The Warded Man

“Promise me,” Ragen ordered.

“I promise,” Jenya said.

Ragen nodded, hugging her one last time. “I’ll look in on you when I can,” he said. She was still crying as they left. Arlen stared back at her as they went.

“You look confused,” Ragen said.

“I guess I am,” Arlen agreed.

“Jenya’s family were Beggars,” Ragen explained. “Her father is blind and her mother sickly. They had the fortune, though, to have a healthy, attractive daughter. She brought herself and her parents up two classes when she married Graig. He took the three of them into his home, and though he never had the choicest routes, he made enough for them to get by and be happy.”

He shook his head. “Now, though, she has rent to pay and three mouths to feed on her own. She can’t stray far from home, either, because her parents can’t do for themselves.”

“It’s good of you to help her,” Arlen said, feeling a little better. “She was pretty when she smiled.”

“You can’t help everyone, Arlen,” Ragen said, “but you should make every effort to help those you can.” Arlen nodded.

They wound their way up a hill until they reached a large manse. A gated wall six feet high surrounded the sprawling property, and the great house itself was three stories high and had dozens of windows, all reflecting light from their glass. It was bigger than the great hall on Boggin’s Hill, and that could hold everyone in Tibbet’s Brook for the solstice feast. The manse and the wall around it were painted with brightly colored wards. Such a magnificent place, Arlen decided, must be the home of the duke.

“My mam had a cup of warded glass, hard as steel,” he said, looking up at the windows as a thin man came scurrying up from inside the grounds to open the gate. “She kept it hidden, but sometimes she took it out when company came, to show how it glittered.” They rode past a garden untouched by coreling mischief, where several hands were digging vegetables.

“This is one of the only manses in Miln with all glass windows,” Ragen said proudly. “I’d pay a lot to ward them not to break.”

“I know the trick,” Arlen said, “but you need a coreling to touch the glass to charge it.”

Ragen chuckled and shook his head. “Maybe not, then.”

There were smaller buildings on the grounds as well, stone huts with smoking chimneys and people going to and fro, like a tiny village. Dirty children scampered about, and women kept watch over them while tending their chores. They rode to the stables, and a groom was there in a second to take Nighteye’s reins. He bowed and scraped to Ragen as if Ragen were a king in a story.

“I thought we were going to stop by your house before visiting the duke,” Arlen asked.

Ragen laughed. “This is my house, Arlen! Do you think I risk the open road for nothing?”

Arlen looked back at the house, his eyes bulging. “This is all yours?” he asked.

“All of it,” Ragen confirmed. “Dukes are free with their coin to those who stare down corelings.”

“But Graig’s house was so small,” Arlen protested.

“Graig was a good man,” Ragen said, “but he was never more than a passable Messenger. He was content to make a run to Tibbet’s Brook each year, and shuttle to the local hamlets in between. A man like that might support his family, but no more. The only reason there was so much profit for Jenya was that I paid for the extra goods I sold Hog out of my own purse. Graig used to have to borrow from the guild, and they took a hard cut.”

A tall man opened the door to the house with a bow. He was stone-faced, wearing a faded blue coat of dyed wool. His face and clothes were clean, a sharp contrast to those in the yard. As soon as they entered, a boy not much older than Arlen sprang to his feet. He ran to a bell rope at the base of a broad, marble stair. Chimes rang through the house.

“I see your luck has held one more time,” a woman called a moment later. She had dark hair and piercing blue eyes. She wore a deep blue gown, finer than anything Arlen had ever seen, and her wrists and throat sparkled with jewels. Her smile was cold as she regarded them from the marble balcony above the foyer. Arlen had never seen a woman so beautiful or graceful.

“My wife, Elissa,” Ragen advised quietly. “A reason to return … and a reason to leave.” Arlen was unsure if he was joking. The woman did not seem pleased to see them.

“One of these times, the corelings will have you,” Elissa said as she descended the stairs, “and I will finally be free to wed my young lover.”

“Never happen,” Ragen said with a smile, drawing her close for a kiss. Turning to Arlen, he explained, “Elissa dreams of the day when she will inherit my fortune. I guard against the corelings as much to spite her as to protect myself.”

Elissa laughed, and Arlen relaxed. “Who is this?” she asked. “A stray to save you the work of filling my belly with a child of our own?”

“The only work is melting your frozen petticoats, my dear,” Ragen shot back. “May I present Arlen, of Tibbet’s Brook. I met him on the road.”

“On the road?” Elissa asked. “He’s just a child!”

“I’m not a child!” Arlen shouted, then immediately felt foolish. Ragen eyed him wryly, and he dropped his gaze.

Elissa gave no sign that she heard the outburst. “Doff your armor and find the bath,” she ordered her husband, “you smell like sweat and rust. I’ll see to our guest.”

As Ragen left, Elissa called a servant to prepare Arlen a snack. Ragen seemed to have more servants than there were people in Tibbet’s Brook. They cut him slices of cold ham and a thick crust of bread, with clotted cream and milk to wash it down. Elissa watched him eat, but Arlen couldn’t think of anything to say, and kept his attention on his plate.

As he was finishing the cream, a serving woman in a dress of the same blue as the men’s jackets entered and bowed to Elissa. “Master Ragen awaits you upstairs,” she said.

“Thank you, Mother,” Elissa replied. Her face took on a strange cast for a moment, as she absently ran her fingers over her stomach. Then she smiled and looked at Arlen. “Take our guest to the bath,” she ordered, “and don’t let him up for air until you can tell what color his skin is.” She laughed and swept out of the room.

Arlen, used to standing in a trough and dumping cold water over himself, was out of sorts at the sight of Ragen’s deep stone tub. He waited as the serving woman, Margrit, poured a kettle of boiling water in to take the chill from his soak. She was tall, like everyone in Miln, with kind eyes and honey-colored hair just hinting at gray peeking from underneath her bonnet. She turned her back while Arlen undressed and got into the tub. She gasped as she saw the stitched wounds on his back, and quickly moved to inspect them.

“Ow!” Arlen shouted as she pinched the uppermost wound.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she scolded, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together and sniffing at them. Arlen bit down as she repeated the process down his back. “You’re luckier than you know,” she said at last. “When Ragen told me you were hurt, I thought it must be just a scratch, but this …” She tsked at him. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to be outside at night?”