“I wouldn’t be in any rush to do that,” Ragen advised. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“What happened?” Arlen asked, looking up at the man who sat nearby.
“Found you passed out on the road,” the man said. “The cuts on your back had demon rot. Had to cut you open and drain the poison before I could sew them up.”
“Where’s Keerin?” Arlen asked.
Ragen laughed. “Inside,” he said. “Keerin’s been keeping his distance the last couple days. He couldn’t handle the gore, and sicked up when we first found you.”
“Days?” Arlen asked. He looked around and found himself back in the ancient courtyard. Ragen had made camp there, his portable circles protecting the bedrolls and animals.
“We found you around high sun on Thirday,” Ragen said. “It’s Fifthday now. You’ve been delirious the whole time, thrashing around as you sweated out the sickness.”
“You cured my demon fever?” Arlen asked in shock.
“That what they call it in the Brook?” Ragen asked. He shrugged. “Good a name as any, I suppose, but it’s not some magic disease, boy; just an infection. I found some hogroot not far off the road, so I was able to poultice the cuts. I’ll make some tea with it later. If you drink it for the next few days, you should be all right.”
“Hogroot?” Arlen asked.
Ragen held up a weed that grew most everywhere. “A staple of every Messenger’s herb pouch, though it’s best when fresh. Makes you a little dizzy, but for some reason, demon rot can’t abide it.”
Arlen began to cry. His mother could have been cured by a weed he regularly pulled from Jeph’s field? It was just too much.
Ragen waited quietly, giving Arlen space while the tears ran their course. After what seemed an eternity, the flow began to ebb, and his heaving sobs eased. Ragen handed him a cloth wordlessly, and Arlen dried his cheeks.
“Arlen,” the Messenger asked finally, “what are you doing all the way out here?”
Arlen looked at him for a long time, trying to decide what to say. When he finally spoke, the tale came spilling out in a rush. He told the Messenger everything, starting with the night his mother was injured and ending with running from his father.
Ragen was quiet while he took in Arlen’s tale. “I’m sorry about your mother, Arlen,” he said at last. Arlen sniffled and nodded.
Keerin wandered back as Arlen began telling how he had tried to find the road to Sunny Pasture, but had accidentally taken the fork to the Free Cities instead. He paid rapt attention as Arlen described his first night alone, the giant rock demon, and how he had scuffed the ward. The Jongleur went pale when Arlen described the race to repair it before the demon killed him.
“You’re the one that cut that demon’s arm off?” Ragen asked incredulously, a moment later. Keerin looked ready to sick up again.
“It’s not a trick I mean to try again,” Arlen said.
“No, I don’t suppose it is,” Ragen chuckled. “Still, crippling a fifteen-foot rock demon is a deed worth a song or two, eh, Keerin?” He elbowed the Jongleur, but that seemed to push the man over the edge. He covered his mouth and ran off. Ragen shook his head and sighed.
“A giant one-armed rock demon’s been haunting us ever since we found you,” he explained. “It’s hammered the wards harder than any coreling I’ve ever seen.”
“Is he going to be all right?” Arlen asked, watching Keerin double over.
“It’ll pass,” Ragen grunted. “Let’s get some food into you.” He helped Arlen sit up against the horse’s saddle. The move sent a stab of pain through him, and Ragen saw him wince.
“Chew on this,” he advised, handing Arlen a gnarled root. “It will make you a little light-headed, but it should ease the pain.”
“Are you an Herb Gatherer?” Arlen asked.
Ragen laughed. “No, but a Messenger needs to know a little of every art, if he wants to survive.” He reached into his saddlebags, pulling out a metal cookpot and some utensils.
“I wish you’d told Coline about hogroot,” Arlen lamented.
“I would have,” Ragen said, “if I thought for a second she didn’t know.” He filled the pot, and hung it from the tripod over the firepit. “It’s amazing what people have forgotten.”
He stoked the flames as Keerin returned, looking pale but relieved. “I’ll be sure to mention it when we take you back.”
“Back?” Arlen asked.
“Back?” Keerin echoed.
“Of course ‘back,’” Ragen said. “Your da will be looking for you, Arlen.”
“But I don’t want to go back,” Arlen said. “I want to go to the Free Cities with you.”
“You can’t just run away from your problems, Arlen,” Ragen said.
“I’m not going back,” Arlen said. “You can drag me there, but I’ll run again the second you let go.”
Ragen stared at him for a long time. Finally, he glanced at Keerin.
“You know what I think,” Keerin said. “I’ve no desire to add five nights, at least, to our trip home.”
Ragen frowned at Arlen. “I’ll be writing your father when we get to Miln,” he warned.
“You’ll be wasting your time,” Arlen said. “He’ll never come for me.”
The stone floor of the courtyard and the high wall hid them well that night. A wide portable circle secured the cart, and the animals were staked and hobbled in another. They were in the inner of two concentric rings, with the fire at the center.
Keerin lay huddled in his bedroll, with the blanket over his head. He was shivering though it was not cold, and when the occasional coreling tested the wards, he twitched.
“Why do they keep attacking when they can’t get through?” Arlen asked.
“They’re looking for flaws in the net,” Ragen said. “You’ll never see a coreling attack the same spot twice.” He tapped his temple. “They remember. Corelings aren’t smart enough to study the wards and reason out the weak spots, so they attack the barrier and search that way. They get through rarely, but often enough to make it worth their while.”
A wind demon came swooping over the wall and bounced off the wards. Keerin whimpered from under his blanket at the sound.
Ragen looked over at the Jongleur’s bedroll and shook his head. “It’s like he thinks that if he can’t see the corelings, they can’t see him,” he muttered.
“Is he always like this?” Arlen asked.
“That one-armed demon has him more spooked than usual,” Ragen said, “but he wasn’t exactly standing at the wards before.” He shrugged. “I needed a Jongleur on short notice. The guild gave me Keerin. I don’t normally work with ones so green.”
“Why bring a Jongleur at all, then?” Arlen asked.
“Oh, you have to bring a Jongleur with you when you’re going to the hamlets,” Ragen said. “They’re apt to stone you if you show up without one.”
“Hamlets?”
“Small villages, like Tibbet’s Brook,” Ragen explained. “Places too far for the dukes to easily control, where most folks can’t read.”
“What difference does that make?” Arlen asked.
“People that can’t read don’t have a lot of use for Messengers,” Ragen said. “Oh, they’re eager enough for their salt, or whatever it is they’re shy of, but most won’t come out of their way to see you and give you news, and collecting news is a Messenger’s first job. But bring a Jongleur with you, and people drop everything to come and see the spectacle. It wasn’t just for you that I spread word of Keerin’s show.
“Some men,” he went on, “can be Merchant, Jongleur, Herb Gatherer, and Messenger all at once, but they’re about as common as a friendly coreling. Most Messengers who take the hamlet routes have to hire a Jongleur.”