The Warded Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your father?” Arlen asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much as he felt around her.

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

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

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

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

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

“Try your juggling,” Mery suggested.

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

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

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

“Much better!” she said.

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

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

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

“You should practice more,” Arlen agreed.

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

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

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

“But not Master Cob?” Jaik asked.

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

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

“I make time,” Arlen said.

“How?” Jaik asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What else can you do?” Cob called.

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

“A lion?” Cob asked.

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

“Wolf?”

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

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

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

“Wolves fear fire,” Arlen said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re all Thesans.”

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

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

“But …” Arlen began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We got off pretty easy,” Arlen said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And man again became prideful and bold,

Turning ’gainst Creator and Deliverer.

He chose not to honor Him who gave life,

Turning his back upon morality.

Man’s science became his new religion,