Marick nodded back, and the old man moved off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Word of his lie had spread throughout the village, and since then the girls had kept their distance, afraid to be alone with him.

Perhaps that was why he still coveted Leesha; perhaps he would have done so regardless. But Gared had not learned the lessons of the past. His ego had grown with his muscles, and now he was the bully everyone had known he would be. The boys that used to tease him now jumped at his every word, and if he was cruel to them, he was a terror to all others, especially any unwise enough to cast their eyes upon Leesha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But if Gared even felt the blows, he showed no sign. They repeated the exchange, this time with Marick punching Gared full

in the nose. Blood spurted, and Gared laughed, spitting it from his mouth.

'That your best?' he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leesha was darting forward by then, as Gared knelt on top of Marick, landing heavy blows.

'Leesha is mine!' he roared, 'and any what says otherwise will...!'

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

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

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

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

Gared groaned, showing no sign he had heard.

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

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

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

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

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

'He was the one that started it!' Marick protested.

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

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

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

Marick smiled weakly as the men helped him away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Idiocy is more like it,' Leesha said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'That's well,' Bruna said.

'So you have a cure for Mistress Jizell's young charge?' Leesha asked.

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

'I'm sure I don't know,' Leesha said.

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

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

Bruna looked at her a long time, then nodded.

'Pack your things and say your goodbyes,' she said. 'You'll bring that advice to Jizell personally.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

14

The Road to Angiers

325AR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leesha smiled. 'Mum still burning the food?' she asked.

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

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

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

'As soon as Marick leaves,' Leesha said. 'Tomorrow.'

Erny shook his head. 'No daughter of mine is spending a week

on the open road alone with a Messenger,' he said. 'I'll hire a

caravan. It will be safer.'

'I'll be careful of the demons, da,' Leesha said.

'It's not just corelings I'm worried about,' Erny said pointedly.

'I can handle Messenger Marick,' Leesha assured him.

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

Leesha shook her head. 'There's a child I'm needed to treat immediately.'

'Then I'll go with you,' Erny said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Of course,' Erny said, turning to embrace her.

'I love you, Da,' she said.

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

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

'Oh?' Leesha asked.

'Messengers are men like any other,' Bruna warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Good morn to you as well, mother,' Leesha said, closing the door.

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

Bruna cackled into her porridge. Leesha interposed herself between the two, just as Bruna was pushing her half-finished bowl away and wiping her sleeve across her mouth to retort.

'Finish your breakfast,' Leesha ordered, pushing the bowl back in front of her.

'I'm going because I want to, mother,' Leesha said. 'And when I return, I'll bring healing the likes of which Cutter's Hollow has not seen since Bruna was young.'

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

'My best...!' Leesha stuttered. 'Mother, I'm barely twenty!'

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

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

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

'I'm not a brood mare, mother,' Leesha said. 'There's more in life for me than that.'

'What more?' Elona pressed. 'What could be more important?'

'I don't know,' Leesha said honestly. 'But I'll know when I find it'

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

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

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

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

Elona's eyes widened, and like when Leesha was wilful as a child, her response was swift. 'I forbid it!' she shouted, her open hand flying at Leesha's face.

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

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

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

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

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

'You seem well recovered,' she said.

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

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

Marick smiled widely.

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

"It you think that wasn't a challenge,' Leesha said, 'then you weren't paying attention.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'We'd best say our goodbyes,' Bruna said. 'Odds are, we'll never have another chance.'

'Bruna, what are you saying?' Leesha asked.

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

'Bruna,' Leesha said, 'I don't have to go...'

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

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

'I will,' Leesha promised. 'And I'll make you proud.'

'You could never do otherwise,' the old woman said.

Leesha sobbed into Bruna's rough shawl. 'I'm scared, Bruna,' she said.

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

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

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

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

Marick took Leesha's bags, slinging them on top of his lean Angierian courser as Leesha turned to Bruna one last time. 'I'm too old for goodbyes that last half the day,' Bruna said. 'Take care of yourself, girl.'

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

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

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

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

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

'There are times,' Leesha said, 'when I even believe it myself

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

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

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

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

'So do I,' Marick laughed, 'I'm not interested in money.'

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

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

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

'We'll see,' Marick said.

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

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

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

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

'It's summer,' she reminded him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I won't tell anyone,' Leesha said.

'See that you don't,' Marick said. 'Because if you do, I'll kill you,' he promised.

'I swear,' Leesha said. 'Gatherer's word.'

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

15

Fiddle Me a Fortune

325AR

 

 

 

 

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

I love you!

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

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

I love you!

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

I love you!

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

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

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

They both had their talismans.

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

'Who? Wazzat?' Arrick demanded, half lifting his head.

'You fell asleep at the table again,' Rojer said.

'Oh, 's you, boy,' Arrick grunted. 'Thought it'uz tha' ripping landlord again.'

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

'The rent,' Arrick grumbled. 'Always the rent.'

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

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

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

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

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

'My throat's dry,' Arrick said. 'I'll need a drink before I sing.'

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

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

'We're out of wine,' Rojer said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'That's not true!' Rojer said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arrick blustered through his moustache, shocked at the boy's audacity.

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

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

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

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

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

'So that's all I am?' Rojer asked. 'A cripple?'

'Of course not,' Arrick said. 'I wouldn't trade you for any apprentice in Angiers. But not everyone will look past your demon scars to see the man within. They will label you with some mocking name, and you'll find them laughing at you and not with.'

'I don't care,' Rojer said. 'The gloves make me feel like a fraud, and my hand is bad enough without the fake fingers making it clumsier. What does it matter why they laugh, if they come and pay klats to do it?'

Arrick looked at him a long time, tapping his cup. 'Let me see the gloves,' he said at last.

They were black, and reached halfway up his forearm. Bright coloured triangles of cloth were sewn to the ends, with bells attached. Rojer tossed them to his master with a frown.

Arrick caught the gloves, looked at them for half a moment, and then tossed them out the window, brushing his hands together as if touching the gloves had left them unclean.

'Grab your boots and let's go,' he said, tossing back the remains of his cup.

'I don't really like the boots either,' Rojer dared.

Arrick smiled at the boy. 'Don't push your luck,' he warned with a wink.

Guild law allowed licensed Jongleurs to perform on any street corner, so long as they did not block traffic or hinder commerce. Some vendors even hired them to attract attention to their booths, or the common rooms of taverns.

Arrick's drinking had alienated most of the latter, so they performed in the street. Arrick was a late sleeper, and the best spots had long since been staked out by other Jongleurs. The space they found wasn't ideal; a corner on a side street far from the main lanes of traffic.

'It'll do,' Arrick grunted. 'Drum up some business, boy, while I setup.'

Rojer nodded and ran off. Whenever he found a likely cluster of people, he cartwheeled by them, or walked by on his hands, the bells sewn into his motley ringing an invitation.

'Jongleur show!' he cried. 'Come see Arrick Sweetsong perform!'

Between his acrobatics and the weight still carried by his master's name, he drew a fair bit of attention. Some even followed him on his rounds, clapping and laughing at his antics.

One man elbowed his wife. 'Look, it's the crippled boy from Small Square!'

'Are you sure?' she asked.

'Just look at his hand!' the man said.

Rojer pretended not to hear, moving on in search of more customers. He soon brought his small following to his master, finding Arrick juggling a butcher knife, a meat cleaver, a hand axe, a small stool, and an arrow in easy rhythm, joking with a growing crowd of his own.

'And here comes my assistant,' Arrick called to the crowd, 'Rojer Halfgrip!'

Rojer was already running forward when the name registered. What was Arrick doing?

It was too late to slow, though, so he put his arms out and flung himself forward, cartwheeling into a triple backflip to stand a few yards from his master. Arrick snatched the butcher knife from the deadly array in the air before him and flicked it Rojer's way.

Fully expecting the move, Rojer went into a spin, catching the blunt and specially weighted knife easily in his good left hand. As he completed the circuit, he uncoiled and threw, sending the blade spinning right at Arrick's head.

Arrick, too, went into a spin, and came out of the circuit with the blade held tightly in his teeth. The crowd cheered, and as the blade went back up into rhythm with the other implements, a wave of klats clicked into the hat.

'Rojer Halfgrip!' Arrick called. 'With only ten years and eight fingers, he's still deadlier with a knife than any grown man!'

The cloud applauded. Rojer held his crippled hand up for all to see, and the crowd ooohed and aahed over it. Already, Arrick's suggestion had most of them believing he made that catch and throw with his crippled hand. They would tell others, and exaggerate in the telling. Rather than risk Rojer being labelled by the crowd, Arrick had labelled him first.

'Rojer Halfgrip,' he murmured, tasting the name on his tongue.

'Hup!' Arrick called, and Rojer turned as his master flung the arrow at him. He slapped his hands together, catching the missile just before it struck his face. He spun again, putting his back to the crowd. With his good hand, he threw the arrow between his legs back towards his master, but when he finished the move and faced the crowd, his crippled right hand was extended. 'Hup!' he called back.

Arrick feigned fear, dropping the blades he was juggling, but the stool fell into his hands just in time for the arrow to stick in its centre. Arrick studied it as if amazed at his own good fortune. He flicked his wrist as he pulled the arrow free, and it became a bouquet of flowers, which he bestowed on the prettiest woman in the crowd. More coins clattered into the hat.

Seeing his master moving on to magic, Rojer ran to the bag of marvels for the implements Arrick would need for his tricks. As he did, there came a cry from the crowd.

'Play your fiddle!' a man called. As he did, there was a general buzz of agreement. Rojer looked up to see the same man who had called so loudly for Sweetsong the day before.

'In the mood for music are we?' Arrick asked the crowd, not missing a beat. He was answered with a cheer, so Arrick went to the bag and took the fiddle, tucking it under his chin and turning back to the audience. But before he could put bow to string, the man cried out.

'Not you, the boy!' he bellowed. 'Let Halfgrip play!'

'Of course,' Arrick said, 'you want the boy to play so I can sing.'

But the crowd didn't seem to hear, chanting 'Halfgrip! Halfgrip!' Arrick looked to Rojer, his face a mask of irritation. Finally he shrugged, handing his apprentice the instrument.

Rojer took the fiddle with shaking hands. 'Never upstage your master' was a rule apprentices learned early. But the crowd was calling for him to play, and again, the bow felt so right in his crippled hand, free of the cursed glove. He closed his eyes, feeling the stillness of the strings under his fingertips, and then brought them to a low hum. The crowd quieted as he played softly for a few moments, stroking the strings like the back of a cat, making it purr.

The fiddle came alive in his hands, then, and he led it out like a partner in a reel, sweeping it into a whirlwind of music. He forgot the crowd. He forgot Arrick. Alone with his music, he explored new harmonies even as he maintained a constant melody, improvising in time to the tempo of clapping that seemed a world removed.

He had no idea how long it went on. He could have stayed in that world forever, but there was a sharp twang, and something stung his hand. He shook his head to clear it and looked up at the wide-eyed and silent crowd.

'String broke,' he said sheepishly. He glanced at his master, who stood in the same shock as the other onlookers. Arrick raised his hands slowly and began to clap.

The crowd followed soon after, and it was thunderous.

'You're going to make us rich with that fiddling, boy,' Arrick said, counting their take. 'Rich!'

'Rich enough to pay the back dues you owe the Guild?' a voice asked.

They turned to see Master Jasin leaning against the wall. His two apprentices, Sali and Abrum, stood close by. Sali sang soprano with a clear voice as beautiful as she was ugly. Arrick sometimes joked that if she wore a horned helmet, audiences would mistake her for a rock demon. Abrum sang bass, his voice a deep thrum that made the planked streets vibrate. He was tall and lean, with gigantic hands and feet. If Sali was a rock demon, he was surely a wood.

Like Arrick, Master Jasin was an alto, his voice rich and pure. He wore expensive clothes of fine blue wool and gold thread,

spurning the motley that most of his profession wore. His long black hair and moustache were oiled and meticulously groomed.

Jasin was a man of average size, but that made him no less dangerous. He had once stabbed a Jongleur in the eye during an argument over a particular corner. The magistrate ruled it self defence, but that wasn't how the talk in the apprentice room of the guildhouse told it.

Jasin's uncle Janson was First Minister of Angiers. In the palace, his voice was second only to the duke's. On the streets, it was an open secret that a percentage of every thief and cutpurse's take made its way up to him.

'The payment of my guild dues is no concern of yours, Jasin,' Arrick said, quickly dumping the coins in the bag of marvels.

'Your apprentice may have talked your way out of missing that performance yesterday, Soursong, but his fiddle can't succour you forever.' As he spoke, Abrum snatched Rojer's fiddle from his hands and broke it over his knee. 'Sooner or later, the Guild will have your license.'

'The Guild would never give up Arrick Sweetsong,' Arrick said, 'but even if they did, Jasin would still be known as 'Secondsong'.'

Jasin scowled, for many in the Guild already used that name, and the master was known to fly into rages at its utterance. He and Sali advanced on Arrick, who held the bag protectively. Abrum backed Rojer against a wall, keeping him from going to his master's aid.

But this wasn't the first time they had needed to fight to defend their take. Rojer dropped straight down on his back, coiling like a spring and kicking straight up. Abrum screamed, his normally deep voice taking on a different pitch.

'I thought your apprentice was a bass, not a soprano,' Arrick said. When Jasin and Sali spared a glance to their companion, his quick hands darted into the bag of marvels, sending a fistful of wingseeds spinning in the air before them.

Jasin lunged through the cloud, but Arrick sidestepped and tripped him easily, bringing the bag around in a hard swing at Sali, hitting the bulky woman full in the chest. She might have kept her feet, but Rojer was in position, kneeling behind her. She fell hard, and before the three could recover, Arrick and Rojer ran off down the boardwalk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

16

Attachments

323-325 AR

The roof of the Duke's Library in Miln was a magical place for Arlen. On a clear day, the world spread out below him, a world unrestrained by walls and wards, stretching on into infinity. It was also the place where Arlen first looked at Mery, and truly saw her.

His work in the library was nearly complete, and he would soon be returning to Cob's shop. He watched the sun play over the snow capped mountains and fall on the valley below, trying to memorize the sight forever, and when he turned to Mery, he wanted to do the same for her. She was fifteen, and more beautiful by far than mountains and snow.

Mery had been his closest friend for over a year, but Arlen had never thought more of her than that. Now, seeing her limned in golden sunlight, cold mountain wind blowing the long brown hair from her face as she hugged her arms against the swell of her bosom to ward off the chill, she was suddenly a young woman, and he a young man. His pulse quickened at the way her skirts flared in the breeze, edges of lace hinting of petticoats beneath.

He said nothing as he stepped forward, but she caught the look in his eyes, and smiled. 'It's about time,' she said.

He reached out, tentatively, and traced the back of his hand down her cheek. She leaned in to the touch, and he tasted her sweet breath, kissing her. It was soft at first, hesitant, but it deepened as she responded, becoming something with a life of its own, something hungry and passionate, something that had been building inside him for over a year without his knowing.

Some time later, their lips parted with a soft pop, and they smiled nervously. Arms around one another, they looked out over Miln, sharing in the glow of young love.

'What do you want from life, Arlen?' Mery asked. 'What do you dream?'

Arlen was quiet for some time. 'I dream of freeing the world from the corelings,' he said.

Her thoughts having gone another way, Mery laughed at the unexpected response. She did not mean to be cruel, but the sound cut at him like a lash. 'You think yourself the Deliverer, then?' she asked. 'How will you do this?'

Arlen drew away from her a little, feeling suddenly vulnerable, i don't know,' he admitted. 'I'll start by Messaging. I've already saved enough money for armour and a horse.'

Mery shook her head. 'That will never do, if we're to marry,' she said.

'We're to marry?' Arlen asked in surprise, amazed at the tightness in his throat.

'What, am I not good enough?' Mery asked, pulling away and looking indignant.

'No! I never said...' Arlen stuttered.

'Well, then,' she said. 'Messaging may bring money and honour, but it's too dangerous, especially once we have children.'

'We're having children now?' Arlen squeaked.

Mery looked at him as if he were an idiot. She went on, ignoring him as she thought things through. 'No, it will never do.

You'll need to be a Warder, like Cob. You'll still get to fight demons, but you'll be safe with me instead of riding down some coreling-infested road.'

'I don't want to be a Warder,' Arlen said. 'It was never more than a means to an end.'

'What end?' Mery asked. 'Lying dead on the road?'

'No,' Arlen said. 'That won't happen to me.'

'What will you gain as a Messenger that you can't as a Warder?'

'Escape,' Arlen said without thinking.

Mery fell silent. She turned her head to avoid his eyes, and after a few moments, slipped her arm from his. She sat quietly, and Arlen found sadness only made her more beautiful still.

'Escape from what?' she asked at last. 'From me?'

Arlen looked at her, drawn in ways he was only just beginning to understand, and his throat caught. Would it be so bad to stay? What were the chances of finding another like Mery?

But was that enough? He'd never wanted family. They were attachments he did not need. Arlen called to mind the image that had sustained him for the last three years, seeing himself riding down the road, free to roam. As always, the thought swelled him, until he turned to look again at Mery. The fantasy fled, and all he could think about was kissing her again.

'Not you,' he said, taking her hands. 'Never you.' Their lips met again, and for a time, his thoughts touched on nothing else.

'I have assignment to Harden's Grove,' Ragen said, referring to a small farming hamlet a full day's ride from Fort Miln. 'Would you care to join me, Arlen?' 'Ragen, no!' Elissa cried.

Arlen glared, but Ragen grabbed his arm before he could speak. 'Arlen, may I have a moment alone with my wife?' he asked gently. Arlen wiped his mouth and excused himself.

Ragen closed the door after him, but Arlen refused to let his fate be decided out of his hands, and circled around through the kitchen, listening at the servant's entrance. The cook looked at him, but Arlen looked right back, and the man kept to his own business.

'He's too young!' Elissa was saying.

'Lissa, he'll always be too young for you,' Ragen said. 'Arlen is sixteen, and he's old enough to make a simple day trip.'

'You're encouraging him!'

'You know foil well Arlen needs no encouragement from me,' Ragen said.

'Enabling him, then,' Elissa snapped. 'He's safer here!'

'He'll be safe enough with me,' Ragen said. 'Isn't it better that he makes his first few trips with someone to supervise him?'

'I'd rather he not make his first few trips at all,' Elissa said acidly. 'If you cared about him, you'd feel the same.'

'Night, Lissa, it's not like we'll even see a demon. We'll reach the grove before sunset and leave after sunrise. Regular folk make the trip all the time.'

'I don't care,' Elissa said. 'I don't want him going.'

'It's not your choice,' Ragen reminded.

'I forbid it!' Elissa shouted.

'You can't!' Ragen shouted back. Arlen had never heard him raise his voice to her.

'Just you watch me,' Elissa snarled. 'I'll drug your horses! I'll chop every spear in two! I'll throw your armour in the well to rust!'

'Take away every tool you want,' Ragen said through gritted teeth, 'and Arlen and I will still leave for Harden's Grove tomorrow, on foot, if need be.'

'I'll leave you,' Elissa said quietly.

'What?'

'You heard me,' she said. 'Take Arlen out of here, and I'll be gone before you get back.'

'You can't be serious,' Ragen said.

'I've never been more serious in my life,' Elissa said. 'Take him and I go.'

Ragen was quiet a long time. 'Look, Lissa,' he said finally. 'I know how upset you've been that you haven't gotten pregnant...'

'Don't you dare bring that into this!' Elissa growled.

'Arlen is not your son!' Ragen shouted. 'No amount of smothering will ever make it so! He is our guest, not our child!'

'Of course he's not our child!' Elissa shouted. 'How could he be when you're out delivering ripping letters whenever I cycle?'

'You knew what I was when you married me,' Ragen reminded her.

'I know,' Elissa replied, 'and I'm realizing that I should have listened to my mother.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' Ragen demanded.

'It means I can't do this anymore,' Elissa said, starting to cry. 'The constant waiting, wondering if you'll ever come home; the scars you claim are nothing. The praying that the scant few times we make love will conceive before I'm too old. And now, this!

'I knew what you were when we married,' she sobbed, 'and I thought I had learned to handle it. But this... Ragen, I just can't bear the thought of losing you both. I can't!'

A hand rested on Arlen's shoulder, giving him a start. Margrit stood there, a stern look on her face. 'You shouldn't be listening to this,' she said, and Arlen felt ashamed for his spying. He was about to leave when he caught the Messenger's words.

'All right,' Ragen said. 'I'll tell Arlen he can't come, and stop encouraging him.'

'Really?' Elissa sniffled.

'I promise,' Ragen said. 'And when I get back from Harden's Grove,' he added, 'I'll take a few months off and keep you so fertilized that something can't help but grow.'

'Oh, Ragen!' Elissa laughed, and Arlen heard her fall into his arms.

'You're right,' Arlen told Margrit. 'I had no right to listen to that.' He swallowed the angry lump in his throat. 'But they had no right to discuss it in the first place.'

He went up to his room and began packing his things. Better to sleep on a hard pallet in Cob's shop than in a soft bed that came at the cost of his right to make his own decisions.

For months, Arlen avoided Ragen and Elissa. They stopped by Cob's shop often to see him, but he was not to be found. They sent servants to make overtures, but the results were the same.

Without use of Ragen's stable, Arlen bought his own horse and practiced riding in the fields outside the city. Mery and Jaik often accompanied him, the three of them growing closer. Mery frowned upon the practice, but they were all still young, and the simple joy of galloping a horse about the fields drove other feelings away.

Arlen worked with increasing autonomy in Cob's shop, taking calls and new customers unsupervised. His name became known in warding circles, and Cob's profits grew. He hired servants and took on more apprentices, leaving the bulk of their training to Arlen.

Most evenings, Arlen and Mery walked together, taking in the colours of the sky. Their kisses grew hungrier, both wanting more, but Mery always pulled away before it went too far.

'You'll be done with your apprenticeship in another year,' she kept saying. 'We can marry the next day, if you wish, and you can ravish me every night from then on.'

One morning when Cob was away from the shop, Elissa paid a visit. Arlen, busy talking to a customer, didn't notice her until it was too late.

'Hello, Arlen,' she said when the customer left.

'Hello, Lady Elissa,' he replied.

'There's no need to be so formal,' Elissa said.

'I think informality confused the nature of our relationship,' Arlen replied. 'I don't want to repeat the error.'

'I've apologized again and again, Arlen,' Elissa said. 'What will it take for you to forgive me?'

'Mean it,' Arlen answered. The two apprentices at the workbench looked at one another, then got up in unison and left the room.

Elissa took no notice of them. 'I do,' she said.

'You don't,' Arlen replied, gathering some books from the counter and moving to put them away. 'You're sorry that I overheard, and took offence. You're sorry that I left. The only thing you're NOT sorry about is what you did, making Ragen refuse to take me.'

'It's a dangerous trip,' Elissa said carefully.

Arlen slammed down the books, and met Elissa's eyes for the first time. 'I've made the trip a dozen times in the last six months,' he said.

'Arlen!' Elissa gasped.

'I've been to the Duke's Mines, as well,' Arlen went on. 'And the South Quarries; everywhere within a day of the city. I've made my circles, and the Messenger Guild's been courting me ever since I gave them my application, taking me wherever I want to go. You've accomplished nothing. I won't be caged, Elissa. Not by you, not by anyone.'

'I never wanted to cage you, Arlen, only to protect you,' Elissa said softly.

'That was never your place,' Arlen said, turning back to his work.

'Perhaps not,' Elissa sighed, 'but I only did it because I care. Because I love you.'

Arlen paused, refusing to look at her.

'Would it be so bad, Arlen?' Elissa asked. 'Cob isn't young, and he loves you like a son. Would it be such a curse to take over his shop and marry that pretty girl I've seen you with?'

Arlen shook his head. 'I'm not going to be a Warder, not ever.'

'What about when you retire, like Cob?'

'I'll be dead before then,' Arlen said.

'Arlen! What a terrible thing to say!'

'Why? It's the truth. No Messenger keeps working and manages to die of old age.'

'But if you know it's going to kill you, then why do it?' Elissa demanded.

'Because I'd rather live a few years knowing I'm free than spend decades in a prison.'

'Miln is hardly a prison, Arlen,' Elissa said.

'It is,' he insisted. 'We convince ourselves that it's the whole world, but it isn't. We tell ourselves that there's nothing out there we don't have here, but there is. Why do you think Ragen keeps Messaging? He has all the money he could ever spend.'

'Ragen is in service to the duke. He has a duty to do the job, because no one else can.'

Arlen snorted. 'There are other Messengers, Elissa, and Ragen looks at the duke like he was a bug. He doesn't do it out of loyalty, or honour. He does it because he knows the truth.'

'What truth?'

'That there's more out there than there is in here,' Arlen said.

'I'm pregnant, Arlen,' Elissa said. 'Do you think Ragen will find that somewhere else?'

Arlen paused. 'Congratulations,' he said at last. 'I know how much you wanted it.'

'That's all you have to say?'

'I suppose you'll expect Ragen to retire, then. A father can't risk himself, can he?'

'There are other ways to fight demons, Arlen. Every birth is a victory against them.'

'You sound just like my father,' Arlen said.

Elissa's eyes widened. As long as she had known Arlen, he'd never spoken of his parents.

'He sounds like a wise man,' she said softly.

She'd said the wrong thing. Elissa knew it immediately. Arlen's face hardened into something she had never seen before; something frightening.

'He wasn't wise!' Arlen shouted, throwing a cup of brushes to the floor. It shattered, sending inky droplets everywhere. 'He was a coward! He let my mother die! He let her die...' His face screwed up into an anguished grimace, and he stumbled, clenching his fists. Elissa rushed to him, not knowing what to do or say, only knowing that she wanted to hold him.

'He let her die because he was scared of the night,' Arlen whispered. He tried to resist as her arms encircled him, but she held on tightly as he wept.

She held him a long time, stroking his hair. Finally, she whispered, 'Come home, Arlen.'

Arlen spent the last year of his apprenticeship living with Ragen and Elissa, but the nature of their relationship had changed. He was his own man now, and not even Elissa tried to fight it any longer. To her surprise, her surrender only brought them closer. Arlen doted on her as her belly grew, he and Ragen scheduling their excursions so that she was never alone.

Arlen also spent a great deal of time with Elissa's Herb Gatherer midwife. Ragen said a Messenger needed to know something of a Gatherer's art, so Arlen sought plants and roots that grew beyond the city walls for the woman, and she taught him something of her craft.

Ragen stayed close to Miln in those months, and when his daughter, Marya, was born, he hung his up spear for good. He and Cob spent that entire night drinking and toasting.

Arlen sat with them, but he stared at his glass, lost in thought.

'We should make plans,' Mery said one evening, as she and Arlen walked to her father's house.

'Plans?' Arlen asked.

'For the wedding, goose,' Mery laughed. 'My father would never let me marry an apprentice, but he'll speak of nothing else once you're a Warder.'

'Messenger,' Arlen corrected.

Mery looked at him for a long time. 'It's time to put your trips aside, Arlen,' she said. 'You'll be a father soon.'

'What has that got to do with it?' Arlen asked. 'Lots of Messengers are fathers.'

'I won't marry a Messenger,' Mery said flatly. 'You know that. You've always known.'

'Just as you've always known that's what I am,' Arlen replied. 'Yet here you are.'

'I thought you could change,' Mery said. 'I thought you could escape this delusion that you're somehow trapped, that you need to risk your life to be free. I thought you loved me!'

'I do,' Arlen said.

'But not enough to give this up,' she said. Arlen was quiet.

'How can you love me and still do this?' Mery demanded.

'Ragen loves Elissa,' Arlen said. 'It is possible to do both.'

'Elissa hates what Ragen does,' Mery countered. 'You said so yourself.'

'And yet they've been married fifteen years,' Arlen said.

'Is that what you condemn me to?' Mery asked. 'Sleepless nights alone, not knowing if you'll ever come back? Wondering if you're dead, or if you've met some minx in another city?'

'That won't happen.'

'You're damn right it won't,' Mery said, as tears began to flow down her cheeks. 'I won't let it. We're done.'

'Mery, please,' Arlen said, reaching out to her, but she drew back, evading his grasp.

'We have nothing more to say.' She whirled and ran off towards her father's house.

Arlen stood there a long time, staring after her. The shadows grew long, and the sun dipped below the horizon, but still he stood, even at Last Bell. He shuffled his boots on the cobbled street, wishing the corelings could rise through the worked stone and consume him.

'Arlen! Creator, what are you doing here?!' Elissa cried, rushing to him as he entered the manse. 'When the sun went down, we thought you were staying at Cob's!'

'I just needed some time to think,' Arlen mumbled.

'Outside in the dark?!'

Arlen shrugged. 'The city is warded. There were no corelings about.'

Elissa opened her mouth to speak, but she caught the look in Arlen's eyes, and the reprimand died on her lips. 'Arlen, what's happened?' she asked softly.

'I told Mery what I told you,' Arlen said, laughing numbly. 'She didn't take it as well.'

'I don't recall taking it very well myself,' Elissa said.

'There you'll find my meaning,' Arlen agreed, heading up the stairs. He went to his room and threw open the window, breathing the cold night air and looking out into the darkness.

In the morning, he went to see Guildmaster Malcum.

Marya cried before dawn the next morning, but the sound brought relief rather than irritation. Elissa had heard stories of children dying in the night, and the thought filled her with such terror that the child had to be pried from her arms at bedtime, her dreams filled with knotting anxiety.

Elissa swung her feet out of bed and into her slippers as she freed a breast for nursing. Marya pinched the nipple hard, but even the pain was welcome, a sign of strength in her beloved child. 'That's it, light,' she cooed, 'drink and grow strong.'

She paced as the child nursed, already dreading being parted from her. Ragen snored contentedly in the bed. After only a few weeks retirement, he was sleeping better, his nightmares less frequent, and she and Marya kept his days filled, that the road might not tempt him.

When Marya finally let go, she burped contently and dozed off. Elissa kissed her and put her back into her nest, going to the door. Margrit was waiting there, as always.

'G'morning, Mother Elissa,' the woman said. The title, and the genuine affection with which it was said, still filled Elissa with joy. Even though Margrit had been her servant, they had never before been peers in the way that counted most in Miln.

'Heard the darling's cries,' Margrit said. 'She's a strong one.'

'I need to go out,' Elissa said. 'Please prepare a bath and have my blue dress and ermine cloak laid out.' The woman nodded, and Elissa went back to her child's side. When she was bathed and dressed, Elissa reluctantly handed the baby to Margrit and went out into the city before her husband awoke. Ragen would reprimand her for meddling, but Elissa knew that Arlen was teetering on an edge, and she would not let him fall because she failed to act.

She glanced about, fearing that Arlen might see her as she entered the Library. She didn't find Mery in any of the cells or stacks, but was hardly surprised. Like many of the things personal to him, Arlen did not speak of Mery often, but Elissa listened intently when he did. She knew there was a place that was special to them, and knew the girl would be drawn there.

Elissa found Mery on the Library's roof, weeping.

'Mother Elissa!' Mery gasped, hurriedly wiping her tears. 'You startled me!'

'I'm sorry, dear,' Elissa said, going over to her. 'If you want me to go, I will, but I thought you might need someone to talk to.'

'Did Arlen send you?' Mery asked.

'No,' Elissa replied. 'But I saw how upset he was, and knew it must be as hard for you.'

'He was upset?' Mery sniffed.

'He wandered the streets in the dark for hours,' Elissa said. 'I was worried sick.'

Mery shook her head. 'Determined to get himself killed,' she murmured.

'I think it's just the opposite,' Elissa said. 'I think he's trying desperately to feel alive.' Mery looked at her curiously, and she sat down next to the girl.

'For years,' Elissa said, 'I could not understand why my husband felt the need to wander far from home, staring down corelings and risking his life over a few parcels and papers. He'd made money enough to keep us in luxury for two lifetimes. Why keep at it?

'People describe Messengers with words like duty, honour, and self-sacrifice. They convince themselves that this is why Messengers do what they do.'

'It's not?' Mery asked.

'For a time I thought it was,' Elissa said, 'but I see things more clearly now. There are times in life when we feel so very alive (hat when they pass, we feel... diminished. When that happens, we'll do almost anything to feel so alive again.'

i've never felt diminished,' Mery said.

'Neither had I,' Elissa replied. 'Not until I became pregnant. Suddenly, I was responsible for a life within me. Everything I ate, everything I did, affected it. I had waited so long that I was terrified of losing the child, as many women my age do.'

'You're not so old,' Mery protested. Elissa only smiled.

'I could feel Marya's life pulsing within me,' Elissa continued, 'and mine pulsing in harmony. I'd never felt anything like it. Now, with the baby born, I despair I might never feel it again. I cling to her desperately, but that connection will never be the same.'

'What does this have to do with Arlen?' Mery asked.

'I'm telling you how I think Messengers feel when they travel,' Elissa said. 'For Ragen, I think that the risk of losing his life made him appreciate how precious it is, and sparked an instinct in him that would never allow him to die.

'For Arlen, it's different. The corelings have taken a lot from him, Mery, and he blames himself. I think, deep down, he even hates himself. He blames the corelings for making him feel that way, and only in defying them can he gain peace.'

'Oh, Arlen,' Mery whispered, tears brimming in her eyes once more.

Elissa reached out and touched her cheek. 'But he loves you,' she said. 'I hear it when he talks about you. I think, sometimes, when he's busy loving you, he forgets to hate himself

'How have you done it, Mother?' Mery asked. 'How have you managed to endure all these years, married to a Messenger?'

Elissa sighed. 'Because Ragen is kind-hearted and strong at the same time, and I know how rare that kind of a man is. Because I never doubted that he loved me, and would come back. But most of all, because the moments I had with him were worth all the ones apart.'

She put her arms around Mery, holding the girl tightly. 'Give him something to come home to, Mery, and I think Arlen will learn that his life is worth something, after all.'

'I don't want him to go at all,' Mery said quietly.

'I know,' Elissa agreed. 'Neither do I. But I don't think I can love him less if he does.'

Mery sighed. 'Neither can I,' she said.

Arlen was waiting that morning, when Jaik left for the mill. He had his horse with him, a bay courser with a black mane named Dawn Runner, and his armour on.

'What's this?' Jaik asked. 'Off to Harden's Grove?'

'And beyond,' Arlen said. 'I have a commission from the Guild to message to Lakton.'

'Lakton!?' Jaik gaped. 'It will take you weeks to get there!'

'You could come with me,' Arlen offered.

'What?' Jaik asked.

'As my Jongleur,' Arlen said.

'Arlen, I'm not ready to...' Jaik began.

'Cob says you learn things best by doing them,' Arlen cut him off. 'Come with me, and we'll learn together! Do you want to work in the mill forever?'

Jaik dropped his eyes to the cobbled street. 'Milling's not so bad,' he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Arlen looked at him a moment, and nodded. 'You take care of yourself, Jaik,' he said, mounting Dawn Runner.

'When will you be back?' Jaik asked.

Arlen shrugged. 'I don't know,' he said, looking towards the city gates. 'Maybe never.'

Elissa and Mery returned to the manse later that morning, to wait for Arlen's return. 'Don't give in too easily,' Elissa advised as they walked. 'You don't want to give all your power away. Make him fight for you, or he'll never understand what you're worth.'

'Do you think he will?' Mery asked.

'Oh,' Elissa smiled, 'I know he will.'

'Have you seen Arlen this morning?' Elissa asked Margrit when they arrived.

'Yes, Mother,' the woman replied. 'A few hours ago. Spent some time with Marya, then left carrying a bag.'

'A bag?' Elissa asked.

Margrit shrugged. 'Prob'ly off to Harden's Grove, or somesuch.'

Elissa nodded, not surprised that Arlen had chosen to leave town for a day or two. 'He'll be gone through tomorrow, at least,' she told Mery. 'Come and see the baby before you go.'

They headed upstairs. Elissa cooed as she approached Marya's nest, eager to hold her daughter, but she stopped short when she saw the folded paper tucked partially beneath the baby.

Her hands shaking, Elissa lifted the scrap of parchment and read aloud:

 

 

Dear Elissa and Ragen,

I have taken assignment to Lakton from the Messenger's Guild By the time you read this, I will be on the road. I'm sorry I could not be what everyone wanted.

Thank you for everything. I will never forget you.

 -Arlen

'NO!' Mery cried. She turned and fled the room, leaving the house at a run.

'Ragen!' Elissa cried. 'Ragen!!'

Her husband came rushing to her side, and he shook his head sadly as he read the note. 'Always running from his problems,' he muttered.

'Well?' Elissa demanded.

'Well, what?' Ragen asked.

'Go and find him!' Elissa cried. 'Bring him back!'

Ragen fixed his wife with a stern look, and without a word spoken they argued. Elissa knew it was a losing battle from the start, and soon lowered her eyes.

'Too soon,' she whispered. 'Why couldn't he have waited one more day?' Ragen put his arms around her as she started to weep.

'Arlen!' Mery cried as she ran. All pretence of calm had flown from her, all interest in seeming strong, in making Arlen fight. All she wanted now was to find him before he left and tell him that she loved him, and that she would continue loving him no matter what he chose to do.

She reached the city gate in record time, panting from exertion, but it was too late. The guards reported that he had left the city hours earlier.

Mery knew in her heart he was not coming back. If she wanted him, she would have to go after him. She knew how to ride. She could get a horse from Ragen, and ride after him. He would surely succour in Harden's Grove the first night. If she hurried, she could get there in time.

She sprinted back to the manse, terror at the thought of losing him giving her fresh strength. 'He's gone!' she shouted to Elissa and Ragen. 'I need to borrow a horse!'

Ragen shook his head. 'It's past midday. You'll never make it in time. You'll get halfway there, and the corelings will tear you to pieces,' he said.

'I don't care!' Mery cried. 'I have to try!' She darted for the stables, but Ragen caught her fast. She cried and beat at him, but he was stone, and nothing she did could loosen his grip.

Suddenly, Mery understood what Arlen had meant when he said Miln was a prison. And she knew what it was like to feel diminished.

It was late before Cob found the simple letter, stuck in the ledger on his countertop. In it, Arlen apologized for leaving early, before his seven years were up. He hoped Cob could understand. Cob read the letter again and again, memorizing every word, and the meanings between the lines.

'Creator, Arlen,' he said. 'Of course I understand.'

Then he wept.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SECTION III

 

 

 

 

328

 After the Return

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

17

Ruins

328 AR

 

 

 

 

What are you doing, Arlen? he asked himself as his torchlight flickered invitingly on the stone stairs leading down into the dark. The sun was dipping low, and it would take several minutes to get back to his camp, but the stairs called to him in a way he could not explain.

Cob and Ragen had warned him about this. The thought of treasures that might be found in ruins was too much for some Messengers, and they took risks. Stupid risks. Arlen knew he was one of these, but he could never resist exploring the 'lost dots on the map' as Tender Ronnell had put it. The money he made messaging paid for these excursions, sometimes taking him days from the nearest road. But for all his effort, he had found only dregs.

His thoughts flashed back to the pile of books from the old world that crumbled to dust when he tried to pick them up. The rusted blade that gashed his hand and infected so badly he felt his arm was on fire. The wine cellar that caved in and trapped him for three days until he dug himself out without a bottle to show for it. Ruin hunting never paid off, and one day, he knew, it would be the death of him.

Go back, he urged himself. Have a bite. Check your wards. Get some rest.

'The night take you,' Arlen cursed, and headed down the stairs.

But for all his self-loathing, Arlen's heart pounded with excitement. He felt free and alive beyond anything Miln could offer. This was why he became a Messenger.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, and dragged a sleeve across his sweating brow, taking a brief pull from his waterskin. Hot as it was, it was hard to imagine that after sunset, the desert above would drop to near freezing temperatures.

He moved along a gritty corridor of fitted stones, his torchlight dancing along the walls like shadow demons. Are there shadow demons? he wondered. That would be just my luck. He sighed. There was so much he still didn't know.

He had learned much in the last three years, soaking up knowledge of other cultures and their struggles with the corelings like a sponge. In the Angierian forest, he had spent weeks studying wood demons. In Lakton, he learned of boats beyond the small, two-man canoes used in Tibbet's Brook, and paid for his curiosity about water demons with a puckered scar on his arm. He had been lucky, able to plant his feet and haul on the tentacle, dragging the coreling from the water. Unable to abide the air, the nightmarish creature had let go and slipped beneath the surface once more. He spent months there, learning water-wards.

Fort Rizon was much like home, less a city than a cluster of farming communities, each helping one another to ease the inevitable losses to corelings who bypassed the wardposts.

But Fort Krasia, the Desert Spear, was Arlen's favourite. Krasia of the stinging wind, where the days burned and the cold nights brought forth sand demons from the dunes.

Krasia, where they still fought.

The men of Fort Krasia had not allowed themselves to succumb to despair. They waged a nightly battle against the corelings, locking away their wives and children and taking up spear and net. Their weapons, like those Arlen carried, could do little to pierce the tough skin of a coreling, but they stung the demons, and were enough to harass them into warded traps until the desert sun rose to reduce them to ashes. Their determination was an inspiration.

But for all he had learned, Arlen only hungered for more. Every city had taught him something unknown in the others. Somewhere out there had to be the answers he sought.

And so, this latest ruin. Half-buried in sand, almost forgotten save for a crumbling Krasian map Arlen had discovered, the city of Anoch Sun had stood untouched for hundreds of years. Much of the surface was collapsed or worn down by wind and sand, but the lower levels, cut deep into the ground, were intact.

Arlen turned a corner, and his breath caught. Up ahead, in the dim flickering light, he saw pitted symbols cut into the stone pillars to either side of the corridor. Wards.

Holding the torch close, Arlen inspected them. They were old. Ancient. The very air about them was stale with the weight of centuries. He took paper and charcoal from his satchel to make rubbings, then, swallowing hard, continued on, lightly stirring the dust of ages.

He came to a stone door at the end of the hall. It was painted with faded and chipped wards, few of which Arlen recognized. He pulled out his notebook and copied those intact enough to be made out, then moved to inspect the door.

More a slab than a door, Arlen soon realized nothing held it in place save its own weight. Taking up his spear to use as a lever, he wedged the metal tip into the seam between the slab and the wall, and heaved. The point of the spear snapped off.

'Night!' Arlen cursed. This far from Miln, metal was rare and expensive. Refusing to balk, he took a hammer and chisel from his pack and hacked at the wall itself. The sandstone cut easily, and soon he had carved a nook wide enough to work the shaft of  his spear into the room beyond. The spear was thick and sturdy, and this time when Arlen threw his weight against the lever, he felt the great slab shift slightly. Still, the wood would break before it moved.

Using the chisel, Arlen pried up the floor stones at the door's base, digging a deep groove for it to tip into. If he could shift the stone that far, its own inertia would keep it in motion.

Moving back to the spear, he heaved once more. The stone resisted, but Arlen persevered, grinding his teeth with the effort. Finally, with a thunderous impact, the slab toppled to the ground, leaving a narrow gap in the wall, choked with dust.

Arlen moved into what appeared to be a burial chamber. It reeked of age, but already fresher air was flooding the room from the corridor. Holding up his torch, he saw that the walls were brightly painted with tiny, stylized figures, depicting countless battles of humans against demons. Battles that the humans seemed to be winning.

In the centre of the room stood an obsidian coffin, cut roughly in the shape of a man holding a spear. Arlen approached the coffin, noting the wards along its length. He reached out to touch them, and realized his hands were shaking.

He knew there was little time remaining before sunset, but Arlen could not have turned away now if all the demons in the Core rose up against him. Breathing deeply, he moved to the head of the sarcophagus and pushed hard, forcing the lid down so that it would tilt to the floor without breaking. Arlen knew he should have copied the wards before trying this, but taking the time to copy them would have meant coming back in the morning, and he simply could not wait.

The heavy stone moved slowly, and Arlen's face reddened with the strain as he pushed, his muscles knotted and bunched. The wall was close behind him, and he braced a foot against it for leverage. With a scream that echoed down the corridor, he shoved with all his might, and the cover slid off, crashing to the ground.

Arlen paid the lid no mind, staring at the contents of the great coffin. The wrapped body inside was remarkably intact, but it could not hold his attention. All Arlen could see was the object clutched in its bandaged hands: a metal spear.

Sliding the weapon reverently from the corpse's stubborn grasp, Arlen marvelled at its lightness. It was seven feet long from tip to tip, and the shaft was more than an inch in diameter. The point was still sharp enough to draw blood after so many years. The metal was unknown to Arlen, but that fact flew from his thoughts as he noted something else.

The spear was warded. All along its silvery surface the etchings ran, a letel of craftsmanship unknown in modern times. The wards were unlike anything he had ever seen.

As Arlen became aware of the enormity of his find, he realized, too, the danger he was in. The sun was setting above. Nothing he had found here would matter if he died before bringing it back to civilization.

Snatching up his torch, Arlen bolted out of the burial chamber and sprinted down the hall, taking the steps three at a time. He darted through the maze of passages on instinct, praying that his twists and turns were true.

Finally, he saw the exit to the dusty, half-buried streets, but not a sliver of light could be seen through the doorway. As he reached the exit, he saw that the sky was still tinged with colour. The sun had only just set. His camp was in sight, and the corelings were just beginning to rise.

Without pausing to consider his actions, Arlen dropped his torch and charged out of the building, scattering the sand as he zigzagged around the rising sand demons.

Cousins to rock demons, sand demons were smaller and more nimble, but still among the strongest and most armoured of the coreling races. They had small, sharp scales, a dirty yellow almost indistinguishable from the grit, instead of the large charcoal grey plates of their rock demon cousins, and ran on all fours where rock demons stood hunched on two legs.

But their faces were the same; rows of segmented teeth jutting out on their jaws like a snout, while their nostril slits rested far back, just below their large, lidless eyes. Thick bones from their brows curved upward and back, cutting through the scales as sharp horns. Their brows twitched continually as they squeezed down, displacing the ever-blowing sand.

And even more frightening than their larger cousins, sand demons hunted in packs. They would work together to see him cored.

His heart pounding and his discovery forgotten, Arlen moved through the ruins with incredible speed and alacrity, vaulting fallen pillars and crumbled rock while dodging right and left around the solidifying corelings.

Demons needed a moment to get their bearings on the surface, and Arlen took full advantage of that as he sprinted towards his circle. He kicked one demon in the back of the knees, knocking it down just long enough for him to get past. Another he charged directly, only to spin out of the way at the last moment, the coreling's claws slashing through empty air.

He picked up speed as the circle neared, but one demon stood in his way, and there was no way around it. The creature was nearly four feet tall, and its initial confusion was past. It crouched at the ready, directly in his path, hissing hatred.

Arlen was so close - his precious circle a scant few feet away. He could only hope to barrel through the smaller creature and roll into his circle before it could kill him.

He charged right in, instinctively stabbing with his new spear as he bowled the creature over. There was a flash upon impact, and Arlen struck the ground hard, coming up in a spray of sand and continuing on, not daring to look back. He leapt for his circle, and was safe.

Panting with exertion, Arlen looked up at the sand demons surrounding him, outlined in desert twilight. They hissed and clawed at his wards, talons bringing bright flashes of magic.

In the flickering light, Arlen caught sight of the demon he had crashed into. It was slowly dragging itself away from Arlen and its fellows, leaving an inky black trail in the sand.

Arlen's eyes widened. Slowly, he glanced down at the spear he still clutched in his hands.

The tip was coated in demon ichor.