The Warded Man left the warding shop and walked some distance before again taking to the rooftops, ensuring he was not followed as he returned to Ragen and Elissa’s manse.
It was smaller than he remembered. When he had first come to Fort Miln at eleven years old, Ragen and Elissa’s home had seemed like a village unto itself with its great wall surrounding the gardens, Servants’ cottages, and house proper. Now even the courtyard, a seemingly endless space when he was young and learning to ride and fight, seemed claustrophobic. So used to walking free in the night, any walls felt stifling to him now.
The Servants at the gate let him in without a word. Elissa had sent a runner back to the manse, and had another go to fetch Twilight Dancer and his bags from the inn. He passed through the courtyard and entered the manse, ascending the marble steps to his old room.
It was exactly as he’d left it. Arlen had acquired many things in his time in Miln—books, clothes, tools, bits of warding—too much to take Messaging, when a man was limited to what his horse could carry. He had left most of it behind, never looking back, and the room seemed untouched by time. There were fresh linens on the bed and not a speck of dust to be found, but nothing had been moved. There was even still clutter on his desk. He sat there a long time, basking in the safe familiarity of it and feeling seventeen again.
There was a sharp rap on the door, snapping him from the reverie. He opened it to find Mother Margrit, her meaty arms crossed in front of her as she glared at him. Margrit had cared for him since he first came to Miln, treating his wounds and helping him understand the ways of the city. The Warded Man was amazed to find she could still intimidate him after so long.
“Let’s see, then,” Margrit said.
He didn’t need to ask what she meant. He steeled himself and pulled down his hood.
Margrit looked at him for some time, showing none of the horror or surprise he expected. She grunted and nodded to herself.
Then she slapped him full in the face.
“That’s for breaking my lady’s heart!” she cried. It was a surprisingly powerful blow, and he hadn’t fully recovered before she slapped him again.
“And that’s for breaking mine!” she sobbed, and clutched at him, pulling him close and crushing the air from him as she cried. “Thank the Creator you’re all right,” she choked.
Ragen returned soon after, and clapped the Warded Man on the shoulder, meeting his eyes and making no comment about his tattoos at all. “Good to have you back,” he said.
In truth, the Warded Man was more shocked by Ragen, who wore the keyward symbol of the Warders’ Guild as a heavy gold pin on his breast.
“You’re the Warders’ Guildmaster now?” he asked.
Ragen nodded. “Cob and I became partners after you left, and the ward brokering you started made us the dominant company in Miln. Cob served three years as guildmaster before the cancer took his strength. As his heir, I was the natural choice to succeed him.”
“A decision no one in Miln regrets,” Elissa put in, pride and love in her voice as she looked at her husband.
Ragen shrugged. “I’ve thrown in where I could. Of course,” he looked at the Warded Man, “it should have been you. It still can. Cob’s will made it clear his controlling share of the business was to be turned over to you, if you ever returned.”
“The shop?” the Warded Man asked, shocked that his old master would have included him in his last wishes at all after all this time.
“The shop, the ward exchange, the warehouses and glasseries,” Ragen said, “everything down to the apprentice contracts.”
“Enough to make you one of the richest and most powerful men in Miln,” Elissa said.
An image flashed in the Warded Man’s mind, him walking the halls of the Duke Euchor’s keep, advising His Grace on policy and commanding dozens if not hundreds of Warders. Brokering power … building alliances …
Reading reports.
Delegating responsibility.
Surrounded by Servants to care for his every need.
Stifling in the city’s walls.
He shook his head. “I don’t want it. Any of it. Arlen Bales is dead.”
“Arlen!” Elissa cried. “How can you say that, standing right here?”
“I can’t just pick up my life where I left off, Elissa,” he said, pulling off his hood and the gloves as well. “I’ve chosen my path. I can never live inside walls again. Even now, the air seems thicker, harder to breathe …”
Ragen put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve Messaged, too,” he reminded him. “I know what the open air tastes like, and how you thirst for it behind city walls. But the thirst dies out in time.”
The Warded Man looked at him, and his eyes darkened. “Why would I want it to?” he snapped. “Why would you? Why lock yourself back in prison when you had the keys?”
“Because of Marya,” Ragen said. “And because of Arlen.”
“Arlen?” the Warded Man asked, confused.
“Not you,” Ragen growled, his own temper rising. “My five-year-old son. Arlen. Who needs a father more than his father needs fresh air!”
It was a blow as hard as Margrit’s slap, and the Warded Man knew he deserved it. For a moment, he had spoken to Ragen as if he were his true father. As if he were Jeph Bales of Tibbet’s Brook, the coward who had stood by while his own wife was cored.
But Ragen was no coward. He had proven that a thousand times over. The Warded Man himself had seen him face demons with nothing but his spear and shield. Ragen didn’t give up the night out of fear. He did it to conquer fear.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I had no right to …”
Ragen exhaled. “It’s all right, boy.”
The Warded Man walked to the rows of portraits on the walls of Ragen and Elissa’s receiving room. They had one commissioned every year, to mark its passing. The first was only Ragen and Elissa, looking very young. The next was some years later, and the Warded Man looked at his own face staring back at him without wards, something he hadn’t seen in years. Arlen Bales, a boy of twelve, sitting on a chair in front of where Ragen and Elissa stood.
He grew progressively older in the portraits until one year, he stood between Ragen and Elissa, holding infant Marya.
The next year’s portrait, he was gone, but soon after, a new Arlen appeared. He touched the canvas gently. “I wish I’d been there to see him born. I wish I could be there for him now.”
“You can,” Elissa said firmly. “We’re family, Arlen. You don’t have to live life like a Beggar. You’ll always have a home here.”
The Warded Man nodded. “I see that now. See it in a way I never did before, and for that, I’m sorry. You deserve better than I gave, better than I can give. I’m leaving Miln once I’ve had my audience with the duke.”
“What?!” Elissa cried. “You’ve only just arrived!”
The Warded Man shook his head. “I’ve chosen my path, and I’ve got to walk to its end.”
“Where will you go then?” Elissa asked.
“Tibbet’s Brook, to start,” he said, “long enough to return battle warding to them. And then, if you can broker the wards throughout Miln and its hamlets, I’ll do the same for the Angierians and Laktonians.”
“You expect every tiny hamlet to rise up and fight?” Elissa asked.
The Warded Man shook his head. “I’m not asking anyone to fight. But if my da had owned a bow with warded arrows, my mam might be alive. I owe everyone the chance she didn’t have. Once the wards are everywhere, spread so far and wide that they can never be lost again, people can make their own decision about what to do with them.”
“And then?” Elissa pressed, her tone still hopeful that one day he might return for good.
“Then I fight,” the Warded Man said. “Any that stand beside me will be welcome, and we’ll kill demons until we fall, or until Marya and Arlen can watch the sun set without fear.”
It was late, and the Servants had long since retired. Ragen, Elissa, and the Warded Man sat in the study, the air thick with the men’s sweet pipe smoke as they shared brandy.
“I’ve been summoned to the duke’s audience with ‘the Warded Man’ tomorrow,” Ragen said, “though I must say I never in a century would have thought they were talking about you.”
He smirked. “I’m to have Warders disguised as Servants try to copy your tattoos while you’re distracted talking to His Grace.”
The Warded Man nodded. “I’ll keep my hood up.”
“Why?” Ragen asked. “If you mean for everyone to have them, why keep them secret?”
“Because Euchor will covet them,” the Warded Man said. “And I can use that to gain advantage. I want him distracted, thinking he is buying them from me, while you distribute them quietly to every Warder in the duchy. Spread them so far that Euchor can never suppress them.”
Ragen grunted. “Clever,” he admitted, “though Euchor will be livid when he learns you’ve double-dealed.”
The Warded Man shrugged. “I’ll be long gone, and it’s no less than he deserves for locking up all the knowledge of the old world in his library for only a handful to see.”
Ragen nodded. “Best for me to act as if I don’t know you in the audience, then. If your identity gets out, I’ll act as shocked as the rest.”
“I think that’s wise,” the Warded Man agreed. “Who else will be there, do you think?”
“As few people as possible,” Ragen said. “Euchor’s actually pleased you’re coming at dawn, so he can have you in and out before the Tenders and Royals even catch wind of the meeting. Apart from the duke and Jone, there will be myself, Messengers’ Guildmaster Malcum, Euchor’s daughters, and my Warders, dressed as Servants.”
“Tell me of Euchor’s daughters,” the Warded Man said.
“Hypatia, Aelia, and Lorain,” Ragen said, “all as thick-skulled as their father, and none of them prettier. Mothers all, with born sons. If Euchor doesn’t produce a son of his own, the Mothers’ Council will choose the next duke from among that group of unholy brats.”
“So if Euchor dies, a boy becomes duke?” the Warded Man asked.
“Technically,” Ragen said, “though truer is the boy’s mother becomes duchess in everything but name and rules in his stead until he reaches manhood … and perhaps longer. Don’t underestimate any of them.”
“I won’t,” the Warded Man said.
“You should know, too, that the duke has a new herald,” Ragen said.
The Warded Man shrugged. “What does that matter? I never knew the old one.”
“It matters,” Ragen said, “because the new one is Keerin.”
The Warded Man looked up sharply. Keerin was Ragen’s Jongleur partner when they found young Arlen on the road, unconscious and dying of demon fever after crippling One Arm. The Jongleur had been a coward, curling under his bedroll and whimpering as demons tested the wards, but years later the Warded Man had caught him giving a performance where he claimed to have crippled the demon himself, a demon that nightly tried to break into the city to revenge itself upon Arlen, and one time even succeeded in breaching the wall. Arlen had called Keerin a liar publicly, and he and Jaik were badly beaten by Keerin’s apprentices as a result.
“How can a man who refuses to travel herald the duke?” the Warded Man asked.
“Euchor holds tight to power by hoarding people as well as knowledge,” Ragen said. “Keerin’s stupid little song about One Arm made him sought after by Royals, and that got Euchor’s attention. Keerin had a ducal commission soon after, and now performs solely at the duke’s pleasure.”
“So he doesn’t truly herald,” the Warded Man said.
“Oh, he does,” Ragen said. “Most of the hamlets can be reached without ever leaving proper succor, and Euchor even built some way stations on the way to others to accommodate the stoneless little weasel.”
The gates to the Duke’s Keep opened at dawn, and the person who strode out to greet the Warded Man was none other than Keerin.
Keerin was much as the Warded Man remembered, tall even for a Milnese, with carrot-colored hair and bright green eyes. He had fattened a bit, no doubt due to the benefits of his new patron. His thin wisp of a mustache still refused to join with the curl of hair at his chin, though powder crinkled in the lines of his face, attempting to preserve a fading youth.
But where he had last seen Keerin in a Jongleur’s patchwork motley, he was now a royal herald, and dressed accordingly. His tabard was patched in Euchor’s gray, white, and green, cutting a much more somber figure, though his pantaloons were still loose, should he be called upon to tumble, and the inside of his black cloak was sewn with patchwork colored silk that could be revealed with a twirl.
“An honor to meet you, sir!” Keerin said, bowing formally. “His Grace is preparing for the arrival of a few of his key councilors before your audience. If you’ll come with me, I will escort you to a waiting salon.”
The Warded Man followed him through the palace. The last time he had walked here, it was a bustle of activity as Servants and Mothers scurried to and fro on the duke’s business. But this early in the morning, the halls were still empty save for the occasional Servant, trained to be all but invisible.
Buzzing lamps lit the way with a pulsing glow. These needed no oil or wick, no Herb Gatherer’s chemics. Lectrics, it was called, another bit of old science Euchor kept only for himself. It seemed like magic, but the Warded Man knew from his time in the Duke’s Library that it was just harnessed magnetics, no different from wind or running water turning a mill.
Keerin ushered him into a room plush with velvet and a warm hearth. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and there was a mahogany writing desk. If he were alone, it might be a pleasant place to wait.
But Keerin made no move to leave. He went to a silver service, pouring goblets of spiced wine, and returned to hand one to the Warded Man. “I, too, am a demon fighter of some renown. Perhaps you have heard the song I composed about it, titled ‘One Arm’?”
Young Arlen would have seethed at this, Keerin still laying claim to his deeds, but the Warded Man was beyond such things. “I have indeed,” he said, clapping the tall Jongleur on the shoulder. “An honor to meet one so brave. Come out with me tonight, and we will find a quake of rock demons to show the sun!”
Keerin paled at the offer, his skin taking on a sickly pallor. The Warded Man smiled in the shadow of his hood. Perhaps he was not so far above such things after all.
“I … er, thank you for the offer,” Keerin stammered. “And I would be honored, of course, but my duties to the duke would never allow for it.”
“I understand,” the Warded Man said. “A good thing you were not so bound when you saved the life of that young boy in the song. What was his name again?”
“Arlen Banes,” Keerin said, regaining his composure with a practiced smile. He moved in close, putting a hand around the Warded Man’s shoulder and speaking in a low voice.
“One demon fighter to another,” he said, “I would be honored to immortalize your deeds in song, if you would grant a short interview when your business with His Grace is concluded.”
The Warded Man turned to face him, lifting his head to allow the lectric lamplight to show into his hood. Keerin gasped and removed his arm, drawing away sharply.
“I don’t kill demons for glory, Jongleur,” he growled, advancing on the poor herald who backed away until his back hit the bookshelf, causing it to rock unsteadily. “I kill demons,” he leaned in close, “because they deserve killing.”
Keerin’s hand shook, spilling his wine. The Warded Man took a step back and smiled. “Write a song about that, perhaps,” he suggested.
Keerin still did not leave, but the herald did not speak again, and for that the Warded Man was thankful.
Euchor’s great hall was smaller than the Warded Man remembered, but still impressive, with soaring pillars holding up a ceiling that seemed impossibly high. It was painted to look like blue sky, with a yellow-white sunburst in the center. Mosaics covered the floor, and tapestries the walls. There was room for a crowd, as the duke held a great many balls and parties there, watching the proceedings from his high throne at the hall’s end.
Duke Euchor was waiting on his throne as the Warded Man approached. Behind him on the royal dais stood three women whose uncomely faces, so like the duke’s, and expensive gowns covered in jewels made it clear they were his daughters. Mother Jone stood at the foot of the dais stairs holding a writing board and pen. Opposite her were Guildmasters Ragen and Malcum. The men, retired Messengers both, stood easily with each other. Ragen whispered something to Malcum, who snickered, drawing a glare from Jone.
Next to Jone stood Tender Ronnell, the Royal Librarian. And Mery’s father.
The Warded Man cursed himself. He should have expected to see Ronnell. If Mery had told him …
But while Ronnell looked at him with interest, there was no recognition in his eyes. His secret was safe, at least for now.
Two guards closed the door behind them and crossed their spears over it from the inside. “Servants,” all with writing boards, drifted on the far side of the pillars, unobtrusive as they watched him closely.
Up close, Euchor had grown fatter and older by far than the Warded Man remembered. He still wore jewels on every stubby finger and a fortune in gold chains, but there were fewer hairs underneath his golden crown. Once an imposing figure, he now looked as if he could barely rise from his throne without help.
“Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Lord of Miln,” Keerin called, “may I present to you the Warded Man, Messenger on behalf of Duke Rhinebeck, Guardian of the Forest Fortress and Lord of Angiers.”
Ragen’s voice came to him, as it always did when meeting a duke. Merchants and Royals will walk all over you if you let them. You need to act like a king in their presence, and never forget who it is risking their life.
With that in mind, he squared his shoulders and strode forward. “Greetings, Your Grace,” he called without waiting to be addressed. His robes whipped out as he sketched a graceful bow. There was a murmur from some at his audacity, but Euchor acted as if he did not notice.
“Welcome to Miln,” the duke said. “We have heard much about you. I confess I was one of many who thought you a myth. Pray, indulge me.” He mimed removing a hood.
The Warded Man nodded and removed his hood, drawing gasps from around the room. Even Ragen managed to look suitably awed.
He waited, letting them all have a good look. “Impressive,” Euchor said. “The tales do not do justice.” As he spoke, Ragen’s Warders went to work, dipping their pens to copy every symbol they saw while trying to seem inconspicuous.
This time it was Cob’s voice in his mind. Fort Miln isn’t like Tibbet’s Brook, boy. Here, things cost money. He didn’t think they would get much—the multitude of symbols were too small and close together—but he pulled his hood up casually, his eyes never leaving the duke’s. The message was clear. His secrets would not come free.
Euchor glanced at the Warders and scowled at their lack of subtlety.
“I bring message from Duke Rhinebeck of Angiers,” the Warded Man said, producing his sealed parcel.
The duke ignored him. “Who are you?” he asked bluntly. “Where are you from?”
“I am the Warded Man,” he said. “I come from Thesa.”
“That name is not spoken in Miln,” the duke warned.
“Nevertheless, it is so,” the Warded Man replied.
Euchor’s eyes widened at his audacity, and he leaned back, considering. Euchor was different from the other dukes the Warded Man had met in his travels. In Lakton and Rizon, the duke was little more than a figurehead to speak the will of the city council. In Angiers, Rhinebeck ruled, but it seemed his brothers and Janson made as many decisions as he. In Miln, Euchor made all the decisions. His advisors were clearly his, and not the other way around. The fact that he had ruled so long was a testament to his canniness.
“Can you really kill corelings with your bare hands?” the duke asked.
The Warded Man smiled again. “As I was telling your Jongleur, Your Grace, come out beyond the wall with me after dark, and I’ll show you personally.”
Euchor laughed, but it was forced, the color draining from his red, doughy face. “Perhaps another time.”
The Warded Man nodded.
Euchor looked at him a long time, as if trying to decide something. “So?” he asked at last. “Are you, or aren’t you?”
“Your Grace?” the Warded Man asked.
“The Deliverer,” the duke clarified.
“Surely not,” Tender Ronnell scoffed, but the duke made a sharp gesture, and he quieted immediately.
“Are you?” he asked again.
“No,” the Warded Man replied. “The Deliverer is a legend, nothing more.” Ronnell looked ready to speak up at that, but the librarian glanced at the duke and remained silent. “I am just a man who has found wards once lost.”
“Battle wards,” Malcum said, his eyes alight. The only one in the room besides Ragen to have faced corelings alone in the night, his interest was no surprise. The Messengers’ Guild would likely pay anything to arm their men with warded spears and arrows.
“And how did you come by these wards?” Euchor pressed.
“There is much to be found in the ruins between cities,” the Warded Man replied.
“Where?” Malcum asked. The Warded Man only smiled, letting them settle on the hook.
“Enough,” Euchor said. “How much gold for the wards?”
The Warded Man shook his head. “I will not sell them for gold.”
Euchor scowled. “I could have my guards persuade you otherwise,” he warned, nodding toward the two at the door.
The Warded Man smiled. “Then you would find yourself with two less guards.”
“Perhaps,” the duke mused, “but I have men to spare. Enough, perhaps, to pin even you down while my Warders copy your flesh.”
“None of my markings will help you ward a spear, or any weapon,” the Warded Man lied. “Those wards are here,” he tapped his hooded temple, “and there are not enough guards in all Miln to force them from me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Euchor warned, “but I can see you have a price in mind, so name it and be done.”
“First things first,” the Warded Man said, handing Rhinebeck’s satchel to Jone. “Duke Rhinebeck requests an alliance in driving out the Krasian invasion that has taken Rizon.”
“Of course Rhinebeck wants to ally,” Euchor snorted. “He sits behind wooden walls, in green lands the desert rats will covet. But what reason have I to march?”
“He invokes the Pact,” the Warded Man said.
Euchor waited as Jone took the letter to him, snatching it and reading it quickly. He scowled and crumpled it in his hand.
“Rhinebeck has already broken the Pact,” he growled, “when he tried to rebuild Riverbridge on his side of the river. Let them pay back the tolls from the last fifteen years, and then perhaps I will give thought to his city.”
“Your Grace,” the Warded Man said, swallowing the urge to leap onto the dais and throttle the man, “the matter of Riverbridge can be settled another day. This is a threat to both your peoples far beyond that petty dispute.”
“Petty?!” the duke demanded. Ragen shook his head, and the Warded Man immediately regretted his choice of words. He had never been as good at handling royals as his mentor.
“The Krasians don’t come for taxes, Your Grace,” he pressed. “Make no mistake, they come to kill and rape until the entire Northland is levied into their army.”
“I fear no desert rats,” Euchor said. “Let them come and break themselves against my mountains! Let them lay siege in these frozen lands, and see if their sand wards can battle snow demons while they starve outside my walls.”
“And what of your hamlets?” the Warded Man said. “Will you sacrifice them as well?”
“I can defend my duchy without aid,” Euchor said. “There are books of war sciences in my library, plans for weapons and engines that can break the savages with little loss to us.”
“If I may have a word, Your Grace,” Tender Ronnell said, drawing all eyes to him. He bowed deeply, and when Euchor nodded, he darted up the dais steps and bent to whisper.
The Warded Man’s sharp ears caught every murmured word.
“Your Grace, are you sure it’s wise to return such secrets to the world?” the Tender asked. “It was the wars of men that brought the Plague.”
“Would you prefer a plague of Krasians?” Euchor hissed back. “What will become of the Tenders of the Creator if the Evejans come?”
Ronnell paused. “Your point is well taken, Your Grace.” He bowed away.
“So you hold the Dividing,” the Warded Man said. “But how long can Miln survive without grain, fish, and lumber from the South? The Royal Gardens may supply your keep, but when the rest of the city begins to starve, they will dig you out of your own walls.”
Euchor snarled, but he did not immediately reply. “No,” he said at last, “I won’t send Milnese soldiers to die in the South for Rhinebeck’s sake without something in return from him.”
The Warded Man seethed inwardly at the man’s shortsightedness, but this was not unexpected. Now it was just a matter of negotiation.
“Duke Rhinebeck has empowered me to make some concessions,” the Warded Man said. “He will not remove his people from their half of Riverbridge, but he will turn fifty percent of the tolls over to you for a period of ten years, in exchange for your aid.”
“Only half, for a decade?” Euchor scoffed. “That will barely buy rations for the soldiers.”
“There is some room to negotiate, Your Grace,” the Warded Man said.
Euchor shook his head. “Not good enough. Not good enough by far. If Rhinebeck wants my help, I want that and something more.”
The Warded Man inclined his head. “And that is, Your Grace?”
“Rhinebeck has still failed to produce a male heir, has he not?” Euchor said bluntly. Mother Jone gasped, and the other men in the room shifted uncomfortably at the unseemly topic.
“Much as Your Grace,” the Warded Man said, fighting words that Euchor waved away.
“I have grandsons,” Euchor said. “My line is secure.”
“Your pardon, but what has this to do with an alliance?” the Warded Man asked.
“Because if Rhinebeck wishes one, he will have to marry one of my daughters,” Euchor said, looking back at the women standing unprettily behind his throne. “With the bridge tolls as her promise gift.”
“Aren’t your daughters all Mothers?” the Warded Man asked in confusion.
“Indeed,” Euchor said, “proven breeders, all of whom have given sons, but still in the flower of their youth.”
The Warded Man glanced at the women again. They didn’t seem in the flower of anything, but he made no comment. “I mean, Your Grace, aren’t they all wed?”
Euchor shrugged, “To minor Royals, all. I can dissolve their vows with a wave, and any of them would be proud to sit the throne beside Rhinebeck and give him a son. I’ll even let him choose which one.”
Rhinebeck will die first, the Warded Man thought. There will be no alliance.
“I have not been empowered to negotiate such matters,” he said.
“Of course not,” Euchor agreed. “I’ll put the offer in writing this very day, and send my herald to Rhinebeck’s court to deliver it personally.”
“Your Grace,” Keerin squeaked, again a sickly pallor, “surely you need me here for—”
“You will go to Angiers, or I will throw you from my tower,” Euchor growled.
Keerin bowed, attempting a Jongleur’s mask though his distress still shone through. “Of course it is my great honor to go, if I am absolved of my local duties.”
Euchor grunted, then turned his eyes back to the Warded Man. “You still haven’t given me a price for your battle wards.”
The Warded Man smiled and reached into his satchel, producing a grimoire of hand-sewn pages bound in leather. “These?”
“I thought you said they weren’t with you,” Euchor said.
The Warded Man shrugged. “I lied.”
“What do you want for them?” the duke asked again.
“Warders and supplies sent to Riverbridge with your herald on the way to Angiers,” the Warded Man said, “along with a royal decree accepting all refugees from across the Dividing without toll, and a guarantee of food, shelter, and succor through the winter.”
“All that, for a book of wards?” Euchor demanded. “Ridiculous!”
The Warded Man shrugged. “If you wish to buy those I sold Rhinebeck, you’d best treat with him soon, before the Krasians burn his city down.”
“The Warders’ Guild will defray the costs to Your Grace, of course,” Ragen said on cue.
“The Messengers’ Guild, as well,” Malcum added quickly.
Euchor’s eyes narrowed at the men, and the Warded Man knew he had won. Euchor knew that if he refused, the guildmasters would buy the wards themselves, and he would lose control of the greatest advancement in magic since the First Demon War.
“I would never ask such of my guilds,” the duke said. “The crown will cover the expense. After all,” he nodded to the Warded Man, “the least Miln can do is take in any survivors who come so far north. Provided, of course, that they take an oath of allegiance.”
The Warded Man frowned, but he nodded, and at a signal from Euchor, Tender Ronnell hurried forward to take the book from him. Malcum stared at it hungrily.
“Will you accept the shelter of the caravan back to Angiers?” the duke asked, trying to hide his eagerness for the Warded Man to be gone.
The Warded Man shook his head. “I thank you, Your Grace, but I am my own succor.” He bowed and, without being dismissed, turned and strode from the room.
It was simple to lose the men Euchor sent to follow him. The city had begun its morning bustle, and the streets were crowded as the Warded Man headed for the Duke’s Library. He seemed just another Tender as he ascended the marble steps of the greatest building in Thesa.
As always, the Duke’s Library filled the Warded Man with both elation and sorrow. In it, Euchor and his ancestors had collected copies of nearly every remaining book from the old world that survived the flame demons burning the libraries during the Return. Science. Medicine. Magic. History. Everything. The dukes of Miln had collected all that knowledge and locked it away, denying its benefits to all mankind.
As a journeyman Warder, the Warded Man had warded the stacks and furniture of the Library, earning permanent placement in the book of access to the archives. Of course, he had no desire to reveal his identity, even to some acolyte clerk, but his objective wasn’t in the stacks this time. Once inside the building, he slipped out of sight and headed down a side passage.
He was waiting in Tender Ronnell’s office when the librarian returned, clutching the grimoire of battle wards. Ronnell didn’t notice him at first, moving quickly to lock the door behind him. He exhaled then, turning and holding the book out before him.
“Odd that Euchor would give the book to you and not the head of his Warders’ Guild, who would be better able to decipher it,” the Warded Man said.
Ronnell yelped at the sound and stumbled back. His eyes widened farther when he saw who stood before him. His hand sketched a quick ward in the air before him.
When it became clear that the Warded Man intended no attack, the Tender straightened and regained his composure. “I am well qualified to decipher this book. Warding is part of an acolyte’s studies. The world may not be ready for what is contained within. His Grace commanded that I assess it first.”
“Is that your function, Tender? To decide what mankind is ready for? As if you or Euchor might have a right to deny men the ability to fight back against the corelings?”
Ronnell snorted. “You speak, sir, as someone who did not sell the wards at a high price rather than giving them freely.”
The Warded Man walked to Ronnell’s desk. The surface was impeccably neat and clear, save for a lamp, a polished mahogany writing kit, and a brass stand holding the Tender’s personal copy of the Canon. He lifted the book casually, and his sharp ears caught a possessive inhalation from the Tender, but the man said nothing.
The leather-bound book was worn, its ink faded. It was no showpiece, but rather a guide often referred to, its mysteries pondered regularly. Ronnell had commanded Arlen to read from this very copy during his time at the Library, but he had none of Ronnell’s faith in the book, for it was built upon two premises he could not accept: that there was an all-powerful Creator, and that the corelings were a part of His plan, a punishment upon mankind’s sins.
In his mind, the book, as much as anything in the world, was responsible for the wretched state of humanity—cowering and weak when they should stand strong; always afraid, never hopeful. But for all that, many of the Canon’s sentiments about brotherhood and the fellowship of men were ones the Warded Man believed in deeply.
He flipped through the book until he found a certain passage, and began to read:
“There is no man in creation who is not your brother
No woman not your sister, no child not your own
For all suffer the Plague, righteous and sinful alike
And all must band together to withstand the night.”
The Warded Man closed the book with a snap that made the librarian jump. “What price did I ask for the wards, Tender? That Euchor help the helpless who come to his door? How do I profit from that?”
“You could be in league with Rhinebeck,” Ronnell suggested. “Paid to get rid of Beggars who have become a problem south of the Dividing.”
“Listen to yourself, Tender!” the Warded Man said. “Making excuses not to follow your own Canon!”
“Why have you come?” Ronnell asked. “You could give the wards to everyone in Miln if you wished.”
“Already have,” the Warded Man said. “Neither you nor Euchor can suppress them.”
Ronnell’s eyes widened. “Why are you telling me this? Keerin doesn’t leave until tomorrow. I could still advise the duke to rescind his promise to grant succor to the refugees.”
“But you won’t,” the Warded Man said, placing the Canon back on its stand pointedly.
Ronnell scowled. “What is it you want of me?”
“To know more of the war engines Euchor mentioned,” the Warded Man said.
Ronnell drew a deep breath. “And if I refuse to tell you?”
The Warded Man shrugged. “Then I go to the stacks and find out for myself.”
“The archives are off limits save to those with the duke’s seal,” Ronnell said.
The Warded Man pulled his hood down. “Even to me?”
Ronnell stared in wonder at his painted skin. He was silent a long time, and when he spoke, it was another verse from the Canon. “For he shall be marked upon his bare flesh …”
“And the demons will not abide the sight, and they shall flee terrified before him,” the Warded Man finished. “You made me memorize that passage the year I warded your stacks.”
Ronnell stared at him for a long moment, trying to peel back the wards and years. Suddenly his eyes flared with recognition. “Arlen?” he gasped.
The Warded Man nodded. “You gave your word that I would have access to the stacks for life,” he reminded the librarian.
“Of course, of course …” Ronnell began, but trailed off. He shook his head as if to clear it. “How could I not have seen it?” he muttered.
“Seen what?” the Warded Man asked.
“You.” Ronnell dropped to his knees. “You are the Deliverer, sent to end the Plague!”
The Warded Man scowled. “I’ve said no such thing. You knew me as a boy! I was willful and impulsive. Never set foot in a Holy House. I courted your daughter and then left and broke our promise.” He leaned in close to the Tender. “And I’ll eat demonshit before I believe humanity deserves the ‘Plague.’ ”
“Of course not,” Ronnell agreed. “The Deliverer must believe the opposite.”
“I’m not the ripping Deliverer!” the Warded Man snapped, but this time the librarian did not flinch, his eyes wide with wonder.
“You are,” Ronnell said. “It’s the only way to explain your miracles.”
“Miracles?” the Warded Man asked, incredulous. “Have you been smoking tampweed, Tender? What miracles?”
“Keerin can sing as he pleases about how you were found on the road, but I had my version from Master Cob first,” Ronnell said. “You cut the arm from that rock demon, and when it breached the wall, it was you that tricked it into the Warders’ trap.”
The Warded Man shrugged. “So what? Anyone with basic warding skill could have done those things.”
“I can’t think of anyone who ever did,” Ronnell said. “And you were only eleven summers old when you crippled the demon, alone in the naked night.”
“I would have died from my wounds had Ragen not found me,” the Warded Man said.
“You survived for several nights before the Messenger came,” Ronnell said. “The Creator must have sent him when your trial was at an end.”
“What trial?” the Warded Man asked, but Ronnell ignored him.
“A Beggar boy found on the road,” the librarian went on, “yet you brought new wardings to Miln, and revitalized the craft before you even finished your apprenticeship!” He spoke as if he were seeing each deed in a new light as he mentioned it, filling in pieces of some great puzzle.
“You warded the Holy Library,” he said in awe, pointing. “A boy, a mere apprentice, and I let you ward the most important building in the world.”
“Just the furniture,” the Warded Man said.
Ronnell nodded, as if fitting another piece. “The Creator wanted you here, in the Library. Its secrets were collected for you!”
“That’s nonsense,” the Warded Man said.
Ronnell got to his feet. “Pray, put your hood up,” he said, going to the door.
The Warded Man stared at him a moment, then complied. Ronnell led him from his office to the main archive, striding through the maze of stacks as a man might swiftly cross his own home when the kettle began to whistle.
The Warded Man followed no less swiftly. After warding every shelf, table, and bench in the building, its layout was seared into his mind. They soon came to an archway with the path roped off. A burly acolyte stood there to grant entry, and above him, the letters BR were etched into the keystone.
Contained within were the most valuable books in the archive—original copies of books dating back before the Return. These were housed in glass and seldom touched, for copies had long since been penned. Also in the BR section were countless rows of manuals, philosophies, and stories the librarian, always a devout Tender of the Creator, deemed unfit for even the scholars of Miln to see.
The Warded Man had delighted in perusing these as a boy, when the acolytes who patrolled the censored stacks were not about. He had stolen more than one censored romance or unedited history for a night’s reading, replacing the text before any noticed its absence.
The acolyte bowed low at the Tender’s approach, and Ronnell led them to one of the censored stacks. There were literally thousands of books, but the Duke’s Librarian knew every volume by heart, and did not slow to check shelf or spine as he selected a volume. He turned and handed it to the Warded Man. The hand-painted cover read: Weapones of the Olde Wyrld.
“The Age of Science had terrible weapons,” Ronnell said. “Weapons that could kill hundreds, even thousands of men. It is no wonder the Creator grew wroth with us.”
The Warded Man ignored the comment. “Euchor will seek to rebuild them?”
“The most terrible are beyond our ability to re-create, requiring vast refineries and lectric power,” Ronnell said. “But there is much that can still be built by any man with access to simple chemics and a steel forge. That book,” he pointed to the volume in the Warded Man’s hands, “is a detailed account of those weapons and how they are built. Take it.”
The Warded Man raised an eyebrow. “What will Euchor do when he learns it’s gone?”
“He will grow wroth, and demand I re-create it from the original texts,” Ronnell said, gesturing to the rows of glass bookcases. Glass the Warded Man had etched with wards himself.
Tender Ronnell followed his gaze. “When the Warders’ Guild began charging glass, I had them put out in the night. Your wards made those cases indestructible. Another miracle.”
“You mustn’t tell anyone who I was,” the Warded Man said. “You would endanger everyone I ever knew.”
Ronnell nodded. “It is enough for now that I know.”
If he hadn’t told Ronnell who he was, Mery likely would have, but he had never expected the strict man to honestly believe that he, Arlen Bales, was the Deliverer. The Warded Man scowled as he put the book in his satchel.
It was the last night of the new moon when the mind demon tracked the Warded Man to Fort Miln. The coreling prince could only rise on the three darkest nights of the cycle, but it picked up its quarry’s trail quickly, following a lingering scent in the air, even days after his passing. It was an intriguing scent—not quite human and warm with stolen Core magic.
Atop its winged mimic, the mind demon stared down at the net atop the human breeding ground. The walls were powerfully warded, but there were large gaps in the lines of magic crisscrossing the rooftops. A winged drone, unable to see the net unless it activated, might never find the gap save by accident, but to the coreling prince the pattern was clear, and it guided its mimic to slip neatly through into the city proper.
Windows were shuttered closed, streets dark and empty. The mind demon felt the pull as the house wards tried to leech its magic, but the mimic glided by so quickly that they could find no draw. Clumsy wardnets were cast throughout the city, but the coreling prince avoided them as easily as a man might step around a puddle.
They passed through the city following the invisible path in the air. They paused at a great inner keep, but a sniff at the gate made it clear it was not their final destination. Next they came to a giant building whose wards were so powerful, the coreling prince hissed as it felt their pull even from a distance. There was usually at least one such place at the center of every breeding ground, and they were places best avoided, especially since his quarry had not remained there. A fresher scent headed away from the building.
The trail led at last to another wardwall, this one tightly crafted and without flaw. The wards were not keyed to their castes, but the coreling prince knew they would still activate and cause great pain should it or its mimic cross the net. The demon was forced to disable some of the wards so they could pass the barrier safely.
They drifted silently up to the dwelling, and in the window, the mind demon caught sight of its quarry at last. Those with him were dull and colorless creatures, but the one had warded his flesh, and glowed fiercely with stolen magic.
Too fiercely. The coreling prince was thousands of years old, a creature of caution, consideration, and decisive action. This deep in the breeding ground, it could not summon drones to attack, and the mind demon was loath to risk its mimic. Having seen the human, there was no question he must be killed, but there would be better chances in the coming cycles when he was less protected, and there were unanswered questions about his power to answer first.
It moved to the window, absorbing the crude grunts and gestures of the human stock.
“ ‘You would find yourself with two less guards?’ ” Ragen said with a deep, rich laugh. “I thought Euchor was going to burst a vein right there! I told you to act like a king, not a suicidal Krasian!”
“I didn’t expect him to demand a marriage,” the Warded Man said.
“Euchor knows full well he is not going to produce a direct heir,” Ragen said, “so it’s wise to get at least one of his daughters out of the city before they tear Miln apart for his throne. Whichever girl Rhinebeck chooses, she’ll likely welcome the escape, and the chance to put her own issue on the throne of Angiers.”
“Rhinebeck will never accept it,” the Warded Man said.
Ragen shook his head. “Depends on how much of a threat the Krasians prove,” he said. “If it’s half as bad as you say, Rhinebeck may have no choice. Will you share Euchor’s book of weapons with him?”
The Warded Man shook his head. “I have no interest in ducal politics, or helping the men of Thesa kill one another with the Krasians in our lands and the corelings clawing at the wards. I’ve more interest in turning these weapons against the corelings, if it can be done.”
“No wonder Ronnell thinks you the Deliverer,” Ragen said.
The Warded Man looked at him sharply.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Ragen said. “I believe it no more than you do. At least, not that you’re divine. But perhaps it’s natural that when the time is right, a man of sufficient will and drive appears to guide the rest of us.”
The Warded Man shook his head. “I don’t want to guide anyone. I just want to see the fighting wards spread wide so they can never be lost again. Let men guide themselves.”
He moved to the window and glanced out the curtains at the sky. “I’ll leave before first light, so none will mark my …”
He almost missed it, his eyes on the sky and not the ground. It was just a glimpsed thing, vanished before he got a good look, but there was no mistaking the glow to his warded eyes.
There was a demon in the yard.
He turned and ran for the door, pulling off his robe and throwing it on the marble floor as he went. Elissa gasped at the sight of him.
“Arlen, what is it?” she cried.
He ignored her, lifting the bar off the heavy oak door and flinging it open as if it were weightless. He leapt out into the yard, looking about frantically.
Nothing.
Ragen was at the door an instant later, spear in hand and warded shield on his arm. “What did you see?” he demanded.
The Warded Man turned a slow circuit, scanning the courtyard for signs of magic, and straining his other senses to catch some hint confirming what he had seen.
“There’s a demon in the yard,” he said. “A powerful one. Stay behind the wards.”
“Good advice for you as well,” Elissa called. “Come inside before my heart stops.”
The Warded Man ignored her, moving about the yard, scanning. There were Servants’ houses inside Ragen’s wall, as well as his garden and stables. Many places to hide. He drifted through the darkness, seeing all with absolute clarity, even better than he did in the light.
There was a presence in the air, like a lingering stench, but it was insubstantial and impossible to pinpoint. His muscles grew tight, ready to flex at an instant’s notice.
But there was nothing. He searched the compound from one end to another, and found nothing. Had he imagined it?
“Anything?” Ragen asked, when he returned. The guildmaster was still in the doorway, safe behind the wards, but ready to spring out at a moment’s notice.
“Empty my pockets,” the Warded Man said with a shrug. “Maybe I imagined it.”
Ragen grunted. “No one gets cored for being too careful.”
The Warded Man took Ragen’s spear as he came back inside. A Messenger’s spear was his trusted companion on the road, and Ragen’s, though he had not Messaged in nearly a decade, was still well oiled and sharp.
“Let me ward this before I leave,” he said. He glanced outside. “And you check your wardnet come morning.” Ragen nodded.
“Must you go so soon?” Elissa asked.
“I draw too much attention in town, and I don’t want it to lead back here,” the Warded Man said. “Better I be gone before sunrise, and out the dawn gate the moment it opens.”
Elissa did not look pleased, but she embraced him tightly and kissed him. “We expect to see you again before another decade passes,” she warned.
“You will,” the Warded Man promised. “Honest word.”
The Warded Man felt better than he had in years when he left Ragen and Elissa just before dawn. They had refused sleep and stayed up with him through the night, filling him in on the goings-on in Miln since his departure, and asking after the details of his life. He told them stories of his early adventures, but never spoke of his time in the desert, when Arlen Bales had died and the Warded Man been born. Or the years after.
Still, there were enough tales to fill the remainder of the night and to spare. He barely made it away before the dawn bell, and had to trot to be far enough from the manse not to draw suspicion as people began to open warded doors and unshutter warded windows.
He smiled. Likely, his missing the bell and being forced to stay another day had been Elissa’s plan all along, but she had never been able to cage him.
The guards at the day gate were still stretching out morning kinks when he arrived, but the gate was open. “Seems everyone’s up early this morn,” one said as he passed.
The Warded Man wondered what he meant, but then he rode past the hill where he had first met Jaik and found his friend waiting there, sitting on a large rock.
“Looks like I made it out just in time,” Jaik said. “Had to break curfew to do it.”
The Warded Man dropped from the horse’s back and came over to him. Jaik made no effort to rise or extend a hand, so he simply sat on the rock beside him. “The Jaik I met on this hill would never break curfew.”
Jaik shrugged. “Didn’t have much choice. Knew you’d try and skulk off with the dawn.”
“Didn’t Ragen’s man bring you my letters?” the Warded Man asked.
Jaik pulled out the bundle and threw it to the ground. “Can’t read, and you know it.”
The Warded Man sighed. In truth, he had forgotten. “Came to see you in person,” he offered. “Wasn’t expecting to find Mery there, and she wasn’t eager that I stay.”
“I know,” Jaik said. “She came to me at the mill in tears. Told me everything.”
The Warded Man hung his head. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” Jaik said. He sat quietly for a time, looking out over the land spread out before them.
“Always knew she was just settling for me,” he said at last. “You were gone a year before she saw me as anything more than a shoulder to cry on. Two more before she agreed to be my wife, and another after that before we made our vows. Even on the day she was holding her breath, hoping you’d storm in and break up the ceremony. Night, I half expected it myself.”
He shrugged. “Can’t blame her. She was marrying down a class, and I ent educated or much to look at. There was a reason I followed you around when we were kids. You were always better than me at everything. I wasn’t even fit to be your Jongleur.”
“Jaik, I’m no better than you are,” the Warded Man said.
“Yeah, I see that now.” Jaik spat. “I’m a better husband than you ever could have been. Know why? Because unlike you, I was there for her.”
The Warded Man scowled, and any feelings of contrition fled from his thoughts. Anger and hurt he would accept from Jaik, but the condescension in his tone burned.
“That’s the Jaik I remember,” he said. “Shows up and does the least he can. Heard Mery’s da had to call favors at the mill so you could afford to move off your parents’ carpet.”
But Jaik stood fast. “I was there for her here,” he snapped, pointing to his temple, “and here!” He pointed to his heart. “Your head and heart were always out there.” He swept a hand out over the horizon. “So why don’t you just go back there? No one needs your delivering here.”
The Warded Man nodded, leaping back up onto Twilight Dancer’s back. “You take care of yourself, Jaik.” He rode off.