The Warded Man (29 page)

“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:

And man again became prideful and bold
,
Turning ’gainst Creator and Deliverer
.
He chose not to honor Him who gave life
,
Turning his back upon morality
.

Man’s science became his new religion
,
Replacing prayer with machine and chemic
,
Healing those meant to die
,
He thought himself equal to his maker
.

Brother fought brother, to benefit none
.
Evil lacking without, it grew within
,
Taking seed in the hearts and souls of men
,
Blackening what was once pure and white
.

And so the Creator, in His wisdom
,
Called down a plague upon his lost children
,
Opening the Core once again
,
To show man the error of his ways
.

And so it shall be
,
Until the day He sends the Deliverer anew
.
For when the Deliverer cleanses man
,
Corelings will have naught to feed upon
.

And lo, ye shall know the Deliverer
For he shall be marked upon his bare flesh
And the demons will not abide the sight
And they shall flee terrified before him
.

“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.”

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.