The Warded Man

Arlen tried to go to her, but Jeph caught his arm. “Come talk with me, Arlen,” he said.

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

Arlen knew the signs. When his father wouldn’t look at him, it meant he was uncomfortable with whatever he wanted to talk about.

“What you saw on the road with the Messenger …” Jeph began.

“Ragen explained it to me,” Arlen said. “uncle Cholie was dead already, he just didn’t know it right away. Sometimes people live through an attack, but die anyway.”

Jeph frowned. “Not how I would have put it,” he said. “But true enough, I suppose. Cholie …”

“Was a coward,” Arlen finished.

Jeph looked at him in surprise. “What makes you say that?” he asked.

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

“I don’t want to hear that kind of talk,” Jeph said. “You can’t fight demons, Arlen. No one can. There’s nothing to be gained by getting yourself killed.”

Arlen shook his head. “They’re like bullies,” he said. “They attack us because we’re too scared to fight back. I hit Cobie and the others with that stick, and they didn’t bother me again.”

“Cobie ent a rock demon,” Jeph said. “No stick is going to scare those off.”

“There’s got to be a way,” Arlen said. “People used to do it. All the old stories say so.”

“The stories say there were magic wards to fight with,” Jeph said. “The fighting wards are lost.”

“Ragen says they still fight demons in some places. He says it can be done.”

“I’m going to have a talk with that Messenger,” Jeph grumbled. “He shouldn’t be filling your head with such thoughts.”

“Why not?” Arlen said. “Maybe more people would have survived last night, if all the men had gotten axes and spears …”

“They would be just as dead,” Jeph finished. “There’s other ways to protect yourself and your family, Arlen. Wisdom. Prudence. Humility. It’s not brave to fight a battle you can’t win.

“Who would care for the women and the children if all the men got themselves cored trying to kill what can’t be killed?” he went on. “Who 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.”

“The corelings are already winning,” Arlen muttered. “You keep saying the town gets smaller each year. Bullies keep coming when you don’t fight back.”

He looked up at his father. “Don’t you feel it? Don’t you want to fight sometimes?”

“Of course I do, Arlen,” Jeph said. “But 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.

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

Arlen nodded. “I think so.”

“Good man,” Jeph said, squeezing his shoulder.

Arlen’s 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.

“You’re up early,” 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.

“The days don’t get any longer while you sleep,” Arlen said.

Norine nodded. “So my husband used to say,” she agreed. “‘Baleses and Cutters can’t work by candlelight, like the Squares,’ he’d say.”

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

“Of course,” Norine agreed. “When I was your age, the Jongleur was the most important thing in the world to me, too. I’ll help you with your chores.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Arlen said. “Da says you should rest.”

Norine shook her head. “Rest just makes me think of things best left unthought,” she said. “If I’m 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?”

Arlen shrugged, and handed her the egg basket.

With Norine’s 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.

“Stop squirming on the bench,” Silvy told Arlen as they ate.

“Young Arlen can’t wait to go see the Jongleur,” Norine advised.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Jeph said, and Arlen’s face fell.

“What!” Arlen cried. “But …”

“No buts,” Jeph said. “A lot of work went undone yesterday, and I promised Selia I’d drop by the Cluster in the afternoon to help out.”

Arlen pushed his plate away and stomped into his room.

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

“Arlen had a hard day, yesterday,” Silvy said. She bit her lip. “We all did. Let the Jongleur put a smile on his face. Surely there’s nothing that can’t wait.”

Jeph nodded after a moment. “Arlen!” he called. When the boy showed his sullen face, he asked, “How much is old Hog charging to see the Jongleur?”

“Nothing,” Arlen said quickly, not wanting to give his father reason to refuse. “On account of how I helped carry stuff from the Messenger’s cart.” It wasn’t 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.

“Old Hog always acts generous right after the Messenger comes,” Norine said.

“Ought to, after how he’s been fleecing us all winter,” Silvy replied.