THE PAINTED MAN

PETER V. BRETT

Copyright

HarperCollinsVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperVoyager 2008

Copyright Â© Peter V. Brett 2008

Peter V. Brett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Map by Andrew Ashton Â© HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

Internal artwork by Lauren Cannon

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007276134

Ebook Edition Â© December 2008 ISBN: 9780007287758 Version: 2017-10-16

Dedication

To Otzi, the original Painted Man.

Contents

Title Page |
Copyright |
Dedication |
SECTION I |
TibbetÂ´s Brook |
Chapter 1: Aftermath |
Chapter 2: If It Was You |
Chapter 3: A Night Alone |
Chapter 4: Leesha |
Chapter 5: Crowded Home |
Chapter 6: The Secrets of Fire |
Chapter 7: Rojer |
Chapter 8: To the Free Cities |
Chapter 9: Fort Miln |
SECTION II |
Miln |
Chapter 10: Apprentice |
Chapter 11: Breach |
Chapter 12: Library |
Chapter 13: There Must Be More |
Chapter 14: The Road to Angiers |
Chapter 15: Fiddle Me a Fortune |
Chapter 16: Attachments |
SECTION III |
Krasia |
Chapter 17: Ruins |
Chapter 18: Rite of Passage |
Chapter 19: The First Warrior of Krasia |
Chapter 20: AlagaiÂ´sharak |
Chapter 21: Only a Chin |
Chapter 22: Play the Hamlets |
Chapter 23: Rebirth |
Chapter 24: Needles and Ink |
SECTION IV |
CutterÂ´s Hollow |
Chapter 25: A New Venue |
Chapter 26: Hospit |
Chapter 27: Nightfall |
Chapter 28: Secrets |
Chapter 29: In the Pre-dawn Light |
Chapter 30: Plague |
Chapter 31: The Battle of CutterÂ´s Hollow |
Chapter 32: CutterÂ´s No More |
Keep Reading |
Acknowledgements |
About the Author |
About the Publisher |

Map

Section I

TIBBETâS BROOK

319

After the Return

1

Aftermath 319 AR

The great horn sounded.

Arlen paused in his work, looking up at the lavender wash of the dawn sky. Mist still clung to the air, bringing with it a damp, acrid taste that was all too familiar. A quiet dread built in his gut as he waited in the morning stillness, hoping that it had been his imagination. He was eleven years old.

There was a pause, and then the horn blew twice in rapid succession. One long and two short meant south and east. The Cluster by the Woods. His father had friends amongst the Cutters. Behind Arlen, the door to the house opened, and he knew his mother would be there, covering her mouth with both hands.

Arlen returned to his work, not needing to be told to hurry. Some chores could wait a day, but the stock still needed to be fed and the cows milked. He left the animals in the barns and opened the hay stores, slopped the pigs, and ran to fetch a wooden milk bucket. His mother was already squatting beneath the first of the cows. He snatched the spare stool and they found cadence in their work, the sound of milk striking wood drumming a funeral march.

As they moved to the next pair down the line, Arlen saw his father begin hitching their strongest horse, a five-year-old chestnut-coloured mare named Missy, to the cart. His face was grim as he worked.

What would they find this time?

Before long, they were in the cart, trundling towards the small cluster of houses by the woods. It was dangerous there, over an hourâs run to the nearest warded structure, but the lumber was needed. Arlenâs mother, wrapped in her worn shawl, held him tightly as they rode.

âIâm a big boy, Mam,â Arlen complained. âI donât need you to hold me like a baby. Iâm not scared.â It wasnât entirely true, but it would not do for the other children to see him clinging to his mother as they rode in. They made mock of him enough as it was.

âIâm scared,â his mother said. âWhat if itâs me who needs to be held?â

Feeling suddenly proud, Arlen pulled close to his mother again as they travelled down the road. She could never fool him, but she always knew what to say just the same.

A pillar of greasy smoke told them more than they wanted to know long before they reached their destination. They were burning the dead. And starting the fires this early, without waiting for everyone to arrive and pray, meant there were a great many. Too many to pray over each one if the work was to be completed before dusk.

It was more than five miles from Arlenâs fatherâs farm to the Cluster by the Woods. By the time they arrived, the few remaining cabin fires had been put out, though in truth there was little left to burn. Fifteen houses; all reduced to rubble and ash.

âThe wood piles, too,â Arlenâs father said, spitting over the side of the cart. He gestured with his chin towards the blackened ruin that remained of a seasonâs cutting. Arlen grimaced at the thought of how the rickety fence that penned the animals would have to last another year, and immediately felt guilty. It was only wood, after all.

The town Speaker approached their cart as it pulled up. Selia, whom Arlenâs mother sometimes called Selia the Barren, was a hard woman, tall and thin, with skin like tough leather. Her long grey hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore her shawl like a badge of office. She brooked no nonsense, as Arlen had learned more than once at the end of her stick, but today he was comforted by her presence. Like Arlenâs father, something about Selia made him feel safe. Though she had never had children of her own, Selia acted as a parent to everyone in Tibbetâs Brook. Few could match her wisdom, and fewer still her stubbornness. When you were on Seliaâs good side, it felt like the safest place in the world.

âItâs good that youâve come, Jeph,â Selia told Arlenâs father. âSilvy and young Arlen, too,â she said, nodding to them. âWe need every hand we can get. Even the boy can help.â

Arlenâs father grunted, stepping down from the cart. âI brought my tools,â he said. âJust tell me where we can throw in.â

Arlen collected the precious tools from the back of their cart. Metal was scarce in the Brook, and his father was proud of his two shovels, his pick and his saw. They would all see heavy use this day.

âHow many lost?â Jeph asked, though he didnât really seem to want to know.

âTwenty-seven,â Selia said. Silvy choked and covered her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. Jeph spat again.

âAny survivors?â he asked.

âA few,â Selia said. âManie,â she pointed with her stick at a boy who stood staring at the funeral pyre, âran all the way to my house in the dark.â

Silvy gasped. No one had ever run so far and lived. âThe wards on Brine Cutterâs house held for most of the night,â Selia went on. âHe and his family watched everything. A few others fled the corelings and succoured there, until the fires spread and their roof caught. They waited in the burning house until the beams started to crack, and then took their chances outside in the minutes before dawn. The corelings killed Brineâs wife Meena and their son Poul, but the others made it. The burns will heal and the children will be all right in time, but the others â¦â

She didnât need to finish the sentence. Survivors of a demon attack had a way of dying soon after. Not all, or even most, but enough. Some of them took their own lives, and others simply stared blankly, refusing to eat or drink until they wasted away. It was said you did not truly survive an attack until a year and a day had passed.

âThere are still a dozen unaccounted for,â Selia said, but with little hope in her voice.

âWeâll dig them out,â Jeph agreed grimly, looking at the collapsed houses, many still smouldering. The Cutters built their homes mostly out of stone to protect against fire, but even stone would burn if the wards failed and enough flame demons gathered in one place.

Jeph joined the other men and a few of the stronger women in clearing the rubble and carting the dead to the pyre. The bodies had to be burned, of course. No one would want to be buried in the same ground the demons rose out of each night. Tender Harral, the sleeves of his robe rolled up to bare his thick arms, lifted each into the fire himself, muttering prayers and drawing wards in the air as the flames took them.

Silvy joined the other women in gathering the younger children and tending to the wounded under the watchful eye of the Brookâs Herb Gatherer, Coline Trigg. But no herbs could ease the pain of the survivors. Brine Cutter, also called Brine Broadshoulders, was a great bear of a man with a booming laugh who used to throw Arlen into the air when they came to trade for wood. Now Brine sat in the ashes beside his ruined house, slowly knocking his head against the blackened wall. He muttered to himself and clutched his arms tightly, as if cold.

Arlen and the other children were put to work carrying water and sorting through the woodpiles for salvageable lumber. There were still a few warm months left to the year, but there would not be time to cut enough wood to last the winter. They would be burning dung again this year, and the house would reek.

Again Arlen weathered a wave of guilt. He was not in the pyre, nor banging his head in shock, having lost everything. There were worse fates than a house smelling of dung.

More and more villagers arrived as the morning wore on. Bringing their families and whatever provisions they could spare, they came from Fishing Hole and Town Square; they came from the Bogginâs Hill, and Soggy Marsh. Some even came all the way from Southwatch. And one by one, Selia greeted them with the grim news and put them to work.

With more than a hundred hands, the men doubled their efforts, half of them continuing to dig as the others descended upon the only salvageable structure left in the Cluster: Brine Cutterâs house. Selia led Brine away, somehow supporting the giant man as he stumbled, while the men cleared the rubble and began hauling new stones. A few took out warding kits and began to paint fresh wards while children made thatch. The house would be restored by nightfall.

Arlen was partnered with Cobie Fisher in hauling wood. The children had amassed a sizable pile, though it was only a fraction of what had been lost. Cobie was a tall, thickly built boy with dark curls and hairy arms. He was popular amongst the other children, but it was popularity built at othersâ expense. Few children cared to weather his insults, and fewer still his beatings.

Cobie had tortured Arlen for years, and the other children had gone along. Jephâs farm was the northernmost in the Brook, far from where the children tended to gather in Town Square, and Arlen spent most of his free time wandering the Brook by himself. Sacrificing him to Cobieâs wrath seemed a fair trade to most children.

Whenever Arlen went fishing, or passed by Fishing Hole on the way to Town Square, Cobie and his friends seemed to hear about it, and were waiting in the same spot on his way home. Sometimes they just called him names, or pushed him, but other times he came home bloody and bruised, and his mother shouted at him for fighting.

Finally, Arlen had enough. He left a stout stick hidden in that spot, and the next time Cobie and his friends pounced, Arlen pretended to run, only to produce the weapon as if from thin air and come back at them swinging.

Cobie was the first one struck, a hard blow that left him crying in the dirt with blood running from his ear. Willum received a broken finger, and Gart walked with a limp for over a week. It had done nothing to improve Arlenâs popularity amongst the other children, and Arlenâs father had caned him, but the other boys never bothered him again. Even now, Cobie gave him a wide berth and flinched if Arlen made a sudden move, even though he was bigger by far.

âSurvivors!â Bil Baker called suddenly, standing by a collapsed house at the edge of the Cluster. âI can hear them trapped in the root cellar!â

Immediately, everyone dropped what they were doing and rushed over. Clearing the rubble would take too long, so the men began to dig, bending their backs with silent fervour. Soon after, they broke through the side of the cellar, and began hauling out the survivors. They were filthy and terrified, but all were very much alive: three women, six children, and one man.

âUncle Cholie!â Arlen cried, and his mother was there in an instant, cradling her brother, who stumbled drunkenly. Arlen ran to them, ducking under his other arm to steady him.

âCholie, what are you doing here?â Silvy asked. Cholie seldom left his workshop in Town Square. Arlenâs mother had told the tale a thousand times of how she and her brother had run the farrierâs shop together before Jeph began breaking his horsesâ shoes on purpose for a reason to come court.

âCame to court Ana Cutter,â Cholie mumbled. He pulled at his hair, having already torn whole clumps free. âWeâd just opened the bolt-hole when they came through the wards â¦â His knees buckled, pulling Arlen and Silvy down with his weight. Kneeling in the dust, he wept.

Arlen looked at the other survivors. Ana Cutter wasnât among them. His throat tightened as the children passed. He knew every one of them; their families, what their houses were like inside and out, their animalsâ names. They met his eyes for a second as they went by, and in that moment, he lived the attack through their eyes. He saw himself shoved into a cramped hole in the ground while those unable to fit turned to face the corelings and the fire. Suddenly he started gasping, unable to stop until Jeph slapped him on the back and brought him to his senses.

They were finishing a cold midday meal when a horn sounded on the far side of the Brook.

âNot two in one day?â Silvy gasped, covering her mouth.

âBah,â Selia grunted. âAt midday? Use your head, girl!â

âThen what â¦?â

Selia ignored her, rising to fetch a horn blower to signal back. Keven Marsh had his horn ready, as the folks from Soggy Marsh always did. It was easy to get separated in the marshes, and no one wanted to be wandering lost when the swamp demons rose. Kevenâs cheeks inflated like a frogâs chin as he blew a series of notes.

âMessenger horn,â Coran Marsh advised Silvy. A greybeard, he was Speaker for Soggy Marsh and Kevenâs father. Arlen didnât know him, so he was a Marsh or a Watch. They tended to keep to themselves. âThey probâly saw the smoke. Kevenâs telling âem whatâs happened and where everyone is.â

âA Messenger in spring?â Arlen asked. âI thought they come in the fall after harvest. We only finished planting this past moon!â

âMessenger never came last fall,â Coran said, spitting foamy brown juice from the root he was chewing through the gap of his missing teeth. âWe been worried sumpinâ happened. Thought we might not have a Messenger bring salt till next fall. Or maybe that the corelings got the Free Cities and weâs cut off.â

âThe corelings could never get the Free Cities,â Arlen said.

âArlen, shush your mouth!â Silvy hissed. âHeâs your elder!â

âLet the boy speak,â Coran said. âEver bin to a free city, boy?â he asked Arlen.

âNo,â Arlen admitted.

âEver know anyone who had?â

âNo,â Arlen said again.

âSo what makes you such an expert?â Coran asked. âEnt no one been to one âcept the Messengers. Theyâre the only ones what brave the night to go so far. Whoâs to say the Free Cities ent just places like the Brook? If the corelings can get us, they can get them, too.â

âOld Hog is from the Free Cities,â Arlen said. Rusco Hog was the richest man in the Brook. He ran the general store, which was the crux of all commerce in Tibbetâs Brook.

âAy,â Coran said, âanâ old Hog told me years ago that one trip was enough for him. He meant to go back after a few years, but said it wasnât worth the risk. So you ask him if the Free Cities are any safer than anywhere else.â

Arlen didnât want to believe it. There had to be safe places in the world. But again the image of himself being thrown into the cellar flashed across his mind, and he knew that nowhere was truly safe at night.

The Messenger arrived an hour later. He was a tall man in his early thirties, with cropped brown hair and a short, thick beard. Draped about his broad shoulders was a shirt of metal links, and he wore a long dark cloak with thick leather breeches and boots. His mare was a sleek brown courser. Strapped to the horseâs saddle was a harness holding a number of different spears. His face was grim as he approached, but his shoulders were high and proud. He scanned the crowd and spotted the Speaker easily as she stood giving orders. He turned his horse towards her.

Riding a few paces behind on a heavily laden cart pulled by a pair of dark brown mollies was the Jongleur. His clothes were a brightly coloured patchwork, and he had a lute resting on the bench next to him. His hair was a colour Arlen had never seen before, like a pale carrot, and his skin was so fair it seemed the sun had never touched it. His shoulders slumped, and he looked thoroughly exhausted.

There was always a Jongleur with the annual Messenger. To the children, and some of the adults, the Jongleur was the more important of the two. For as long as Arlen could remember, it had been the same man, grey-haired but spry and full of cheer. This new one was younger, and he seemed sullen. Children ran to him immediately, and the young Jongleur perked up, the frustration melting from his face so quickly Arlen began to doubt it was ever there. In an instant, the Jongleur was off the cart and spinning his coloured balls into the air as the children cheered.

Others, Arlen among them, forgot their work, drifting towards the newcomers. Selia whirled on them, having none of it. âThe day is no longer because the Messengerâs come!â she barked. âBack to your work!â

There were grumbles, but everyone went back to work. âNot you, Arlen,â Selia said, âcome here.â Arlen pulled his eyes from the Jongleur and went to her as the Messenger arrived.

âSelia Barren?â the Messenger asked.

âJust Selia will do,â Selia replied primly. The Messengerâs eyes widened, and he blushed, the tops of his pale cheeks turning a deep red above his beard. He leaped down from his horse and bowed low.

âApologies,â he said. âI did not think. Graig, your usual Messenger, told me thatâs what you were called.â

âItâs pleasing to know what Graig thinks of me after all these years,â Selia said, sounding not at all pleased.

âThought,â the Messenger corrected. âHeâs dead, maâam.â

âDead?â Selia asked, looking suddenly sad. âWas it â¦?â

The Messenger shook his head. âIt was a chill took him, not corelings. Iâm Ragen, your Messenger this year, as a favour to his widow. The guild will select a new Messenger for you starting next fall.â

âA year and a half again before the next Messenger?â Selia asked, sounding like she was readying a scolding. âWe barely made it through this past winter without the fall salt,â she said. âI know you take it for granted in Miln, but half our meat and fish spoiled for lack of proper curing. And what of our letters?â

âSorry, maâam,â Ragen said. âYour towns are well off the common roads, and paying a Messenger to commit for a month and more of travel each year is costly. The Messengersâ guild is shorthanded, what with Graig catching that chill.â He chuckled and shook his head, but noticed Seliaâs visage darken in response.

âNo offence meant, maâam,â Ragen said. âHe was my friend as well. Itâs just â¦ itâs not many of us Messengers get to go with a roof above, a bed below, and a young wife at our side. The night usually gets us before that, you see?â

âI do,â Selia said. âDo you have a wife, Ragen?â she asked.

âAy,â the Messenger said, âthough to her pleasure and my pain, I see my mare more than my bride.â He laughed, confusing Arlen, who didnât think having a wife not miss you was funny.

Selia didnât seem to notice. âWhat if you couldnât see her at all?â she asked. âWhat if all you had were letters once a year to connect you to her? How would you feel to hear your letters would be delayed half a year? There are some in this town with kin in the Free Cities. Left with one Messenger or another, some as much as two generations gone. Those people ent going to come home, Ragen. Letters are all we have of them, and they of us.â

âI am in full agreement with you, maâam,â Ragen said, âbut the decision is not mine to make. The Duke â¦â

âBut you will speak to the Duke upon your return, yes?â Selia asked.

âI will,â he said.

âShall I write the message down for you?â Selia asked.

Ragen smiled. âI think I can remember it, maâam.â

âSee that you do.â

Ragen bowed again, still lower. âApologies, for coming to call on such a dark day,â he said, his eyes flicking to the funeral pyre.

âWe cannot tell the rain when to come, nor the wind, nor the cold,â Selia said. âNot the corelings, either. So life must go on despite these things.â

âLife goes on,â Ragen agreed, âbut if thereâs anything I or my Jongleur can do to help; Iâve a strong back and Iâve treated coreling wounds many times.â

âYour Jongleur is helping already,â Selia said, nodding towards the young man as he sang and did his tricks, âdistracting the young ones while their kin do their work. As for you, Iâve much to do over the next few days, if weâre to recover from this loss. I wonât have time to hand the mail and read to those who havenât learned their letters.â

âI can read to those who canât, maâam,â Ragen said, âbut I donât know your town well enough to distribute.â

âNo need,â Selia said, pulling Arlen forward. âArlen here will take you to the general store in Town Square. Give the letters and packages to Rusco Hog when you deliver the salt. Most everyone will come running now that the saltâs in, and Ruscoâs one of the few in town with letters and numbers. The old crook will complain and try to insist on payment, but you tell him that in time of trouble, the whole town must throw in. You tell him to give out the letters and read to those who canât, or Iâll not lift a finger the next time the town wants to throw a rope around his neck.â

Ragen looked closely at Selia, perhaps trying to tell if she was joking, but her stony face gave no indication. He bowed again.

âHurry along, then,â Selia said. âLift your feet and youâll both be back as everyone is readying to leave here for the night. If you and your Jongleur donât want to pay Rusco for a room, any here will be glad to offer their homes.â She shooed the two of them away and turned back to scold those pausing in their work to stare at the newcomers.

âIs she always so â¦ forceful?â Ragen asked Arlen as they walked over to where the Jongleur was mumming for the youngest children. The rest had been pulled back to work.

Arlen snorted. âYou should hear her talk to the greybeards. Youâre lucky to get away with your skin after calling her âBarrenâ.â

âGraig said thatâs what everyone called her,â Ragen said.

âThey do,â Arlen agreed, âjust not to her face, unless theyâre looking to take a coreling by the horns. Everyone hops when Selia speaks.â

Ragen chuckled. âAnd her an old Daughter, at that,â he mused. âWhere I come from, only Mothers expect everyone to jump at their command like that.â

âWhat difference does that make?â Arlen asked.

Ragen shrugged. âDonât know, I suppose,â he conceded. âThatâs just how things are in Miln. People make the world go, and Mothers make people, so they lead the dance.â

âItâs not like that here,â Arlen said.

âIt never is, in the small towns,â Ragen said. âNot enough people to spare. But the Free Cities are different. Apart from Miln, none of the others give their women much voice at all.â

âThat sounds just as dumb,â Arlen muttered.

âIt is,â Ragen agreed.

The Messenger stopped, and handed Arlen the reins to his courser. âWait here a minute,â he said, and headed over to the Jongleur. The two men moved aside to talk, and Arlen saw the Jongleurâs face change again, becoming angry, then petulant, and finally resigned as he tried to argue with Ragen, whose face remained stony throughout.

Never taking his glare off the Jongleur, the Messenger beckoned with a hand to Arlen, who brought the horse over to them.

ââ¦ donât care how tired you are,â Ragen was saying, his voice a harsh whisper, âthese people have grisly work to do, and if you need to dance and juggle all afternoon to keep their kids occupied while they do it, then youâd damn well better! Now put your face back on and get to it!â He grabbed the reins from Arlen and thrust them at the man.

Arlen got a good look at the young Jongleurâs face, full of indignation and fear, before the Jongleur took notice of him. The second he saw he was being watched, the manâs face rippled, and a moment later he was the bright, cheerful fellow who danced for children.

Ragen took Arlen to the cart and the two climbed on. Ragen snapped the reins, and they turned back up the dirt path that led to the main road.

âWhat were you arguing about?â Arlen asked as the cart bounced along.

The Messenger looked at him a moment, then shrugged. âItâs Keerinâs first time so far out of the city,â he said. âHe was brave enough when there was a group of us and he had a covered wagon to sleep in, but when we left the rest of our caravan behind in Angiers, he didnât do near as well. Heâs got day-jitters from the corelings, and itâs made him poor company.â

âYou canât tell,â Arlen said, looking back at the cartwheeling man.

âJongleurs have their mummersâ tricks,â Ragen said. âThey can pretend so hard to be something theyâre not that they actually convince themselves of it for a time. Keerin pretended to be brave. The guild tested him for travel and he passed, but you never really know how people will hold up after two weeks on the open road until they do it for real.â

âHow do you stay out on the roads at night?â Arlen asked. âDa says drawing wards in the soilâs asking for trouble.â

âYour da is right,â Ragen said. âLook in that compartment by your feet.â

Arlen did, and produced a large bag of soft leather. Inside was a knotted rope, strung with lacquered wooden plates bigger than his hand. His eyes widened when he saw wards carved and painted into the wood.

Immediately, Arlen knew what it was: a portable warding circle, large enough to surround the cart and more besides. âIâve never seen anything like it,â Arlen said.

âTheyâre not easy to make,â the Messenger said. âMost Messengers spend their whole apprenticeship mastering the art. No wind or rain is going to smudge those wards. But even then, theyâre not the same as having warded walls and a door.

âEver see a coreling face-to-face, boy?â he asked, turning and looking at Arlen hard. âWatched it take a swipe at you with nowhere to run and nothing to protect you except magic you canât see?â He shook his head. âMaybe Iâm being too hard on Keerin. He handled his test all right. Screamed a bit, but thatâs to be expected. Night after night is another matter. Takes its toll on some men, always worried that a stray leaf will land on a ward, and then â¦â He hissed suddenly and swiped a clawed hand at Arlen, laughing when the boy jumped.

Arlen ran his thumb over each smooth, lacquered ward, feeling their strength. There was one of the little plates for every foot of rope, much as there would be in any warding. He counted more than forty of them. âCanât wind demons fly into a circle this big?â he asked. âDa puts posts up to keep them from landing in the fields.â

The man looked over at him, a little surprised. âYour daâs probably wasting his time,â he said. âWind demons are strong fliers, but they need running space or something to climb and leap from in order to take off. Not much of either in a cornfield, so theyâd be reluctant to land, unless they saw something too tempting to resist, like some little boy sleeping in the field on a dare.â He looked at Arlen in that same way Jeph did, when warning Arlen that the corelings were serious business. As if he didnât know.

âWind demons also need to turn in wide arcs,â Ragen continued, âand most of them have a wingspan larger than that circle. Itâs possible that one could get in, but Iâve never seen it happen. If it does, though â¦â He gestured to the long, thick spear he kept next to him.

âYou can kill a coreling with a spear?â Arlen asked.

âProbably not,â Ragen replied, âbut Iâve heard that you can stun them by pinning them against your wards.â He chuckled. âI hope I never have to find out.â

Arlen looked at him, wide-eyed.

Ragen looked back at him, his face suddenly serious. âMessengeringâs dangerous work, boy,â he said.

Arlen stared at him a long time. âIt would be worth it, to see the Free Cities,â he said at last. âTell me true, whatâs Fort Miln like?â

âItâs the richest and most beautiful city in the world,â Ragen replied, lifting his mail sleeve to reveal a tattoo on his forearm of a city nestled between two mountains. âThe Dukeâs Mines run rich with salt, metal, and coal. Its walls and rooftops are so well warded, itâs rare for the house wards to even be tested. When the sun shines on its walls, it puts the mountains themselves to shame.â

âNever seen a mountain,â Arlen said, marvelling as he traced the tattoo with a finger. âMy da says theyâre just big hills.â

âYou see that hill?â Ragen asked, pointing north of the road.

Arlen nodded. âBogginâs Hill. You can see the whole Brook from up there.â

Ragen nodded. âYou know what a âhundredâ means, Arlen?â he asked.

Arlen nodded again. âTen pairs of hands.â

âWell even a small mountain is bigger than a hundred of your Bogginâs Hills piled on top of each other, and the mountains of Miln are not small.â

Arlenâs eyes widened as he tried to contemplate such a height. âThey must touch the sky,â he said.

âSome are above it,â Ragen bragged. âAtop them, you can look down at the clouds.â

âI want to see that one day,â Arlen said.

âYou could join the Messengersâ guild, when youâre old enough,â Ragen said.

Arlen shook his head. âDa says the people that leave are deserters,â he said. âHe spits when he says it.â

âYour da doesnât know what heâs talking about,â Ragen said. âSpitting doesnât make things so. Without Messengers, even the Free Cities would crumble.â

âI thought the Free Cities were safe?â Arlen asked.

âNowhere is safe, Arlen. Not truly. Miln has more people and can absorb the deaths more easily than a place like Tibbetâs Brook, but the corelings still take a toll each year.â

âHow many people are in Miln?â Arlen asked. âWe have nine hundreds in Tibbetâs Brook, and Sunny Pasture up the ways is supposed to be almost as big.â

âWe have over thirty thousands in Miln,â Ragen said proudly.

Arlen looked at him, confused.

âA thousand is ten hundreds,â the Messenger supplied.

Arlen thought a moment, then shook his head. âThere ent that many people in the world,â he said.

âThere are and more,â Ragen said. âThereâs a wide world out there, for those willing to brave the dark.â

Arlen didnât answer, and they rode in silence for a time.

It took about an hour and a half for the trundling cart to reach Town Square. The centre of the Brook, Town Square held just over two dozen warded wooden houses for those whose trade did not have them working in the fields or rice paddies, fishing, or cutting wood. It was here one came to find the tailor and the baker, the farrier, the cooper, and the rest.

At the centre lay the square where people would gather, and the biggest building in the Brook, the general store. It had a large open front room that housed tables and the bar, an even larger storeroom in back, and a cellar below, filled with almost everything of value in the Brook.

Hogâs daughters, Dasy and Catrin, ran the kitchen. Two credits could buy a meal to leave you stuffed, but Silvy called old Hog a cheat, since two credits could buy enough raw grain for a week. Still, plenty of unmarried men paid the price, and not all for the food. Dasy was homely and Catrin fat, but Uncle Cholie said the men who married them would be set for life.

Everyone in the Brook brought Hog their goods, be it corn or meat or fur, pottery or cloth, furniture or tools. Hog took the items, counted them up, and gave the customers credits to buy other things at the store.

Things always seemed to cost a lot more than Hog paid for them, though. Arlen knew enough numbers to see that. There were some famous arguments when people came to sell, but Hog set the prices, and usually got his way. Just about everyone hated Hog, but they needed him all the same, and were more likely to brush his coat and open his doors than spit when he passed.

Everyone else in the Brook worked throughout the sun, and barely saw all their needs met, but Hog and his daughters always had fleshy cheeks, rounded bellies, and clean new clothes. Arlen had to wrap himself in a rug whenever his mother took his overalls to wash.

Ragen and Arlen tied off the mules in front of the store and went inside. The bar was empty. Usually the air inside the taproom was thick with bacon fat, but there was no smell of cooking from the kitchen today.

Arlen rushed ahead of the Messenger to the bar. Rusco had a small bronze bell there, brought with him when he came from the Free Cities. Arlen loved that bell. He slapped his hand down on it and grinned at the clear sound.

There was a thump in the back, and Rusco came through the curtains behind the bar. He was a big man, still strong and straight-backed at sixty, but a soft gut hung around his middle, and his iron-grey hair was creeping back from his lined forehead. He wore light trousers and leather shoes with a clean white cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled halfway up his thick forearms. His white apron was spotless, as always.

âArlen Bales,â he said with a patient smile, seeing the boy. âDid you come just to play with the bell, or do you have some business?â

âThe business is mine,â Ragen said, stepping forward. âYou Rusco Hog?â

âJust Rusco will do,â the man said. âThe townies slapped the âHogâ on, though not to my face. Canât stand to see a man prosper.â

âThatâs twice,â Ragen mused.

âSay again?â Rusco said.

âTwice that Graigâs journey log has led me astray,â Ragen said. âI called Selia âBarrenâ to her face this morning.â

âHa!â Rusco laughed. âDid you now? Well, thatâs worth a drink on the house, if anything is. What did you say your name was?â

âRagen,â the Messenger said, dropping his heavy satchel and taking a seat at the bar. Rusco tapped a keg, and plucked a slatted wooden mug off a hook.

The ale was thick and honey-coloured, and foamed to a white head on top of the mug. Rusco filled one for Ragen and another for himself. Then he glanced at Arlen, and filled a smaller cup. âTake that to a table and let your elders talk at the bar,â he said. âAnd if you know whatâs good for you, you wonât tell your mum I gave it to you.â

Arlen beamed, and ran off with his prize before Rusco had a chance to reconsider. He had sneaked a taste of ale from his fatherâs mug at festivals, but had never had a cup of his own.

âI was starting to worry no one was coming ever again,â he heard Rusco tell Ragen.

âGraig took a chill just before he was to leave last fall,â Ragen said, drinking deeply. âHis Herb Gatherer told him to put the trip off until he got better, but then winter set in, and he got worse and worse. In the end, he asked me to take his route until the guild could find another. I had to take a caravan of salt to Angiers anyway, so I added an extra cart and swung this way before heading back north.â

Rusco took his mug and filled it again. âTo Graig,â he said, âa fine Messenger, and a dangerous haggler.â Ragen nodded and the two men clapped mugs and drank.

âAnother?â Rusco asked, when Ragen slammed his mug back down on the bar.

âGraig wrote in his log that you were a dangerous haggler, too,â Ragen said, âand that youâd try to get me drunk first.â

Rusco chuckled, and refilled the mug. âAfter the haggling, Iâll have no need to serve these on the house,â he said, handing it to Ragen with a fresh head.

âYou will if you want your mail to reach Miln,â Ragen said with a grin, accepting the mug.

âI can see youâre going to be as tough as Graig ever was,â Rusco grumbled, filling his own mug. âThere,â he said, when it foamed over, âwe can both haggle drunk.â They laughed, and clashed mugs again.

âWhat news of the Free Cities?â Rusco asked. âThe Krasians still determined to destroy themselves?â

Ragen shrugged. âBy all accounts. I stopped going to Krasia a few years ago, when I married. Too far, and too dangerous.â

âSo the fact that they cover their women in blankets has nothing to do with it?â Rusco asked.

Ragen laughed. âDoesnât help,â he said, âbut itâs mostly how they think all Northerners, even Messengers, are cowards for not spending our nights trying to get ourselves cored.â

âMaybe theyâd be less inclined to fight if they looked at their women more,â Rusco mused. âHow about Angiers and Miln? The dukes still bickering?â

âAs always,â Ragen said. âEuchor needs Angiersâ wood to fuel his refineries, and grain to feed his people. Rhinebeck needs Milnâs metal and salt. They have to trade to survive, but instead of making it easy on themselves, they spend all their time trying to cheat each other, especially when a shipment is lost to corelings on the road. Last summer, demons hit a caravan of steel and salt. They killed the drivers, but left most of the cargo intact. Rhinebeck retrieved it, and refused to pay, claiming salvage rights.â

âDuke Euchor must have been furious,â Rusco said.

âLivid,â Ragen agreed. âI was the one that brought him the news. He went red in the face, and swore Angiers wouldnât see another ounce of salt until Rhinebeck paid.â

âDid Rhinebeck pay?â Rusco asked, leaning in eagerly.

Ragen shook his head. âThey did their best to starve each other for a few months, and then the Merchantsâ guild paid, just to get their shipments out before the winter came and they rotted in storage. Rhinebeck is angry at them now, for giving in to Euchor, but his face was saved and the shipments were moving again, which is all that mattered to anyone other than those two dogs.â

âWise to watch what you call the dukes,â Rusco warned, âeven this far out.â

âWhoâs going to tell them?â Ragen asked. âYou? The boy?â He gestured at Arlen. Both men laughed.

âAnd now I have to bring Euchor news of Riverbridge, which will make things worse,â Ragen said.

âThe town on the border of Miln,â Rusco said, âbarely a day out from Angiers. I have contacts there.â

âNot anymore, you donât,â Ragen said pointedly, and the men were quiet for a time.

âEnough bad news,â Ragen said, hauling his satchel onto the bar. Rusco considered it dubiously.

âThat doesnât look like salt,â he said, âand I doubt I have that much mail.â

âYou have six letters, and an even dozen packages,â Ragen said, handing Rusco a sheaf of folded paper. âItâs all listed here, along with all the other letters in the satchel and packages on the cart to be distributed. I gave Selia a copy of the list,â he warned.

âWhat do I want with that list, or your mailbag?â Rusco asked.

âThe Speaker is occupied, and wonât be able to distribute the mail and read to those that canât. She volunteered you.â

âAnd how am I to be compensated for spending my business hours reading to the townies?â Rusco asked.

âThe satisfaction of a good deed to your neighbours?â Ragen asked.

Rusco snorted. âI didnât come to Tibbetâs Brook to make friends,â he said. âIâm a businessman, and I do a lot for this town.â

âDo you?â Ragen asked.

âDamn right,â Rusco said. âBefore I came to this town, all they did was barter.â He made the word a curse, and spat on the floor. âThey collected the fruits of their labour and gathered in the square every Seventhday, arguing over how many beans were worth an ear of corn, or how much rice you had to give the cooper to make you a barrel to put your rice in. And if you didnât get what you needed on Seventhday, you had to wait until the next week, or go door to door. Now everyone can come here, any day, any time from sunup to sundown, and trade for credits to get whatever else they need.â

âThe town saviour,â Ragen said wryly. âAnd you asking nothing in return.â

âNothing but a tidy profit,â Rusco said with a grin.

âAnd how often do the villagers try to string you up for a cheat?â Ragen asked.

Ruscoâs eyes narrowed. âToo often, considering half of them canât count past their fingers, and the other half can only add their toes to that,â he said.

âSelia said the next time it happens, youâre on your own,â Ragenâs friendly voice had suddenly gone hard, âunless you do your part. Thereâs plenty on the far side of town suffering worse than having to read the mail.â

Rusco frowned, but he took the list and carried the heavy bag into his storeroom.

âHow bad is it, really?â he asked when he returned.

âBad,â Ragen said. âTwenty-seven so far, and a few still unaccounted for.â

âCreator,â Rusco swore, drawing a ward in the air in front of him. âI had thought a family, at worst.â

âIf only,â Ragen said.

They were both silent for a moment, as was decent, then looked up at each other as one.

âYou have this yearâs salt?â Rusco asked.

âYou have the Dukeâs rice?â Ragen replied.

âBeen holding it all winter, you being so late,â Rusco said.

Ragenâs eyes narrowed.

âOh, itâs still good!â Rusco said, his hands coming up suddenly, as if pleading. âIâve kept it sealed and dry, and there are no vermin in my cellar!â

âIâll need to be sure, you understand,â Ragen said.

âOf course, of course,â Rusco said. âArlen, fetch that lamp!â he ordered, pointing the boy towards the corner of the bar.

Arlen scurried over to the lantern, picking up the striker. He lit the wick and lowered the glass reverently. He had never been trusted to hold glass before. It was colder than he imagined, but quickly grew warm as the flame licked it.

âCarry it down to the cellar for us,â Rusco ordered. Arlen tried to contain his excitement. He had always wanted to see behind the bar. They said if everyone in the Brook put all their possessions in one pile, it would not rival the wonders of Hogâs cellar.

He watched as Rusco pulled a ring on his floor, opening a wide trap. Arlen came forward quickly, worried old Hog would change his mind. He went down the creaking steps, holding the lantern high to illuminate the way. As he did, the light touched on stacks of crates and barrels from floor to ceiling, running in even rows stretching back past the edges of the light. The floor was wooden to prevent corelings from rising directly into the cellar from the Core, but there were still wards carved into the racks along the walls. Old Hog was careful with his treasures.

The storekeeper led the way through the aisles to the sealed barrels in the back. âThey look unspoiled,â Ragen said, inspecting the wood. He considered a moment, then chose at random. âThat one,â he said, pointing to a barrel.

Rusco grunted and hauled out the barrel in question. Some people called his work easy, but his arms were as hard and thick as any that swung an axe or scythe. He broke the seal and popped the top off the barrel, scooping rice into a shallow pan for Ragen to inspect.

âGood Marsh rice,â he told the Messenger, âand not a weevil to be seen, nor sign of rot. This will fetch a high price in Miln, especially after so long.â Ragen grunted and nodded, so the cask was resealed and they returned upstairs.

They argued for some time over how many barrels of rice the heavy sacks of salt on the cart were worth. In the end, neither of them seemed happy, but they shook hands on the deal.

Rusco called his daughters, and they all went out to the cart to begin unloading the salt. Arlen tried lifting a bag, but it was far too heavy, and he staggered and fell, dropping it.

âBe careful!â Dasy scolded, slapping the back of his head.

âIf you canât lift, then get the door!â Catrin barked. She herself had one sack over her shoulder and another tucked under her meaty arm. Arlen scrambled to his feet and rushed to hold the portal for her.

âFetch Ferd Miller and tell him weâll pay five â¦ make it four credits for every sack he grinds,â Rusco told Arlen. Most everyone in the Brook worked for Hog, one way or another, but the Squarefolk most of all. âFive if he packs it in barrels with rice to keep it dry.â

âFerd is off in the Cluster,â Arlen said. âMost everyone is.â

Rusco grunted, but did not reply. Soon enough the cart was empty, save for a few boxes and sacks that did not contain salt. Ruscoâs daughters eyed those hungrily, but said nothing.

âWeâll carry the rice up from the cellar tonight and keep it in the back room until youâre ready to head back to Miln,â Rusco said, when the last sack was hauled inside.

âThank you,â Ragen said.

âThe Dukeâs business is done, then?â Rusco asked with a grin, his eyes flicking knowingly to the remaining items on the cart.

âThe Dukeâs business, yes,â Ragen said, grinning in return. Arlen hoped they would give him another ale while they haggled. It made him feel light-headed, like he had caught a chill, but without the coughing and sneezing and aches. He liked the feeling, and wanted to try it again.

He helped carry the remaining items into the taproom, and Catrin brought out a platter of sandwiches thick with meat. Arlen was given a second cup of ale to wash it down, and old Hog told him he could have two credits in the book for his work. âI wonât tell your parents,â Hog said, âbut if you spend it on ale and they catch you, youâll be working off the grief your mum gives me.â Arlen nodded eagerly. Heâd never had credits of his own to spend at the store.

After lunch, Rusco and Ragen went over to the bar and opened up the other items the Messenger had brought. Arlenâs eyes flared as each treasure was presented. There were bolts of cloth finer than anything he had ever seen; metal tools and pins, ceramics and exotic spices. There were even a few cups made of bright, sparkling glass.

Hog seemed less impressed. âGraig had a better haul last year,â he said. âIâll give you â¦ a hundred credits for the lot.â Arlenâs jaw dropped. A hundred credits! Ragen could own half the Brook for that.

Ragen didnât care for the offer, though. His eyes went hard again, and he slammed his hand down on the table. Dasy and Catrin looked up from their cleaning at the sound.

âTo the Core with your credit!â he growled. âIâm not one of your bumpkins, and unless you want the guild to know you for a cheat, youâll not mistake me for one again.â

âNo hard feelings!â Rusco laughed, patting the air in that placating way he had. âHad to try â¦ you understand. They still like gold up there in Miln?â he asked with a sly smile.

âSame as everywhere,â Ragen said. He was still frowning, but the anger had drained from his voice.

âNot out here,â Rusco said. He went back behind the curtain, and they could hear him rummaging around, raising his voice to still be heard. âOut here, if you canât eat something, or wear it, paint a ward with it, or use it to till your field, itâs not worth much of anything.â He returned a moment later with a large cloth sack he deposited on the counter with a clink.

âPeople here have forgotten that gold moves the world,â he went on, reaching into the bag and pulling out two heavy yellow coins, which he waved in Ragenâs face. âThe millerâs kids were using these as game pieces! Game pieces! I told them Iâd trade the gold for a carved wood game set I had in the back, they thought I was doing them a favour! Ferd even came by the next day to thank me!â He laughed a deep belly laugh. Arlen felt like he should be offended by that laugh, but he wasnât quite sure why. He had played the Millersâ game many times, and it seemed worth more than two metal discs, however shiny they might be.

âI brought a lot more than two sunsâ worth,â Ragen said, nodding at the coins and then looking towards the bag.

Rusco smiled. âNot to worry,â he said, untying the bag fully. As the cloth flattened on the counter, more bright coins spilled out, along with chains and rings and ropes of glittering stones. It was all very pretty, Arlen supposed, but he was surprised at how Ragenâs eyes bulged and took on a covetous glitter.

Again they haggled, Ragen holding the stones up to the light and biting the coins, while Rusco fingered the cloth and tasted the spices. It was a blur to Arlen, whose head was spinning from the ale. Mug after mug came to the men from Catrin at the bar, but they showed no signs of being as affected as Arlen.

âTwo hundred and twenty gold suns, two silver moons, the rope chain, and the three silver rings,â Rusco said at last. âAnd not a copper light more.â

âNo wonder you work out in a backwater,â Ragen said. âThey must have run you out of the city for a cheat.â

âInsults wonât make you any richer,â Hog said, confident he had the upper hand.

âNo riches for me this time,â Ragen said. âAfter my travelling costs, every last light will go to Graigâs widow.â

âAh, Jenya,â Rusco said wistfully. âShe used to pen for some of those in Miln with no letters, my idiot nephew among them. What will become of her?â

Ragen shook his head. âThe guild paid no death-price to her, because Graig died at home,â he said. âAnd since she isnât a Mother, a lot of jobs will be denied her.â

âIâm sorry to hear that,â Rusco said.

âGraig left her some money,â Ragen said, âthough he never had much, and the guild will still pay her to pen. With the money from this trip, she should have enough to get by for a time. Sheâs young, though, and it will run out eventually unless she remarries or finds better work.â

âAnd then?â Rusco asked.

Ragen shrugged. âItâll be hard for her to find a new husband, having already married and failed to bear children, but she wonât become a Beggar. My guild brothers and I have sworn that. One of us will take her in as a Servant before that happens.â

Rusco shook his head. âStill, to fall from Merchant class to Servant â¦â He reached into the much lighter bag and produced a ring with a clear, sparkling stone set into it. âSee that she gets this,â he said holding the ring out.

As Ragen reached for it, though, Rusco pulled it back suddenly. âIâll have a message back from her, you understand,â he said. âI know how she shapes her letters.â Ragen looked at him for a moment, and he quickly added, âNo insult meant.â

Ragen smiled. âYour generosity outweighs your insult,â he said, taking the ring. âThis will keep her belly full for months.â

âYes, well,â Rusco said gruffly, scooping up the remains of the bag, âdonât let any of the townies hear, or Iâll lose my reputation as a cheat.â

âYour secret is safe with me,â Ragen said with a laugh.

âYou could earn her a bit more, perhaps,â Rusco said.

âOh?â

âThe letters we have were meant to go to Miln six months ago. You stick around a few days while we pen and collect more, and maybe help pen a few, and Iâll compensate you.

âNo more gold,â he clarified, âbut surely Jenya could do with a cask of rice, or some cured fish or meal.â

âIndeed she could,â Ragen said.

âI can find work for your Jongleur, too,â Rusco added. âHeâll see more custom here in the Square than by hopping from farm to farm.â

âAgreed,â Ragen said. âKeerin will need gold, though.â

Rusco gave him a wry look, and Ragen laughed. âHad to try â¦ you understand!â he said. âSilver, then.â

Rusco nodded. âIâll charge a moon for every performance, and for every moon, Iâll keep one star and he the other three.â

âI thought you said the townies had no money,â Ragen noted.

âMost donât,â Rusco said. âIâll sell the moons to them â¦ say at the cost of five credits.â

âSo Rusco Hog skims from both sides of the deal?â Ragen asked.

Hog smiled.

Arlen was excited during the ride back. Old Hog had promised to let him see the Jongleur for free if he spread the word that Keerin would be entertaining in the Square at high sun the next day for five credits or a silver Milnese moon. He wouldnât have much time; his parents would be readying to leave just as he and Ragen returned, but he was sure he could spread the word before they pulled him onto the cart.

âTell me about the Free Cities,â Arlen begged as they rode. âHow many have you seen?â

âFive,â Ragen said, âMiln, Angiers, Lakton, Rizon, and Krasia. There may be others beyond the mountains or the desert, but none that I know have seen them.â

âWhat are they like?â Arlen asked.

âFort Angiers, the forest stronghold, lies south of Miln, across the Dividing River,â Ragen said. âAngiers supplies wood for the other cities. Farther south lies the great lake, and on its surface stands Lakton.â

âIs a lake like a pond?â Arlen asked.

âA lake is to a pond what a mountain is to a hill,â Ragen said, giving Arlen a moment to digest the thought. âOut on the water, the Laktonians are safe from flame, rock, and wood demons. Their wardnet is proof against wind demons, and no people can ward against water demons better. Theyâre fisher-folk, and thousands in the southern cities depend on their catch for food.

âWest of Lakton is Fort Rizon, which is not technically a fort, since you could practically step over its wall, but it shields the largest farmlands youâve ever seen. Without Rizon, the other Free Cities would starve.â

âAnd Krasia?â Arlen asked.

âI only visited Fort Krasia once,â Ragen said. âThe Krasians arenât welcoming to outsiders, and you need to cross weeks of desert to get there.â

âDesert?â

âSand,â Ragen explained. âNothing but sand for miles in every direction. No food nor water but what you carry, and nothing to shade you from the scorching sun.â

âAnd people live there?â Arlen asked.

âOh, yes,â Ragen said. âThe Krasians used to be even more numerous than the Milnese, but theyâre dying off.â

âWhy?â Arlen asked.

âBecause they fight the corelings,â Ragen said.

Arlenâs eyes widened. âYou can fight corelings?â he asked.

âYou can fight anything, Arlen,â Ragen said. âThe problem with fighting corelings is that more often than not, you lose. The Krasians kill their share, but the corelings give better than they get. There are fewer Krasians every year.â

âMy da says corelings eat your soul when they get you,â Arlen said.

âBah!â Ragen spat over the side of the cart. âSuperstitious nonsense.â

They had turned a bend not far from the Cluster when Arlen noticed something dangling from the tree ahead of them. âWhatâs that?â he asked, pointing.

âNight,â Ragen swore, and cracked the reins, sending the mollies into a gallop. Arlen was thrown back in his seat, and took a moment to right himself. When he did, he looked at the tree, which was coming up fast.

âUncle Cholie!â he cried, seeing the man kicking his feet as he clawed at the rope around his neck.

âHelp! Help!â Arlen screamed. He leapt from the moving cart, hitting the ground hard, but he bounced to his feet, darting towards Cholie. He got up under the man, but one of Cholieâs thrashing feet kicked him in the mouth, knocking him down. He tasted blood, but strangely there was no pain. He came up again, grabbing Cholieâs legs and trying to lift him up to loosen the rope, but he was too short, and Cholie too heavy besides, and the man continued to gag and jerk.

âHelp him!â Arlen cried to Ragen. âHeâs choking! Somebody help!â

He looked up to see Ragen pull a spear from the back of the cart. The Messenger drew back and threw with hardly a moment to aim, but his aim was true, severing the rope and collapsing poor Cholie onto Arlen. They both fell to the ground.

Ragen was there in an instant, pulling the rope from Cholieâs throat. It didnât seem to make much difference, the man still gagged and clawed at his throat. His eyes bulged so far it looked as if they would pop right out of his head, and his face was so red it looked purple. Arlen screamed as he gave a tremendous thrash, and then lay still.

Ragen beat Cholieâs chest and breathed huge gulps of air into him, but it had no effect. Eventually, the Messenger gave up, slumping in the dust and cursing.

Arlen was no stranger to death. That spectre was a frequent visitor to Tibbetâs Brook. But it was one thing to die from the corelings or from a chill. This was different.

âWhy?â he asked Ragen. âWhy would he fight so hard to survive last night, only to kill himself now?â

âDid he fight?â Ragen asked. âDid any of them really fight? Or did they run and hide?â

âI donât â¦â Arlen began.

âHiding isnât always enough, Arlen,â Ragen said. âSometimes, hiding kills something inside of you, so that even if you survive the demons, you donât really.â

âWhat else could he have done?â Arlen asked. âYou canât fight a demon.â

âIâd sooner fight a bear in its own cave,â Ragen said, âbut it can be done.â

âBut you said the Krasians were dying because of it,â Arlen protested.

âThey are,â Ragen said. âBut they follow their hearts. I know it sounds like madness, Arlen, but deep down, men want to fight, like they did in tales of old. They want to protect their women and children as men should. But they canât, because the great wards are lost, so they knot themselves like caged hares, hiding terrified through the night. But sometimes, especially when you see loved ones die, the tension breaks you and you just snap.â

He put a hand on Arlenâs shoulder. âIâm sorry you had to see this, boy,â he said. âI know it doesnât make a lot of sense right now â¦â

âNo,â Arlen said, âit does.â

And it was true, Arlen realized. He understood the need to fight. He had not expected to win when he attacked Cobie and his friends that day. If anything, he had expected to be beaten worse than ever. But in that instant when he grabbed the stick, he hadnât cared. He only knew he was tired of just taking their abuse, and wanted it to end, one way or another.

It was comforting to know he wasnât alone.

Arlen looked at his uncle, lying in the dust, his eyes wide with fear. He knelt and reached out, brushing his eyes closed with his fingertips. Cholie had nothing to fear any longer.

âHave you ever killed a coreling?â he asked the Messenger.

âNo,â Ragen said, shaking his head. âBut Iâve fought a few. Got the scars to prove it. But I was always more interested in getting away, or keeping them away from someone else, than I was in killing any.â

Arlen thought about that as they wrapped Cholie in a tarp and put him in the back of the wagon, hurrying back to the Cluster. Jeph and Silvy had already packed the cart and were waiting impatiently to leave, but the sight of the body defused their anger at Arlenâs late return.

Silvy wailed and threw herself on her brother, but there was no time to waste, if they were to make it back to the farm by nightfall. Jeph had to hold her back as Tender Harral painted a ward on the tarp and led a prayer as he tossed Cholie into the pyre.

The survivors who werenât staying in Brine Cutterâs house were divided up and taken home with the others. Jeph and Silvy had offered succour to two women. Norine Cutter was over fifty summers old. Her husband had died some years back, and she had lost her daughter and grandson in the attack. Marea Bales was old, too; almost forty. Her husband had been left outside when the others drew lots for the cellar. Like Silvy, both slumped in the back of Jephâs cart, staring at their knees. Arlen waved goodbye to Ragen as his father cracked the whip.

The Cluster by the Woods was drawing out of sight when Arlen realized he hadnât told anyone to come see the Jongleur.

2

If It Was You 319 AR

They had just enough time to stow the cart and check the wards before the corelings came. Silvy had little energy for cooking, so they ate a cold meal of bread, cheese, and sausage, chewing with little enthusiasm. The demons came soon after sunset to test the wards, and every time the magic flared to throw them back, Norine cried out. Marea never touched her food. She sat on her pallet with her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, rocking back and forth and whimpering whenever the magic flared. Silvy cleared the plates, but she never returned from the kitchen, and Arlen could hear her crying.

Arlen tried to go to her, but Jeph caught his arm. âCome talk with me, Arlen,â he said.

They went into the small room that housed Arlenâs pallet, his collection of smooth rocks from the brook, and all his feathers and bones. Jeph selected one of these, a brightly coloured feather about ten inches long, and fingered it as he spoke, not looking Arlen in the eye.

Arlen knew the signs. When his father wouldnât look at him, it meant he was uncomfortable with whatever he wanted to talk about.

âWhat you saw on the road with the Messengerââ Jeph began.

âRagen explained it to me,â Arlen said. âUncle Cholie was dead already, he just didnât know it right away. Sometimes people live through an attack, but die anyway.â

Jeph frowned. âNot how I would have put it,â he said. âBut true enough, I suppose. Cholie â¦â

âWas a coward,â Arlen finished.

Jeph looked at him in surprise. âWhat makes you say that?â he asked.

âHe hid in the cellar because he was scared to die, and then killed himself because he was scared to live,â Arlen said. âBetter if he had just picked up an axe and died fighting.â

âI donât want to hear that kind of talk,â Jeph said. âYou canât fight demons, Arlen. No one can. Thereâs nothing to be gained by getting yourself killed.â

Arlen shook his head. âTheyâre like bullies,â he said. âThey attack us because weâre too scared to fight back. I hit Cobie and the others with that stick, and they didnât bother me again.â

âCobie ent a rock demon,â Jeph said. âNo stick is going to scare those off.â

âThereâs got to be a way,â Arlen said. âPeople used to do it. All the old stories say so.â

âThe stories say there were magic wards to fight with,â Jeph said. âThe fighting wards are lost.â

âRagen says they still fight demons in some places. He says it can be done.â

âIâm going to have a talk with that Messenger,â Jeph grumbled. âHe shouldnât be filling your head with such thoughts.â

âWhy not?â Arlen said. âMaybe more people would have survived last night, if all the men had gotten axes and spears â¦â

âThey would be just as dead,â Jeph finished. âThereâs other ways to protect yourself and your family, Arlen. Wisdom. Prudence. Humility. Itâs not brave to fight a battle you canât win.

âWho would care for the women and the children if all the men got themselves cored trying to kill what canât be killed?â he went on. âWho would chop the wood and build the homes? Who would hunt and herd and plant and slaughter? Who would seed the women with children? If all the men die, the corelings win.â

âThe corelings are already winning,â Arlen muttered. âYou keep saying the town gets smaller each year. Bullies keep coming when you donât fight back.â

He looked up at his father. âDonât you feel it? Donât you want to fight sometimes?â

âOf course I do, Arlen,â Jeph said. âBut not for no reason. When it matters, when it really matters, all men are willing to fight. Animals run when they can, and fight when they must, and people are no different. But that spirit should only come out when needed.

âBut if it was you out there with the corelings,â he said, âor your mam, I swear I would fight like mad before I let them get near you. Do you understand the difference?â

Arlen nodded. âI think so.â

âGood man,â Jeph said, squeezing his shoulder.

Arlenâs dreams that night were filled with images of hills that touched the sky, and ponds so big you could put a whole town on the surface. He saw yellow sand stretching as far as his eyes could see, and a walled fortress hidden in the trees.

But he saw it all between a pair of legs that swayed lazily before his eyes. He looked up, and saw his own face turning purple in the noose.

He woke with a start, his pallet damp with sweat. It was still dark, but there was a faint lightening on the horizon, where the indigo sky held a touch of red. He lit a candle stub and pulled on his overalls, stumbling out to the common room. He found a crust to chew on as he took out the egg basket and milk jugs, putting them by the door.

âYouâre up early,â said a voice behind him. He turned, startled, to find Norine staring at him. Marea was still on her pallet, though she tossed in her sleep.

âThe days donât get any longer while you sleep,â Arlen said.

Norine nodded. âSo my husband used to say,â she agreed. ââBaleses and Cutters canât work by candlelight, like the Squares,â heâd say.â

âI have a lot to do,â Arlen said, peeking through the shutter to see how long he had before he could cross the wards. âThe Jongleur is supposed to perform at high sun.â

âOf course,â Norine agreed. âWhen I was your age, the Jongleur was the most important thing in the world to me, too. Iâll help you with your chores.â

âYou donât have to do that,â Arlen said. âDa says you should rest.â

Norine shook her head. âRest just makes me think of things best left unthought,â she said. âIf Iâm to stay with you, I should earn my keep. After chopping wood in the Cluster, how hard could it be to slop pigs and plant corn?â

Arlen shrugged, and handed her the egg basket.

With Norineâs help, the chores went by fast. She was a quick learner, and no stranger to hard work and heavy lifting. By the time the smell of eggs and bacon wafted from the house, the animals were all fed, the eggs collected, and the cows milked.

âStop squirming on the bench,â Silvy told Arlen as they ate.

âYoung Arlen canât wait to go see the Jongleur,â Norine advised.

âMaybe tomorrow,â Jeph said, and Arlenâs face fell.

âWhat!â Arlen cried. âButââ

âNo buts,â Jeph said. âA lot of work went undone yesterday, and I promised Selia Iâd drop by the Cluster in the afternoon to help out.â

Arlen pushed his plate away and stomped into his room.

âLet the boy go,â Norine said when he was gone. âMarea and I will help out here.â Marea looked up at the sound of her name, but went back to playing with her food a moment later.

âArlen had a hard day, yesterday,â Silvy said. She bit her lip. âWe all did. Let the Jongleur put a smile on his face. Surely thereâs nothing that canât wait.â

Jeph nodded after a moment. âArlen!â he called. When the boy showed his sullen face, he asked, âHow much is old Hog charging to see the Jongleur?â

âNothing,â Arlen said quickly, not wanting to give his father reason to refuse. âOn account of how I helped carry stuff from the Messengerâs cart.â It wasnât exactly true, and there was a good chance Hog would be angry that he forgot to tell people, but maybe if he spread word on the walk over, he could bring enough people for his two credits at the store to get him in.

âOld Hog always acts generous right after the Messenger comes,â Norine said.

âOught to, after how heâs been fleecing us all winter,â Silvy replied.

âAll right, Arlen, you can go,â Jeph said. âMeet me in the Cluster afterwards.â

The walk to Town Square took about two hours if you followed the path. Nothing more than a wagon track of hard-packed soil that Jeph and a few other locals kept clear, it went well out of the way to the bridge at the shallowest part of the brook. Nimble and quick, Arlen could cut the trip in half by skipping across the slick rocks jutting from the water.

Today, he needed the extra time more than ever, so he could make stops along the way. He raced along the muddy bank at breakneck speed, dodging treacherous roots and scrub with the sure-footed confidence of one who had followed the trail countless times.

He popped back out of the woods as he passed the farmhouses on the way, but there was no one to be found. Everyone was either out in the fields or back at the Cluster helping out.

It was getting close to high sun when he reached Fishing Hole. A few of the Fishers had their boats out on the small pond, but Arlen didnât see much point in shouting to them. Otherwise, the Hole was deserted, too.

He was feeling glum by the time he got to Town Square. Hog might have seemed nicer than usual yesterday, but Arlen had seen what he was like when someone cost him profit. There was no way he was going to let Arlen see the Jongleur for just two credits. Heâd be lucky if the storekeep didnât take a switch to him.

But when he reached the square, he found over three hundred people gathered from all over the Brook. There were Fishers and Marshes and Boggins and Bales. Not to mention the town locals, Squares, Tailors, Millers, Bakers, and all. None had come from Southwatch, of course. Folk there shunned Jongleurs.

âArlen, my boy!â Hog called, seeing him approach. âIâve saved you a spot up front, and youâll go home tonight with a sack of salt! Well done!â

Arlen looked at him curiously, until he saw Ragen, standing next to Hog. The Messenger winked at him.

âThank you,â Arlen said, when Hog went off to mark another arrival in his ledger. Dasy and Catrin were selling food and ale for the show.

âPeople deserve a show,â Ragen said with a shrug. âBut not without clearing it with your Tender, it seems.â He pointed to Keerin, who was deep in conversation with Tender Harral.

âDonât be selling any of that Plague nonsense to my flock!â Harral said, poking Keerin hard in the chest. He was twice the Jongleurâs weight, and none of it fat.

âNonsense?â Keerin asked, paling. âIn Miln, the Tenders will string up any Jongleur that doesnât tell of the Plague!â

âI donât care what they do in the Free Cities,â Harral said. âTheseâre good people, and they have it hard enough without you telling âem their sufferingâs because they ent pious enough!â

âWhat â¦?â Arlen began, but Keerin broke off, heading to the centre of the square.

âBest find a seat quick,â Ragen advised.

As Hog promised, Arlen got a seat right in front, in the area usually left for the younger children. The others looked on enviously, and Arlen felt very special. It was rare for anyone to envy him.

The Jongleur was tall, like all Milnese, dressed in a patchwork of bright colours that looked like they were stolen from the dyerâs scrap bin. He had a wispy goatee, the same carrot-colour as his hair, but the moustache never quite met the beard, and the whole thing looked like it might wash off with a good scrubbing. Everyone, especially the women, talked in wonder about his bright hair and green eyes.

As people continued to file in, Keerin paced back and forth, juggling his coloured wooden balls and telling jokes, warming to the crowd. When Hog gave the signal, he took his lute and began to play, singing in a strong, high voice. People clapped along to the songs they didnât know, but whenever he played one that was sung in the Brook, the whole crowd sang along, drowning out the Jongleur and not seeming to care. Arlen didnât mind; he was singing just as loud as the others.

After the music came acrobatics, and magic tricks. Along the way, Keerin made a few jests about husbands that had the women shrieking with laughter while the men frowned, and a few about wives that had the men slapping their thighs as the women glared.

Finally, the Jongleur paused and held up his hands for silence. There was a murmur from the crowd, and parents nudged their youngest children forward, wanting them to hear. Little Jessi Boggin, who was only five, climbed right into Arlenâs lap for a better view. Arlen had given her family a few pups from one of Jephâs dogs a few weeks ago, and now she clung to him whenever he was near. He held her as Keerin began the Tale of the Return, his high voice dropping into a deep, booming call that carried far into the crowd.

âThe world was not always as you see it,â the Jongleur told the children. âOh no. There was a time when humanity lived in balance with the demons. Those early years are called the Age of Ignorance. Does anyone know why?â He looked around the children in front, and several raised their hands.

âBecause there wasnât any wards?â a girl asked, when Keerin pointed to her.

âThatâs right!â the Jongleur said, turning a somersault that brought squeals of glee from the children. âThe Age of Ignorance was a scary time for us, but there werenât as many demons then, and they couldnât kill everyone. Much like today, humans built what they could during the day, and the demons would tear it down each night.

âAs we struggled to survive,â Keerin went on, âwe adapted, learning how to hide food and animals from the demons, and how to avoid them.â He looked around as if in terror, and then ran behind one child, cringing. âWe lived in holes in the ground, so they couldnât find us.â

âLike bunnies?â Jessi asked, laughing.

âJust so!â Keerin called, putting a twitching finger up behind each ear and hopping about, wriggling his nose.

âWe lived any way we could,â he went on, âuntil we discovered writing. From there, it wasnât long before we had learned that some writing could hold the corelings back. What writing is that?â he asked, cupping an ear.

âWards!â everyone cried in unison.

âCorrect!â the Jongleur congratulated with a flip. âWith wards, we could protect ourselves from the corelings, and we practised them, getting better and better. More and more wards were discovered, until someone learned one that did more than hold the demons back. It hurt them.â The children gasped, and Arlen, even though he had heard almost this same performance every year for as long as he could remember, found himself sucking in his breath. What he wouldnât give to know such a ward!

âThe demons did not take well to this advancement,â Keerin said with a grin. âThey were used to us running and hiding, and when we turned and fought, they fought back. Hard. Thus began the First Demon War, and the second age, the Age of the Deliverer.

âThe Deliverer was a man called upon by the Creator to lead our armies, and with him to lead us, we were winning!â He thrust his fist into the air and the children cheered. It was infectious, and Arlen tickled Jessi with glee.

âAs our magics and tactics improved,â Keerin said, âhumans began to live longer, and our numbers swelled. Our armies grew larger, even as the number of demons dwindled. There was hope that the corelings would be vanquished once and for all.â

The Jongleur paused then, and his face took on a serious expression. âThen,â he said, âwithout warning, the demons stopped coming. Never in the history of the world had a night passed without the corelings. Now night after night went by with no sign of them, and we were baffled.â He scratched his head in mock confusion. âMany believed that the demon losses in the war had been too great, and that they had given up the fight, cowering with fright in the Core.â He huddled away from the children, hissing like a cat and shaking as if with fear. Some of the children got into the act, growling at him menacingly.

âThe Deliverer,â Keerin said, âwho had seen the demons fight fearlessly every night, doubted this, but as months passed without sign of the creatures, his armies began to fragment.

âHumanity rejoiced in their victory over the corelings for years,â Keerin went on. He picked up his lute and played a lively tune, dancing about, but then the tune turned ominous, and the Jongleurâs voice deepened once more. âBut as the years passed without the common foe, the brotherhood of men grew strained, and then faded. For the first time, we fought against one another. As war sparked, the Deliverer was called upon by all sides to lead, but he shouted, âIâll not fight âgainst men while a single demon remains in the Core!â He turned his back, and left the lands as armies marched and all the land fell into chaos.

âFrom these great wars arose powerful nations,â he said, turning the tune into something uplifting, âand mankind spread far and wide, covering the entire world. The Age of the Deliverer came to a close, and the Age of Science began.

âThe Age of Science,â the Jongleur said, âwas our greatest time, but nestled in that greatness was our biggest mistake. Can any here tell me what it was?â The older children knew, but Keerin signalled them to hold back and let the young ones answer.

âBecause we forgot magic,â Gim Cutter said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

âRight you are!â Keerin said, snapping his fingers. âWe learned a great deal about how the world worked, about medicine and machines, but we forgot magic, and worse, we forgot the corelings. After three thousand years, no one believed they had ever even existed.

âWhich is why,â he said grimly, âwe were unprepared when they came back.

âThe demons had multiplied over the centuries, as the world forgot them. Then, three hundred years ago, they rose from the Core one night in massive numbers to take it back.

âWhole cities were destroyed that first night, as the corelings celebrated their return. Men fought back, but even the great weapons of the Age of Science were poor defence against the demons. The Age of Science came to a close, and the Age of Destruction took hold.

âThe Second Demon War had begun.â

In his mindâs eye, Arlen saw that night, saw the cities burning as people fled in terror, only to be savaged by the waiting corelings. He saw men sacrifice themselves to buy time for their families to flee, saw women take claws meant for their children. Most of all, he saw the corelings dance, cavorting in savage glee as blood ran from their teeth and talons.

Keerin moved forward even as the children drew back in fear. âThe war lasted for years, with people slaughtered at every turn. Without the Deliverer to lead them, they were no match for the corelings. Overnight, the great nations fell, and the accumulated knowledge of the Age of Science burned as flame demons frolicked.

âScholars desperately searched the wreckages of libraries for answers. The old science was no help, but they found salvation at last in stories once considered fantasy and superstition. Men began to draw clumsy symbols in the soil, preventing the corelings from approaching. The ancient wards held power still, but the shaking hands that drew them often made mistakes, and they were paid for dearly.

âThose who survived gathered people to them, protecting them through the long nights. Those men became the first Warders, who protect us to this very day.â The Jongleur pointed to the crowd, âSo the next time you see a Warder, thank him, because you owe him your life.â

That was a variation on the story Arlen had never heard Warders? In Tibbetâs Brook, everyone learned warding as soon as they were old enough to draw with a stick. Many had poor aptitude for it, but Arlen couldnât imagine anyone not taking the time to learn the basic forbiddings against flame, rock, swamp, water, wind, and wood demons.

âSo now we stay safe within our wards,â Keerin said, âletting the demons have their pleasures outside. Messengers,â he gestured to Ragen, âthe bravest of all men, travel from city to city for us, bringing news and escorting men and goods.â

He walked about, his eyes hard as he met the frightened looks of the children. âBut we are strong,â he said. âArenât we?â

The children nodded, but their eyes were still wide with fear.

âWhat?â he asked, putting a hand to his ear.

âYes!â the crowd cried.

âWhen the Deliverer comes again, will we be ready?â he asked. âWill the demons learn to fear us once more?â

âYes!â the crowd roared.

âThey canât hear you!â the Jongleur shouted.

âYes!â the people screamed, punching fists in the air; Arlen most of all. Jessi imitated him, punching the air and shrieking as if she were a demon herself. The Jongleur bowed, and when the crowd quieted, lifted his lute and led them into another song.

As promised, Arlen left Town Square with a sack of salt. Enough to last weeks, even with Norine and Marea to feed. It was still unmilled, but Arlen knew his parents would be happy to pound the salt themselves, rather than pay Hog extra for the service. Most would, really, but old Hog never gave them a choice, milling the salt as soon as it came and tacking on the extra cost.

Arlen had a spring in his step as he walked down the road towards the Cluster. It wasnât until he passed the tree that Cholie had hung from that Arlenâs spirits fell. He thought again about what Ragen had said about fighting corelings, and what his father had said about prudence.

He thought his father probably had the right of it: Hide when you can and fight when you must. Even Ragen seemed to agree with that philosophy. But Arlen couldnât shake the feeling that hiding hurt people too, in ways they couldnât see.

He met his father in the Cluster and earned a clap on the back when he showed his prize. He spent the rest of the afternoon running to and fro, helping rebuild. Already, another house was repaired and would be warded by nightfall. In a few more weeks, the Cluster would be fully rebuilt, and that was in everyoneâs interest, if they wanted enough wood to last the winter.

âI promised Selia Iâd throw in here for the next few days,â Jeph said as they packed the cart that afternoon. âYouâll be the man of the farm while Iâm gone. Youâll have to check the ward-posts and weed the fields. I saw you show Norine your chores this morning. She can handle the yard, and Marea can help your mother inside.â

âAll right,â Arlen said. Weeding the fields and checking the posts was hard work, but the trust made him proud.

âIâm counting on you, Arlen,â Jeph said.

âI wonât let you down,â Arlen promised.

The next few days passed with little event. Silvy still cried at times, but there was work to do, and she never once complained of the additional mouths to feed. Norine took to caring for the animals naturally, and even Marea began to come out of her shell a bit, helping with the sweeping and cooking, working the loom after supper. Soon she was taking turns with Norine in the yard. Both women seemed determined to do their share, though their faces, too, grew pained and wistful whenever there was a lull in the work.

Arlenâs hands blistered from pulling weeds, and his back and shoulders ached at the end of each day, but he didnât complain. The only one of his new responsibilities he enjoyed was working on the wardposts. Arlen had always loved warding, mastering the basic defensive symbols before most children began learning at all, and more complex wardnets soon after. Jeph didnât even check his work anymore. Arlenâs hand was steadier than his fatherâs. Warding wasnât the same as attacking a demon with a spear, but it was fighting in its own way.

Jeph arrived at dusk each day, and Silvy had water from the well waiting for him to wash. Arlen helped Norine and Marea lock up the animals, and then they had supper.

On the fifth day, a wind kicked up in the late afternoon that sent dust whorls dancing in the yard, and had the barn door banging. Arlen could smell rain coming, and the darkening sky confirmed it. He hoped Jeph saw the signs, too, and came back early, or stayed on in the Cluster. Dark clouds meant an early dusk, and early dusk sometimes meant corelings before full sunset.

Arlen abandoned the fields and began to help the women herd the spooked animals back into the barn. Silvy was out as well, battening down the cellar doors and making sure the wardposts around the day pens were lashed tight. There was little time to spare when Jephâs cart came into sight. The sky was darkening quickly, and already there was no direct sun. Corelings could rise at any moment.

âNo time to unhitch the cart,â Jeph called, cracking the whip to drive Missy faster towards the barn. âWeâll do it in the morning. Everyone in the house, now!â Silvy and the other women complied, heading inside.

âWe can do it if we hurry,â Arlen yelled over the roar of the wind as he ran after his father. Missy would be in foul spirits for days if she spent the night harnessed.

Jeph shook his head, âItâs too dark already! A night hitched wonât kill her.â

âLock me in the barn, then,â Arlen said. âIâll unhitch her and wait out the storm with the animals.â

âDo as youâre told, Arlen!â Jeph shouted. He leapt from the cart and grabbed the boy by the arm, half-dragging him out of the barn.

The two of them pulled the doors shut and threw the bar as lightning split the sky. The wards painted on the barn doors were illuminated for a moment, a reminder of what was to come. The air was pregnant with the promise of rain.

They ran for the house, scanning the way before them for the mist that would herald the rising. For the moment, the way was clear. Marea held the door open, and they darted inside, just as the first fat drops of rain stirred the dust of the yard.

Marea was pulling the door closed when a howl sounded from the yard. Everyone froze.

âThe dog!â Marea cried, covering her mouth. âI left him tied to the fence!â

âLeave him,â Jeph said. âClose the door.â

âWhat?â Arlen cried, incredulous. He whirled to face his father.

âThe way is still clear!â Marea cried, and darted out of the house.

âMarea, no!â Silvy cried, running out after her.

Arlen, too, ran for the door, but not before Jeph grabbed the shoulder straps of his overalls and yanked him backwards. âStay inside!â he ordered, moving to the door.

Arlen stumbled back a moment, then ran forward again. Jeph and Norine were out on the porch, but stayed within the line of the outer wards. By the time Arlen reached the porch, the dog was running past him into the house, the rope still trailing from its neck.

Out in the yard, wind howled, turning the drops of rain into stinging insects. He saw Marea and his mother running back towards the house just as the demons began to rise. As always, flame demons came first, their misty forms seeping from the ground. The smallest of corelings, they crouched on all fours as they coalesced, barely eighteen inches tall at the shoulder. Their eyes, nostrils, and mouths glowed with a smoky light.

âRun, Silvy!â Jeph screamed. âRun!â

It seemed that they would make it, but then Marea stumbled and went down. Silvy turned to help her, and in that moment the first coreling solidified. Arlen moved to run to his mother, but Norineâs hand clamped hard on his arm, holding him fast.

âDonât be stupid,â the woman hissed.

âGet up!â Silvy demanded, yanking Mareaâs arm.

âMy ankle!â Marea cried. âI canât! Go on without me!â

âLike night I will!â Silvy growled. âJeph!â she called. âHelp us!â

By then, corelings were forming all over the yard. Jeph stood frozen as they took note of the women and shrieked with pleasure, darting towards them.

âLet go!â Arlen growled, stomping hard on Norineâs foot. She howled, and Arlen yanked his arm free. He grabbed the nearest weapon he could find, a wooden milk bucket, and ran out into the yard.

âArlen, no!â Jeph cried, but Arlen was done listening to him.

A flame demon, no bigger than a large cat, leapt on to Silvyâs back, and she screamed as talons raked deep lines in her flesh, leaving the back of her dress a bloody tatter. From its perch, the coreling spat fire into Mareaâs face. The woman shrieked as her skin melted and her hair ignited.

Arlen was there an instant later, swinging the bucket with all his strength. It broke apart as it struck, but the demon was knocked from his motherâs back. She stumbled, but Arlen was there to support her. More flame demons closed in on them, even as wind demons began to stretch their wings, and, a dozen yards off, a rock demon began to take form.

Silvy groaned, but she got to her feet. Arlen pulled her away from Marea and her agonized wails, but the way back to the house was blocked by flame demons. The rock demon caught sight of them, too, and charged. A few wind demons, preparing to take off, got in the massive beastâs way, and its talons swept them aside as easily as a scythe cut through cornstalks. They tumbled broken through the air, and flame demons set on them, tearing them to pieces.

It was only a momentâs distraction, but Arlen took it, pulling his mother away from the house. The barn was blocked as well, but the path to the day pen was still clear, if they could keep ahead of the corelings. Silvy was screaming, out of fear or pain Arlen didnât know, but she stumbled along, keeping pace even in her wide skirts.

As he broke into a run, so too did the flame demons half-surrounding them. The rain began to fall harder, and the wind howled. Lightning split the sky, illuminating their pursuers and the day pen, so close, yet still too far.

The dust of the yard was slick with the growing wet, but fear granted them agility, and they kept their feet under them. The rock demonâs footfalls were as loud as the thunder as it charged, growing ever closer, making the ground shake with its stride.

Arlen skidded to a stop at the pens and fumbled with the latch. The flame demons caught up in that split second, coming in range to use their deadliest weapon. They spat flame, and Arlen and his mother were struck. The blast was weakened by distance, but still he felt his clothes ignite, and smelled burning hair. A flare of pain washed over him, but he ignored it, finally getting the gate to the pen open. He had started to take his mother inside when another flame demon leapt on her, claws digging deep into her chest. With a yank, Arlen pulled her into the pen. As they crossed the wards, Silvy passed through easily, but magic flared and the coreling was thrown back. Its claws, hooked deep in her, came free in a spray of blood and flesh.

Their clothes were still burning. Wrapping Silvy in his arms, Arlen threw them both to the ground, taking the brunt of the impact himself, and then rolled them into the mud, extinguishing the flames.

There was no chance to close the gate. The demons ringed the pen now, pounding at the wardnet, sending flares of magic skittering along the web of wards. But the gate didnât really matter. Nor did the fence. So long as the wardposts were intact, they were safe from the corelings.

But they were not safe from the weather. The rain became a cold pour, whipping at them in cutting sheets. Silvy could not rise again after the fall. Blood and mud caked her, and Arlen didnât know if she could survive her wounds and the rain together.

He stumbled over to the slop trough and kicked it over, sloshing the unfinished remnants of the pigsâ dinner to rot in the mud. Arlen could see the rock demon pounding at the wardnet, but the magic held, and the demon could not pass. Between the flashes of lightning and the spurts of demon flame, he caught sight of Marea, buried under a swarm of flame demons, each tearing off a piece and dancing away to feast.

The rock demon gave up a moment later, stomping over and grabbing Marea by the leg in a massive talon the way a cruel man might grab a cat. Flame demons scattered as the rock demon swung the woman into the air. She let out a hoarse gasp, and Arlen was horrified to discover she was still alive. He screamed, and considered trying to dart from the wardnet and get to her. But then the demon brought her crashing down to the ground with a sickening crunch.

Arlen turned away before the creature could begin to eat, his tears washed away by the pouring rain. Dragging the trough to Silvy, he tore the lining from her skirt and let it soak in the rain. He brushed the mud from her cuts as best he could, and wadded more lining into them. It was hardly clean, but cleaner than pig mud.

She was shivering, so he lay against her for warmth, and pulled the stinking trough over them as a shield from the downpour, and the sight of the leering demons.

There was one more flash of lightning as he lowered the wood. The last thing he saw was his father, still standing frozen on the porch.

If it was you out there â¦ or your mam â¦ Arlen remembered him saying. But for all his promises, it seemed that nothing could make Jeph Bales fight.

The night passed with interminable slowness; there was no hope of sleep. Raindrops drummed a steady beat on the trough, spattering them with the remains of the slop that clung to the inside. The mud they lay in was cold, and stank of pig droppings. Silvy shivered in her delirium, and Arlen clutched her tightly, willing what little heat he had into her. His own hands and feet were numb.

Despair crept over him, and he wept into his motherâs shoulder. But she groaned and patted his hand, and that simple, instinctive gesture pulled him free of the terror and disillusionment and pain.

He had fought a demon, and lived. He had stood in a yard full of them, and survived. Corelings might be immortal, but they could be outmanoeuvred. They could be outsped.

And as the rock demon had shown when it swept the other corelings out of the way, they could be hurt.

But what difference did it make in a world where men like Jeph wouldnât stand up to the corelings, not even for their own families? What hope did any of them have?

He stared at the blackness around him for hours, but in his mindâs eye all he saw was his fatherâs face, staring at them from the safety of the wards.

The rain tapered off before dawn. Arlen used the break in the weather as a chance to lift the trough, but he immediately regretted it as the collected heat the wood had stored was lost. He pulled it down again, but stole peeks until the sky began to brighten.

Most of the corelings had faded away by the time it was light enough to see, but a few stragglers remained as the sky went from indigo to lavender. He lifted the trough again and clambered to his feet, trying vainly to brush off the slime and muck that clung to him.

His arm was stiff, and stung when he flexed it. He looked down and saw that the skin was bright red where the firespit had struck. The night in the mud did one good thing, he thought, knowing his and his motherâs burns would have been far worse had they not been packed in the cold muck all night.

As the last flame demons in the yard began to turn insubstantial, Arlen strode from the pen, heading for the barn.

âArlen, no!â a cry came from the porch. Arlen looked up, and saw Jeph there, wrapped in a blanket, keeping watch from the safety of the porch wards. âItâs not full dawn yet! Wait!â

Arlen ignored him, walking to the barn and opening the doors. Missy looked thoroughly unhappy, still hitched to the cart, but she would make it to Town Square.

A hand grabbed his arm as he led the horse out. âAre you trying to get yourself killed?!â Jeph demanded. âYou mind me, boy!â

Arlen tore his arm away, refusing to look his father in the eye. âMam needs to see Coline Trigg,â he said.

âSheâs alive?â Jeph asked incredulously, his head snapping over to where the woman lay in the mud.

âNo thanks to you,â Arlen said. âIâm taking her to Town Square.â

âWeâre taking her,â Jeph corrected, rushing over to lift his wife and carry her to the cart. Leaving Norine to tend the animals and seek out poor Mareaâs remains, they headed off down the road to town.

Silvy was bathed in sweat, and while her burns seemed no worse than Arlenâs, the deep lines the flame demonsâ talons had dug still oozed blood, the flesh an ugly swollen red.

âArlen, I â¦â Jeph began as they rode, reaching a shaking hand towards his son. Arlen drew back, looking away, and Jeph recoiled as if burned.

Arlen knew his father was ashamed. It was just as Ragen had said. Maybe Jeph even hated himself, as Cholie had. Still, Arlen could find no sympathy. His mother had paid the price for Jephâs cowardice.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Coline Triggâs two-storey house, in Town Square, was one of the largest in the Brook, and filled with beds. In addition to her family upstairs, Coline always had at least one person occupying her sickbeds on the ground floor.

Coline was a short woman with a large nose and no chin. Not yet thirty, six children had made her thick around the middle. Her clothes always smelled of burnt weeds, and her cures usually involved some type of foul-tasting tea. The people of Tibbetâs Brook made fun of that tea, but every one of them drank it gratefully when they took a chill.

The Herb Gatherer took one look at Silvy and had Arlen and his father bring her inside. She asked no questions, which was just as well, as neither Arlen nor Jeph knew what they would say if she did. As she cut at each wound, squeezing out sickly brown pus, the air filled with a rotten stench. She cleaned the drained wounds with water and ground herbs, then sewed them shut. Jeph turned green, and brought his hand to his mouth suddenly.

âOut of here with that!â Coline barked, sending Jeph from the room with a pointed finger. As Jeph scurried out of the house, she looked to Arlen.

âYou, too?â she demanded. Arlen shook his head. Coline stared at him a moment, then nodded in approval. âYouâre braver than your father,â she said. âFetch the mortar and pestle. Iâm going to teach you to make a balm for burns.â

Never taking her eyes from her work, Coline talked Arlen through the countless jars and pouches in her pharmacy, directing him to each ingredient and explaining how to mix them. She kept to her grisly work as Arlen applied the balm to his motherâs burns.

Finally, when Silvyâs wounds were all tended, she turned to inspect Arlen. He protested at first, but the balm did its work, and only as the coolness spread along his arms did he realize how much his burns had stung.

âWill she be all right?â Arlen asked, looking at his mother. She seemed to be breathing normally, but the flesh around her wounds was an ugly colour, and that stench of rot was still thick in the air.

âI donât know,â Coline said. She wasnât one to honey her words. âIâve never seen anyone with wounds so severe. Usually, if the corelings get that close â¦â

âThey kill you,â Jeph said from the doorway. âThey would have killed Silvy, too, if not for Arlen.â He stepped into the rooms, keeping his eyes down. âMy son taught me something last night, Coline,â Jeph said. âHe taught me fear is our enemy, more than the corelings ever were.â Jeph put his hands on his sonâs shoulders and looked into his sonâs eyes. âI wonât fail you again,â he promised.

Arlen nodded and looked away. He wanted to believe it was so, but his thoughts kept returning to the sight of his father on the porch, frozen with terror.

Jeph went over to Silvy, gripping her clammy hand in his own. She was still sweating, and thrashed in her drugged sleep now and then.

âWill she die?â Jeph asked.

The Herb Gatherer blew out a long breath. âIâm a fair hand at setting bones,â she said, âand delivering children. I can chase a fever away and ward a chill. I can even cleanse a demon wound, if itâs still fresh.â She shook her head. âBut this is demon fever. Iâve given her herbs to dull the pain and help her sleep, but youâll need a better Gatherer than I to brew a cure.â

âWho else is there?â Jeph asked. âYouâre all the Brook has.â

âThe woman who taught me,â Coline said, âOld Mey Friman. She lives on the outskirts of Sunny Pasture, two days from here. If anyone can cure it, she can, but youâd best hurry. The fever will spread quickly and if you take too long, even old Mey wonât be able to help you.â

âHow do we find her?â Jeph demanded.

âYou canât really get lost,â Coline said. âThereâs only the one road. Just donât turn at the fork where it goes through the woods, unless you want to spend weeks on the road to Miln. That Messenger left for the Pasture a few hours ago, but he had some stops in the Brook first. If you hurry, you might catch him. Messengers carry their own wards with them. If you find him, youâll be able to keep moving right until dusk instead of stopping for succour. The Messenger could cut your trip in twain.â

âWeâll find him,â Jeph said, âwhatever it takes.â His voice took on a determined edge, and Arlen began to hope.

A strange sense of longing pulled at Arlen as he watched Tibbetâs Brook recede into the distance from the back of the cart. For the first time, he was going to be more than a dayâs journey from home. He was going to see another town! A week ago, an adventure like that was his greatest dream. But now all he dreamed was that things could go back to the way they were.

Back when the farm was safe.

Back when his mother was well.

Back when he didnât know his father was a coward.

Coline had promised to send one of her boys up to the farm to let Norine know they would likely be gone a week or more, and to help tend the animals and check the wards while they were away. The neighbours would throw in, but Norineâs loss was too raw for her to face the nights alone.

The Herb Gatherer had also given them a crude map, carefully rolled and slipped into a protective hide tube. Paper was a rarity in the Brook, and not given away lightly. Arlen was fascinated by the map, and studied it for hours, even though he couldnât read the few words labelling the places. Neither Arlen nor his father had letters.

The map marked the way to Sunny Pasture, and what lay along the road, but the distances were vague. There were farms marked along the way where they could beg succour, but there was no way to tell how far apart they were.

His mother slept fitfully, sodden with sweat. Sometimes she spoke or cried out, but her words made little sense. Arlen dabbed her with a wet cloth and made her drink the sharp tea as the Herb Gatherer had instructed him, but it seemed to do little good.

Late in the afternoon, they approached the house of Harl Tanner, a farmer who lived on the outskirts of the Brook. Harlâs farm was only a couple of hours past the Cluster by the Woods, but by the time Arlen and his father had gotten underway, it was mid-afternoon.

Arlen remembered seeing Harl and his three daughters at the summer solstice festival each year, though they had been absent since the corelings had taken Harlâs wife, two summers past. Harl had become a recluse, and his daughters with him. Even the tragedy in the Cluster had not brought them out.

Three-quarters of the Tanner fields were blackened and scorched; only those closest to the house were warded and sown. A gaunt milking cow chewed cud in the muddy yard, and ribs showed clearly on the goat tied up by the chicken coop.

The Tannersâ home was a single storey of piled stones, held together with packed mud and clay. The larger stones were painted with faded wards. Arlen thought them clumsy, but they had lasted thus far, it seemed. The roof was uneven, with short, squat wardposts poking up through the rotting thatch. One side of the house connected to the small barn, its windows boarded and its door half off the hinges. Across the yard was the big barn, looking even worse. The wards might hold, but it looked ready to collapse on its own.

âIâve never seen Harlâs place before,â Jeph said.

âMe neither,â Arlen lied. Few people apart from Messengers had reason to head up the road past the Cluster by the Woods, and those who lived up that way were sources of great speculation in Town Square. Arlen had sneaked off to see Crazy Man Tannerâs farm more than once. It was the farthest he had ever been from home. Getting back before dusk had meant hours of running as fast as he could.

One time, a few months before, he almost didnât make it. He had been trying to catch a glimpse of Harlâs eldest daughter, Ilain. The other boys said she had the biggest bubbies in the Brook, and he wanted to see for himself. He waited one day, and saw her come running out of the house, crying. She was beautiful in her sadness, and Arlen had wanted to go comfort her, even though she was eight summers older than him. He hadnât been so bold, but heâd watched her longer than was wise, and almost paid a heavy price for it when the sun began to set.

A mangy dog began barking as they approached the farm, and a young girl came out onto the porch, watching them with sad eyes.

âWe might have to succour here,â Jeph said.

âItâs still hours till dark,â Arlen said, shaking his head. âIf we donât catch Ragen by then, the map says thereâs another farm up by where the road forks to the Free Cities.â

Jeph peered over Arlenâs shoulder at the map. âThatâs a long way,â he said.

âMam canât wait,â Arlen said. âWe wonât make it all the way today, but every hour is an hour closer to her cure.â

Jeph looked back at Silvy, bathed in sweat, then up at the sun, and nodded. They waved at the girl on the porch, but did not stop.

They covered a great distance in the next few hours, but found no sign of the Messenger or another farm. Jeph looked up at the orange sky.

âIt will be full dark in less than two hours,â he said. âWe have to turn back. If we hurry, we can make it back to Harlâs in time.â

âThe farm could be right around that next bend,â Arlen argued. âWeâll find it.â

âWe donât know that,â Jeph said, spitting over the side of the cart. âThe map ent clear. We turn back while we still can, and no arguing.â

Arlenâs eyes widened in disbelief. âWeâll lose half a day that way, not to mention the night. Mam might die in that time!â he cried.

Jeph looked back at his wife, sweating in her bundled blankets, breathing in short fits. Sadly, he looked around at the lengthening shadows, and suppressed a shiver. âIf weâre caught out after dark,â he replied quietly, âweâll all die.â

Arlen was shaking his head before his father finished, refusing to accept it. âWe could â¦â he floundered. âWe could draw wards in the soil,â he said at last. âAll around the cart.â

âAnd if a breeze comes along and mars them?â his father asked. âWhat then?â

âThe farm could be just over the next hill!â Arlen insisted.

âOr it could be twenty more miles down the road,â his father shot back, âor burned down a year ago. Who knows whatâs happened since that map was drawn?â

âAre you saying Mam ent worth the risk?â Arlen accused.

âDonât you tell me what sheâs worth!â his father screamed, nearly bowling the boy over. âIâve loved her all my life! I know better than you! But Iâm not going to risk all three of us! She can last the night. She has to!â

With that, he pulled hard on the reins, stopping the cart and turning it about. He cracked the leather hard into Missyâs flanks, and sent her leaping back down the road. The animal, frightened by the coming dark, responded with a frantic pace.

Arlen turned back towards Silvy, swallowing bitter anger. He watched his mother bounce around as the wheels ran over stones and dips, not reacting at all to the bumpy ride. Whatever his father thought, Arlen knew her chances had just been cut in half.

The sun was nearly set when they reached the lonely farmhouse. Jeph and Missy seemed to share a panicked terror, and they screamed their haste as one. Arlen had leapt into the back of the cart to try and keep his mother from being thrown about by the wildly jolting ride. He held her tight, taking many of the bruises and bashes for her.

But not all: he could feel Colineâs careful stitches giving, the wounds oozing open again. If the demon fever didnât claim her, there was a good chance the ride would.

Jeph ran the cart right up to the porch, shouting, âHarl! We seek succour!â

The door opened almost immediately, even before they could get out of the cart. A man in worn overalls came out, a long pitchfork in hand. Harl was thin and tough, like dried meat. He was followed by Ilain, the sturdy young woman holding a stout metal-headed shovel. The last time Arlen saw her, she had been crying and terrified, but there was no terror in her eyes now. She ignored the crawling shadows as she approached the cart.

Harl nodded as Jeph lifted Silvy out of the cart. âGet her inside,â he ordered, and Jeph hurried to comply, letting a deep breath out as he crossed the wards.

âOpen the big barn door!â he told Ilain. âThat cart wonât fit in the little âun.â Ilain gathered her skirts and ran. He turned to Arlen. âDrive the cart to the barn, boy! Quick!â

Arlen did as he was told. âNo time to unhitch her,â the farmer said. âSheâll have to do.â It was the second night in a row. Arlen wondered if Missy would ever get unhitched.

Harl and Ilain quickly shut the barn door and checked the wards. âWhat are you waiting for?â the man roared at Arlen. âRun for the house! Theyâll be here in a moment!â

He had barely spoken the words when the demons began to rise. He and Arlen sprinted for the house as spindly, clawed arms and horned heads seemed to grow right out of the ground.

They dodged left and right around the rising death, adrenaline and fear giving them agility and speed. The first corelings to solidify, a group of lithesome flame demons, gave chase, gaining on them. As Arlen and Ilain ran on, Harl turned and hurled his pitchfork into their midst.

The weapon struck the lead demon full in the chest, knocking it into its fellows, but even the skin of a tiny flame demon was too knobbed and tough for a pitchfork to pierce. The creature picked up the tool in its claws and spat a gout of flame upon it, setting the wooden haft alight, then tossed it aside.

But though the coreling hadnât been hurt, the throw delayed them. The demons rushed forward, but as Harl leapt onto the porch, they came to an abrupt halt, slamming into a line of wards that stopped them as surely as if they had run into a brick wall. As the magic flared brightly and hurled them back into the yard, Harl rushed into the house. He slammed and bolted the door, throwing his back against the portal.

âCreator be praised,â he said weakly, panting and pale.

The air inside Harlâs farmhouse was thick and hot, stinking of must and waste. The buggy reeds on the floor absorbed some of the water that made it past the thatch, but they were far from fresh. Two dogs and several cats shared the home, forcing everyone to step carefully. A stone pot hung in the fireplace, adding to the mix the sour scent of a stew perpetually cooking, added to as it diminished. A patchwork curtain in one corner gave a touch of privacy for the chamber pot.

Arlen did his best to redo Silvyâs bandages, and then Ilain and her sister Beni put her in their room, while Harlâs youngest, Renna, set another two cracked wooden bowls at the table for Arlen and his father.

There were only three rooms, one shared by the girls, another for Harl, and the common room where they cooked and ate and worked. A ragged curtain divided the room, partitioning off the area for cooking and eating. A warded door in the common room led to the small barn.

âRenna, take Arlen and check the wards while the men talk and Beni and I get supper ready,â Ilain said.

Renna nodded, taking Arlenâs hand and pulling him along. She was almost ten, close to Arlenâs age of eleven, and pretty beneath the smudges of dirt on her face. She wore a plain shift, worn and carefully mended, and her brown hair was tied back with a ragged strip of cloth, though many locks had freed themselves to fall about her round face.

âThis oneâs scuffed,â the girl commented, pointing to a ward on one of the sills. âOne of the cats must have stepped on it.â Taking a stick of charcoal from the kit, she carefully traced the line where it had been broken.

âThatâs no good,â Arlen said. âThe lines ent smooth anymore. That weakens the ward. You should draw it over.â

âIâm not allowed to draw a fresh one,â Renna whispered. âIâm supposed to tell Father or Ilain if thereâs one I canât fix.â

âI can do it,â Arlen said, taking the stick. He carefully wiped clean the old ward and drew a new one, his arm moving with quick confidence. Stepping back as he finished, he looked around the window, and then swiftly replaced several others as well.

While he worked, Harl caught sight of them and started to rise nervously, but a motion and a few confident words from Jeph brought him back to his seat.

Arlen took a moment to admire his work. âEven a rock demon wonât get through that,â he said proudly. He turned, and found Renna staring at him. âWhat?â he asked.

âYouâre taller than I remember,â the girl said, looking down and smiling shyly.

âWell, itâs been a couple of years,â Arlen replied, not knowing what else to say. When they finished their sweep, Harl called his daughter over. He and Renna spoke softly to one another, and Arlen caught her looking at him once or twice, but he couldnât hear what was said.

Dinner was a tough stew of parsnip and corn with a meat Arlen couldnât identify, but it was filling enough. While they ate, they told their tale.

âWish youâda come to us first,â Harl said when they finished. âWe been tâold Mey Friman plenty times. Closerân going all the way to Town Square tâsee Trigg. If it took you two hours of cracking the whip tâget back to us, youâda reached Mack Pastureâs farm soon, you pressed on. Old Mey, sheâs only an hour-so past that. She never did cotton to living in town. Youâd really whipped that mare, you mighta made it tonight.â

Arlen slammed down his spoon. All eyes at the table turned to him, but he didnât even notice, so focused was he on his father.

Jeph could not weather that glare for long. He hung his head. âThere was no way to know,â he said miserably.

Ilain touched his shoulder. âDonât blame yourself for being cautious,â she said. She looked at Arlen, reprimand in her eyes. âYouâll understand when youâre older,â she told him.

Arlen rose sharply and stomped away from the table. He went through the curtain and curled up by a window, watching the demons through a broken slat in the shutters. Again and again they tried and failed to pierce the wards, but Arlen didnât feel protected by the magic. He felt imprisoned by it.

âTake Arlen into the barn and play,â Harl ordered his younger daughters after the rest had finished eating. âIlain will take the bowls. Letâcher elders talk.â

Beni and Renna rose as one, bouncing out of the curtain. Arlen was in no mood to play, but the girls didnât let him speak, yanking him to his feet and out the door into the barn.

Beni lit a cracked lantern, casting the barn in a dull glow. Harl had two old cows, four goats, a pig with eight sucklings, and six chickens. All were gaunt and bony; underfed. Even the pigâs ribs showed. The stock seemed barely enough to feed Harl and the girls.

The barn itself was no better. Half the shutters were broken, and the hay on the floor was rotted. The goats had eaten through the wall of their stall, and were pulling the cowâs hay. Mud, slop, and faeces had churned into a single muck in the pig stall.

Renna dragged Arlen to each stall in turn. âDa doesnât like us naming the animals,â she confessed, âso we do it secret. This oneâs Hoofy.â She pointed to a cow. âHer milk tastes sour, but Da says itâs fine. Next to her is Grouchy. She kicks, but only if you milk too hard, or not soon enough. The goats are â¦â

âArlen doesnât care about the animals,â Beni scolded her sister. She grabbed his arm and pulled him away. Beni was taller than her sister, and older, but Arlen thought Renna was prettier. They climbed into the hayloft, plopping down on the clean hay.

âLetâs play Succour,â Beni said. She pulled a tiny leather pouch from her pocket, rolling four wooden dice onto the floor of the loft. The dice were painted with symbols: flame, rock, water, wind, wood, and ward. There were many ways to play, but most rules agreed you needed to throw three wards before rolling four of any other kind.

They played at the dice for a while. Renna and Beni had their own rules, many of which Arlen suspected were made up to let them win.

âTwo wards three times in a row counts as three wards,â Beni announced, after throwing just that. âWe win.â Arlen disagreed, but he didnât see much point in arguing.

âSince we won, you have to do what we say,â Beni declared.

âDo not,â Arlen said.

âDo too!â Beni insisted. Again, Arlen felt as if arguing would get him nowhere.

âWhat would I have to do?â he asked suspiciously.

âMake him play kissy!â Renna clapped.

Beni swatted her sister on the head. âI know, dumbs!â

âWhatâs kissy?â Arlen asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

âOh, youâll see,â Beni said, and both girls laughed. âItâs a grown-up game. Da plays it with Ilain sometimes. You practice being married.â

âWhat, like saying your promises?â Arlen asked, wary.

âNo, dumbs, like this,â Beni said. She put her arms around Arlenâs shoulders, and pressed her mouth to his.

Arlen had never kissed a girl before. She opened her mouth to him, and so he did the same. Their teeth clicked, and both of them recoiled. âOw!â Arlen said.

âYou do it too hard, Beni,â Renna complained. âItâs my turn.â

Indeed, Rennaâs kiss was much softer. Arlen found it rather pleasant. Like being near the fire when it was cold.

âThere,â Renna said, when their lips parted. âThatâs how you do it.â

âWe have to share the bed tonight,â Beni said. âWe can practise later.â

âIâm sorry you had to give up your bed on account of my mam,â Arlen said.

âItâs okay,â Renna said. âWe used to have to share a bed every night, until Mam died. But now Ilain sleeps with Da.â

âWhy?â Arlen asked.

âWeâre not supposed to talk about it,â Beni hissed at Renna.

Renna ignored her, but she kept her voice low. âIlain says that now that Mamâs gone, Da told her itâs her duty to keep him happy the way a wife is supposed to.â

âLike cooking and sewing and stuff?â Arlen asked.

âNo, itâs a game like kissy,â Beni said. âBut you need a boy to play it.â She tugged on his overalls. âIf you show us your thingie, weâll teach you.â

âI am not showing you my thingie!â Arlen said, backing away.

âWhy not?â Renna asked. âBeni showed Lucik Boggin, and now he wants to play all the time.â

âDa and Lucikâs father said weâre promised,â Beni bragged. âSo that makes it okay. Since youâre going to be promised to Renna, you should show her yours.â Renna bit her finger and looked away, but she watched Arlen out of the corner of her eye.

âThatâs not true!â Arlen said. âIâm not promised to anyone!â

âWhat do you think the elders are talking about inside, dumbs?â Beni asked.

âAre not,â Arlen said.

âGo see!â Beni challenged.

Arlen looked at both girls, then climbed down the ladder, slipping into the house as quietly as he could. He could hear voices from behind the curtain, and crept closer.

âI wanted Lucik right away,â Harl was saying, âbut Fernan wants him makinâ mash for another season. Without an extra back around the farm, itâs hard keepinâ our bellies full,â specially since them chickens quit layinâ and one of the milk cows soured.â

âWeâll take Renna on our way back from Mey,â Jeph said.

âGonna tell him theyâs promised?â Harl asked. Arlenâs breath caught.

âNo reason not to,â Jeph said.

Harl grunted. âReckon you should wait till tâmorrer,â he said. âWhile yur alone on the road. Sometime boys cause a scene when theyâs first told. It kin hurt a girlâs feelinâs.â

âYouâre probably right,â Jeph said. Arlen wanted to scream.

âKnow I am,â Harl said. âTrust a man with daughters; theyâll get upset over any old thing, ent that right, Lainie?â There was a smack, and Ilain yelped. âBut still,â Harl went on, âyou kin do them no hurt that a few hours of cryinâ wonât solve.â

There was a long silence, and Arlen started to edge back towards the barn door.

âIâm off tâbed,â Harl grunted. Arlen froze. âSeeân how Silvyâs in yur bed tonight, Lainie,â he went on, âyou cân sleep with me after you scrape the bowls and round up the girls.â

Arlen ducked behind a workbench and stayed there as Harl went to the privy to relieve himself, and then went into his room, closing the door. Arlen was about to creep back to the barn when Ilain spoke.

âI want to go, too,â she blurted, just after the door closed.

âWhat?â Jeph asked.

Arlen could see their feet under the curtain from where he crouched. Ilain came around the table to sit next to his father.

âTake me with you,â Ilain repeated. âPlease. Beni will be fine once Lucik comes. I need to get away.â

âWhy?â Jeph asked. âSurely you have enough food for three.â

âItâs not that,â Ilain said. âIt doesnât matter why. I can tell Da Iâll be out in the fields when you come for Renna. Iâll run down the road, and meet you there. By the time Da realizes where Iâve gone, thereâll be a night between us. Heâll never follow.â

âI wouldnât be too sure of that,â Jeph said.

âYour farm is as far from here as there is,â Ilain pleaded. Arlen saw her put her hand on Jephâs knee. âI can work,â she promised. âIâll earn my keep.â

âI canât just steal you away from Harl,â Jeph said. âIâve no quarrel with him, and Iâm not about to start one.â

Ilain spat. âThe old wretch would have you think Iâm sharing his bed because of Silvy,â she said quietly. âTruer is he raises his hand to me if I donât join him every night after Renna and Beni are off to bed.â

Jeph was silent a long time. âI see,â he said at last. He made a fist, and started to rise.

âDonât, please,â Ilain said. âYou donât know what heâs like. Heâll kill you.â

âI should just stand by?â Jeph asked. Arlen didnât understand what the fuss was about. So what if Ilain slept in Harlâs room?

Arlen saw Ilain move closer to his father. âYouâll need someone to take care of Silvy,â she whispered. âAnd if she should pass â¦â she leaned in further, and her hand went to Jephâs lap the way Beni had tried to do to Arlen. ââ¦ I could be your wife. I would fill your farm with children,â she promised. Jeph groaned.

Arlen felt nauseous and hot in the face. He gulped, tasting bile in his mouth. He wanted to scream their plan to Harl. The man had faced a coreling for his daughter, something Jeph would never do. He imagined Harl would punch his father. The image was not displeasing.

Jeph hesitated, then pushed Ilain away. âNo,â he said. âWeâll get Silvy to the Herb Gatherer tomorrow, and sheâll be fine.â

âThen take me anyway,â Ilain begged, falling to her knees.

âIâll â¦ think about it,â his father replied. Just then, Beni and Renna burst in from the barn. Arlen rose quickly, pretending he had just entered with them as Ilain hurriedly stood. He felt the moment to confront them slip past.

After putting the girls to bed and producing a pair of grimy blankets for Arlen and Jeph in the main room, Ilain drew a deep breath and went into her fatherâs room. Not long after, Arlen heard Harl grunting quietly, and the occasional muffled yelp from Ilain. Pretending not to hear it, he glanced over at Jeph, seeing him biting his fist.

Arlen was up before the sun the next morning, while the rest of the house slept. Moments before sunrise, he opened the door, staring at the remaining corelings impatiently as they hissed and clawed the air at him from the far side of the wards. As the last demon in the yard went misty, he left the house and went to the big barn, watering Missy and Harlâs other horses. The mare was in a foul temper, and nipped at him. âJust one more day,â Arlen told her as he put her feed bag on.

His father was still snoring as he went back into the house and knocked on the doorframe of the room shared by Renna and Beni. Beni pulled the curtain aside, and immediately Arlen noted the worried looks on the sistersâ faces.

âShe wonât wake up,â Renna, who was kneeling by Arlenâs mother, choked. âI knew you wanted to leave as soon as the sun rose, but when I shook her â¦â She gestured towards the bed, her eyes wet. âSheâs so pale.â

Arlen rushed to his motherâs side, taking her hand. Her fingers were cold and clammy, but her forehead burned to the touch. Her breathing came in short gasps, and the rotting stink of demon sickness was thick about her. Her bandages were soaked with brownish yellow ooze.

âDa!â Arlen cried. A moment later, Jeph appeared with Ilain and Harl close behind.

âWe donât have any time to waste,â Jeph said.

âTake oneâa my horses tâgo with yours,â Harl said. âSwitch âem when they tire. Push hard, and you should reach Mey by afternoon.â

âWeâre in your debt,â Jeph said, but Harl waved the thought away.

âHurry, now,â he said. âIlain will pack you something to eat on the road.â

Renna caught Arlenâs arm as he turned to go. âWeâs promised now,â she whispered. âIâll wait on the porch every dusk till youâre back.â She kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were soft, and the feel of them lingered long after she pulled away.

The cart bumped and jerked as they raced along the rough dirt road, pausing only once to rotate the horses. Arlen looked at the food Ilain had packed as if it were poison. Jeph ate it hungrily.

As Arlen picked at the grainy bread and hard, pungent cheese, he started to think that maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe he hadnât overheard what he thought he had. Maybe Jeph hadnât hesitated in pushing Ilain away.

It was a tempting illusion, but Jeph shattered it a moment later. âWhat do you think of Harlâs younger daughter?â he asked. âYou spent some time with her.â Arlen felt as if his father had just punched him in the stomach.

âRenna?â Arlen asked, playing innocent. âSheâs okay, I guess. Why?â

âI spoke to Harl,â his father said. âSheâs going to come live with us when we go back to the farm.â

âWhy?â Arlen asked.

âTo look after your mam, help around the farm, and â¦ other reasons.â

âWhat other reasons?â Arlen pressed.

âHarl and I want to see if you two will get along,â Jeph said.

âWhat if we donât?â Arlen asked. âWhat if I donât want some girl following me around all day asking me to play kissy with her?â

âOne day,â Jeph said, âyou might not mind playing kissy so much.â

âSo let her come then,â Arlen said, shrugging his shoulders and pretending not to know what his father was getting at. âWhy is Harl so eager to be rid of her?â

âYouâve seen the state of their farm; they can barely feed themselves,â Jeph said. âHarl loves his daughters very much, and he wants the best for them. And whatâs best is marrying them while theyâre still young, so he can have sons to help him out and grandchildren before he dies. Ilain is already older than most girls who marry. Lucik Boggin is going to come out to help on Harlâs farm starting in the fall. Theyâre hoping he and Beni will get along.â

âI suppose Lucik didnât have any choice, either,â Arlen grumbled.

âHeâs happy to go, and lucky at that!â Arlenâs father snapped, losing his patience. âYouâre going to have to learn some hard lessons about life, Arlen. There are a lot more boys than girls in the Brook, and we canât just fritter our lives away. Every year, we lose more to dotage and sickness and corelings. If we donât keep children coming, Tibbetâs Brook will fade away just like a hundred other villages! We canât let that happen!â

Arlen, seeing his normally placid father seething, wisely said nothing.

An hour later, Silvy started screaming. They turned to find her trying to stand up right there in the cart, clutching at her chest, her breath coming in loud, horrid gasps. Arlen leapt into the back of the cart, and she gripped him with surprisingly strong hands, coughing thick phlegm onto his shirt. Her bulging, bloodshot eyes stared wildly into his, but there was no recognition in them. Arlen screamed as she thrashed about, holding her as steadily as he could.

Jeph stopped the cart and together they forced her to lie back down. She thrashed about, screaming in hoarse gasps. And then, like Cholie, she gave a final wrack, and lay still.

Jeph looked at his wife, and then threw his head back and screamed. Arlen nearly bit through his lip trying to hold back his tears, but in the end he failed. They wept together over the woman.

When their sobs eased, Arlen looked around, his eyes lifeless. He tried to focus, but the world seemed blurry, as if it wasnât real.

âWhat do we do now?â he asked finally.

âWe turn around,â his father said, and the words cut Arlen like a knife. âWe take her home and burn her. We try to go on. Thereâs still the farm and the animals to care for, and even with Renna and Norine to help us, thereâs going to be some hard times ahead.â

âRenna?â Arlen asked incredulously. âWeâre still taking her with us? Even now?â

âLife goes on, Arlen,â his father said. âYouâre almost a man, and a man needs a wife.â

âDid you arrange one for both of us?â Arlen blurted.

âWhat?â Jeph asked.

âI heard you and Ilain last night!â Arlen screamed. âYouâve got another wife all ready! What do you care about Mam? Youâve already got someone else to take care of your thingie! At least, until she gets killed too, because youâre too scared to help her!â

Arlenâs father hit him; a hard slap across the face that cracked the morning air. His anger faded instantly, and he reached out to his son. âArlen, Iâm sorry â¦!â he choked, but the boy pulled away and jumped off the cart.

âArlen!â Jeph cried, but the boy ignored him, running as hard as he could for the woods off to the side of the road.

3

A Night Alone 319 AR

Arlen ran through the woods as fast as he could, making sharp, sudden turns, picking his direction at random. He wanted to be sure his father couldnât track him, but as Jephâs calls faded, he realized his father wasnât following at all.

Why should he bother? he thought. He knows I have to come back before nightfall. Where else could I go?

Anywhere. The answer came unbidden, but he knew in his heart that it was true.

He couldnât go back to the farm and pretend everything was all right. He couldnât watch Ilain claim his motherâs bed. Even pretty Renna, who kissed so softly, would only be a reminder of what he had lost, and why.

But where could he go? His father was right about one thing. He couldnât run forever. He would have to find succour before dark, or the coming night would be his last.

Going back to Tibbetâs Brook was not an option. Whoever he sought succour from would drag him home by the ear the next day, and heâd be switched for the stunt with nothing to show.

Sunny Pasture, then. Unless Hog was paying them to carry something, almost no one from Tibbetâs Brook ever went there, unless they were Messengers.

Coline had said Ragen was heading to Sunny Pasture before returning to the Free Cities. Arlen liked Ragen, the only elder heâd ever met who didnât talk down to him. The Messenger and Keerin were a day and more ahead of him, and mounted, but if he hurried, perhaps he could catch them in time and beg passage to the Free Cities.

He still had Colineâs map, strung around his neck. It showed the road to Sunny Pasture, and the farms along the way. Even deep in the woods, he was pretty sure which way was north.

At midday he found the road, or rather the road found him, cutting straight across the woods ahead of him. He must have lost his sense of direction in the trees.

He walked on for a few hours, but he saw no sign of a farm, or the old Herb Gathererâs home. Looking at the sun, his worry increased. If he was walking north, the sun should be off to his left, but it wasnât. It was right in front of him.

He stopped and looked at the map, and his fears were confirmed. He wasnât on the road to Sunny Pasture, he was on the road to the Free Cities. Worse, after the road split off from the path to Sunny Pasture, it went right off the edge of the map.

The idea of backtracking was daunting, especially with no way to know if he could make it to succour in time. He took a step back the way he had come.

No, he decided. Going back is Daâs way. Whatever happens, Iâm going forward.

Arlen started walking again, leaving both Tibbetâs Brook and Sunny Pasture behind. Each step was lighter and easier than the one before.

He walked for hours more, eventually leaving the trees behind and entering grassland: wide, lush fields untouched by plough or grazing. He crested a hilltop, breathing deeply of the fresh, untainted air. There was a large boulder jutting from the ground, and Arlen scrambled on top of it, looking out at a wide world that had always been beyond his reach. There was no sign of habitation, no place to seek succour. He was afraid of the coming night, but it was a distant feeling, like knowing you would grow old and die one day.

As the afternoon turned to evening, Arlen began looking for places to make his stand. A copse of trees held promise; there was little grass beneath them, and he could draw wards in the soil, but a wood demon might climb one of the trees, and drop into his warding ring from above.

There was a small, stony hillock free of grass, but when Arlen stood on top of it, the wind was strong, and he feared it might mar the wards, rendering them useless.

Finally, Arlen came to a place where flame demons had set a recent blaze. New buds had yet to pierce the ash, and a scuff of his foot found hard soil beneath. He cleared the ash from a wide area and began his warding circle. He had little time, so he kept it small, not wanting his haste to make him careless.

Using a sharp stick, Arlen drew the sigils in the dirt, gently blowing away loose scrapings. He worked for over an hour, ward by ward, stepping back frequently to assure himself that they were aligned properly. His hands, as always, moved with confidence and alacrity.

When he finished, Arlen had a circle six feet in diameter. He checked the wards three times, finding no error. He put the stick in his pocket and sat at the circleâs centre, watching the shadows lengthen and the sun dip low, setting the sky awash with colour.

Perhaps he would die tonight. Perhaps not. Arlen told himself it did not matter. But as the light waned, so too did his nerve. He felt his heart pounding, and every instinct told him to leap to his feet and run. But there was nowhere to run to. He was miles away from the nearest place of succour. He shivered, though it was not cold.

This was a bad idea, a tiny voice whispered in his mind. He snarled at it, but the brave front did little to loosen his knotting muscles as the last rays of the sun winked out, and he was bathed in darkness.

Here they come, that frightened voice in his head warned, as the wisps of mist began to rise from the ground.

The mist coalesced slowly, demon bodies gaining substance as they slipped from the ground. Arlen rose with them, clenching his small fists. As always, the flame demons came first, scampering about in delight, trailing flickering fire as they went. These were followed by the wind demons, which immediately ran and spread their leathery wings, leaping into the air. Last came the rock demons, laboriously hauling their heavy frames from the Core.

And then the corelings saw Arlen and howled with delight, charging the helpless boy.

A swooping wind demon struck first, raking its hooked wing claws to tear out Arlenâs throat. Arlen screamed, but sparks flew as the talons struck his wards, deflecting the attack. Momentum carried the demon on, and its body slammed into the shield only to be hurled back in a shimmering burst of energy. The creature howled as it struck the ground, but it pulled itself upright, twitching as energy danced across its scales.

Next came the nimble flame demons, the largest no bigger than a dog. They skittered forward, shrieking, and began clawing at the shield. Arlen flinched each time the wards flared, but the magic held. When they saw that Arlen had woven an effective net, they spat fire at him.

Arlen was wise to the trick, of course. He had been warding since he was old enough to hold a stick of charcoal, and he knew the wards against firespit. The flames were turned as effectively as the claws. He didnât even feel the heat.

Corelings gathered to the spectacle, and each flash of light as the wards activated showed Arlen more and more of them: a fell horde, eager to flay the flesh from his bones.

More wind demons swooped in, and were thrown back by the wards. The flame demons, too, began to hurl themselves at him in frustration, accepting the stinging burn of the magic in hope of powering their way through. Again and again they were thrown back. Arlen ceased to flinch. He began to scream curses at them, shoving his terror aside.

His defiance only enraged the demons further. Unused to being taunted by their prey, they doubled their efforts to penetrate the wards as Arlen shook his fists and made rude gestures he had seen the adults in Tibbetâs Brook make to Hogâs back sometimes.

This was what he feared? This was what humanity lived in terror of? These pathetic, frustrated beasts? Ridiculous. He spat, and the saliva sizzled on a flame demonâs scales, trebling its fury.

There was a hush from the howling creatures then. In the flickering light of the flame demons, he saw the coreling host part, clearing a path for a rock demon that stomped towards him, its footsteps like an earthquake.

All his life, Arlen had watched corelings from afar, from behind windows and doors. Before the terrifying events of the last few days, he had never been outside in the air with a fully formed demon, and had certainly never stood his ground. He knew their size could vary, but he had never appreciated just how much.

The rock demon was fifteen feet tall.

The rock demon was enormous.

Arlen craned his head upward as the monster approached. Even at a distance, it was a towering, hulking mass of sinew and sharp edges. Its thick black carapace was knobbed with bony protrusions, and its spiked tail slid back and forth, balancing its massive shoulders. It stood hunched on two clawed feet that dug great grooves in the ground with every thunderous step. Its long, gnarled arms ended in talons the size of butchering knives, and its drooling maw split wide to reveal row after row of bladelike teeth. A black tongue slipped out, tasting Arlenâs fear.

One of the flame demons failed to move from its path quickly enough, and the rock demon swiped at it in an offhand manner, its talons tearing great gashes as the blow launched the smaller coreling through the air.

Terrified, Arlen took a step back, and then another, as the giant coreling approached. It was only at the last moment that he came to his senses and stopped before he retreated right out of the protective circle.

Remembering the circle gave fleeting comfort. Arlen doubted his wards were strong enough for this test. He doubted any wards were.

The demon regarded him for a long moment, savouring his terror. Rock demons seldom hurried, though when they chose to, they could move with astonishing speed.

As the demon struck, Arlenâs nerve broke. He screamed and fell to the ground, curling up in a tight ball, covering his head with his arms.

The resulting explosion was deafening. Even through his covered eyes, Arlen saw the bright flash of magic, as if night had become day. He heard the demonâs shriek of frustration, and peeked out as the coreling whirled, smashing its heavy, horned tail against the wards.

Again the magic flared, and again the creature was thwarted.

Arlen forced himself to let go the breath he had been holding. He watched as the demon struck his wards again and again, screaming in rage. A warm dampness clung to his thighs.

Ashamed of himself, of his cowardice, Arlen came to his feet and met the demonâs eyes. He screamed, a primal cry from deep within him that rejected everything the coreling was and everything it represented.

He picked up a stone and threw it at the demon. âGo back to the Core where you belong!â he cried. âGo back and die!â

The demon barely seemed to feel the stone bounce off its armour, but its rage multiplied as it tore at the wards, unable to get through. Arlen called the demon every foul and pathetic thing in his somewhat limited vocabulary, clawing at the ground for anything he could throw.

When he ran out of stones, he began jumping up and down, waving his arms, screaming his defiance.

Then he slipped, and stepped on a ward.

Time seemed to freeze in the long, silent moment shared by Arlen and the giant demon, the enormity of what had just happened slowly dawning on them. When they moved, they moved as one, Arlen whipping out his etching stick and diving for the ward even as the demon swiped a massive, clawed hand at him.

His mind racing, Arlen assessed the damage in an instant, a single line of the sigil was marred. Even as he repaired the ward with a slash of the tool, he knew he was too late. The claws had begun to cut into his flesh.

But then the magic took effect once more, and the demon was hurled back, screaming in agony. Arlen, too, screamed in pain, rolling over and pulling the claws from his back; hurling them away before he could realize what had happened.

He saw it then, lying in the circle, twitching and smoking.

The demonâs arm.

Arlen looked at the severed limb in shock, turning to see the demon roaring and thrashing about, savaging any demon foolish enough to come within its reach; savaging with one arm.

He looked at the arm, its end neatly severed and cauterized, oozing a foul smoke. With more bravery than he felt, Arlen picked the massive thing up and tried to hurl it from the circle, but the wards made a two-way barrier. The stuff of corelings could no more pass out than in. The arm bounced off the wards and landed back at Arlenâs feet.

Then the pain set in. Arlen touched the wounds along his back, and his hands came away wet with blood. Sickened, his strength ebbing, he fell to his knees, weeping for the pain, weeping for fear of moving and scuffing another ward, and weeping, most of all, for his mam. He understood now the pain she had felt that night.

Arlen spent the rest of the night cowering in fright. He could hear the demons circling, waiting, hoping for an error that would allow them access. Even if sleep had been possible, he would not have dared attempt it, lest a shift in his slumber grant the corelings their wish.

Dawn seemed to take years to come. Arlen looked up at the sky often that night, but each time he saw only the giant, crippled rock demon, clutching its caked and ichorous wound as it stalked the circle, hatred in its eyes.

After an eternity, a hint of red tinged the horizon, followed by orange, yellow, and then a glorious white. The other corelings slipped back down to the Core before the yellow touched the sky, but the giant waited until the last, its rows of teeth bared as it hissed at him.

But even the one-armed rock demonâs hatred was no match for its fear of the sun. As the last shadows scurried away, its massive horned head sank beneath the ground. Arlen straightened and stepped from the circle, wincing in pain. His back was on fire. The wounds had stopped bleeding in the night, but he felt them tear open once more as he stretched.

The thought led his eyes back to the clawed forearm lying next to him. It was like a tree trunk, covered in hard, cold plates. Arlen picked the heavy thing up and held it before him.

Got a trophy, at least, he thought, making an effort to be brave even though the sight of his blood on the black talons sent a shudder through him.

Just then, a ray of light reached him, the sun finally more above the horizon than below. The demonâs limb began to sizzle and smoke, popping like a wet log thrown on a fire. In a moment, it burst into flame, and Arlen dropped it in fright. He watched, fascinated, as it flared brighter and brighter, the sunâs light bearing down upon it until there was naught left but a thin, charred remnant. He stepped over and gingerly nudged it with his toe, collapsing it into dust.

Arlen found a branch to use as a walking stick as he trudged on. He understood how lucky he was. And how stupid. Wards drawn in the soil were untrustworthy. Even Ragen said that. What would he have done if the wind had marred them, as his father threatened?

Creator, what if it had rained?

How many nights could he survive? Arlen had no idea what lay over the next hill, no reason to think that there was anyone between here and the Free Cities, which, by all accounts, were weeks away.

He felt tears welling in his eyes. Brutally, he wiped them off, growling in defiance. Giving in to fear was his fatherâs solution to problems, and Arlen already knew it didnât work.

âIâm not afraid,â he told himself. âIâm not.â

Arlen pressed on, knowing the lie for what it was.

Around midday, he came to a rocky stream. The water was cold and clear, and he bent to drink. The move sent lances of pain through his back.

He had done nothing for the wounds. It wasnât as if he could stitch them closed as Coline might. He thought of his mother, and how when he came home with cuts or scrapes the first thing she did was wash them out.

He stripped off his shirt, finding the back torn and soaked through with blood, now crusted and hard. He dunked the shirt and watched as soil and blood washed downstream. He laid his clothes out on the rocks to dry, and lowered himself into the cold water.

The chill made him wince, but it soon numbed the pain in his back. He scrubbed as best he could, gently washing out the stinging wounds until he could stand it no more. Shivering, he climbed from the stream and lay on the rocks by his clothes.

He awoke some time later with a start. Cursing, he saw that the sun had moved far across the sky, and that the day was nearly done. He could travel a little farther, but he knew the risk would be a foolish one. Better to spend the extra time on his defences.

Not far from the stream was a wide area of moist soil, and the sod pulled free easily, clearing him a space. He tamped down the loose dirt, smoothed it, and set to warding. He drew a wider circle this time, and then, after checking it thrice, drew another concentric ring within the first for added safety. The moist earth would resist the wind, and the sky showed no threat of rain.

Satisfied, Arlen dug a pit and gathered dry twigs, building a small fire. He sat in the centre of the inner circle as the sun dipped, trying to ignore his hunger. He doused the fire as the red sky grew lavender, then purple, breathing deeply to steady his pounding heart. At last, the light vanished and the corelings rose.

Arlen held his breath, waiting. Finally, a flame demon caught his scent, and raced at him with a shriek. In that moment, the terror of the previous night came rushing back to him, and Arlen felt his blood go cold.

The corelings were oblivious to his wards until they were upon them. With the first flare of magic, Arlen breathed his relief. The demons clawed at the barrier, but they could not pass.

A wind demon, flying up high where the wards were weak, passed the first ring, but it smashed into the second as it swooped down at him, landing hard in the space between. Arlen struggled to maintain his calm as it lurched to its feet.

It was bipedal, with a long, thin body, and spindly limbs that ended in six-inch hooked claws. The undersides of its arms and the outsides of its legs were webbed with a thin, leathery membrane, supported by flexible bones jutting from the creatureâs sides. Barely taller than an adult man, the demonâs spread wings spanned twice its height, making it seem huge in the sky. A curving horn grew from its head, bent back and webbed like its limbs to form a ridge down its back. Its long snout held rows of inch-long teeth, yellow in the moonlight.

The coreling moved clumsily on land, despite its graceful mastery of the air. Up close, the wind demons were not nearly as impressive as their cousins. Wood and rock demons had impenetrable armour and otherworldly strength to power their thick claws. Flame demons were faster than any man, and spat fire that could set anything alight. Wind demons â¦ Arlen thought Ragen could puncture one of those thin wings with a hard stab of his spear, crippling it.

Night, he thought, Iâm pretty sure I could do it myself.

But he didnât have a spear, and impressive or not, the coreling could still kill him, if his inner wards did not hold. He tensed as it drew close.

It swiped the hooked talon at the end of its wing at him, and Arlen winced, but magic sparked along the wardnet, and it was thwarted.

After a few more futile strikes, the coreling attempted to get airborne again. It ran and spread its wings to catch the wind, but it struck the outer wards before it could gain sufficient momentum. The magic threw it back into the mud.

Arlen laughed in spite of himself as the coreling tried to pick itself up. Its huge wings dragged on the ground and threw it off balance. It had no hands to push up with, and its spindly arms bowed under its weight. It thrashed desperately for a moment before it was able to rise.

Trapped, it tried again and again to take off, but the space between the circles was not great enough, and it was foiled each time. The flame demons sensed their cousinâs distress, and shrieked with glee, hopping around the circle to follow the creature and taunt its misfortune.

Arlen felt a swell of pride. He had made mistakes the night before, but he would not make them again. He began to hope that he might live to see the Free Cities after all.

The flame demons soon tired of mocking the wind demon, and moved off in search of easier prey, flushing small animals from hiding with gouts of fire. One small, frightened hare leapt into Arlenâs outer ring, the demon in pursuit stopped by the wards. The wind demon snatched clumsily at it, but the hare dodged it easily, running through the circle and out the far side, only to find corelings there as well. It turned and darted back in, again running too far.

Arlen wished there were a way he could communicate with the poor creature, to let it know it was safe in the inner ring, but he could only watch as it darted in and out of the wards.

Then the unthinkable happened. The hare, scampering back into the circle, scratched out a ward. With a howl, flame demons poured through the gap after the animal. The lone wind demon escaped, leaping into the air and winging away.

Arlen cursed the hare, and cursed all the more when it darted right for him. If it damaged the inner wards, they were both doomed.

With a farm boyâs quickness, Arlen reached from the circle and snatched up the hare by its ears. It thrashed wildly, willing to tear itself apart to escape, but Arlen had handled hares in his fatherâs fields often enough. He swung it into his arms, cradling it on its back, hindquarters up above its head. In a moment, the hare was staring up at him blankly, its struggles ceased.

He was tempted to throw the creature to the demons. It would be safer than risking it getting free and scuffing another ward. And why not? he wondered. If Iâd found it in the light, Iâdâve eaten it myself.

Still, he found he could not do it. The demons had taken too much from the world, from him. He swore then that he would give them nothing willingly, not now, not ever.

Not even this.

As the night wore on, Arlen held the terrified creature firmly, cooing at it and stroking its soft fur. All around, the demons howled, but Arlen blocked them out, focusing on the animal.

The meditation worked for a time, until a roar brought him back. He looked up to find the massive, one-armed rock demon towering over him, its drool sizzling as it struck the wards. The creatureâs wound had healed into a knobbly stump at the end of its elbow. Its rage seemed even greater than the night before.

The coreling hammered at the barrier, ignoring the stinging flare of the magic. With deafening blows, the rock demon struck again and again, attempting to power through and take its vengeance. Arlen clutched the hare tightly, his eyes wide as he watched. He knew that the wards would not weaken from repeated blows, but it did little to stop the fear that the demon was determined enough to manage it anyway.

When the morning light banished the demons for another day, Arlen finally let go of the hare, and it bounded away immediately. His stomach growled as he watched it go, but after what they had shared, he could not bring himself to look at the creature as food.

Rising, Arlen stumbled and almost fell as a wave of nausea took him. The cuts along his back were lances of fire. He reached back to touch the tender, swollen skin, and his hand came away wet with the stinking brown ooze that Coline had drained from Silvyâs wounds. The cuts burned, and he felt flushed. He bathed in the cold pool again, but the chill water did little to ease his inner heat.

Arlen knew then he was going to die. Old Mey Friman, if she existed at all, was over two days away. If he truly had demon fever, though, it didnât matter. He wouldnât last two days.

Still, Arlen could not bring himself to give in. He stumbled on down the road, following the wagon ruts towards wherever they came from.

If he was to die, let it be closer to the Free Cities than the prison behind.

4

Leesha 319 AR

Leesha spent the night in tears.

That was nothing out of the ordinary, but it wasnât her mother that had her weeping this night. It was the screams. Someoneâs wards had failed; it was impossible to tell whose, but cries of terror and agony echoed in the dark, and smoke billowed into the sky. The whole village glowed with a hazy orange light as smoke refracted coreling fire.

The people of Cutterâs Hollow couldnât search for survivors yet. They dared not even fight the fire. They could do nothing save pray to the Creator that embers did not carry on the wind and spread the flames. Houses in Cutterâs Hollow were built well apart for just this reason, but a strong breeze could carry a spark a long way.

Even if the fire remained contained, the ash and smoke in the air could easily obscure more wards with their greasy stain, giving corelings the access they desperately sought.

No corelings tested the wards around Leeshaâs house. It was a bad sign, hinting that the demons had found easier prey in the dark.

Helpless and afraid, Leesha did the only thing she could. She cried. Cried for the dead, cried for the wounded, and cried for herself. In a village with fewer than four hundred people, there was no one whose death would not cut her.

Just shy of thirteen summers, Leesha was an exceptionally pretty girl, with long, wavy black hair and sharp eyes of pale blue. She was not yet flowered, and thus could not wed, but she was promised to Gared Cutter, the most handsome boy in the village. Gared was two summers older than her, tall and thick-muscled. The other girls squealed as he passed, but he was Leeshaâs, and they all knew. He would give her strong babies.

If he lived through the night.

The door to her room opened. Her mother never bothered to knock.

In face and form, Elona was much like her daughter. Still beautiful at thirty, her long hair hung rich and black about her proud shoulders. She had a full, womanly figure that was the envy of all; the only thing Leesha hoped to inherit from her. Her own breasts had only just started to bud, and had a long way to go before they matched her motherâs.

âThatâs enough of your blubbering, you worthless girl,â Elona snapped, throwing Leesha a rag to dry her eyes. âCrying alone gets you nothing. Cry in front of a man, if you want your way, but wetting your pillow wonât bring the dead to life.â She pulled the door closed, leaving Leesha alone again in the evil orange light flickering through the slats of the shutters.

Do you feel anything at all? Leesha wondered at her.

Her mother was right that tears would not bring back the dead, but she was wrong that it was good for nothing. Crying had always been Leeshaâs escape when things were hard. Other girls might think Leeshaâs life was perfect, but only because none of them saw the face Elona showed her only child when they were alone. It was no secret Elona had wanted sons, and Leesha and her father both endured her scorn for failing to oblige.

But she angrily dried her eyes all the same. She couldnât wait until she flowered and Gared took her away. The villagers would build them a house for their wedding boon, and Gared would carry her across the wards and make a woman of her while they all cheered outside. She would have her own children, and treat them nothing like her mother treated her.

Leesha was dressed when her mother banged on her door. She had not slept at all.

âI want you out the door when the dawn bell rings,â Elona said. âAnd Iâll not hear a murmur about you being tired! I wonât have our family seen lagging to help.â

Leesha knew her mother well enough to know that âseenâ was the operative word. Elona didnât care about helping anyone but herself.

Leeshaâs father, Erny, was waiting by the door under Elonaâs stern gaze. He was not a large man, and to call him wiry would have implied a strength that wasnât there. He was no stronger of will than of body, a timid man whose voice never rose. Elonaâs elder by a dozen years, Ernyâs thin brown hair had deserted the top of his head, and he wore thin-rimmed glasses he had bought from a Messenger years ago; the only man in town with the like.

He was, in short, not the man Elona wanted him to be, but there was great demand in the Free Cities for the fine paper he made, and she liked his money well enough.

Unlike her mother, Leesha really wanted to help her neighbours. She was out and running towards the fire the moment the corelings fled, even before the bell.

âLeesha! Stay with us!â Elona cried, but Leesha ignored her. The smoke was thick and choking, but she raised her apron to cover her mouth, and did not slow.

A few townsfolk were already gathered by the time she reached the source. Three houses had burned to the ground, and two more still blazed, threatening to set their neighbours alight. Leesha shrieked when she saw that one of the houses was Garedâs.

Smitt, who owned the inn and general store in town, was on the scene, barking orders. Smitt had been their town Speaker for as long as Leesha could remember. He was never eager to give orders, preferring to let people solve their own problems, but everyone agreed he was good at it.

ââ¦ never pull water from the well fast enough,â Smitt was saying as Leesha approached. âWeâll have to form a bucket line to the stream and wet the other houses, or the whole village will be ashes by nightfall!â

Gared and Steave came running up just then, harried and sooty, but otherwise healthy. Gared, just fifteen, was bigger than most grown men in the village. Steave, his father, was a giant, towering over everyone. Leesha felt a knot in her stomach unclench at the sight of them.

But before she could run to Gared, Smitt pointed to him. âGared, pull the bucket cart to the stream!â He looked over the others. âLeesha!â he said. âFollow him and start filling!â

Leesha ran for all she was worth, but even pulling the heavy cart, Gared beat her to the small stream flowing to the River Angiers, miles to the north. The moment he pulled up short, she fell into his arms. She had thought seeing him alive would dispel the horrible images in her head, but it only intensified them. She didnât know what she would do if she lost Gared.

âI feared you dead,â she moaned, sobbing into his chest.

âIâm safe,â he whispered, hugging her tightly. âIâm safe.â

Quickly, the two began unloading the cart, filling buckets to start the line as others arrived. Soon, more than a hundred villagers were in a neat row stretching from the stream to the blaze, passing up full buckets and handing back empty ones. Gared was called back to the fire with the cart, his strong arms needed to throw water.

It wasnât long before the cart returned, this time pulled by Tender Michel and laden with wounded. The sight brought mixed feelings. Seeing fellow villagers, friends all, burned and savaged cut her deeply, but a breach that left survivors was rare, and each one was a gift she thanked the Creator for.

The Holy Man and his acolyte, Child Jona, laid the injured out by the stream. Michel left the young man to comfort them while he brought the cart back for more.

Leesha turned from the sight, focusing on filling buckets. Her feet went numb in the cold water and her arms grew leaden, but she lost herself in the work until a whisper got her attention.

âHag Bruna is coming,â someone said, and Leeshaâs head snapped up. Sure enough, the ancient Herb Gatherer was coming down the path, led by her apprentice, Darsy.

No one knew for sure how old Bruna was. It was said she was old when the village elders were young. She had delivered most of them herself. She had outlived her husband, children, and grandchildren, and had no family left in the world.

Now, she was little more than a wrinkle of translucent skin stretched over sharp bone. Half-blind, she could walk only at a slow shuffle, but Bruna could still shout to be heard from the far end of the village, and she swung her gnarled walking stick with surprising strength and accuracy when her ire was roused.

Leesha, like almost everyone in the village, was terrified of her.

Brunaâs apprentice was a homely woman of twenty summers, thick of limb and wide of face. After Bruna outlived her last apprentice, a number of young girls had been sent to her for training. After a constant stream of abuse from the old woman, all but Darsy had been driven off.

âSheâs ugly as a bull and just as strong,â Elona once said of Darsy, cackling. âWhat does she have to fear from that sour hag? Itâs not as if Bruna will drive the suitors from her door.â

Bruna knelt beside the injured, inspecting them with firm hands as Darsy unrolled a heavy cloth covered in pockets, each marked with symbols and holding a tool, vial, or pouch. Injured villagers moaned or cried out as she worked, but Bruna paid them no mind, pinching wounds and sniffing her fingers, working as much from touch and smell as sight. Without looking, Brunaâs hands darted to the pockets of the cloth, mixing herbs with a mortar and pestle.

Darsy began laying a small fire, and looked up to where Leesha stood staring from the stream. âLeesha! Bring water, and be quick about it!â she barked.

As Leesha hurried to comply, Bruna pulled up, sniffing the herbs she was grinding.

âIdiot girl!â Bruna shrieked. Leesha jumped, thinking she meant her, but Bruna hurled the mortar and pestle at Darsy, hitting her hard in the shoulder and covering her in ground herbs.

Bruna fumbled through her cloth, snatching the contents of each pocket and sniffing at them like an animal.

âYou put stinkweed where the hogroot should be, and mixed all the skyflower with tampweed!â The old crone lifted her gnarled staff and struck Darsy across the shoulders. âAre you trying to kill these people, or are you still too stupid to read?â

Leesha had seen her mother in such a state before, and if Elona was as frightening as a coreling, Hag Bruna was the mother of all demons. She began to edge away from the two, fearing to draw attention to herself.

âI wonât take this abuse forever, you evil old hag!â Darsy screamed.

âBe off, then!â Bruna said. âIâd sooner mar every ward in this town than leave you my herb pouch when I pass! The people would be no worse off!â

Darsy laughed. âBe off?â she asked. âWhoâll carry your bottles and tripods, old woman? Whoâll lay your fire, fix your meals, and wipe the spit from your face when the cough takes you? Whoâll cart your old bones around when chill and damp sap your strength? You need me more than I need you!â

Bruna swung her staff, and Darsy wisely scurried out of the way, tripping over Leesha, who had been doing her best to remain invisible. Both of them tumbled to the ground.

Bruna used the opportunity to swing her staff again. Leesha rolled through the dust to avoid the blows, but Brunaâs aim was true. Darsy cried out in pain, covering her head with her arms.

âOff with you!â Bruna shouted again. âI have sick to tend!â

Darsy growled and got to her feet. Leesha feared she might strike the old woman, but instead she ran off. Bruna let fly a stream of curses at Darsyâs back.

Leesha held her breath and kept to her knees, inching away. Just as she thought she might escape, Bruna took notice of her.

âYou, Elonaâs brat!â she shouted, pointing her gnarled stick at Leesha. âFinish laying the fire and set my tripod over it!â

Bruna turned back to the wounded, and Leesha had no choice but to do as she was told.

Over the next few hours, Bruna barked an endless stream of orders at the girl, cursing her slowness, as Leesha scurried to do her bidding. She fetched and boiled water, ground herbs, brewed tinctures, and mixed balms. It seemed she never got more than halfway though a task before the ancient Herb Gatherer ordered her on to the next, and she was forced to work faster and faster to comply. Fresh wounded streamed in from the fires with deep burns and broken bones from collapses. She feared half the village was aflame.

Bruna brewed teas to numb pain for some and drug others into a dreamless sleep as she cut them with sharp instruments. She worked tirelessly: stitching, poulticing, and bandaging.

It was late afternoon when Leesha realized that not only were there no more injuries to tend, but the bucket line was gone, as well. She was alone with Bruna and the wounded, the most alert of whom stared off dazedly into space thanks to Brunaâs herbs.

A wave of suppressed weariness fell over her, and Leesha fell to her knees, sucking in a deep breath. Every inch of her ached, but with the pain came a powerful sense of satisfaction. There were some that might not have lived, but now would, thanks in part to her efforts.

But the real hero, she admitted to herself, was Bruna. It occurred to her that the woman had not ordered her to do anything for several minutes. She looked over, and saw Bruna collapsed on the ground, gasping.

âHelp! Help!â Leesha cried. âBrunaâs sick!â New strength came to her, and she flew to the woman, lifting her up into a sitting position. Hag Bruna was shockingly light, and Leesha could feel little more than bone beneath her thick shawls and wool skirts.

Bruna was twitching, and a thin trail of spit ran from her mouth, caught in the endless grooves of her wrinkled skin. Her eyes, dark behind a milky film, stared wildly at her hands, which would not stop shaking.

Leesha looked around frantically, but there was no one nearby to help. Still holding Bruna upright, she grabbed at one of the womanâs spasming hands, rubbing the cramped muscles. âOh, Bruna!â she pleaded. âWhat do I do? Please! I donât know how to help you! You must tell me what to do!â Helplessness cut at Leesha, and she began to cry.

Brunaâs hand jerked from her grasp, and Leesha cried out, fearing a fresh set of spasms. But her ministrations had given the old Herb Gatherer the control to reach into her shawl, pulling free a pouch that she thrust Leeshaâs way. A series of coughs wracked her frail body, and she was torn from Leeshaâs arms and hit the ground, flopping like a fish with each cough. Leesha was left holding the pouch in horror.

She looked down at the cloth bag, squeezing experimentally and feeling the crunch of herbs inside. She sniffed it, catching a scent like potpourri.

She thanked the Creator. If it had all been one herb, she would have never been able to guess the dose, but she had made enough tinctures and teas for Bruna that day to understand what she had been given.

She rushed to the kettle steaming on the tripod and placed a thin cloth over a cup, layering it thick with herbs from the pouch. She poured boiling water over the herbs slowly, leaching their strength, then deftly tied the herbs up in the cloth and tossed it into the water.

She ran back to Bruna, blowing on the liquid. It would burn, but there was no time to let it cool. She lifted Bruna in one arm, pressing the cup to her spit-flecked lips.

The Herb Gatherer thrashed, spilling some of the cure, but Leesha forced her to drink, the yellow liquid running out of the sides of her mouth. She kept twitching and coughing, but the symptoms began to subside. As her heaves eased, Leesha sobbed in relief.

âLeesha!â she heard a call. She looked up from Bruna, and saw her mother racing towards her, ahead of a group of townsfolk.

âWhat have you done, you worthless girl?â Elona demanded. She reached Leesha before the others could draw close and hissed, âBad enough I have a useless daughter and not a son to fight the fire, but now youâve gone and killed the town crone?â She drew back her hand to smack at her daughter, but Bruna reached up and caught Elonaâs wrist in her skeletal grip.

âThe crone lives because of her, you idiot!â Bruna croaked. Elona turned bone-white and drew back as if Bruna had become a coreling. The sight gave Leesha a rush of pleasure.

By then, the rest of the villagers had gathered around them, asking what had happened.

âMy daughter saved Brunaâs life!â Elona shouted, before Leesha or Bruna could speak.

Tender Michel held his warded Canon aloft so all could see the holy book as the remains of the dead were thrown on the ruin of the last burning house. The villagers stood with hats in hand, heads bowed. Jona threw incense on the blaze, flavouring the acrid stench permeating the air.

âUntil the Deliverer comes to lift the Plague of demonkind, remember well that it was the sins of man that brought it down!â Michel shouted. âThe adulterers and the fornicators! The liars and thieves and usurers!â

âThe ones that clench their rears too tight,â Elona murmured. Someone snickered.

âThose leaving this world will be judged,â Michel went on, âand those who served the Creatorâs will shall join with him in Heaven, while those who have broken his trust, sullied by sins of indulgence or flesh, will burn in the Core for eternity!â He closed the book, and the assembled villagers bowed in silence.

âBut while mourning is good and proper,â Michel said, âwe should not forget those of us the Creator has chosen to live. Let us break casks and drink to the dead. Let us tell the tales of them we love most, and laugh, for life is precious, and not to be wasted. We can save our tears for when we sit behind our wards tonight.â

âThatâs our Tender,â Elona muttered. âAny excuse to break open a cask.â

âNow, dear,â Erny said, patting her hand, âhe means well.â

âThe coward defends the drunk, of course,â Elona said, pulling her hand away. âSteave rushes into burning houses, and my husband cringes with the women.â

âI was in the bucket line!â Erny protested. He and Steave had been rivals for Elona, and it was said that his winning of Elona was more to do with his purse than her heart.

âLike a woman,â Elona agreed, eyeing the muscular Steave across the crowd.

It was always like this. Leesha wished she could shut her ears to them. She wished the corelings had taken her mother, instead of seven good people. She wished her father would stand up to her for once; for himself, if not his daughter. She wished she would flower soon, so she could go with Gared and leave them both behind.

Those too old or young to fight the flames had prepared a great meal for the village, and they laid it out as the others sat, too exhausted to move, and stared at the smouldering ashes.

But the fires were out, the wounded bandaged and healing, and there were hours before sunset. The Tenderâs words took the guilt from those relieved to be alive, and Smittâs strong Hollow ale did the rest. It was said that Smittâs ale could cure any woe, and there was much to cure. Soon the long tables rang with laughter at stories of those who had passed from the world.

Gared sat a few tables away with his friends Ren and Flinn, their wives, and his other friend Evin. The other boys, all woodcutters, were older than Gared by a few years, but Gared was bigger than all save Ren, and it seemed he would surpass even him before his growing was done. Of the group, Evin alone was unpromised, and many girls eyed him, despite his short temper.

The older boys teased Gared relentlessly, especially about Leesha. She wasnât happy to be forced to sit with her parents, but sitting with Gared while Ren and Flinn made lewd suggestions and Evin picked fights was often worse.

After they had eaten their share, Tender Michel and Child Jona rose from the table, carrying a large platter of food to the Holy House, where Darsy looked after Bruna and the wounded. Leesha excused herself to help them. Gared spotted the move and rose to join her, but no sooner had she stood than she was swept off by Brianne, Saira, and Mairy, her closest friends.

âIs it true what happened?â Saira asked, pulling her left arm.

âEveryoneâs saying you knocked Darsy down and saved Hag Bruna!â Mairy said, pulling her right. Leesha looked back helplessly at Gared, and allowed herself to be led away.

âThe grizzly bear can wait his turn,â Brianne told her.

âYull come second to them girls even after yur married, Gared!â Ren cried, causing his friends to roar with laughter and pound the table. The girls ignored them, spreading their skirts and sitting on the grass, away from the increasing noise, as their elders drained cask after cask.

âGaredâs gonna be hearing that one awhile,â Brianne laughed. âRen bet five klats he wonât get to kiss you before dusk, much less a good grope.â At sixteen, she was already two years a widow, but had no shortage of suitors. She said it was because she knew a wifeâs tricks. She lived with her father and two older brothers, woodcutters, and was mother to them all.

âUnlike some people, I donât invite every passing boy to grope me,â Leesha said, bringing a mock look of indignation from Brianne.

âIâd let Gared grope if I was promised to him,â Saira said. She was fifteen, with cropped brown hair and freckles on her chipmunk cheeks. She had been promised to a boy last year, but the corelings had taken him and her father in a single night.

âI wish I was promised,â Mairy complained. She was gaunt at fourteen years, with a hollow face and a prominent nose. She was full flowered, but despite the efforts of her parents, not yet promised. Elona called her scarecrow. âNo man will want to put a child between those bony hips,â she had sneered once, âlest the scarecrow crack in two when the babe breaks.â

âIt will happen soon enough,â Leesha told her. She was the youngest of the group at thirteen, but the others seemed to centre on her. Elona said it was because she was prettier and better moneyed, but Leesha could never believe her friends so petty.

âDid you really beat Darsy with a stick?â Mairy asked.

âIt didnât happen like that,â Leesha said. âDarsy made some mistake, and Bruna started hitting her with her stick. Darsy tried to back away, and walked right into me. We both fell down, and Bruna kept hitting her until she ran off.â

âIf sheâd hit me with a stick, Iâda hit her right back,â Brianne said. âDa says Brunaâs a witch, and she slaps stomachs with demons in her hut at night.â

âThatâs disgusting nonsense!â Leesha snapped.

âThen whyâs she live so far from town?â Saira demanded. âAnd how is it sheâs still alive when her grandchildren are dead of old age?â

âBecause sheâs an Herb Gatherer,â Leesha said, âand you donât find herbs growing in the centre of town. I helped her today, and it was amazing. I thought half the people brought to her were too hurt to live, but she saved every one.â

âDid you see her cast spells on them?â Mairy asked excitedly.

âSheâs not a witch!â Leesha said. âShe did it all with herbs and knives and thread.â

âShe cut people?â Mairy said in disgust.

âWitch,â Brianne said. Saira nodded.

Leesha gave them all a sour look, and they quieted. âShe didnât just go around cutting people,â Leesha said. âShe healed them. It was â¦ I canât explain it. Old as she is, she never stopped working until she treated everyone. It was like she kept on by will alone. She collapsed right after she treated the last one.â

âAnd thatâs when you saved her?â Mairy asked.

Leesha nodded. âShe gave me the cure just before the coughing started. Really, all I did was brew it. I held her until the coughing stopped, and thatâs when everyone found us.â

âYou touched her?â Brianne made a face. âI bet she stunk of sour milk and weeds.â

âCreator!â Leesha cried. âBruna saved a dozen lives today, and all you can do is mock!â

âGoodness,â Brianne quipped, âLeesha saves the hag, and suddenly her paps are too big for her corset.â Leesha scowled. She was the last of her friends to bloom, and her breasts, or lack thereof, were a sore spot for her.

âYou used to say the same things about her, Leesh,â Saira said.

âMaybe so, but not any more,â Leesha said. âShe may be a mean old woman, but she deserves better.â

Just then, Child Jona came over to them. He was seventeen, but too small and slight to swing an axe or pull a saw. Jona spent most of his days penning and reading letters for those in town with no letters, which was almost everyone. Leesha, one of the few children who could read, often went to him to borrow books from Tender Michelâs collection.

âIâve a message from Bruna,â he said to Leesha. âShe wishes â¦â

His words were cut off as he was yanked backward. Jona was two years senior, but Gared spun him like a paper doll, gripping his robes and pulling him so close their noses touched.

âI told you before about talking to those what arnât promised to ya,â Gared growled.

âI wasnât!â Jona protested, his feet kicking an inch off the ground. âI just â¦!â

âGared!â Leesha barked. âYou put him down this instant!â

Gared looked at Leesha, then back to Jona. His eyes flicked to his friends, then back to Leesha. He let go, and Jona crashed to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and scurried off. Brianne and Saira giggled, but Leesha silenced them with a glare before rounding on Gared.

âWhat in the Core is the matter with you?â Leesha demanded.

Gared looked down. âIâm sorry,â he said. âItâs jusââ¦ well, I ent gotten to talk to ya all day, and I guess I got mad when I saw ya talking to him.â

âOh, Gared,â Leesha touched his cheek, âyou donât have to be jealous. Thereâs no one for me but you.â

âReally?â Gared asked.

âWill you apologize to Jona?â Leesha asked.

âYes,â Gared promised.

âThen yes, really,â Leesha said. âNow go on back to the tables. Iâll join you in a bit.â She kissed him, and Gared broke into a wide smile and ran off.

âI suppose itâs something like training a bear,â Brianne mused.

âA bear that just sat in a briar patch,â Saira said.

âYou leave him be,â Leesha said. âGared doesnât mean any harm. Heâs just too strong for his own good, and a little â¦â

âLumbering?â Brianne offered.

âSlow?â Saira supplied.

âDim?â Mairy suggested.

Leesha swatted at them, and they all laughed.

Gared sat protectively by Leesha, he and Steave having come over to sit with Leeshaâs family. She longed for his arms around her, but it wasnât proper, even promised as they were, until she was of age and their engagement formalized by the Tender. Even then, chaste touching and kisses were supposed to be the limit until their wedding night.

Still, Leesha let Gared kiss her when they were alone, but she held it at that, regardless of what Brianne thought. She wanted to keep tradition, so their wedding night would be a special thing they would remember forever.

And of course, there was Klarissa, who had loved to dance and flirt. She had taught Leesha and her friends to reel and braid flowers in their hair. An exceptionally pretty girl, Klarissa had her pick of suitors.

Her son would be three now, and still no man in Cutterâs Hollow would claim him as their own. It was broadly assumed that meant he was a married man, and over the months when her belly fattened, not a sermon had gone by where Tender Michel had failed to remind her that it was her sin, and that of those like her, that kept the Creatorâs Plague strong.

âThe demons without echo the demons within,â he said.

Klarissa had been well loved, but after that, the town had quickly turned. Women shunned her, whispering behind her passage, and men refused to meet her eyes while their wives were about, making lewd comments when they were not.

Klarissa had left with a Messenger bound for Fort Rizon soon after the boy was weaned, and never returned. Leesha missed her.

âI wonder what Bruna wanted when she sent Jona,â Leesha said.

âI hate that little runt,â Gared growled. âEvery time he looks at you, I can see him imagining you as his wife.â

âWhat do you care,â Leesha asked, âif imagination is all it is?â

âI wonât share you, even in other menâs dreams,â Gared said, putting his giant hand over hers under the table. Leesha sighed and leaned in to him. Bruna could wait.

Just then, Smitt stood, legs shaky with ale, and banged his stein on the table. âEveryone! Your attention, please!â His wife, Stefny, helped him stand up on the bench, propping him when he wobbled. The crowd quieted, and Smitt cleared his throat. He might dislike giving orders, but he liked giving speeches well enough.

âItâs the worst times that bring out the best in us,â he began. âBut itâs them times that show the Creator our mettle. Show that weâve mended our ways and are worthy for him to send the Deliverer and end the Plague. Show that the evil of the night cannot take our sense of family.

âBecause thatâs what Cutterâs Hollow is,â Smitt went on. âA family. Oh, we bicker and fight and play favourites, but when the corelings come, we see those ties of family like the strings of a loom, tying us all together. Whatever our differences, no one is left to them.

âFour houses lost their wards in the night,â Smitt told the crowd, âputting a score at the corelingsâ absent mercy. But due to heroism out in the naked night, only seven were taken.

âNiklas!â Smitt shouted, pointing at the sandy-haired man sitting across from him, âran into a burning house to pull his mother out!

âJow!â He pointed to another man, who jumped at the sound. âNot two days ago, he and Dav were before me, arguing all the way to blows. But last night, Jow hit a wood demon, a wood demon, with his axe to hold it off while Dav and his family ran across his wards!â

Smitt hopped up on the table, passion lending agility to his drunken body. He walked its length, calling people by name, and telling of their deeds in the night. âHeroes were found in the day, as well,â he went on. âGared and Steave!â he cried, pointing. âLeft their own house to burn to douse those that had a better chance! Because of them and others, only eight houses burned, when by rights it should have been the whole town!â

Smitt turned, and suddenly he was looking right at Leesha. His hand raised, and the finger he pointed at her struck her like a fist. âLeesha!â he called. âThirteen years old, and she saved Gatherer Brunaâs life!

âIn every person in Cutterâs Hollow beats the heart of a hero!â Smitt said, sweeping his hand over all. âThe corelings test us, and tragedy tempers us, but like Milnese steel, Cutterâs Hollow will not break!â

The crowd roared in approval. Those who had lost loved ones cried the loudest, screaming through cheeks wet with tears.

Smitt stood in the centre of the din, soaking in its strength. After a time, he patted his hands, and the villagers quieted.

âTender Michel,â he said, gesturing to the man, âhas opened the Holy House to the wounded, and Stefny and Darsy have volunteered to spend the night there tending them. Michel also offers the Creatorâs wards to all others who have nowhere else to go.â

Smitt raised a fist. âBut hard pews are not where heroes should lay their heads! Not when theyâre amongst family. My tavern can hold ten comfortably, and more if need be. Who else among us will share their wards and their beds to heroes?â

Everyone shouted again, this time louder, and Smitt broke into a wide smile. He patted his hands again. âThe Creator smiles on you all,â he said, âbut the hour grows late. Iâll assign â¦â

Elona stood up. She too had drunk a few mugs, and her words slurred. âErny and I will take in Gared and Steave,â she said, causing Erny to look sharply at her. âWeâve plenty of room, and with Gared and Leesha promised, theyâre practically family already.â

âThatâs very generous of you, Elona,â Smitt said, unable to hide his surprise. Rarely did Elona show generosity, and even then, there was usually a hidden price.

âAre you sure thatâs proper?â Stefny asked loudly, causing everyone to turn their eyes to her. When she wasnât working in her husbandâs tavern, Stefny was volunteering at the Holy House, or studying the Canon. She hated Elona â a mark in her favour in Leeshaâs mind â but she had also been the first to turn on Klarissa when her state became clear.

âTwo promised children living under one roof?â Stefny asked. but her eyes flicked to Steave, not Gared. âWho knows what improprieties might occur? Perhaps it would be best for you to take in others, and let Gared and Steave stay at the tavern.â

Elonaâs eyes narrowed. âI think three parents enough to chaperone two children, Stefny,â she said icily. She turned to Gared, squeezing his broad shoulders. âMy soon-to-be-son-in-law did the work of five men today,â she said. âAnd Steave,â she reached out and drunkenly poked the manâs burly chest, âdid the work of ten.â

She spun back towards Leesha, but stumbled a bit. Steave, laughing, caught her about the waist before she fell. His hand was huge on her slender midsection. âEven my,â she swallowed the word âuselessâ, but Leesha heard it anyway, âdaughter did great deeds today. Iâll not have my heroes bed down in some otherâs home.â

Stefny scowled, but the rest of the villagers took the matter as closed, and started offering up their own homes to the others in need.

Elona stumbled again, falling into Steaveâs lap with a laugh. âYou can sleep in Leeshaâs room,â she told him. âItâs right next to mine.â She dropped her voice at that last part, but she was drunk, and everyone heard. Gared blushed, Steave laughed, and Erny hung his head. Leesha felt a stab of sympathy for her father.

âI wish the corelings had taken her last night,â she muttered.

Her father looked up at her. âDonât ever say that,â he said. âNot about anyone.â He looked hard at Leesha until she nodded.

âBesides,â he added sadly, âtheyâd probably just give her right back.â

Accommodations had been made for all, and people were preparing to leave when there was a murmur, and the crowd parted. Through that gap limped Hag Bruna.

Child Jona held one of the womanâs arms as she walked. Leesha leapt to her feet to take her other. âBruna, you shouldnât be up,â she admonished. âYou should be resting!â

âItâs your own fault, girl,â Bruna snapped. âThereâs those sicker than I, and I need herbs from my hut to treat them. If your bodyguard,â she glared at Gared and he fell back in fright, âhad let Jona bring my message, I could have sent you with a list. But now itâs late, and Iâll have to go with you. We can stay behind my wards for the night, and come back in the morn.â

âWhy me?â Leesha asked.

âBecause none of the other lackwit girls in this town can read!â Bruna shrieked. âTheyâd mix up the labels on the bottles worseân that cow Darsy!â

âJona can read,â Leesha said.

âI offered to go,â the acolyte began, but Bruna slammed her stick down on his foot, cutting his words off in a yelp.

âHerb Gathering is womenâs work, girl,â Bruna said. âHoly Men are just there to pray while we do it.â

âI â¦â Leesha began, looking back at her parents for an escape.

âI think itâs a fine idea,â Elona said, finally extricating herself from Steaveâs lap. âSpend the night at Brunaâs.â She shoved Leesha forward. âMy daughter is glad to help,â she said with a broad smile.

âPerhaps Gared should go as well?â Steave suggested, kicking his son.

âYouâll need a strong back to carry your herbs and potions back in the morning,â Elona agreed, pulling Gared up.

The ancient Herb Gatherer glared at her, then at Steave, but nodded finally.

The trip to Brunaâs was slow, the hag setting a shuffling crawl of a pace. They made it to the hut just before sunset.

âCheck the wards, boy,â Bruna told Gared. While he complied, Leesha took her inside, setting the old woman down in a cushioned chair, and laying a quilt blanket over her. Bruna was breathing hard, and Leesha feared she would start coughing again any minute. She filled the kettle and laid wood and tinder in the hearth, casting her eyes about for flint and steel.

âThe box on the mantel,â Bruna said, and Leesha noticed the small wooden box. She opened it, but there was no flint or steel within, only short wooden sticks with some kind of clay at the ends. She picked up two and tried rubbing them together.

âNot like that, girl!â Bruna snapped. âHave you never seen a flamestick?â

Leesha shook her head. âDa keeps some in the shop where he mixes chemics,â Leesha said, âbut Iâm not to go in there.â

The old Herb Gatherer sighed and beckoned the girl over. She took one of the sticks and braced it against her gnarled, dry thumbnail. She flicked her thumb, and the end of the stick burst into flame. Leeshaâs eyes bulged.

âThereâs more to Herb Gathering than plants, girl,â Bruna said, touching the flame to a taper before the flamestick burned out. She lit a lamp, and handed the taper to Leesha. She held the lamp out, illuminating a dusty shelf filled with books in its flickering light.

âSweet day!â Leesha exclaimed. âYou have more books than Tender Michel!â

âThese arenât witless stories censored by the Holy Men, girl. Herb Gatherers are keepers of a bit of the knowledge of the old world, from back before the Return, when the demons burned the great libraries.â

âScience?â Leesha asked. âWas that not the hubris that brought on the Plague?â

âThatâs Michel talking,â Bruna said. âIf Iâd known that boy would grow into such a pompous ass, Iâd have left him between his motherâs legs. It was science, as much as magic, that drove the corelings off the first time. The sagas tell of great Herb Gatherers healing mortal wounds, and mixing herbs and minerals that killed demons by the score with fire and poison.â

Leesha was about to ask another question when Gared returned. Bruna waved her towards the hearth, and Leesha lit the fire and set the kettle over it. Soon the water was boiling, and Bruna reached into the many pockets of her robe, putting her special mixture of herbs in her cup, and tea in Leeshaâs and Garedâs. Her hands were quick, but Leesha still noticed the old woman throw something extra in Garedâs cup.

She poured the water, and they all sipped in an awkward silence. Gared drank his quickly, and soon began rubbing his face. A moment later, he slumped over, fast asleep.

âYou put something in his tea,â Leesha accused.

The old woman cackled. âTampweed resin and skyflower pollen,â she said. âEach with many uses alone, but together, a pinch can put a bull to sleep.â

âBut why?â Leesha asked.

Bruna smiled, but it was a frightening thing. âCall it chaperoning,â she said. âPromised or no, you canât trust a boy of fifteen summers alone with a young girl at night.â

âThen why let him come along?â Leesha asked.

Bruna shook her head. âI told your father not to marry that shrew, but she dangled her udders at him and left him dizzy,â she sighed. âDrunk as they are, Steave and your mum are going to have at it no matter whoâs in the house,â she said. âBut that donât mean Gared ought to hear it. Boys are bad enough at his age, as is.â

Leeshaâs eyes bulged. âMy mother would never â¦!â

âCareful finishing that sentence, girl,â Bruna cut her off. âThe Creator abhors a liar.â

Leesha deflated. She knew what Elona was like. âGaredâs not like that, though,â she said.

Bruna snorted. âMidwife a village and tell me that,â she said.

âIt wouldnât even matter if I was flowered,â Leesha said. âThen Gared and I could marry, and I could do for him as a wife should.â

âEager for that, are you?â Bruna said with a wicked grin. âItâs no sad affair, Iâll admit. Men have more uses than swinging axes and carrying heavy things.â

âWhatâs taking so long?â Leesha asked. âSaira and Mairy reddened their sheets in their twelfth summers, and this will be my thirteenth! What could be wrong?â

âNothingâs wrong,â Bruna said. âEach girl bleeds in her own time. It may be you have a year yet, or more.â

âA year!â Leesha exclaimed.

âDonât be so quick to leave childhood behind, girl,â Bruna said. âYouâll find you miss it when itâs gone. Thereâs more to the world than lying under a man and making his babies.â

âBut what else could compare?â Leesha asked.

Bruna gestured to her shelf. âChoose a book,â she said. âAny book. Bring it here, and Iâll show you what else the world can offer.â

5

Crowded Home 319 AR

Leesha woke with a start as Brunaâs old rooster crowed to mark the dawn. She rubbed her face, feeling the imprint of the book on her cheek. Gared and Bruna were still fast asleep. The Herb Gatherer had passed out early, but despite her own fatigue, Leesha kept on reading late into the night. She had thought Herb Gathering was just setting bones and birthing babes, but there was so much more. Herb Gatherers studied the entire natural world, finding ways to combine the Creatorâs many gifts for the benefit of His children.

Leesha took the ribbon that held back her dark hair and laid it across the page, closing the book as reverently as she did the Canon. She rose and stretched, laying fresh wood on the fire and stirring the embers into a flame. She put the kettle on, and then went over to shake Gared.

âWake up, lazybones,â she said, keeping her voice low. Gared only groaned. Whatever Bruna had given him, it was strong. She shook harder, and he swatted at her, eyes still closed.

âGet up or thereâll be no breakfast for you,â Leesha laughed, kicking him.

Gared groaned again, and his eyes cracked. When Leesha drew her foot back a second time, he reached out and grabbed her leg, pulling her down on top of him with a yelp.

He rolled on top of her, encircling her in his burly arms, and Leesha giggled at his kisses.

âStop it,â she said, swatting at him half-heartedly, âyouâll wake Bruna.â

âSo what if I do?â Gared asked. âThe old hag is a hundred years old and blind as a bat.â

âThe hagâs ears are still sharp,â Bruna said, cracking open one of her milky white eyes.

Gared yelped and practically flew to his feet, distancing himself from Leesha and Bruna both.

âYou keep your hands to yourself in my home, boy, or Iâll brew a potion to keep your manhood slack for a year,â Bruna said. Leesha saw the colour drain from Garedâs face, and bit her lip to keep from laughing. For some reason, Bruna no longer frightened her, but she loved watching the old woman intimidate everyone else.

âWe understand one another?â Bruna asked.

âYesâm,â Gared said immediately.

âGood,â Bruna said. âNow put those burly shoulders to work and split some wood for the firebox.â Gared was out the door before she finished. Leesha laughed as the door slammed.

âLiked that, did you?â Bruna asked.

âIâve never seen anyone send Gared scurrying like that,â Leesha said.

âCome closer, so I can see you,â Bruna said. When Leesha did, she went on, âBeing village healer is more than brewing potions. A strong dose of fear is good for the biggest boy in the village. Maybe help him think twice before hurting someone.â

âGared would never hurt anyone,â Leesha said.

âAs you say,â Bruna said, but she didnât sound at all convinced.

âCould you really have made a potion to take his manhood away?â Leesha asked.

Bruna cackled. âNot for a year,â she said. âNot with one dose, anyway. But a few days, or even a week? As easily as I dosed his tea.â

Leesha looked thoughtful.

âWhat is it, girl?â Bruna asked. âHaving doubts your boy will leave you unplucked before your wedding?â

âI was thinking more on Steave,â Leesha said.

Bruna nodded. âAnd well you should,â she advised. âBut have a care. Your mother is wise to the trick. She came to me often when she was young, needing Gathererâs tricks to stem her flow and keep her from getting with child while she had her fun. I didnât see her for what she was, then, and Iâm sad to say I taught her more than I should have.â

âMum wasnât a virgin when Da carried her across his wards?â Leesha asked in shock.

Bruna snorted. âHalf the town had a roll with her before Steave drove the others away.â

Leeshaâs jaw dropped. âMum condemned Klarissa when she got with child,â she said.

Bruna spat on the floor. âEveryone turned on that poor girl. Hypocrites, all! Smitt talks of family, but he didnât lift a finger when his wife led the town after that girl like a pack of flame demons. Half those women pointing at her and crying âSin!â were guilty of the same deed, they were just lucky enough to marry fast, or smart enough to take precautions.â

âPrecautions?â Leesha asked.

Bruna shook her head. âElonaâs so eager to have a grandson sheâs kept you in the dark about everything, eh?â she asked. âTell me, girl, how are babies made?â

Leesha blushed. âThe man, I mean, your husband â¦ He â¦â

âOut with it, girl,â Bruna snapped, âIâm too old to wait for the red to leave your face.â

âHe spends his seed in you,â Leesha said, her face reddening further.

Bruna cackled. âYou can treat burns and demon wounds, but blush at how life is made?â

Leesha opened her mouth to reply, but Bruna cut her off.

âMake your boy spend his seed on your belly, and you can lie with him to your heartâs content,â Bruna said. âBut boys canât be trusted to pull from you in time, as Klarissa learned. The smarter ones come to me for tea.â

âTea?â Leesha asked, leaning on every word.

âPomm leaves, leached in the right dose with some other herbs, create a tea that will keep a manâs seed from taking root.â

âBut Tender Michel says â¦â Leesha began.

âSpare me the recitation from the Canon,â Bruna cut her off. âItâs a book written by men, without a thought given towards the plight of women.â

Leeshaâs mouth closed with a click.

âYour mum visited me often,â Bruna went on, âasking questions, helping me around the hut, grinding herbs for me. I had thought to make her my apprentice, but all she wanted was the secret of the tea. Once I told her how it was made, she left and never returned.â

âThat does sound like her,â Leesha said.

âPomm tea is safe enough in small doses,â Bruna said, âbut Steave is lusty, and your mother took too much. The two of them must have slapped stomachs a thousand times before your fatherâs business began to prosper, and his purse caught her eye. By then, your mumâs womb was scraped dry.â

Leesha looked at her curiously.

âAfter she married your father, Elona tried for two years to conceive without success,â Bruna said. âSteave married some young girl and got her with child overnight, which only made your mum more desperate. Finally, she came back to me, begging for help.â

Leesha leaned in close, knowing her existence had hinged on whatever Bruna said next.

âPomm tea must be taken in small doses,â Bruna repeated, âand once a month it is best to stop it and allow your flow to come. Fail this, and you risk becoming barren. I warned Elona, but she was a slave to her loins, and failed to listen. For months I gave her herbs and checked her flow, giving her herbs to slip into your fatherâs food. Finally, she conceived.â

âMe,â Leesha said. âShe conceived me.â

Bruna nodded. âI feared for you, girl. Your mumâs womb was weak, and we both knew she would not have another chance. She came to me every day, asking me to check on her son.â

âSon?â Leesha asked.

âI warned her it might not be a boy,â Bruna said, âbut Elona was stubborn. âThe Creator could not be so cruelâ, sheâd say, forgetting that the same Creator made the corelings.â

âSo all I am is some cruel joke of the Creator?â Leesha asked.

Bruna grabbed Leeshaâs chin in her bony fingers and pulled her in close. Leesha could see the long grey hairs, like catâs whiskers, on the croneâs wrinkled lips as she spoke.

âWe are what we choose to be, girl,â she said. âLet others determine your worth, and youâve already lost, because no one wants people worth more than themselves. Elona has no one to blame but herself for her bad choices, but sheâs too vain to admit it. Easier to take it out on you and poor Erny.â

âI wish sheâd been exposed and run out of town,â Leesha said.

âYou would betray your gender out of spite?â Bruna asked.

âI donât understand,â Leesha said.

âThereâs no shame in a girl wanting a man twixt her legs, Leesha,â Bruna said. âAn Herb Gatherer canât judge folks for doing what nature intended they do when they are young and free. Itâs oath breakers I canât abide. You say your vows, girl, youâd best plan on keeping them.â

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