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 wood, 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 signalled 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 chiselling into a stone post, and shrugged. 'Any greybeard 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, Arlen,' 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 doorjambs,' Arlen disagreed, 'not hoarding secrets that can save lives. Should we deny succour to those too poor to pay?'

'Of course not, Arlen,' 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 aren't 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 and 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 amidst 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 continued to meet his eyes, slowly beginning 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 chiselling.

'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 dark tousled 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 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, Margit 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 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 moulded and hardened into any shape. 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 your mother's ward to make glass as hard as steel, for ones that will make a demon turn around and forget what it was doing.' 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 moustache at his lip that looked more like grime 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, faces coated with grease, 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 Messenger's 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 on top of stone blocks in the town square, watching the apprentices of the Jongleur's 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 red-headed lamp post, the Jongleur was unmistakable. The crowd erupted into a roar.

'It's Keerin!' Jaik said, shaking Arlen's shoulder in excitement. 'He's my favourite!'

'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 in shock.

'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 like 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:

 

The night was dark

The ground was hard

Succour was leagues away

 

The cold wind stark

Cutting at our hearts

Only wards kept corelings at bay

 

'Help me!' we heard

A voice in need

The cry of a frightened child

 

'Run to us!' I called

'Our circle's wide,

The only succour for miles!'

 

The boy cried out

1 can't; I fell!'

His call echoed in the black

 

Catching his shout

I sought to help

But the Messenger held me back

 

'What good to die?'

He asked me, grim

'For death is all you’ll find

 

'No help you’ll  provide

'Gainst coreling claws

Just more meat to grind'

 

I struck him hard

And grabbed his spear

Leaping across the wards

 

A frantic charge

Strength born of fear

Before the boy be cored

 

'Stay brave!' I cried

Running hard his way

'Keep your heart strong and true!

 

'If you can't stride

To where it's safe

I'll bring the wards to you!'

 

I reached him quick

But not enough

Corelings gathered 'round

   The demons thick

 

My work was rough

Scratching wards into the soil

 

A thunderous roar

Boomed in the night

A demon twenty feet tall

 

It towered fore

And 'gainst such might

My spear seemed puny and small

 

Horns like hard spears!

Claws like my arm!

 A carapace hard and black!

An avalanche

 

Promising harm

The beast moved to the attack!

The boy screamed scared

 

And clutched my leg Clawed

as I drew the last ward!

 

The magic flared

Creator's gift

The one force demons abhor!

 

Some will tell  you

Only the sun

 Can bring a rock demon harm

 

That night I learned

It could be done

 As did the demon One Arm!

 

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 towards 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 pummelled. 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.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

11

Breach

321AR

'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 armour, 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 at Elissa's continued mothering, 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 towards 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 dependant 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 towards the key ward flag of the Warder's 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 towards the sanctuary. They were a scant few to tend so many.

Mother Jone, the duke's advisor, and Master Vincin, the head of the Warder's 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 towards a stack of wardposts. '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 centre 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 damn 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 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 demon fire. 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 speartips broke or skittered off the rock demon's armour, 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 back-pedalled 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 signalling. 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 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 wardposts. 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 rai 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 lcose 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 I,' Cob said. 'We are simply Warders.'

They turned a corner, and gasped. An eviscerated corpse painted the cobbles red. Parts of it still smouldered; the acrid stench of burned flesh 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 succour, anyhow. With rapes and beatings over food and clothes common, many prefer to risk the streets.'

'Why doesn't someone do something about it?' Arlen asked.

'Everyone agrees it is 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, 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.'

12

Library

321AR

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 the 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 Nobles had taken notice.

Nobles were an irritation to work with; always making ridiculous demands, and wanting wards put where they didn't belong. Cob doubled, and 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 church 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 Cathedral 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 everywhere 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 grey. 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 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 favour,' Ronnell added.

Cob shrugged. 'I Messengered for his father. That brought me favour 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 Nobles 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 curtsey.

'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. 'You 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 blonde 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 Mery, 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 him to treat the room as his own, and seemed to take a special pleasure at seeing it cluttered with Arlen's 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's face 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 grey-bearded scholars, but around Arlen she seemed shy and unsure of herself.

'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 coloured 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 coloured. '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, 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. They 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 armour. 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 can happen. And animals... with corelings killing the slowest and weakest, 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 towards 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 on top of 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 lake.

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 honour 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 only a 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?'

Mery said, looked up to the sky. 'It's hard sometimes to believe there's a Creator up there, watching,' she said, '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 towards the door. 'I have wards to carve, though I hardly see the point, if we all deserve demons in our beds.'

13

There Must Be More

325AR

 

 

 

 

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 soil 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 compliment. She saw something in Leesha that others hadn't, and the girl did not want to disappoint.

Her basket filled, Leesha rose to her feet, brushed herself down, and headed towards 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, towards 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 rumours 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 that 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. 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, and the women might sing her praises and send her gifts, but 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 was 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 towards 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 towards 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 colour 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.'

'I'll wager their dresses have higher necks, or their men mon subtlety,' Leesha replied.

'High necks,' Marick agreed with a laugh, bowing low. ' 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 comer 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 slyby bowing and sweeping his arm to indicate that Leesha should enter the hut before him. Leesha smiled and went in, but she felt hi 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,' Marie said. 'She begs your aid in a troubling case.' He reached into hi bag and produced a roll of paper, tied with stout string.

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

'Honoured Bruna, Greetings from Fort Angiers in the year 32 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 with a flick of her eyes, flipping it over and scanning 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 colour were his fingernails?' she asked.

'Fingernail colour,' 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 one more, at least, 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 honour 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.

'I don't think we're there, yet,' she said, eying the arm, 'but you may carry my basket.' She hooked it on his outstretched arm and headed towards 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 Grey, the oldest man in Cutter's Hollow. His grey 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 dirty old man, 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.'