for you,” Ragen said. “Arlen is sixteen, and he’s old enough to make a simple day trip.”

“You’re encouraging him!”

“You know full well Arlen needs no encouragement from me,” Ragen said.

“Enabling him, then,” Elissa snapped. “He’s safer here!”

“He’ll be safe enough with me,” Ragen said. “Isn’t it better that he makes his first few trips with someone to supervise him?”

“I’d rather he not make his first few trips at all,” Elissa said acidly. “If you cared about him, you’d feel the same.”

“Night, Lissa, it’s not like we’ll even see a demon. We’ll reach the Grove before sunset and leave after sunrise. Regular folk make the trip all the time.”

“I don’t care,” Elissa said. “I don’t want him going.”

“It’s not your choice,” Ragen reminded.

“I forbid it!” Elissa shouted.

“You can’t!” Ragen shouted back. Arlen had never heard him raise his voice to her.

“Just you watch me,” Elissa snarled. “I’ll drug your horses! I’ll chop every spear in two! I’ll throw your armor in the well to rust!”

“Take away every tool you want,” Ragen said through gritted teeth, “and Arlen and I will still leave for Harden’s Grove tomorrow, on foot, if need be.”

“I’ll leave you,” Elissa said quietly.

“What?”

“You heard me,” she said. “Take Arlen out of here, and I’ll be gone before you get back.”

“You can’t be serious,” Ragen said.

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Elissa said. “Take him and I go.”

Ragen was quiet a long time. “Look, Lissa,” he said finally. “I know how upset you’ve been that you haven’t gotten pregnant …”

“Don’t you dare bring that into this!” Elissa growled.

“Arlen is not your son!” Ragen shouted. “No amount of smothering will ever make it so! He is our guest, not our child!”

“Of course he’s not our child!” Elissa shouted. “How could he be when you’re out delivering ripping letters whenever I cycle?”

“You knew what I was when you married me,” Ragen reminded her.

“I know,” Elissa replied, “and I’m realizing that I should have listened to my mother.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ragen demanded.

“It means I can’t do this anymore,” Elissa said, starting to cry. “The constant waiting, wondering if you’ll ever come home; the scars you claim are nothing. The praying that the scant few times we make love will conceive before I’m too old. And now, this!

“I knew what you were when we married,” she sobbed, “and I thought I had learned to handle it. But this … Ragen, I just can’t bear the thought of losing you both. I can’t!”

A hand rested on Arlen’s shoulder, giving him a start. Margrit stood there, a stern look on her face. “You shouldn’t be listening to this,” she said, and Arlen felt ashamed for his spying. He was about to leave when he caught the Messenger’s words.

“All right,” Ragen said. “I’ll tell Arlen he can’t come, and stop encouraging him.”

“Really?” Elissa sniffled.

“I promise,” Ragen said. “And when I get back from Harden’s Grove,” he added, “I’ll take a few months off and keep you so fertilized that something can’t help but grow.”

“Oh, Ragen!” Elissa laughed, and Arlen heard her fall into his arms.

“You’re right,” Arlen told Margrit. “I had no right to listen to that.” He swallowed the angry lump in his throat. “But they had no right to discuss it in the first place.”

He went up to his room and began packing his things. Better to sleep on a hard pallet in Cob’s shop than in a soft bed that came at the cost of his right to make his own decisions.

For months, Arlen avoided Ragen and Elissa. They stopped by Cob’s shop often to see him, but he was not to be found. They sent servants to make overtures, but the results were the same.

Without use of Ragen’s stable, Arlen bought his own horse and practiced riding in the fields outside the city. Mery and Jaik often accompanied him, the three of them growing closer. Mery frowned upon the practice, but they were all still young, and the simple joy of galloping a horse about the fields drove other feelings away.

Arlen worked with increasing autonomy in Cob’s shop, taking calls and new customers unsupervised. His name became known in warding circles, and Cob’s profits grew. He hired servants and took on more apprentices, leaving the bulk of their training to Arlen.

Most evenings, Arlen and Mery walked together, taking in the colors of the sky. Their kisses grew hungrier, both wanting more, but Mery always pulled away before it went too far.

“You’ll be done with your apprenticeship in another year,” she kept saying. “We can marry the next day, if you wish, and you can ravish me every night from then on.”

One morning when Cob was away from the shop, Elissa paid a visit. Arlen, busy talking to a customer, didn’t notice her until it was too late.

“Hello, Arlen,” she said when the customer left.

“Hello, Lady Elissa,” he replied.

“There’s no need to be so formal,” Elissa said.

“I think informality confused the nature of our relationship,” Arlen replied. “I don’t want to repeat the error.”

“I’ve apologized again and again, Arlen,” Elissa said. “What will it take for you to forgive me?”

“Mean it,” Arlen answered. The two apprentices at the workbench looked at one another, then got up in unison and left the room.

Elissa took no notice of them. “I do,” she said.

“You don’t,” Arlen replied, gathering some books from the counter and moving to put them away. “You’re sorry that I overheard, and took offense. You’re sorry that I left. The only thing you’re not sorry about is what you did, making Ragen refuse to take me.”

“It’s a dangerous trip,” Elissa said carefully.

Arlen slammed down the books, and met Elissa’s eyes for the first time. “I’ve made the trip a dozen times in the last six months,” he said.

“Arlen!” Elissa gasped.

“I’ve been to the Duke’s Mines, as well,” Arlen went on. “And the South Quarries. Everywhere within a day of the city. I’ve made my circles, and the Messengers’ Guild’s been courting me ever since I gave them my application, taking me wherever I want to go. You’ve accomplished nothing. I won’t be caged, Elissa. Not by you, not by anyone.”

“I never wanted to cage you, Arlen, only to protect you,” Elissa said softly.

“That was never your place,” Arlen said, turning back to his work.

“Perhaps not,” Elissa sighed, “but I only did it because I care. Because I love you.”

Arlen paused, refusing to look at her.

“Would it be so bad, Arlen?” Elissa asked. “Cob isn’t young, and he loves you like a son. Would it be such a curse to take over his shop and marry that pretty girl I’ve seen you with?”

Arlen shook his head. “I’m not going to be a Warder, not ever.”

“What about when you retire, like Cob?”

“I’ll be dead before then,” Arlen said.

“Arlen! What a terrible thing to say!”

“Why?” Arlen asked. “It’s the truth. No Messenger keeps working and manages to die of old age.”

“But if you know it’s going to kill you, then why do it?” Elissa demanded.

“Because I’d rather live a few years knowing I’m free than spend decades in a prison.”

“Miln is hardly a prison, Arlen,” Elissa said.

“It is,” he insisted. “We convince ourselves that it’s the whole world, but it isn’t. We tell ourselves that there’s nothing out there we don’t have here, but there is. Why do you think Ragen keeps messaging? He has all the money he could ever spend.”

“Ragen is in service to the duke. He has a duty to do the job, because no one else can.”

Arlen snorted. “There are other Messengers, Elissa, and Ragen looks at the duke like he was a bug. He doesn’t do it out of loyalty, or honor. He does it because he knows the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That there’s more out there than there is in here,” Arlen said.

“I’m pregnant, Arlen,” Elissa said. “Do you think Ragen will find that somewhere else?”

Arlen paused. “Congratulations,” he said at last. “I know how much you wanted it.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“I suppose you’ll expect Ragen to retire, then. A father can’t risk himself, can he?”

“There are other ways to fight demons, Arlen. Every birth is a victory against them.”

“You sound just like my father,” Arlen said.

Elissa’s eyes widened. As long as she had known Arlen, he’d never spoken of his parents.

“He sounds like a wise man,” she said softly.

She’d said the wrong thing. Elissa knew it immediately. Arlen’s face hardened into something she had never seen before; something frightening.

“He wasn’t wise!” Arlen shouted, throwing a cup of brushes to the floor. It shattered, sending inky droplets everywhere. “He was a coward! He let my mother die! He let her die …” His face screwed up into an anguished grimace, and he stumbled, clenching his fists. Elissa rushed to him, not knowing what to do or say, only knowing that she wanted to hold him.

“He let her die because he was scared of the night,” Arlen whispered. He tried to resist as her arms encircled him, but she held on tightly as he wept.

She held him a long time, stroking his hair. Finally, she whispered, “Come home, Arlen.”

Arlen spent the last year of his apprenticeship living with Ragen and Elissa, but the nature of their relationship had changed. He was his own man now, and not even Elissa tried to fight it any longer. To her surprise, her surrender only brought them closer. Arlen doted on her as her belly grew, he and Ragen scheduling their excursions so that she was never alone.

Arlen also spent a great deal of time with Elissa’s Herb Gatherer midwife. Ragen said a Messenger needed to know something of a Gatherer’s art, so Arlen sought plants and roots that grew beyond the city walls for the woman, and she taught him something of her craft.

Ragen stayed close to Miln in those months, and when his daughter, Marya, was born, he hung up his spear for good. He and Cob spent that entire night drinking and toasting.

Arlen sat with them, but he stared at his glass, lost in thought.

“We should make plans,” Mery said one evening, as she and Arlen walked to her father’s house.

“Plans?” Arlen asked.

“For the wedding, goose,” Mery laughed. “My father would never let me marry an apprentice, but he’ll speak of nothing else once you’re a Warder.”

“Messenger,” Arlen corrected.

Mery looked at him for a long time. “It’s time to put your trips aside, Arlen,” she said. “You’ll be a father soon.”

“What has that got to do with it?” Arlen asked. “Lots of Messengers are fathers.”

“I won’t marry a Messenger,” Mery said flatly. “You know that. You’ve always known.”

“Just as you’ve always known that’s what I am,” Arlen replied. “Yet here you are.”

“I thought you could change,” Mery said. “I thought you could escape this delusion that you’re somehow trapped, that you need to risk your life to be free. I thought you loved me!”

“I do,” Arlen said.

“But not enough to give this up,” she said. Arlen was quiet.

“How can you love me and still do this?” Mery demanded.

“Ragen loves Elissa,” Arlen said.

“It’s possible to do both.”

“Elissa hates what Ragen does,” Mery countered. “You said so yourself.”

“And yet they’ve been married fifteen years,” Arlen said.

“Is that what you condemn me to?” Mery asked. “Sleepless nights alone, not knowing if you’ll ever come back? Wondering if you’re dead, or if you’ve met some minx in another city?”

“That won’t happen,” Arlen said.

“You’re corespawned right it won’t,” Mery said, as tears began to flow down her cheeks. “I won’t let it. We’re done.”

“Mery, please,” Arlen said, reaching out to her, but she drew back, evading his grasp.

“We have nothing more to say.” She whirled and ran off toward her father’s house.

Arlen stood there a long time, staring after her. The shadows grew long, and the sun dipped below the horizon, but still he stood, even at Last Bell. He shuffled his boots on the cobbled street, wishing the corelings could rise through the worked stone and consume him.

“Arlen! Creator, what are you doing here?” Elissa cried, rushing to him as he entered the manse. “When the sun went down, we thought you were staying at Cob’s!”

“I just needed some time to think,” Arlen mumbled.

“Outside in the dark?”

Arlen shrugged. “The city is warded. There were no corelings about.”

Elissa opened her mouth to speak, but she caught the look in Arlen’s eyes, and the reprimand died on her lips. “Arlen, what’s happened?” she asked softly.

“I told Mery what I told you,” Arlen said, laughing numbly. “She didn’t take it as well.”

“I don’t recall taking it very well myself,” Elissa said.

“There you’ll find my meaning,” Arlen agreed, heading up the stairs. He went to his room and threw open the window, breathing the cold night air and looking out into the darkness.

In the morning, he went to see Guildmaster Malcum.

Marya cried before dawn the next morning, but the sound brought relief rather than irritation. Elissa had heard stories of children dying in the night, and the thought filled her with such terror that the child had to be pried from her arms at bedtime and her dreams were filled with knotting anxiety.

Elissa swung her feet out of bed and into her slippers as she freed a breast for nursing. Marya pinched the nipple hard, but even the pain was welcome, a sign of strength in her beloved child. “That’s it, light,” she cooed, “drink and grow strong.”

She paced as the child nursed, already dreading being parted from her. Ragen snored contentedly in the bed. After only a few weeks’ retirement, he was sleeping better, his nightmares less frequent, and she and Marya kept his days filled, that the road might not tempt him.

When Marya finally let go, she burped contently and dozed off. Elissa kissed her and put her back into her nest, going to the door. Margrit was waiting there, as always.

“G’morning, Mother Elissa,” the woman said. The title, and the genuine affection with which it was said, still filled Elissa with joy. Even though Margrit had been her servant, they had never before been peers in the way that counted most in Miln.

“Heard the darling’s cries,” Margrit said. “She’s a strong one.”

“I need to go out,” Elissa said. “Please prepare a bath and have my blue dress and ermine cloak laid out.” The woman nodded, and Elissa went back to her child’s side. When she was bathed and dressed, Elissa reluctantly handed the baby to Margrit and went out into the city before her husband awoke. Ragen would reprimand her for meddling, but Elissa knew that Arlen was teetering on an edge, and she would not let him fall because she failed to act.

She glanced about, fearing that Arlen might see her as she entered the library. She didn’t find Mery in any of the cells or stacks, but was hardly surprised. Like many of the things personal to him, Arlen did not speak of Mery often, but Elissa listened intently when he did. She knew there was a place that was special to them, and knew the girl would be drawn there.

Elissa found Mery on the library’s roof, weeping.

“Mother Elissa!” Mery gasped, hurriedly wiping her tears. “You startled me!”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Elissa said, going over to her. “If you want me to go, I will, but I thought you might need someone to talk to.”

“Did Arlen send you?” Mery asked.

“No,” Elissa replied. “But I saw how upset he was, and knew it must be as hard for you.”

“He was upset?” Mery sniffed.

“He wandered the streets in the dark for hours,” Elissa said. “I was worried sick.”

Mery shook her head. “Determined to get himself killed,” she murmured.

“I think it’s just the opposite,” Elissa said. “I think he’s trying desperately to feel alive.” Mery looked at her curiously, and she sat down next to the girl.

“For years,” Elissa said, “I could not understand why my husband felt the need to wander far from home, staring down corelings and risking his life over a few parcels and papers. He’d made money enough to keep us in luxury for two lifetimes. Why keep at it?

“People describe Messengers with words like duty, honor, and self-sacrifice. They convince themselves that this is why Messengers do what they do.”

“It’s not?” Mery asked.

“For a time I thought it was,” Elissa said, “but I see things more clearly now. There are times in life when we feel so very alive that when they pass, we feel … diminished. When that happens, we’ll do almost anything to feel so alive again.”

“I’ve never felt diminished,” Mery said.

“Neither had I,” Elissa replied. “Not until I became pregnant. Suddenly, I was responsible for a life within me. Everything I ate, everything I did, affected it. I had waited so long that I was terrified of losing the child, as many women my age do.”

“You’re not so old,” Mery protested. Elissa only smiled.

“I could feel Marya’s life pulsing within me,” Elissa continued, “and mine pulsing in harmony. I’d never felt anything like it. Now, with the baby born, I despair I might never feel it again. I cling to her desperately, but that connection will never be the same.”

“What does this have to do with Arlen?” Mery asked.

“I’m telling you how I think Messengers feel when they travel,” Elissa said. “For Ragen, I think that the risk of losing his life made him appreciate how precious it is, and sparked an instinct in him that would never allow him to die.

“For Arlen, it’s different. The corelings have taken a lot from him, Mery, and he blames himself. I think, deep down, he even hates himself. He blames the corelings for making him feel that way, and only in defying them can he gain peace.”

“Oh, Arlen,” Mery whispered, tears brimming in her eyes once more.

Elissa reached out and touched her cheek. “But he loves you,” she said. “I hear it when he talks about you. I think, sometimes, when he’s busy loving you, he forgets to hate himself.”

“How have you done it, Mother?” Mery asked. “How have you managed to endure all these years, married to a Messenger?”

Elissa sighed. “Because Ragen is kindhearted and strong at the same time, and I know how rare that kind of a man is. Because I never doubted that he loved me, and would come back. But most of all, because the moments I had with him were worth all the ones apart.”

She put her arms around Mery, holding the girl tightly. “Give him something to come home to, Mery, and I think Arlen will learn that his life is worth something, after all.”

“I don’t want him to go at all,” Mery said quietly.

“I know,” Elissa agreed. “Neither do I. But I don’t think I can love him less if he does.”

Mery sighed. “Neither can I,” she said.

Arlen was waiting that morning when Jaik left for the mill. He had his horse with him, a bay courser with a black mane named Dawn Runner, and his armor on.

“What’s this?” Jaik asked. “Off to Harden’s Grove?”

“And beyond,” Arlen said. “I have a commission from the guild to message to Lakton.”

“Lakton!?” Jaik gaped. “It will take you weeks to get there!”

“You could come with me,” Arlen offered.

“What?” Jaik asked.

“As my Jongleur,” Arlen said.

“Arlen, I’m not ready to …” Jaik began.

“Cob says you learn things best by doing them,” Arlen cut him off. “Come with me, and we’ll learn together! Do you want to work in the mill forever?”

Jaik dropped his eyes to the cobbled street. “Milling’s not so bad,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Arlen looked at him a moment, and nodded. “You take care of yourself, Jaik,” he said, mounting Dawn Runner.

“When will you be back?” Jaik asked.

Arlen shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, looking toward the city gates. “Maybe never.”

Elissa and Mery returned to the manse later that morning, to wait for Arlen’s return. “Don’t give in too easily,” Elissa advised as they walked. “You don’t want to give all your power away. Make him fight for you, or he’ll never understand what you’re worth.”

“Do you think he will?” Mery asked.

“Oh,” Elissa smiled, “I know he will.”

“Have you seen Arlen this morning?” Elissa asked Margrit when they arrived.

“Yes, Mother,” the woman replied. “A few hours ago. Spent some time with Marya, then left carrying a bag.”

“A bag?” Elissa asked.

Margrit shrugged. “Prob’ly off to Harden’s Grove, or some such.”

Elissa nodded, not surprised that Arlen had chosen to leave town for a day or two. “He’ll be gone through tomorrow, at least,” she told Mery. “Come and see the baby before you go.”

They headed upstairs. Elissa cooed as she approached Marya’s nest, eager to hold her daughter, but she stopped short when she saw the folded paper tucked partially beneath the baby.

Her hands shaking, Elissa lifted the scrap of parchment and read aloud:

“No!” Mery cried. She turned and fled the room, leaving the house at a run.

“Ragen!” Elissa cried. “Ragen!!”

Her husband came rushing to her side, and he shook his head sadly as he read the note. “Always running from his problems,” he muttered.

“Well?” Elissa demanded.

“Well, what?” Ragen asked.

“Go and find him!” Elissa cried. “Bring him back!”

Ragen fixed his wife with a stern look, and without a word spoken they argued. Elissa knew it was a losing battle from the start, and soon lowered her eyes.

“Too soon,” she whispered. “Why couldn’t he have waited one more day?” Ragen put his arms around her as she started to weep.

“Arlen!” Mery cried as she ran. All pretense of calm had flown from her, all interest in seeming strong, in making Arlen fight. All she wanted now was to find him before he left and tell him that she loved him, and that she would continue loving him no matter what he chose to do.

She reached the city gate in record time, panting from exertion, but it was too late. The guards reported that he had left the city hours earlier.

Mery knew in her heart he was not coming back. If she wanted him, she would have to go after him. She knew how to ride. She could get a horse from Ragen, and ride after him. He would surely succor in Harden’s Grove the first night. If she hurried, she could get there in time.

She sprinted back to the manse, terror at the thought of losing him giving her fresh strength. “He’s gone!” she shouted to Elissa and Ragen. “I need to borrow a horse!”

Ragen shook his head. “It’s past midday. You’ll never make it in time. You’ll get halfway there, and the corelings will tear you to pieces,” he said.

“I don’t care!” Mery cried. “I have to try!” She darted for the stables, but Ragen caught her fast. She cried and beat at him, but he was stone, and nothing she did could loosen his grip.

Suddenly, Mery understood what Arlen had meant when he said Miln was a prison. And she knew what it was like to feel diminished.

It was late before Cob found the simple letter, stuck in the ledger on his countertop. In it, Arlen apologized for leaving early, before his seven years were up. He hoped Cob could understand.

Cob read the letter again and again, memorizing every word, and the meanings between the lines. “Creator, Arlen,” he said. “Of course I understand.” Then he wept.