Arlen and Mery both winced as the balls came clattering down to the cobblestones.
Jaik’s face colored. “Maybe I should practice more with three,” he said.
“You should practice more,” Arlen agreed.
“My da doesn’t like it,” Jaik said. “He says ‘if you’ve nothing to do but juggle, boy, I’ll find some chores for you!’”
“My father does that when he catches me dancing,” Mery said.
They looked at Arlen expectantly. “My da used to do that, too,” he said.
“But not Master Cob?” Jaik asked.
Arlen shook his head. “Why should he? I do all he asks.”
“Then when do you find time to practice messengering?” Jaik asked.
“I make time,” Arlen said.
“How?” Jaik asked.
Arlen shrugged. “Get up earlier. Stay up later. Sneak away after meals. Whatever you need to do. Or would you rather stay a miller your whole life?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a miller, Arlen,” Mery said.
Jaik shook his head. “No, he’s right,” he said. “If this is what I want, I have to work harder.” He looked at Arlen. “I’ll practice more,” he promised.
“Don’t worry,” Arlen said. “If you can’t entertain the villagers in the hamlets, you can earn your keep scaring off the demons on the road with your singing.”
Jaik’s eyes narrowed. Mery laughed as he began throwing his juggling balls at Arlen.
“A good Jongleur could hit me!” Arlen taunted, nimbly dodging each throw.
“You’re reaching too far,” Cob called. To illustrate his point, Ragen let go one hand from his shield and gripped Arlen’s spear, just below the tip, before he could retract it. He yanked, and the overbalanced boy went crashing into the snow.
“Ragen, be careful,” Elissa admonished, clutching her shawl tightly in the chill morning air. “You’ll hurt him.”
“He’s far gentler than a coreling would be, my lady,” Cob said, loud enough for Arlen to hear. “The purpose of the long spear is to hold the demons back at a distance while retreating. It’s a defensive weapon. Messengers who get too aggressive with them, like young Arlen here, end up dead. I’ve seen it happen. There was one time on the road to Lakton …”
Arlen scowled. Cob was a good teacher, but he tended to punctuate his lessons with grisly stories of the demise of other Messengers. His intent was to discourage, but his words had the opposite effect, only strengthening Arlen’s resolve to succeed where those before him failed. He picked himself up and set his feet more firmly this time, his weight on his heels.
“Enough with the long spears,” Cob said. “Let’s try the short ones.”
Elissa frowned as Arlen placed the eight-foot-long spear on a rack and he and Ragen selected shorter ones, barely three feet long, with points measuring a third of their length. These were designed for close-quarter fighting, stabbing instead of jabbing. He selected a shield as well, and the two of them once again faced off in the snow. Arlen was taller now, broader of the shoulder, fifteen years old with a lean, wiry strength. He was dressed in Ragen’s old leather armor. It was big on him, but he was fast growing into it.
“What is the point of this?” Elissa asked in exasperation. “It’s not like he’s ever going to get that close to a demon and live to tell about it.”
“I’ve seen it happen,” Cob disagreed, as he watched Arlen and Ragen spar. “But there are other things than demons out between the cities, my lady. Wild animals, and even bandits.”
“Who would attack a Messenger?” Elissa asked, shocked.
Ragen shot Cob an angry look, but Cob ignored him. “Messengers are wealthy men,” he said, “and they carry valuable goods and messages that can decide the fate of Merchants and Royals alike. Most people wouldn’t dare bring harm to one, but it can happen. And animals … with corelings culling the weak, only the strongest predators remain.
“Arlen!” the Warder called. “What do you do if you’re attacked by a bear?”
Without stopping or taking his eyes off Ragen, Arlen called back, “Long spear to the throat, retreat while it bleeds, then strike the vitals when it lowers its guard.”
“What else can you do?” Cob called.
“Lie still,” Arlen said distastefully. “Bears seldom attack the dead.”
“A lion?” Cob asked.
“Medium spear,” Arlen called, picking off a stab from Ragen with his shield and countering. “Stab to the shoulder joint and brace as the cat impales itself, then stab with a short spear to the chest or side, as available.”
“Wolf?”
“I can’t listen to any more of this,” Elissa said, storming off toward the manse.
Arlen ignored her. “A good whack to the snout with a medium spear will usually drive off a lone wolf,” he said. “Failing that, use the same tactics as for lions.”
“What if there’s a pack of them?” Cob asked.
“Wolves fear fire,” Arlen said.
“And if you encounter a boar?” Cob wanted to know.
Arlen laughed. “I should ‘run like all the Core is after me,’” he quoted his instructors.
Arlen awoke atop a pile of books. For a moment he wondered where he was, realizing finally that he had fallen asleep in the library again. He looked out the window, seeing that it was well past dark. He craned his head up, making out the ghostly shape of a wind demon as it passed far above. Elissa would be upset.
The histories he had been reading were ancient, dating back to the Age of Science. They told of the kingdoms of the old world, Albinon, Thesa, Great Linm, and Rusk, and spoke of seas, enormous lakes spanning impossible distances, with yet more kingdoms on the far side. It was staggering. If the books were to be believed, the world was bigger than he had ever imagined.
He paged through the open book he had collapsed upon, and was surprised to find a map. As his eyes scanned the place names, they widened. There, plain as could be, was the duchy of Miln. He looked closer, and saw the river that Fort Miln used for much of its fresh water, and the mountains that stood at its back. Right there was a small star, marking the capital.
He flipped a few pages, reading about ancient Miln. Then, as now, it was a mining and quarrying city, with vassalage spanning dozens of miles. Duke Miln’s territory included many towns and villages, ending at the Dividing River, the border of the lands held by Duke Angiers.
Arlen remembered his own journey, and traced back west to the ruins he had found, learning that they had belonged to the earl of Newkirk. Almost shaking with excitement, Arlen looked further, and found what he had been looking for, a small waterway opening into a wide pond. The barony of Tibbet.
Tibbet, Newkirk, and the others had paid tribute to Miln, who in turn with Duke Angiers owed fealty to the king of Thesa. “Thesans,” Arlen whispered, trying the word on for size.
“We’re all Thesans.”
He took out a pen and began to copy the map.
“That name is not to be spoken again by either of you,” Ronnell scolded Arlen and his daughter.
“But …” Arlen began.
“You think this wasn’t known?” the librarian cut him off. “His Grace has ordered anyone speaking the name of Thesa arrested. Do you want to spend years breaking rocks in his mines?”
“Why?” Arlen asked. “What harm could it bring?”
“Before the duke closed the library,” Ronnell said, “some people were obsessed with Thesa, and with soliciting monies to hire Messengers to contact lost dots on the maps.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Arlen asked.
“The king is three centuries dead, Arlen,” Ronnell said, “and the dukes will make war before they bend knee to anyone but themselves. Talk of reunification reminds people of things they ought not remember.”