The Warded Man

by Peter V. Brett

  Do you feel anything at all? Leesha wondered at her.

  Her mother was right that tears would not bring back the dead, but she was wrong that it was good for nothing. Crying had always been Leesha’s escape when things were hard. Other girls might think Leesha’s life was perfect, but only because none of them saw the face Elona showed her only child when they were alone. It was no secret Elona had wanted sons, and Leesha and her father both endured her scorn for failing to oblige.

  But she angrily dried her eyes all the same. She couldn’t wait until she flowered and Gared took her away. The villagers would build them a house for their wedding boon, and Gared would carry her across the wards and make a woman of her while they all cheered outside. She would have her own children, and treat them nothing like her mother treated her.

  Leesha was dressed when her mother banged on her door. She had not slept at all.

  “I want you out the door when the dawn bell rings,” Elona said. “And I’ll not hear a murmur about you being tired! I won’t have our family seen lagging to help.”

  Leesha knew her mother well enough to know that “seen” was the operative word. Elona didn’t care about helping anyone but herself.

  Leesha’s father, Erny, was waiting by the door under Elona’s stern gaze. He was not a large man, and to call him wiry would have implied a strength that wasn’t there. He was no stronger of will than of body, a timid man whose voice never rose. Erny was Elona’s elder by a dozen years; his thin brown hair had deserted the top of his head, and he wore thin-rimmed glasses he had bought from a Messenger years ago, the only man in town with the like.

  He was, in short, not the man Elona wanted him to be, but there was great demand in the Free Cities for the fine paper he made, and she liked his money well enough.

  Unlike her mother, Leesha really wanted to help her neighbors. She was out and running toward the fire the moment the corelings fled, even before the bell.

  “Leesha! Stay with us!” Elona cried, but Leesha ignored her. The smoke was thick and choking, but she raised her apron to cover her mouth, and did not slow.

  A few townsfolk were already gathered by the time she reached the source. Three houses had burned to the ground, and two more still blazed, threatening to set their neighbors alight. Leesha shrieked when she saw that one of the houses was Gared’s.

  Smitt, who owned the inn and general store in town, was on the scene, barking orders. Smitt had been town Speaker as long as Leesha could remember. He was never eager to give orders, preferring to let people solve their own problems, but everyone agreed he was good at it.

  “… never pull water from the well fast enough,” Smitt was saying as Leesha approached. “We’ll have to form a bucket line to the stream and wet the other houses, or the whole village will be ashes by nightfall!”

  Gared and Steave came running up just then, harried and sooty, but otherwise healthy. Gared, just fifteen, was bigger than most grown men in the village. Steave, his father, was a giant, towering over everyone. Leesha felt a knot in her stomach unclench at the sight of them.

  But before she could run to Gared, Smitt pointed to him. “Gared, pull the bucket cart to the stream!” He looked over the others. “Leesha!” he said. “Follow him and start filling!”

  Leesha ran for all she was worth, but even pulling the heavy cart, Gared beat her to the small stream flowing from the River Angiers, miles to the north. The moment he pulled up short, she fell into his arms. She had thought seeing him alive would dispel the horrible images in her head, but it only intensified them. She didn’t know what she would do if she lost Gared.

  “I feared you dead,” she moaned, sobbing into his chest.

  “I’m safe,” he whispered, hugging her tightly. “I’m safe.”

  Quickly, the two began unloading the cart, filling buckets to start the line as others arrived. Soon, more than a hundred villagers were in a neat row stretching from the stream to the blaze, passing up full buckets and handing back empty ones. Gared was called back to the fire with the cart, his strong arms needed to throw water.

  It wasn’t long before the cart returned, this time pulled by Tender Michel and laden with wounded. The sight brought mixed feelings. Seeing fellow villagers, friends all, burned and savaged cut her deeply, but a breach that left survivors was rare, and each one was a gift she thanked the Creator for.

  The Holy Man and his acolyte, Child Jona, laid the injured out by the stream. Michel left the young man to comfort them while he brought the cart back for more.

  Leesha turned from the sight, focusing on filling buckets. Her feet went numb in the cold water and her arms grew leaden, but she lost herself in the work until a whisper got her attention.

  “Hag Bruna is coming,” someone said, and Leesha’s head snapped up. Sure enough, the ancient Herb Gatherer was coming down the path, led by her apprentice, Darsy.

  No one knew for sure how old Bruna was. It was said she was old when the village elders were young. She had delivered most of them herself. She had outlived her husband, children, and grandchildren, and had no family left in the world.

  Now she was little more than a wrinkle of translucent skin stretched over sharp bone. Half blind, she could walk only at a slow shuffle, but Bruna could still shout to be heard from the far end of the village, and she swung her gnarled walking stick with surprising strength and accuracy when her ire was roused.

  Leesha, like most everyone in the village, was terrified of her.

  Bruna’s apprentice was a homely woman of twenty summers, thick of limb and wide of face. After Bruna outlived her last apprentice, a number of young girls had been sent to her for training. After a constant stream of abuse from the old woman, all but Darsy had been driven off.

  “She’s ugly as a bull and just as strong,” Elona once said of Darsy, cackling. “What does she have to fear from that sour hag? It’s not as if Bruna will drive the suitors from her door.”

  Bruna knelt beside the injured, inspecting them with firm hands as Darsy unrolled a heavy cloth covered in pockets, each marked with symbols and holding a tool, vial, or pouch. Injured villagers moaned or cried out as she worked, but Bruna paid them no mind, pinching wounds and sniffing her fingers, working as much from touch and smell as sight. Without looking, Bruna’s hands darted to the pockets of the cloth, mixing herbs with a mortar and pestle.

  Darsy began laying a small fire, and looked up to where Leesha stood staring from the stream. “Leesha! Bring water, and be quick about it!” she barked.

  As Leesha hurried to comply, Bruna pulled up, sniffing the herbs she was grinding.

  “Idiot girl!” Bruna shrieked. Leesha jumped, thinking she meant her, but Bruna hurled the mortar and pestle at Darsy, hitting her hard in the shoulder and covering her in ground herbs.

  Bruna fumbled through her cloth, snatching the contents of each pocket and sniffing at them like an animal.

  “You put stinkweed where the hogroot should be, and mixed all the skyflower with tampweed!” The old crone lifted her gnarled staff and struck Darsy across the shoulders. “Are you trying to kill these people, or are you still too stupid to read?”

  Leesha had seen her mother in such a state before, and if Elona was as frightening as a coreling, Hag Bruna was the mother of all demons. She began to edge away from the two, fearing to draw attention to herself.

  “I won’t take this abuse forever, you evil old hag!” Darsy screamed.

  “Be off, then!” Bruna said. “I’d sooner mar every ward in this town than leave you my herb pouch when I pass! The people would be no worse off!”

  Darsy laughed. “Be off?” she asked. “Who’ll carry your bottles and tripods, old woman? Who’ll lay your fire, fix your meals, and wipe the spit from your face when the cough takes you? Who’ll cart your old bones around when chill and damp sap your strength? You need me more than I need you!”

  Bruna swung her staff, and Darsy wisely scurried out of the way, tripping over Leesha, who had been doing her best to rema
in invisible. Both of them tumbled to the ground.

  Bruna used the opportunity to swing her staff again. Leesha rolled through the dirt to avoid the blows, but Bruna’s aim was true. Darsy cried out in pain, covering her head with her arms.

  “Off with you!” Bruna shouted again. “I have sick to tend!”

  Darsy growled and got to her feet. Leesha feared she might strike the old woman, but instead she ran off. Bruna let fly a stream of curses at Darsy’s back.

  Leesha held her breath and kept to her knees, inching away. Just as she thought she might escape, Bruna took notice of her.

  “You, Elona’s brat!” she shouted, pointing her gnarled stick at Leesha. “Finish laying the fire and set my tripod over it!”

  Bruna turned back to the wounded, and Leesha had no choice but to do as she was told.

  Over the next few hours, Bruna barked an endless stream of orders at the girl, cursing her slowness, as Leesha scurried to do her bidding. She fetched and boiled water, ground herbs, brewed tinctures, and mixed balms. It seemed she never got more than halfway through a task before the ancient Herb Gatherer ordered her on to the next, and she was forced to work faster and faster to comply. Fresh wounded streamed in from the fires with deep burns and broken bones from collapses. She feared half the village was aflame.

  Bruna brewed teas to numb pain for some and drug others into a dreamless sleep as she cut them with sharp instruments. She worked tirelessly, stitching, poulticing, and bandaging.

  It was late afternoon when Leesha realized that not only were there no more injuries to tend, but the bucket line was gone, as well. She was alone with Bruna and the wounded, the most alert of whom stared off dazedly into space thanks to Bruna’s herbs.

  A wave of suppressed weariness fell over her, and Leesha fell to her knees, sucking in a deep breath. Every inch of her ached, but with the pain came a powerful sense of satisfaction. There were some that might not have lived, but now would, thanks in part to her efforts.

  But the real hero, she admitted to herself, was Bruna. It occurred to her that the woman had not ordered her to do anything for several minutes. She looked over, and saw Bruna collapsed on the ground, gasping.

  “Help! Help!” Leesha cried. “Bruna’s sick!” New strength came to her, and she flew to the woman, lifting her up into a sitting position. Hag Bruna was shockingly light, and Leesha could feel little more than bone beneath her thick shawls and wool skirts.

  Bruna was twitching, and a thin trail of spit ran from her mouth, caught in the endless grooves of her wrinkled skin. Her eyes, dark behind a milky film, stared wildly at her hands, which would not stop shaking.

  Leesha looked around frantically, but there was no one nearby to help. Still holding Bruna upright, she grabbed at one of the woman’s spasming hands, rubbing the cramped muscles. “Oh, Bruna!” she pleaded. “What do I do? Please! I don’t know how to help you! You must tell me what to do!” Helplessness cut at Leesha, and she began to cry.

  Bruna’s hand jerked from her grasp, and Leesha cried out, fearing a fresh set of spasms. But her ministrations had given the old Herb Gatherer the control to reach into her shawl, pulling free a pouch that she thrust Leesha’s way. A series of coughs wracked her frail body, and she was torn from Leesha’s arms and hit the ground, flopping like a fish with each cough. Leesha was left holding the pouch in horror.

  She looked down at the cloth bag, squeezing experimentally and feeling the crunch of herbs inside. She sniffed it, catching a scent like potpourri.

  She thanked the Creator. If it had all been one herb, she would have never been able to guess the dose, but she had made enough tinctures and teas for Bruna that day to understand what she had been given.

  She rushed to the kettle steaming on the tripod and placed a thin cloth over a cup, layering it thick with herbs from the pouch. She poured boiling water over the herbs slowly, leaching their strength, then deftly tied the herbs up in the cloth and tossed it into the water.

  She ran back to Bruna, blowing on the liquid. It would burn, but there was no time to let it cool. She lifted Bruna in one arm, pressing the cup to her spit-flecked lips.

  The Herb Gatherer thrashed, spilling some of the cure, but Leesha forced her to drink, the yellow liquid running out of the sides of her mouth. She kept twitching and coughing, but the symptoms began to subside. As her heaves eased, Leesha sobbed in relief.

  “Leesha!” she heard a call. She looked up from Bruna, and saw her mother racing toward her, ahead of a group of townsfolk.

  “What have you done, you worthless girl?” Elona demanded. She reached Leesha before the others could draw close and hissed, “Bad enough I have a useless daughter and not a son to fight the fire, but now you’ve gone and killed the town crone?” She drew back her hand to smack at her daughter, but Bruna reached up and caught Elona’s wrist in her skeletal grip.

  “The crone lives because of her, you idiot!” Bruna croaked. Elona turned bone-white and drew back as if Bruna had become a coreling. The sight gave Leesha a rush of pleasure.

  By then, the rest of the villagers had gathered around them, asking what had happened.

  “My daughter saved Bruna’s life!” Elona shouted, before Leesha or Bruna could speak.

  Tender Michel held his warded Canon aloft so all could see the holy book as the remains of the dead were thrown on the ruin of the last burning house. The villagers stood with hats in hand, heads bowed. Jona threw incense on the blaze, flavoring the acrid stench permeating the air.

  “Until the Deliverer comes to lift the Plague of demonkind, remember well that it was the sins of man that brought it down!” Michel shouted. “The adulterers and the fornicators! The liars and thieves and usurers!”

  “The ones that clench their rears too tight,” Elona murmured. Someone snickered.

  “Those leaving this world will be judged,” Michel went on, “and those who served the Creator’s will shall join with him in Heaven, while those who have broken his trust, sullied by sins of indulgence or flesh, will burn in the Core for eternity!” He closed the book, and the assembled villagers bowed in silence.

  “But while mourning is good and proper,” Michel said, “we should not forget those of us the Creator has chosen to live. Let us break casks and drink to the dead. Let us tell the tales of them we love most, and laugh, for life is precious, and not to be wasted. We can save our tears for when we sit behind our wards tonight.”

  “That’s our Tender,” Elona muttered. “Any excuse to break open a cask.”

  “Now dear,” Erny said, patting her hand, “he means well.”

  “The coward defends the drunk, of course,” Elona said, pulling her hand away. “Steave rushes into burning houses, and my husband cringes with the women.”

  “I was in the bucket line!” Erny protested. He and Steave had been rivals for Elona, and it was said that his winning of Elona was more to do with his purse than her heart.

  “Like a woman,” Elona agreed, eyeing the muscular Steave across the crowd.

  It was always like this. Leesha wished she could shut her ears to them. She wished the corelings had taken her mother, instead of seven good people. She wished her father would stand up to her for once; for himself, if not his daughter. She wished she would flower already, so she could go with Gared and leave them both behind.

  Those too old or young to fight the flames had prepared a great meal for the village, and they laid it out as the others sat, too exhausted to move, and stared at the smoldering ashes.

  But the fires were out, the wounded bandaged and healing, and there were hours before sunset. The Tender’s words took the guilt from those relieved to be alive, and Smitt’s strong Hollow ale did the rest. It was said that Smitt’s ale could cure any woe, and there was much to cure. Soon the long tables rang with laughter at stories of those who had passed from the world.

  Gared sat a few tables away with his friends Ren and Flinn, their wives, and his other friend Evin. The other boys, all woodcutters, were older
than Gared by a few years, but Gared was bigger than all save Ren, and it seemed he would pass even him before his growing was done. Of the group, Evin alone was unpromised, and many girls eyed him, despite his short temper.

  The older boys teased Gared relentlessly, especially about Leesha. She wasn’t happy to be forced to sit with her parents, but sitting with Gared while Ren and Flinn made lewd suggestions and Evin picked fights was often worse.

  After they had eaten their share, Tender Michel and Child Jona rose from the table, carrying a large platter of food to the Holy House, where Darsy looked after Bruna and the wounded. Leesha excused herself to help them. Gared spotted the move and rose to join her, but no sooner had she stood than she was swept off by Brianne, Saira, and Mairy, her closest friends.

  “Is it true what happened?” Saira asked, pulling her left arm.

  “Everyone’s saying you knocked Darsy down and saved Hag Bruna!” Mairy said, pulling her right. Leesha looked back helplessly at Gared, and allowed herself to be led away.

  “The grizzly bear can wait his turn,” Brianne told her.

  “Yull come second to them girls even after yur married, Gared!” Ren cried, causing his friends to roar with laughter and pound the table. The girls ignored them, spreading their skirts and sitting on the grass, away from the increasing noise, as their elders drained cask after cask.

  “Gared’s gonna be hearing that one awhile,” Brianne laughed. “Ren bet five klats he won’t get to kiss you before dusk, much less a good grope.” At sixteen, she was already two years a widow, but had no shortage of suitors. She said it was because she knew a wife’s tricks. She lived with her father and two older brothers, woodcutters, and was mother to them all.

  “Unlike some people, I don’t invite every passing boy to grope me,” Leesha said, bringing a mock look of indignation from Brianne.

  “I’d let Gared grope if I was promised to him,” Saira said. She was fifteen, with cropped brown hair and freckles on her chipmunk cheeks. She had been promised to a boy last year, but the corelings had taken him and her father in a single night.